Death at Glamis Castle (18 page)

“Yes,” his lordship said. The clock on the mantel whirred and began to strike half-past eleven, as he rose from his chair and reached for his hat. “Thank you, Constable Graham. Doctor, I'm grateful for the tea. No doubt we shall see one another again before this is over.” He went to the door. “Good-bye, gentlemen.”

“Ae Fond Kiss” Robert Burns, 1792

 

 

 

 

Two minutes later, Oliver let himself out the front door. The motorcar was gone, leaving behind only the objectionable odor of oily smoke. He was still standing there, ruefully contemplating his exchange with Lord Sheridan and feeling not nearly so confident as he had upon entering the house, when he saw Flora coming along the street, wearing a black dress and shawl and a neat black bonnet, and carrying a wrapped parcel.

Snatching off his helmet, Oliver stepped forward to greet her, a rush of tender ardor suffusing him. “Hullo, Flora,” he said gruffly. “Ye're well?”

“As well as may be, thank ye, Oliver,” Flora replied, pulling her shawl around her. She was pale and drawn, and did not quite meet his eyes.

Oliver flushed, remembering the sweet gentleness with which she had rejected his advances on the previous Sunday evening and hoping to renew his suit, although of course it would not be right to take advantage of the sadness she must feel regarding the death of her mother. But he reminded himself that she was now quite alone in the world, her cousin her only kinsman and not a resident of Glamis nor able to offer her protection and security. Like any other young woman in such a solitary situation, she must be anxious to have things settled and would no doubt welcome the renewal of his suit. He took heart.

“I thought I might call on ye this evenin' after supper, Flora,” he said. And then, recollecting that if her cousin was not at home they would be unchaperoned, added, “Perhaps we might walk i' the kirk yard.”

She did not hesitate. “Thank ye, Oliver,” she said in a low voice that seemed to him tense and heavy with fatigue, “but that wud not be . . . wise.”

He felt a sharp disappointment. “Later, then,” he said, lowering his voice so that he might not be overheard by Mrs. Lovel, who had come out to sweep her stoop across the way, and was watching them curiously. His words came out in an unpracticed, unrehearsed rush. “Ye must be verra concerned for th' future, Flora, and I want ye tae know that my hand an' my heart are yours an' forever will be. I can offer ye a fine cottage an'—”

“But I told ye on Sunday night,” Flora interrupted, “that I dinna be ready tae wed, Oliver. An' now that I've lost Mother, I'm even less ready than 'fore.” She bit her lip. “I've . . . other business tae tend, afore I even think on weddin'.”

Oliver heard an invitation in her words, although he did not like the tone of her voice. It was agitated and anxious, not the voice of the Flora he knew, who was unfailingly calm in spirit and composed in outward demeanor.

“I understand,” he said, and added, in an effort to comfort her, “I shall be glad tae wait 'til th' grief has 'bated a bit an' ye're ready tae consider yer situation in the world. 'Til then, please know that I love ye wi' a' my heart, dear.”

She raised her eyes, which were filled with a wild pain. “But I don't
want
ye tae wait for me, Oliver!” she cried, a quite unexpected passion trembling in her voice. “I hae things tae do, an' when they be done, ye may—” She turned abruptly away, and when she spoke again, her voice was controlled once more, flat and hard, almost a man's voice. “When they be done, ye're likely tae repent o' yer offer.”

Repent?
Oliver stared at her, suspicion rising like an ominous cloud in his mind.
What could she possibly mean? Was she about to do something terrible, something that might make her
an outcast, place her beyond the pale?
But as the questions arose, he suppressed them, for he could not imagine his pure, dear Flora doing anything that would bring shame to herself or discredit to the memory of her mother, nor could he think how best to refute her words. But for her sweet sake, and not less for his own, he had to try.

He held out his hand. “Repent?” He forced a chuckle. “Nae, ne'er, my own Flora. Ye canna do anything tae change my mind or my heart. Ye are and mun always be th' sweetest, purest—”

“Nae, Oliver.” She ignored his hand, drawing away from him and gathering her shawl closer around her. “Ye mustna be so sure o' yer feelings, for feelings change. And ye mustna be sure of me, for ye scarcely know me, as ye'll nae doubt realize, when ye think more on't.” She made as if to step on, then paused, her voice softening somewhat. “I shall see ye at the inquest this afternoon, o' course. And we must gae on as friends, nae matter what happens, for a friend I shall always be tae ye, Oliver, for the sake of the auld days.” She gave him a glance in which he could read real gratitude. “And I shall always be thankful that ye carried Mother out of the wet on Monday mornin'.”

“The inquest has been postponed, I'm afraid,” Oliver said gruffly. There was something in Flora's voice that dismayed him, but he could only blame himself. He had spoken much too soon and far too ardently. Of course she had business to tend to—any daughter whose mother had met such an untimely death would have a great many things to do. He made an effort to gain control of himself. “I've just coom frae seein' the doctor, and he's told me. There'sna word yet as tae when it will be held. I'm sorry, Flora. I'm sure ye wanted tae hae it o'er.”

“Postponed?” She lifted her head and looked at him doubtfully. “But why?”

He gave a little shrug, not wanting to worry her. “Th' doctor didna say. I'm sure 'twill be soon, tomorrow or th' day after, mayhap.” He cleared his throat and added reluctantly, “I' th' meantime, the gentleman in charge o' th' soldiers has asked me tae tell ye that he would like tae talk tae ye. Lord Sheridan, his name is. He's the one who's told th' doctor tae postpone the inquest. He has, it seems, a commission frae the Crown—although what the Crown has tae do with yer mother's murder is beyond me.”

Flora seemed to grow quite still and hard, but when she spoke, her tone was mild. “Lord Sheridan wishes tae talk tae
me
? Why, whatever for, Oliver?”

“I canna say,” Oliver replied, not wanting to tell her that His Lordship appeared to feel that she might be withholding information about her mother's murder. “He was urgent aboot it, though, Flora.”

Flora let out her breath in a little puff. “Well, then,” she said, seeming calmer now, and resigned, “I suppose I shall hae tae talk wi' his lordship.” She hesitated, frowning again, and changed the subject. “I wonder, Oliver, if ye've seen my cousin Herman. He's been keepin' with Mother and me for th' past few weeks, but he dinna coom home last night. It's nae like him tae go awae wi'out sayin' good-bye, especially now.”

“I saw him i' the pub,” Oliver replied, “but he left early, afore I could talk wi' him. Flora—”

Flora pressed her lips together. “Fareweel, Oliver,” she said, in a tone of finality, and hurried on, in the direction of the small cottage that she and her mother had shared.

The constable stood, watching her go, trying to dispel the awful feeling that he was seeing the last of the woman he loved. Across the way, Mrs. Lovel finished brushing her stoop and gave him a sympathetic look.

“Take heart, Oliver,” she called. “She's bound to coom round 'fore long. It's all just too much for th' dear girl just now.”

Oliver scowled. “Nosy auld body,” he muttered to himself, going to his bicycle. He mounted and rode back in the direction of the Glamis Inn, where he usually purchased his lunch, at first slowly and disconsolately, then with a quicker motion and the beginnings of a whistle on his lips. Flora may have rebuffed him again, but Mrs. Lovel, he felt, must be right. After the pain of her mother's death had faded and the reality of her uncertain position in the world had begun to be clear, Flora would no doubt begin to see how much she needed him and to value all he had to offer. She was anxious now, that was all, and who could blame her? He would wait. Oh, yes, he would wait.

The whistle grew louder as he thought of the grateful glance she had given him. That glance had been well worth the dressing-down he'd received in the doctor's consulting room. If he had it to do over again, he'd move Hilda's body just the same, and Brigadier Lord Charles Sheridan be damned.

“The Wraggle Taggle Gypsies” Scottish ballad

 

 

 

 

 

Flora picked up her skirts and hurried along the street, lifting her hand to Mrs. Johnstone, who was coming out of the butcher's with a plucked chicken in her basket. But Mrs. Johnstone, a tall woman, thin as a leather strap, put her nose into the air with an audible “Hmmpff” and pointedly failed to return the greeting. She had been offended some months before when Hilda MacDonald had rebuked her for gossiping about the vicar's wife—Mrs. Johnstone was known around the village for her vicious tale-telling—and since had refused to speak to either Flora or her mother. “Think they're too good for ordin'ry folks, they do,” she'd huffed.

With a sigh, Flora turned her back on Mrs. Johnstone and turned down the unpaved alley opposite the joiner's shop. At the end, half-hidden behind a large birch tree, sat the white-painted, tile-roofed cottage where Flora had lived with her mother, all to itself in its small patch of garden. Sadness weighed on Flora's shoulders like a heavy load as she went along the path between the roses her mother had planted, sweet with a late-summer fragrance that mingled with the spicy scent of the mauve Michaelmas daisies. Flora hated to disappoint Oliver Graham, and the sight of his crestfallen expression had been almost more than she could bear. Once upon a time, she had thought that marriage to Oliver would bring the greatest happiness into her life, for she knew him to be a good and true man who would strive above all else to make a home for her and their children. Now, she knew that this could not be, for what had happened and might be about to happen would change everything, including Oliver's feelings for her.

But Flora, who had a practical turn of mind and a bolder heart than Oliver Graham might have imagined, could not be prevented from doing what she must, either by grief for what once was and was gone or by fear of what might be but was not yet. She knew that her mother would not wish her to linger in the past but to move on to what must be done, especially where Lord Osborne was concerned. And that was exactly what she meant to do, just as soon as the inquest was over—which, pray God, would be very soon—and she could see her mother laid to rest beside her dear father. Malcolm MacDonald had been waiting for over ten years for his wife to join him under his granite headstone in the village graveyard. He had died a young man, with a young wife and daughter, and the thought that the two would be united at last was some consolation to Flora.