Death at Glamis Castle (37 page)

“A long day?” Thomas Collpit remarked sympathetically. When the doctor nodded, he reached for a bottle and poured a double Scotch, pushing it across the bar to the doctor.

Dr. Ogilvy tossed it back. “Ah,” he said with satisfaction, wiping his mouth. “Thank ye, Thomas. You're a good man.”

At the doctor's words, there was an onslaught of questions from all sides.

“What really happened tae Hamilton?” one cried.

Another shouted, “Is't true that Doug Hamilton killed our Hilda?”

“Who was it died i' th' ice house?” a third wanted to know.

The doctor held up his hands as if to ward off an assault. When silence returned, he took his filled pipe out of his pocket and lit it. His pipe in one hand, his whiskey in the other, he looked around the room, glancing from face to face as if to verify the identity of each. At the last, he glanced at the collector, inclined his head in an implicit greeting, then spoke.

“I won't keep ye from your drinkin',” he said somberly, “but I do hae a brief word or twae tae share with ye, regarding what's happened this week.” He pulled on his pipe, the smoke curling over his head. “I'm sure ye all know that my work as both doctor and coroner requires that I exercise a large measure of discretion, and I hope ye feel that, over the years, I've done my best tae keep your confidences.”

The joiner, who seemed to regard himself as a spokesman for the other villagers, raised his glass. “Aye, Dr. Ogilvy,” he cried, “ye've stood by us well, in gude times an' bad.” A murmur of general agreement rippled through the crowd, amplified by several loud ayes, and one “Ye're our man!”

“Thank you,” the doctor said. “Of course, if I am tae keep yer secrets, there are some I mun keep from ye, an' ye wudna hae it diff'rent, I'm sure. However, I will try to answer yer questions as well as I can. What has occurred i' th' past few days seems tae have been a series o' most unfortunate incidents. It appears that Douglas Hamilton murdered Hilda MacDonald, for reasons we dinna understand, an' probably never will. However, Hamilton has taken himself out of th' reach of th' law by drowning himself i' th' millpond, leavin' behind a suicide note confessin' his guilt.”

“That accounts for Hilda an' Hamilton,” the joiner remarked judiciously. “What aboot th' chap i' th' ice house?”

The doctor drew on his pipe for a moment before he answered, his tone grown even more somber. “Some of ye know that Hilda had in her care at th' castle an unfortunate gentleman, Lord Osborne, who was mentally unbalanced. He appears tae hae been afflicted with pyromania.”

“Pyro-what?” asked the green-grocer in a puzzled tone.

“He went round settin' fires,” the joiner told him, low.

The green-grocer, not quite trusting his friend, looked to the doctor for confirmation.

“Right,” the doctor agreed. “In Hilda's absence, this poor fellow wandered off an' somehow managed tae set fire tae th' straw i' th' ice house on the estate. He was apparently confused by th' smoke, and became trapped and died in the fire. His body is tae be returned tae his relations in London.” He paused. “So there ye hae it, men, th' whole sad story. A murder, a suicide, and a most unfortunate accident.”

“But where do th' troops come into this?” the post-master asked.

The collector looked up, catching the swift tightening of the doctor's lips. But it was gone in an instant, and the doctor smiled. “The troops?” he replied. “Why, they dinna figure in it at a', far as I can see. They were here on routine maneuvers—somethin' tae do with the use of bicycles for reconnaissance, I believe.” He paused. “It's my understandin', though, that in view of a' that's happened, the maneuvers are bein' concluded, an' the troops'll leave tomorrow. Lord Sheridan has asked me tae apologize tae ye for any inconvenience ye've suffered. An' now, if you don't mind, I've had a long day. Even my pipe seems tae hae gone out.” He applied a match to it.

“Thank ye, doctor,” the joiner said. “Ye've answered our questions.” He glanced around the room. “We're all satisfied, aren't we, boys?” There was scattered muted grumbling, but for the most part, the villagers appeared to agree with the joiner—all but the constable, that is. He had come up to the bar and was facing the doctor.

“I'm not satisfied,” the constable said, his jaw working. He leaned close and spoke low. “What's become of Flora? Where is she?”

The doctor put a sympathetic hand on the younger man's shoulder, and compassion was evident in his voice.

“Flora was so distressed o'er her mother's death, Oliver, that she needed an immediate change o' scene. Otherwise, I feared a complete breakdown.”

“A breakdown!” The constable was incredulous. “Flora?”

The collector shared the constable's disbelief. Flora had not seemed anywhere close to a breakdown when he had talked to her yesterday in her cottage. She had seemed, in fact, to be quite a strong and determined young woman.

But the doctor was insistent. “Aye, a breakdown.” He softened his tone. “Perhaps ye dinna know Flora as well as ye think, Oliver. She's gone wi' her cousin Herman tae Edinburgh. I saw them off myself, this afternoon. They plan tae go tae Bavaria tae visit her mother's people.”

With
Herman
? The collector felt his pulse flicker, and he frowned to himself. Hamilton must have lied after all, in an attempt to get all the money for himself. Memsdorff could have crossed over to the other side and gone to work for Sheridan. Agents could not always be trusted, no matter how well they were paid. And if Firefly caused his aunt's death, perhaps he had suffered such guilt that he could not bring himself to carry out their plan. The collector frowned. But there was that suicide note to account for, which—

“But Flora hasna yet buried her mother,” the constable protested, still trying to assimilate this new information. “And what aboot her testimony at th' inquest?”

The doctor turned, held out his empty glass, and Thomas Collpit obliged. “Lord Sheridan an' I took Flora's testimony afore she left,” he said equably, returning to the constable. “ ‘Tis our opinion that we shouldna disclose its details, or the other evidence Lord Sheridan has gathered, tae keep frae damagin' the reputations of innocent persons. An' we couldna see that disclosure wud serve the interests of justice.”

The constable looked nonplussed. “But there must be an inquest!” he replied heatedly. “ 'Tis required by law. What's more, I've been left out o' this investigation. I mun demand—”

“Dinna demand, Oliver,” the doctor said in mild reproof. “As it turned out, this inquiry was a matter for military law.”

“Milit'ry law!” the constable exclaimed. “On what grounds, for pity's sake?”

Indeed, on what grounds?
the collector echoed internally, both surprised and discomfited.
On grounds of espionage? How much of the truth could Sheridan possibly have discovered in the short time he had been here, and how? Or had Firefly betrayed their plan very early in the game?
In that case, perhaps
he
was now the object of Sheridan's attention. The collector was not a man given to unwarranted worry, but the thought was not a pleasant one.

The doctor went on as if the constable had not spoken. “Sin' Lord Sheridan is in command o' th' troops currently stationed on th' estate, he took on the investigation. I examined his orders an' am satisfied that he acted within his authority. Further, being privy tae th' details o' his investigation, I am prepared, in my official capacity as coroner, tae support his actions.” He raised his eyes and looked straight at the constable. “O' course, Oliver, if ye're not satisfied wi' my explanation, ye're free tae take up the matter with yer chief superintendent. I should tell ye, though, that McNaughton has already approved Lord Sheridan's taking on the inquiry.”

The collector finished his drink and turned away. The doctor's explanation might convince the constable, but it did not convince him. The fact that Sheridan had appeared on the scene confirmed his fear that the operation had been exposed. Clearly, someone at the highest level knew about the events of the past few days and wanted them hidden from public view. But who? And how much of the truth was known? His eyes went to the King's photograph next to the mirror. King Edward, whom the Kaiser had once called “that great deceiver”? Surely not, but—

“I doubt I'll ever get at the truth o' the matter,” the constable said bitterly. With a shrug that suggested utter defeat, he turned to the bar. “I'll hae another whiskey, Thomas. A double.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

King Lear, II, i
William Shakespeare

 

 

 

 

Five minutes later, the ballad collector was on his way up the deserted street, and, since there was no one to see that he had lost his limp, was walking fast. It was nearly nine now, but the way ahead was silvered, for the sky was cloudless and the moon that had been so elusive the night before shone brightly enough to illuminate his path. He had gone past the tobacconist shop and was approaching the green-grocery, when a man stepped out of the shadows and spoke to him.

“Good evening, Herr Hauptmann. I see that our paths have crossed again. May I accompany you back to the camp at Roundyhill?”

The collector felt as if he had sustained an electric shock. He turned to face a man as tall as he, with strong features, a brown beard, and shadowed eyes. Although he hadn't seen him since '97, his was not a face he was likely to forget or fail to recognize. It was the face of Lord Charles Sheridan.

Damn.
But there was nothing for it but to brass it out. The collector set his jaw and, with all the composure he could muster, attempted a denial. “You have mistaken me, sir. I don't believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

“Don't you remember?” Sheridan's smile was pleasant, as if they were indeed merely renewing a casual association. “The last time we saw one another was several years ago on the south coast, near Rottingdean. You lost your luggage in a storm that night, as I recall, for it was found washed up on the beach a day or two later, along with pieces of your skiff. But you obviously caught your ship and came through all right.”

Hauptmann managed a rueful chuckle. That night had been one of the more unpleasant of his life, and he did not like to be reminded of it. “Ah, yes, indeed,” he said, abandoning the pretense of forgetfulness. “Rather a trying experience, that. The seas were higher than I anticipated, and I was fortunate to escape drowning.” He swung his cane as they walked, making an effort at jauntiness. “A surprise to see you, Sheridan. What brings you to Scotland? A bit of a grouse hunt?”

“The same thing that has brought you, I should think,” Sheridan replied. “A hunt, but not for grouse.” He paused and added, reassuringly, “Not to worry, Hauptmann, I shan't have you arrested. That would be deuced embarrassing for both sides, wouldn't it?”

Hauptmann gave an abrupt, ironic laugh. “Good of you, Sheridan. What do you want of me?”

“Oh, just an opportunity to say good-bye before you leave.” There was a smile in Sheridan's voice. “And I thought perhaps you might like to ask me a question or two.”

Hauptmann let the silence lengthen. At last he gave voice to his most pressing uncertainty. “Was it Lord Osborne who died in the ice house fire?”

“Without a doubt,” Sheridan replied promptly. “Of course, the body was badly burnt. But he was positively identified by the doctor. His sister also recognized the gold ring on his finger as one she had given him. She is carrying the sad news to the family.” He slid Hauptmann a sideways glance. “You knew, of course, that the Princess was here.”

“Yes,” Hauptmann admitted. “I saw her come and watched her leave, late this afternoon.” He reflected for a moment and then said, rather diffidently. “I don't suppose you would be willing to tell me what has become of Herman Memsdorff.”

“Firefly?” Sheridan pushed his lips in and out. “I was told that he is returning to Bavaria, with his cousin Flora. I think both of them were rather unhappy about the death of her mother. An unpleasant bit of business, for all concerned.”

“I . . . see,” Hauptmann said slowly. “Am I to suppose, then, that you won him over to your side?”

“To our side?” Sheridan's eyebrows were astonished. “Why, whatever makes you think of such a thing?”