by Robin Paige
Lady Glamis motioned to the servant, a pale young woman entirely dressed in black, her brown hair brushed back from her wide forehead, the ringlets caught by a black ribbon.
“She will show you to your room,” Lady Glamis was continuing. “Since Mr. Kirk-Smythe said it was doubtful that you had brought a maid, I have asked her to put herself at your disposal whilst you are here. She can begin by taking you around the castle, if you wish, since she knows it quite well and enjoys showing it off. Most visitors want to see the crypt, which seems to have become quite famous.” She paused and looked distractedly at the watch on her lapel. “I do hope you’ll excuse me so that I may see to the rest of the packing.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Kate said warmly. “I apologize for interrupting your departure. You see—”
She hesitated, wishing she had a reason to offer for the uninvited visit. But at that moment, the conversation was interrupted by a young boy in kilts, who raced precipitously around the corner at the helm of a wooden wheelbarrow, its passenger, a rosy, round-cheeked little girl squealing with laughter.
“Mickie!” Lady Glamis exclaimed in a horrified tone, apprehending the boy and removing the baby from the barrow. “Elizabeth is much too young for such rough games.”
“But she wanted to!” Mickie exclaimed.
“No doubt she did,” Lady Glamis replied, as Mickie dashed off with the wheelbarrow. The little girl wriggling in her arms, she turned apologetically to Kate. “My youngest daughter,” she said with a rueful smile. “A hoyden already, and she has scarcely passed her first birthday. We call her Merry Mischief.”
“She is precious,” Kate said, taking the dimpled pink hand in hers and feeling, as she always did with babies, the pang of sharp regret. That she was not able to bear children was an enormous sorrow to her, but she often admitted, and truthfully, that her childlessness had its advantages. If the nursery at Bishop’s Keep had been full of boys and little girls as appealing as Merry Mischief, she would certainly be at home with them instead of sharing Charles’s adventures. She raised the baby’s hand to her lips and kissed it gently.
“Little princess,” she murmured. “Princess Elizabeth.”
Lady Glamis gave her a startled look. “My goodness,” she said. “You, too?” At Kate’s questioning glance, she added, “I was walking with the children in the Kirriemuir Road yesterday, when we encountered a band of traveling gypsies. One of the Romany women offered to tell the children’s fortunes. She seemed quite definite about Elizabeth’s. ‘You will live to be a queen,’ she said, ‘and the mother of a queen.’ ” She laughed self-consciously. “You will think me superstitious, but the old woman had me half-believing.”
“Not a bit of it.” Kate smiled. “Queen Elizabeth, then,” she said gently, and touched the baby’s petal-soft cheek.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Prince Eddy resembled no one so much as his Hanoverian forebears. Like them, he could never be trusted to behave quite like other people . . . for he was dissolute and essentially trivial, in racing language “not quite up to the weight”. What was to be done with this unsatisfactory young man?
Queen Alexandra
Georgina Battiscombe
As Kate was being handed into the pony cart, Kirk-Smythe turned to Charles and Colonel Paddington. “A word in private, if you please, gentlemen. Shall we go to the end of the platform?”
When they were well out of earshot of the other men, Charles stopped. “Well, now, Andrew. What’s this all about?”
Kirk-Smythe put his hands into the pocket of his mackintosh. “I’m sure you’re aware that King Edward is in Germany, attending the funeral of his sister, the Dowager Empress. He has directed me to deliver his instructions verbally, since they are highly confidential.” He cleared his throat. “Brigadier Lord Sheridan is of course in command here. However, in the interest of time and with his permission, I should like to put you both in the picture on certain key facts. As you no doubt already know, we are at Glamis, some fifteen miles to the north of Dundee. The Caledonian Railway—”
“Perhaps,” Charles interrupted gently, “you have a map?”
Kirk-Smythe colored. “Oh, right. Sorry.” From his pocket, he withdrew an Ordnance Survey map of the county of Forfarshire, and unfolded it on a nearby wooden bench. He pointed to a dashed line running diagonally across the lower right-hand corner of the map. “This is the Caledonian Railway, and here is the railway station. The road at the other end of this platform—here, on the map—runs north to Kirriemuir about three and a half miles, and south to the village of Glamis, just over a mile. To the east of the road lies the estate of Glamis Castle. Its immediate policies are approximately two miles long and a mile wide, appearing as this shaded area, here. That’s where your troops are to bivouac, Colonel. Mr. Duff can help you find a suitable location. He has made available enough wagons to move your baggage and kit and is willing to provide anything you need in the way of food and supplies.”
“Colonel Paddington was told to prepare to establish a cordon,” Charles said. “Around what area?”
“This entire vicinity,” Kirk-Smythe replied, outlining a wide circle around the estate and the village.
“Have the roads been sealed?” the colonel asked.
“I have stationed men from the estate to watch the road at Jericho, here, to the east.” Kirk-Smythe put his finger on the map. “Also at Hatton to the south, and at Ewnie and at the old Manse rail crossing to the west. To the north, there’s a man at the road junction south of Wester Logie.” He straightened. “I respectfully suggest, Colonel, that troops be immediately dispatched to reinforce these checkpoints and that traffic be restricted. If questioned, your men are to say that they are on military maneuvers, testing the use of bicycles for reconnaissance.”
Charles bent over to study the map, the colonel looking over his shoulder. Kirk-Smythe’s plan would close the main roads leading to Glamis, but the surrounding countryside was a labyrinth of secondary roads, lanes, and footpaths—and no doubt the local folk were well acquainted with many other byways invisible to the map surveyors. It would be the devil of a job to seal off the area. Likely, it couldn’t be done successfully, but that didn’t mean that they shouldn’t try.
“I take it that we are searching for someone or something.” Charles straightened. “The object of our search?”
Kirk-Smythe produced a photograph of a serious-looking, mustached young man seated on a stone wall, wearing a tweed hunting suit, a tweed cap, and a high white collar. “This man,” he said quietly. “Here at Glamis, he goes under the name of Lord Osborne.”
The colonel stared at the photograph blankly for a moment; then, as recognition dawned, so did disbelief. “But he’s . . . he’s dead !” he sputtered incomprehendingly. “Died years ago. And his name isn’t Osborne! It’s—”
“You’re correct on both counts, Colonel Paddington,” Kirk-Smythe interrupted, returning the photograph to his pocket. “He died on January 14, 1892, to be precise. I have been instructed by His Royal Majesty that the fiction of this man’s death be protected at all costs.” He paused, giving his words special weight, and repeated: “At all costs, gentlemen.”
“I’ll be damned.” The colonel sucked in his breath. “I’m shocked. Shocked, I tell you.”
But for Charles, the information that the man was still alive was less a shocking surprise than the confirmation of a long-held suspicion. The photograph was one that he himself, in his role as a friend and photographer of the Royal Family, had taken on a holiday visit to Sandringham in 1890. Its subject was Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence and Avondale, known to his family and friends as Eddy. The eldest son of the then-Prince and Princess of Wales, Prince Eddy was heir presumptive to the throne and stood next in the line of succession after his father, who was now King Edward.
But the prince had led a wayward life, and by the age of twenty-five, his reputation as a notorious playboy was the cause of much headshaking and public rebuke. Charles himself, in
his investigation into a blackmail plot against young Winston Churchill and his mother Jennie, had uncovered the details of Eddy’s illegal marriage to a Roman Catholic commoner named Annie Crook, who was still living, and the birth of a daughter, now under the care of the artist, Walter Sickert. Worse, during the dreadful days of the Ripper killings, there had been endless rumors that the Prince—who was derisively known as Collars and Cuffs to the newspapers—was involved in the murders, and that he might even have been the Ripper himself.
And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the Prince had been caught up in a terrible scandal in a male brothel on Cleveland Street, involving a group of young boys, postal employees, and several of Eddy’s close friends. The Prince of Wales himself had taken charge of concealing his son’s criminal and immoral acts, with the help of the Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury. Eddy’s father managed to keep his son out of the dock, packing him off to India, where his frivolities were less likely to make the London papers.
Given all this, it was widely felt that the Prince was utterly unfit to be King, and there were those in the Court who were convinced that if Eddy remained in the line of succession, the monarchy would surely fall. So when news came in early 1892 of the Prince’s sudden and completely unexpected death, most were vastly relieved, feeling that the Crown itself had been saved. Some, however, believed that his death, which had taken place in the privacy of Sandringham, was far too convenient. Many said openly that it wasn’t illness that had felled him, and a few even said that he must have been murdered—poisoned, perhaps. Others had whispered that perhaps the Prince had not died at all but had been shut away somewhere, so that his younger brother George, a more acceptable and better-behaved heir, could step into his place.
But all this had happened a full decade ago. Prince Albert Victor was a distant and distasteful memory that was awakened only by the Royal Family’s annual pilgrimage to his ornate marble tomb and occasional Royal references to “poor darling, departed Eddy.” If word got out that his death had been a sham, the revelation would have an incalculable impact upon the general public—especially now that the old Queen Victoria was dead, the new King Edward had ascended the throne, and a living Prince Eddy would stand just behind his father in the succession. An announcement that the Prince was alive would certainly cause enormous embarrassment and perhaps even the fall of the monarchy. The new King hadn’t been crowned yet, the Government held a precarious position because of protests against the war, and the whole situation was uncomfortably volatile. No wonder His Royal Majesty commanded secrecy.
The colonel cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure. “This . . . Lord Osborne. He’s the man we’re looking for, Captain?”
“That’s right.” Kirk-Smythe’s face tightened. “Lord Osborne’s likeness may be recognized, unfortunately, so we can’t put the picture out without giving away the game. In the event, he is rather changed, according to Angus Duff. His hair has grown quite gray, and he has gained a stone or more. I suggest that we rely upon a description which I have prepared and had copied for your use, Colonel Paddington. Anyone fitting Lord Osborne’s general description should be brought in for identification.”
Recollecting his duty, the colonel put away his disbelief. “Thank you, Captain,” he said in a formal tone. “Is there anything else?”
Kirk-Smythe paused, selecting his words carefully. “Only this, Colonel. Should your men encounter anyone speaking in a foreign accent or seeming to be a stranger to the district, he should be conveyed immediately to Brigadier Lord Sheridan for questioning. Until we get this sorted out, no one from the outside should be allowed in and no one from the inside should go out. The local men already at the observation posts can help your men identify residents of the area.” He cleared his throat. “Now, if you don’t object, I should like to have a further word with Brigadier Lord Sheridan.”
“There will no doubt be additional orders shortly, Colonel Paddington,” Charles said tactfully, “as the situation becomes somewhat clearer. Perhaps you could deploy your troops now.”
Deployment, at least, was something the colonel understood. He stepped back, snapped a salute to Charles, nodded to Kirk-Smythe, and strode down the platform. “Sergeant-Major!” he bawled. “Get the men out. Empty the train!”
CHAPTER NINE
[The “monster” of Glamis died some time before 1876] but the story was deliberately continued and extended in order to camouflage the latest secret: that Prince Albert Victor, Eddy, the man who should have been king, was still alive and locked away in the castle, perhaps in the very same secret parts that had once housed the so-called monster.
The Ripper & the Royals
Melvyn Fairclough
The men in Germany who at the turn of the century were organising their Secret Service on a war basis had concentrated their attention on spying against Britain and by doing so had stolen an advantage in the espionage game.
A History of the British Secret Service
Richard Deacon
Charles turned back to Kirk-Smythe. “So Prince Eddy has been sequestered here at Glamis for the past ten years?”
“It’s true, m’lord, incredible as it may seem.”
Charles put his hand on the younger man’s arm. “Sheridan, please, Andrew. There’s no need for formality between us.”
Kirk-Smythe tried not to look flattered. “Right, then. Well, as you probably know, Lord Strathmore is a close friend of the King’s, and his lordship’s son Patrick was a classmate of Eddy’s at Cambridge. I suppose it was natural for them to offer Glamis as a place of safe-keeping.”
“I know Lord Strathmore quite well,” Charles said, “and Patrick and I were once friends, although we haven’t seen one another recently. I’ve visited Glamis Castle on several occasions—the last time around ninety-four, I think.” He paused, recalling that Prince George, Eddy’s younger brother, had been one of the party, as well. “That would have been two years after the so-called death. Was Eddy here then?”
Kirk-Smythe nodded. “Immediately after his death was staged, the Prince was brought here, under the name of Lord Osborne. Since you’ve been in the castle, you know that there’s ample room for someone to live in complete privacy.” His grin was wry. “An entire cricket squad, come to that. Biggest damn castle in Scotland. Hundreds of places to hide a fellow—like that ‘monster’ who’s said to have been locked up in some secret place.”
“But Eddy’s not hiding there now,” Charles said gravely.
Kirk-Smythe gave him a wry look. “He was discovered missing on Monday morning.” He paused uncomfortably. “But that’s not the whole of it, I’m afraid. That same morning, the body of one of the women who attended to Eddy, a long-time employee of the Strathmore family, was discovered in the park. Her throat was slit ear-to-ear, in the manner of the Ripper.”
“Uh-oh,” Charles said in a low voice, seeing the difficulty at once. “Bad business.”
“Very bad business indeed,” Kirk-Smythe said. “Angus Duff telegraphed word of the escape and the murder to Whitehall, and the Prime Minister relayed it to King Edward, who devised the plan that I’ve communicated to you. He has instructed me to tell you that the woman’s murder must be resolved expeditiously, for obvious reasons. I’m speaking of the similarity to the Ripper’s method, of course.”
Charles could only imagine the Royal reaction to this horrifying tangle of events. “But Prince Eddy wasn’t responsible for the Whitechapel killings,” he said. At least not directly, he added to himself, although it had been the Prince’s illicit marriage to Annie Crook that set the stage for the Ripper murders.3
“That may be true,” Kirk-Smythe replied. “But the King is concerned that this murder be solved as quickly and quietly as possible. If word gets to the Edinburgh newspapers, a great deal of unwelcome attention will be focussed on Glamis, and another safe haven will have to be arranged for the Prince—when he is found.”
Charles shook his head. “My God,” he said softly. �
�This is an unholy mess.”
Kirk-Smythe made a rueful face. “I’m afraid it’s likely to get even messier. For some time, we’ve been aware of a German agent—his code name is Firefly—who is operating in and around Edinburgh. One of Gustav Steinhauer’s men, perhaps. He has recently been seen in this district. I’m attempting to obtain a photograph from our archives, so that we can keep a lookout for him.” He paused and added reluctantly, “I fear that we must face the possibility that the
Germans are somehow responsible for Prince Eddy’s disappearance.”
Charles let out his breath slowly. “You’re suggesting that the Prince did not simply escape? That he was kidnapped?” The thought left him cold, for he knew very well that the Kaiser wouldn’t hesitate to use Prince Eddy to embarrass the British Crown, even to the extent of endangering the monarchy.
“It’s a likelihood that we must consider,” Kirk-Smythe replied gravely, “although I should hope we won’t have to reveal the possibility to Colonel Paddington. The fewer people who know about this, the better.” He looked out toward the Grampians, rising to the west, and added reflectively, “If they’ve already got him away, he could be anywhere. There, in the mountains, which are nothing but rugged crag and cranny, blanketed with forest.” He grimaced. “That’s where Bonnie Prince Charlie eluded Cumberland’s capture for nearly half a year, you know, during the Forty-five Rebellion. Eddy could be hidden in those mountains, or he could be halfway to Germany. We have a few agents watching the major ports, but it’s a thin net, with far too many holes.”