The Balmoral Incident

by Alanna Knight

  I asked for her name and he grinned. ‘Mrs Biggs. Bobby liked his surname, said it fitted him – in every way, ye ken.’

  Thanking them for their help, I left with great dignity and a feeling that without doubt my interest would continue to be a talking point and a matter of some speculation.

  I was certain Bobby’s sudden flight was connected with Lily. Either he had killed her or her killer suspected that she had passed on to him some dangerous information. Anyway, I had gained something. I had a name. Would Mrs Biggs be a large enough needle to find somewhere in a haystack in Ballater?

  Mabel was sitting at the window reading a book about the suffrage movement she had brought with her. I wondered if she still felt a bit let down now that the speech she had worked on for the Pankhursts’ welcome had not been needed after all.

  She looked up and said: ‘I saw you coming out of the stables.’

  It was a question really, so I told her about Bobby and Lily and what the lads had told me. She nodded absently, didn’t seem interested, keen to get back to her book.

  I said I thought I would go to Ballater and hoped that a woman who had been a servant at Balmoral Castle would be remembered.

  And I got some help from Mabel. One of the suffrage ladies had also been a servant and might possibly know a Mrs Biggs. A forlorn hope maybe, but it was a beginning and I was ever optimistic – having started from less in some of my past, most successful cases, I knew the value of tenacity.

  Mabel offered to take me in the pony cart next day, but I declined. Time was vital and with the address of a certain Mrs Semple I set off on my bicycle. Fortunately it was a pleasant afternoon. I loved the feeling of warm sunshine and no disagreeable wind to hold me up. The wheels turned smoothly as the miles disappeared and I gave thought to what lay ahead supposing I met Mrs Biggs and Bobby.

  I had established a certain set of rules in my profession. If you want information it is important at that first meeting to put your prospective client at his or her ease. Never pitch yourself too high. Thankfully my unfashionable appearance gave me an air of informality. I flattered myself that it gave clients confidence and I could drop a notch further when necessary. I can speak upper-class Edinburgh but I have a less formal accent for all occasions which I used in Arizona where Danny and I frequented the saloons in the company of cowmen and prostitutes, the latter from whom I learnt some remarkable self-defence which I had used to good effect when necessary.

  I was lucky at Ballater to find Mrs Semple at home. She recognised me from our meeting in Aberdeen and, too polite to ask why, said yes, she remembered Mrs Biggs from the days they were servants together. A very nice woman, and yes, as far as she knew she was now living at Crathie. There were not a lot of houses and she should be easy to find.

  Politely declining the invitation to tea and doubtless satisfy her curiosity regarding my mission, I remounted my bicycle and set off, thankfully with the wind at my back, on the few miles back to Crathie. Deploring the fact that I had probably passed by her door en route to Ballater, luck was with me and the first person I encountered was the local postman walking along the road past the church.

  He pointed to the cottages just above us. ‘Mrs Biggs? Aye, number four just along there, second house,’ he replied, eyeing me curiously and with not a little envy, I fancied, obviously not used to seeing a young woman riding a bicycle that would have made his life very much easier.

  The cottage, small and neat, was one of six with a splendid view towards Lochnagar. Thanking him and following his directions I tapped on the door, holding my breath. Would she be at home?

  The door opened. ‘Mrs Biggs?’

  An immediate explanation for the reason for my visit was not necessary. As was the custom, I was first politely invited in; the bicycle parked outside her immaculate garden frowned over doubtfully as a possible blot on the landscape.

  The interior of the pretty, ivy-covered cottage lived up to what one might expect, the smell of lavender polish over well-cared for sideboard and table, handsome home-made rugs, embroidered antimacassars on armchairs and plump needlepoint cushions. Exclaiming over them in the course of conversation I discovered that Mrs Biggs had been no ordinary servant but a favourite needlewoman to the late Queen.

  I was not the only visitor. She was having tea with another lady from our Aberdeen meeting, Mrs Rayne, who welcomed me and began by asking after Miss Penby Worth. She sounded rather in awe of her but both ladies, as I joined them at their afternoon ritual, were more than a little curious about the purpose of my visit.

  I had to think of a good reason swiftly. A quick think provided the answer. I turned to Mrs Rayne. ‘This is a most fortunate coincidence, but it is you, Mrs Biggs, I wished to consult. You see, since we have been staying in a cottage on the Balmoral estate, my little daughter, Meg – she’s seven – is very interested in horses and I believe your son Bobby, having worked in the stables, is an expert.’ (Nothing like a bit of flattery.) ‘They tell me he has moved on but I would like a word with him as I wish to purchase a suitable pony for her.’

  It all sounded a bit lame to me but Mrs Biggs seemed quite impressed. She beamed at me. ‘You’re in luck, Mrs Macmerry, Bobby is at home right now, has a new situation down south, but came to see his mum first for a wee visit.’ She added fondly, ‘He’s such a good lad.’

  Mrs Rayne took the hint and rose politely and said to Mrs Biggs: ‘Thank you for the tea, my dear.’ And to me, ‘Please remember me to Miss Penby Worth.’

  There followed a few quick words about the next suffrage meeting, in whose house and what time and I looked round the walls at a collection of photographs, some family and some suffrage, a banner in the hall. If you were a Roman Catholic you had a photograph of the Pope but for a member of women’s suffrage it was Emmeline Pankhurst.

  As the door closed on Mrs Rayne, Mrs Biggs called: ‘A lady to see you, Bobby.’

  Bobby peered out of the kitchen where he had obviously taken refuge from his mother’s visitor, his anxious expression going over what new misdemeanour was being brought to his door.

  His smile was a question, that curiosity wiped out completely when he realised who I was and that I was from Balmoral.

  ‘Mrs Macmerry is here to ask you about horses, dear. She wants a bit of help buying a wee pony for her little girl. You’ll be able to tell her all about that, I’m sure,’ she added proudly.

  Bobby gave me a quizzical look, smiled at his mother, and giving her a hug, he seized his jacket from the chair: ‘Have to go now. Couple of lads to see at the pub. Be back later.’

  I thanked Mrs Biggs and said goodbye. Bobby closed the door behind him, no longer the vibrant wide boy, and seized my arm firmly. I indicated my bicycle.

  ‘Did you come all that way on that thing?’

  Not waiting for a reply he frowned, looking over his shoulder nervously as if his mother might be watching. ‘Now what is all this about, missus?’ That backward glance confirmed one thing. He was scared.

  ‘Your mother misunderstood me—’ I began.

  ‘She does that a lot,’ he murmured. ‘Go on.’

  Wheeling my bicycle, keeping pace with him, I said: ‘I’m enquiring about Lily.’ He paused, his step had faltered. ‘Lily?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you remember Lily. And the policeman who came to the stables.’

  At the word ‘policeman’ he suppressed a shudder as I went on, ‘They have to have some details, you understand. Name, address and so forth of her parents.’

  ‘Couldn’t the woman she worked for, that friend of yours, tell them that?’ he said impatiently.

  I wasn’t prepared to go down that tedious road. ‘You know what employers are like,’ and aware that he probably didn’t, I went on hastily, ‘As she seemed to be friendly with you, I wondered if there was anything extra you could tell us about her. And as I was heading this way—’ I lied.

  ‘I know nothing,’ he interrupted. ‘Hardly knew the lass.’ He stopped. ‘Is that all?’ he added
firmly.

  It looked like the end of our talk. I said: ‘I gather you have a better job to go to. Better prospects ahead than the stables at Balmoral.’

  He looked rather sick. ‘Who told you that?’

  Ignoring that question, I smiled. ‘Why else would you leave?’

  He stopped, rubbed his chin and said coldly: ‘I was told to leave, day before yesterday.’

  ‘Dismissed, you mean?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I was – warned off.’ He sounded angry, indignant now.

  That was a surprising piece of information. ‘By whom?’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t ask me. Someone high up, I was given a message, handed ten quid and told to go and not to ask any questions.’ He took a deep breath and sounded scared as he added, ‘Said I wouldn’t get any answers.’ His voice rose. ‘Just leave. Leave now, if you know what is good for you, that’s what they said.’ He paused ‘Otherwise—’

  ‘Wait a minute. Who were “they”?’

  ‘Don’t know. A man. Kept out of sight.’

  ‘Anyone you would recognise? What he looked like.’

  He laughed. ‘Have a heart. It was dark, I was coming back to the stables.’

  ‘You must have some idea what he sounded like.’

  He shrugged. ‘Taller than me, hoarse kind of posh voice. Think he had gloves on when he put the money in my hand.’

  I stopped and looked at him. He was telling the truth, no doubt about that, and he was still scared. I said slowly, ‘So you were threatened.’

  He nodded. ‘Exactly. So I packed my gear and went.’

  ‘But that is terrible,’ I said.

  ‘It’s terrible, missus, to have your throat cut – or, like Lily, be found drowned.’

  ‘You don’t think it was an accident?’ I asked quickly.

  He laughed harshly. ‘Don’t ask me to answer that one, either.’

  ‘Hey, Bobby!’ Two lads were approaching and I knew I would get no more information. But as I rode back to Balmoral, I had sufficient to confirm my suspicions, although no one else would be willing to believe me, not even Vince.

  I was certain after meeting Bobby that he had not killed her, their brief relationship had meant no more to him than any of the other one-night stands with willing females that made up his love life. He would have simply laughed at her suggestion of a permanent life, of marriage based on their slight intimacy, told her not to be daft and walked away.

  But to someone, Lily as Bobby’s lover had suggested that his continued presence at Balmoral was dangerous. I didn’t imagine for one moment that someone was a jealous colleague in the stables.

  The fact that he had been warned off by a man ‘with a posh voice’ had sinister implications. I was now certain that Lily’s death was no accident. It had been carefully planned.

  But why? For every murder there has to be a motive and that I was determined to find out. After all, ten pounds was a hefty sum of money, a small fortune for a stable lad to clear out and keep his mouth shut.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Only a few days remained before Olivia and Faith were to travel back to London by sleeper on the royal train to prepare for the imminent family wedding and a very tight schedule indeed.

  Before they left us, however, Vince decided that no holiday for them would be complete without a visit to Loch Muick and a picnic at Glas-Allt-Shiel. He would drive us in one of the motor cars, followed by ghillies lured from the guns ostensibly to fish for trout, which were prolific in that area of the Dee at this time of year. The holiday was made all the more memorable knowing that the King and his entourage were also at Glas-Allt-Shiel.

  Having considered this as a family outing I was surprised that Olivia’s friend, Alice von Mueller, was to come with us.

  ‘I was sure you wouldn’t mind,’ said Olivia. ‘She is so lonely and unhappy, I thought it would be a great treat for her.’

  ‘Of course, she’s most welcome,’ I said and Olivia looked relieved.

  ‘She did so enjoy meeting you.’ The anxious look that accompanied it, hinted that Olivia had not given up hope that I might be able ‘to do something for Alice’s problem’.

  Without wanting to be heartless, unhappy marriages weren’t in my territory. I had met quite a few potential clients in Edinburgh and had to turn them away. A counsellor wasn’t quite the same as a detective. Advice – and I gave the best I could – was not the same as solving a crime. And I could only offer my services if a crime was involved.

  I tried to explain this to Olivia – without success, I’m afraid – who viewed a cruel husband from the security of her own loving relationship with Vince. She had a tender heart for lost causes and made friends easily; friends like Mabel, who I suspected only she could understand and who was, quite frankly, something of a trial to the rest of us.

  Mabel had shuddered at the very idea of a picnic. As for the idea of a row on the loch, greeted with cries of delight by the two girls, that did not tempt her in the least. She would remain in the cottage with That Dog. Her decision was a relief as I had been wondering what to do about Thane. We would only be gone for a few hours but I was nervous about leaving him behind with the ghillies, as he was too large to go out in the rowing boat. I felt grateful to Mabel, as with the addition of Alice, Vince driving with her and Olivia in front, Meg, Faith and I in the back seat, a huge deerhound would have been unmanageable.

  The weather was perfect and augured well for our planned day as we were greeted by a beautiful morning, a sheer blue sky. The road was rough and narrow in places, but not too difficult given the good weather we had that day. A few unexpected swerves had us clinging to the sides of the motor which, however, kept its equilibrium and behaved well in the circumstances. But I did tremble to think what it must have been like on horseback or in a pony cart just a few years ago when, in those sudden fierce Highland storms, the rain fell not vertical but horizontal.

  Another curve and we got our first glimpse of the loch. According to Vince, who had visited it many times, in its variety of weathers it looked either noble or sinister.

  ‘Muick in Gaelic signified darkness or sorrow,’ said Vince. ‘Stepfather knew it well: on one of his cases when he was the Queen’s personal detective at Balmoral, he saved her life here from an assassin.’

  I had a sudden cold feeling as he said: ‘You probably know all about it.’ I shook my head. Although Vince had often assisted him through the years, Papa never talked to us about his cases, especially any that involved royalty. His discretion was absolute.

  The Queen had loved Glen Muick. I quoted from her journal: ‘The scenery is beautiful here, so wild and grand, real severe Highland scenery with trees in the hollow. We had various scrambles in and out of the boat and along the shore, saw three hawks, caught seventy trout. For an artist the scene so picturesque, the boat, the net, the people in their kilts in the water and on the shore. The ghillies steered going back and the lights were beautiful.’

  I had to agree with her, breathing in that clear air, her account sounded as if it had been penned just yesterday.

  ‘You should see it from the other side of the glen,’ said Vince. ‘It’s even grander, stretching away up to a great chasm filled by the waters of the loch. One can agree with “severe”, and in weather not ruinous to the view “solemn and striking” may seem adequate.’

  He laughed. ‘A recess for those who like the bare bones of the heath rather than the prospect of Nature feathered and furred.’

  The Queen had decided soon after leasing the original Balmoral from Sir Robert Gordon that it lacked the sufficiency of solitude. Noticing a lone cottage far up the glen in the wilderness beyond Birkhall, she considered that it had potential as a habitable shelter when the passion for still more privacy or even more strenuous exploration was upon her. The replenishing, its enlargement by a wooden addition, was followed by another small house a few yards away. This outpost nine miles south-east of the castle, on Abergeldie land, was called Alt n
a Guisach, after the name of the burn which poured down from Lochnagar to join the River Muick.

  Our destination was closer. Glas-Allt-Sheil, ‘cottage of the grey burn’ or ‘the widow’s house’, was built by the Queen after Prince Albert’s death when she could no longer bear to stay at Alt na Guisach with its happy memories of their times there together. Of more modest proportions with fewer rooms, it was useful for access across some very rough country rising behind. Glas-Allt-Shiel lay at the remote end of the loch where the burn runs in from the White Mounth, snow-capped before autumn, in the midst of a few sheltering trees and a little wooded promontory running out into the water surrounded by precipitous rocks.

  As rugs were spread on the ground for our picnic, a group of ghillies were disappearing towards the fast-flowing river, nets in hand. In kilts and bonnets, and in their midst a tall, dark-haired man, hatless. My heart signalled his presence even before my eyes, and I wondered again about the story of John Brown and the Queen. Was it a myth as I realised I was seeing Glen Muick exactly as she had a generation ago? This was the land where time left no mark, with stones and boulders older than recorded history.

  There were abundant trout in the loch still and present-day midges too, which would be equally troublesome in the evening, by which time we would have completed our day’s activities and be on the way back to Balmoral.

  After we had consumed the contents of the picnic baskets, salmon sandwiches, fruit and Dundee cake, it was time to take the boat out on the loch. I was glad to see Alice laughing, looking happy and relaxed as we marched down to the promontory, the boat which was quite large swaying slightly as we clambered aboard. The once empty blue sky was now occupied by a few fleeting clouds and a slight breeze ruffled the water. That was enough to cause me some concern as Vince took his place alongside the rowers while I sat with Olivia and Alice, the girls running forward to the bows, shrill with excitement and utterly fearless.

  As we steered away from the shore, I gulped and took a deep breath. I have faced many terrors in my life and learnt to cope with them in the wild west of Arizona, but neither Apache raid, arrows or bullets scared me more than moving water, the fear of drowning.