Death at Glamis Castle

by Robin Paige

  “Out, damned spot, out I say!” Kate thought wildly of the words of Lady Macbeth, ceaselessly washing. “What, will these hands ne’er be clean?”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Simpson answered, low. “It was the two of us, m’lord, and nobody else.” He looked down at his hands with loathing, as if he was afraid that he would see the horror of blood yet on them. “We didn’t want anyone else on the staff to guess what had happened, you see, sir. What we had found in the Prince’s—in Lord Osborne’s rooms.”

  “Here’s the smell of the blood still,” Kate thought. “All the perfumes of Arabia—”

  “And whose blood was it?” Charles asked sharply.

  Duff raised his head, squared his shoulders, and met Charles’s eyes straight on. “T’was Hilda MacDonald’s blood, sir,” he said, finding his voice at last. There was a shudder of revulsion in it.

  Toria shut her eyes and sat still, as if she were paralyzed, but Kate’s eyes were wide open, and her thoughts were racing. So Flora’s mother had been killed in the castle, and not on the path, where her body was found. Her own earlier question echoed again in her mind. What kind of horrible person could have slit a servant’s throat, as if she were an animal brought to the slaughter? An answer came, again in words from Macbeth: “Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds—”

  Infected minds. Kate shuddered violently. Could Eddy have murdered Flora’s mother? Prince Eddy, unnaturally exiled from his rightful place in the succession. Prince Eddy, whose mind was unbalanced, his sister had said, perhaps even completely deranged. Were they dealing with a madman?

  “Hilda MacDonald’s blood,” Charles repeated, more softly. Oddly, something in him seemed to relax, and Kate guessed that he had been half-afraid that the blood might have belonged to someone else—to the prince, perhaps? He smiled thinly. “Now that we have established this much, perhaps you will tell us the rest of your own accord.”

  Duff took a deep breath. His face looked utterly haggard, as if the truth would drain all the life out of him. “On Sunday night about eleven, m’lord, Simpson heard scuffling on the stair near th’ kitchen.”

  “The stair that goes to the wing where the Prince lived?” Charles asked.

  “Yes, m’lord,” Duff replied. “There was naebody on the stairs when he went tae look, so he went upstairs tae th’ Prince’s apartments. He found Hilda, dead on the floor just inside th’ door. There was blood—” He swallowed again, painfully. “There was blood all o’er the place.”

  “Hilda?” the Princess asked faintly. “Who is this Hilda?”

  “A servant here at the castle, Your Highness,” Simpson said. “She looked after Prince Eddy from the day he arrived. In recent years, she was helped by her daughter, Flora. Hilda was much-loved by us all.”

  “Oh, dear,” Toria said, her face twisting. “I remember her now. Oh, I’m so sorry for her death.” She looked from Simpson to Duff with sympathy. “And how awful for you, to have discovered her as she was. Do go on, please.”

  “Yes, Yer Highness,” Duff said, his eyes averted, as if her compassion were painful to him. “When Simpson found Hilda, he sent for me, an’ we debated what tae do. We felt it would raise too many questions if the body were tae be found in Lord Osborne’s rooms. So we rolled her up in a rug an’ carried her tae a spot on the path, near the castle gates. But first we cleaned up the blood as well as we could.” His jaw muscles clenched. “There was quite a deal of it, as ye might imagine—her throat cut an’ all. It was a . . . a gruesome sight. I haen’t slept sin’ I saw it. To speak God’s truth, I dinna know if I’ll ever sleep again.”

  “Her throat was . . . cut?” the Princess whispered. Kate put out her hand, and the Princess seized it as if she were drowning.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Duff muttered. “I’m afraid so, ma’am.”

  Her throat was cut. Kate could not help thinking of the Ripper victims, all with their throats cut. She looked at Charles. Was this why he was here? Because the King was afraid that someone would connect this crime to the Ripper’s awful murders? And then connect Prince Eddy to—

  “What about the Prince?” Charles asked, turning to Simpson. “Was he in the apartment when you arrived?”

  “He was already gone, m’lord. I thought p’rhaps—” He stopped.

  “You thought what?” Charles prompted.

  Simpson seemed to steel himself, and when he spoke, the words came out in a rush. “I thought that p’rhaps the Prince had killed her in a fit of passion and then gone off, to escape discovery. Duff doesn’t agree with me, but I . . .” Biting his lip, he glanced at the Princess. “Well, it seemed a possibility. The Prince hasn’t been himself lately, I’m afraid.”

  “No,” Charles said in a tone of reflective irony. “I don’t suppose he has been himself, if we are to take the term literally. He believes himself to be Bonnie Prince Charlie, as I understand it.”

  “Bonnie Prince Charlie?” Toria asked in a choked voice, grasping Kate’s hand the harder.

  “It is a delusion that he has suffered from, intermittently, for two years or so,” Charles said. “Dr. Ogilvy tells me that it became quite pronounced in the past few weeks. Prince Eddy seemed anxious to get to Skye.”

  Bonnie Prince Charlie! Kate stared at him, searching his face for more of this surprising truth. But was it unforeseen that the Prince should suffer delusions? Toria had said that Prince Eddy experienced a serious mental instability some ten years ago. And living in this place, which Prince Charlie may have visited, would certainly influence his thinking. Was it so unlikely, then, if he wished to escape and a servant tried to detain him, that he might have killed her?

  “Oh, dear God,” Toria murmured. Kate could sense the chaotic feelings that must be sweeping through the Princess, and she felt the pity rising up in her own throat. Toria had tried to put the best face on everything that had happened, but it must have been frightful to live for a decade with the constant apprehension that Prince Eddy might somehow be discovered, her family blamed and discredited for lying to the public, and the monarchy threatened. And now, to learn that her brother might be a killer! It must seem to Toria that her world had tilted on its axis.

  Charles’s question to Duff intruded on Kate’s inner tumult, his voice amazingly calm and level, as if he were inquiring about the weather or the latest crop yields. “Did you see or remove any evidence that someone else had been in the Prince’s apartment?”

  “No, m’lord,” Duff said. “Everything was in place.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I don’t s’pose it’ud do any good tae say we’re sorry,” he went on wretchedly. “Simpson and me, we didn’t mean tae cause trouble—we just felt we had tae get th’ body out of th’ apartment, that’s all. How Hilda came tae be dead, well, we just couldn’t think it. It was too awful.”

  “You can’t really believe that my brother killed this servant, Lord Sheridan,” Toria said tautly. She dropped Kate’s hand and sat up straight in her chair, assuming a regal posture. “I assure you that such a thing would be utterly impossible. Eddy is a mild, gentle man, with a sweet and caring nature. He could not have injured an animal, much less have killed a woman who looked after him.”

  “We have no indication that he did, Your Highness,” Charles replied impassively. “All that we know is that his servant is dead, and he has disappeared. There are several possible explanations for—”

  There was a light tap at the door, and the footman entered. Going to Charles, he said something in a low voice. Charles thanked and dismissed him. When the servant was gone, he turned to the Princess.

  “I asked that Flora MacDonald be located and brought here, so that I might question her. She is the dead woman’s daughter, and also a servant to the Prince. She may be able to give us a clue to his whereabouts.” He turned to Simpson. “But I’ve just been told that she seems to be nowhere in the castle. Do you know where she might be found?”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Simpson replied promptly. “She’s
attending the inquest into her mother’s death. Should you want to question her immediately, you might go to the village hall, where the inquest is being held. Or you can find her back here directly after.”

  “The inquest has been postponed for a day or two,” Charles said. “Perhaps she is at home?”

  Simpson looked startled at the news of the postponement. “Yes, perhaps. She and her mother lived together, alone, in a cottage in the village. Flora’s father died some years ago.”

  Kate sat forward and spoke for the first time. “If you’re going to interview the girl, Charles, I should like to go with you.”

  “Oh?” He raised his eyebrows at her.

  “I met Flora earlier today,” she said. “She told me about her mother’s murder, and my heart went out to her.” She added, tactfully, “I think she might be more comfortable if I were present.”

  “Less threatened, you mean,” he said evenly. “Yes, of course, my dear, that is very wise. You must come with me.” To the Princess, he said, “You will excuse us to go to the village, Your Highness? I think this had better be seen to at once.”

  “Of course,” Toria replied. She turned to Duff and Simpson. “I appreciate your candor. I believe that you concealed the truth out of concern for my brother, and for that, I thank you.” In a sterner voice, she added, “Your falsehoods have complicated Brigadier Lord Sheridan’s work, however, and you shall have to answer to him on that score.”

  The two men could only exchange gloomy glances.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  By the pricking of my thumbs,

  Something wicked this way comes.

  Open, locks,

  Whoever knocks!

  Macbeth, IV, i

  William Shakespeare

  Angus Duff had given them directions to Flora Mac-A Donald’s cottage, and Charles had decided that it was best that he and Kate walk, since the village wasn’t far. The motorcar had attracted attention on his earlier visit, and he did not want Flora’s neighbors to know that she was being singled out for attention.

  It wasn’t a pleasant afternoon for a walk, however. Pewter clouds hung low over the Grampians, and the morning fog had returned, turning the afternoon chill and damp, an early taste of autumn. The silver birches stood out of the misty woodland like a troop of disheveled dancers, and the rich scent of decaying woodlands, of damp fern and bracken and meadowsweet, rose up around their feet. If Charles had had more time, he would have enjoyed foraging for mushrooms, for a great many grew in the leaf-litter under the birches: fungi of all sizes, from tiny pearl-button mushrooms to those as large as a football, in shades of white, black, cream, purple, yellow, scarlet. He noticed several chunky Boletus edulis, or penny-buns, which were tasty when they were sliced and cooked quickly in butter, and some saffron milkcaps, aptly named Lactarius deliciosus. One could collect enough for a fine meal within just a few minutes. The most numerous of all, however, were the handsome Amanita muscaria, the wicked fly agaric, which always reminded him of a shiny, egg-brushed Christmas bread studded with rich flecks of almond. But its sturdy beauty was deceptive and sinister, for while not always fatal, this Amanita would certainly make one very ill.

  Kate had put her arm through his, and as they walked, in some excitement, she confided what the Princess had told her at lunch about the charade of Prince Eddy’s sham death. She ended her tale with a question. “Did you know this before we came, Charles? That the Prince was still alive, I mean.”

  “Not before we came,” Charles replied. “Kirk-Smythe told me some of it this morning, but he did not have as many insights into the Prince’s mental condition as Toria has given you.” He patted the neatly-gloved hand on his arm, thinking that his wife had learned in a few minutes of conversation what he might never have discovered, search as he might.

  “Andrew certainly didn’t know all of the reasons behind Eddy’s exile,” he added. “Queen Victoria’s determination that he should marry May, for instance, which seems to have brought Eddy to the breaking point.” He shook his head. The business of arranged marriages among royalty was a tragedy for the individuals involved, and almost never served their countries well.

  And in this case, there was an even greater tragedy, for Eddy had been legally, if not wisely, married, and his Roman Catholic commoner wife, Annie Crook, had been still living at the time of the Prince’s forced engagement to Princess May. If Eddy had married May, he would have been forced to become a bigamist, their children illegitimate. And the irony was perhaps as great as the tragedy, for his earlier marriage, while legal in civil law, excluded him from the succession. All this was yet another—and an even more compelling—reason for his exile: the man who would be King could not legally marry, which meant that he could not produce a dynastic heir, and his father and mother surely knew it.

  Charles looked down at his wife, at her neat costume of white blouse, green silk tie, gray woolen skirt, and close-fitting jacket; at the shining circlet of russet hair pinned beneath her narrow-brimmed straw boater, trimmed with a green silk ribbon; at her firm-featured face, not beautiful, but strikingly individual and infinitely dear. It deeply saddened him to think that other men did not find the same love in marriage that he had found, a love so rare and precious that—

  “Yes,” Kate said, interrupting his thoughts. “The Princess said that when Queen Victoria—‘Grandmama,’ Toria calls her—ordered Eddy to marry May, he simply went to pieces. ‘Snapped’ was the word she used.” She looked up at him wonderingly. “She said he set fire to Sandringham, Charles. Do you think that could possibly be true?”

  Startled, Charles frowned. “I heard about a fire there,” he said, “although I had no notion that Eddy had anything to do with it. It began in a bedroom on the nursery floor, as I remember, and destroyed the entire top floor and the roof. It was said that the cause was accidental.”

  He paused, wondering how many other violent acts Eddy had committed and how many people had schemed and lied to cover them up. Someone who had grown up without ever being held accountable for his actions, no matter how harmful or hazardous they might be, might very well believe that he could commit murder and get away with it. No matter what his sister or the doctor said, Prince Eddy might very well have killed Hilda MacDonald.

  “Thank you, Kate,” he added with a sigh. “What you’ve told me is very helpful. I’m grateful.”

  Kate pulled a yellowing leaf from an overhanging hazel and turned it in her gloved fingers. “Well, I must say that I was utterly amazed, Charles. To think that King Edward would connive to remove his own son from the succession! It sounds more like the plot of one of Beryl’s fictions than the real truth. But what I don’t understand,” she added, frowning, “is why Eddy had to ‘die.’ Why couldn’t he simply say he didn’t want to be King, and let that be the end of it?”

  “Because,” Charles said, “a King can’t abdicate until he is actually King. And even if that had been possible, it wouldn’t have solved his problem with Princess May, or the Royal Family’s embarrassment over his reckless behavior.” They passed under a twisted oak, a mossy boulder half-hidden in fern at its feet. Somewhere nearby, he could hear the musical chatter of a burn, its clear water spilling over mossy rocks. “In the circumstance, exile at Glamis might have seemed the best alternative, to Eddy and everyone else.”

  “I’m also amazed that they were able to bring it off,” Kate went on. “You’d think that somebody would have spilled the beans, as we say in America.”

  Charles smiled “In America, perhaps, but not here in England. The Royal Family commands enormous loyalty. All they have to do is snap their fingers, and people say what they’re told to say, or shut their mouths, as necessary.”

  “You’re right, you know.” Kate tapped the leaf on his sleeve. “Something like this would never have happened in America. We have a far better arrangement than your hereditary monarchy. It’s called a president. If the fellow doesn’t do what he promised, he’s simply voted out of office, and somebody else is
voted in. There’s none of this silly business of exile and mock funerals and sons and grandsons standing in line for the job.” She frowned. “Of course, women don’t yet have the right to vote. But that’s coming.”

  Charles couldn’t help laughing. “I suppose you’re right, Kate. And we English are certainly far less skeptical than you Americans, especially the press. Your American newspapers would have gone poking into the details of Eddy’s so-called illness and might well have found the whole scheme out. However, I suspect that the English press and the people were actually glad to accept the story of his death, as sudden and improbable as it might have seemed.”

  “Glad?” Kate asked, startled. “Why on earth should they have been glad at his death?”

  “Why, don’t you see? It put the problem behind them. Toria is right; Prince George is much more acceptable. He says and does all the right things, and no one can ever complain that he is lazy. Just look at all the fine little Princes he and May have produced since their marriage.” He chuckled again, wryly. “Give the country an heir and a spare or two, and everyone is supremely content.”

  The joking words were no sooner out of his mouth, however, than Charles was cursing his insensitivity. Kate could not have children, and his wretched thoughtlessness must have hurt her. He tried to think of something that would soothe the pain he had caused, but he could not. When would he learn not to say such things?

  At that moment, they came to the spot in the path where Hilda’s body had been found, and he filled the awkward silence by pointing it out to Kate.

  “As you can see,” he added, “there are no traces of blood, nor of a scuffle. It’s very clear that she was not killed at this place.”

  Still, Charles could not help thinking that there was an aura of murder here—no scent of spilled blood or corrupted flesh, or the victim’s lingering horror. But something like an emanation of evil hung around the place where Hilda MacDonald’s body had lain, or at least it seemed so to him. Murder was always wicked.