But Her Majesty was absolutely right, Malone thought. The agent had always reminded him of someone, and now, at last, he knew exactly who. The hair hadn't been black, either, but red.
Boyd was, in Elizabethan costume, the deadest of dead ringers for Henry VIII.
Malone went up the steps to where Dr. Dowson was standing.
"I'm Malone," he said, checking a tendency to bow. "I called earlier today. Is this William Logan of yours ready to go? We can take him back with us in the second car."
Dr. Dowson compressed his lips and looked worried. "Come in, Mr. Malone," he said. He turned just as the second carload of FBI agents began emptying itself over the hospital grounds.
The entire procession filed into the hospital office, the two local agents bringing up the rear. Since they were not a part of Her Majesty's personal retinue, they had not been required to wear court costumes. In a way, Malone was beginning to feel sorry for them. He himself cut a nice figure in the outfit, he thought—rather like Errol Flynn in the old black-and-white print of "The Prince and the Pauper."
But there was no denying that the procession looked strange. File clerks and receptionists stopped their work to gape at the four bedizened walkers and their plainly dressed satellites. Malone needed no telepathic talent to tell what they were thinking.
"A whole roundup of nuts," they were thinking. "And those two fellows in the back must be bringing them in—along with Dr. Dowson."
Malone straightened his spine. Really, he didn't see why Elizabethan costumes had ever gone out of style. Elizabeth was back, wasn't she—either Elizabeth II, on the throne, or Elizabeth I, right behind him. Either way you looked at it—