by Robin Paige
“But if Herman was one o’ th’ men who took Lord Osborne,” Flora whispered urgently, “was he there when my mother was killed?”
“I’m afraid he would have been, yes,” Lord Sheridan said regretfully.
“But he didna kill her.” Flora’s lips felt stiff and cold, and she could hardly manage the words. “He couldna! She was his aunt ! She took care o’ him when he was a boy, ye see, back in Bavaria. His mother was her sister, and—” Her voice broke.
“I wonder,” Lord Sheridan said, “if you can tell us anything about your cousin’s friends? Did anyone visit him? Did you see him with anyone in the village?”
Mutely, Flora shook her head. “He . . . he went often tae the pub, but I dinna know who he might hae spoke with there.” She frowned, thinking. “The tinker knew him, though.”
“The tinker?”
She nodded. “Taiso, he’s called. He stopped at the cottage today, in the afternoon. He asked after Herman. We talked, an’ he—” She stopped, not wanting to go further.
“He what?” Lord Sheridan prompted.
She swallowed. “He offered tae take me tae Perth in th’ morning,” she said uncomfortably. She was reluctant to give away her secret plan, but Lady Sheridan’s warm arm around her shoulders reassured her. “Tae take me an’ my uncle, in his caravan.” She nodded at Lord Osborne. “I found some old clothes for his lordship tae wear, an’ pretend tae be my uncle. When we got tae Perth, I thought we would take th’ train tae Glasgow, an’ then a boat tae the Isle of Skye. My father’s people—the MacDonalds—live there. I knew they would take us in and give us refuge.”
“I see,” Lord Sheridan said, his tone approving. “You’re a very resourceful girl, Flora. I’m sure Lord Osborne is grateful to you for making such a good plan.” He went back to his place at the table. “You said you were taken by two men, Eddy. Herman Memsdorff seems to have been one of them. Can you give us any clue to the identity of the other?”
Lord Osborne bent over to stub out his cigarette on the stone floor. “Perhaps,” he said, straightening, “although I can’t tell you his name. He is one of the gamekeepers here—there are four or five, I believe. It was his cigars that gave the fellow away.”
Beside Flora, Lady Sheridan leaned forward. “Cigars?” she asked sharply. “A gamekeeper?”
Lord Osborne nodded. “The man smokes some sort of vile Indian cigars. I smelled that dreadful odor once when I encountered him at the kennel, with the dogs. I smelled it again when the jacket was flung over my head, and on the man himself. He’s the one who fell asleep, allowing me to escape.” Lord Osborne laughed wryly, turning his ring on his finger. “I may not be able to hear as well as I might, and I am often confused in my mind. But there is nothing whatever wrong with my sense of smell—and those cigars are truly wretched.”
“Charles,” Lady Sheridan said, her voice taut, “it might be the man who drove me from the station. Hamilton, his name is. He’s a gamekeeper, and he smells of those dreadful Indian cigars, like those Mr. Crombie smokes, back at Bishop’s Keep.”
“Ah, yes, Hamilton,” Lord Sheridan said. “We’ll find him, then. Meanwhile, Eddy, I’m afraid I must ask you, and Flora as well, to stay in this room for a few more hours. I’m sorry it’s so uncomfortable, but it’s secret and can be secured. I need to locate both Memsdorff and Hamilton. There seems to be another German agent involved as well—who, I cannot yet say for certain, although you may have given me a clue. You’re not safe until all are found.”
“And after that, what?” Lord Osborne rested his chin in his hand, his expression that of a condemned man. “I suppose my father will expect me to continue living here, as I have been?” He sighed. “I’m comfortable and well taken care of, and I suppose I should be grateful for that. But one would like to see a bit more of the world, from time to time. One would like—”
“I’m not sure you can stay here, Eddy,” Lord Sheridan broke in. “The difficulty, of course, is that it is known in Germany that you are alive and living at Glamis, and there’s nothing to stop unscrupulous men from using that knowledge. If we could think of a way to persuade them to—”
Lord Osborne snapped open his gold case and took out another cigarette. His laugh was bitter. “I’ve already died once. I don’t suppose I should object to dying again.” He opened the packet of matches and struck one. “What did you have in mind?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that question just now.” Lord Sheridan pushed his chair back and stood up. “It would be a good idea for all of us to get some sleep, if we can. Unless I miss my guess, tomorrow will be a very difficult day.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Friday, 16 August 1901
Any razors or scissors to grind?
Or anything else in the tinker’s line?
Any old pots or kettles to mend?
Tinker’s traditional rhyme
quoted in Lark Rise to Candleford
Flora Thompson
A spy’s photograph in the hands of his enemy rather spoils his game, I should think.
Kate Sheridan in
Death at Rottingdean
Robin Paige
Charles was already dressed and gone when Kate was wakened the next morning by a light knock on the door. Gladys came in with a stack of towels and a pitcher of hot water, placing them beside the wash basin. Then she stepped to the windows and opened the curtains to display an iridescent dawn that filled the room with morning light. In a moment, she was back with a linen-covered tea tray, which she placed on the table beside the bed.
“Lovely day,” she said brightly. She poured a cup of fragrant tea and set it on the saucer. “Flora was supposed tae bring yer ladyship’s tea,” she added, her coppery eyebrows asking an implicit question. “But she dinna coom tae work this mornin’. Mrs. Leslie’s throwin’ a fit, and we’re all verra worrit aboot her.”
“Oh, you mustn’t worry,” Kate remarked, with a guileless smile. She plumped up her pillow against the head of the bed, and took the cup Gladys offered her. “I’m sure she’ll put in an appearance, or let Mrs. Leslie know where she’s gone.”
Gladys looked provoked. “Do ye require help with dressin’?” she asked, eyeing the wardrobe where Kate’s things were hung. “Shall I get somethin’ out for yer ladyship tae wear this mornin’?”
“No, thank you,” Kate said. In some ways, she had managed to conform to British habits, but she had never been able to allow herself to be dressed by another woman. “I can manage for myself.”
Gladys nodded and flounced out of the room, her curiosity unsatisfied on all counts.
Kate added sugar and lemon and sat back against the pillow, gratefully sipping hot, fragrant tea from the delicate porcelain cup. The night had been long and eventful and very tiring, but thanks to Beryl Bardwell’s curiosity—would they ever have discovered Flora’s and Eddy’s hiding place if Beryl hadn’t insisted on going ghost-hunting?—a large part of the mystery seemed to be solved. Prince Eddy was unharmed and his whereabouts known; Flora had been found and had answered all Charles’s questions; and the men who had killed Hilda MacDonald and kidnapped Prince Eddy had been identified with at least some certainty—all but their German contact, of course. All that was left was for Charles to find the men he was seeking and tell Toria what had transpired, so that the Princess could report to King Edward that Eddy was safe. She smiled to herself. Once that was done, Charles could send his troops back to London, and the two of them could start for Bishop’s Keep. With any luck, they’d be home in two or three days. Home, where there was so much to be done, so many interesting projects waiting. Home, where she would see dear Patrick, who would most likely be there when they arrived.
Kate sat for a moment, thinking, her hands wrapped around the steaming cup. But her thoughts were not with home. She was reflecting on all that had happened during the night, all she had heard, all she had learned. Prince Eddy had confirmed much of what Toria had told her earlier about the circumstances of his exile. B
ut he had revealed far more, for Kate had heard the bitterness in his voice when he described himself as “the one shut away for the blackest of all Royal sins: for being an embarrassment.” Prince Albert Victor had obviously not gone willingly into exile, as Toria described it, but reluctantly and under duress. He had lived at Glamis for nearly a decade with the burden of his unhappiness, while his brother George, soon to be invested as the Prince of Wales, took his place as the eldest son. And if Eddy was unhappy, how must George feel? Must he not bear a burden of guilt, equal to that of Eddy’s bitterness? And what of King Edward and Queen Alexandra? Was it true that they rarely thought of their son, or did they mourn his loss whenever the family gathered and his seat was empty? She shook her head. It was sad that Eddy and Toria had been forced by the accident of their birth to live lives that were not of their choosing. It was a tragedy.
But many people in this world seemed condemned by an accident of birth, Kate reminded herself as she got out of bed and splashed water on her face. And yet they rose above those challenges and hereditary handicaps to fashion useful and more or less happy lives. She stripped off her gown and pulled on her stockings and underthings and a fresh white blouse and gray serge skirt, and twisted her hair into a loose knot at the back of her head, drawing it back from her face with a pair of silver combs. Eddy seemed to believe that he could not escape his inheritance, but perhaps that was true only as long as he was treated as aristocracy, as he was here at Glamis. If he could go to a place where he was not known and get a fresh start, he might be able to put his disappointments and losses behind him and build a new life, a useful life. And if Toria could insist on following her own heart’s desires instead of merely serving her mother’s wishes, perhaps she could have the home and family she wanted. And Flora too—there could be a new life for her, away from the sadness of her mother’s murder. A happy ending for all three.
But Kate knew that happy endings, the stuff of romance, were hard to come by in the real world, where the best that could be achieved was the amelioration of pain and the establishment of a kind of balance between good and evil. Prince Eddy had been waited on and catered to all through his life, and learning to do things for himself would likely prove impossible. Toria had never opposed her mother, and it would be difficult for her to find the strength to do so now. Of the three, Flora would be most likely to succeed, Kate suspected. She had the strength, the resilience, and the independent spirit that would allow her to shape her own destiny. She could set her own goals, create her own plans, without having to worry about what others thought about her choices.
Kate gave herself one last glance in the mirror, tucked up a few loose curls, and straightened the collar of her blouse. Her camera and notebook sat on the table beside the door, and she picked both of them up as she left the room. If she and Charles were departing in a day or two, it would be a good idea to make as many notes and take as many photographs as possible, so that she and Beryl could remember what they had seen here. Beryl was still determined to write a Gothic tale set in this spectacular castle, the home of ghosts and monsters and long-dead queens. Kate smiled to herself, thinking about Lady Elizabeth of Glamis, the sweet little baby she had met the day before. Glamis was the home of future queens, too, if the gypsy fortune-teller was to be believed.
With the smile still on her lips, her camera around her neck, and her notebook in her hand, Kate walked down the hallway and stood at the window at the far end. It gave her a second-floor view of a bustling and busy scene: the working area of the castle, where the many self-sustaining components of the estate were all brought together in a harmonious, closely-knit whole. Off to the right lay the kitchen garden with its tidy rows of vegetables and berries, a woman in a bonnet and shawl picking gooseberries from a row of green bushes, while a girl with a hoe dug at the fresh earth. Beyond that was the chicken yard, where a large flock of brightly-plumaged birds scratched in the dirt, and still farther the dairy, where the rich milk from the estate’s cows—grazing in the grassy meadows along the Dene Water—was made into butter and cheese for the castle kitchen. Directly in front of her were the carriage houses, stables, exercise yards, and kennels, all freshly-painted and neatly-kept. In the graveled yard, a boy was washing the spokes of a red-wheeled carriage with a long-handled brush, while another boy was leading a handsome brown horse out of the stable to a small forge where a farrier was already at work, shoeing another horse. Some distance away stood an impressive collection of glass houses, some quite large—fruit houses, perhaps—others smaller. Kate took special note of them, intending to ask the gardener to take her through them before she left Glamis. Much closer, between the castle and the kitchen garden, stood several large stacks of wood, and an old man with an ax was splitting fireplace kindling on a chopping block.
Kate raised her camera. Even a Gothic novel needed a few realistic details, and this industrious scene seemed to give a different kind of importance to the castle, tying it to the productivity of the land, connecting it with work and with the life of the workers. It seemed, somehow, a much more satisfying importance.
She pushed the casement window open, snapped one photograph, and advanced the film to take another. As she lifted the camera, though, a man came into the yard, carrying something over his shoulder. He was tall, with dark, ragged hair that brushed his collar, in contrast to the neatly-trimmed hair of the boys and men working in the yard. He wore old trousers, a stained leather jerkin, a dirty red neckerchief, and a brown felt hat that was decorated with colored beads and a feather. As he came closer, Kate could see that he was a handsome fellow, and that the thing he had slung over his shoulder was a tinker’s pig.
Kate lowered her camera, frowning. It wasn’t unusual for an itinerant tinker to seek work at country houses along his way, to knock at the servants’ entrance and inquire whether there were any pots to be mended or knives to be sharpened. But how had he got past the sentries? And was this the same tinker who had visited Flora yesterday? The one—Taiso, Flora had called him—who had asked after Herman Memsdorff, and offered to take Flora and her “uncle” to Perth? The hair on the back of Kate’s neck began to prickle, and a growing apprehension made her suck in her breath and hold it as the tinker came closer.
For his part, the man seemed to be quite nonchalant, his lips pursed as if he were whistling, making with a confident and jaunty grace for a door just beneath Kate’s window. A few steps from the door, he paused, shifted his pig from one shoulder to the other, and took off his hat, wiping his forehead with a dirty sleeve.
Until that moment, Kate had been unsure of what to do. But as the man stood there, his hat in his hand, she leaned forward. “Taiso?” she asked, in a bright, gay voice. “Are you Taiso the tinker?”
Hearing his name, the man looked up, and Kate saw that he had quite extraordinary eyes, pale blue, so pale as to be almost glacial, and—oddly, for a gypsy—a narrow patrician face and a pinched nose. With a sudden shiver, she recalled another man with those same unforgettable eyes, icy blue eyes, cold as a frozen lake, and she remembered with a chilling clarity the last time she had seen him. It was on a beach in the south of England, near Rottingdean. Then, too, she had had a camera in her hands and she had taken his photograph. His name was Count Ludwig von Hauptmann, and he was a German spy.
The man still looked up, wary now, and suspicious. “Aye, I’m Taiso,” he growled, and then seemed to recollect himself, for he smiled and lightened his voice. “Any razors or scissors to grind? Anything in the tinker’s line?”
“You’ll have to knock at the door and ask,” Kate said. “I’m only a guest here. But I should very much like to take your photograph, if you will forgive my impertinence.” She leaned over the window sill to get a better angle and, before he could object, quickly snapped the shutter. “Thank you, Taiso,” she added in a satisfied tone. “That will do very well, I think.”
And with that, she turned away from the window and hurried off to find Charles.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I have no desire to make mysteries, but it is impossible at the moment of action to enter into long and complex explanations.
Sherlock Holmes, in
“The Adventure of the Dancing Men”
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Charles knew he was going to have a busy morning. He needed to get to the ice house, which seemed to offer at least the possibility of some physical evidence that might have been discarded by Eddy’s captors. But the ice house could wait until he had attended to more pressing matters of command, which had to be settled before others could get on with their jobs.
Charles hunched over the Ordnance Survey map that Kirk-Smythe had spread on a table in the castle library, along with the hand-written reports from the checkpoints forwarded by Colonel Paddington, none especially noteworthy. At Charles’s request, Angus Duff had come to the library, and the two of them had drafted a description of Hamilton. Charles had added a description of Memsdorff, as well, based on details offered by Flora. Duff had carried these to Colonel Paddington, with Charles’s written order to forward them to the troops.
Before he began his work, Charles had ordered quite a large breakfast to be sent to the library. It had arrived just now on three trays, almost enough to feed, Kirk-Smythe had said in surprise, an entire company of soldiers.
“It’s not all for us,” Charles said, forking a pair of sausages out of the chafing dish and thinking that Eddy would enjoy the hot food. While they ate, he related the events of the night before, and the story Eddy had told of his abduction and escape.