Death at Glamis Castle

by Robin Paige

  As if reminded to do his duty, Charles stood and bowed from the waist. “Please accept my condolences as well, Your Royal Highness,” he said formally. “We are all saddened by this loss.”

  “Don’t be.” Toria turned her head away. “It’s for the best, really. I’m sure my brother’s life was not entirely as he would have wished it to be.”

  Kate stared at her. Was this all the grief Toria could manage? Or had she shed her tears a decade ago, at Prince Eddy’s sham funeral at Sandringham? Or was she thinking, perhaps with relief, that the family was finally safe from the threat of disclosure? I must not be too quick to judge, Kate thought. It’s probably only natural for her to feel some release. The situation must have been nearly unendurable.

  Toria picked up her cup and sipped her coffee. “I suppose I should leave as soon as possible for Hamburg. I can hardly put this news into a telegram, and my father will want to know.”

  “I think that is best,” Charles said. “The King will feel better, hearing the truth from you.”

  Toria nodded. After a moment, she said, in the same tone she had used to dismiss the footman, “I’m sure you must have things to see to, Lord Sheridan.”

  “Indeed,” Charles murmured. He rose and went to the door.

  Kate stood up. “Excuse me, please,” she said to the Princess. “I’ll be right back.”

  Out in the hall, Kate had to pick up her skirts and run to catch up with Charles, who was walking with fast and angry strides toward the stair.

  “Charles,” she cried, “wait!”

  He turned at the head of the stair, his face dark. “She is her father’s daughter.” His voice rasped with the serrated edge of his anger. “I don’t suppose I could have expected anything else from her.”

  Kate stood, searching his face for the truth. “But Eddy isn’t really dead, is he? After all he has been through, it would be unbearable if he were to—”

  Charles smiled. “Bless you for caring, my dearest.” He put both hands on her shoulders and lowered his cheek to hers. “No, Kate,” he whispered. “He is not dead.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I cannot tell how the truth may be;

  I say the tale as ’twas said to me.

  Lay of the Last Minstrel

  Sir Walter Scott

  It was getting on to eight in the evening as the ballad collector, leaning on his cane, came into the Glamis Inn pub, made his way to the bar, and signaled to Thomas Collpit for a glass of ale. The atmosphere was thick with the richly-mingled odors of whiskey, hot beef pie, and tobacco, and tense with hushed, urgent bursts of animated conversation.

  One foot propped on the brass rail, his expression impassive, the old man kept his back to the room. But his alert blue eyes watched the reflections in the dusty mirror over the bar, and his ears were tuned to the huddle of men at his right elbow, who were discussing the village’s three recent deaths, two of which had been reported only that day.

  “It’s lucky Hamilton left a suicide note,” the joiner said, shaking his head gloomily. “Without it, we’d wudna got tae th’ truth. I saw him on his way home frae th’ pub last night, an’ he was drunk as a lord.” He raised his voice, turning to glance at the ballad collector. “Right, Mr. Donovan? Ye were with him; ye saw him.” The ballad collector nodded, and the joiner continued. “Drunk as he was, he could easily hae slipped off th’ dam an’ drowned, accidental-like, an’ none ’ud be th’ wiser.”

  “Aye,” the green-grocer agreed. He took a drink of his whiskey. “Odd, though, wudna ye say? Why d’ye s’pose Hamilton wud want tae kill our Hilda? She was a lovely woman.” He set his glass back on the bar, and his voice hardened. “Tae tell truth, I’d half an eye on that woman sin’ my own wife died last spring. If I’d hae known that Doug Hamilton slit her pretty throat, I wud hae slit his, by all that’s holy.” He gulped a swallow of ale. “I hope his soul rots in hell for what he did tae her.”

  “But that note’s a puzzle tae me,” the post-master put in. “I’ve known Hamilton for nigh on three years now, an’ I never knew the fellow tae send a single letter. I always thought th’ man cudna write.”

  “Maybe he dinna hae anything worth writing about ’til now,” the joiner remarked. “I sart’nly wudna want tae gae into eternity wi’ a killin’ on my conscience.”

  “Ye think a few words on a paper ’ll absolve him of Hilda’s murder?” the post-master asked hotly.

  The joiner’s answer was lost in a flurry of louder voices at the other end of the bar, and the ballad collector turned his attention to the trio discussing the man who had died in the ice house on the Glamis estate.

  “Lord Osborne, his name was,” said the first man, in response to a question. “The one who went missing frae the castle.”

  “Drank himself tae a stupor an’ tipped his lantern on the straw,” said the second, adding wisely, “It’s happened afore, mostly in stables, an’ it’ll happen again. Where there’s straw an’ lanterns, there’ll be fire.”

  The first man shook his head. “Set himself afire on purpose, I heard. He was mad, ye know. Mad as a hatter. He’s the one they say fancied himself tae be th’ Bonnie Prince. Up at th’ castle, they kept him off tae himself, in chains, I heard. He was always locked up, fer fear he’d do harm tae others.” He shook his head again. “Ten years he lived locked away frae th’ world. If th’ poor chap wasna mad tae begin with, living that way ’ud drive him mad, for sartin.”

  “Likely ’twas him that murdered poor Hilda, then,” remarked a third in a cheerful tone, pushing his glass across the bar for a refill. “She and Flora served him.”

  “No,” said the first. “ ’Twas Doug Hamilton killed our Hilda. Hae’n’t ye heard? He confessed in a note afore he drowned himself.”

  There was a silence, punctuated by the shouts of the men throwing darts at the board in the back of the room, as the three men pondered this information.

  “But ye hae tae admit, it’s all verra curious,” said the second finally. “Hilda wi’ her throat cut, the gentl’man she served burnt tae cinders in a heap o’ hay, and Doug Hamilton pitchin’ himself intae the millpond. And now Flora an’ her cousin’s gone missing, too.”

  “Nae, nae,” said the first, who seemed to know the most about this strange set of circumstances. “Flora an’ her cousin hae gone tae th’ south of England, where Hilda’s sister lives.”

  “How’d you come tae know that?” asked the third curiously.

  “Maggie Wollie’s my aunt,” the first replied. “She does the laundry up tae th’ castle.” He gave a broad wink. “She knows all aboot what goes on there.”

  “Aye, that she would,” said the third with a leer. “Them that washes th’ gentry’s bed sheets always knows th’ truth.” This was followed by general laughter.

  The ballad collector signaled for another ale. On some points, of course, he knew far more than any of these loquacious and uninformed villagers. For instance, he knew that Douglas Hamilton had not committed suicide, for it was he who had knocked the man unconscious and pushed him off the narrow dam to drown in the millpond.

  On yet other points, however, the collector had to acknowledge that he was totally confounded. What was this business about a suicide note confessing to the murder of Hilda? Hamilton had been in no fit state to write a note, and he himself had written none, although he had thought later that it might have been a good idea. And where had Flora taken herself off to, and with whom? It was hardly Memsdorff, since Hamilton had confirmed that he was dead—although it was entirely possible that Hamilton had lied about that, just as he had lied about knowing the whereabouts of Lord Osborne.

  But the most important question of all concerned the identity of the man who had been found burned to death in the ice house. Was it really Lord Osborne—Prince Eddy, that is? He himself had seen Princess Toria leaving the castle this afternoon, presumably for Hamburg, where King Edward was staying. If her brother were still lost, or if there was evidence that he was alive, she would sur
ely not have left. Unfortunately, he had no proof that Eddy was dead, certainly none that would satisfy Holstein, back at the Wilhelmstrasse. Holstein was a stickler for the truth, and for proof of it.

  Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, the collector frowned at his reflection in the dim and fly-speckled mirror, hung with photographs of the old Queen and the new King. Before he could determine what to do next, he had somehow to sift the truth out of these tales, for even if he did nothing more with regard to the Prince, he still needed to make his report to Holstein. If the situation could not somehow be salvaged, the report would be most unsatisfactory, for at bottom Holstein could draw only one conclusion: that he, Count Ludwig von Hauptmann, had failed once again. Failed when success seemed so assured. Failed when it was evident that only an intolerable carelessness in execution—or the most inconceivably wretched luck—could have sabotaged his scheme. But as far as he was concerned, the reason for failure most likely lay elsewhere. It was the fault of one interfering man: Lord Charles Sheridan.

  The ballad collector plunged his hand into his pocket, paid for his ale, and lifted his glass, his glance going again to the mirror. He did not like to think of Sheridan, because at this point, there was very little he could do about the man, except to stay out of his way. Adding to his discomfort was the feeling, impossible to shake, that he was constantly being watched. It had begun that morning, when he had gone to the castle in the guise of Taiso, looking for Flora, to learn why she and her “uncle” had not come to his caravan, as he had expected. He had been about to knock at the door when a woman at the window above had called his name, and then had had the audacity to take his photograph. From that moment on, wherever he went in the village and on the road, and even in the gypsy camp at Roundyhill, eyes had seemed to follow him. He had become so wary that he found himself whirling around every few minutes, with the expectation of seeing the man who must be on his trail.

  But surely it was only his nerves, which he had to admit were frayed. If Sheridan had found him out, he’d no doubt have had him arrested. Yet he had seen nothing at all of the man, and the local constable was sitting over there in the corner, morosely nursing a private whiskey at a table by himself, preoccupied with private worries. If he judged correctly, the constable was as confused as everyone else and probably a great deal more frustrated—and well might be, for word around the village had it that the poor fellow had hoped to marry Flora.

  At that moment, the door swung open, and conversation died as the men craned their necks to see who had come in. Glancing quickly into the mirror, the ballad collector saw a small man whom he recognized as the village doctor, elbowing his way through the crowd until he reached the bar where the collector stood.

  “A long day?” Thomas Collpit remarked sympathetically. When the doctor nodded, he reached for a bottle and poured a double Scotch, pushing it across the bar to the doctor.

  Dr. Ogilvy tossed it back. “Ah,” he said with satisfaction, wiping his mouth. “Thank ye, Thomas. You’re a good man.”

  At the doctor’s words, there was an onslaught of questions from all sides.

  “What really happened tae Hamilton?” one cried.

  Another shouted, “Is’t true that Doug Hamilton killed our Hilda?”

  “Who was it died i’ th’ ice house?” a third wanted to know.

  The doctor held up his hands as if to ward off an assault. When silence returned, he took his filled pipe out of his pocket and lit it. His pipe in one hand, his whiskey in the other, he looked around the room, glancing from face to face as if to verify the identity of each. At the last, he glanced at the collector, inclined his head in an implicit greeting, then spoke.

  “I won’t keep ye from your drinkin’,” he said somberly, “but I do hae a brief word or twae tae share with ye, regarding what’s happened this week.” He pulled on his pipe, the smoke curling over his head. “I’m sure ye all know that my work as both doctor and coroner requires that I exercise a large measure of discretion, and I hope ye feel that, over the years, I’ve done my best tae keep your confidences.”

  The joiner, who seemed to regard himself as a spokesman for the other villagers, raised his glass. “Aye, Dr. Ogilvy,” he cried, “ye’ve stood by us well, in gude times an’ bad.” A murmur of general agreement rippled through the crowd, amplified by several loud ayes, and one “Ye’re our man!”

  “Thank you,” the doctor said. “Of course, if I am tae keep yer secrets, there are some I mun keep from ye, an’ ye wudna hae it diff’rent, I’m sure. However, I will try to answer yer questions as well as I can. What has occurred i’ th’ past few days seems tae have been a series o’ most unfortunate incidents. It appears that Douglas Hamilton murdered Hilda MacDonald, for reasons we dinna understand, an’ probably never will. However, Hamilton has taken himself out of th’ reach of th’ law by drowning himself i’ th’ millpond, leavin’ behind a suicide note confessin’ his guilt.”

  “That accounts for Hilda an’ Hamilton,” the joiner remarked judiciously. “What aboot th’ chap i’ th’ ice house?”

  The doctor drew on his pipe for a moment before he answered, his tone grown even more somber. “Some of ye know that Hilda had in her care at th’ castle an unfortunate gentleman, Lord Osborne, who was mentally unbalanced. He appears tae hae been afflicted with pyromania.”

  “Pyro-what?” asked the green-grocer in a puzzled tone.

  “He went round settin’ fires,” the joiner told him, low.

  The green-grocer, not quite trusting his friend, looked to the doctor for confirmation.

  “Right,” the doctor agreed. “In Hilda’s absence, this poor fellow wandered off an’ somehow managed tae set fire tae th’ straw i’ th’ ice house on the estate. He was apparently confused by th’ smoke, and became trapped and died in the fire. His body is tae be returned tae his relations in London.” He paused. “So there ye hae it, men, th’ whole sad story. A murder, a suicide, and a most unfortunate accident.”

  “But where do th’ troops come into this?” the post-master asked.

  The collector looked up, catching the swift tightening of the doctor’s lips. But it was gone in an instant, and the doctor smiled. “The troops?” he replied. “Why, they dinna figure in it at a’, far as I can see. They were here on routine maneuvers—somethin’ tae do with the use of bicycles for reconnaissance, I believe.” He paused. “It’s my understandin’, though, that in view of a’ that’s happened, the maneuvers are bein’ concluded, an’ the troops’ll leave tomorrow. Lord Sheridan has asked me tae apologize tae ye for any inconvenience ye’ve suffered. An’ now, if you don’t mind, I’ve had a long day. Even my pipe seems tae hae gone out.” He applied a match to it.

  “Thank ye, doctor,” the joiner said. “Ye’ve answered our questions.” He glanced around the room. “We’re all satisfied, aren’t we, boys?” There was scattered muted grumbling, but for the most part, the villagers appeared to agree with the joiner—all but the constable, that is. He had come up to the bar and was facing the doctor.

  “I’m not satisfied,” the constable said, his jaw working. He leaned close and spoke low. “What’s become of Flora? Where is she?”

  The doctor put a sympathetic hand on the younger man’s shoulder, and compassion was evident in his voice.

  “Flora was so distressed o’er her mother’s death, Oliver, that she needed an immediate change o’ scene. Otherwise, I feared a complete breakdown.”

  “A breakdown!” The constable was incredulous. “Flora?”

  The collector shared the constable’s disbelief. Flora had not seemed anywhere close to a breakdown when he had talked to her yesterday in her cottage. She had seemed, in fact, to be quite a strong and determined young woman.

  But the doctor was insistent. “Aye, a breakdown.” He softened his tone. “Perhaps ye dinna know Flora as well as ye think, Oliver. She’s gone wi’ her cousin Herman tae Edinburgh. I saw them off myself, this afternoon. They plan tae go tae Bavaria tae visit her mother’s people.�
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  With Herman? The collector felt his pulse flicker, and he frowned to himself. Hamilton must have lied after all, in an attempt to get all the money for himself. Memsdorff could have crossed over to the other side and gone to work for Sheridan. Agents could not always be trusted, no matter how well they were paid. And if Firefly caused his aunt’s death, perhaps he had suffered such guilt that he could not bring himself to carry out their plan. The collector frowned. But there was that suicide note to account for, which—

  “But Flora hasna yet buried her mother,” the constable protested, still trying to assimilate this new information. “And what aboot her testimony at th’ inquest?”

  The doctor turned, held out his empty glass, and Thomas Collpit obliged. “Lord Sheridan an’ I took Flora’s testimony afore she left,” he said equably, returning to the constable. “ ‘Tis our opinion that we shouldna disclose its details, or the other evidence Lord Sheridan has gathered, tae keep frae damagin’ the reputations of innocent persons. An’ we couldna see that disclosure wud serve the interests of justice.”

  The constable looked nonplussed. “But there must be an inquest!” he replied heatedly. “ ’Tis required by law. What’s more, I’ve been left out o’ this investigation. I mun demand—”

  “Dinna demand, Oliver,” the doctor said in mild reproof. “As it turned out, this inquiry was a matter for military law.”

  “Milit’ry law!” the constable exclaimed. “On what grounds, for pity’s sake?”

  Indeed, on what grounds? the collector echoed internally, both surprised and discomfited. On grounds of espionage? How much of the truth could Sheridan possibly have discovered in the short time he had been here, and how? Or had Firefly betrayed their plan very early in the game? In that case, perhaps he was now the object of Sheridan’s attention. The collector was not a man given to unwarranted worry, but the thought was not a pleasant one.