India Black and the Widow of Windsor by Carol K. Carr Page A

buggers appeared in the dining room.
    I surveyed the kitchen and felt my spirits sink. It looked like an international convention of domestics. I could imagine the topics they’d discuss: “How to Deflect Sexual Advances from Your Employer,” “What to Do When Your Employer Expires on the Chamber Pot,” “Ten Tips for Removing Stains from Egg Cozies,” and so on. The English servants were impassive, the Scots dour (you expected something else?) and the Indians odiferous. Finding an assassin in this motley crew would be like unearthing a killer at Sanger’s Circus. Where to begin? I didn’t think it likely that one of those Indian chappies would be dedicated to the cause of Scottish nationalism, but who knows? He might have befriended a Glaswegian merchant in Bombay and over chai and chapattis discussed their similar desires for an independent nation. And how was I to even communicate with these Hindoo brethren? I could barely understand the Scottish accents I heard around me. Well, a hot meal, a stiff peg of brandy and a good night’s sleep, and I’d be ready to tackle the anthropological society meeting in the morning.
    “Here’s Flora,” said Miss Boss. “Flora Mackenzie, Cook’s daughter. You’ll be sleeping in the spare bed in her room.”
    Flora was a looker. A strawberry blond curl had escaped from the mass tucked into her cap, and her brown eyes sparkled wickedly. She had a rosebud mouth and a dusting of freckles across a pert nose. Rowena would have taken one look and begun purring. Flora would do well in the Big Smoke, with that mocking smile and devilish gaze. The toffs would eat her up; all I’d need to do was shorten her skirt and lower the bustline of her white blouse, and the money would be rolling in. I debated the ethics of doing a bit of recruiting for Lotus House while performing my patriotic duty of guarding the Queen and decided I shouldn’t jeopardize my disguise.
    “Och, you’re a beauty,” said Flora. “The fellows will be all over you. I’ll have to put a lock on the door.” She giggled good-naturedly, and I was relieved to see that she wasn’t going to be the jealous type. Every man within a fifty-mile radius was probably wound tightly around her little finger, and yours truly posed no threat at all. She took my arm and steered me toward a table laden with steaming platters of food and urns of smoking tea. Warm as sunshine, she was.
    “Tuck in, dearie. If you came on the train, I’m sure no one thought to feed you all day. Take as much as you want, but don’t tarry. You’ll have to be upstairs in a thrice to dress the marchioness for dinner.”
    I hadn’t thought of that; I’d been looking forward to putting up my feet and having an early night. Damn. I consoled myself with the thought that French was no doubt doing yeoman’s work as well: having a brandy and soda or four, sitting down to a lavish dinner followed by a vintage port, a Cuban cigar and a strenuous game of billiards. My attempt at consolation failed. Morosely, I ate a hearty supper and drank several cups of strong, sweet tea, fortifying myself for the ordeal to come, while Flora pelted me with questions and sparred flirtatiously with the footmen. After the meal I followed Flora up the stairs to the servants’ quarters on the top floor, down a draughty hall and into a spartan room containing two single beds, a plain chest of drawers, a bedside table with a candle and a box of matches, and a second table in the corner, where a pottery jug and bowl indicated that I’d be enjoying invigorating sponge baths during my stay. It was as cold as the North Pole in there; even an Inuit would have found it chilly.
    “No fires during the day,” Flora said cheerfully. No doubt they were used to this temperature in Scotland. “We’ll light one tonight, after we’ve finished our duties.” She pulled open a drawer. “You can put your things in here. I’ll take your spare uniform down to the laundry each day and