Death at Glamis Castle

by Robin Paige

  “So the Prince was in the castle all the time,” Kirk-Smythe said, shaking his head in amazement. He pushed his empty plate away and poured another cup of coffee.

  “Not all the time,” Charles reminded him. “Flora smuggled him in the night before Kate and I arrived.”

  Kirk-Smythe nodded. “Well, then, what’s next?”

  “Organizing a careful search for Hamilton and Memsdorff, who seem to have been the ones who kidnapped the Prince. And we have this German spy to think about.” Charles paused. “Flora said that a tinker named Taiso came to her cottage yesterday and asked for Memsdorff by name. We ought to go up to Roundyhill and—”

  He was interrupted by a knock on the study door. A young private in field kit stepped into the room, clicked his heels, and saluted smartly. He was breathing hard. “Beg pardon, sir. Sergeant Adams sent me with an urgent dispatch from the checkpoint south of the village, on the Dundee Road.” He handed Charles a folded note.

  As he opened it, Charles remarked, “You’ve pedaled all the way, I take it. What do you think of the bicycle?”

  “Haven’t used one much lately, I’m afraid, sir.” The private grinned ruefully. “This model takes a bit of getting used to, if you want to stay out of the ditch. But it’s better than double time.”

  Charles read the note twice and looked up. To Kirk-Smythe, he said, “At daybreak, a pair of boys found the body of a man, facedown in the shallow water along the shore of the millpond. The sentries at the southern checkpoint fished out the corpse and placed it under guard.” He turned to the young trooper, who was now breathing more easily.

  “You saw the body, Private?”

  “Yes, sir. In the water all night, if you ask me.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Thin, blond hair. The man from the castle who was with us said his name was Hamilton. He was a gamekeeper here on the estate.”

  “Hamilton!” Kirk-Smythe exclaimed.

  “Ah,” Charles said regretfully. Finding a dead Hamilton was much less profitable than finding a live one, for the dead man could tell them nothing—which might be the reason for his death. He considered the situation for a moment, then said, “Private, tell your sergeant that the body is to be brought here to be examined by the coroner. He should avoid attention in the village by taking the long way round. We don’t want a public commotion over this.”

  The trooper nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Cover the body, and allow no one to get a look at it,” Charles went on. “And tell your sergeant that this order applies particularly to the local constable. If you encounter him and he causes any difficulty, he is to be taken into custody.”

  The trooper registered surprise. “Arrest the constable, sir?”

  Charles sighed. “I’m afraid so. Now, be on your way, Private. And hurry.”

  “Yes, sir.” The private saluted, executed a smart about-face, and opened the door to leave, only to collide with a breathless Kate, her camera in her hand.

  “Charles,” she cried, flying across the room, “I’ve just taken the most remarkable photograph!”

  “How nice, my dear.” Charles went to the desk to scribble a note to the coroner, asking him to come immediately to the castle. He put it into an envelope and handed it to Kirk-Smythe. “Have this delivered to Dr. Ogilvy, Andrew, on the double. We want him here when the body arrives.”

  As Kirk-Smythe stepped to the door to give the note to the soldier outside, Charles went back to the table and picked up his coffee. “Do help yourself to some breakfast,” he said to Kate over the rim of his cup. “There’s more than enough, and the sausages are quite good.” He gave her a sober look. “And you might be interested to know that the soldier you ran into was the bearer of bad news. Hamilton’s body was found in the millpond this morning.”

  “I’m sure that’s very important,” Kate said urgently, “but so is the photograph I’ve just taken.” She stamped one foot, brandishing her camera. “Will you put down that coffee and listen to me, Charles Sheridan?”

  Charles put down his cup. “I’m listening, my dear,” he said mildly. Now that he looked at his wife, he saw the expression that meant that she felt she had important information. “What’s all this commotion about a photograph?”

  “It’s not a commotion,” Kate said, indignant. “Do you remember the German we met on the beach at Rottingdean? The spy who was trying to smuggle arms into the country? He’s here, Charles, disguised as a tinker. He responded when I called the name Taiso, so he must be the same tinker who went to Flora’s house yesterday, asking after Memsdorff. And I’ve just taken his picture!”

  “You’re talking about . . . Hauptmann?” Charles slowly put down his cup. If that was the man they were dealing with, they might never catch him. He was creative, bold, and fearless.

  Kirk-Smythe gave a low whistle. “Count Ludwig von Hauptmann? Well, I don’t suppose I should be surprised.”

  “You’ve heard of him, then, Andrew?” Charles asked.

  “Heard of him?” Andrew laughed shortly. “We spend half our time keeping track of him. The man is not only a master of disguise, but he seems to have the ability to be in two places at once. Three, sometimes.”

  Charles turned back to Kate, frowning. “Are you sure it was Hauptmann, Kate?”

  “I’m not likely to forget those eyes,” Kate said grimly. She put her camera on the table. “And I have his photograph. I can set up my darkroom and have it developed and in your hands within the hour, so you can see for yourself.”

  “A tinker, eh?” Charles muttered, shaking his head. “An ingenious disguise. It gets him into the village, where he can make contact with Memsdorff and Hamilton, and into the castle, as well. I wonder what other disguises he’s using.” To Andrew, he said, “The last time we encountered this man, he was a diplomat, a photographer, and an antiquarian—and very good at all three. He seems to follow Sherlock Holmes’s rule: the best way of successfully acting a part is to be it.” He paused, remembering what had occurred at Rottingdean in ’97. “I wonder . . .”

  “Wonder what?” Kirk-Smythe prompted.

  “Hamilton is dead,” Charles replied, “and Memsdorff hasn’t been seen since the night before last. Do you remember, Kate, what happened to the subordinate who threatened his Rottingdean operation?”

  Kate made a face. “He shot him.”

  “Exactly.” Charles poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Kate. “Andrew, our man has a history of dealing with those who fail him in a most effective and severe manner. He may be behind Hamilton’s death.”

  “This fellow Hamilton,” Kirk-Smythe said. “If he was one of the kidnappers—” He stopped, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Yesterday, I was out with one of the search parties. He was one of the group, helping to guide us to various outbuildings. But I had the odd feeling that he was trying to divert our attention. To lead us away from something.”

  “What direction were you headed?”

  “We were moving south, along a stream. He told the group that there was nothing to be gained by going further in that direction. At his suggestion, we crossed the stream and turned east, out of the woods, toward the farms.”

  “South, along a stream,” Kate said, putting down her cup. “Isn’t that where Flora said the ice house is located?”

  “Right,” Charles said, feeling that he was dealing with too many competing priorities, all of which had to be met at one time. “Kate, would you develop that photograph, please? It’s important for me to have it as soon as possible.”

  “I will, but what—”

  He shook his head firmly. “There’s no time to explain now, Kate. Andrew, I’d like you to stay here. When Hamilton’s body arrives, place it under armed guard, in this room. No one but you and Dr. Ogilvy should see it. Ask the doctor to determine the cause and time of death as nearly as he can.”

  “Of course,” Kirk-Smythe said, “but where are you—”

  “I can’t linger, Andrew. Time is of the essence.
I’ll take one of the guards with me and send him back for you, if my suspicions prove correct.”

  “Charles,” Kate demanded, “where are you going?”

  Charles was halfway to the door already. “To the ice house,” he flung back over his shoulder.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Alfred Gilbert, a pupil of Boehm and a friend of Princess Louise, Duchess of Argyll, was commissioned to design and execute the funeral monument of Prince Albert Victor (to be placed in the Memorial Chapel, Windsor Castle). This grandiose concep- tion—which included a recumbent figure with a head of Mex- ican onyx lying on a high table tomb surrounded by ivory weepers—was never, owing to Gilbert’s dilatory habits and disorderly life, completed.

  Queen Mary: 1867-1953

  James Pope-Hennessy

  The breakfast room was a pleasant, sunny room with windows that looked out across the rose garden. A sideboard filled with chafing dishes kept eggs, kippers, sausage, bacon, and toast hot for several hours, as some guests preferred to breakfast early and others late. Kate was late, for it was nearly eleven. But coffee still steamed in a heated urn, as did hot water for tea, and the center of the table was arranged with silver dishes of jams and marmalade, plates of butter, pitchers of sweet cream, crystal bowls of fresh fruit, and vases of hothouse flowers, their rich scent, like funeral flowers, mixing incongruously with the odors of hot sausages and bacon.

  Still mulling over her unexpected encounter with the tinker, the conversation with Charles and Kirk-Smythe, and her subsequent work in her portable developing laboratory, Kate helped herself to a bowl of melon, several pieces of hot buttered toast, and a cup of tea. Now that she had actually seen the photograph, which was drying in the bathroom in her suite, she knew beyond doubt that Taiso and Hauptmann were the same, and that the German must be Firefly’s contact, the man who had master-minded the plot to kidnap Prince Eddy. He must have come to the castle in search of his escaped prey.

  Of course, the Prince was safe now, she reminded herself with relief, as she took her plate and cup to the table, and she needn’t worry. But things might have turned out very differently. If she and Charles had not discovered Flora and Eddy in their hiding place, they would certainly have gone to the gypsy camp before dawn that morning and paid Taiso to take them to Perth. Of course, they wouldn’t have ended up there, Kate knew. Hauptmann would have taken Prince Eddy to Germany, and Flora would likely have been murdered, for she knew too much, and it would have been dangerous to let her live. The thought of it turned her cold. It had been a near thing, a very near thing, indeed.

  Kate had just begun to eat her melon when the door opened and Toria came in, followed closely by a footman. The Princess was wearing a tight-bodiced mulberry-colored dress that was fashionably cut and expensively trimmed but took neither her figure nor her complexion into account. She looked as if she had not slept well, and the unkind sunlight revealed the unmistakeable traces of encroaching middle age: the parenthetical wrinkles on either side of the mouth, the slight bruising under the eyes, the crepy skin of the neck.

  “Good morning, Your Highness,” Kate said, and added the conventional remark, “I hope you have had a restful night.”

  “I did not sleep well at all,” Toria replied heavily, as the footman pulled out her chair to seat her. “Coffee and toast,” she said. “Nothing else.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “And then you may leave.”

  Kate made another conventional remark or two as the footman served the Princess, then left the room.

  When the door closed, Toria leaned forward. “Has there been any word of my brother?” she asked. “At dinner last night, Lord Sheridan seemed to suggest that something might be known by this morning.” She picked up her cup and took a drink of coffee. “And even if there is no news, I suppose I should telegraph the King and let him know that the men are still searching.”

  Kate, suddenly realizing that she and Charles had not discussed what or how much Toria should be told about the unfolding events, was not quite sure how to answer the Princess’s question. There was no reason to believe that Charles would not want her to disclose the fact that Eddy was at this moment safe and sound in the castle, or that one of his kidnappers had been found dead. But the whole thing was a delicate business, and without knowing exactly what she should say, Kate was reluctant to say anything at all. She was enormously relieved, then, when the door opened again, and Charles himself came in and greeted them. He shot a quick, questioning glance at Kate.

  She smiled. “Here’s Lord Sheridan now. He’ll give you the latest news. Charles, Her Highness was just asking for word of the Prince.” Charles nodded briefly, and she bent to her melon, glad to have been spared the task of deciding what to say.

  Toria replaced her cup on its saucer. “Good morning, Lord Sheridan,” she said. “Well? Have you found him yet?”

  Charles hesitated for a moment, as if he were making up his mind to something, and then sat down next to the Princess. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said. His face was somber, his voice grave. “I’m afraid we have.” He put his hand over hers. “I wish there were some easier way to tell you this, but I fear there is not. Your brother is dead.”

  “Oh, dear God!” Toria gave a shrill little cry, and her face went white.

  Kate dropped her fork and stared at Charles, her eyes widening. “Dead?” she gasped incredulously. “But he can’t be! He—”

  Letting go the Princess’s hand, Charles turned to look full at Kate, and she saw the warning in his eyes. Stop, it cautioned. Say nothing more. But he only said, very softly, “I know it’s hard to believe, Kate. But you and the Princess must both be brave.”

  Toria’s eyes were dark. “How did it . . . how did it happen?” She swallowed hard, and then again, as if she were trying to choke down a bitter draught of medicine. “Was it an accident?” And then, in a calmer voice, “Did he fall from a horse?”

  Charles put his fingers to his temples, as if to press away the pain. “He died in a fire,” he said.

  Kate stared at him, trying to see his face, to read the truth behind his eyes. “A fire?” she whispered disbelievingly.

  Toria’s face went still. She was holding herself rigid, as if she were afraid of making a sudden movement. “A fire?” she echoed, but there was no disbelief, only a kind of dull acceptance in her voice. Her lips parted twice before she was able to clear her throat and say, finally, “I see. Did he . . . I suppose he set it himself, then. Like the fires at Sandringham.”

  “At this point, I’m afraid the cause can’t be determined with any degree of confidence,” Charles replied, and Kate knew from the absolute bleakness of his tone how wretched he must feel about this turn of events. “His body was found at the back of the ice house. It’s like a cave, dug into the stream bank and lined with ashlar bricks. There was no ice, and it was full of the straw in which the ice had been packed. He was sleeping there, apparently. Somehow, the straw caught fire. He couldn’t . . . get out.”

  Toria’s voice was low and so taut that it seemed to vibrate, and her face was shuttered so that no feeling could be read. “That business of the woman’s murder . . . Has it been resolved?”

  Kate, still trying breathlessly to cope with the idea that Eddy was dead, wondered at this apparently abrupt change of subject. But Charles appeared to understand the association and was prepared to respond to whatever question lay hidden beneath. When he spoke, his voice was comforting.

  “I received a report this morning that the body of one of the gamekeepers has been found at the edge of the millpond. He was drowned.” He gave Kate the smallest of warning glances. “A suicide note was found in his coat pocket, confessing to Hilda MacDonald’s murder. He apparently killed himself out of remorse.”

  Toria seemed to sag with relief. “Then my brother had nothing to do with her death?”

  Charles’s answer was emphatic. “Nothing at all, Your Highness,” he said. “You have my word on it.”

  Toria pushed her chair back
and stood, working to control her face. “I need to see him,” she said in a thin, mechanical voice, void of all feeling. “I must be sure that it’s Eddy. My father will want to know that he is really—”

  Charles took her hand again. “No, Toria,” he said firmly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that. He was badly burnt. He’s not—” He shook his head as if to clear an appalling memory. “Your father would not want you to see him as he is. You must trust me on this, and remember him as he was.”

  Toria seemed to flinch. She pulled in an uneven breath and puffed it out. “If he’s burned so badly, how can you be sure that he is really . . .” She sat back down in her chair and tried again. “That it is really Eddy who died.”

  “Dr. Ogilvy has identified him. And there is this.” Charles reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. He opened it to reveal an ornately-fashioned gold ring, stained with soot. “This was on his finger.”

  Kate leaned forward to see, then turned her eyes away. It was the ring Prince Eddy had been wearing the night before.

  Toria picked up the heavy ring and turned it in her hand. “It’s his,” she said. “I gave it to him for his twenty-first birthday. He was very proud of it.” She handed it back to Charles. “Put it back on his finger. He should be buried with it.” Her glance sharpened, and her voice became hard. “Buried here,” she said, with emphasis. “At Glamis. I should like you to see to it, Lord Sheridan. And no ceremony, please. My father . . . the family would not wish it.”

  “As you say, Your Highness,” Charles replied. He re-wrapped the ring and put it in his pocket. “And how should his grave be marked?”

  “His death is already commemorated,” she said. She lifted her chin. “Prince Eddy’s tomb is in the Memorial Chapel at Windsor Castle. It was designed by Sir Alfred Gilbert.”

  “Dear Toria,” Kate whispered, not knowing quite what to say but feeling she had to say something. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”