Death at Glamis Castle (28 page)

“Will Ye No Come Back Again?” Scottish ballad

 

 

 

 

Outside, Hamilton pushed the baker away, steadied himself, and stumbled down the street. He knew he'd drunk too much whiskey again, and feared he'd gone too far when he mentioned the pictures of the Royal Family. But among all the bloody events of the past few days, he thought incoherently, it was those bloody pictures that plagued him the most, that stayed in his mind and wouldn't go away. Who the bloody hell
was
this bloody Lord Osborne, and why should he have so many photographs—such recent ones, too—of the King and Queen and the rest of the bloody lot?

“Hold up, Hamilton,” a cheerful voice said, and a firm hand grasped his left elbow. “I'll walk a distance with you.”

Hamilton glanced up in surprise at the speaker, who seemed to loom over him, almost a full head taller. It was the old ballad collector, but he was no longer stooped, and his cane and fiddle case were tucked under his arm.

“No need tae gae wi' me,” Hamilton said, willing himself to speak without slurring. “I dinna want tae take ye out o' yer way.” He tried to free his elbow, but the old man's grasp was surprisingly powerful, and he could not pull away from it, no matter how hard he tried.

They were almost at the end of the street now, just passing the joiner's shop. Neither Hamilton nor the other had a light, and their way was lit only by the moon, its pale face veiled with gauzy clouds. To Hamilton, whose eyes seemed to be playing tricks on him, the shadows under his feet suddenly became a nest of black, entangling vines, alive as snakes, writhing up to snare him. He stretched out his right hand for the stone wall, once again muttering, “I dinna want tae take ye out o' yer way.”

“It's not out of my way at all,” the old man said. His grip was a vise, his voice as cold and brittle as glass, without a trace of Scots. “By the by, Hamilton, what's become of your friend Herman Memsdorff? I've been looking for him all day.”

Memsdorff.
Hamilton was seized by a terror so cold that it seemed to chill him to the bone. “Memsdorff?” His lips were taut and dry, like old leather, and he suddenly felt light-headed and giddy. He reached for the wall again, to brace himself. “I haen't seen Memsdorff since—”
Since the night before, when the two of them had left the pub with the bottle of whiskey and gone to the ice house, where—
He shivered, scarcely able to keep his teeth from chattering.

“Memsdorff was to meet me this morning,” the old man said. He turned to look full at Hamilton, his eyes even colder than his voice, and empty. “With the merchandise.”

Hamilton stopped, frozen. A sudden knowledge flew across his mind, like the clouds across the moon. But it could not be true. He must be mistaken, for he was certainly drunk. He shook his head.

“The merchandise?” he replied. “What merchandise? I dinna—”

And then suddenly he was grabbed by the hair and his head was slammed backward, hard, against the wall. In the same movement, the old man's bent forearm, strong and unyielding as an iron pipe, pressed against his throat, cutting off his breathing. Hamilton hung there for what seemed an endless time, the arm pinning him breathless and gasping against the wall's cold stone, his fingers scrabbling ineffectually at the old man's prickly woolen sleeve, his knees weakening, vision blurring, red flashes exploding in fountains of fire behind his eyes, ears roaring as if he were fathoms underwater, drowning, dying.

The old man pushed his face within inches of Hamilton's. “Where is Memsdorff?” he snarled. “Where are you keeping the merchandise?”

And then, as suddenly as he had been seized, Hamilton was released. He fell to his knees in the dust, dragging in great, gasping, painful lungfuls of air, gagging and choking and retching. Just then, the joiner and the baker went past, down the middle of the street. Dimly, through the tumult in his ears, he heard them asking if they could be of any help; dimly, he heard the old man replying in a merry voice that his companion had only had a drop too much whiskey and would be fine as soon as he'd puked it all up.

When they were gone, the old man reached down and hauled him up by the collar, propping him against the wall. “Where's Memsdorff?” he repeated, his voice steely and flat, without merriment, without inflection. “What have you done with the merchandise?”

And now, Hamilton could no longer deny what he knew to be true. This was no old man. This ballad collector was the man with whom Herman Memsdorff had been dealing for the past several weeks, with whom he had made the arrangements for delivery and payment. And now Memsdorff was—

“Memsdorff's bloody gone,” Hamilton choked out. He put both hands to his throat. “Ye've smashed my windpipe.” He sagged against the wall, gagging for air. “I can't breathe.”

The man, his empty eyes the color of moonlight, towered fiercely over him. “Gone where?”

“I canna say.” Hamilton turned his head aside from those infernal eyes. “Back . . . back tae Edinburg, most like.”

The man's laugh was ugly, implacable. “Not bloody likely.” With his left hand, he gathered the lapels of Hamilton's jacket, yanking him close so that he could not turn away. “Where's the merchandise, Hamilton? Tell me, or so help me God, I'll break your worthless neck.” He raised his bent right forearm again, like a deadly weapon.

Helplessly, Hamilton yielded. “It . . . it got away from us,” he blurted, and added hastily, “Only temporarily, o' course. It's safe now. I locked it up for safe-keeping.”

He looked up to see the man's eyes fixed on him like daggers, impaling him with a savage contempt. The face was no longer old, but not young, either. It was ageless, with clean, diamond-cut lines and the terrible coldness of a skilled and clever killer.

“It's true,” Hamilton cried, panicked, his voice rising. And then, sobbing in desperation and fear, heard himself say, “It's in a safe place. I'll take you there.” His heart quailed as he spoke, for he had only staved off the final terror, not canceled it.

Slowly, the man dropped his arm and straightened, staring at Hamilton all the while. Then, surprisingly, he laughed, with a bitter, self-deprecating humor.

“Well, then, that's all right. Although I must say that this is a hell of a mess.” He took a step backward and stood for a moment staring off into the distance, as if he were considering what to do. At last, with a sigh, he shrugged and seemed to relax, the steel going out of him. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Extracting two, putting them both in his mouth, he lit them from the same match and handed one to Hamilton.

“Sorry about your throat, old chap,” he said, his tone lightened by a wry, exasperated amusement. “I'm afraid I was a little rougher just now than I meant to be. But you were very drunk, and I didn't think I'd knock the truth out of you any other way.” He cocked his head, a worried frown flickering between his pale eyes. “Sober now, are you? You'll be all right?”

Hamilton hesitated, confused by the shift in the man's demeanor. “I dinna think th' damage is permanent,” he said finally. He pulled on the cigarette, the smoke filling his lungs and somewhat clearing his head, although he could hardly say he was sober. He'd prefer one of his own cigars, but he didn't like to refuse. “Aye, I'm sharpenin' up some.”

“That's all right, then,” the man said amiably. “Shouldn't've liked to cause you any lasting grief.”

Down the street, the pub lights had been put out. The village was silent, the only sound that of a distant owl and, somewhat closer, a man snoring sonorously in his bed. Overhead, the clouds had thickened, blotting out the stars and almost entirely extinguishing the moon. As they stood and smoked in silence, the blackness seemed to wrap them in a fraternal cloak.

At last, in a tone of something like regret, the man remarked, “It was a pity about the woman. Which of you had to kill her?”

The smoke turned sour in Hamilton's throat and he coughed. “It was Memsdorff,” he said, when he could get his breath. “She . . . we didna expect her tae coom up tae the rooms so late at night.”

“So she interrupted you, then?” The man's tone was compassionate, comradely, and his mouth, in the flickering moonlight, seemed to be faintly smiling. “Surprised you, I suppose. Caught you off guard.”

Hamilton nodded. “We'd come tae scout out the place. Memsdorff wanted tae make sure we could get in an' upstairs tae get him—tae pick up the merchandise, I mean—a day or twae later, when it was time.” He pulled on the cigarette. “We were by the door when she came up an' saw us. She stepped back an' made as if tae scream. Memsdorff grabbed her an' spun her round an' slit her throat, quick as thought.” He gulped down the sudden taste of vomit that filled his mouth. “His awn aunt. His awn flesh an' blood.”

“Too bad,” the man said softly. He put his head to one side and half-closed his eyes. “Thundering bad luck, and a dreadful experience, for the both of you. I'm sorry it had to happen, although of course, you cannot be blamed. It was well that you acted with dispatch, or things might've gone off worse.”

“Ye're right, 'twas dreadful.” Hamilton pulled himself straighter, fighting off a bit of dizziness. “Blood spoutin' all o'er th' place, her dyin' there on th' floor wi' just a bit of a gurgle.”

The only thing good about the business, he reflected to himself, was that they were able to get Lord Osborne. He'd been reading and, nearly deaf, had hardly heard the scuffle, not enough to know what had happened. Hamilton had stripped off his jacket, dropped it over his head, and hurried him off. If they'd waited, of course, and Hilda's body had been discovered, a guard would have been put on the fellow and they'd never have got at him.

“I suppose,” the man said in a resigned tone, “that when it was over, poor Memsdorff went to pieces or threatened to go to the constable and confess the whole business.” He sighed heavily. “So you had no choice but to kill him, to keep from endangering our mission. Regrettable, but necessary. I commend you.”

Hamilton's head jerked up. It hadn't happened that way, of course. The unpleasant truth was that he himself had fallen asleep while guarding the prisoner, and Lord Osborne had managed to slip his bonds and get away. And last night, when Memsdorff had charged him with carelessness, they'd fallen into a quarrel. Memsdorff had pulled out his revolver, they had struggled, the gun had gone off, and by God's mercy, he'd been the one to walk away. Even now, Memsdorff's body was lying in the ice house, heaped over with loose straw.

Apparently taking Hamilton's silence for assent, the man patted his shoulder. “Well, it can't be helped now,” he said. “But no harm done, except to Memsdorff and his aunt, of course. Just to clear up our arrangements, I'll take the merchandise with me tonight. Where shall I pick it up?”

Hamilton swallowed. “I dinna b'lieve—” He paused, thinking fast. “It wudna be gude tae fetch it tonight. It's locked up, and tomorrow will do just as well.”

“Not tonight?” the man asked, as if he were disappointed. “You're very sure of that?”

Hamilton shook his head. The truth was, of course, that he couldn't come up with Lord Osborne, night or day. The mad wretch had got clean away, and God only knew where he was hiding. Not even the soldiers had been able to find him.

The man eyed him for a moment, as if he were measuring Hamilton with his shrewd glance. “Ah, yes. You must be concerned about payment.”

Hamilton smiled thinly. Here was a man he could deal with. “Well, I was thinkin' aboot it,” he acknowledged in a careless tone. “Memsdorff did tell me that—”

“Fifty pounds?” the man inquired. He peered into Hamilton's surprised face. “You were expecting more.” He sighed. “Seventy-five, then.”

Hamilton tried to find his voice and failed.

“You drive a hard bargain, my friend,” the man said, resigned. “I'll go a hundred, if you can deliver tonight.” He reached into his pocket.

The man's voice was light and comradely, but his eyes were like lances, penetrating to the very soul, and Hamilton looked down in self-defense, fearing to give himself away. He shook his head. “Not tonight.”

“Well, then, that's all right,” the man said with the air of someone who has just made up his mind. “Here's fifty, to cement our bargain, and the rest tomorrow, when you deliver.”

Hamilton nodded wordlessly, and the man counted money into his hand. Ten fivers. Fifty pounds. Seven months' pay. Swallowing hard, he put it into his pocket.

“Where and when tomorrow shall we say?” the man asked.

After a little thought, Hamilton named a time and a spot and gave directions.

The man nodded. “It's a bloody shame about Memsdorff,” he said again, “but I have the feeling that this small task is in competent hands. I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow—with our merchandise.”

“Aye, tomorrow.” Hamilton fingered the money in his pocket. His brother had been urging him to come to Montreal and buy a share of a draper's shop. Fifty pounds would see him there and settled, with some to spare. “Now, I think I'd better gae home an' get some sleep.”

“Do that,” the man said, and smiled.

They parted, the man turning back to the north, Hamilton walking to the south along the road to Dundee, stumbling a little, for his brain was still drink-addled. He lived on the far side of the burn, and to get home he always went across Glamis Dam, a hundred yards above the old flax mill. The fitful moon offered just enough illumination for him to make his way across the narrow stone structure. The water was high, the stones were slippery, and another man, less accustomed to the path or more sober, might have thought twice about crossing it. But Hamilton came this way to and from his work, and knew the path so well that he would have crossed even without a moon.