Read Online India Black and the Widow of Windsor by Carol K. Carr - Free Book Online
Authors: Carol K. Carr
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potatoes politely around his plate. “So wot’s up at the Yard, guv? Those blokes need us to sort out some trouble for’em?”
I prayed fervently that French would concoct some story about our involvement with Robshaw and the Yard, for if Vincent got wind of the plot against the Queen, he’d be in Scotland afore us, as the old song goes. But my prayers went unanswered (due, perhaps, to my never darkening the doors of a church); French launched into a summary of our meeting with Dizzy, which Vincent lapped up, hanging on every word and all the while forking food into his mouth as though he’d never eaten before.
“Blimey,” he said when French had finished. “Wot do we do now?”
“India and I will go to Scotland tomorrow,” said French.
He’d known that I would go, of course. I resigned myself to arguing with him later about his presumptuousness. Not to mention that music hall interchange between he and Dizzy regarding holidays with the French family, or was it the French family patriarch? French had some explaining to do.
“Wot about me?” Vincent cried through a mouthful of peas. I had to look away.
“There’s no place for you at Balmoral,” I said.
“But I could run errands for ya or deliver messages, or follow some of them hassassins around and report back to ya,” he protested. A tiny glob of peas landed on my lace tablecloth.
“You look perfectly at home on the streets of London,” I told him. “But in Scotland you would be as out of place as a donkey in the derby. The only people who will be there will be the Queen’s guests and her servants.”
“I could ’ide in the stables. They got stables there, don’t they?” Vincent looked appealingly at French. I could see French was weakening.
“The idea is impractical,” I said firmly.
“We’ll discuss it later, Vincent,” said French. “Now let me tell you what I learned from Superintendent Robshaw today.”
On your own head be it, I thought. If French couldn’t say no to Vincent, then French would just have to figure out what to do with the boy. Perhaps he could at least be persuaded to take another bath, being that he was going to be consorting with royalty.
French made himself comfortable, with a glass of wine at hand. “As you would expect, Scotland Yard keeps a watchful eye out for any individuals or organizations who pose a threat to the Queen. There’s always some disaffected Irishman who’s willing to take a shot at Her Majesty over the home-rule issue. And there has always been a small group of Scots who were passionately committed to independence for their country.”
French paused for a sip of wine. Now that the history lesson had begun, I could see that Vincent was losing interest rapidly; French would have to conjure up some tales of derring-do and swordplay, or the boy would be asleep with this head on the table before long. No surprise, really, given the amount of food he had ingested.
“Most of the Scottish nationalists have been ineffective organizations, consisting of a few crackpots who failed to attract many followers and ended up fighting amongst themselves. You know how the Scots are: a more cantankerous lot doesn’t exist.” French obviously hadn’t spent much time behind the scenes at his local brothel.
“But in recent months, a new group has appeared, rumoured to have connections to the Scottish aristocracy and headed by a mysterious figure called ‘the Marischal.’ Where previous groups were content to issue broadsides and hold up the odd mail train, this new organization has not hesitated to use violence. They have claimed responsibility for the murder of two Scottish magistrates and an English judge.”
This was more like it; Vincent’s nose was quivering.
“My whiskers! And this ’ere marshal is the one who done it? Ain’t a marshal got somethin’ to do with the law?”
“Marischal,” French corrected him gently. “And you’re correct, Vincent. ‘Marischal’ does mean marshal
I prayed fervently that French would concoct some story about our involvement with Robshaw and the Yard, for if Vincent got wind of the plot against the Queen, he’d be in Scotland afore us, as the old song goes. But my prayers went unanswered (due, perhaps, to my never darkening the doors of a church); French launched into a summary of our meeting with Dizzy, which Vincent lapped up, hanging on every word and all the while forking food into his mouth as though he’d never eaten before.
“Blimey,” he said when French had finished. “Wot do we do now?”
“India and I will go to Scotland tomorrow,” said French.
He’d known that I would go, of course. I resigned myself to arguing with him later about his presumptuousness. Not to mention that music hall interchange between he and Dizzy regarding holidays with the French family, or was it the French family patriarch? French had some explaining to do.
“Wot about me?” Vincent cried through a mouthful of peas. I had to look away.
“There’s no place for you at Balmoral,” I said.
“But I could run errands for ya or deliver messages, or follow some of them hassassins around and report back to ya,” he protested. A tiny glob of peas landed on my lace tablecloth.
“You look perfectly at home on the streets of London,” I told him. “But in Scotland you would be as out of place as a donkey in the derby. The only people who will be there will be the Queen’s guests and her servants.”
“I could ’ide in the stables. They got stables there, don’t they?” Vincent looked appealingly at French. I could see French was weakening.
“The idea is impractical,” I said firmly.
“We’ll discuss it later, Vincent,” said French. “Now let me tell you what I learned from Superintendent Robshaw today.”
On your own head be it, I thought. If French couldn’t say no to Vincent, then French would just have to figure out what to do with the boy. Perhaps he could at least be persuaded to take another bath, being that he was going to be consorting with royalty.
French made himself comfortable, with a glass of wine at hand. “As you would expect, Scotland Yard keeps a watchful eye out for any individuals or organizations who pose a threat to the Queen. There’s always some disaffected Irishman who’s willing to take a shot at Her Majesty over the home-rule issue. And there has always been a small group of Scots who were passionately committed to independence for their country.”
French paused for a sip of wine. Now that the history lesson had begun, I could see that Vincent was losing interest rapidly; French would have to conjure up some tales of derring-do and swordplay, or the boy would be asleep with this head on the table before long. No surprise, really, given the amount of food he had ingested.
“Most of the Scottish nationalists have been ineffective organizations, consisting of a few crackpots who failed to attract many followers and ended up fighting amongst themselves. You know how the Scots are: a more cantankerous lot doesn’t exist.” French obviously hadn’t spent much time behind the scenes at his local brothel.
“But in recent months, a new group has appeared, rumoured to have connections to the Scottish aristocracy and headed by a mysterious figure called ‘the Marischal.’ Where previous groups were content to issue broadsides and hold up the odd mail train, this new organization has not hesitated to use violence. They have claimed responsibility for the murder of two Scottish magistrates and an English judge.”
This was more like it; Vincent’s nose was quivering.
“My whiskers! And this ’ere marshal is the one who done it? Ain’t a marshal got somethin’ to do with the law?”
“Marischal,” French corrected him gently. “And you’re correct, Vincent. ‘Marischal’ does mean marshal
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