Death at Glamis Castle (12 page)

“Ah,” Charles said, understanding. “She of the famous name.” The legendary Flora MacDonald was the brave Scotswoman who dressed Prince Charlie as her servant girl and got him safely to the Isle of Skye, under the nose of Cumberland's men. The name was revered, and by now, every MacDonald family in Scotland had its Flora. If Eddy had conceived the notion that he was the Bonnie Prince, Flora's presence would likely have fortified it.

Duff's mouth curled up at the corners. “Aye, Flora MacDonald. A bright girl, like her namesake. It was a game she played with the Prince, y'see—her bein' Flora herself. He seemed t'take it real, though. He was always talkin' aboot goin' o'er the sea tae Skye.”

Charles thought that he should have to have a serious talk with Flora MacDonald, who might be able to tell him more about Eddy than anyone else. But for now, he had something else in mind.

“Thank you, Duff,” he said. “I think that will be all, at least for now. May I have the keys?” As Duff handed them over, he added, “I'll keep them, if you don't mind. Are there others?”

Duff shook his head. “Just these. Will that be all, m'lord?”

“For the moment, although I would appreciate it if you would wait with the motorcar. After I'm finished here, we have an errand, you and I.”

When the door had closed, Charles beckoned to Kirk-Smythe and pointed to a waist-high spray of brown spots on the stone wall to the left of the door. “Dried blood, unless I miss my guess,” he said. He crouched down, leaning closer to the wall, and found several smears and a large stained area. “Most of it has been washed away, but the traces are unmistakeable, wouldn't you say?”

Kirk-Smythe bent over to look. “It appears to be blood,” he said doubtfully, “but—”

“And look at this rug.” Charles went to the spot where Duff had been standing, on the red-figured rug near the door. “Notice this sun-faded area. It couldn't have been faded at this spot in the room, for there's no direct light here. I'd guess that this rug has been moved here from somewhere else. Give me a hand with it, Andrew, and we'll have a look at the floor beneath.”

Together, they rolled the heavy carpet back. A large area of the dark wooden floor had been scoured hard enough to lighten its color. Charles took out his pocket knife, got to his knees, and began to dig at a joint between the floor boards. He lifted his knife, with thick brown residue on the tip.

“Blood here, too,” he said, “although there's been a valiant effort to clean it up.”

Kirk-Smythe frowned. “But how can you be sure it's blood, Charles? Perhaps it's something else. Hot chocolate spilled from a pot, for instance. Or animal blood—leaving aside the question of how an animal might have come to be killed in this room, of course.”

“I can't be absolutely sure, of course,” Charles replied. “It's a pity that Professor Uhlenhuth isn't on the scene, with a beaker of that new serum of his. He could tell us whether it's blood, and if so, whether it's human blood.”

Paul Uhlenhuth was a German professor who had recently developed a serum that—quite remarkably—could distinguish among the proteins of different blood residues, animal and human, regardless of the age or size of the sample. His pioneering work answered a question that forensic medicine had long, and sometimes desperately, asked: whether spots or stains found at the scene of a crime or on the property or person of a suspect were indeed bloodstains. And, just as important, Dr. Karl Landsteiner, a Viennese scientist, had the preceding March published a paper asserting that human blood could be identified according to a particular type, which he referred to as Types A, B, O, and AB. If true, this was indeed exciting, for it suggested that scientists might at some future time be able to distinguish the blood of one person from that of another.

“Uhlenhuth?” Kirk-Smythe looked thoughtful. “Now that you've mentioned it, I recall reading a newspaper report of a crime whilst I was in Germany, which Uhlenhuth appears to have solved. Happened on an island in the Baltic, as I recall. Two boys were murdered, and the police apprehended a man named Tessnow, who had been seen talking to them on the day of their deaths. He claimed that the stains on his clothing weren't blood but a certain dark-red wood stain that he used in his carpentry work. The clothing was sent to Professor Uhlenhuth, who found numerous evidences of human blood. I don't know that the accused has been tried yet, but the evidence against him seems quite strong.”
⁴
He paused. “Are you considering the testing of this—whatever it is?”

“Perhaps that won't be necessary,” Charles said, standing up. “We may be able to convince Duff to tell us what he knows about it.”

Kirk-Smythe gave him a searching look. “So you think he's lying?”

Charles thought of the factor's glance at the rug—the telltale glance that had pulled his own attention to it. “I certainly think he knows about the bloodstains on the floor.”

Kirk-Smythe was frowning. “Well, then, shouldn't we arrest the man?”

“Not yet,” Charles said. “For the time being, we'll lock up the room and leave it as we found it. I'll come back later to take fingerprints. I'd especially like to have those of the Prince.”

They arranged the rug as before, and Charles dusted his hands. “As to the factor, we'll leave him alone, too, for the time being. If he believes we've been taken in by his story, he may make a mistake. And we don't yet know who, if anyone, was killed here. It might be the woman whose body was found on the path, or—”

“But if she died in this room, that suggests that the Prince could have killed her,” Kirk-Smythe exclaimed.

“It's something we must consider,” Charles said. “However, I very much doubt that the Prince could have managed this very thorough clean-up. And the man I knew was not terribly strong. If Eddy killed Hilda MacDonald, someone else must have disposed of the body on the path where it was found. But there's another possibility, you know.”

Kirk-Smythe stared at him. “That the blood is that of Prince Eddy himself?”

“Yes.” Charles reflected that if Eddy had died here, King Edward might think it for the best—or might even have been involved, heaven help them. Charles certainly did not like the idea that he himself might have become a pawn in yet another royal deception involving the hapless Eddy. But he felt that King Edward knew him well enough to understand that he would follow the truth, wherever it took him. And the deployment of a trainload of Household Guards would be too much theater for even the King's theatrical tastes.

Kirk-Smythe groaned. “Well, if he's dead, I should hate to be the one to carry the news to the King.”

“Let's hope that won't be necessary,” Charles said, with feeling. “Let Paddington know that Duff and his men can't be trusted, and that there's a chance that the man we're searching for may be injured or dead. If he hasn't deployed the bicycles yet, have them sent out straightaway. It would also be good to send out small parties of men—no more than two or three—to search the barns and sheds on the estate's outlying farms. Oh, and if it hasn't been done, we'll need a guard at the castle gates.”

“I'm on my way.” Kirk-Smythe went to the door. “And you? Where are you off to?”

“I'll ask Duff to show me where Flora MacDonald found her mother's body, and then I'm bound for the village, to have a talk with Dr. Ogilvy.”

It wasn't long before Charles was back in the Panhard, several lengths behind Duff and his skittish horse, which seemed not to know what to make of the motorcar that chugged noisily along behind him. They were headed down the lane, in the direction of the place where Hilda MacDonald's body had been discovered.

The Victorian Kitchen
Jennifer Davies

 

 

 

 

Flora left Lady Sheridan to do her own unpacking with a little shake of her head, for most of the ladies who came to stay at the castle would never have thought of unpacking their own dresses, and would certainly never have turned down the offer of tea. But Flora understood from her speech that Lady Sheridan was an American, and she'd had enough experience with American guests to know that they were more independent than English ladies. More, Lady Sheridan's many questions about the castle's history had suggested both a deep curiosity and a wide intelligence, and her sympathy had been very warm and welcome—so warm, indeed, that it had encouraged Flora to say much more than she should have about her mother's death.

At the thought of her mother, Flora pressed her lips together. It was no good giving in to sadness, when she had something very important to do—and time to do it, since Lady Sheridan had so opportunely dismissed her. She hurried down the servants' stair to the lowest level of the castle, where the kitchen, pantries, larders, sculleries, and laundry rooms were located, along with the various closets and nooks where houseboys sharpened knives, cleaned shoes, and performed required valet services. If she made haste, she could have the task completed within the half hour.

When the Strathmores' children were growing up, the castle's permanent indoor staff had been quite large, forty or more, in the old days. But the children had moved away and returned only now and again for their holidays, as Lady Glamis and her brood had done. Lord and Lady Strathmore rarely gave large entertainments, so it was only the two of them to care for—and Lord Osborne, of course, who had been in residence for ten years or so. But a sizable staff still lived in, and various other people, including Flora and her mother, had their own homes in the nearby village and walked to and from the castle in the early mornings and late evenings.

At the door to the tea pantry, Flora cast a quick glance in both directions before going in and closing the door behind her. The tea pantry was out-of-bounds to the staff between early morning and afternoon tea, but Flora felt relatively safe. To judge from the rich odor of boiled chicken coming from the direction of the kitchen, Mrs. Thompson was already engaged in luncheon preparations, and the scullery and kitchenmaids were helping. The houseboys were out, the footman was elsewhere, the housekeeper, Mrs. Leslie, would be busy, and Simpson was nowhere to be seen. The pantry was as deserted now as it was likely to be all day.

Flora poked up the fire in the small stove that stood in the corner and lifted the kettle that always sat on top to be sure that it contained enough hot water. Then she took down the largest tea tray she could find and began swiftly to collect what was needed: a large china pot and cup, with sugar and a pitcher of milk; several apples, a pear, a large chunk of cheese, and a knife; and a dozen of Lord Osborne's favorite ginger biscuits from the tin that stood full on the shelf. She did not want to risk discovery by venturing into the kitchen to see what might have been left from breakfast, but there was a plate of Sally Lunns and a few oatcakes on the shelf, and she took as many of these as she thought might not be missed when afternoon tea was prepared. Then, as an afterthought, she added half a loaf of bread and a pot of marmalade.

The kettle was boiling by the time the tray was full, and Flora was just filling the teapot when the door opened and Gladys Bruce came in with a wooden box of polished silver. Flora gave a guilty gasp, and Gladys jumped, spilling the box.

“I'm sorry,” Flora said penitently, for Gladys was her friend. “Here, let me help ye pick it up.”

“I should hope so,” Gladys replied in an exasperated tone, as the two of them bent to gather the knives, spoons, and forks. “Ye'd scare a body tae death!” She pushed back the corkscrews of curly red hair that escaped from her white, lace-trimmed cap. “What're ye doin' in the tea pantry, Flora? Ye're s'posed tae be waitin' on the new lady guest this mornin'.”

Flora pulled in her breath. She liked Gladys, and they had shared many confidences about their lives and loves as they changed bed linens, aired blankets, and dusted the family's rooms—all this before Flora had gone to work in Lord Osborne's suite. Moreover, Flora's mother had brought her up to regard a lie, even a minor one, as a dark and dangerous sin. But she had been caught proper, and since she could not tell Gladys the truth, she had no choice but to lie.

“I
am
waitin' on the new lady,” she said. She spoke with as much dignity as she could muster, seeing that she was on her knees. She fished the last fork out of the corner and handed it to Gladys. “See there?” She pointed to the laden tea tray. “Lady Sheridan asked for a forenoon tea.”