Death at Glamis Castle (33 page)

“Cousin Willie?” Incredulous, Lord Osborne squinted at him, a wreath of cigarette smoke curling around his head. “The Kaiser? Why, that's bloody absurd!” He paused, seeming to reconsider. “On second thought, though, p'rhaps it isn't. Willie's always been a great one for cruel jokes—almost worse than my father, if that's possible. I recall once, when he was visiting Buckingham Palace, he tied a fire-cracker on the tail of a poor—” He broke off, shaking his head. “But no matter.”

Flora stared. Lord Osborne was cousin to the German Kaiser? All of this seemed so inconceivable, even more bizarre than Lord Osborne's fancy that he was the Bonnie Prince.

“The Kaiser may be in the dark on this one,” Lord Sheridan said. “Perhaps the planning was done by someone like Holstein, for instance, or even Bülow. More likely, they intended to hold you for a time and bring you out at the most opportune moment. Perhaps they intended to use you to scuttle Chamberlain's proposals for an Anglo-German alliance. Or they may have planned to embarrass the Crown by releasing you in November, when George is due to be named Prince of Wales. Or even next spring, at your father's coronation.”

“Embarrass the Crown?” Lord Osborne's laugh was mocking. “If they trotted me out at Georgie's investiture, it would
topple
the Crown, and Papa hasn't even got it on yet. Officially, that is.” His voice was corrosive. “It would be a thumping good show, wouldn't it, Charles? The newspapers would make a circus of it. ‘Dead prince resurrected after decade buried in Scotland.' ” He frowned again, smoking fiercely. “How'd Willie find out? Not from me, by God. I've never wanted anyone to know who I am. As far as I'm concerned, Prince Eddy is dead, and dead he will stay.”

Flora felt dazed. This was all too much. She couldn't understand it.
Lord Osborne had once been a prince, and dead? But how—

“They seem to have planted a spy,” Lord Sheridan replied. He turned to look directly at Flora. “A man who used the code name Firefly was dispatched from Edinburg to have a look around.”

“Firefly?” Flora gasped, getting to her feet. But her legs failed her, and she sat back on the bed. Lady Sheridan grasped her hand.

“Yes, Firefly.” Lord Sheridan's eyes glinted in the light of the candle. “You know him, then, do you, Flora?”

Lady Sheridan's arm was around her shoulder now, steadying her. Flora took a deep breath, feeling herself tremble. “Firefly is . . . a childhood nickname for my cousin Herman, who comes frae Edinburg tae visit us. He used tae love tae capture fireflies an' carry them around in glass bottles, like a lantern. But he couldn't be—” She stopped, shaking her head, thinking of funny, loving Herman, bringing her little presents from Edinburg, telling her jokes and stories, laughing and carefee. “He couldn't be a
spy
.”

“Spies are not usually what they seem, Flora,” Lord Sheridan said gently. “That, I fear, is their nature.”

Flora stared at him, another denial on her lips. But even as she opened her mouth to speak, she knew that what he said must be true. All those little number games Herman continually played with—weren't spies supposed to send their messages in ciphers? And there was the conversation she had overheard one evening some weeks before. She had already gone to bed, and her mother and Herman were sitting before the fire. Her mother was speaking to Herman about her work with Lord Osborne, telling him—

Flora's hand went to her mouth and her eyes widened, as she remembered. Her mother had told Herman that Lord Osborne must be somehow related to the Royal Family, for he had photos in his room of the King and Queen, recent photos. And books inscribed by Queen Victoria, as well as—But then she had heard nothing more, for Herman had got up from his chair and closed the bedroom door, so he and her mother could talk in private.

Now Lord Sheridan rose and came over to the bed where she was sitting. “I'm sorry, Flora.” His voice was gentle, and he seemed almost to read her mind. “I'm sure that your mother didn't realize that the questions your cousin asked and the answers she gave had any special importance, or would put Lord Osborne in danger. She must have trusted him.”

“But if Herman was one o' th' men who took Lord Osborne,” Flora whispered urgently, “was he there when my mother was killed?”

“I'm afraid he would have been, yes,” Lord Sheridan said regretfully.

“But he didna kill her.” Flora's lips felt stiff and cold, and she could hardly manage the words. “He couldna! She was his
aunt
! She took care o' him when he was a boy, ye see, back in Bavaria. His mother was her sister, and—” Her voice broke.

“I wonder,” Lord Sheridan said, “if you can tell us anything about your cousin's friends? Did anyone visit him? Did you see him with anyone in the village?”

Mutely, Flora shook her head. “He . . . he went often tae the pub, but I dinna know who he might hae spoke with there.” She frowned, thinking. “The tinker knew him, though.”

“The tinker?”

She nodded. “Taiso, he's called. He stopped at the cottage today, in the afternoon. He asked after Herman. We talked, an' he—” She stopped, not wanting to go further.

“He what?” Lord Sheridan prompted.

She swallowed. “He offered tae take me tae Perth in th' morning,” she said uncomfortably. She was reluctant to give away her secret plan, but Lady Sheridan's warm arm around her shoulders reassured her. “Tae take me an' my uncle, in his caravan.” She nodded at Lord Osborne. “I found some old clothes for his lordship tae wear, an' pretend tae be my uncle. When we got tae Perth, I thought we would take th' train tae Glasgow, an' then a boat tae the Isle of Skye. My father's people—the MacDonalds—live there. I knew they would take us in and give us refuge.”

“I see,” Lord Sheridan said, his tone approving. “You're a very resourceful girl, Flora. I'm sure Lord Osborne is grateful to you for making such a good plan.” He went back to his place at the table. “You said you were taken by two men, Eddy. Herman Memsdorff seems to have been one of them. Can you give us any clue to the identity of the other?”

Lord Osborne bent over to stub out his cigarette on the stone floor. “Perhaps,” he said, straightening, “although I can't tell you his name. He is one of the gamekeepers here—there are four or five, I believe. It was his cigars that gave the fellow away.”

Beside Flora, Lady Sheridan leaned forward. “Cigars?” she asked sharply. “A gamekeeper?”

Lord Osborne nodded. “The man smokes some sort of vile Indian cigars. I smelled that dreadful odor once when I encountered him at the kennel, with the dogs. I smelled it again when the jacket was flung over my head, and on the man himself. He's the one who fell asleep, allowing me to escape.” Lord Osborne laughed wryly, turning his ring on his finger. “I may not be able to hear as well as I might, and I am often confused in my mind. But there is nothing whatever wrong with my sense of smell—and those cigars are truly wretched.”

“Charles,” Lady Sheridan said, her voice taut, “it might be the man who drove me from the station. Hamilton, his name is. He's a gamekeeper, and he smells of those dreadful Indian cigars, like those Mr. Crombie smokes, back at Bishop's Keep.”

“Ah, yes, Hamilton,” Lord Sheridan said. “We'll find him, then. Meanwhile, Eddy, I'm afraid I must ask you, and Flora as well, to stay in this room for a few more hours. I'm sorry it's so uncomfortable, but it's secret and can be secured. I need to locate both Memsdorff and Hamilton. There seems to be another German agent involved as well—who, I cannot yet say for certain, although you may have given me a clue. You're not safe until all are found.”

“And after that, what?” Lord Osborne rested his chin in his hand, his expression that of a condemned man. “I suppose my father will expect me to continue living here, as I have been?” He sighed. “I'm comfortable and well taken care of, and I suppose I should be grateful for that. But one would like to see a bit more of the world, from time to time. One would like—”

“I'm not sure you can stay here, Eddy,” Lord Sheridan broke in. “The difficulty, of course, is that it is known in Germany that you are alive and living at Glamis, and there's nothing to stop unscrupulous men from using that knowledge. If we could think of a way to persuade them to—”

Lord Osborne snapped open his gold case and took out another cigarette. His laugh was bitter. “I've already died once. I don't suppose I should object to dying again.” He opened the packet of matches and struck one. “What did you have in mind?”

“I'm afraid I can't answer that question just now.” Lord Sheridan pushed his chair back and stood up. “It would be a good idea for all of us to get some sleep, if we can. Unless I miss my guess, tomorrow will be a very difficult day.”

Tinker's traditional rhyme
quoted in
Lark Rise to Candleford
Flora Thompson

Kate Sheridan in
Death at Rottingdean
Robin Paige

 

 

 

 

Charles was already dressed and gone when Kate was wakened the next morning by a light knock on the door. Gladys came in with a stack of towels and a pitcher of hot water, placing them beside the wash basin. Then she stepped to the windows and opened the curtains to display an iridescent dawn that filled the room with morning light. In a moment, she was back with a linen-covered tea tray, which she placed on the table beside the bed.

“Lovely day,” she said brightly. She poured a cup of fragrant tea and set it on the saucer. “Flora was supposed tae bring yer ladyship's tea,” she added, her coppery eyebrows asking an implicit question. “But she dinna coom tae work this mornin'. Mrs. Leslie's throwin' a fit, and we're all verra worrit aboot her.”

“Oh, you mustn't worry,” Kate remarked, with a guileless smile. She plumped up her pillow against the head of the bed, and took the cup Gladys offered her. “I'm sure she'll put in an appearance, or let Mrs. Leslie know where she's gone.”

Gladys looked provoked. “Do ye require help with dressin'?” she asked, eyeing the wardrobe where Kate's things were hung. “Shall I get somethin' out for yer ladyship tae wear this mornin'?”

“No, thank you,” Kate said. In some ways, she had managed to conform to British habits, but she had never been able to allow herself to be dressed by another woman. “I can manage for myself.”

Gladys nodded and flounced out of the room, her curiosity unsatisfied on all counts.

Kate added sugar and lemon and sat back against the pillow, gratefully sipping hot, fragrant tea from the delicate porcelain cup. The night had been long and eventful and very tiring, but thanks to Beryl Bardwell's curiosity—would they ever have discovered Flora's and Eddy's hiding place if Beryl hadn't insisted on going ghost-hunting?—a large part of the mystery seemed to be solved. Prince Eddy was unharmed and his whereabouts known; Flora had been found and had answered all Charles's questions; and the men who had killed Hilda MacDonald and kidnapped Prince Eddy had been identified with at least some certainty—all but their German contact, of course. All that was left was for Charles to find the men he was seeking and tell Toria what had transpired, so that the Princess could report to King Edward that Eddy was safe. She smiled to herself. Once that was done, Charles could send his troops back to London, and the two of them could start for Bishop's Keep. With any luck, they'd be home in two or three days. Home, where there was so much to be done, so many interesting projects waiting. Home, where she would see dear Patrick, who would most likely be there when they arrived.

Kate sat for a moment, thinking, her hands wrapped around the steaming cup. But her thoughts were not with home. She was reflecting on all that had happened during the night, all she had heard, all she had learned. Prince Eddy had confirmed much of what Toria had told her earlier about the circumstances of his exile. But he had revealed far more, for Kate had heard the bitterness in his voice when he described himself as “the one shut away for the blackest of all Royal sins: for being an embarrassment.” Prince Albert Victor had obviously not gone willingly into exile, as Toria described it, but reluctantly and under duress. He had lived at Glamis for nearly a decade with the burden of his unhappiness, while his brother George, soon to be invested as the Prince of Wales, took his place as the eldest son. And if Eddy was unhappy, how must George feel? Must he not bear a burden of guilt, equal to that of Eddy's bitterness? And what of King Edward and Queen Alexandra? Was it true that they rarely thought of their son, or did they mourn his loss whenever the family gathered and his seat was empty? She shook her head. It was sad that Eddy and Toria had been forced by the accident of their birth to live lives that were not of their choosing. It was a tragedy.