Death at Glamis Castle (4 page)

But the fact that his past lives were a tissue of lies was of no particular concern to Taiso, for his attention was now fully focussed on his present mission and the scheme to which he and Firefly had agreed some months before. This plan was very much in his mind as Taiso leaned back, drawing on his pipe and considering the events of the day. They had not developed satisfactorily, for Firefly had reported an unexpected and unwelcome difficulty in carrying out the agreed-upon tasks according to schedule. Taiso did not like this at all, for he was the kind of man who preferred to control circumstances, rather than be forced to develop an unplanned response to an unpredictable event.

But it is in the water that one learns to swim, as the gypsies say, and Taiso was an eminently resourceful man who could respond quickly when necessary to shape events toward the desired outcome. Having received Firefly's report, Taiso had seen immediately what must be done. The plan had been prematurely executed, and the ship he was expecting would not arrive off the coast at Arbroath until the end of the week. They would leave their charge in safe-keeping for the time being, maintaining a close guard over him, while they waited to see what would develop.

But this was a barely-acceptable alternative, Taiso felt, and his instincts, honed over the course of a great many other dangerous operations, told him that all was not as well as might be. He was puzzled, although not particularly alarmed, by the unexpected appearance of a man along the road, just above Wester Logie, who had stopped him and questioned him pointedly before allowing him to proceed. Of course, his business was perfectly evident from the charcoal brazier on his back and the tinker's pig—outfitted with hammers and tongs, tin snips and vises and soldering irons, solder and rivets—over his shoulder. The man who stopped him, a forester from the estate of Lord Strathmore, had been more than happy to send him on his way. If it were not for the traveling tinker, who would plug the family's leaky basin, or put a new handle on the old dipper, or recast the broken pewter spoons?

But the traveling tinker had other business to attend to, important, secret business that could not be educed from the gear he carried, and there had been no basins or dippers or spoons mended in Glamis Village that day. Now, as Taiso dipped rabbit stew out of the pot and into an enamel dish, another thought came to him, another piece of a plan. He entertained it as he ate and washed the few dishes and utensils he had used. Then he climbed the steps to his wagon and went inside, drawing the hopsacking curtain over the door behind him. A change of clothing—another identity, as it were—hung in the cupboard. When dark began to fall and the gypsies took to their beds, he would change and go into Glamis Village, to the hotel pub. A gypsy would not be welcomed there, but a gentleman would, and Taiso knew how to play a gentleman.

Si khohaimo may pachivalo sar o chachimo.
There are lies more believable than truth.

“Loch Lomond” Traditional Scottish ballad

 

 

 

 

Kate took off her hat and settled back in her seat, looking out the window as the train rattled along, continuing its gentle climb up the valley of the Tyne between the grassy slopes of the Cheviot Hills and the high, bare ranges of the Pennines. The engine gave a blast as they passed Halt-whistle, which was distinguished by a splendid water tower supported on an arcaded red-brick foundation. Where were they going? Kate wondered, bemused. Why?

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Lord Sheridan,” Colonel Paddington said crisply, returning to his seat opposite them. “There were one or two things I needed to see to.” He opened a leather document case and took out an official-looking envelope, sealed. “Before I fill you in on what I know, sir, you should have a look at this.” He cast a pointed glance at Kate. “P'raps Lady Sheridan would prefer to withdraw to another compartment. Rather boring business, this.”

Kate, who resented nothing more than being told to leave when something interesting was about to happen, opened her mouth to object. Charles, however, was quicker.

“Thank you, no,” he said definitively. “I'm sure that Lady Sheridan will not be at all bored.” As Kate wondered with some asperity whether it was worse to be dismissed or to be spoken of in the third person, he opened the sealed envelope and removed two sheets of paper, scanning the first quickly and studying the second. After a moment, he handed both to Kate, with a dry smile. “Read these pages, my dear, and see what you can make of them.” Of Paddington, he asked, “Were you informed of the contents, Colonel?”

“I was given to understand, sir, that it is a commission and your orders.” Paddington's eyes, distressed, were on the papers in Kate's gloved hand. He did not, apparently, think that a lady should be permitted to read something that a colonel had not.

Kate read both pages, her pulse quickening. The first, signed by King Edward, appointed Charles, Lord Sheridan, Baron of Somersworth, to serve at His Majesty's pleasure at the rank of brigadier. The second specified that Brigadier Lord Sheridan, at the expressed wish of His Royal Majesty, was to take command of a detachment of the Coldstream Guard and “exercise his discretion in resolving such matters as may threaten the peace and security of the British Realm, including the declaration of martial law where necessary to accomplish this end.” It bore the signature of C. T. Ritchie, Home Secretary.

“ ‘Given to understand?' ” Charles repeated in some irritation. “That's all? You don't have an idea of what threatening ‘matters' I am to use my discretion in resolving?”

“Afraid not, sir,” the colonel growled, not yet resigned to Kate's continuing presence.

Kate folded the orders and handed them back to Charles, suppressing a sigh. “It seems,” she said, “that you are under royal command.”

It wouldn't be the first time, of course. Charles had handled the occasional royal odd job while Edward was still Bertie, the Prince of Wales.
¹
The difficulty was that when the Crown was involved, everything else—all personal intentions, wishes, and plans—had to be laid aside.

Charles thrust the papers into his pocket. “Where is Kirk-Smythe?” he demanded. At the colonel's blank expression, he added, “The man who telegraphed me to meet the train.”

“Afraid I don't know, sir,” the colonel replied apologetically. “P'rhaps he'll meet us at our destination. Wherever
that
is.”

Charles's eyes narrowed. “So you've no idea where we're headed?”

“None at all,” the colonel replied uncomfortably. “Since we left London, the lines ahead of us have been cleared of all rail traffic. When we reach a junction, the switches are already thrown.” He managed a tight smile. “Invisible hand, as it were.”

Kate shivered. She did not at all like the idea that Charles had been involuntarily commissioned, and was frightened by the notion that they were now under the command of an unseen influence with complete control over their destinies. For all she knew, Charles might be on his way to South Africa. At the thought, her shiver became a shudder, for she had long feared that he would feel it necessary to volunteer his services, even though he did not support the war against the Boers. But surely the King had better uses for Charles than to send him out to—

“What are
your
orders, Colonel?” Charles reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe. “What were you told about the mission?”

The colonel cast one last look at Kate, hesitated for the space of two breaths, and offered his unconditional surrender. “I received urgent, written instructions from King Edward to hand-pick a detachment. I was not to take a single unit, but to individually select the cleverest of the lot, men who could be relied upon to remember what was required of them and forget when they were told to. They were to be placed on official leave and attired in the sort of civilian dress that would not attract attention.” His brow furrowed as he rehearsed what was clearly an unusual order. “The men were to drift in small groups to certain railway stations north of London, to be collected a few at a time by this train. Quartermaster duties must have been assigned elsewhere, for the mail coach and baggage cars were already loaded with gear when I boarded at Euston Station.”

Charles fished in another pocket, found his tobacco pouch, and began to pack tobacco into his pipe. “What sort of gear?”

The colonel gave a short laugh. “Someone must have cleaned out a supply depot. Full field kit and tents, rations for a fortnight. And crates and crates of—” His tone became deeply puzzled. “Bicycles.”

“Bicycles?” Charles asked. He struck a match on the sole of his boot and held it to his pipe. “Dursley Pedersens, I assume. The folding military model?”

The colonel frowned “B'lieve so, sir, although I myself am not much of a bicycle man.”

Kate bit her lip. She had read recently of the military deployment of bicycles in South Africa, where they were used for messenger and scout duty. Some infantry troops had been equipped with them, but they had found them a nuisance and often abandoned them by the side of the road. She was frightened by the thought that these bicycles—and Charles—might be bound for the war.

“The official word,” the colonel continued, “is to be that we're on maneuvers to explore the feasibility of using bicycles for mounted reconnaissance.” He cleared his throat. “I am further instructed to be prepared to cordon an area of some hundred square miles. Upon arrival at our destination, the men are to change to field uniforms without unit insignia.”

“‘Our destination.'” Charles leaned forward, elbows on knees, pulling on his pipe. “When we reach Carlisle, we should have a clue as to that, at least. If the train turns south, we're probably headed for Liverpool and an ocean voyage.”

“Agreed,” the colonel said.

Kate, her hands clenched into fists, gave voice to the thought that was tormenting her. “Charles, surely you aren't being sent to South Africa. Please tell me that
can't
be the case.”

The colonel spoke first, with confidence and pride. “No need for your ladyship to worry. War's almost done. Kitchener's built eight thousand blockhouses right across the veldt and connected them with barbed wire. Cleared all the farms and removed the civilians to internment camps.” He gave a scornful harrumph. “Damn Boers are completely defeated—they're just too stubborn to admit it.”

Kate flinched, thinking of the newspaper reports of the Boer women and children who, their farms burned and animals driven away, had been herded together into hastily-constructed camps. Poorly fed, inadequately housed, with no provision for sanitation, the interned civilians were dying of disease and starvation. This appalling treatment of the innocent had aroused a storm of protest not just in Britain but all over the world, and Charles had joined Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, leader of the Liberal Party, in public denouncements of Kitchener's barbaric methods. In fact, Charles and Sir Henry were widely viewed as treasonous troublemakers, defaming the British Army and standing in defense of the Boers' rebellion. If he were sent to the front, he would certainly not be a popular officer.

Charles's grave face showed that he understood Kate's concern, and he reached for her hand. “It's unlikely, my dear,” he said quietly, “that such an irregular force would be dispatched on a conventional military operation. It wouldn't make any sense.”

“I certainly agree to that,” the colonel said, “although, so far, nothing about this operation makes sense.” He smiled. “However, my lord, I have it on the highest authority that you are uniquely qualified to lead this operation—which, I might add, I find reassuring. I've been privileged to know His Majesty for a number of years as our colonel-in-chief, and have never known him to misjudge someone.” A slight frown appeared between his eyes. “Although I doubt there's another man in the King's service who, offered a Victoria Cross, would refuse it and resign his commission instead other than your lordship.”

“Refuse the Victoria Cross?” Kate asked, not sure that she had heard the colonel correctly. She looked at Charles. For the briefest second, his eyes met hers, and then his glance slid away and he turned to look out the window. In that instant she saw an expression she had never seen before. And in the turn of the head, the unwillingness to look her in the eye, she thought she glimpsed something that suggested . . . guilt, was it? Shame?

The colonel bit his lip, mumbled something apologetic, and turned away. Still not sure she had understood, Kate did not want to pursue a question that was obviously embarrassing to both men. She also turned to look out the window, her thoughts going back to their wedding night, when she had seen the ugly scars crisscrossing Charles's chest and back like relics of some ancient battle. But he had never spoken of them and she had not liked to ask, sensing that the scars concealed a painful, tragic experience that still troubled him deeply.