Death at Glamis Castle (31 page)

Feeling better now that she was dressed and moving about, Kate took the candlestick from the mantel and slipped extra matches into the pocket of her dressing-gown. Out in the pitch-black windowless hall, the door safely shut behind her, she lit the candle. Holding it in her hand, its tiny flame flickering bravely against the dark, she gathered her courage and groped her way toward the stairs.

But Kate had just reached the head of the stair when she put her hand to her mouth, stifling a small scream. A huge, ghostly monster, all in silver, lurched angrily out of a dark corner, wielding a monstrous cleaver, swinging it at her head. But as she stepped back, heart thumping, she realized that the apparition was no monster, and certainly not some fierce ghost. It was just a very large suit of full-body armor, with a very large sword in its mailed fist, propped in a corner at the head of the stair.

Kate stood for a moment, catching her breath, waiting for her heart to stop pounding, and hoping that Beryl's curiosity about ghosts was satisfied at last. She lifted the candle higher, pulled her shawl tighter, and started cautiously down the wide stone stairs. Once, she thought she heard a soft step behind her and whirled, to see a threatening shadow. But she was not daunted. After all, it wasn't the thought of ghosts that had lured her out of bed. It was Flora and her tray full of food—more than enough for one person, Gladys had seemed to suggest, or for more than one meal.

That's right,
Beryl said encouragingly.
For more than one meal. Think about it, Kate. Perhaps Flora was taking the food to Eddy, who is hiding right here in the castle
.

Kate stopped still, the candlelight casting uncertain shadows on the stones of the hallway staircase.
In the castle? Why, of course! Where else? If German agents were trying to abduct him, Glamis Castle would be the safest place to hide, wouldn't it? There must be dozens of places of concealment within this enormous stone pile, with its many cellars, its secret rooms, its pepper-pot turrets, and probably entire floors where the servants never went. Where the servants refused to go, because they were said to be haunted.

Now you're on the right track,
Beryl said approvingly, as Kate went down the stone stairs.
Remember the way Flora acted when she was showing you the old crypt? You asked about the Monster, and she refused to talk about it. She didn't really take you into the room, either, or give you a chance to look around. The two of you stood just inside the door, and she hurried you out as fast as she could. Was it because she was afraid you might see something you shouldn't? The very first place to look for Prince Eddy—Lord Osborne, as she knows him—is the cell where the Monster of Glamis was hidden for so many years. And while you're at it, my girl, keep your eyes peeled for ghosts, too.
Always determined to get the most out of any experience, Beryl pulled out her mental notebook and pencil and began to jot down impressions. The ghostly suit of armor with its massive sword, like a figure of Death. The flickering candle casting grotesque shadows on the stone walls, giving the impression that she was being followed. The ancient clock ticking loudly at the foot of the stair. The massive stones all around her, each one soaked with the secrets of the ages. The heavy air, so thick that it felt almost furry. Chill, musty air that had been breathed by Sir Walter Scott, by the tragic Queen Mary, by Macbeth and Lady Macbeth and—

What rubbish!
Kate shook herself impatiently. If Beryl wanted to take mental notes of her observations, she could at least make them accurate. Macbeth had never lived in this castle; that was Shakespeare's mistake. Or his fiction. After all, Shakespeare's plays only seemed to present historical truth. It was all a canny illusion.

She lifted her candle higher. She was in the main keep now, the castle's great central tower, its oldest structure. The silence seemed audibly restless, small creatures scratching in the corners, furry things sidling out of dark hiding places, the candle flame licking and hissing at the wax, her silk dressing-gown rustling, and she winding around and down the circular staircase until she was dizzy.

And now, at last, at the very bottom, she was standing before the heavy wooden door to the crypt. She held up the candle, looking for the key on the peg, but to her surprise it wasn't there.
Of course!
Beryl crowed triumphantly.
Flora's taken the key—which means that she must be in there, with Prince Eddy.
And when Kate hesitated, feeling that the room was somehow forbidden, and quite sensibly aware that danger could lurk within, Beryl said into her ear, quite loudly,
Why, Kate! You're not afraid, are you?

Of course I'm not afraid,
Kate told herself indignantly.
I'm just cautious, that's all.
She put her ear to the door, but it was so thick that she would have heard nothing, even had Earl Beardie and the devil been carousing inside. Carefully, as quietly as she could, she lifted the rusty handle and pushed at the door. When it swung open, she saw that the large room was empty—of people, anyway. Whether there were ghosts here or not, she thought, she would leave it to Beryl to decide.

Closing the door behind her, her pulse hammering, her blood chilly in her veins, Kate stood in the oldest room in the castle, the long, narrow room that must have once been the lord's banqueting room. Her candle was barely sufficient to light the whole space at once, so she received only a confused impression of flickering sights and sensations. The vaulted stone ceiling shimmered with damp, its narrow alcoves were full of moving shadows, and its walls were hung with ancient tapestries, ornate carvings, pieces of armor, and the stuffed heads of great curly-horned sheep, their glass eyes sinister in the candlelight. She stood for a moment, indecisively, not sure what she was looking for. The silence was so profound that all she could hear was the quick sighing of her own breath.

And then it began to seem to Kate that she could hear something else: the melodious murmur of low voices, much muted, as if they came from a very great distance. Lifting her candle higher, she crept toward the far end of the crypt, keeping close to one of the walls. On the left, there was another arched alcove, just wide enough to step into. The rear wall was hung with a heavy tapestry, suspended from a carved wooden rod. But the hanging did not quite extend to the floor, and beneath it Kate saw the faintest ribbon of light. Was there a doorway behind the tapestry? Did it lead to the cell where the Monster had been imprisoned for all those long, sad years?

She stepped closer. The voices ceased, and she stepped back, holding her breath. And then, after a moment, they began again, in harmony, a light female voice and a lower, heavier male voice. They were singing, and Kate could just make out the words.

The Hound of the Baskervilles
Arthur Conan Doyle

 

 

 

“There, sir,” Flora said, when they'd finished their last song. “Thank ye for joining in.” She looked straight at him and shaped her words distinctly, so that he could read her lips if he did not catch the sounds of her words. She knew, however, that Lord Osborne was not nearly as deaf as he pretended to be, but rather used his deafness as a defense against unwanted annoyances. “D'ye feel better now?” she asked solicitously, extending her hand across the table.

“I do,” Lord Osborne replied, draining the last of the wine from his glass and pushing the empty bottle away. He took her hand, held it briefly, and released it. “Our singing always comforts me, Flora MacDonald.”

“I'm glad, Yer Highness,” Flora said, with the gay little smile she used to remind him that they were only playing—he at being the Bonnie Prince, she at being the Flora who was helping him to escape from the British soldiers who were pursuing him. “Shall we see if we can sleep, sir?”

“Sleep,” he said with a sigh. “It seems to me that I have been doing nothing but sleep for the past few days, ever since I came to this place.” He made an irritable, impatient sound, and pushed the empty glass across the table. “The danger must be past by now, Flora. When are we going to get away from here?”

“The danger isna past, I fear,” Flora replied gently, repeating something she had already told him several times over since she had returned to his cell in the afternoon. “The soldiers are still blockin' th' roads an' searchin' th' woods for Yer Highness, an' th' grassy field tae th' north is filled with tents, where they're bivouacked. But I've found a tinker who's willing tae take us tae Perth in his caravan, an' from there we can take th' train tae Glasgow, and a boat tae Skye. I'm sorry I can't make Yer Highness more comfort'ble tonight,” she added. “But afore we leave on th' morrow, I'll creep up tae your rooms an' find Yer Highness's shaving gear an' some clean linen.” That part worried her. He needed to be cleanly-shaved in order to defeat recognition, but his rooms might be guarded, and then what would she do?

“It's all right, Flora.” Wearily, Lord Osborne rubbed his hands through his gray hair, which seemed to have grown grayer in the past few days, his face more lined, his stoop more pronounced. He was not a good-looking man, for his heavy-lidded eyes were large, his face narrow and horsey, and his neck extraordinarily long, so that his head seemed unnaturally high above his shoulders. His wide collars usually disguised this defect, but he was not wearing a collar now. His gray hair, stubbly gray beard, and sagging shoulders gave him almost the look of an old man, Flora thought, although she knew that he could not yet be forty. She began to reply, but he interrupted her.

“No, I must speak,” he said, and when he looked at her, his glance was calmer and more lucid than it had been for some time. “You are a dear, sweet girl to take such good care of me, Flora. But please don't call me Highness.” His tone became sadly ironic. “I know who I am, and I promise you, I am no prince.”

“As yer lordship wishes,” Flora said, her worry lightening. She had been through this—periods of sad derangement alternating with clarity and sound sense—too many times to be hopeful that Lord Osborne's delusions had disappeared. But if they were to travel as far as Perth with the tinker, it would certainly be helpful if she could count on him to take her instructions, or at least follow her lead, and without all that nonsense about his being a prince, and her being his lady.

She spread her cloak and the MacDonald-tartan shawl on one of the straw pallets Lord Osborne had taken from his bed and put in the corner for her, and prepared to lie down. She had at first been reluctant to stay here with him, for fear of how it might look to others. Of course, she hoped that no one would ever discover where they'd been and that they had been together, but if it became known, she would learn to live with it. Her virtue was far more important to her than her reputation, and she knew Lord Osborne to be a true gentleman, sweet and kind and with no lechery in his heart.

And with luck, this would be their only night together in this place. Before dawn, they would steal out of the castle and walk through the woods to Roundyhill, where they would meet the tinker and find safe passage to Perth. The soldiers would almost certainly stop them on the road, but she felt she could count on the tinker to spin a fine tale about where he had been and where he was going, and why. And she and Lord Osborne would be only two raggle-taggle gypsies, not worth a minute's thought or a second look.

“If you're settled, I shall put out the candle,” Lord Osborne said, as Flora made herself comfortable.

And with that, he extinguished the flame, and the cell was immediately dark, a blackness so complete that Flora could feel the smothery weight of it pressing against her face, smelling of damp stone and burnt candle-wick. But she was not afraid, for even though this apartment adjacent to the crypt—once the secret residence of the poor creature known as the Monster of Glamis—was said to be haunted by that poor unfortunate's weary spirit, she had never seen any evidence of it when she'd explored here as a child.

The Monster, her mother had told her, was the first son of Lord Strathmore's grandfather Thomas, the eleventh earl. The infant was horribly deformed and judged unfit to take his part in the society to which he was born. His father ordered that the baby be done away with immediately, but he was spared by some sympathetic intervention, perhaps because it was felt that he must soon die of natural causes. But the Monster proved to be surprisingly healthy, despite his evident handicaps. He lived out the span of his life—some forty years—in these small rooms, occasionally allowed the freedom of the park and the pleasures of the woods but permitted no human society other than those who served him. The poor creature had died in the 1860s, but Lord Strathmore was so distressed by the imprisonment of the Monster—who must have been his father's uncle—that he would not allow anyone to speak of it, even to this day.