by Robin Paige
The doctor went on as if the constable had not spoken. “Sin’ Lord Sheridan is in command o’ th’ troops currently stationed on th’ estate, he took on the investigation. I examined his orders an’ am satisfied that he acted within his authority. Further, being privy tae th’ details o’ his investigation, I am prepared, in my official capacity as coroner, tae support his actions.” He raised his eyes and looked straight at the constable. “O’ course, Oliver, if ye’re not satisfied wi’ my explanation, ye’re free tae take up the matter with yer chief superintendent. I should tell ye, though, that McNaughton has already approved Lord Sheridan’s taking on the inquiry.”
The collector finished his drink and turned away. The doctor’s explanation might convince the constable, but it did not convince him. The fact that Sheridan had appeared on the scene confirmed his fear that the operation had been exposed. Clearly, someone at the highest level knew about the events of the past few days and wanted them hidden from public view. But who? And how much of the truth was known? His eyes went to the King’s photograph next to the mirror. King Edward, whom the Kaiser had once called “that great deceiver”? Surely not, but—
“I doubt I’ll ever get at the truth o’ the matter,” the constable said bitterly. With a shrug that suggested utter defeat, he turned to the bar. “I’ll hae another whiskey, Thomas. A double.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Gloucester: All ports I’ll bar; the villain shall not ’scape . . . besides, his picture I will send far and near, that all the kingdom may have due note of him.
King Lear, II, i
William Shakespeare
Five minutes later, the ballad collector was on his way up the deserted street, and, since there was no one to see that he had lost his limp, was walking fast. It was nearly nine now, but the way ahead was silvered, for the sky was cloudless and the moon that had been so elusive the night before shone brightly enough to illuminate his path. He had gone past the tobacconist shop and was approaching the green-grocery, when a man stepped out of the shadows and spoke to him.
“Good evening, Herr Hauptmann. I see that our paths have crossed again. May I accompany you back to the camp at Roundyhill?”
The collector felt as if he had sustained an electric shock. He turned to face a man as tall as he, with strong features, a brown beard, and shadowed eyes. Although he hadn’t seen him since ’97, his was not a face he was likely to forget or fail to recognize. It was the face of Lord Charles Sheridan.
Damn. But there was nothing for it but to brass it out. The collector set his jaw and, with all the composure he could muster, attempted a denial. “You have mistaken me, sir. I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
“Don’t you remember?” Sheridan’s smile was pleasant, as if they were indeed merely renewing a casual association. “The last time we saw one another was several years ago on the south coast, near Rottingdean. You lost your luggage in a storm that night, as I recall, for it was found washed up on the beach a day or two later, along with pieces of your skiff. But you obviously caught your ship and came through all right.”
Hauptmann managed a rueful chuckle. That night had been one of the more unpleasant of his life, and he did not like to be reminded of it. “Ah, yes, indeed,” he said, abandoning the pretense of forgetfulness. “Rather a trying experience, that. The seas were higher than I anticipated, and I was fortunate to escape drowning.” He swung his cane as they walked, making an effort at jauntiness. “A surprise to see you, Sheridan. What brings you to Scotland? A bit of a grouse hunt?”
“The same thing that has brought you, I should think,” Sheridan replied. “A hunt, but not for grouse.” He paused and added, reassuringly, “Not to worry, Hauptmann, I shan’t have you arrested. That would be deuced embarrassing for both sides, wouldn’t it?”
Hauptmann gave an abrupt, ironic laugh. “Good of you, Sheridan. What do you want of me?”
“Oh, just an opportunity to say good-bye before you leave.” There was a smile in Sheridan’s voice. “And I thought perhaps you might like to ask me a question or two.”
Hauptmann let the silence lengthen. At last he gave voice to his most pressing uncertainty. “Was it Lord Osborne who died in the ice house fire?”
“Without a doubt,” Sheridan replied promptly. “Of course, the body was badly burnt. But he was positively identified by the doctor. His sister also recognized the gold ring on his finger as one she had given him. She is carrying the sad news to the family.” He slid Hauptmann a sideways glance. “You knew, of course, that the Princess was here.”
“Yes,” Hauptmann admitted. “I saw her come and watched her leave, late this afternoon.” He reflected for a moment and then said, rather diffidently. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to tell me what has become of Herman Memsdorff.”
“Firefly?” Sheridan pushed his lips in and out. “I was told that he is returning to Bavaria, with his cousin Flora. I think both of them were rather unhappy about the death of her mother. An unpleasant bit of business, for all concerned.”
“I . . . see,” Hauptmann said slowly. “Am I to suppose, then, that you won him over to your side?”
“To our side?” Sheridan’s eyebrows were astonished. “Why, whatever makes you think of such a thing?”
Hauptmann sighed. “If you had, I don’t suppose you would be willing to tell me.”
“No more than you would tell me that you were responsible for the drowning of Douglas Hamilton,” Sheridan agreed.
Hauptmann’s smile was thin. “Just so. I am willing to assert, however, that I most definitely did not write his suicide note.”
“I did not believe you had,” Sheridan said with a little shrug. He smiled. “Any other questions?” When Hauptmann did not immediately answer, he went on. “I thought perhaps you might be wondering what gave you away.”
Was the man a mind-reader? “Yes, rather,” Hauptmann acknowledged. Now that they were discussing the matter, he might as well try to learn what had caused the plan to fail, so he could take steps to prevent such a thing from happening in future. “Did Firefly betray me? Or did you deduce it from some other source?”
Sheridan made a face, appearing somewhat embarrassed. “Actually, it was my wife.”
“Your wife!”
“You remember her then, do you?”
Hauptmann grimaced. “The lady who took my photograph on the beach at Rottingdean.” He stopped abruptly. “Damn! She was the woman who took my picture this morning!”
“I do apologize,” Sheridan said regretfully. “She is a bit . . . impulsive, I fear.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a photo. “She asked me to give this to you, with her compliments. And to remind you of that passage from the second act of Lear. ‘His picture I will send far and near, that all the kingdom may have due note of him.’ ” He paused. “In fact, I think our Secret Service folk will be able to put Lady Sheridan’s photograph to good use. It is something for you to consider, Hauptmann, the next time you plan a little job in England.”
Hauptmann pocketed the photo. “Your wife,” he said dryly, “is quite a remarkable woman.”
“She is. And I am a lucky man.” Sheridan stopped and put out his hand. “I don’t believe that I shall walk all the way to Roundyhill with you after all, so I’ll say good night here.”
Hauptmann shook the proferred hand. The grip was firm and decisive, like the man. “I suppose,” he said wryly, “that things have turned out for the best.”
“I suppose,” Sheridan agreed. “It’s too bad that Prince Eddy is dead, of course, but if you’d got him, he would have proven as great an embarrassment to the Kaiser as he was to the Royal Family. He was, after all, the Kaiser’s first cousin.”
“And the Kaiser is quite as mad as the Prince,” Hauptmann said reflectively. Yes, things had turned out for the best, although he would now have to account to Holstein for his failure.
“You will probably want to delay your departure until
dawn,” Sheridan said. “By then, I’ll have withdrawn the troops who are cordoning off the area. You’re headed to the coast, to Arbroath, I assume, and your ship.”
“Yes, right.” Hauptmann sighed again, wishing that Firefly had not been quite so forthcoming. “Well, then, good night. And good-bye.”
Sheridan turned and struck off in the direction of the castle. When he had disappeared from sight, Hauptmann went on his way. If he got off at dawn, he could be at the coast by sunset. He would not have to keep the ship waiting.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Saturday, 17 August 1901
O, what a tangled web we weave
When first we practice to deceive.
Marmion
Sir Walter Scott
Charles pulled on the reins. The horse stopped, and the swaying lantern hung at one side of the gig cast shifting shadows on the Dundee Road. While he had anticipated the encounter, he was still startled by the dark shapes that materialized out of the chilly mist and darkness, Enfield rifles at port arms. He felt Kate stiffen beside him on the seat, as they heard the distinctive sounds of cartridges being chambered and locked and the command, “Halt! Who goes there?”
Charles took a deep breath. “Brigadier Lord Sheridan.” He turned and called over his shoulder, to the driver of the gig behind him. “Hold up, Andrew.”
Another command, from the direction of the guard post. “Step down and advance to be recognized!”
Charles handed the reins to Kate and climbed down from the gig. He took several steps toward the figures, one of them holding up a lantern and turning up the wick. The flickering light pushed back the darkness as a young corporal studied Charles’s face.
“Blimey!” he exclaimed. “What’s your lordship doin’ on the road at this God-forsaken hour?”
“It will be getting light soon,” Charles observed mildly. “Any traffic to or from Dundee during the night?”
“Not since we relieved the last watch.” The corporal nodded toward Charles’s gig and the other, indistinctly outlined in the swirling mist. “ ‘Cept for the two o’ you, o’course.”
“For the record, Corporal, you haven’t seen anything on this watch—and that includes both of these vehicles and their passengers.” Charles waited for the young man to grasp his meaning. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I am to report no traffic on our watch.” The corporal stood to attention, his eyes averted, as Charles beckoned, and the second gig drove slowly past, with Kirk-Smythe at the reins and two cloaked passengers in the seat behind him. It halted some distance down the road.
“Very good, Corporal,” Charles said. Smiling, he put his hands into his coat pockets. “I expect you’ll be happy to know that you’re going back to London in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” the corporal replied. “Don’t s’pose there’s much point in guarding the roads now that Lord Osborne’s dead. Pity, that. Him burnin’ up and all.”
“Yes, a pity. But accidents happen, and things don’t always turn out as they’re planned. You’ve all done your duty splendidly, though. And the bicycles have certainly proved themselves.” That was a by-product of this mission, at least according to Paddington, who was planning to report that bicycles would decidedly enhance infantry mobility. Charles stepped back out of the circle of lantern light. “Stand fast, Corporal. I’ll just be a minute.”
Kirk-Smythe was dressed in civilian clothes and wearing his tan mackintosh and wool cap. “All clear?” he asked in a low voice.
“All clear,” Charles said. He held out his hand, and Kirk-Smythe leaned down to clasp it. “This is where we part, Andrew. The three of you should have no trouble making the early train to Glasgow. From there you can easily get a boat northward, to Skye.”
From the rear of the gig, Prince Eddy spoke. “Thank you, Charles,” he said in a muffled voice. “You’ll tell my father, won’t you, that I was forced to go on account of the Germans? I shouldn’t want him to think that I was deliberately disobeying him by leaving Glamis.”
“I’ll tell him,” Charles promised. “No doubt you’ll be hearing from him soon.”
“Oh, no doubt,” the Prince said with heavy sarcasm. “Although I rather think Papa would prefer to believe Toria’s account of things.” His laugh was bitter. “I am the only member of the family who has died twice, who has his own funeral monument, and yet refuses to be buried. He won’t know how to cope with the idea that I am still alive.” He laughed again, sadly now. “I don’t know how to cope with it either, come to that.”
Charles did not quite know how to answer, and turned instead to the second passenger. The hood of her cloak had fallen back, and her dark hair curled damply around her rosy cheeks. “I trust you will have a safe journey, Flora. Captain Kirk-Smythe will take good care of you.”
“Thank you, m’lord,” Flora said, and in her clear voice Charles could hear her eagerness to be gone. He didn’t wonder at it. There was little left at Glamis to hold her here, unless she cared more than she seemed to for Constable Graham. A new life waited ahead, on the Isle of Skye or wherever her journey took her.
Charles turned back to Kirk-Smythe. “Safe passage, Andrew. Contact me when you’re back in London.”
“I will,” Kirk-Smythe replied. He hesitated, then lowered his voice, speaking almost in a whisper. “I can’t say, Sheridan, that I’m entirely comfortable with the idea of letting Hauptmann slip away. We’ll surely see more of the fellow.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Charles agreed. “But we needed someone to carry the tale back to the Wilhelmstrasse. And better the spy we know than the spy we don’t.” He stepped back and raised his hand. “The sun will be up shortly. Best be on your way.”
Kirk-Smythe nodded, lifted the reins, and they were gone, into the misty pre-dawn dark.
Back at the guard post, the corporal snapped to attention and saluted without a word. Charles touched his cap and climbed into the gig, where Kate was waiting.
As Charles settled himself beside her, Kate pulled on the right rein and chirruped to the horse, so that they began to turn in a circle, heading back to the castle by the way they had come. Driving, they were silent, the only sound the clip-clop of the horse’s hoofs, muffled by the road dust. Then Charles chuckled.
“Something’s funny?” Kate asked. She herself had thought the moment sad, saying good-bye to Flora and Prince Eddy, knowing that she and Charles would probably never see them again.
“Not funny, perhaps,” Charles replied. “It still seems odd, being saluted again—and for the last time, I hope. My second term of military service is about to come to an end.” His voice became mildly ironic. “No more distinguished than the first, I should say.”
Kate glanced at him. The light from the swaying lantern, shadowing his forehead and cheek, made him look younger than his forty-one years, and more boyish. And yet no trick of light or time could alter or obscure the wit in that face, or its intelligence. He turned, catching her watching him, and smiled, lifting his hand to tuck a stray curl under her wool cloche.
She returned the smile. “So it’s almost over?”
“I’m afraid not, my dear,” he replied ruefully. “ ‘The Great Game’, as our friend Kipling calls it, will never be over. Not while England is of any account in the community of nations.”
She thought about that for a moment. With an increasingly competitive Germany across the North Sea, with the world seeming to shape itself away from the secure past of Queen Victoria and toward an insecure future that held both titanic opportunity and enormous peril, the Great Game might take on an even greater importance. She shivered at the thought, for she did not like to imagine Charles as a spy, or involved in any sort of espionage. But she had to acknowledge that she could not keep him from doing what he felt he must.
“What time will you be leaving for Hamburg?” she asked.
“On the ten-fifteen train,” Charles replied, with a sigh that told her that he was not anxious to go. “Andrew has sent a coded
telegram through Whitehall, letting the King know that Eddy is alive and well and that he should disregard the tale that Toria will tell him when she arrives. When I get there, I’ll give him the whole story, including the German espionage business and my reasons for sending Eddy off to Skye. He can decide what—if anything—he wants to tell the rest of the Royals.”
Kate knew that Charles had debated with himself about the wisdom of dispatching Eddy to Skye. But the MacDonalds’ letter to Hilda had extended an open invitation to visit whenever it was convenient. And Kate had pointed out that not only was Flora anxious to see her grandparents, but that island might offer a greater security for Eddy. He had agreed.
Kate reached down to tuck the lap robe over her feet. It might be August, but they were driving into the wind. “Do you think the King will allow Toria and the rest of the family to go on believing that Eddy is dead?”
“It would be far safer, in my opinion,” Charles replied. “The more people who know that the Prince is alive and where he is living, the greater the opportunity for discovery. And since Toria and George are the only members of the family to have visited Eddy in the last several years, the others will not be likely to miss him.” His voice was nearly expressionless, but Kate shared the moral judgment she knew he was feeling. Was it an innate characteristic of royalty to discount the value of human feeling, or did this particular Royal Family have a special skill in this regard?
They were passing through the silent village, all the inhabitants still asleep and the houses dark, except for the baker’s house and the bakery behind it, where the lights were burning and the morning’s bread was already in the ovens. To the east, the sky was growing light, and dawn was beginning to break.
“I certainly hope that Hauptmann accepted the story of Eddy’s death,” Kate remarked as they came up to the checkpoint at the castle gate. “If he didn’t, the Germans are likely to try again.”