Death at Glamis Castle (13 page)

Gladys's eyes grew large. “All that for one lady?” she exclaimed, getting to her feet. “My goodness, Flora, she must hae an enormous appetite. Most ladies couldna eat that much in a week o' teas.” She frowned. “An' she isna that large, either. I caught a glimpse o' her when she and Hamilton drove up, an' she seemed delicate enough. Who'd hae thought she'd eat like a bothy lad?”

Flora flushed, feeling herself not quite up to another, more elaborate lie. “She hadna breakfast,” she said shortly, and changed the subject. “I mun gae along tae the inquest this afternoon, Gladys. I've Mr. Simpson's permission, and I've told Lady Sheridan that I mun be oot. Would ye mind lookin' in on her durin' the afternoon late, tae see if she needs awt afore I coom back?”

“Aye, o' course,” Gladys said. She gave Flora an inquiring look. “Heard anything aboot Lord Osborne? Has he been found yet?”

“Gladys!” Flora gasped. “Ye're nae s'posed tae talk aboot Lord Osborne!”

“Ah, bosh, Flora,” Gladys said, with a careless wave of her hand. “Ye can't keep folks frae talkin', here in the house and b'yond. Everybody knows the poor man's gone, and the soldiers hae coom tae look for him.”

“The . . . soldiers?” Flora asked faintly.

“Aye,” Gladys said. “Dinna ye hear of it?” She leaned forward, her voice eager, her green eyes sparkling. “A whole trainload of soldiers, early this mornin'. Fine lookin' fellows, they are, with bicycles and guns. They're settin' up posts in all the roads, tae make sure that he doesna get clean away.”

“How do ye
know
all this?” Flora asked, aghast. Mr. Simpson and Mr. Duff had dinned into her, time and again, that she was not under any circumstances to speak about Lord Osborne with any of the other servants, not even one whom she knew as well as she knew Gladys. Flora, a cooperative young woman, had obeyed, in part because she felt that it was a privilege to be allowed to wait on poor Lord Osborne, who bore all his trials with such patient fortitude. Of course, the other servants knew that an invalid friend of the family lived quietly to himself in a private suite on an upper floor of the west wing, and she supposed that from time to time they gossiped about him. But no one but she and her mother—and Mr. Simpson and Mr. Duff, of course—were ever permitted to be in his company, and no one had ever mentioned his name to her until now.

Gladys's freckled face became serious, and she put out her hand. “P'raps ye don't know what's bein' said, Flora. Aboot Lord Osborne, I mean. And what he did tae yer poor mother.”

Flora stared at her. “What Lord Osborne did . . . Gladys, what
are
ye talkin' aboot?”

“Why, I'm tellin' ye what others are sayin',” Gladys replied. Her forehead creased. “But mayhap it's nae so guid tae talk about it just now, wi' the inquest and—”

Flora became fierce. “What are they sayin'?” she demanded, and when the other did not immediately speak, she seized her hand. “If ye're my friend, Gladys, ye'll tell me.”

Gladys bit her lip, her green eyes dark with sympathy. “They're sayin' that he's the one who killed her,” she replied, retrieving her hand. “But nae on the path, where ye found her. In his rooms, it were, and Mr. Simpson and Mr. Duff carried her oot, tae save him from bein' accused. And then he ran away, and has hid himself out in the forest. That's why the soldiers are here, ye see. They've coom tae arrest him fer murderin' your poor mother.”

“But it's not true!” Flora exclaimed, horrified. “Lord Osborne couldna hae killed my mother. I know it! He's a guid man, and verra kind and sweet. He'd never—”

“Pooh, now, Flora,” Gladys chided. She put out a hand and stroked her friend's cheek. “Ye know he's a strange one, nowt quite right in his mind. Ye canna know what he mighta done. Everybody's saying that it's only guid luck that he dinna kill you, too.”

Flora dashed the hand aside and whirled to snatch up the heavy tray. “Everybody's wrong,” she snapped. “And ye're wrong too, Gladys. Dinna stand in my way. I've work tae do.” And with that, she shouldered the door open and marched out of the room.

Puzzled and hurt, Gladys went to the door and watched her friend as she walked toward the end of the hall. But instead of turning left to climb the stairs to the guest suites, where the new lady guest had been installed, Flora went straight ahead, in the direction of the oldest part of the castle.

Growing more puzzled by the moment, Gladys cocked her head and frowned, watching Flora out of sight.

Glamis: A Village History
edited by A. R. Nicoll and D. Quigley

 

 

 

 

The misting rain had stopped, the skies were beginning to clear, and a pale sun shone, but the little village of Glamis—three dozen houses, a handful of shops, the Post Office, a smithy, and an austere church—remained gloomy, for it was built mostly of dark-gray stone that was stained even darker by the damp. This small village was huddled close against the park wall, as if claiming the protection of the lord whose castle was concealed beyond the trees.

Having just inspected the spot where the murdered woman's body was found, Charles drove the Panhard along the narrow main street of the village. Passing a tobacconist's shop, the inn, and the Post Office, he kept well behind Duff's horse, which was still noticeably dismayed by the occasional pop and bang of the car's engine. As he drove, he saw surprised faces appearing at the mullioned windows of the one- and two-story houses which were set near the street, their steep tiled roofs topped with brick chimneys and clay chimney pots. At street level, a few windows sported window boxes, bright with geraniums and trailing ivy, and the street itself was cleanly swept. Between some of the houses Charles could glimpse green back-gardens filled with flowers and lines heavy with fresh laundry.

A pair of women in dark dresses, white aprons, and woolen shawls pressed themselves against a wall as he passed, clutching their market baskets and staring. Charles had the feeling that the attention was not due to the novelty of the motorcar, for the village was only fifteen miles from Dundee, and motorists must have already begun frequenting the roads. It was more likely the strange events of the morning that had them wondering, for gossiping tongues had no doubt spread word of the arrival of the soldiers, and the villagers must be curious about what was going on at Glamis estate. Paddington was already deploying his men across the countryside, and people were bound to be talking about the unusual sight of uniformed troops pedaling up and down the roads. He could only hope that the villagers had no idea of their real reason for being here—but he could not be sure even of that. Hilda MacDonald's murder had complicated everything.

As they reached the south end of the street, Duff reined in his horse and pointed to the red-painted door of a stone house, rather larger than most, befitting the station of a man who was the village doctor, the King's coroner, and a confidante of Lord Strathmore.

Charles pulled the Panhard as close to the wall as possible and cut the motor, waving as Duff turned his horse and rode, as he had been directed, back toward the castle. He had not wanted the factor, who was quite obviously withholding important information about Hilda MacDonald's murder—and quite possibly the disappearance of Prince Eddy—to be present during his interview with the doctor.

A shy little servant, barely into her teens, answered Charles's knock, and a moment later, showed him down the hall to a small consulting room at the back of the house. It was furnished with several chairs and a desk littered with papers and medical journals, a square table on which sat a compound microscope and several trays of glass slides, a dark oak bookcase crowded with leather-bound books, and a row of grinning skulls displayed on a shelf. Narrow windows looked out on a garden full of neatly-kept roses, and a small fire blazed in the grate of a brick fireplace. A closed door led, Charles suspected, to the surgery.

A stout man in a dark frock coat, nearly bald, rose from the chair in front of the fire where he had been reading, peering owlishly at Charles through thick, gold-rimmed glasses.

“Doctor Henry Ogilvy?” Charles asked.

The little man—standing, he came to no more than Charles's shoulder—inclined his bald head. “I am, my guid sir, at yer service.” His Scots accent was thick and burry.

“I'm Charles Sheridan,” Charles said. He added, a little self-consciously, for he was not accustomed to the rank, “Brigadier Lord Sheridan.”

“Ah, yes,” the doctor said briskly. “Ye're the man who's responsible for a' the commotion at the railway station this mornin'. Well, well, sit ye doon, my guid sir, sit ye doon.” He pushed a stack of books off a chair and moved it nearer his own. “Maud will fetch us some tea—be off wi' ye, lassie—and when ye've warmed yer innards, ye shall tell me what brings ye tae Glamis.”

Charles accepted the upholstered leather chair that the doctor offered, and they exchanged the usual pleasantries about the weather until Maud reappeared, quite soon, with a tray containing a cozied teapot, cups, sugar and milk, and a plate of hot scones. The doctor himself, his round face wreathed in smiles, poured tea.

“Now, then,” he said invitingly, handing Charles a cup. “Will ye begin?”

Charles cleared his throat and spoke somewhat more formally than he had intended. “I have been authorized by the Home Secretary to take such actions as are necessary to resolve a delicate situation at the castle. I must ask you to treat what passes between us as a professional confidence.”

“My guidness,” Dr. Ogilvy said mildly. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his feet to the fire. “In other words, my lips are t'be sealed.” He gave Charles a frown of exaggerated reproach. “Although, if I may say so, m'lord, ye need hardly hae mentioned it. One canna be a village doctor an' fail tae keep confidences.”

Charles relaxed. “Yes, of course, thank you.” He paused. “Perhaps we might begin with your observations—both as doctor and as coroner—regarding the murder of Hilda MacDonald.”

“Ah, our poor Hilda.” The doctor sighed gustily. “A terr'ble, terr'ble end. What d'ye wish tae know of it, sir?”

“I understand that you did not view the body where it was found—on the path, that is.”

“Right. I knew naething of the murder until Constable Graham brought the body here. Flora, Hilda's daughter, discovered her mother on her way tae the castle early on Monday mornin'.” He rubbed his hand across the top of his bald head. “Flora took it hard, o'course, an' the constable—who has a soft spot in his heart for the lass—dinna feel guid aboot leavin' poor Hilda on the wet ground.”

“Rigor mortis had set in?”

“Already well advanced, I'd say.”

“And what time was the body brought here?”

“A wee bit after sev'n in the mornin'.”

Charles reflected. “So you would agree that Mrs. MacDonald must have been killed before midnight?”

“Aye, I would.” The doctor peered through his glasses. “Ye're a doctor, m'lord?”

“I'm familiar with the conduct of postmortem examinations,” Charles replied. “You might say that it is a hobby of mine. The body is still here, I assume? May I have a look at it?”

Without a word Dr. Ogilvy put down his teacup, hoisted himself out of his chair, and led the way into the surgery, then through an outside door and down a path to a small, vine-covered building, where the remains of Hilda MacDonald lay on a stone slab, covered with a white sheet.

Charles lifted the sheet and gazed at the naked body, pity welling up in him. She had been a handsome woman, with soft brown hair just faintly frosted with gray and a generous mouth that looked as if it were given to smiling. The gaping wound that slashed across the pretty throat was crusted with dried blood.

“The left carotid artery was severed,” the doctor said quietly. “ 'Twas most likely done from behind by a right-handed person wieldin' a sharp blade. The blessing is that death came quickly.”