What upset me most of all was the change in my long and loving relationship with Vince. We had always been close but since we came to Balmoral and particularly since Lily’s death, his attitude towards me had changed completely. To my horror he saw me as a potential troublemaker, meddling in affairs that did not concern me but might have disastrous repercussions on his position as physician to the royal household. I had never seen Vince in a role where he was afraid of anything before but that warning to me held a risk I could not take.
I felt very let down by present events – even Jack had dismissed my suspicions about Lily and I felt wounded, that he should have known and understood me better. However, during those long evenings having drams together while I lay upstairs nursing my wretched cold, I suspected that Vince had persuaded Jack as well of the somewhat vague explanation of Inspector Gray’s presence at the castle, all of which added further to my conviction that there was more than a servant girl’s murder at its core. I needed to escape for a while from a cottage that had become claustrophobic, my thoughts going round and round like rats trapped in a cage. I needed to lose myself for a few hours in the calm beauty of the landscape, in the hills that had been here long before humans and would still be here when humans with all their griefs and joys were no more.
At least I still had Thane, loyal and faithful, nothing had changed there. At home in Solomon’s Tower when I was perplexed by an apparently unsolvable crime, I would climb through Hunter’s Bog to the heights of Arthur’s Seat and look down on the sprawl of Edinburgh city far below. It always helped to clear my mind and I would return home more often than not with a key to the labyrinth.
It just might work here. I would climb the hill on the Tomintoul road overlooking the castle, with its magnificent view of the undulating hills of Deeside, past Bush Farm, the one-time home of John Brown, who had created such an almighty stir in the late Queen’s reign. A troublemaker and worse, King Edward’s resolve had been strengthened to remove all traces on the estate of his mother’s favourite ghillie.
I would take my sketchbook and Thane, although we had to make our journey across the estate by a circuitous route. This did not seem necessary since Meg’s outburst regarding her ownership of Thane unless the King made his own secret arrangements and decided to kidnap him. But in this particular part of the world with royal prerogatives one never really knew what was law and what wasn’t, so I decided to err on the side of caution and continue to avoid any contact.
It was a lovely clear day; autumn’s changing colours were still to come, with no hint beyond a time of mellowing, of deepening colours and a golden glow over everything. The treetops looked heavily burdened, overleafed and weary somehow. As if having accomplished all that nature intended, blossomed, flourished and provided shelter for little animals and nests for the next generation of songbirds, as well as their more raucous uncouth neighbours, they were ready to sigh and shed their leafy load and go to sleep until spring woke them again.
Our climb was assisted by a slight but welcoming breeze. At last we reached a suitably sheltered place to set up my campstool.
As I began drawing, at my side Thane seemed content after exploring new smells and sounds with canine intensity. He had enjoyed the longer walk and exercise after being restricted to the wood by the cottage.
Suddenly he sat up, alert, a low-pitched growl.
‘What is it?’
Turning his head, he stared towards the top of the hill behind us and I saw the glint of sunlight on glass. Twin circles – someone with binoculars was watching us.
I wasn’t afraid. Thane would take care of me and he was more than a match for any man. But I felt anger now, all I had wanted was a bit of peace to draw, now it was being invaded and I felt too uneasy to relax. Small chance of that as footsteps were descending, twigs snapping under swift-moving feet. Branches being pushed aside as the watcher was making his way downhill and had to pass us by if he was to continue down the track.
He came into view a few yards away and my heart thudded as my senses recognised that fleeting resemblance, the tumbling locks of dark hair, even the walk. Vince had recognised it. And did anyone who ever knew Danny see it – would Jack too, I wondered?
I stood up, deciding to confront him this time.
‘Good day to you, Mr Brown.’
He stopped, a moment’s bewilderment as he looked back over his shoulder. And I knew the grim truth, it confirmed my suspicions. That whatever Vince said, Brown was not his real name.
Thane was leaping towards him, seeing him as a threat. I was safe enough. But wait a moment, what was going on? Thane had reached his side and, far from confrontation, there was a lot of tail-wagging, excited barks. Thane had found a friend. And so had Mr Brown, stroking him, ruffling his ears.
‘Hello, old chap, how are you?’
I was taken aback. I was not witnessing a polite meeting of strangers but a reunion as Brown crossed the short distance, his hand on Thane’s head. He came close, close enough for the echoes of spent tobacco smoke. Even if he didn’t smoke cigars, those he associated with did. The smell of old tweed, this male closeness disarmed me. My body yearned to lean into that warmth. It struck a chord long since lost, reminding me of greeting Danny after one of our long absences from each other in Arizona, while he went far afield on business from Pinkerton’s Detective Agency. When I never knew if I would ever see him again, always afraid I would lose him. Which I did.
From his tall height, looking down at me, he smiled, an endearing smile. ‘You are not lost this time, miss, I’m relieved to see.’ And squinting at the drawing. ‘That’s very good.’
‘Thank you, Mr Brown.’
Again that slightly baffled smile, that wavering moment.
‘I see you have put your binoculars away. Why were you spying on me?’
That startled him. An uneasy shrug.
‘Just walking, were you?’ I asked.
Ignoring my question, he said: ‘May I?’ leaning over so that I could not see his expression clearly, he had taken refuge in turning the pages of my sketchbook.
He pointed to the drawing I had made of Lily, and said: ‘This looks familiar.’
I felt embarrassed. There was one of him on the next page, drawn from memory.
‘Did you know Lily?’
‘Lily?’
‘Yes, the girl who drowned.’
He was concentrating on turning the pages. ‘No.’
‘I saw you talking to her.’
‘Did you?’ He did not raise his head, the question casual, of no importance.
‘Yes,’ I said.
He sighed, closing the book. ‘I don’t remember. Perhaps she was lost,’ he smiled. ‘Like you, asking me for directions.’
So he was lying. He knew it was Ballater. I felt triumphant.
‘I don’t think that was the reason.’
‘Why not?’ He regarded me slowly, a patient smile.
‘She wasn’t English, Mr Brown.’
He was silent, frowning now, staring down over towards the turrets of the castle still far distant.
I had to know more about him, fill in the gaps. He was no ordinary ghillie, that was for sure. Not one of the visiting sportsmen either. He just didn’t belong in either category, or on the Balmoral estate. Alien somehow to these surroundings, as if he had wandered into this place, this time.
‘Brown isn’t your real name, is it?’
He turned those strange luminous eyes. ‘No. The men call me Saemus.’
‘You’re a Scot?’
He shrugged and I persisted.
‘Or Irish. Is it Irish you are?’ (Like Danny, my heart fluttered) ‘Saemus is the Gaelic for Thomas.’
He looked away frowning, towards the distant hills, the far horizon as if they might provide the answer.
Then with a shrug: ‘I am nothing,’ he said coldly.
That seemed odd and I asked: ‘Why are you here in Balmoral?’
He had recovered whatever he was in danger
of losing by my questions. He smiled. ‘Perhaps I am a guest like yourself.’
‘I don’t think so, you don’t dress like the sportsmen, or the ghillies.’ I paused. ‘No, you are a man here with some purpose. I can recognise that. And you appear unexpectedly in strange surroundings.’ I could not say Penby, but I added, ‘I saw you with the gipsies when we first arrived, on our way here.’
He gave that a moment’s thought. ‘A social call. They are my friends, they speak my language.’
‘Gaelic?’
Again he shrugged. ‘Metaphorically speaking, I understand many languages.’
‘So you are a scholar too?’
He looked away. ‘Perhaps.’
I took a deep breath. ‘I think you knew Lily. And that you killed her,’ I said slowly, even knowing it was madness. Looking at Thane, after that show of friendliness I could no longer rely on his protection. In a minute this man’s hands would be about my throat, but there was no water here to conveniently dispose of my body and have it dismissed as drowning.
In one swift movement, he dropped down to my side and took hold of both my hands. It was handholding, a warm friendly gesture. He wasn’t going to kill me. ‘Why all these questions?’
‘That is my business.’
Suddenly he was laughing at me. ‘You are not a very clever detective, Rose McQuinn.’
That startled me. ‘How did you know my name?’
He turned away, his face suddenly sad. ‘I know everything,’ and letting go my hands, no longer warm, he stared ahead down towards the castle. ‘And if I were to kill someone, and I do know how,’ he said coldly, ‘I would do it differently.’ He picked up a twig and snapped it. ‘Not dump them in the river, hoping the body might be washed into the sea forty miles away.’
And I knew he spoke the truth. He had killed but then so had Danny and so had I, a necessity of survival against hostile Apaches and bandits in Arizona.
He stood up again, and looking down at me, bowed. It was suddenly an old-world gesture. Whoever he was, he had the manners of a gentleman but without another word, he turned and walked quickly away down the hill.
The weather was changing, a chill wind had taken over, clouds overtaking the blue sky, sweeping in from the west. I was no longer in the mood to draw. I went back to the cottage, going over that odd conversation, remembering those strange eyes, amber in colour. Not in the least like Danny’s blue Irish eyes, but tantalisingly familiar.
And I knew where I had seen them before. I looked into similar eyes a dozen times a day, every time Thane leapt up to greet me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Later the girls, Mabel and I were having lunch in the garden, enjoying the warm sunshine. As I gathered dishes together, I thought I saw Bobby Biggs. He was at the stable door, looking towards the cottage but standing back as if he didn’t want to be seen. I held up my hand, gave him a wave of acknowledgement, but he darted back into the shadows.
This familiarity obviously struck Mabel as odd and I said: ‘That was the stable boy Bobby who was friendly with Lily. I just wondered if he was waiting to see me. That he might have some news.’
Mabel gave me a bewildered look. ‘What kind of news?’
‘About Lily.’
‘You make very strange friends, Rose.’ And her shrug of indifference as we went into the kitchen left no desire to go into the details of our conversation.
The postman was due on his daily round from the castle. I saw him approaching and went to the door.
‘A moment, if you please, Andy.’ He came in, had a polite word with Mabel, who seemed at a complete loss to understand his accent, but nodded politely.
I picked up the letter I had written to Olivia, searched for a stamp, handed it to him and said to Mabel, ‘I’ll be back shortly.’
She pointed to Hector, the pony she now regarded as her own whose cart took her on her travels around the estate. He was happily nibbling at the hedgerow awaiting her instructions.
‘If you’re wanting a lift somewhere, we can take you wherever you want to go.’
She was always generous about that. I was grateful for the occasional offer of transport into Ballater but preferred my bicycle unless we needed emergency provisions.
I smiled and thanked her. ‘No need, I’m just going across to the stables.’
There was no sign of Bobby lingering about and Jock said: ‘You’ve just missed him. Left a couple of minutes ago.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
Jock grinned. ‘No use asking me, miss. Bobby’s never the one to let his right hand know what his left hand is doing. Proper close, he is. He’s taken a horse, borrowed the one he used to ride. Said it was urgent, he had someone to see, but he’d be back promptly.’
If I hadn’t hesitated to deal with that letter for Olivia, I would have caught him. I had even heard a rider going past the window. It was infuriating.
Jock was looking over his shoulder as if he might be overheard by the rest of the lads. ‘Not allowed officially,’ but patting his britches pocket, he grinned, ‘made it worth my while, if you get my meaning. He’ll be back shortly and I’ll tell him you were looking for him, miss.’
‘Did he say why he’d come back? I thought he’d been fired,’ I added, remembering the threat and the ten quid.
Jock stared at me. ‘Ye ken more than I do. All he said was that he had to meet someone.’
And I guessed the reason. He had run out of money or just wanted more, a bit of blackmailing which fitted into his character. But it was annoying. Meanwhile it was obvious that Jock found my questions and my interest in Bobby intriguing, especially remembering his reputation with the ladies – bragging about being irresistible to ladies of all ages.
‘I’ll tell him you’re wanting to see him,’ Jock repeated and I was conscious of his eyes watching me with a very calculating look as I walked out of the stables.
I could hardly linger outside without more sniggering speculation once Jock told the lads about my visit. Mabel had departed with the pony cart and I decided to sit in the garden with my book, remaining vigilant for Bobby’s return. Nearby, Meg and her new friend Rowena were having a game where Thane was involved, his usual dignity suspended, chasing after a stick. He was becoming a very domesticated dog, I thought fondly, wondering how he would react to our return home with Jack and I often out and Meg at school all day.
Rowena was now a constant visitor. I expected all gypsies to look like, well, Egyptians as the name originated, but Rowena was quite different, with red hair and green eyes. A very pretty ten-year-old but her education was no match for Meg who said in tones of awe: ‘Rowena has never read a real book, Mam. Never! Just think of that. But she loves fiddle music and knows lots and lots of songs. And she sees things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘They call it second sight; all of them – the ladies that is – have it. They can find lost people.’
That was interesting. ‘What did she mean by lost, a long time ago or just lately?’
‘Oh, both. They can find babies taken from their mothers and bring them together again.’
It all sounded intriguing but very weird, especially looking at Rowena who seemed just a normal happy girl, and if Meg was in awe of her, then she returned the compliment. She seemed slightly in awe of us – the gringos.
It was good to see Meg so happy again, and enjoying the warm sun on my face, I relaxed and put the book aside. I must have dozed off, awakened by the sound of a horse trotting past on its way to the stables.
That would be Bobby returning. I sprang up and hurried across, trying to make it look if he was watching that it wasn’t urgent, that I was just passing by.
My excuses weren’t needed. Jock was patting the horse which had obviously been galloping, while the other lads gathered round. They looked scared.
Jock saw me and said: ‘The beast’s returned alone – just look at the state he’s in.’
‘Has he run away from Bobby?’<
br />
Jock shook his head. ‘Not likely miss, I think something else has happened. Got thrown off.’
‘Never Bobby,’ someone else said, ‘Great rider, even bareback. Never known him to be thrown.’
‘Well, there’s always a first time,’ Jock replied and as one of the lads took the horse and was rubbing it down, he seemed to realise what I was there for. ‘No doubt, he’ll be walking back at this moment, cursing the beast. He’ll get some teasing, that’s for sure.’
I said: ‘I hope he’s all right.’
‘Dinna ye worry, miss, He’ll be in a fine old temper after a long walk back, but I won’t forget to tell him that you’re waiting to see him.’
With that I left them, but I felt a sudden chill of unease. After all they had told me about Bobby and horses, I had a niggling feeling that if the horse returned without him then he must have been thrown and might have been hurt.
I hadn’t long to wait for an answer.
I’d hardly set foot in the kitchen when I heard the pony cart return. Mabel rushed in, her face white.
‘Oh Rose. I’ve just seen a young man, lying on the track beyond the wood. We nearly ran over him. I got down, took a look to see if I could help. He murmured something when I asked if he was hurt.’ Wringing her hands, she went on, ‘I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say, and didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t lift him into the cart, and bring him back here.’ She shook her head. ‘I know nothing about first aid or what to do with someone badly hurt. So I told him just to lie still and I’d go for help.’
Meg and Rowena had seen her arrive and as she was obviously crying and distressed, they followed her into the kitchen.
I said, ‘Go across to the stable and tell Jock there’s a man lying injured, beyond the wood. I think it’s the lad whose horse came back without him. Tell them to bring a stretcher.’
The Balmoral Incident Page 16