Death at Glamis Castle (36 page)

Charles took her hand again. “No, Toria,” he said firmly. “I'm sorry, but I can't let you do that. He was badly burnt. He's not—” He shook his head as if to clear an appalling memory. “Your father would not want you to see him as he is. You must trust me on this, and remember him as he was.”

Toria seemed to flinch. She pulled in an uneven breath and puffed it out. “If he's burned so badly, how can you be sure that he is really . . .” She sat back down in her chair and tried again. “That it is really Eddy who died.”

“Dr. Ogilvy has identified him. And there is this.” Charles reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. He opened it to reveal an ornately-fashioned gold ring, stained with soot. “This was on his finger.”

Kate leaned forward to see, then turned her eyes away. It was the ring Prince Eddy had been wearing the night before.

Toria picked up the heavy ring and turned it in her hand. “It's his,” she said. “I gave it to him for his twenty-first birthday. He was very proud of it.” She handed it back to Charles. “Put it back on his finger. He should be buried with it.” Her glance sharpened, and her voice became hard. “Buried here,” she said, with emphasis. “At Glamis. I should like you to see to it, Lord Sheridan. And no ceremony, please. My father . . . the family would not wish it.”

“As you say, Your Highness,” Charles replied. He re-wrapped the ring and put it in his pocket. “And how should his grave be marked?”

“His death is already commemorated,” she said. She lifted her chin. “Prince Eddy's tomb is in the Memorial Chapel at Windsor Castle. It was designed by Sir Alfred Gilbert.”

“Dear Toria,” Kate whispered, not knowing quite what to say but feeling she had to say something. “I'm so sorry. So
very
sorry.”

As if reminded to do his duty, Charles stood and bowed from the waist. “Please accept my condolences as well, Your Royal Highness,” he said formally. “We are all saddened by this loss.”

“Don't be.” Toria turned her head away. “It's for the best, really. I'm sure my brother's life was not entirely as he would have wished it to be.”

Kate stared at her. Was this all the grief Toria could manage? Or had she shed her tears a decade ago, at Prince Eddy's sham funeral at Sandringham? Or was she thinking, perhaps with relief, that the family was finally safe from the threat of disclosure?
I must not be too quick to judge,
Kate thought.
It's probably only natural for her to feel some release. The situation must have been nearly unendurable.

Toria picked up her cup and sipped her coffee. “I suppose I should leave as soon as possible for Hamburg. I can hardly put this news into a telegram, and my father will want to know.”

“I think that is best,” Charles said. “The King will feel better, hearing the truth from you.”

Toria nodded. After a moment, she said, in the same tone she had used to dismiss the footman, “I'm sure you must have things to see to, Lord Sheridan.”

“Indeed,” Charles murmured. He rose and went to the door.

Kate stood up. “Excuse me, please,” she said to the Princess. “I'll be right back.”

Out in the hall, Kate had to pick up her skirts and run to catch up with Charles, who was walking with fast and angry strides toward the stair.

“Charles,” she cried, “wait!”

He turned at the head of the stair, his face dark. “She is her father's daughter.” His voice rasped with the serrated edge of his anger. “I don't suppose I could have expected anything else from her.”

Kate stood, searching his face for the truth. “But Eddy isn't really dead, is he? After all he has been through, it would be unbearable if he were to—”

Charles smiled. “Bless you for caring, my dearest.” He put both hands on her shoulders and lowered his cheek to hers. “No, Kate,” he whispered. “He is not dead.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Lay of the Last Minstrel
Sir Walter Scott

 

 

 

 

It was getting on to eight in the evening as the ballad collector, leaning on his cane, came into the Glamis Inn pub, made his way to the bar, and signaled to Thomas Collpit for a glass of ale. The atmosphere was thick with the richly-mingled odors of whiskey, hot beef pie, and tobacco, and tense with hushed, urgent bursts of animated conversation.

One foot propped on the brass rail, his expression impassive, the old man kept his back to the room. But his alert blue eyes watched the reflections in the dusty mirror over the bar, and his ears were tuned to the huddle of men at his right elbow, who were discussing the village's three recent deaths, two of which had been reported only that day.

“It's lucky Hamilton left a suicide note,” the joiner said, shaking his head gloomily. “Without it, we'd wudna got tae th' truth. I saw him on his way home frae th' pub last night, an' he was drunk as a lord.” He raised his voice, turning to glance at the ballad collector. “Right, Mr. Donovan? Ye were with him; ye saw him.” The ballad collector nodded, and the joiner continued. “Drunk as he was, he could easily hae slipped off th' dam an' drowned, accidental-like, an' none 'ud be th' wiser.”

“Aye,” the green-grocer agreed. He took a drink of his whiskey. “Odd, though, wudna ye say? Why d'ye s'pose Hamilton wud want tae kill our Hilda? She was a lovely woman.” He set his glass back on the bar, and his voice hardened. “Tae tell truth, I'd half an eye on that woman sin' my own wife died last spring. If I'd hae known that Doug Hamilton slit her pretty throat, I wud hae slit his, by all that's holy.” He gulped a swallow of ale. “I hope his soul rots in hell for what he did tae her.”

“But that note's a puzzle tae me,” the post-master put in. “I've known Hamilton for nigh on three years now, an' I never knew the fellow tae send a single letter. I always thought th' man cudna write.”

“Maybe he dinna hae anything worth writing about 'til now,” the joiner remarked. “I sart'nly wudna want tae gae into eternity wi' a killin' on my conscience.”

“Ye think a few words on a paper 'll absolve him of Hilda's murder?” the post-master asked hotly.

The joiner's answer was lost in a flurry of louder voices at the other end of the bar, and the ballad collector turned his attention to the trio discussing the man who had died in the ice house on the Glamis estate.

“Lord Osborne, his name was,” said the first man, in response to a question. “The one who went missing frae the castle.”

“Drank himself tae a stupor an' tipped his lantern on the straw,” said the second, adding wisely, “It's happened afore, mostly in stables, an' it'll happen again. Where there's straw an' lanterns, there'll be fire.”

The first man shook his head. “Set himself afire on purpose, I heard. He was mad, ye know. Mad as a hatter. He's the one they say fancied himself tae be th' Bonnie Prince. Up at th' castle, they kept him off tae himself, in chains, I heard. He was always locked up, fer fear he'd do harm tae others.” He shook his head again. “Ten years he lived locked away frae th' world. If th' poor chap wasna mad tae begin with, living that way 'ud drive him mad, for sartin.”

“Likely 'twas him that murdered poor Hilda, then,” remarked a third in a cheerful tone, pushing his glass across the bar for a refill. “She and Flora served him.”

“No,” said the first. “ 'Twas Doug Hamilton killed our Hilda. Hae'n't ye heard? He confessed in a note afore he drowned himself.”

There was a silence, punctuated by the shouts of the men throwing darts at the board in the back of the room, as the three men pondered this information.

“But ye hae tae admit, it's all verra curious,” said the second finally. “Hilda wi' her throat cut, the gentl'man she served burnt tae cinders in a heap o' hay, and Doug Hamilton pitchin' himself intae the millpond. And now Flora an' her cousin's gone missing, too.”

“Nae, nae,” said the first, who seemed to know the most about this strange set of circumstances. “Flora an' her cousin hae gone tae th' south of England, where Hilda's sister lives.”

“How'd you come tae know that?” asked the third curiously.

“Maggie Wollie's my aunt,” the first replied. “She does the laundry up tae th' castle.” He gave a broad wink. “She knows all aboot what goes on there.”

“Aye, that she would,” said the third with a leer. “Them that washes th' gentry's bed sheets always knows th' truth.” This was followed by general laughter.

The ballad collector signaled for another ale. On some points, of course, he knew far more than any of these loquacious and uninformed villagers. For instance, he knew that Douglas Hamilton had not committed suicide, for it was he who had knocked the man unconscious and pushed him off the narrow dam to drown in the millpond.

On yet other points, however, the collector had to acknowledge that he was totally confounded. What was this business about a suicide note confessing to the murder of Hilda? Hamilton had been in no fit state to write a note, and he himself had written none, although he had thought later that it might have been a good idea. And where had Flora taken herself off to, and with whom? It was hardly Memsdorff, since Hamilton had confirmed that he was dead—although it was entirely possible that Hamilton had lied about that, just as he had lied about knowing the whereabouts of Lord Osborne.

But the most important question of all concerned the identity of the man who had been found burned to death in the ice house. Was it really Lord Osborne—Prince Eddy, that is? He himself had seen Princess Toria leaving the castle this afternoon, presumably for Hamburg, where King Edward was staying. If her brother were still lost, or if there was evidence that he was alive, she would surely not have left. Unfortunately, he had no proof that Eddy was dead, certainly none that would satisfy Holstein, back at the Wilhelmstrasse. Holstein was a stickler for the truth, and for proof of it.

Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, the collector frowned at his reflection in the dim and fly-speckled mirror, hung with photographs of the old Queen and the new King. Before he could determine what to do next, he had somehow to sift the truth out of these tales, for even if he did nothing more with regard to the Prince, he still needed to make his report to Holstein. If the situation could not somehow be salvaged, the report would be most unsatisfactory, for at bottom Holstein could draw only one conclusion: that he, Count Ludwig von Hauptmann, had failed once again. Failed when success seemed so assured. Failed when it was evident that only an intolerable carelessness in execution—or the most inconceivably wretched luck—could have sabotaged his scheme. But as far as he was concerned, the reason for failure most likely lay elsewhere. It was the fault of one interfering man: Lord Charles Sheridan.

The ballad collector plunged his hand into his pocket, paid for his ale, and lifted his glass, his glance going again to the mirror. He did not like to think of Sheridan, because at this point, there was very little he could do about the man, except to stay out of his way. Adding to his discomfort was the feeling, impossible to shake, that he was constantly being watched. It had begun that morning, when he had gone to the castle in the guise of Taiso, looking for Flora, to learn why she and her “uncle” had not come to his caravan, as he had expected. He had been about to knock at the door when a woman at the window above had called his name, and then had had the audacity to take his photograph. From that moment on, wherever he went in the village and on the road, and even in the gypsy camp at Roundyhill, eyes had seemed to follow him. He had become so wary that he found himself whirling around every few minutes, with the expectation of seeing the man who must be on his trail.

But surely it was only his nerves, which he had to admit were frayed. If Sheridan had found him out, he'd no doubt have had him arrested. Yet he had seen nothing at all of the man, and the local constable was sitting over there in the corner, morosely nursing a private whiskey at a table by himself, preoccupied with private worries. If he judged correctly, the constable was as confused as everyone else and probably a great deal more frustrated—and well might be, for word around the village had it that the poor fellow had hoped to marry Flora.

At that moment, the door swung open, and conversation died as the men craned their necks to see who had come in. Glancing quickly into the mirror, the ballad collector saw a small man whom he recognized as the village doctor, elbowing his way through the crowd until he reached the bar where the collector stood.