Death at Glamis Castle

by Robin Paige

  “Yes,” his lordship said. The clock on the mantel whirred and began to strike half-past eleven, as he rose from his chair and reached for his hat. “Thank you, Constable Graham. Doctor, I’m grateful for the tea. No doubt we shall see one another again before this is over.” He went to the door. “Good-bye, gentlemen.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Ae fond kiss, and then we sever,

  Ae fareweel, and then forever!

  Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,

  Warring signs and groans I’ll wage thee.

  Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,

  While the star of hope she leaves him?

  Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me;

  Dark despair around benights me.

  “Ae Fond Kiss” Robert Burns, 1792

  Two minutes later, Oliver let himself out the front door. The motorcar was gone, leaving behind only the objectionable odor of oily smoke. He was still standing there, ruefully contemplating his exchange with Lord Sheridan and feeling not nearly so confident as he had upon entering the house, when he saw Flora coming along the street, wearing a black dress and shawl and a neat black bonnet, and carrying a wrapped parcel.

  Snatching off his helmet, Oliver stepped forward to greet her, a rush of tender ardor suffusing him. “Hullo, Flora,” he said gruffly. “Ye’re well?”

  “As well as may be, thank ye, Oliver,” Flora replied, pulling her shawl around her. She was pale and drawn, and did not quite meet his eyes.

  Oliver flushed, remembering the sweet gentleness with which she had rejected his advances on the previous Sunday evening and hoping to renew his suit, although of course it would not be right to take advantage of the sadness she must feel regarding the death of her mother. But he reminded himself that she was now quite alone in the world, her cousin her only kinsman and not a resident of Glamis nor able to offer her protection and security. Like any other young woman in such a solitary situation, she must be anxious to have things settled and would no doubt welcome the renewal of his suit. He took heart.

  “I thought I might call on ye this evenin’ after supper, Flora,” he said. And then, recollecting that if her cousin was not at home they would be unchaperoned, added, “Perhaps we might walk i’ the kirk yard.”

  She did not hesitate. “Thank ye, Oliver,” she said in a low voice that seemed to him tense and heavy with fatigue, “but that wud not be . . . wise.”

  He felt a sharp disappointment. “Later, then,” he said, lowering his voice so that he might not be overheard by Mrs. Lovel, who had come out to sweep her stoop across the way, and was watching them curiously. His words came out in an unpracticed, unrehearsed rush. “Ye must be verra concerned for th’ future, Flora, and I want ye tae know that my hand an’ my heart are yours an’ forever will be. I can offer ye a fine cottage an’—”

  “But I told ye on Sunday night,” Flora interrupted, “that I dinna be ready tae wed, Oliver. An’ now that I’ve lost Mother, I’m even less ready than ’fore.” She bit her lip. “I’ve . . . other business tae tend, afore I even think on weddin’.”

  Oliver heard an invitation in her words, although he did not like the tone of her voice. It was agitated and anxious, not the voice of the Flora he knew, who was unfailingly calm in spirit and composed in outward demeanor.

  “I understand,” he said, and added, in an effort to comfort her, “I shall be glad tae wait ’til th’ grief has ’bated a bit an’ ye’re ready tae consider yer situation in the world. ’Til then, please know that I love ye wi’ a’ my heart, dear.”

  She raised her eyes, which were filled with a wild pain. “But I don’t want ye tae wait for me, Oliver!” she cried, a quite unexpected passion trembling in her voice. “I hae things tae do, an’ when they be done, ye may—” She turned abruptly away, and when she spoke again, her voice was controlled once more, flat and hard, almost a man’s voice. “When they be done, ye’re likely tae repent o’ yer offer.”

  Repent? Oliver stared at her, suspicion rising like an ominous cloud in his mind. What could she possibly mean? Was she about to do something terrible, something that might make her an outcast, place her beyond the pale? But as the questions arose, he suppressed them, for he could not imagine his pure, dear Flora doing anything that would bring shame to herself or discredit to the memory of her mother, nor could he think how best to refute her words. But for her sweet sake, and not less for his own, he had to try.

  He held out his hand. “Repent?” He forced a chuckle. “Nae, ne’er, my own Flora. Ye canna do anything tae change my mind or my heart. Ye are and mun always be th’ sweetest, purest—”

  “Nae, Oliver.” She ignored his hand, drawing away from him and gathering her shawl closer around her. “Ye mustna be so sure o’ yer feelings, for feelings change. And ye mustna be sure of me, for ye scarcely know me, as ye’ll nae doubt realize, when ye think more on’t.” She made as if to step on, then paused, her voice softening somewhat. “I shall see ye at the inquest this afternoon, o’ course. And we must gae on as friends, nae matter what happens, for a friend I shall always be tae ye, Oliver, for the sake of the auld days.” She gave him a glance in which he could read real gratitude. “And I shall always be thankful that ye carried Mother out of the wet on Monday mornin’.”

  “The inquest has been postponed, I’m afraid,” Oliver said gruffly. There was something in Flora’s voice that dismayed him, but he could only blame himself. He had spoken much too soon and far too ardently. Of course she had business to tend to—any daughter whose mother had met such an untimely death would have a great many things to do. He made an effort to gain control of himself. “I’ve just coom frae seein’ the doctor, and he’s told me. There’sna word yet as tae when it will be held. I’m sorry, Flora. I’m sure ye wanted tae hae it o’er.”

  “Postponed?” She lifted her head and looked at him doubtfully. “But why?”

  He gave a little shrug, not wanting to worry her. “Th’ doctor didna say. I’m sure ’twill be soon, tomorrow or th’ day after, mayhap.” He cleared his throat and added reluctantly, “I’ th’ meantime, the gentleman in charge o’ th’ soldiers has asked me tae tell ye that he would like tae talk tae ye. Lord Sheridan, his name is. He’s the one who’s told th’ doctor tae postpone the inquest. He has, it seems, a commission frae the Crown—although what the Crown has tae do with yer mother’s murder is beyond me.”

  Flora seemed to grow quite still and hard, but when she spoke, her tone was mild. “Lord Sheridan wishes tae talk tae me? Why, whatever for, Oliver?”

  “I canna say,” Oliver replied, not wanting to tell her that His Lordship appeared to feel that she might be withholding information about her mother’s murder. “He was urgent aboot it, though, Flora.”

  Flora let out her breath in a little puff. “Well, then,” she said, seeming calmer now, and resigned, “I suppose I shall hae tae talk wi’ his lordship.” She hesitated, frowning again, and changed the subject. “I wonder, Oliver, if ye’ve seen my cousin Herman. He’s been keepin’ with Mother and me for th’ past few weeks, but he dinna coom home last night. It’s nae like him tae go awae wi’out sayin’ good-bye, especially now.”

  “I saw him i’ the pub,” Oliver replied, “but he left early, afore I could talk wi’ him. Flora—”

  Flora pressed her lips together. “Fareweel, Oliver,” she said, in a tone of finality, and hurried on, in the direction of the small cottage that she and her mother had shared.

  The constable stood, watching her go, trying to dispel the awful feeling that he was seeing the last of the woman he loved. Across the way, Mrs. Lovel finished brushing her stoop and gave him a sympathetic look.

  “Take heart, Oliver,” she called. “She’s bound to coom round ’fore long. It’s all just too much for th’ dear girl just now.”

  Oliver scowled. “Nosy auld body,” he muttered to himself, going to his bicycle. He mounted and rode back in the direction of the Glamis Inn, where he usually purchased his lunch, at first
slowly and disconsolately, then with a quicker motion and the beginnings of a whistle on his lips. Flora may have rebuffed him again, but Mrs. Lovel, he felt, must be right. After the pain of her mother’s death had faded and the reality of her uncertain position in the world had begun to be clear, Flora would no doubt begin to see how much she needed him and to value all he had to offer. She was anxious now, that was all, and who could blame her? He would wait. Oh, yes, he would wait.

  The whistle grew louder as he thought of the grateful glance she had given him. That glance had been well worth the dressing-down he’d received in the doctor’s consulting room. If he had it to do over again, he’d move Hilda’s body just the same, and Brigadier Lord Charles Sheridan be damned.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  There were three gypsies a-come to my door,

  And downstairs ran my lady-o.

  One sang high and another sang low

  And the other sang bonny bonny Biscay, O!

  Then she pulled off her silken gown,

  And put on hose of leather-o

  And a bright red gown and a ragged apron

  And she’s gone with the wraggle-taggle gypies O!

  “The Wraggle Taggle Gypsies” Scottish ballad

  Flora picked up her skirts and hurried along the street, lifting her hand to Mrs. Johnstone, who was coming out of the butcher’s with a plucked chicken in her basket. But Mrs. Johnstone, a tall woman, thin as a leather strap, put her nose into the air with an audible “Hmmpff” and pointedly failed to return the greeting. She had been offended some months before when Hilda MacDonald had rebuked her for gossiping about the vicar’s wife—Mrs. Johnstone was known around the village for her vicious tale-telling—and since had refused to speak to either Flora or her mother. “Think they’re too good for ordin’ry folks, they do,” she’d huffed.

  With a sigh, Flora turned her back on Mrs. Johnstone and turned down the unpaved alley opposite the joiner’s shop. At the end, half-hidden behind a large birch tree, sat the white-painted, tile-roofed cottage where Flora had lived with her mother, all to itself in its small patch of garden. Sadness weighed on Flora’s shoulders like a heavy load as she went along the path between the roses her mother had planted, sweet with a late-summer fragrance that mingled with the spicy scent of the mauve Michaelmas daisies. Flora hated to disappoint Oliver Graham, and the sight of his crestfallen expression had been almost more than she could bear. Once upon a time, she had thought that marriage to Oliver would bring the greatest happiness into her life, for she knew him to be a good and true man who would strive above all else to make a home for her and their children. Now, she knew that this could not be, for what had happened and might be about to happen would change everything, including Oliver’s feelings for her.

  But Flora, who had a practical turn of mind and a bolder heart than Oliver Graham might have imagined, could not be prevented from doing what she must, either by grief for what once was and was gone or by fear of what might be but was not yet. She knew that her mother would not wish her to linger in the past but to move on to what must be done, especially where Lord Osborne was concerned. And that was exactly what she meant to do, just as soon as the inquest was over—which, pray God, would be very soon—and she could see her mother laid to rest beside her dear father. Malcolm MacDonald had been waiting for over ten years for his wife to join him under his granite headstone in the village graveyard. He had died a young man, with a young wife and daughter, and the thought that the two would be united at last was some consolation to Flora.

  No villagers locked their doors, and the MacDonalds were no exception. Flora went up the stone steps and pushed open the plank door, which her father had painted blue a great many years before, and on which her mother had hung a simple straw wreath, tucked full of dried flowers and herbs.

  “Herman,” she called hopefully, “Herman, are ye here, dear?”

  But her question echoed in an empty house. Flora took off her bonnet and gloves and set her parcel on the table, then climbed the wooden ladder to the low loft under the roof, thinking perhaps that her cousin might be having a nap. But although his brown woolen coat still hung on the peg beside the window and his carpet bag sat open on the floor, there was no Herman sleeping on the bed. She could not imagine that he had left without saying good-bye, and especially without seeing his Aunt Hilda buried. But if he had, he’d left bag and baggage behind.

  Mystified, worried, and feeling an urgent need to talk with her cousin about the vexatious postponement of the inquest, Flora descended the ladder, poked up the fire in the iron stove, and put on the kettle. Going to the cupboard, she took down a loaf of bread, fresh yesterday from the baker’s ovens. She carried it to the table, where she opened her parcel, revealing a chunk of fresh cheese she had brought from the castle dairy. Deep in thought, she sliced off enough bread and cheese for her meal. When the kettle began to steam, she brewed a pot of tea and took her simple luncheon to the table.

  It was difficult to sit down to a meal alone in an empty house, for this was the time Flora missed her mother most, missed the laughter and the shared confidences, missed her mother’s good advice and practical observations. The cottage was full of reminders, of course: the red-checked curtains at the casement windows; the rag rug on the brick floor, braided from Flora’s childhood pinafores and dresses; the framed photographs of her mother and father, her MacDonald grandparents, and her cousin Herman crowding the mantle; the dishes in the oaken sideboard, especially the fragile Bavarian porcelain cups from her mother’s family, the Memsdorffs; the handmade quilt on the bed in the adjoining room, which she and her mother had shared since her father died. But dear as these family possessions were to Flora, these were only things, and she would willingly give all of them up, and more beside, if she could have just one more hour with her mother, who would surely know what she should do to help Lord Osborne.

  But her mother could not help her now. Flora had tried very hard not to show her fear, but she had been shaken by Oliver Graham’s report that Lord Sheridan—the man who had brought the soldiers to Glamis—intended to question her. That could mean only one thing: that his lordship suspected her of hiding something. And while Lady Sheridan had already proved herself both gentle and sympathetic, Flora was under no illusions about the sort of man her husband might be. Lord Sheridan had brought that large contingent of soldiers to Glamis for only one reason, and Flora knew exactly what it was. They had come to find Lord Osborne—although what they intended to do with him once they’d laid hands on him was a dark mystery.

  She wrapped her hands around her cup, absorbing its comforting warmth, and tried to think through her dilemma. If Herman were here, she knew he would help her. Like her mother, his aunt, he came from Bavaria, and he was resourceful, inventive, and daring, afraid of nothing and no one. Herman would know what she ought to do, and she was desperate to talk with him.

  Apart from her cousin, though, there was no one else. She longed to turn for help to those she had known since girlhood as her friends: Mr. Duff and Mr. Simpson, who had always been amiable toward her; or Lord and Lady Strathmore, who were kindness itself. But their lordships were in India or somewhere equally remote. And she now knew, with a paralyzing fear, that she could trust neither Angus Duff, who had surely known of her mother’s murder before she stumbled onto the body, nor Mr. Simpson, who unfailingly took his direction from the estate factor. The thought turned her weak and sick, but she had to face the possibility that one or even both of these men, whom she had known and respected since she was a little girl, might have killed her mother and made off with Lord Osborne.

  For strength, she took a gulp of tea. If only he could tell her what had happened—could identify whoever had entered his rooms and taken him against his will. But he could not or would not speak of the violence of that night, no matter how much she questioned him. She could only conclude that the memory of it was locked away in his mind, as the memory of his real identity had been locked away and replaced with t
he delusion that he was Bonnie Prince Charlie, living in the year 1746. Her heart quailed at the thought of the enemies that surrounded her and threatened him, and she had no idea how long she could keep him hidden from them.

  Flora set down her empty cup and picked up the pot to pour another. What about Dr. Ogilvy? She had known him, like the others, since girlhood, and he had proved himself a trustworthy friend both to her mother and to Lord Osborne. He enjoyed Lord Strathmore’s confidence and had come often to the castle to treat Lord Osborne for various illnesses, always behaving toward him with friendship and courtesy. It had been Dr. Ogilvy’s suggestion that they humor his lordship in his odd fancies about Bonnie Prince Charlie, and that Flora should play-act the role of Flora MacDonald, the loyal Scotswoman who had helped Prince Charlie flee to Skye. Under other circumstances, Flora would turn immediately to him.

  But the doctor had allowed Lord Sheridan to persuade him to postpone the inquest and had no doubt answered his lordship’s questions about Lord Osborne’s disappearance. She did not know what sort of relationship there might be between them, and, not knowing, felt she could not trust even Dr. Ogilvy, who might, if he knew where she had hidden Lord Osborne, feel compelled to yield him up to Lord Sheridan and the soldiers.

  Bleakly, Flora finished the last crumb of cheese and licked her fingers. The problem was that so many people seemed desperate to get their hands on Lord Osborne, and she did not know which of them she could trust, or whether she could trust any of them. To be sure, his lordship was safe enough for the moment, hidden in a place where no one was likely to look and where she could easily provide him with food and drink. But the hiding place was cold and dank and certainly unwholesome. How long would he be willing to remain concealed there? Lord Osborne was the tenderest, the gentlest, the sweetest of men—she could not serve him so wholeheartedly otherwise—but his temperament was unpredictable, especially when he was left alone for a long period of time. His spirit, never strong, might falter. He might believe that she had abandoned him, and, losing heart, might try to escape or go searching for help.