Death at Glamis Castle (20 page)

Flora made herself speak lightly. “Herman? Oh, I dinna think so. He's his own business tae tend. When d'ye say the clan is leavin' for Perth?”

The tinker shrugged, fixing her with a searching look. “If there's money in it, there's no need to wait for the clan. I can go whenever ye're ready—tonight, if ye'd like to leave right away. Ye'll bring yer uncle?”

“Oh, tonight'd be too soon,” Flora said, now half-frightened by her own boldness and feeling the need to pause and think things through. There was something about this man that warned her off, some aura of danger, some scent of peril, that made her feel she could not trust him. But she already knew she could trust no one, and hiring this man, while risky and reckless, might be her only means of spiriting Lord Osborne away. “In the mornin', early,” she said breathlessly. “We could coom then.” She'd have to find clothing for his lordship—perhaps something from the closet belowstairs at the castle, where old jackets and working trousers were kept.

“Very well, then,” the man said, turning to toss his cigarette onto the path outside the door. “Look for the red-and-green caravan or ask for Taiso the tinker, and someone will point the way.” He paused. “And if ye see Herman, ye'll tell him that Taiso was here t' talk to him, won't ye?”

“I shall,” Flora said.

“Until morning, then,” he said, and dropped a mock bow. “Yer ladyship's carriage'll be waitin'. Bring yer uncle and the three of us'll be off straightaway.”

Flora did not answer. When he had gone, she sat down limply at the table and dropped her face into her hands. It would be grand if she could snatch Lord Osborne out from under the noses of Lord Sheridan's soldiers, and the tinker's willingness to take them to Perth seemed almost heaven-sent. From there, they could take the railway to Glasgow, and find a boat to Skye, and safety. But she was more than half-afraid of the mocking fellow, and leaving Glamis Village now meant abandoning two pieces of sadly unfinished business: the inquest into her mother's murder, now postponed; and her mother's burial, which could not be arranged until after the inquest. How could she go away, with two such important tasks undone?

But even as the question echoed in her mind, the answer came with it, in her mother's calm, loving voice. “Do as ye mun do, my verra dear, and dinna worry aboot me. I'm wi' yer father now, an' all is well wi' the both o' us.”

Flora dropped her hands. Yes, of course. Whatever might be said and done at the inquest, whatever words the vicar might speak over the grave—nothing would change the irrevocable fact of her mother's murder nor the blessed truth of her union, at last, with Flora's father, whose love she had held in her heart through all the long, lonely years. And it was certainly best not to talk to Lord Sheridan or risk her own appearance at the inquest, where she might be forced to reveal what she knew. So what should she do? Where could she go?

Flora sat for a few moments in silence, debating with herself. Then she stood and went toward the bedroom, her mouth set in a determined line. She had a clearer idea what she must do, and the journey she must take. What she couldn't know was how it would all come out in the end.

Macbeth
, II, ii
William Shakespeare

 

 

 

 

As soon as they had both finished lunch, Kate followed Princess Victoria to the Strathmore family sitting room, a large, pleasant room on the second floor of a recently-renovated wing, with rosy-pink walls, tall windows, and a vaulted ceiling with intricate plaster-work. Toria seated herself in an ornate gilded chair and Kate on a rose-damask divan to the left of the chair. A moment later, two men were shown into the room: the estate factor, whom Kate had met that morning, still wearing his rough outdoor clothes and leather boots; and Simpson, the house steward, in the customary black morning coat. Both men seemed extremely nervous as they bowed themselves into the Royal presence. Their agitation escalated, Kate felt, when they saw her, and she tried to excuse herself.

But Toria made an authoritative gesture. “I prefer you to stay, Kate,” she said firmly. “There may be something you can do to help.”

Kate couldn't think what help she might offer, especially since Charles had so many men searching the area. But it didn't do to disagree with the Princess when she spoke in that tone, so she only nodded and resumed her seat on the divan.

The Princess turned first to the factor. “I understand, Mr. Duff, that it was you who discovered that my brother had run away. I should be grateful if you would tell me the circumstances.”

Twisting his wool cap in his hands, Angus Duff cleared his throat. Now that she had a closer look at him, he seemed, Kate thought, perfectly wretched, as if he had not slept in several days. “Yer Royal Highness,” he began in a faltering tone, “the message I telegraphed tae Whitehall wasna altogether accurate, I'm afraid.” He swallowed. “Not in every respect, that is, ma'am. Not entirely.”

“Not accurate?” Toria frowned. “Well, then, I suppose we should clear up these small inaccuracies. What are they?”

“Well . . . that is . . .” He looked down at his boots. “I mean tae say—”

But whatever it was that Angus Duff meant to say was interrupted when the door opened and a footman announced, in stately tones, “Brigadier Lord Sheridan.”

Angus Duff and Simpson turned, surprise and consternation registering on their faces, as Charles came in. He turned and said something that Kate couldn't hear to the footman, and then the door closed behind him, and he came forward.

“Your Royal Highness,” he said, and made the requisite bow. He nodded to Kate. “Lady Sheridan.”

If Charles were surprised to see the Princess at Glamis, Kate thought, or his wife in her company, he didn't show it. But she had learnt long ago that he was adept at keeping emotion from showing on his face, a capability that she did not always admire. He was a candid man who could be relied on to speak the truth, but there were times when he wrapped himself in a kind of grave and unrevealing reserve, and this was one of them.

“Lord Sheridan!” Toria exclaimed, smiling. “How good of you to interrupt your tasks and come to see me. Or perhaps you have news?” She leaned forward eagerly. “You and your men have already found my brother? He is safe?”

“I'm sorry to say, Your Highness, that he has not yet been found,” Charles replied, unsmiling. “We are, of course, continuing to search, and have sealed off all the roads. If he is in the area, I'm confident that he will be found.”

Toria, Kate knew, was nobody's fool, and she understood Charles's implication immediately. “If he is in the area?” she asked, frowning. “How can he have got
out
of the area? He knows no one outside of the castle. He has no friends, no means of transportation.” Her frown became sterner. “Or does he? I hope you're not suggesting that someone may have—”

“We're continuing to search, ma'am,” Charles replied, forestalling a difficult question. From the way he had broken into Toria's sentence, Kate had the feeling that he suspected that friends of Prince Eddy might have taken him away, but could not reveal his suspicions, especially in front of the listening men. “I'll be able to make a more full report tonight,” he added. He gestured at Duff and Simpson. “I've come to the castle, actually, to interview these two men, and a servant who waited on the Prince. I would like to learn more of the details of his disappearance.”

“Then you've come at just the right time,” Toria replied dryly, “for Mr. Duff was just about to correct certain inaccuracies that apparently crept into his telegram to Whitehall, and hence were forwarded to His Majesty the King.”

“Inaccuracies?” Charles did not seat himself, and Kate was aware of the tension in his stance and the guarded sharpness in his voice.

“Indeed.” Toria fixed her gaze on Duff, and her voice hardened. “I am confident, however, that Mr. Duff will be able to make things clear. Isn't that true?”

Kate had almost forgotten how perceptive the Princess was, and how quick and discerning. Like her Royal father, Toria was an excellent judge of character, and here, a safe distance from her mother, she had assumed a definite air of command.

All this was too much for Angus Duff, however, who was clearly terrified by the combined force of a Royal Princess and Brigadier Lord Sheridan. His mouth opened and shut without a sound. After a moment, he managed to blurt out a few husky words, his voice thickened by fright.

“Well, then, ma'am, the Prince was found tae be missin' on Monday mornin', and I telegraphed Whitehall as quick as I—”

Charles shook his head. “That won't do, Duff,” he said, in an admonitory tone. “We must have the
whole
truth.” When the factor did not immediately answer, he turned to the Princess. “May I, Your Highness? I do have a few specific questions, based on several facts I have uncovered since I arrived.”

“Yes, of course,” she replied hesitantly, “although I cannot see—” She frowned slightly. “Duff, you are to answer his lordship truthfully. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Yer Highness,” Duff said, so low that Kate could barely hear him.

“Then tell me whose blood it was that was cleaned up in Prince Eddy's apartment,” Charles commanded. “It was not entirely removed, of course. There was far too much for that.”

At the word
blood,
Toria had gasped, her hand going to her mouth, her eyes opening wide. “There was
blood
in Eddy's rooms?” she whispered.

Suddenly chilled to the bone, as if by an icy winter blast, Kate stared at Charles. She was thinking of Flora, who had told her of discovering her mother's body early on Monday morning, her throat cut. A horrible murder like that must have produced a vast quantity of gushing blood. But the body had been found on the path to the village, and not in the castle, unless—

“Did you clean it up?” Charles asked gravely, his eyes holding Duff's. When Duff didn't answer, he turned to the butler. “Simpson, was it you who scrubbed that floor to remove the stains, and then put down the rug to cover the spots that could not be washed away?”

“Out, damned spot, out I say!”
Kate thought wildly of the words of Lady Macbeth, ceaselessly washing.
“What, will these hands ne'er be clean?”

“Yes, m'lord,” Simpson answered, low. “It was the two of us, m'lord, and nobody else.” He looked down at his hands with loathing, as if he was afraid that he would see the horror of blood yet on them. “We didn't want anyone else on the staff to guess what had happened, you see, sir. What we had found in the Prince's—in Lord Osborne's rooms.”

“Here's the smell of the blood still,”
Kate thought.
“All the perfumes of Arabia—”

“And whose blood was it?” Charles asked sharply.

Duff raised his head, squared his shoulders, and met Charles's eyes straight on. “T'was Hilda MacDonald's blood, sir,” he said, finding his voice at last. There was a shudder of revulsion in it.

Toria shut her eyes and sat still, as if she were paralyzed, but Kate's eyes were wide open, and her thoughts were racing. So Flora's mother had been killed in the castle, and not on the path, where her body was found. Her own earlier question echoed again in her mind. What kind of horrible person could have slit a servant's throat, as if she were an animal brought to the slaughter? An answer came, again in words from
Macbeth: “Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds—”

Infected minds
. Kate shuddered violently.
Could Eddy have murdered Flora's mother? Prince Eddy, unnaturally exiled from his rightful place in the succession. Prince Eddy, whose mind was unbalanced, his sister had said, perhaps even completely deranged. Were they dealing with a madman?

“Hilda MacDonald's blood,” Charles repeated, more softly. Oddly, something in him seemed to relax, and Kate guessed that he had been half-afraid that the blood might have belonged to someone else—to the prince, perhaps? He smiled thinly. “Now that we have established this much, perhaps you will tell us the rest of your own accord.”

Duff took a deep breath. His face looked utterly haggard, as if the truth would drain all the life out of him. “On Sunday night about eleven, m'lord, Simpson heard scuffling on the stair near th' kitchen.”

“The stair that goes to the wing where the Prince lived?” Charles asked.