Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  Agent of the Queen

  Jack Windrush Series – Book VII

  Malcolm Archibald

  Copyright (C) 2020 Malcolm Archibald

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 Next Chapter

  Published 2020 by Legionary – A Next Chapter Imprint

  Edited by Terry Hughes

  Cover art by Cover Mint

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  Table of Contents

  Prelude

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Historical Note

  About the Author

  Books by Malcolm Archibald

  For Cathy

  Prelude

  DARTMOOR, ENGLAND, NOVEMBER 1862

  Ignoring the jagged splinters that thrust into his emaciated body, Markovic lay rigid beneath the rough planking of the cart, with filth dripping on him from above and the wheels jolting over the cobbles beneath. Clear above the pattering rain, he heard the wardens questioning the driver, their voices crisp and suspicious.

  “Are you alone, driver?”

  “Of course I'm bloody alone. You can see that.”

  Markovic felt the slight jerk as a warden probed a pointed stick into the human excrement piled on the cart.

  “What the hell are you doing?” The driver asked.

  “Making sure nobody is hiding in there.”

  “Good God, man, they'd suffocate, sure as death.” The driver sounded angry. “Let me pass, so I can dump this muck and get home.”

  “You'd be surprised what some prisoners will do to try to escape Her Majesty's free hotels.” The warden shoved his stick in again and the steel tip penetrated the bottom boards of the cart. Markovic did not flinch as the point jabbed into his thigh.

  “Right,” said the warden, withdrawing his stick, “on you go.”

  Markovic hung on grimly as the cart lurched out of the prison gate, seemingly finding every bump and pothole in the track. He heard the wheels grind over the uneven road, with the driver alternatively cursing and singing, as the mood took him, until, after what seemed an eternity, the cart ground to a halt.

  “Out you come.”

  Markovic heard the nerve-shredding screech of iron nails on wood as the driver prised away the planks that held him in his mobile coffin. A blast of chill air welcomed the passenger to freedom, as the driver's rough hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him out. He lay on the ground for a moment, stretching his cramped muscles, very aware that the reeking dung-cart with its hack of a horse was beside him, while the driver watched through impassive eyes.

  “Here you are, Mr Markovic.” The driver did not offer to help his erstwhile passenger to his feet. “You said there would be a reward.”

  Markovic spared a glance at the narrow compartment under the base of the cart in which he had travelled. “I am to meet people here.”

  “There's nobody here yet.” The driver looked around. He had pulled the cart off the road to a small disused quarry, where wind-stunted trees wept rainwater into spreading puddles, and jagged rocks thrust upward to an uncaring sky. “Who's coming, anyway?” Broad-featured with suspicious eyes, he gripped a cudgel in his right hand. “If I get caught with you, I'll get the jail.”

  “You won't get caught,” Markovic said. “I promise you. Here are my friends now.”

  “Where?” As the driver turned to look, Markovic slipped both hands around his neck and twisted sharply until he heard a crack. He dropped the driver's lifeless body on to the ground as a soft hail came from the quarry entrance.

  “Markovic?”

  “That's me.” Markovic lifted the driver's cudgel. “Give me your name.”

  “Reilly.”

  “And who is with you, Reilly?” Markovic withdrew a pace to the shelter of the cart.

  “Flaherty.” The second voice sounded as two men emerged from the shadows. Neither even glanced at the body of the driver. “Come on, Markovic. Here are some clean clothes for you.”

  “I'll wash first,” Markovic said.

  “Fine. We'll get you cleaned up and then we have work to do.”

  “Take me to a river,” Markovic ordered. “Now!”

  Flaherty shrugged. “As you wish.”

  Markovic followed the two men over the wastes of the moor, keeping pace with them step for step even after his years of imprisonment. When they reached a small stream between two steep sloping banks, Markovic stripped naked. Gaunt to the point of starvation, his body was ridged and scarred, white with prison pallor. Indifferent to the biting wind and freezing water, he plunged into the stream, submerging himself entirely and emerging again, scrubbing at himself with sand from the river bed.

  Only when his skin was red-raw did Markovic step out of the stream. “Clothes!” he demanded. He pulled on the rough trousers and jacket before hauling on the heavy navvy boots.

  “Weapon,” he commanded. He took the revolver that Reilly handed him, automatically checked that the chambers were loaded and thrust it into the waistband of his trousers. “Now tell me how the war is progressing.”

  “The war?” Reilly looked confused.

  “The war in the Crimea,” Markovic replied. “I have been in kept in solitary confinement for years with the silent system. I have not heard any news.”

  “That war ended six years ago, Markovic,” Reilly said. “The Allies captured Sebastopol.”

  Markovic thrust out his chin, with the white scar above his left eye pulsating. “Did they, by God?” He touched the butt of his revolver. “Take me to the leader of the Brotherhood.”

  Reilly grinned. “I heard you were keen.”

  “I have an Empire to destroy.” When Markovic looked up, Reilly shivered at the cold madness in his eyes.

  Chapter One

  MALVERN HILLS, ENGLAND, OCTOBER 1865

  “It's beautiful.” Mary Windrush stood on the terraced slope of the Herefordshire Beacon, looking down at the pass through the Malvern Hills. She grabbed her hat as a gust of wind threatened to blow it from her head. “Is that the house in which you grew up?”

  “That's the house in which I grew up.” Nearly 14 years ago, Jack left Wychwood Manor under a cloud of illegitimacy. Now, a married man with a son, he was a captain in the British Army with three campaigns and other operations under his belt. “That's where my half-brother now lives, with his wife and my mother.”

  “Shall we visit them?” Mary threw Jack a quizzical glance. “Surely they won't still bear a grudge after all this time.”

  Lighting a cheroot, Jack took a long draw as the memories crowded into his brain. “I don't know,” he said
. “William is not the most pleasant of men and, as for my mother…” He gave a wry smile. “My stepmother, rather. She said that if I ever set foot on Windrush ground again, she would cut off my allowance.”

  “We no longer need an allowance from your mother,” Mary said. “You're no longer a penniless ensign. You're a captain with property and some money of your own.”

  “Our own,” Jack corrected.

  Taking Jack's cheroot, Mary drew on it, blew out smoke and gave a sudden, devil-may-care grin. “Come on, Captain Jack, let's bell the cat.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, did you not get educated at your fancy school?” Mary laughed. “Let's beard the lion in his den, let's singe the King of Spain's beard. Let's go and see what brother William says.”

  “Brother William won't be pleased,” Jack said.

  “All the more reason to meet him, then.” Mary passed back the cheroot. “I've taken a great dislike to your half-brother, Jack.” Slapping Jack's arm, Mary lifted the hem of her skirt and mounted Katrine, her brown mare. “Come along, Captain Jack.”

  “You might regret meeting them,” Jack pointed out.

  “I might,” Mary agreed cheerfully. “We won't know until we try.”

  They negotiated the slope down to the pass, with Mary a few yards in front and Jack following on Cedric, his stallion. He felt the old familiar mixture of apprehension and excitement as if he were going into battle rather than merely riding to see his brother. While sheltering in the bitter trenches outside Sebastopol, sweltering in the Burmese jungles, facing the Pandies at Lucknow or confronting the Pashtuns of the Frontier, Jack had thought of his boyhood home; now he hoped the reality would not destroy his dreams.

  “Come along, Jack.” Mary spoke over her shoulder. “You're hideously slow back there.”

  “I'm coming,” Jack said.

  The gateway to Wychwood Manor was the same as he remembered, if a little the worse for wear, with weeds easing beneath the stone tigers that surmounted the pillars guarding the driveway. Out of old habit, Jack leaned from his saddle to touch the pillars, as he had done as a child.

  “For luck,” he explained, seeing Mary's quizzical expression.

  “It's strange to think that you grew up here,” Mary stretched to copy him. “I always think of you as belonging to India rather than England.”

  “I do, in a way,” Jack agreed. “I am as much Indian as English, anyway.”

  Riding slowly to allow news of their arrival to reach the house, Jack reined Cedric in as they negotiated the final curve of the drive. He caught his breath as Wychwood Manor came into view. Once, Jack had thought this place magnificent, the equal of any ancestral home in England, which to his youthful mind meant the equal to anywhere in the world. Now, after service in Malta, Crimea and across India from the Frontier to Burma, Jack could see Wychwood for what it was, the dwelling place of a minor country gentleman, no more and no less.

  The manor's central wing dated from the 14th century. From then on, a succession of Windrush owners had added whatever took their fancy over the following generations. The result was a sprawling building of contrasting architectural styles. Lawns that Jack remembered as stretching for many acres now appeared cramped in comparison to the grounds of the Indian palaces he knew so well.

  “Wychwood Manor seems to have shrunk,” Jack commented.

  “No, Jack. You have grown.”

  Jack eyed the weathered Windrush arms that challenged all comers from above the main door. For the first 18 years of his life, he had imagined he would own this house until his stepmother told him that he was illegitimate, and his half-brother William was the true heir. Now he was returning as a visitor with his Eurasian wife.

  “If they're unkind,” Jack murmured as he dismounted. “We won't stay long.”

  “I have had British people being unkind to me all my life,” Mary said quietly. “I have grown thick skin.” As Mary slid off Katrine, a woman emerged from the side of the house with a hat holding her dark hair in place. She was singing softly, the words familiar to Jack, the marching song of the Royal Malverns, the regiment of his brother, father and ancestors.

  “Always victorious

  Glorious and more glorious,

  We followed Marlborough through battle and war

  We're the Royal Malverns, the heroes of Malplaquet.”

  The woman stumbled over the last word, repeated it with as little success, said: “Oh, damn,” and looked up. “Good morning,” she said brightly and stopped. “Oh, good God!” Her right hand rose to her mouth. “Jack.”

  “Good morning, Helen.” Jack gave a little bow. “May I introduce you to Mary, my wife? Mary, this is Helen, William's wife and the lady to whom I was once engaged.”

  Jack expected the awkward pause as the women sized each other up. On one side was Helen, the attractive daughter of Colonel Maxwell, daring, yet calm in a crisis, a woman Jack had known during the Crimean campaign. On the other was Mary, the half-Indian daughter of a British officer, a woman who had endured many adventures with Jack during the Indian Mutiny.

  “Mrs Windrush.” Mary was first to dip into a curtsey.

  Helen responded with a little twitch of her lips as she glanced from Mary to Jack and back. “How do you do, Mrs Windrush? Imagine, three Mrs Windrushes all in the same house. What fun.”

  “You're looking well, Helen,” Jack said. “You've hardly changed.”

  “Thank you.” Helen dropped in a slight curtsey. “You are looking very well yourself.” She eyed him up and down. “You got your captaincy, I heard. William is a major now.”

  “Is William at home?”

  “He's in the stables, I believe.” Helen had gained about half a stone, which suited her well. Her mouth was tighter than Jack remembered, and she had tiny lines around her eyes, yet Jack could sense the old devil-damn-you spirit under her matronly veneer. “I'll send a servant to fetch him.” Helen signalled to a young lad who was watching from a safe distance. “Get the master! Tell him we have guests!”

  The boy scampered away.

  After her first extended look at Mary, Helen concentrated on Jack, holding his gaze. “Won't you come inside? One of the boys will care for your horses.”

  “Thank you,” Mary replied for them both. “That's most kind of you.”

  Jack found it strange to return to the outer hall with its Corinthian columns, oak panelling and an array of portraits of long-deceased Windrush men in their bold scarlet uniforms. He noted that a black curtain still hid the picture of Uncle George. “He married a native woman, according to the story,” Jack explained when Mary frowned at the curtain. “In reality, he became a dacoit in Burma.”

  “Oh.”

  “One of my men, Sergeant Wells, killed him.” Jack remembered those desperate days when he had been a young ensign enduring his first campaign.

  “So this is where you grew up.” Mary looked around her as if trying to catch the essence of her husband. “I can nearly imagine you here, running up and down the stairs, shouting and getting into all sorts of mischief.”

  “Actually, I spent most of my time at school.” Jack tried to shake away the ghosts of his past. “I was at home only during the holidays, and even then I was outside most of the time.” The inner hall was smaller than he remembered, with the furniture more worn and the light dimmer. Everything seemed less grand, drabber, almost colourless after the vitality of India. Were all homecomings like this after long service out East? Or was he merely torn between his two homes, England and India?

  “What the devil are you doing here?” Two years younger but a stone heavier than Jack, William Windrush strode into his house with a frown on his face, his white shirt open and his arms bare to the elbows. Wisps of straw sticking to his trousers suggested he had been working in the stables. “I did not invite you, and I'm certain that Mother never would.” He glowered at Helen before looking away with a snort of contempt. “It's bad enough having blasted poachers infesting the place without bastards a
nd half-castes.”

  “Good morning, William,” Jack replied coolly. “Your wife has been very welcoming.”

  “Is that so?” William's glare at Helen promised hot words when they were alone. “I'm sure you remember what Mother said when she threw you out, Jack.” William stood with his hands on his hips, half a head taller than Jack, master of all he surveyed. “She said the second you resign your commission or set foot on Windrush land, your money stops.”

  “I remember.” Jack had to lean back to meet William's poisonous gaze. He failed to control his rising temper. “You made quite a name for yourself in the Crimea, William, basking in reflected glory. Now I hear that you swan about London, toadying to the nobs while the real soldiers do the fighting. What's the matter? Was one campaign one too many for you?” Jack had not come for an argument, but he would not allow his younger brother to bully him, especially with Mary present. He could almost feel the women watching, wondering what would happen next.

  When William clenched his fists, Jack stepped back, prepared to defend himself and partially welcoming a confrontation.

  “Boys, boys!” Helen stepped forward with her hands upraised. “Behave yourselves!” Despite her show, Helen's eyes were bright with mischief, and Jack knew she was enjoying the drama.

  “If you were a gentleman, Jack,” William sneered, “I'd call you out, even if we do share my father's blood.”

  “If you were brave enough to do so,” Jack replied, trying to force down his anger, ”I'd shoot you like a rabid dog.”

  “What's all the noise?” Time had been kind to Mrs Elizabeth Windrush. She hardly looked a month older than she had when she banished Jack from Wychwood Manor some 14 years previously. Now she stood partway down the stairs, calm-faced and ready to take control. “William? Who are these people?” Mrs Windrush frowned when she saw Mary. “Who is this?” She looked at Jack, gasped and looked away quickly.

  “Hello, Mother,” Jack said.

  “I am not your mother.” Elizabeth Windrush pulled herself more erect. “Who is this dark woman, William?”