Death at Glamis Castle (26 page)

 

At the recollection, an idea began to take shape in Kate's mind—an idea with a certain novelistic twist. Prince Eddy was possessed of the notion that he was Bonnie Prince Charlie. Perhaps he and Flora had planned to take a romantic journey to Skye. Perhaps Hilda had discovered the scheme, resisted it, and Eddy had killed her! Perhaps—

“Ah, there ye are, Gladys,” Mrs. Leslie said crossly, as a pretty, red-haired servant came into the tea pantry, clad in a trim black dress and lacy white apron. “Tell me, now, what d'ye know aboot this?” She thrust the now-empty tin of ginger biscuits at the young woman.

Gladys put both hands behind her back and assumed an expression of virtuous innocence. “I dinna know anythin' aboot it, Mrs. Leslie, truly.” Her green eyes went to Kate, widened, and then seemed to grow merry.

“But this tin was full yesterday afternoon, when I prepared the tea tray for Lady Glamis,” Mrs. Leslie protested. “And you, my girl, were the last tae take tea upstairs.”

“Nae, Mrs. Leslie,” Gladys replied, shaking her head energetically, her red curls bobbing. “Flora took tea tae her ladyship's rooms this mornin'.” She smiled and dropped a quick curtsy to Kate. “Quite a substantial tea,'twas. I imagine that's where th' ginger biscuits went.”

Mrs. Leslie looked chagrined. “Oh, my, yes, of course,” she said in a fluttery tone. She bowed her head in Kate's direction. “I should hae remembered that your ladyship would've wanted a forenoon tea—”

“Oh, that's perfectly all right,” Kate said quickly, even though it wasn't. Wherever Flora had taken the tea, it hadn't been to her suite. “Please don't give it another thought, Mrs. Leslie.”

At that moment, a bell rang in the hallway. “Dear, dear, that'll be Mr. Simpson.” Mrs. Leslie was, by now, entirely flustered. “What in the world can he want, at this hour of the afternoon? I'm afraid I must gae and see. If I've answered your ladyship's questions . . .”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Kate said, smiling. “You've been very helpful.”

Mrs. Leslie turned to the servant and said, in a more business-like tone, “Well, then, Gladys, you'll hae tae be responsible for assembling the sitting-room tea. Her Royal Highness'll want the iced fruit cake, as always. You'll find a plate of sandwiches and a bowl of fresh fruit in the kitchen. Make up the tray, and I'll check it over after I've seen what Mr. Simpson wants.”

“Aye, Mrs. Leslie,” Gladys said demurely. The housekeeper bustled out, her keys jingling at the waist of her black dress.

“Now, Gladys,” Kate said sternly, when they were alone. “What's all this business about Flora making a tea for me this morning? She asked if I wanted something, but I told her no.”

“But I
saw
her, m'lady,” Gladys protested, in a tone that spoke an undeniable truth. “She was puttin' taegether an enormous tea.” She opened her arms wide to indicate a huge tray. “T'was enough tae feed a whole fam'ly o' workin' folk,'twas, honest! I'd seen yer ladyship, o' course, when ye arrived, an' I told Flora I didn't think ye was th' sort tae eat like a bothy lad.” She clapped her hand over her mouth, her green eyes growing large. “Oh, I'm sorry, m'lady,” she said in a rush, through her fingers. “I didn't mean tae be disrespectful.”

“Don't apologize, Gladys,” Kate said. “It's quite all right.” She eyed the sprightly young woman, who clearly thrived on intrigue. “I wonder . . . might you have happened to notice whether Flora took the tea to the guest wing where I'm staying, or . . .” She left her sentence unfinished.

“As a matter of fact,” Gladys said in a conspiratorial tone, “I did just happen tae notice.” She glanced behind her, saw that the door was open, and tiptoed over to shut it. “Y'see, after I said that it was by way o' bein' quite a large tea for a lady, Flora coom o'er all huffy an' flounced out with th' tray. I went into the hallway and watched tae see where she'd take it. But she
didn't
gae t'ward the guest wing. Oh, nae!” Gladys leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with her secret. “She took th' tray in th' direction of th'
auld
part o' th' castle.”

“The old part of the castle?” Kate repeated, her curiosity now definitely aroused. “But why? What on earth could she possibly—”

Gladys straightened. “Oh, I'm sure
I
dinna know, m'lady.” She shivered. “That part o' the castle is haunted. I'd never gae there meself, even if somebody paid me.”

Kate nodded, thinking that this was probably true. “I wonder,” she ventured, “if you've seen the soldiers.”

“Oh, aye!” Gladys said eagerly. “They're here for poor Lord Osborne. He's gone off, ye see, an' th' troops are here tae search for him.” A small frown appeared between her brows, and she half-turned away, as if she were conscious of having said too much.

Kate became stern. “I am asking these questions, Gladys, because my husband, Lord Sheridan, is in charge of the troops. He has asked me to learn what is being said among the servants about Lord Osborne. What do you know about this business?”

Gladys turned back, her green eyes startled, her look apprehensive. “Oh, naething, m'lady,” she said quickly. “Naething at all! Only that his lordship is a poor half-mad creature who's been hidden away in th' west wing for e'er so long. Thirty or forty years, some say.”

“I see,” Kate replied in a friendlier tone. “Well, then, perhaps you can tell me what else is being said about him. And please don't be afraid, Gladys. None of the other staff will know what you've told me.”

Gladys seemed relieved by the warmer note in Kate's voice, and became confidential. “Well, tae tell the awful truth, m'lady, they're sayin' that he murdered poor Hilda in his rooms an' then ran off.” She took a deep breath. “An' that Mr. Duff an' Mr. Simpson carried Hilda out an' put her on the path, so naebody'd suspect that his lordship did it.”

“Oh, dear!” Kate exclaimed weakly. One should never underestimate the servants' abilities to find out what had gone on and create their own explanations for it, true or untrue. “They're saying all
that
about Lord Osborne?”

“Oh, aye!” Gladys was now fully drawn into the excitement of revealing what she knew. “An' more, m'lady! They're sayin' that th' soldiers hae coom tae find his lordship an' arrest him for murderin' poor Hilda!” She pursed her lips judiciously. “Which I'm sure makes Flora verra unhappy.”

“Flora?” Kate pretended a puzzled surprise. “Why? If he killed her mother, I should imagine that she would be glad to—”

“Why, because!” Gladys exclaimed, half-closing her eyes and clasping her hands over her shapely bosom. “Because Flora
loves
th' poor man, that's why! Nae matter that he's auld 'nough tae be her father, she's given him her hand an' her heart an' pledged herself tae him, forever and ever!”

“How do you know this, Gladys?” Kate asked, now genuinely surprised. “Has she told you this herself, or—”

But Kate was not to have her question answered, for the door opened and Mrs. Leslie sailed in. Kate and Gladys jumped guiltily apart, as Mrs. Leslie's glance went to the large silver tray, sitting just as she had left it in the center of the room.

“Gladys!” she exclaimed irritably. “What hae ye been doing, girl? Gae an' get those sandwiches an' fruit immediately! Her Royal Highness'll be verra cross if she has tae wait for her tea.”

As Gladys fled, her apron ties flapping, Kate said penitently, “I'm very sorry, Mrs. Leslie. I had a few questions to ask Gladys, and I'm afraid I kept her from doing her work. Please don't blame her.”

“Yes, m'lady,” Mrs. Leslie said, as if she were surprised by Kate's apologies, and added, “I hope the girl was helpful tae ye.” Her doubtful tone did not express confidence that Gladys could have been of any assistance at all.

“Oh, yes,” Kate said quickly. “She was very helpful. As you have been, as well.”

“There's one more thing,” Mrs. Leslie said hesitantly. “I thought of it just as I left you. It's aboot Skye—although I dinna know if it's at all important.” She leaned forward. “Early last week, Hilda got a letter from th' MacDonalds of Skye. I know, because she mentioned it tae me. She said she was goin' tae write back.”

“Oh?” Kate asked in a casual tone. “Do you know why the MacDonalds wrote her?”

“I've nae idea, I'm afraid.” She turned to the tea tray, frowning. “Now, where did I put those napkins?”

“Will Ye No Come Back Again?” Scottish ballad

 

 

 

 

 

The constable had spent the entire afternoon in a state of inner turmoil, but he had at least put the time to good service. He had gone to every place he could think of: to the various shops along the main street of Glamis Village; the graveyard where her father was buried; St. Fergus Kirk, cool and dim as a cave within, and the old well behind the kirk, where he and Flora, as children, had spent so many carefree hours; and finally, and with a sense of leaden despair, to the pond above the old flax mill, where some two years before, a wretched young girl, wronged by a local lord, had ended her life.

But Flora was nowhere to be found, and neither the shop-keepers nor the Reverend Calderwood, whom Oliver encountered on his way out of the kirk, could give him any news of her. From the millpond, he mounted his bicycle and rode out to Roundyhill, where he should have gone in the first place. At the encampment there, he questioned the gypsy women about the tinker, who, it appeared, had only recently joined the band.

“Ah, it's Taiso ye're lookin' for,” an old Romany woman said knowingly. She motioned with her head, which was tied in a dirty red kerchief, and her gold earrings glinted. “That's his caravan, over there.”

“So he hasna left th' band, then?” the constable asked, feeling, to his chagrin, a great relief.

“Nah,” the old woman said. “We'll all be goin' off in a few days, though.” She squinted suspiciously. “What's Taiso done?”

The constable didn't answer. “Has anyone coom lookin' fer him? A woman, p'rhaps?”

“A woman?” she asked, with an oblique glance. “Young, was she?”

The constable bit his lip. “Young, and pretty.”

The old woman's black eyes glinted shrewdly. “Well, she didn't say her name, but I might be able to recall what she wanted.” She held out a brown claw and added, in a wheedling tone, “If me pore old mem'ry was prompted just a bit.”

But the constable was already certain that he knew who the woman was and what she wanted. Deeply offended at the old woman's audacity, he snapped, “Don't beg frae me, auld hag. Tell that tinker he's wanted by th' constable. He's not tae leave this place without talkin' tae me first.”

Taking some pleasure in the surprise on her face, he stalked to his bicycle and rode like the very devil was on his back—as indeed it was. A menacing devil of doubt and jealousy, of fear and anger, even of remorse. If he had not been so caught up in forwarding his prospering career, if he had paid the right sort of attention to Flora, he might have saved her. If . . . if . . . if . . .

The constable went home to his comfortable cottage, but he had no appetite for either tea nor supper, and by evening, his grim mood had darkened. He was certain now that Flora had gone to the gypsy camp to meet the tinker, and just as certain that she was lost to him forever, for only a woman of easy virtue could bring herself to consider such a loathsome liaison.

But if Flora had sinned, he knew that she could not be the worst sinner. No, that blame belonged, he thought bitterly, to the high-born wretch who had brought her so low. To Lord Osborne, who had corrupted his sweet Flora and who, according to Lord Sheridan, had now disappeared—had been driven away, no doubt, by his own fierce shame and guilt.

As evening began to fall in the village, the constable made his usual way to the pub at the Glamis Inn. Several horses were tied up in front, a few bicycles leaned against the building, and the low-ceilinged room was full of men, the air flavored with tobacco smoke and woodsmoke and the fragrance of hot pies and frying chips. When he entered, the men, quieting, parted so that he could make his way to the bar. The constable, feeling wretchedly wounded and angry, could not doubt that every man in the room knew of every place he had visited that afternoon, and why.