Death at Glamis Castle (21 page)

“Yes, m'lord,” Duff replied. “There was naebody on the stairs when he went tae look, so he went upstairs tae th' Prince's apartments. He found Hilda, dead on the floor just inside th' door. There was blood—” He swallowed again, painfully. “There was blood all o'er the place.”

“Hilda?” the Princess asked faintly. “Who
is
this Hilda?”

“A servant here at the castle, Your Highness,” Simpson said. “She looked after Prince Eddy from the day he arrived. In recent years, she was helped by her daughter, Flora. Hilda was much-loved by us all.”

“Oh, dear,” Toria said, her face twisting. “I remember her now. Oh, I'm so sorry for her death.” She looked from Simpson to Duff with sympathy. “And how awful for you, to have discovered her as she was. Do go on, please.”

“Yes, Yer Highness,” Duff said, his eyes averted, as if her compassion were painful to him. “When Simpson found Hilda, he sent for me, an' we debated what tae do. We felt it would raise too many questions if the body were tae be found in Lord Osborne's rooms. So we rolled her up in a rug an' carried her tae a spot on the path, near the castle gates. But first we cleaned up the blood as well as we could.” His jaw muscles clenched. “There was quite a deal of it, as ye might imagine—her throat cut an' all. It was a . . . a gruesome sight. I haen't slept sin' I saw it. To speak God's truth, I dinna know if I'll ever sleep again.”

“Her throat was . . . cut?” the Princess whispered. Kate put out her hand, and the Princess seized it as if she were drowning.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Duff muttered. “I'm afraid so, ma'am.”

Her throat was cut.
Kate could not help thinking of the Ripper victims, all with their throats cut. She looked at Charles. Was this why he was here? Because the King was afraid that someone would connect this crime to the Ripper's awful murders? And then connect Prince Eddy to—

“What about the Prince?” Charles asked, turning to Simpson. “Was he in the apartment when you arrived?”

“He was already gone, m'lord. I thought p'rhaps—” He stopped.

“You thought what?” Charles prompted.

Simpson seemed to steel himself, and when he spoke, the words came out in a rush. “I thought that p'rhaps the Prince had killed her in a fit of passion and then gone off, to escape discovery. Duff doesn't agree with me, but I . . .” Biting his lip, he glanced at the Princess. “Well, it seemed a possibility. The Prince hasn't been himself lately, I'm afraid.”

“No,” Charles said in a tone of reflective irony. “I don't suppose he
has
been himself, if we are to take the term literally. He believes himself to be Bonnie Prince Charlie, as I understand it.”

“Bonnie Prince Charlie?” Toria asked in a choked voice, grasping Kate's hand the harder.

“It is a delusion that he has suffered from, intermittently, for two years or so,” Charles said. “Dr. Ogilvy tells me that it became quite pronounced in the past few weeks. Prince Eddy seemed anxious to get to Skye.”

Bonnie Prince Charlie!
Kate stared at him, searching his face for more of this surprising truth. But was it unforeseen that the Prince should suffer delusions? Toria had said that Prince Eddy experienced a serious mental instability some ten years ago. And living in this place, which Prince Charlie may have visited, would certainly influence his thinking. Was it so unlikely, then, if he wished to escape and a servant tried to detain him, that he might have killed her?

“Oh, dear God,” Toria murmured. Kate could sense the chaotic feelings that must be sweeping through the Princess, and she felt the pity rising up in her own throat. Toria had tried to put the best face on everything that had happened, but it must have been frightful to live for a decade with the constant apprehension that Prince Eddy might somehow be discovered, her family blamed and discredited for lying to the public, and the monarchy threatened. And now, to learn that her brother might be a killer! It must seem to Toria that her world had tilted on its axis.

Charles's question to Duff intruded on Kate's inner tumult, his voice amazingly calm and level, as if he were inquiring about the weather or the latest crop yields. “Did you see or remove any evidence that someone else had been in the Prince's apartment?”

“No, m'lord,” Duff said. “Everything was in place.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I don't s'pose it'ud do any good tae say we're sorry,” he went on wretchedly. “Simpson and me, we didn't mean tae cause trouble—we just felt we had tae get th' body out of th' apartment, that's all. How Hilda came tae be dead, well, we just couldn't think it. It was too awful.”

“You can't really believe that my brother killed this servant, Lord Sheridan,” Toria said tautly. She dropped Kate's hand and sat up straight in her chair, assuming a regal posture. “I assure you that such a thing would be utterly impossible. Eddy is a mild, gentle man, with a sweet and caring nature. He could not have injured an animal, much less have killed a woman who looked after him.”

“We have no indication that he did, Your Highness,” Charles replied impassively. “All that we know is that his servant is dead, and he has disappeared. There are several possible explanations for—”

There was a light tap at the door, and the footman entered. Going to Charles, he said something in a low voice. Charles thanked and dismissed him. When the servant was gone, he turned to the Princess.

“I asked that Flora MacDonald be located and brought here, so that I might question her. She is the dead woman's daughter, and also a servant to the Prince. She may be able to give us a clue to his whereabouts.” He turned to Simpson. “But I've just been told that she seems to be nowhere in the castle. Do you know where she might be found?”

“Yes, m'lord,” Simpson replied promptly. “She's attending the inquest into her mother's death. Should you want to question her immediately, you might go to the village hall, where the inquest is being held. Or you can find her back here directly after.”

“The inquest has been postponed for a day or two,” Charles said. “Perhaps she is at home?”

Simpson looked startled at the news of the postponement. “Yes, perhaps. She and her mother lived together, alone, in a cottage in the village. Flora's father died some years ago.”

Kate sat forward and spoke for the first time. “If you're going to interview the girl, Charles, I should like to go with you.”

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows at her.

“I met Flora earlier today,” she said. “She told me about her mother's murder, and my heart went out to her.” She added, tactfully, “I think she might be more comfortable if I were present.”

“Less threatened, you mean,” he said evenly. “Yes, of course, my dear, that is very wise. You must come with me.” To the Princess, he said, “You will excuse us to go to the village, Your Highness? I think this had better be seen to at once.”

“Of course,” Toria replied. She turned to Duff and Simpson. “I appreciate your candor. I believe that you concealed the truth out of concern for my brother, and for that, I thank you.” In a sterner voice, she added, “Your falsehoods have complicated Brigadier Lord Sheridan's work, however, and you shall have to answer to him on that score.”

The two men could only exchange gloomy glances.

Macbeth
, IV, i
William Shakespeare

 

 

 

 

Angus Duff had given them directions to Flora Mac-A Donald's cottage, and Charles had decided that it was best that he and Kate walk, since the village wasn't far. The motorcar had attracted attention on his earlier visit, and he did not want Flora's neighbors to know that she was being singled out for attention.

It wasn't a pleasant afternoon for a walk, however. Pewter clouds hung low over the Grampians, and the morning fog had returned, turning the afternoon chill and damp, an early taste of autumn. The silver birches stood out of the misty woodland like a troop of disheveled dancers, and the rich scent of decaying woodlands, of damp fern and bracken and meadowsweet, rose up around their feet. If Charles had had more time, he would have enjoyed foraging for mushrooms, for a great many grew in the leaf-litter under the birches: fungi of all sizes, from tiny pearl-button mushrooms to those as large as a football, in shades of white, black, cream, purple, yellow, scarlet. He noticed several chunky
Boletus edulis,
or penny-buns, which were tasty when they were sliced and cooked quickly in butter, and some saffron milkcaps, aptly named
Lactarius deliciosus.
One could collect enough for a fine meal within just a few minutes. The most numerous of all, however, were the handsome
Amanita muscaria,
the wicked fly agaric, which always reminded him of a shiny, egg-brushed Christmas bread studded with rich flecks of almond. But its sturdy beauty was deceptive and sinister, for while not always fatal, this
Amanita
would certainly make one very ill.

Kate had put her arm through his, and as they walked, in some excitement, she confided what the Princess had told her at lunch about the charade of Prince Eddy's sham death. She ended her tale with a question. “Did you know this before we came, Charles? That the Prince was still alive, I mean.”

“Not before we came,” Charles replied. “Kirk-Smythe told me some of it this morning, but he did not have as many insights into the Prince's mental condition as Toria has given you.” He patted the neatly-gloved hand on his arm, thinking that his wife had learned in a few minutes of conversation what he might never have discovered, search as he might.

“Andrew certainly didn't know all of the reasons behind Eddy's exile,” he added. “Queen Victoria's determination that he should marry May, for instance, which seems to have brought Eddy to the breaking point.” He shook his head. The business of arranged marriages among royalty was a tragedy for the individuals involved, and almost never served their countries well.

And in this case, there was an even greater tragedy, for Eddy had been legally, if not wisely, married, and his Roman Catholic commoner wife, Annie Crook, had been still living at the time of the Prince's forced engagement to Princess May. If Eddy had married May, he would have been forced to become a bigamist, their children illegitimate. And the irony was perhaps as great as the tragedy, for his earlier marriage, while legal in civil law, excluded him from the succession. All this was yet another—and an even more compelling—reason for his exile: the man who would be King could not legally marry, which meant that he could not produce a dynastic heir, and his father and mother surely knew it.

Charles looked down at his wife, at her neat costume of white blouse, green silk tie, gray woolen skirt, and close-fitting jacket; at the shining circlet of russet hair pinned beneath her narrow-brimmed straw boater, trimmed with a green silk ribbon; at her firm-featured face, not beautiful, but strikingly individual and infinitely dear. It deeply saddened him to think that other men did not find the same love in marriage that he had found, a love so rare and precious that—

“Yes,” Kate said, interrupting his thoughts. “The Princess said that when Queen Victoria—‘Grandmama,' Toria calls her—ordered Eddy to marry May, he simply went to pieces. ‘Snapped' was the word she used.” She looked up at him wonderingly. “She said he set fire to Sandringham, Charles. Do you think that could possibly be true?”

Startled, Charles frowned. “I heard about a fire there,” he said, “although I had no notion that Eddy had anything to do with it. It began in a bedroom on the nursery floor, as I remember, and destroyed the entire top floor and the roof. It was said that the cause was accidental.”

He paused, wondering how many other violent acts Eddy had committed and how many people had schemed and lied to cover them up. Someone who had grown up without ever being held accountable for his actions, no matter how harmful or hazardous they might be, might very well believe that he could commit murder and get away with it. No matter what his sister or the doctor said, Prince Eddy might very well have killed Hilda MacDonald.

“Thank you, Kate,” he added with a sigh. “What you've told me is very helpful. I'm grateful.”

Kate pulled a yellowing leaf from an overhanging hazel and turned it in her gloved fingers. “Well, I must say that I was utterly amazed, Charles. To think that King Edward would connive to remove his own son from the succession! It sounds more like the plot of one of Beryl's fictions than the real truth. But what I don't understand,” she added, frowning, “is why Eddy had to ‘die.' Why couldn't he simply say he didn't want to be King, and let that be the end of it?”