Chapter 11

Phileas's appointment had been a rouse. He could tell that Rebecca had been eager to gossip with her friend about her suitor. Phileas had honored her unvoiced wish for privacy and dropped them off at the house.

Hours later, the talk of escorts and family bothered him still. It just seemed too strange. At least am freed of being their escort. Their company had been welcome, but the women's conversation had been more in the line of ladies' matters, which he had no interest in.

Fogg had settled in his study to pick up the folders of information on Queen Mary he and Rebecca had procured from the services' files. He studied them carefully, looking for any pattern they might have missed.

Dinnertime came. Passepartout served him a simple meal of mutton. Fogg ate with files in hand. So engrossed, he barely noticed Passepartout remove the dishes and leave him a pot of coffee.

The clock on the mantle chimed, distracting him. It had struck ten. He had spent all evening at this. Phileas gave up for the night, put the files in the safe. Passepartout came into the room, announcing an elderly visitor.

"Who?"

"I not knowing him," the valet said.

"Show him in," Phileas said.

"Old man saying he not coming in unless the master of house invites him," Passepartout said.

"Odd." Fogg went to the door to see who this fellow was. The door was still ajar. He opened it to find a very large old man in a travel cape that covered him to within a foot of the ground. He was as tall as himself, with a weather-worn face and squinted eyes. The cape was well out of fashion, but older men rarely paid attention to such things.

"May I enter the house?" He asked strongly, without booming his baritone across the quiet street.

"What is your business so late this evening?"

"The safety of a friend of yours and a woman of your kin. More, I will only say indoors."

Phileas sobered. The only kin the man could be speaking of was Rebecca. Then the friend he meant would have to be Katharine.

"Come in, please."

The old man entered the house and allowed Passepartout to take his cape. Underneath it was a dark suit of an older fashion and something even further out of style. The man wore a sword on his belt. He unclipped the weapon and handed it to Passepartout, who took it gingerly. The old gentleman pulled a pistol from his overcoat, turned it in his hand and handed it, grip out, to Passepartout by the barrel. "Have a care with this," he admonished, dead seriousness.

"I having great care," Passepartout said. The valet took the weapons, giving a look of great trepidation to Phileas as if to ask, "What manner of man have we just let in?"

Phileas watched the disarming process, asking of himself the same question. He assumed a man who carried this sort of armament would also have a dagger and other weapons on his person, but the man did not lighten himself further.

The visitor made his introduction. "I am William Robertson sir, Chieftain of the Glenshires and humble ships marine. You have recently befriended my lady. My business concerns her."

Phileas nodded and showed his guest to the study. The two gentlemen took chairs by the fire. Passepartout followed them in after he put away the cape and weapons, taking a station in the shadow of a bookshelf.

Gruff old salt had been a misstatement on my part. The man was as grave as a cemetery. "Please explain your business, sir. Are you here as a messenger for Lady Katharine?"

"No." He said it briskly, letting the statement stand-alone.

"You are Phileas Fogg, eldest son of the former Secret Service Director Sir Boniface Fogg," Robertson said. "You used to be an active agent with the service. Are you currently still an agent or is it true that you have ended your term in the Queen's service?"

"I have resigned." Phileas answered uncomfortably.

"You have come to my attention with excellent credentials and references, sir," Robertson continued. He had asked the Countess about Fogg. She had spoken of him in glowing terms, both professionally and privately. The recipient of these statements was uncertain how to take that. If this man meant his service credentials, Mr. Robertson could be here to ask nearly anything of him.

"We have a problem," the old man said. "Four years ago, the duchess's coachman noticed he was being followed while taking her to relatives on the mainland of Scotland. The man and the footman with him stayed on the alert, just in case the follower turned out to be a highwayman. They were not molested. The same thing happened again as they returned home. Again, they were not stopped, only followed at a distance. Since that first sighting, my lady has been under guard by someone nearly every time she leaves our island. Needless to say, this has been a point of concern for me being in charge of her safety."

Phileas nodded understanding.

"Because of the dangers, the duchess has had to endure a stringent escort. We have curtailed her comings and goings to some extent for her safety. This is not a matter to be turned over to the authorities, as no harm has been done. Several times I have attempted to lay hands on theses followers, but they watch their backs well."

"This month, while she traveled here, my lady was dogged all the way to the English border. I followed them myself and saw one enter a telegraph office to send a message. I obtained a copy of that message from the operator to determine the reason for this outrage."

"Sir," Fogg stopped him. "Telegraph officers are barred from divulging that sort of information. That was highly illegal."

"True. What's your point?"

Fogg did not let his surprise at that bald-faced admission reach on his face.

"The message sent the message to Mr. Thomas Mann in London. I could not discover who that was. It read, Queen Mary is returning to London."

Phileas Fogg felt his blood go cold.

"This means something to you?" Robertson said. "My lady's title does not reach that high, but the message could only have been speaking of her."

Fogg's guest made both Fogg and Passepartout very uneasy. The old chieftain reached down into his boot and removed a dirk. It was an ornamental thing with an enormous emerald and a smaller sapphire decorating the handle, but the blade looked sharp enough to cut silk. He put the weapon down on the table between them and took his hand away.

"Sir," Robertson said, relaxing in his chair. "Do you know of any surveillance being done now or in the past on the duchess's person?"

The question was carefully worded and the dirk on the table emphasized his insistence on an answer.

To this question, Phileas said, "I do not know of any such surveillance in the past," he said. "I would not be privy to such information now."

The old man seemed to accept that, but he was not finished. "What did the content of the message mean to you?"

That Fogg would not answer. The obvious answer made no sense. For Katharine to be the spy queen, she would have to have started her career as a spy around sixteen. "That is a matter of confidentiality, sir."

"So are telegraph messages," the old man countered. "I am not interested in confidentiality. I am very interested in my duchess's safety. If this is our government's doing, it would not answer all questions, but it would ease my mind on some of the less friendly possibilities. You see the need for easing of my concerns, do you not Mr. Fogg?"

"Besides," Robertson added, leaning forward over the knife. "The men who have trailed her have not limited their activities to Scotland. They are present here in London. I saw them today. They were following you and the two ladies to the theater and back. I must assume they have been doing so since her arrival. How often does your kinswoman take excursions with my duchess?"

Fogg did not have reason to doubt that the man. This revelation had serious recriminations. They, who were trained agents and on constant guard by training, had noticed no such thing. They had had no reason to suspect, of course. "We had wondered about the uncustomary escort requirement."

Phileas had some investigating to do that did not include this old man and his dirk.

"I cannot answer you now, sir," Fogg said. "Your questions would require more information than I have at my disposal. If you will allow me the time to make inquiries, I may help you. My cousin and your duchess's safety are of importance to me."

The man looked Fogg over appraisingly. Then he picked up his knife and put it back in its place. "I will give you the time you wish. You know where to find me."

With that, he stood, gave Phileas a bow, Passepartout a jerk of the head, and headed for the door. Passepartout just made it to the door of the study before him. Quickly rearmed and caped in the hall, the man headed to the door without another word.

Fogg called to Robertson, stopping his retreat. The moment was now over and the fact that someone had entered his house and had threatened him couldn't be ignored.

"Mr. Robertson, next time we meet, keep your concerns and your manners in better control, or I shall have to teach you how." The threat was worded and delivered sharply, emphasizing Phileas's growing anger.

The old man turned on Fogg slowly. Phileas expected to see anger. Instead, he saw amusement in the man's eyes. And maybe, dare he say, approval?

Mr. Robertson chuckled warmly. "There was the day I would have been let you try. Teaching pups of good family like you when and when not to make threats used to be a hobby of mine. These days, I am more forgiving."

With that, he turned his back on Fogg, opened the door, and closed it behind him. Fogg heard a collective held breath be let go in unison.