Death at Glamis Castle (8 page)

But Kate would not have paid the proper attention to the story even if Hamilton had been willing to tell it, for at that moment, the narrow lane became a grand, tree-lined avenue, and the vista opened onto a sweeping carpet of grassy park grazed by white sheep and shaggy brown Highland cattle. Some little distance away, the castle rose out of the low, silvery fog like the legendary Camelot, wreathed in the ethereal mists of Avalon.

At this first glimpse of Glamis, Kate pulled in her breath, scarcely believing what she saw. A towering central keep, splendid with a fanfare of conical spires, pepper-pot turrets, and a rippling flag, rose magnificently above the crenellated parapets of the wings flung out on either side. The castle was entirely constructed of a warm reddish-gray stone, glistening softly with damp, and its many casements reflected the pale morning light like glittering diamonds set into the stone. It rested in the lap of the soft, green meadow, behind it rising the far-off peaks of the Grampian Mountains, their ridges dusted with an early snow. Even on such a gray and gloomy day as this, Glamis was a fairy jewel in a setting of otherworldly beauty.

Speechless for the remainder of the drive, Kate did not recover her voice until she alighted from the cart at the castle entry in the great tower, which was crowned by a large clock and the Royal Arms of Scotland. The door itself seemed quite small for such a grand house, but it had obviously been constructed at a time when a castle doorway might require an armed defense, and was guarded by an iron yett, or gate.

As Kate alighted from the pony cart, the door opened, and out came a handsome woman in her late thirties, dressed in a traveling suit of green serge, with a ruffle of dark hair about her face, under a green felt hat. Behind her were a frock-coated manservant and a woman in the dark dress of a servant.

The lady stepped forward and said, with dignified grace, “Good morning, Lady Sheridan. I am Cecilia Bowes-Lyon, Lady Glamis. My mother- and father-in-law—Lord and Lady Strathmore—are abroad, I regret to say, but perhaps Mr. Duff mentioned that.”

“Yes, he did,” Kate said. “I'm so sorry that they will not be here, Lady Glamis.” She took the woman's outstretched hand. “It is kind of you to welcome me. Lord Sheridan will be along later, I believe.”

Lady Glamis gestured in the direction of a wagon, which was loaded with trunks and wicker baskets and other traveling gear. “I am also sorry to tell you that the children and I are leaving this morning for our home in Hertfordshire. Simpson, the house steward, will do his best to look after you and Lord Sheridan.” With a small smile, the steward inclined his head. “And this is Flora.”

Lady Glamis motioned to the servant, a pale young woman entirely dressed in black, her brown hair brushed back from her wide forehead, the ringlets caught by a black ribbon.

“She will show you to your room,” Lady Glamis was continuing. “Since Mr. Kirk-Smythe said it was doubtful that you had brought a maid, I have asked her to put herself at your disposal whilst you are here. She can begin by taking you around the castle, if you wish, since she knows it quite well and enjoys showing it off. Most visitors want to see the crypt, which seems to have become quite famous.” She paused and looked distractedly at the watch on her lapel. “I do hope you'll excuse me so that I may see to the rest of the packing.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Kate said warmly. “I apologize for interrupting your departure. You see—”

She hesitated, wishing she had a reason to offer for the uninvited visit. But at that moment, the conversation was interrupted by a young boy in kilts, who raced precipitously around the corner at the helm of a wooden wheelbarrow, its passenger, a rosy, round-cheeked little girl squealing with laughter.

“Mickie!” Lady Glamis exclaimed in a horrified tone, apprehending the boy and removing the baby from the barrow. “Elizabeth is much too young for such rough games.”

“But she
wanted
to!” Mickie exclaimed.

“No doubt she did,” Lady Glamis replied, as Mickie dashed off with the wheelbarrow. The little girl wriggling in her arms, she turned apologetically to Kate. “My youngest daughter,” she said with a rueful smile. “A hoyden already, and she has scarcely passed her first birthday. We call her Merry Mischief.”

“She is precious,” Kate said, taking the dimpled pink hand in hers and feeling, as she always did with babies, the pang of sharp regret. That she was not able to bear children was an enormous sorrow to her, but she often admitted, and truthfully, that her childlessness had its advantages. If the nursery at Bishop's Keep had been full of boys and little girls as appealing as Merry Mischief, she would certainly be at home with them instead of sharing Charles's adventures. She raised the baby's hand to her lips and kissed it gently.

“Little princess,” she murmured. “Princess Elizabeth.”

Lady Glamis gave her a startled look. “My goodness,” she said. “You, too?” At Kate's questioning glance, she added, “I was walking with the children in the Kirriemuir Road yesterday, when we encountered a band of traveling gypsies. One of the Romany women offered to tell the children's fortunes. She seemed quite definite about Elizabeth's. ‘You will live to be a queen,' she said, ‘and the mother of a queen.' ” She laughed self-consciously. “You will think me superstitious, but the old woman had me half-believing.”

“Not a bit of it.” Kate smiled. “Queen Elizabeth, then,” she said gently, and touched the baby's petal-soft cheek.

Queen Alexandra
Georgina Battiscombe

 

 

 

As Kate was being handed into the pony cart, Kirk-Smythe turned to Charles and Colonel Paddington. “A word in private, if you please, gentlemen. Shall we go to the end of the platform?”

When they were well out of earshot of the other men, Charles stopped. “Well, now, Andrew. What's this all about?”

Kirk-Smythe put his hands into the pocket of his mackintosh. “I'm sure you're aware that King Edward is in Germany, attending the funeral of his sister, the Dowager Empress. He has directed me to deliver his instructions verbally, since they are highly confidential.” He cleared his throat. “Brigadier Lord Sheridan is of course in command here. However, in the interest of time and with his permission, I should like to put you both in the picture on certain key facts. As you no doubt already know, we are at Glamis, some fifteen miles to the north of Dundee. The Caledonian Railway—”

“Perhaps,” Charles interrupted gently, “you have a map?”

Kirk-Smythe colored. “Oh, right. Sorry.” From his pocket, he withdrew an Ordnance Survey map of the county of Forfarshire, and unfolded it on a nearby wooden bench. He pointed to a dashed line running diagonally across the lower right-hand corner of the map. “This is the Caledonian Railway, and here is the railway station. The road at the other end of this platform—here, on the map—runs north to Kirriemuir about three and a half miles, and south to the village of Glamis, just over a mile. To the east of the road lies the estate of Glamis Castle. Its immediate policies are approximately two miles long and a mile wide, appearing as this shaded area, here. That's where your troops are to bivouac, Colonel. Mr. Duff can help you find a suitable location. He has made available enough wagons to move your baggage and kit and is willing to provide anything you need in the way of food and supplies.”

“Colonel Paddington was told to prepare to establish a cordon,” Charles said. “Around what area?”

“This entire vicinity,” Kirk-Smythe replied, outlining a wide circle around the estate and the village.

“Have the roads been sealed?” the colonel asked.

“I have stationed men from the estate to watch the road at Jericho, here, to the east.” Kirk-Smythe put his finger on the map. “Also at Hatton to the south, and at Ewnie and at the old Manse rail crossing to the west. To the north, there's a man at the road junction south of Wester Logie.” He straightened. “I respectfully suggest, Colonel, that troops be immediately dispatched to reinforce these checkpoints and that traffic be restricted. If questioned, your men are to say that they are on military maneuvers, testing the use of bicycles for reconnaissance.”

Charles bent over to study the map, the colonel looking over his shoulder. Kirk-Smythe's plan would close the main roads leading to Glamis, but the surrounding countryside was a labyrinth of secondary roads, lanes, and footpaths—and no doubt the local folk were well acquainted with many other byways invisible to the map surveyors. It would be the devil of a job to seal off the area. Likely, it couldn't be done successfully, but that didn't mean that they shouldn't try.

“I take it that we are searching for someone or something.” Charles straightened. “The object of our search?”

Kirk-Smythe produced a photograph of a serious-looking, mustached young man seated on a stone wall, wearing a tweed hunting suit, a tweed cap, and a high white collar. “This man,” he said quietly. “Here at Glamis, he goes under the name of Lord Osborne.”

The colonel stared at the photograph blankly for a moment; then, as recognition dawned, so did disbelief. “But he's . . . he's
dead
!” he sputtered incomprehendingly. “Died years ago. And his name isn't Osborne! It's—”

“You're correct on both counts, Colonel Paddington,” Kirk-Smythe interrupted, returning the photograph to his pocket. “He died on January 14, 1892, to be precise. I have been instructed by His Royal Majesty that the fiction of this man's death be protected at all costs.” He paused, giving his words special weight, and repeated: “
At all costs,
gentlemen.”

“I'll be damned.” The colonel sucked in his breath. “I'm shocked. Shocked, I tell you.”

But for Charles, the information that the man was still alive was less a shocking surprise than the confirmation of a long-held suspicion. The photograph was one that he himself, in his role as a friend and photographer of the Royal Family, had taken on a holiday visit to Sandringham in 1890. Its subject was Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence and Avondale, known to his family and friends as Eddy. The eldest son of the then-Prince and Princess of Wales, Prince Eddy was heir presumptive to the throne and stood next in the line of succession after his father, who was now King Edward.

But the prince had led a wayward life, and by the age of twenty-five, his reputation as a notorious playboy was the cause of much headshaking and public rebuke. Charles himself, in his investigation into a blackmail plot against young Winston Churchill and his mother Jennie, had uncovered the details of Eddy's illegal marriage to a Roman Catholic commoner named Annie Crook, who was still living, and the birth of a daughter, now under the care of the artist, Walter Sickert. Worse, during the dreadful days of the Ripper killings, there had been endless rumors that the Prince—who was derisively known as Collars and Cuffs to the newspapers—was involved in the murders, and that he might even have been the Ripper himself.

And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, the Prince had been caught up in a terrible scandal in a male brothel on Cleveland Street, involving a group of young boys, postal employees, and several of Eddy's close friends. The Prince of Wales himself had taken charge of concealing his son's criminal and immoral acts, with the help of the Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury. Eddy's father managed to keep his son out of the dock, packing him off to India, where his frivolities were less likely to make the London papers.

Given all this, it was widely felt that the Prince was utterly unfit to be King, and there were those in the Court who were convinced that if Eddy remained in the line of succession, the monarchy would surely fall. So when news came in early 1892 of the Prince's sudden and completely unexpected death, most were vastly relieved, feeling that the Crown itself had been saved. Some, however, believed that his death, which had taken place in the privacy of Sandringham, was far too convenient. Many said openly that it wasn't illness that had felled him, and a few even said that he must have been murdered—poisoned, perhaps. Others had whispered that perhaps the Prince had not died at all but had been shut away somewhere, so that his younger brother George, a more acceptable and better-behaved heir, could step into his place.

But all this had happened a full decade ago. Prince Albert Victor was a distant and distasteful memory that was awakened only by the Royal Family's annual pilgrimage to his ornate marble tomb and occasional Royal references to “poor darling, departed Eddy.” If word got out that his death had been a sham, the revelation would have an incalculable impact upon the general public—especially now that the old Queen Victoria was dead, the new King Edward had ascended the throne, and a living Prince Eddy would stand just behind his father in the succession. An announcement that the Prince was alive would certainly cause enormous embarrassment and perhaps even the fall of the monarchy. The new King hadn't been crowned yet, the Government held a precarious position because of protests against the war, and the whole situation was uncomfortably volatile. No wonder His Royal Majesty commanded secrecy.