Death at Glamis Castle (24 page)

“We urgently need to speak with Miss MacDonald,” Lord Sheridan said without preamble, “but we have not been able to find her. She is not at the castle, and not at her cottage. Do you know where else she might have gone?”

“Flora?” Oliver blinked, taken aback by the directness of the question and the urgency in his lordship's voice. “I saw her directly after ye left the doctor's, and told her that the inquest was postponed. I also said ye wanted tae see her.” He glanced at the clock. “That would've been a couple of hours ago. But—”

“And when she left you, where did she seem to be heading?”

“Why, tae her cottage.” He frowned. “You're sure she isna there?”

“No,” Lady Sheridan said in a low, rich voice, “she's not there.” Her smile warmed her glance, and Oliver's apprehension diminished somewhat. “Is there someone whom she might visit? Or a special friend with whom she might stay, in the village or elsewhere?”

“Nae,” Oliver said, considering. “She an' her mother always kept tae themselves, an' she works all day at the castle. Her friends'd be among th' servants there.” He looked from one of his visitors to the other, the cloud of doubt that had risen in his mind now seeming to fog his vision. “Why're ye askin'? What's Flora done that ye hae tae find her?”

Lord Sheridan did not answer his question. Instead, he said, “Since you seem to know Miss MacDonald quite well, perhaps you can give us some information. Are you acquainted with a man named Herman Memsdorff?”

“Yes,” Oliver said slowly. The question puzzled him for a moment. What did Herman Memsdorff have to do with any of this? “Memsdorff is Flora's cousin,” he said, and paused, frowning. “Hilda's nephew, actually. Amounts tae th' same thing.”

“Memsdorff lives with the MacDonalds?”

“Nae, nae.” The constable shook his head. What
was
all this about? “He cooms tae visit 'em, once in a while. He's been here for a week or twa this time.”

“Comes from where?”

“Edinburgh, where he lives. Though he's German, from th' sound of him.” Memsdorff's accent had already raised suspicion among the men at the pub. Like many Lowland country people, they feared that the European powers might take advantage of the British Army's unfortunate preoccupation with the Boers, which left the homeland vulnerable to attack by the German fleet, berthed just on the other side of the North Sea—the German Sea, some called it.

“And where would I find Herr Memsdorff?” Lord Sheridan asked.

Oliver shrugged. “I canna tell ye. I was lookin' for him meself. Flora was, too, for that matter,” he added, remembering that she had asked after her cousin. “The last I saw him was in the pub, yesterday evenin'. I wanted tae speak wi' him, but he was talkin' tae Hamilton, one o' the gamekeepers. He made off afore I could catch him.”

Lady Sheridan put a gloved hand on her husband's arm. “Hamilton is the man who drove me to the castle this morning,” she told him, in that low, vibrant voice of hers.

His lordship looked at Oliver. “This man Hamilton—is he a friend of Memsdorff's?”

“I canna say,” Oliver replied, wishing fervently that he had paid more attention to Memsdorff's comings and goings, and to his friends among the villagers. But why should he have done? After all, the man was Flora's cousin, not some stranger. “Why are ye askin' about Herman? What's he done?”

Lord Sheridan did not answer his question. “If you see Memsdorff, Constable, I would like you to detain him.” He glanced over the constable's shoulder, where the iron bars of the jail's single cell were clearly visible through an open door. “That cell would be adequate.”

In the jail, as if he were a criminal?
Now, Oliver was fully alarmed. “But ye canna think that Herman had anything tae do wi' Hilda's murder! Why, she was his awn aunt!”

“I'm afraid I can't say,” Lord Sheridan replied in a level tone. He paused and added, almost casually, “Oh, by the way, this morning you mentioned a wish to interview Lord Osborne. I think I should advise you that the gentleman has gone missing, as well, wandered away from the castle, it would seem. If you should happen to hear—”

“Gone missin'!” Oliver felt the skin prickle at the back of his neck. “When?” he demanded hoarsely.

Lord Sheridan hesitated, as if determining how much to tell him. “On Sunday night, it would seem,” he said, rather carelessly. He picked up the satchel. “As I was saying, Constable, if you should happen on a trace of him, or of Flora or her cousin, I'd be glad if you'd send a message to me through the soldier who is posted at the castle gate. He'll see that I get it quickly.”

“But . . . but if Lord Osborne's gone,” Oliver stammered, “what's tae say that he didn't murder Hilda afore he went off? What's tae say that he—” He couldn't finish his sentence, for another thought, even more horrible, had struck him like a sudden, sharp blow, and he couldn't bring himself to give voice to it.

“Murder Hilda?” Lord Sheridan said in a dismissive tone. He smiled. “I shouldn't think it likely. However, if you should hear of his whereabouts, I'd be glad to know.”

Lady Sheridan leaned forward, and now there was a look of genuine concern in her eyes. “There is one more thing, Constable. One of Flora's neighbors saw a gypsy tinker enter her house this afternoon, and shortly afterward, Flora went out. She went around the cottage and took the path to the old mill. The neighbor thinks she might have gone somewhere with the man. Is that likely, do you think?”

“A tinker?” he whispered. Oliver felt as if he had been hit by not just one blow, but by a second, equally savage. With a great effort, he pulled himself together. “Ye've been talkin' to auld Mrs. Johnstone, haen't ye?” he demanded scornfully. “That woman is th' wretchedest telltale in th' whole district. Ye canna b'lieve a word the auld witch says.”

“You're sure of that, Constable?” Lady Sheridan asked, watching him with what seemed like compassion. “She claims to have seen—”

And at that, Oliver lost all control. “Nae! Never!” he shouted, slamming his fist on the table. “I
know
her! I've known her from a child. Flora MacDonald wudna do such a thing!”

But when the Sheridans had left Oliver alone to wrestle with the devil of his mounting despair, he had to admit that Flora had been right when she'd said that he didn't know her. To be sure, they had been together constantly as children, but she had worked at the castle for the past few years, and there was no telling what evil influences she might have succumbed to there, surrounded by the ostentatious wealth and gaudy finery and low morals of the castle folk. Who could say how far she might have been tempted into the paths of wickedness, or to what depths she might have fallen, or by what awful arts she had been seduced, or by whom?

And then Flora's voice came back to him once again.
“I hae things tae do,”
she had said in a voice as low and harsh as any man's,
“and when they're done, ye're likely tae repent o' yer offer.”

With a low moan, Oliver put his hands over his ears, trying to shut out the words. Had his Flora, once so sweet and pure, become the kind of woman who could be soiled and then betrayed by some wealthy, unprincipled, corrupt lord—by Lord Osborne, say—who might have plied her with pretty words and baubles? Her purity tarnished, she would be deathly afraid that she could never be a wife to any good man, so she had—

And then, with an awful, sickening clarity, Oliver Graham understood what Flora had done.

“Charlie He's My Darling” Robert Burns

 

 

 

 

Kate's thoughts on her way back to the castle were filled with pity for Constable Oliver Graham. While it had not seemed to occur to Charles that the constable was in love with Flora, Kate knew that it was so. Whether it was her feminine intuition or simply her habit of close observation, she had understood the look of horror that dawned in the constable's eyes as he grappled with the possibility that the woman he loved might have gone off with the tinker, and she sympathized with the young man's distress. Kate, however, did not think for a moment that Flora was the sort of young woman who would embark on an adventure whose outcome she could not foresee. Whatever the relationship between Flora and the gypsy, it was not what the forlorn Oliver Graham, groping blindly amidst the rubble of his innocent ideals, had immediately feared.

“Kate, you are a marvel,” Charles said, smiling in his beard when she had told him what she knew. “All of that went right past me, I must confess. I hadn't a clue that Graham was in love with her, although, come to think of it, Dr. Ogilvy did mention something of the sort when I spoke to him this morning. I suppose that's why Graham so quickly rejected the idea that she had gone off with the tinker.”

“Perhaps,” Kate said, although she doubted that poor Oliver Graham had rejected the idea as thoroughly as he hoped they would do. “I'm afraid I can't so easily discount what Flora's neighbor told us, though. The woman may be a malicious gossip, but her story certainly had the ring of truth.” Kate glanced sideways at Charles and added, “The constable said that if Flora had any special friends, they'd be among the servants at the castle. Perhaps it would be a good idea to see what can be learnt below-stairs. Would you mind if I made a few inquiries?”

“Mind?” With a laugh, Charles slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Of course I won't mind, Kate. You may be able to find out something very useful, not only about Flora, but about Prince Eddy's disappearance. So inquire away, and let me know if you find out anything of immediate importance.”

“I shall,” Kate replied, feeling a growing excitement. Their hasty trip to Glamis may have interrupted Charles's excavation project, but she and Beryl Bardwell had certainly found far more of interest here than among the ruins of the old Roman wall. She looked up as they approached the castle, its splendid pepper-pot turrets gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. With its long and illustrious past, its well-known ghosts and apparitions, its association with Shakespeare's famous play, Glamis would make an ideal setting for Beryl's next book.

But it wasn't just the setting that fired Kate's imagination, it was the real people she had met since she'd arrived, who were far more intriguing than any fictional characters she and Beryl might have conjured up. A faithful attendant—or perhaps she was really a German spy!—had been hideously murdered, her body left for her daughter to find. An exiled Prince, half-deaf and half-mad, was about to fall into the clutches of the German Kaiser, who would use him to embarrass King Edward. The Prince's pretty young servant had been seen running after a handsome gypsy tinker. The village constable was in love with the pretty servant and fearful that she had betrayed him.

And around and among all these fascinating people were the ghosts who inhabited the castle: the sad Monster of Glamis, shut up for life in a secret cell; the Gray Lady saying her prayers in the chapel; Earl Beardie gambling with the Devil; Bonnie Prince Charlie hiding from his pursuers. There was material here for a half-dozen different novels. All she and Beryl had to do was decide which one they wanted to write.

As they came up to the castle entrance, the clock on the tower chimed three. “I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, Kate,” Charles said, checking his watch against the tower clock. “I'm off to see what progress Andrew and Colonel Paddington have made with the search.”

“Don't forget to tell them,” Kate reminded him in a wifely tone, “that they're invited to have dinner here at the castle at nine tonight. It's formal, I'm afraid.”

Charles made a wry face. “This is a military operation, not a dress parade. But of course I shall tell them.” He dropped an absent kiss on her forehead and went off.

Kate went straight up to her sitting room and rang for Simpson. When the house steward came, she inquired whether Flora had returned to the castle, and when he shook his head, asked for the names of the servants who worked most closely with Flora. Only four were offered, because, Simpson explained, “Flora and her mother were really Lord Osborne's servants. Hilda was his personal maid, and Flora was something of a companion as well. They rarely took meals in the servant hall, and they lived in the village.” He frowned. “As well, they were a bit aloof, which may not have sat well with the others, I suspect. Hilda was German, you see, and still had quite the accent.” His face was tight. “While the staff don't dislike Germans, a certain amount of hostility is probably natural.” He added quickly, in case Kate had got the wrong idea, “It's the stand the German papers took on the Boer War, m'lady. We're not that isolated that we don't get news from the Continent.”