Death at Glamis Castle

by Robin Paige

  Flora stood up and began to pace back and forth across the brick floor, trying to think what should be done. So far, all was as well as might be expected. Lord Osborne had managed to escape from his captors and make his way to the spot where he always liked to take his easel and paints. She had found him there yesterday evening, wet and shivering, and had led him to safety. But while his refuge was secure, it could only be temporary. Clearly, she had to find the means to get both of them away from Glamis, to a place of permanent safety.

  But that destination was no great puzzle, thankfully. Flora’s father was descended from Sir Alexander MacDonald, chief of the MacDonalds of Sleat and Skye. The MacDonald tartan, woven into a beautiful red-and-black plaid wool shawl, had been the family’s proud wedding gift to the young Hilda. And when Flora was a girl, her father had taken her and her mother back to his home for a visit. They had traveled by rail from Glamis to Glasgow and then by boat from Glasgow to Skye, where they had been warmly welcomed by a large and hospitable group of MacDonalds. Flora knew that if she and Lord Osborne could somehow reach the family stronghold on the Isle of Skye, they would be given sanctuary for as long as they wished to stay.

  Flora paused in her pacing. Worried as she was, she couldn’t suppress a small smile. It was amazingly ironic that Lord Osborne should be seized by a fancy that, wild and absurd as it was, pointed straight to Skye and their only hope of safe harbor.

  But a moment later, Flora was pacing again. The safety of the Isle might as well be the safety of the moon, for it was very nearly impossible to reach. If she took all her mother’s savings from under the brick in the corner, there was enough for a pair of railway tickets and boat passage, and a little more beside. But the station at Glamis was sure to be watched, so they could not leave from there. A horse and private carriage to the train station at Dundee or Perth would be much safer, but that was equally impossible, for she could not hire a carriage in this small village, where everyone’s business was known to everyone else.

  Flora paused again. No, the only thing she could do was to keep Lord Osborne safely hidden, hoping that someone—Herman, perhaps—would offer another alternative. And to do that, she had at all costs to avoid Lord Sheridan and his questions, for she wasn’t sure she could trust herself, if severely pressed, not to give away some hint of Lord Osborne’s hiding place. That meant that she could not appear at the inquest, whenever it was held, for she was certain to have to answer questions under oath. It also meant that she must leave this house at once, for this was the first place Lord Sheridan would look for her.

  Flora turned and started toward the room where she and her mother had slept. She had only the vaguest of plans, but she knew what she needed, in case she managed to find a way to fund their secret journey. A change of clothing, warm boots, a cloak, and—

  There was a knock at the half-open door, and Flora turned, her heart leaping into her mouth. Dear God, was it too late to escape? Had Lord Sheridan found her already?

  But the man at the door was no lord. He was a tinker, to judge from the tinker’s pig slung over his shoulder, a tall man, darkly handsome, with a bold smile, ragged black hair, and blue eyes, like the palest of blue flax blossoms. He wore ragged trousers and a stained leather jerkin and dirty red neckerchief, and his wide-brimmed felt hat, decorated with colored beads and a feather, was cocked at a rakish angle.

  “Pots t’ mend, missy?” he asked, and raised his hat. “Brok’n spoons?” He swung his pig off his shoulder and dropped it, stepping just inside the open door, smiling the while. “All kinds o’ tin work, expertly done.” And then, gaily, as if to soothe the concern that must be written on her face, “Your cousin suggested I stop an’ ask.”

  Flora shook her head, discomfited by the man’s bold entrance into the cottage and by the almost mesmerizing glance he rested on her. She recognized most men of the gypsy clan that had camped at Roundyhill in the late summer for as long as she could remember, but this man was a stranger.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, trying not to show her uneasiness, “I dinna hae work for ye today.” Pulling herself away from his penetrating gaze, she turned to the table and picked up her bonnet and gloves, making as if to leave. “I’deed, I’m just on my way out. I’m expected at th’ castle.”

  “But Herman Memsdorff suggested that I stop here,” the tinker persisted. “He said he was sure that Miss Flora would have some work for me. Ye’re Miss Flora?” At her nod, he looked around, his sharp eyes searching the two lower rooms, noticing the ladder to the loft. “Is Memsdorff here?”

  Flora shook her head. Putting her bonnet and gloves back on the table, she asked, “You’ve seen Herman today, then?”

  “Yesterday,” the tinker replied. “He insisted I come as soon as may be, since he’d heard that the band is to move on soon. We’re friends, y’see.” His eyes came to her face, his gaze intent and searching. “If he isn’t here, do ye know where t’ find him?”

  “I dinna know, I’m sorry tae say,” Flora replied quite truthfully. She pursed her lips and regarded the tinker with a frown, for she had just been struck by an intriguing thought, one that under ordinary circumstances she would not have dared to consider. But these were not ordinary circumstances, and after all, this man was an acquaintance of her cousin’s. Screwing up her courage, she ventured, “The gypsy clan—it’s leavin’ soon? Which direction will ye gae?”

  The man took out a cigarette and, striking a match against the whitewashed plaster of the wall, lit it. “South to Scone, then Perth.” He eyed her obliquely, his voice becoming almost impudent. “And why d’ye ask, missy Flora?” His handsome mouth curved in a half-mocking smile. “Are ye ready to run away with the gypsies-o?” And he whistled a bar of the old ballad.

  Over his whistling, Flora spoke all in a rush, and boldly, before she could lose heart.

  “Oh, no, not to run away, not at all! But a . . . my uncle and I were thinkin’ tae gae along tae Perth for a few days, and I wondered if p’rhaps there might be room in one o’ the caravans. We can pay.” She remembered that enough would have to be saved out for the rail trip to Glasgow and the boat to Skye, and added hastily, “as long as it’s not too much, o’ course.”

  “Ah, well.” The man pulled on his cigarette and blew out the smoke, which wreathed around his head like a ghostly halo. There was a moment of silence. His eyes were slitted now, and she had the odd feeling that he was reappraising her, revising his estimation, his assumptions. “Your . . . uncle, eh?” An oddly speculative note had come into his voice. “And what would be his name, pray tell?”

  “Uncle Angus,” Flora said hastily, speaking the first name that came into her head. She forced herself to slow, and smile. “My dear auntie died last year, ye see. The three o’ us used tae gae often tae Perth, an’ I thought . . . well, I thought Uncle Angus might fancy a bit of a holiday.”

  “Folks goin’ on holiday usu’lly take the train,” the tinker remarked. Before she could frame a response, he added, with a little shrug, “But no matter. P’raps ye and yer uncle might come to Roundyhill this evenin’ an’ have a look at my caravan. It’s red and green, tidy and private, and there’s plenty o’ room for an uncle and a niece on their way to Perth.” He paused, pulling on his cigarette again and eyeing her through the smoke. “What about yer cousin? Won’t Herman be comin’ wi’ ye on this grand adventure?”

  Flora made herself speak lightly. “Herman? Oh, I dinna think so. He’s his own business tae tend. When d’ye say the clan is leavin’ for Perth?”

  The tinker shrugged, fixing her with a searching look. “If there’s money in it, there’s no need to wait for the clan. I can go whenever ye’re ready—tonight, if ye’d like to leave right away. Ye’ll bring yer uncle?”

  “Oh, tonight’d be too soon,” Flora said, now half-frightened by her own boldness and feeling the need to pause and think things through. There was something about this man that warned her off, some aura of danger, some scent of peril, that made her feel she could not tr
ust him. But she already knew she could trust no one, and hiring this man, while risky and reckless, might be her only means of spiriting Lord Osborne away. “In the mornin’, early,” she said breathlessly. “We could coom then.” She’d have to find clothing for his lordship—perhaps something from the closet belowstairs at the castle, where old jackets and working trousers were kept.

  “Very well, then,” the man said, turning to toss his cigarette onto the path outside the door. “Look for the red-and-green caravan or ask for Taiso the tinker, and someone will point the way.” He paused. “And if ye see Herman, ye’ll tell him that Taiso was here t’ talk to him, won’t ye?”

  “I shall,” Flora said.

  “Until morning, then,” he said, and dropped a mock bow. “Yer ladyship’s carriage’ll be waitin’. Bring yer uncle and the three of us’ll be off straightaway.”

  Flora did not answer. When he had gone, she sat down limply at the table and dropped her face into her hands. It would be grand if she could snatch Lord Osborne out from under the noses of Lord Sheridan’s soldiers, and the tinker’s willingness to take them to Perth seemed almost heaven-sent. From there, they could take the railway to Glasgow, and find a boat to Skye, and safety. But she was more than half-afraid of the mocking fellow, and leaving Glamis Village now meant abandoning two pieces of sadly unfinished business: the inquest into her mother’s murder, now postponed; and her mother’s burial, which could not be arranged until after the inquest. How could she go away, with two such important tasks undone?

  But even as the question echoed in her mind, the answer came with it, in her mother’s calm, loving voice. “Do as ye mun do, my verra dear, and dinna worry aboot me. I’m wi’ yer father now, an’ all is well wi’ the both o’ us.”

  Flora dropped her hands. Yes, of course. Whatever might be said and done at the inquest, whatever words the vicar might speak over the grave—nothing would change the irrevocable fact of her mother’s murder nor the blessed truth of her union, at last, with Flora’s father, whose love she had held in her heart through all the long, lonely years. And it was certainly best not to talk to Lord Sheridan or risk her own appearance at the inquest, where she might be forced to reveal what she knew. So what should she do? Where could she go?

  Flora sat for a few moments in silence, debating with herself. Then she stood and went toward the bedroom, her mouth set in a determined line. She had a clearer idea what she must do, and the journey she must take. What she couldn’t know was how it would all come out in the end.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Still it cried “Sleep no more!” to all the house:

  “Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor

  Shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no more.”

  Macbeth, II, ii

  William Shakespeare

  As soon as they had both finished lunch, Kate followed Princess Victoria to the Strathmore family sitting room, a large, pleasant room on the second floor of a recently-renovated wing, with rosy-pink walls, tall windows, and a vaulted ceiling with intricate plaster-work. Toria seated herself in an ornate gilded chair and Kate on a rose-damask divan to the left of the chair. A moment later, two men were shown into the room: the estate factor, whom Kate had met that morning, still wearing his rough outdoor clothes and leather boots; and Simpson, the house steward, in the customary black morning coat. Both men seemed extremely nervous as they bowed themselves into the Royal presence. Their agitation escalated, Kate felt, when they saw her, and she tried to excuse herself.

  But Toria made an authoritative gesture. “I prefer you to stay, Kate,” she said firmly. “There may be something you can do to help.”

  Kate couldn’t think what help she might offer, especially since Charles had so many men searching the area. But it didn’t do to disagree with the Princess when she spoke in that tone, so she only nodded and resumed her seat on the divan.

  The Princess turned first to the factor. “I understand, Mr. Duff, that it was you who discovered that my brother had run away. I should be grateful if you would tell me the circumstances.”

  Twisting his wool cap in his hands, Angus Duff cleared his throat. Now that she had a closer look at him, he seemed, Kate thought, perfectly wretched, as if he had not slept in several days. “Yer Royal Highness,” he began in a faltering tone, “the message I telegraphed tae Whitehall wasna altogether accurate, I’m afraid.” He swallowed. “Not in every respect, that is, ma’am. Not entirely.”

  “Not accurate?” Toria frowned. “Well, then, I suppose we should clear up these small inaccuracies. What are they?”

  “Well . . . that is . . .” He looked down at his boots. “I mean tae say—”

  But whatever it was that Angus Duff meant to say was interrupted when the door opened and a footman announced, in stately tones, “Brigadier Lord Sheridan.”

  Angus Duff and Simpson turned, surprise and consternation registering on their faces, as Charles came in. He turned and said something that Kate couldn’t hear to the footman, and then the door closed behind him, and he came forward.

  “Your Royal Highness,” he said, and made the requisite bow. He nodded to Kate. “Lady Sheridan.”

  If Charles were surprised to see the Princess at Glamis, Kate thought, or his wife in her company, he didn’t show it. But she had learnt long ago that he was adept at keeping emotion from showing on his face, a capability that she did not always admire. He was a candid man who could be relied on to speak the truth, but there were times when he wrapped himself in a kind of grave and unrevealing reserve, and this was one of them.

  “Lord Sheridan!” Toria exclaimed, smiling. “How good of you to interrupt your tasks and come to see me. Or perhaps you have news?” She leaned forward eagerly. “You and your men have already found my brother? He is safe?”

  “I’m sorry to say, Your Highness, that he has not yet been found,” Charles replied, unsmiling. “We are, of course, continuing to search, and have sealed off all the roads. If he is in the area, I’m confident that he will be found.”

  Toria, Kate knew, was nobody’s fool, and she understood Charles’s implication immediately. “If he is in the area?” she asked, frowning. “How can he have got out of the area? He knows no one outside of the castle. He has no friends, no means of transportation.” Her frown became sterner. “Or does he? I hope you’re not suggesting that someone may have—”

  “We’re continuing to search, ma’am,” Charles replied, forestalling a difficult question. From the way he had broken into Toria’s sentence, Kate had the feeling that he suspected that friends of Prince Eddy might have taken him away, but could not reveal his suspicions, especially in front of the listening men. “I’ll be able to make a more full report tonight,” he added. He gestured at Duff and Simpson. “I’ve come to the castle, actually, to interview these two men, and a servant who waited on the Prince. I would like to learn more of the details of his disappearance.”

  “Then you’ve come at just the right time,” Toria replied dryly, “for Mr. Duff was just about to correct certain inaccuracies that apparently crept into his telegram to Whitehall, and hence were forwarded to His Majesty the King.”

  “Inaccuracies?” Charles did not seat himself, and Kate was aware of the tension in his stance and the guarded sharpness in his voice.

  “Indeed.” Toria fixed her gaze on Duff, and her voice hardened. “I am confident, however, that Mr. Duff will be able to make things clear. Isn’t that true?”

  Kate had almost forgotten how perceptive the Princess was, and how quick and discerning. Like her Royal father, Toria was an excellent judge of character, and here, a safe distance from her mother, she had assumed a definite air of command.

  All this was too much for Angus Duff, however, who was clearly terrified by the combined force of a Royal Princess and Brigadier Lord Sheridan. His mouth opened and shut without a sound. After a moment, he managed to blurt out a few husky words, his voice thickened by fright.

  “Well, then, ma’am, the
Prince was found tae be missin’ on Monday mornin’, and I telegraphed Whitehall as quick as I—”

  Charles shook his head. “That won’t do, Duff,” he said, in an admonitory tone. “We must have the whole truth.” When the factor did not immediately answer, he turned to the Princess. “May I, Your Highness? I do have a few specific questions, based on several facts I have uncovered since I arrived.”

  “Yes, of course,” she replied hesitantly, “although I cannot see—” She frowned slightly. “Duff, you are to answer his lordship truthfully. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Yer Highness,” Duff said, so low that Kate could barely hear him.

  “Then tell me whose blood it was that was cleaned up in Prince Eddy’s apartment,” Charles commanded. “It was not entirely removed, of course. There was far too much for that.”

  At the word blood, Toria had gasped, her hand going to her mouth, her eyes opening wide. “There was blood in Eddy’s rooms?” she whispered.

  Suddenly chilled to the bone, as if by an icy winter blast, Kate stared at Charles. She was thinking of Flora, who had told her of discovering her mother’s body early on Monday morning, her throat cut. A horrible murder like that must have produced a vast quantity of gushing blood. But the body had been found on the path to the village, and not in the castle, unless—

  “Did you clean it up?” Charles asked gravely, his eyes holding Duff’s. When Duff didn’t answer, he turned to the butler. “Simpson, was it you who scrubbed that floor to remove the stains, and then put down the rug to cover the spots that could not be washed away?”