Death at Glamis Castle (19 page)

No villagers locked their doors, and the MacDonalds were no exception. Flora went up the stone steps and pushed open the plank door, which her father had painted blue a great many years before, and on which her mother had hung a simple straw wreath, tucked full of dried flowers and herbs.

“Herman,” she called hopefully, “Herman, are ye here, dear?”

But her question echoed in an empty house. Flora took off her bonnet and gloves and set her parcel on the table, then climbed the wooden ladder to the low loft under the roof, thinking perhaps that her cousin might be having a nap. But although his brown woolen coat still hung on the peg beside the window and his carpet bag sat open on the floor, there was no Herman sleeping on the bed. She could not imagine that he had left without saying good-bye, and especially without seeing his Aunt Hilda buried. But if he had, he'd left bag and baggage behind.

Mystified, worried, and feeling an urgent need to talk with her cousin about the vexatious postponement of the inquest, Flora descended the ladder, poked up the fire in the iron stove, and put on the kettle. Going to the cupboard, she took down a loaf of bread, fresh yesterday from the baker's ovens. She carried it to the table, where she opened her parcel, revealing a chunk of fresh cheese she had brought from the castle dairy. Deep in thought, she sliced off enough bread and cheese for her meal. When the kettle began to steam, she brewed a pot of tea and took her simple luncheon to the table.

It was difficult to sit down to a meal alone in an empty house, for this was the time Flora missed her mother most, missed the laughter and the shared confidences, missed her mother's good advice and practical observations. The cottage was full of reminders, of course: the red-checked curtains at the casement windows; the rag rug on the brick floor, braided from Flora's childhood pinafores and dresses; the framed photographs of her mother and father, her MacDonald grandparents, and her cousin Herman crowding the mantle; the dishes in the oaken sideboard, especially the fragile Bavarian porcelain cups from her mother's family, the Memsdorffs; the handmade quilt on the bed in the adjoining room, which she and her mother had shared since her father died. But dear as these family possessions were to Flora, these were only
things,
and she would willingly give all of them up, and more beside, if she could have just one more hour with her mother, who would surely know what she should do to help Lord Osborne.

But her mother could not help her now. Flora had tried very hard not to show her fear, but she had been shaken by Oliver Graham's report that Lord Sheridan—the man who had brought the soldiers to Glamis—intended to question her. That could mean only one thing: that his lordship suspected her of hiding something. And while Lady Sheridan had already proved herself both gentle and sympathetic, Flora was under no illusions about the sort of man her husband might be. Lord Sheridan had brought that large contingent of soldiers to Glamis for only one reason, and Flora knew exactly what it was. They had come to find Lord Osborne—although what they intended to do with him once they'd laid hands on him was a dark mystery.

She wrapped her hands around her cup, absorbing its comforting warmth, and tried to think through her dilemma. If Herman were here, she knew he would help her. Like her mother, his aunt, he came from Bavaria, and he was resourceful, inventive, and daring, afraid of nothing and no one. Herman would know what she ought to do, and she was desperate to talk with him.

Apart from her cousin, though, there was no one else. She longed to turn for help to those she had known since girlhood as her friends: Mr. Duff and Mr. Simpson, who had always been amiable toward her; or Lord and Lady Strathmore, who were kindness itself. But their lordships were in India or somewhere equally remote. And she now knew, with a paralyzing fear, that she could trust neither Angus Duff, who had surely known of her mother's murder before she stumbled onto the body, nor Mr. Simpson, who unfailingly took his direction from the estate factor. The thought turned her weak and sick, but she had to face the possibility that one or even both of these men, whom she had known and respected since she was a little girl, might have killed her mother and made off with Lord Osborne.

For strength, she took a gulp of tea. If only
he
could tell her what had happened—could identify whoever had entered his rooms and taken him against his will. But he could not or would not speak of the violence of that night, no matter how much she questioned him. She could only conclude that the memory of it was locked away in his mind, as the memory of his real identity had been locked away and replaced with the delusion that he was Bonnie Prince Charlie, living in the year 1746. Her heart quailed at the thought of the enemies that surrounded her and threatened him, and she had no idea how long she could keep him hidden from them.

Flora set down her empty cup and picked up the pot to pour another. What about Dr. Ogilvy? She had known him, like the others, since girlhood, and he had proved himself a trustworthy friend both to her mother and to Lord Osborne. He enjoyed Lord Strathmore's confidence and had come often to the castle to treat Lord Osborne for various illnesses, always behaving toward him with friendship and courtesy. It had been Dr. Ogilvy's suggestion that they humor his lordship in his odd fancies about Bonnie Prince Charlie, and that Flora should play-act the role of Flora MacDonald, the loyal Scotswoman who had helped Prince Charlie flee to Skye. Under other circumstances, Flora would turn immediately to him.

But the doctor had allowed Lord Sheridan to persuade him to postpone the inquest and had no doubt answered his lordship's questions about Lord Osborne's disappearance. She did not know what sort of relationship there might be between them, and, not knowing, felt she could not trust even Dr. Ogilvy, who might, if he knew where she had hidden Lord Osborne, feel compelled to yield him up to Lord Sheridan and the soldiers.

Bleakly, Flora finished the last crumb of cheese and licked her fingers. The problem was that
so many
people seemed desperate to get their hands on Lord Osborne, and she did not know which of them she could trust, or whether she could trust any of them. To be sure, his lordship was safe enough for the moment, hidden in a place where no one was likely to look and where she could easily provide him with food and drink. But the hiding place was cold and dank and certainly unwholesome. How long would he be willing to remain concealed there? Lord Osborne was the tenderest, the gentlest, the sweetest of men—she could not serve him so wholeheartedly otherwise—but his temperament was unpredictable, especially when he was left alone for a long period of time. His spirit, never strong, might falter. He might believe that she had abandoned him, and, losing heart, might try to escape or go searching for help.

Flora stood up and began to pace back and forth across the brick floor, trying to think what should be done. So far, all was as well as might be expected. Lord Osborne had managed to escape from his captors and make his way to the spot where he always liked to take his easel and paints. She had found him there yesterday evening, wet and shivering, and had led him to safety. But while his refuge was secure, it could only be temporary. Clearly, she had to find the means to get both of them away from Glamis, to a place of permanent safety.

But that destination was no great puzzle, thankfully. Flora's father was descended from Sir Alexander MacDonald, chief of the MacDonalds of Sleat and Skye. The MacDonald tartan, woven into a beautiful red-and-black plaid wool shawl, had been the family's proud wedding gift to the young Hilda. And when Flora was a girl, her father had taken her and her mother back to his home for a visit. They had traveled by rail from Glamis to Glasgow and then by boat from Glasgow to Skye, where they had been warmly welcomed by a large and hospitable group of MacDonalds. Flora knew that if she and Lord Osborne could somehow reach the family stronghold on the Isle of Skye, they would be given sanctuary for as long as they wished to stay.

Flora paused in her pacing. Worried as she was, she couldn't suppress a small smile. It was amazingly ironic that Lord Osborne should be seized by a fancy that, wild and absurd as it was, pointed straight to Skye and their only hope of safe harbor.

But a moment later, Flora was pacing again. The safety of the Isle might as well be the safety of the moon, for it was very nearly impossible to reach. If she took all her mother's savings from under the brick in the corner, there was enough for a pair of railway tickets and boat passage, and a little more beside. But the station at Glamis was sure to be watched, so they could not leave from there. A horse and private carriage to the train station at Dundee or Perth would be much safer, but that was equally impossible, for she could not hire a carriage in this small village, where everyone's business was known to everyone else.

Flora paused again. No, the only thing she could do was to keep Lord Osborne safely hidden, hoping that someone—Herman, perhaps—would offer another alternative. And to do that, she had at all costs to avoid Lord Sheridan and his questions, for she wasn't sure she could trust herself, if severely pressed, not to give away some hint of Lord Osborne's hiding place. That meant that she could not appear at the inquest, whenever it was held, for she was certain to have to answer questions under oath. It also meant that she must leave this house at once, for this was the first place Lord Sheridan would look for her.

Flora turned and started toward the room where she and her mother had slept. She had only the vaguest of plans, but she knew what she needed, in case she managed to find a way to fund their secret journey. A change of clothing, warm boots, a cloak, and—

There was a knock at the half-open door, and Flora turned, her heart leaping into her mouth. Dear God, was it too late to escape? Had Lord Sheridan found her already?

But the man at the door was no lord. He was a tinker, to judge from the tinker's pig slung over his shoulder, a tall man, darkly handsome, with a bold smile, ragged black hair, and blue eyes, like the palest of blue flax blossoms. He wore ragged trousers and a stained leather jerkin and dirty red neckerchief, and his wide-brimmed felt hat, decorated with colored beads and a feather, was cocked at a rakish angle.

“Pots t' mend, missy?” he asked, and raised his hat. “Brok'n spoons?” He swung his pig off his shoulder and dropped it, stepping just inside the open door, smiling the while. “All kinds o' tin work, expertly done.” And then, gaily, as if to soothe the concern that must be written on her face, “Your cousin suggested I stop an' ask.”

Flora shook her head, discomfited by the man's bold entrance into the cottage and by the almost mesmerizing glance he rested on her. She recognized most men of the gypsy clan that had camped at Roundyhill in the late summer for as long as she could remember, but this man was a stranger.

“I'm sorry,” she said, trying not to show her uneasiness, “I dinna hae work for ye today.” Pulling herself away from his penetrating gaze, she turned to the table and picked up her bonnet and gloves, making as if to leave. “I'deed, I'm just on my way out. I'm expected at th' castle.”

“But Herman Memsdorff suggested that I stop here,” the tinker persisted. “He said he was sure that Miss Flora would have some work for me. Ye're Miss Flora?” At her nod, he looked around, his sharp eyes searching the two lower rooms, noticing the ladder to the loft. “Is Memsdorff here?”

Flora shook her head. Putting her bonnet and gloves back on the table, she asked, “You've seen Herman today, then?”

“Yesterday,” the tinker replied. “He insisted I come as soon as may be, since he'd heard that the band is to move on soon. We're friends, y'see.” His eyes came to her face, his gaze intent and searching. “If he isn't here, do ye know where t' find him?”

“I dinna know, I'm sorry tae say,” Flora replied quite truthfully. She pursed her lips and regarded the tinker with a frown, for she had just been struck by an intriguing thought, one that under ordinary circumstances she would not have dared to consider. But these were not ordinary circumstances, and after all, this man was an acquaintance of her cousin's. Screwing up her courage, she ventured, “The gypsy clan—it's leavin' soon? Which direction will ye gae?”

The man took out a cigarette and, striking a match against the whitewashed plaster of the wall, lit it. “South to Scone, then Perth.” He eyed her obliquely, his voice becoming almost impudent. “And why d'ye ask, missy Flora?” His handsome mouth curved in a half-mocking smile. “Are ye ready to run away with the gypsies-o?” And he whistled a bar of the old ballad.

Over his whistling, Flora spoke all in a rush, and boldly, before she could lose heart.

“Oh, no, not to run away, not at all! But a . . . my uncle and I were thinkin' tae gae along tae Perth for a few days, and I wondered if p'rhaps there might be room in one o' the caravans. We can pay.” She remembered that enough would have to be saved out for the rail trip to Glasgow and the boat to Skye, and added hastily, “as long as it's not too much, o' course.”

“Ah, well.” The man pulled on his cigarette and blew out the smoke, which wreathed around his head like a ghostly halo. There was a moment of silence. His eyes were slitted now, and she had the odd feeling that he was reappraising her, revising his estimation, his assumptions. “Your . . . uncle, eh?” An oddly speculative note had come into his voice. “And what would be his name, pray tell?”

“Uncle Angus,” Flora said hastily, speaking the first name that came into her head. She forced herself to slow, and smile. “My dear auntie died last year, ye see. The three o' us used tae gae often tae Perth, an' I thought . . . well, I thought Uncle Angus might fancy a bit of a holiday.”

“Folks goin' on holiday usu'lly take the train,” the tinker remarked. Before she could frame a response, he added, with a little shrug, “But no matter. P'raps ye and yer uncle might come to Roundyhill this evenin' an' have a look at my caravan. It's red and green, tidy and private, and there's plenty o' room for an uncle and a niece on their way to Perth.” He paused, pulling on his cigarette again and eyeing her through the smoke. “What about yer cousin? Won't Herman be comin' wi' ye on this grand adventure?”