by Robin Paige
Kate felt as if all the dirty Royal laundry of the past decade was being washed right in her lap. “It must have been very difficult for your brother George, who had to take Prince Eddy’s place as heir,” she murmured, trying not to show how moved she was by the tragedy of all this. “But especially for poor Prince Eddy.”
“Oh, my dear, yes !” Toria exclaimed passionately. “Of course, George has been a brick through it all. But Eddy . . . You know, Kate, all those terrible things the newspapers wrote about him, none of them were true.” She paused. “Well, almost none. Eddy was—he is—such a gentle person, but quite naive and malleable. I’m afraid that for most of his growing-up years, he felt like a fraud, as if he was born into royalty but somehow didn’t deserve it.”
A fraud, Kate thought. She could understand why the Prince might have felt that way. Royal birth must have seemed a burden that he was not equipped to carry.
“And he was often misled,” the Princess was going on, “by wicked men who took advantage of his trusting nature and his deafness. I honestly believe that if Eddy could have heard everything that was said to him, he would have been a different person.”
“Deafness?” Kate asked, in surprise. “Like the Queen?”
“Exactly.” Toria’s expression was inexpressibly sad. “Another of our family traits, I’m afraid, passed down from Motherdear’s side. Poor Eddy. He didn’t ask to be born into the Royal Family—none of us did, and it certainly hasn’t made any of us very happy.” Her eyes lightened. “But things have turned out for the best, I suppose. Eddy has been content here at Glamis. George is far better suited to public life, and he and May do their duties without a fuss. They even seem, amazingly, to love one another.”
Kate knew that part of the story, anyway, since it was a matter of public record, a romance that had caught the public fancy. After Eddy was dead—or exiled, as it now seemed—Prince George took his older brother’s place in the line of succession. Eighteen months later, he also took his brother’s place at the altar, and he and May were married. Now the Prince and Princess of Wales, the pair had quickly performed their most important Royal responsibility, producing, to date, three healthy sons and one daughter, thereby ensuring that the succession would continue.5
From the well-filled tray on the table, Kate took a slice of cold jellied ham and a serving of chicken salad garnished with slices of hard-boiled egg and cucumber, neatly contained in a lettuce cup.
“So Prince Eddy has lived privately here at Glamis for the past ten years, then,” she said in a musing tone. She didn’t doubt that he could have done so in complete secrecy, given the monumental size and complexity of Glamis Castle. He would require only a few trusted servants to meet his needs, and perhaps occasional visits from his family, to cheer him up and bring him news of the outer world. “I suppose you’ve come to spend some time with your brother,” she said, “but what has brought my husband here, and all those soldiers on the train?”
The Princess tried to mask her anxiety with a casual tone, but Kate could see the worry in her eyes. “It appears that Eddy—Lord Osborne, as he is known here at Glamis—has disappeared. Angus Duff, the estate manager, wired Whitehall with the news, and Lord Salisbury wired Papa, in Hamburg. Some men from the Household Guard were sent to
search for him, and Papa sent Lord Sheridan, to make sure that the job was done right.” She paused, managing a smile. “And I have come as Papa’s emissary, to report back to him personally when Eddy is found.”
“I see,” Kate said, and then looked up. “I’m so sorry, Toria. This must be very difficult for you.”
The Princess looked down at her plate, and something like anguish came into her voice. “I have been afraid for years of something like this, Kate, terribly afraid. Eddy must be found and returned to the castle just as quickly as possible. It would not do for anyone to discover who he is.”
“No,” Kate said softly, understanding the enormous public embarrassment that would be caused by a dead prince who was discovered to be alive and living in exile in Scotland. “It would not do at all.”
Poor Toria, she thought with a sudden sympathy, living day to miserable day with the awful fear that her dead brother might somehow be discovered to be alive, and his death revealed as a fraud and a sham. It would bring down the monarchy.
Toria pulled in her breath, steadying herself. “I’m glad I’ve told you, Kate. And I’m very glad you’re here, because you can help me get to the bottom of this. I am quite sure that dear Eddy, confused as he is, would never have left this place on his own account. He must have been coerced into leaving, or even taken by force. After lunch, I intend to question Angus Duff and the house steward, Simpson. They may be in possession of some facts they don’t understand, or they may know something they have not yet revealed.” Her expression darkened, and her voice took on an imperious ring. “But they shall reveal it to me, or we will know the reason why.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
If I had not taken things for granted, if I had approached everything with care which I should have shown had we approached the case de novo and had no cut-and-dried story to warp my mind, should I not have found something more definite to go upon?
Sherlock Holmes, in
“The Adventure of the Abbey Grange”
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Oliver Graham was in a state of high dudgeon. Dismounting from his bicycle and leaning it against the front wall of Dr. Ogilvy’s house, he glared at the motorcar, with its opulent leather seats, ostentatious headlamps, and gleaming brass fittings. He had been at the railway station that morning when the Panhard was unloaded from the train, and he knew very well to whom the bloody thing belonged: to Lord Charles Sheridan, the gentleman in command of the mounted troops who were even now barreling along the local roads on their green bicycles, heedless of the rights of pedestrians and other vehicles. In fact, the constable, pedaling back to the village from the hamlet of New-town, had been forced to fling himself and his bicycle ignominiously onto the weedy verge when a half-dozen men came flying around a bend without even so much as a halloo or a warning jingle of their bicycle bells. Not to mention that these military maneuvers were taking place at a damned inconvenient time. Here he was, in the midst of a most important murder investigation, with suspects to interview and an inquest scheduled for that afternoon, and he had to put up with the interference of men playing war, under the command of the very man whose whacking great motorcar was blocking the road.
Oliver stepped forward, raised his fist, and pounded on the doctor’s door. When Maud appeared, her eyes widening at the sight of his blue serge uniform and brass buttons, he barked, “I’ve coom tae see the doctor. Tell him it’s urgent.”
“But he has a visitor just now,” Maud said in a trembling tone. “Couldna ye coom back later, Constable?”
“Don’t gie me that saucy talk, girl,” the constable growled. “Tell the doctor I’m here tae see him. Tae see both him and his visitor.”
A moment later, Oliver was being ushered into the doctor’s consulting room, his blue constable’s helmet under his arm. He had been here many times, boy and man, for his father and the doctor had been friends, and Oliver had often sat on the hearth, watching the flames while the two men discussed politics over their tea. But he had never come in such a passion as seized him now.
“Doctor,” he growled, “I’ve coom tae instruct yer guest tae move his machine, which is blockin’ the street.”
“Well, well, Oliver!” The doctor’s eyes twinkled genially behind his glasses. “Welcome, lad. Sit ye doon an’ hae a cup o’ tea. Maudie is bringin’ a fresh pot.” He turned to the gentleman seated across from him, a man of medium height, with a neat brown beard, dressed in a brown tweed suit and wearing polished brown boots. “Brigadier Lord Sheridan, I should like you tae meet our constable, Oliver Graham.”
“Good morning, Constable,” Lord Sheridan said in a deep voice with the cultured accents of the aristocracy. His brown eyes rested upon
Oliver with a disconcerting steadiness. “I understand that you are conducting the investigation into Mrs. MacDonald’s murder.”
“Attemptin’ tae conduct the investigation,” Oliver retorted. He did not take the proffered chair, preferring to do battle on his feet, where he had the advantage of height, at least, over the seated man. “I was barred frae makin’ a visit tae the castle tae interview Lord Osborne—at yer instructions, so I was told. I’ve coom tae demand that ye permit me tae enter the castle and speak tae the gentleman. And that ye move yer motorcar,” he added hastily.
“You were barred from the castle?” Lord Sheridan raised his eyebrows, seeming pleased. “Just now?”
“Aye. There was a soldier posted at the gate, who said that the estate was bein’ used for military maneuvers, at yer orders.” He paused, and added cuttingly, “Sir.”
Lord Sheridan’s gaze sharpened, and his mouth tightened imperceptibly, but his voice remained soft. “And why was it that you wished to gain access to the castle, Constable?”
“Tae talk tae Lord Osborne,” the constable repeated sourly, attempting to ignore the uneasiness that was beginning to stir inside him. The man’s gaze was uncomfortably penetrating, and he did not seem to want to let the subject go.
“Talk to him for what purpose?”
“Tae hear what he has tae say about Mrs. MacDonald’s death,” the constable replied in a louder voice. “Lord Osborne is the only one close tae the victim who hasna yet been questioned.” He turned to the doctor. “And if I canna get into the castle tae question Lord Osborne, I suggest that ye subpoena him tae the inquest, Doctor, and let him answer the questions under oath. P’raps Brigadier Lord Sheridan,” he added scathingly, “would be sae guid as tae serve the subpoena on his elusive lordship, since he has placed the castle out-of-bounds tae us ordin’ry folk.”
With a remonstrating look, the doctor said, “There won’t be any need for a subpoena today, Oliver. The inquest has been postponed.”
“Postponed!” Oliver exclaimed, feeling that control of this important case was being rapidly and inexplicably wrenched out of his hands. “But why? Tae be sure, I dinna yet hae the guilty man, but ye can render an open verdict and—”
“The inquest is being postponed,” Lord Sheridan said quietly, “because it does not appear that your investigation has yielded accurate information about the murder itself.”
“Doesna appear that—!” Oliver felt his mouth gape open, and he snapped it shut. “What’s wrong wi’ the information the investigation has yielded? And who th’ de’il are ye, sir, tae interfere wi’ a duly-appointed police officer who is carryin’ out his duties?”
The doctor cleared his throat. “Brigadier Lord Sheridan is here,” he said in a politic tone, “on an urgent matter for the Crown. It appears that our Hilda’s death is somehow involved—how, it isna quite clear yet—with the matter he has coom tae look into. O’ course, ye may wish to ask for special instructions from Chief Superintendent McNaughton. But speakin’ as the King’s coroner, I urge ye tae cooperate wi’ his lordship.”
The Crown! Oliver swallowed, cursing his rotten luck. It was bad enough that he was required to solve the murder of the mother of the woman he wished to wed, without the Crown somehow getting tangled up in it. But there was no point in complicating the matter by involving Chief Superintendent McNaughton, who—if official attention were called to the situation—would probably only take him to task for not yet having found the guilty man. The doctor was right. He should have to cooperate, like it or not.
“Aye,” he growled. “Aye, I’ll gae along wi’ ye.”
“Very well, then.” Lord Sheridan leaned back in his chair and gave him a long, probing look that seemed to reach into the depths of his mind and turn it inside out. “Perhaps you will be so good as to reconstruct the crime for me?”
That was easy enough, for there was only one construction that could be put upon the hideous event. “Mrs. MacDonald was walkin’ home frae the castle the night afore she was found, which would be Sunday night,” Oliver said, striving for an authoritative tone. “The killer coom up behind her with a knife, sudden and quietlike, and slit the poor woman’s throat. She died without so much as a struggle.”
“I see,” Lord Sheridan said gravely. “And why did you allow Mrs. MacDonald’s body to be moved from the place of its discovery before the coroner was given the opportunity to examine it?”
“Tae be moved—” Oliver swallowed uneasily, feeling himself placed upon the defensive. He had known that it was not good police procedure to move a body before the coroner could see it, and under other circumstances, he would not have allowed it. But the site seemed to present so little useful evidence and the cause of the poor woman’s death was so grievously apparent, that he—
Lord Sheridan’s tone grew sharper. “Did Angus Duff say or do anything to persuade you to remove the body?”
This was entirely unexpected. “Angus?” Oliver blinked. “Why, no, unless—” Angus had agreed with him that moving Mrs. MacDonald was of no consequence, but it had not been his suggestion.
“Unless what?” Lord Sheridan prompted. He frowned. “Come on, Constable. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”
Oliver took a deep breath, feeling his face redden. If this was what his lordship was determined to know, there was no point in prolonging the inquisition any longer than necessary. He might as well confess and get the bloody business over with.
“The decision tae move the body was entirely mine, m’lord,” he said. “I moved it because . . .” He flicked his tongue across his dry lips and spoke again, in rather more of a rush than he intended. “Because it was rainin’ something fierce, and I hated tae see Flora’s poor mother lyin’ facedown in the rain, wi’ her daughter weepin’ her heart out beside her. And since there was so little tae be seen on the path—no blood tae speak of, no signs o’ struggle . . .” He fought the impulse to swallow, and stiffened his spine. “I felt it was right tae move the body, m’lord.”
“I see,” Lord Sheridan said quietly. A look of something like compassion came and went in his eyes, and his mouth relaxed. “If there was no blood to speak of and no indications of a struggle on the path, then perhaps you would be inclined to agree that the victim was likely killed elsewhere and her body transported to the place where she was found?”
Oliver stared blankly, feeling himself suddenly cut adrift from his hasty assumptions. Yes, of course that was what had happened. No signs of struggle, no evidence of blood, although such a gaping wound would surely have spouted blood like a— He sucked in his breath. What a blockhead he had been!
“I . . . I wud agree, m’lord,” he managed, miserably. He pulled himself together, mentally revising the report that lay on his desk, waiting to be forwarded to Chief Superintendent McNaughton. “Yes, sir, I’d say so, sir.”
“Very good,” Lord Sheridan said, with satisfaction. “Another question, if you don’t mind. I understand that Miss MacDonald came upon the body of her mother as she was taking her accustomed path to the castle, around six in the morning. But how was it that Angus Duff came to be there, too, at such an early hour? As I understand it, Duff lives quite some distance from the place where the body was discovered. What was his business in the area?”
Oliver frowned, reviewing in his mind the sequence of events of that terrible morning. “I can’t say, m’lord. Angus told me that he came upon Flora just after she happened on the body, and stayed tae comfort her for a moment or two before comin’ along tae fetch me.” He let out an incredulous breath. “You’re not suggestin’, sir, that Angus Duff knew the body was there, and was waitin’ for Flora tae stumble on her mother?”
“I suppose that’s one possible interpretation,” Lord Sheridan said, “but I am not confident of it.” He stood. “As to an interview with Lord Osborne, Constable, I’m afraid you shall have to leave that to me. However, I do commend you for having the wisdom to see that his lordship might be able to offer some insight into what has happ
ened.” With what almost looked like a twinkle, he added, “And I am glad that you are willing to revise your first impressions regarding the events of the murder. I might add that concern for the family of the victim is a praiseworthy thing, but one should not allow it to overcome one’s rational assessment of the situation. And it is better if one does not take things for granted, or approaches a case with a cut-and-dried story already in one’s mind.”
“Aye, sir,” Oliver said, feeling that he had been justly and fairly rebuked, and with rather less severity than his carelessness deserved.
“Well, then,” Lord Sheridan said briskly. “I should be grateful if you would tell Miss MacDonald, should you see her, that I wish to interview her as soon as possible. She may have some vital information that she has so far kept to herself. And do let me know at once if you come upon possible clues, or if you should discover strangers in your district, particularly foreign-speaking strangers. You’ve looked into all the possible suspects, I suppose.”
Oliver was deeply disturbed to hear that his lordship had it in mind to interview Flora, who in his estimation had no vital information and should, in any case, be treated with the deference due to a grieving daughter. But having made himself enough of a fool, he only said, “I’ve spoken tae the gypsies at Roundyhill, which was my first thought, o’ course. Gypsies’re an e’il lot o’ thieves and beggars, gen’rally speakin’. But news o’ the murder seemed tae be a surprise tae them. They had nae motive, either, as far as I could see. The victim wasna wearin’ jewelry and dinna carry a purse nor money. As for other strangers in Glamis Village, we’ve had none, save for an elderly gentleman ballad collector. And yer own troops, o’ course.” He paused. “Military maneuvers, I was told. Reconnaissance?”