Death at Glamis Castle (22 page)

“Because,” Charles said, “a King can't abdicate until he is actually King. And even if that had been possible, it wouldn't have solved his problem with Princess May, or the Royal Family's embarrassment over his reckless behavior.” They passed under a twisted oak, a mossy boulder half-hidden in fern at its feet. Somewhere nearby, he could hear the musical chatter of a burn, its clear water spilling over mossy rocks. “In the circumstance, exile at Glamis might have seemed the best alternative, to Eddy and everyone else.”

“I'm also amazed that they were able to bring it off,” Kate went on. “You'd think that somebody would have spilled the beans, as we say in America.”

Charles smiled “In America, perhaps, but not here in England. The Royal Family commands enormous loyalty. All they have to do is snap their fingers, and people say what they're told to say, or shut their mouths, as necessary.”

“You're right, you know.” Kate tapped the leaf on his sleeve. “Something like this would never have happened in America. We have a far better arrangement than your hereditary monarchy. It's called a
president.
If the fellow doesn't do what he promised, he's simply voted out of office, and somebody else is voted in. There's none of this silly business of exile and mock funerals and sons and grandsons standing in line for the job.” She frowned. “Of course, women don't yet have the right to vote. But that's coming.”

Charles couldn't help laughing. “I suppose you're right, Kate. And we English are certainly far less skeptical than you Americans, especially the press. Your American newspapers would have gone poking into the details of Eddy's so-called illness and might well have found the whole scheme out. However, I suspect that the English press and the people were actually glad to accept the story of his death, as sudden and improbable as it might have seemed.”

“Glad?” Kate asked, startled. “Why on earth should they have been glad at his death?”

“Why, don't you see? It put the problem behind them. Toria is right; Prince George is much more acceptable. He says and does all the right things, and no one can ever complain that he is lazy. Just look at all the fine little Princes he and May have produced since their marriage.” He chuckled again, wryly. “Give the country an heir and a spare or two, and everyone is supremely content.”

The joking words were no sooner out of his mouth, however, than Charles was cursing his insensitivity. Kate could not have children, and his wretched thoughtlessness must have hurt her. He tried to think of something that would soothe the pain he had caused, but he could not. When would he learn not to say such things?

At that moment, they came to the spot in the path where Hilda's body had been found, and he filled the awkward silence by pointing it out to Kate.

“As you can see,” he added, “there are no traces of blood, nor of a scuffle. It's very clear that she was not killed at this place.”

Still, Charles could not help thinking that there was an aura of murder here—no scent of spilled blood or corrupted flesh, or the victim's lingering horror. But something like an emanation of evil hung around the place where Hilda MacDonald's body had lain, or at least it seemed so to him. Murder was always wicked.

Kate studied the ground, her face sad. After a moment, she broke the silence with a question. “Do you think Prince Eddy could have cut the poor woman's throat, Charles?”

He answered slowly. “He certainly had the opportunity, and possibly a motive—if he had determined to escape, for instance, and she tried to hinder him.” He frowned. “Although, when I viewed the dead woman, I saw no evidence of a struggle—no bruises, no scratches. And her throat was slit from behind. Not the sort of thing one would expect if she had attempted to prevent his escape. There are other possibilities that seem equally likely to me. Someone may have killed her in order to abduct him, for instance.”

“But why?” Kate asked, as they began to walk again. “For ransom?” She frowned. “But there's been no ransom note, has there?”

“No.” He hesitated, and then, because he trusted Kate so completely, he confided what Kirk-Smythe had told him that morning. “You must keep this secret, Kate, even from the Princess. In fact,
especially
from the Princess.” When she nodded, he said, “It's possible that some sort of an international conspiracy is involved.”

“An international conspiracy!” Kate exclaimed, a note of suppressed excitement in her voice. “Oh, tell me, Charles!”

Charles tried not to smile. Above all else, Kate loved intrigue. In fact, her favorite photograph was one she had taken on the beach at Rottingdean, of a German spy who had been attempting to set up a base for the invasion of Southern England.

“Andrew reports that a German agent who goes by the code name of Firefly has been seen in this area,” he replied. “We're speculating, of course, but it's possible that Firefly somehow got onto Eddy and told his German masters that the Prince was alive and living in Scotland. You can see what a prize he would be.”

“No,” Kate said, “not exactly.” She looked at him with a puzzled frown. “I'm afraid you'll have to explain to me why any foreign government would be interested in such a tragic figure with so little power.”

They came to the main road, then, just as a trio of bicycle-riding soldiers pedaled by, dressed in field uniforms. They paused and then crossed, making for the village's main street.

“The German government,” Charles went on in a lower voice, “and especially the Kaiser, would love to do something,
anything,
to humiliate the British.” He spoke seriously, because this was a very serious business. “The times are changing, Kate. Britain must abandon its policy of ‘splendid isolation' and look for friends and allies. Lord Lansdowne is talking seriously with Baron Hayashi about an alliance with the Japanese, and the King hopes to strike up some kind of Anglo-French entente. The German government would very much like to scuttle these efforts. They would discredit us in any way they could, especially with the French, so that if war comes, we would be forced to stand alone, without friends. It would mean a very great deal to them to get their hands on Prince Eddy.”

“But what on earth would they do with him, once they had him?” Kate asked, as they walked past the tobacconist's shop. “It all seems very—”

“Tell yer fortune, m'lady?” A gnarled old Romany woman, a dirty red kerchief tied round her head and golden earrings dangling from her ears, had stepped around the corner and accosted them, holding out one thin brown hand. “I'll tell it true, that I will, and no lie.” Her wheedling voice was low and gritty, like rusty nails rattling in a can.

“Thank you, no,” Kate said. She smiled. “I think I'd rather go into the future without knowing what's waiting for me.”

Charles expected the old woman to renew her appeal—most fortune-tellers did not give up easily—but to his surprise, she stepped back, looking from Kate to him, and back again. Something like fright came into her eyes, and she immediately cast them down, muttering something he could not quite catch.

“I'm sorry,” he said, leaning forward. “What did you say?”

She looked up, pulling her red fringed shawl around her shoulders. “I said beware,” she replied, in her cracked voice. “Beware, the both o' ye. Something wicked this way comes.”

“Something wicked?” Kate asked, in a startled tone. “What—”

“Beware,” the old lady repeated. And with a rustle of skirts, she strode up the street.

Kate turned and watched her go, a bemused look on her face. “ ‘By the pricking of my thumbs,' ” she murmured, “ ‘Something wicked this way comes.' ”

Charles shook his head. “I hope you don't put any credence in that sort of thing,” he said lightly. “No doubt, if you'd offered her a coin, the old woman would have told you a much more favorable fortune.”

“I'm sure you're right.” Kate tucked her arm in his again. “Actually, I was wondering whether she was the same gypsy who predicted that baby Elizabeth—Lady Glamis's little girl—would someday be Queen. Now, there's a favorable future for you—although I'd put no more credence in little Elizabeth's fortune than in mine.” As they began to walk on, she paused and added, “You were about to tell me, Charles, what the Germans would do if Eddy fell into their hands.”

“What would they do?” Charles grimaced. “Why, the Kaiser would hand him back to the King, straight away, with a great public show of puzzlement.” He raised his fist in a mock salute. “ ‘We thought the heir to the British throne was dead, but now it appears, quite magically, that he is alive. We are returning him to the bosom of his family, with our very best wishes for a long and healthy life. Long live Prince Eddy!' ”

“Oh, dear,” Kate said, distressed. “The King and Queen would be mortally embarrassed.”

“And the monarchy would be fatally wounded,” Charles replied grimly. “The country would lose faith in the King and the Government. And the revolution—which is coming, whether we like it or not—would be immediately upon us.”

“Well, then,” Kate said in a practical tone, “there is nothing for it but to find him as quickly as possible. Do you think Flora MacDonald will have an idea where he is?”

“I certainly hope so,” Charles replied, reaching into his pocket for the map of the village that Simpson had sketched for him, giving directions to the MacDonald cottage. “What kind of young woman is she, Kate?”

Kate hesitated. “She's in her early twenties, and pleasant, with an air of self-sufficiency that makes her seem older than her years. She was quite disturbed about her mother's death, of course. She said nothing about the Prince.”

“According to Dr. Ogilvy, who has treated Eddy from time to time, she isn't aware of his real identity. She knows him as Lord Osborne. Her mother, however, may have known who he was, so perhaps—” He broke off and looked down at the map. “Here we are, I believe. There is the joiner's shop, and the butcher's shop.” He pointed. “The cottage is at the end of that alley.”

Variation on a Scottish Ballad

 

 

 

 

It was a well-kept little cottage, Kate thought, as they went down the walk between blooming rose bushes. The dooryard was brushed clean, a wreath of dried herbs and flowers hung on the blue-painted door, and red geraniums bloomed spiritedly in a window box. An old wooden bench sat under a neglected apple tree. The air was filled with the rich sweetness of rotting windfall apples, and tipsy wasps and butterflies lolled among the fallen fruit.

Charles stepped up to the door and knocked loudly. After a moment he knocked again, and when there was no answer, put his hand to the door and pushed. “People in these small villages don't lock their doors,” he said to Kate. He put his head in and called, “Miss MacDonald? Is anyone at home?”

When no answer came, he opened the door wider and stepped inside.

“Charles,” Kate said, with a little anxiety, “don't you think we should wait until Flora comes back?”

“I think we should take this opportunity to look around,” Charles replied firmly. “We might not have another chance.” And Kate, who did not like to stand on the step by herself, followed him in and pushed the door shut behind her.

The small cottage was made up of two adjoining brick-floored rooms, with a wooden ladder to the loft. In the larger room there was a fireplace, a wooden dresser filled with china plates and cups, a wooden sink under a window, a scarred table with three wooden stools, and a rocking chair beside the fireplace. The braided rug on the floor, the plants blooming in the window, and the framed family photographs on the mantel all gave the place a homey look—making up, although only a little, for the damp-stained walls from which patches of plaster had fallen, the empty coal bucket beside the hearth, the broken bricks in the floor, and the window frames and sashes stuffed with rags to keep out the cold wind. The cottage might look like a romantic retreat, with its tumbling roses and red geraniums, but there was near-poverty here, and cold, and damp, and it made Kate shiver to think of Hilda and Flora living out their lives in this place.