Death at Glamis Castle (35 page)

“I'm sure that's very important,” Kate said urgently, “but so is the photograph I've just taken.” She stamped one foot, brandishing her camera. “Will you put down that coffee and
listen
to me, Charles Sheridan?”

Charles put down his cup. “I'm listening, my dear,” he said mildly. Now that he looked at his wife, he saw the expression that meant that she felt she had important information. “What's all this commotion about a photograph?”

“It's not a commotion,” Kate said, indignant. “Do you remember the German we met on the beach at Rottingdean? The spy who was trying to smuggle arms into the country? He's
here,
Charles, disguised as a tinker. He responded when I called the name Taiso, so he must be the same tinker who went to Flora's house yesterday, asking after Memsdorff. And I've just taken his picture!”

“You're talking about . . . Hauptmann?” Charles slowly put down his cup. If that was the man they were dealing with, they might never catch him. He was creative, bold, and fearless.

Kirk-Smythe gave a low whistle. “Count Ludwig von Hauptmann? Well, I don't suppose I should be surprised.”

“You've heard of him, then, Andrew?” Charles asked.

“Heard of him?” Andrew laughed shortly. “We spend half our time keeping track of him. The man is not only a master of disguise, but he seems to have the ability to be in two places at once. Three, sometimes.”

Charles turned back to Kate, frowning. “Are you sure it was Hauptmann, Kate?”

“I'm not likely to forget those eyes,” Kate said grimly. She put her camera on the table. “And I have his photograph. I can set up my darkroom and have it developed and in your hands within the hour, so you can see for yourself.”

“A tinker, eh?” Charles muttered, shaking his head. “An ingenious disguise. It gets him into the village, where he can make contact with Memsdorff and Hamilton, and into the castle, as well. I wonder what other disguises he's using.” To Andrew, he said, “The last time we encountered this man, he was a diplomat, a photographer, and an antiquarian—and very good at all three. He seems to follow Sherlock Holmes's rule: the best way of successfully acting a part is to be it.” He paused, remembering what had occurred at Rottingdean in '97. “I wonder . . .”

“Wonder what?” Kirk-Smythe prompted.

“Hamilton is dead,” Charles replied, “and Memsdorff hasn't been seen since the night before last. Do you remember, Kate, what happened to the subordinate who threatened his Rottingdean operation?”

Kate made a face. “He shot him.”

“Exactly.” Charles poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Kate. “Andrew, our man has a history of dealing with those who fail him in a most effective and severe manner. He may be behind Hamilton's death.”

“This fellow Hamilton,” Kirk-Smythe said. “If he was one of the kidnappers—” He stopped, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Yesterday, I was out with one of the search parties. He was one of the group, helping to guide us to various outbuildings. But I had the odd feeling that he was trying to divert our attention. To lead us away from something.”

“What direction were you headed?”

“We were moving south, along a stream. He told the group that there was nothing to be gained by going further in that direction. At his suggestion, we crossed the stream and turned east, out of the woods, toward the farms.”

“South, along a stream,” Kate said, putting down her cup. “Isn't that where Flora said the ice house is located?”

“Right,” Charles said, feeling that he was dealing with too many competing priorities, all of which had to be met at one time. “Kate, would you develop that photograph, please? It's important for me to have it as soon as possible.”

“I will, but what—”

He shook his head firmly. “There's no time to explain now, Kate. Andrew, I'd like you to stay here. When Hamilton's body arrives, place it under armed guard, in this room. No one but you and Dr. Ogilvy should see it. Ask the doctor to determine the cause and time of death as nearly as he can.”

“Of course,” Kirk-Smythe said, “but where are you—”

“I can't linger, Andrew. Time is of the essence. I'll take one of the guards with me and send him back for you, if my suspicions prove correct.”

“Charles,” Kate demanded, “where
are
you going?”

Charles was halfway to the door already. “To the ice house,” he flung back over his shoulder.

Queen Mary: 1867-1953
James Pope-Hennessy

 

 

 

 

 

The breakfast room was a pleasant, sunny room with windows that looked out across the rose garden. A sideboard filled with chafing dishes kept eggs, kippers, sausage, bacon, and toast hot for several hours, as some guests preferred to breakfast early and others late. Kate was late, for it was nearly eleven. But coffee still steamed in a heated urn, as did hot water for tea, and the center of the table was arranged with silver dishes of jams and marmalade, plates of butter, pitchers of sweet cream, crystal bowls of fresh fruit, and vases of hothouse flowers, their rich scent, like funeral flowers, mixing incongruously with the odors of hot sausages and bacon.

Still mulling over her unexpected encounter with the tinker, the conversation with Charles and Kirk-Smythe, and her subsequent work in her portable developing laboratory, Kate helped herself to a bowl of melon, several pieces of hot buttered toast, and a cup of tea. Now that she had actually seen the photograph, which was drying in the bathroom in her suite, she knew beyond doubt that Taiso and Hauptmann were the same, and that the German must be Firefly's contact, the man who had master-minded the plot to kidnap Prince Eddy. He must have come to the castle in search of his escaped prey.

Of course, the Prince was safe now, she reminded herself with relief, as she took her plate and cup to the table, and she needn't worry. But things might have turned out very differently. If she and Charles had not discovered Flora and Eddy in their hiding place, they would certainly have gone to the gypsy camp before dawn that morning and paid Taiso to take them to Perth. Of course, they wouldn't have ended up there, Kate knew. Hauptmann would have taken Prince Eddy to Germany, and Flora would likely have been murdered, for she knew too much, and it would have been dangerous to let her live. The thought of it turned her cold. It had been a near thing, a very near thing, indeed.

Kate had just begun to eat her melon when the door opened and Toria came in, followed closely by a footman. The Princess was wearing a tight-bodiced mulberry-colored dress that was fashionably cut and expensively trimmed but took neither her figure nor her complexion into account. She looked as if she had not slept well, and the unkind sunlight revealed the unmistakeable traces of encroaching middle age: the parenthetical wrinkles on either side of the mouth, the slight bruising under the eyes, the crepy skin of the neck.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Kate said, and added the conventional remark, “I hope you have had a restful night.”

“I did not sleep well at all,” Toria replied heavily, as the footman pulled out her chair to seat her. “Coffee and toast,” she said. “Nothing else.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “And then you may leave.”

Kate made another conventional remark or two as the footman served the Princess, then left the room.

When the door closed, Toria leaned forward. “Has there been any word of my brother?” she asked. “At dinner last night, Lord Sheridan seemed to suggest that something might be known by this morning.” She picked up her cup and took a drink of coffee. “And even if there is no news, I suppose I should telegraph the King and let him know that the men are still searching.”

Kate, suddenly realizing that she and Charles had not discussed what or how much Toria should be told about the unfolding events, was not quite sure how to answer the Princess's question. There was no reason to believe that Charles would not want her to disclose the fact that Eddy was at this moment safe and sound in the castle, or that one of his kidnappers had been found dead. But the whole thing was a delicate business, and without knowing exactly what she should say, Kate was reluctant to say anything at all. She was enormously relieved, then, when the door opened again, and Charles himself came in and greeted them. He shot a quick, questioning glance at Kate.

She smiled. “Here's Lord Sheridan now. He'll give you the latest news. Charles, Her Highness was just asking for word of the Prince.” Charles nodded briefly, and she bent to her melon, glad to have been spared the task of deciding what to say.

Toria replaced her cup on its saucer. “Good morning, Lord Sheridan,” she said. “Well? Have you found him yet?”

Charles hesitated for a moment, as if he were making up his mind to something, and then sat down next to the Princess. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said. His face was somber, his voice grave. “I'm afraid we have.” He put his hand over hers. “I wish there were some easier way to tell you this, but I fear there is not. Your brother is dead.”

“Oh, dear God!” Toria gave a shrill little cry, and her face went white.

Kate dropped her fork and stared at Charles, her eyes widening. “Dead?” she gasped incredulously. “But he can't be! He—”

Letting go the Princess's hand, Charles turned to look full at Kate, and she saw the warning in his eyes.
Stop,
it cautioned.
Say nothing more.
But he only said, very softly, “I know it's hard to believe, Kate. But you and the Princess must both be brave.”

Toria's eyes were dark. “How did it . . . how did it happen?” She swallowed hard, and then again, as if she were trying to choke down a bitter draught of medicine. “Was it an accident?” And then, in a calmer voice, “Did he fall from a horse?”

Charles put his fingers to his temples, as if to press away the pain. “He died in a fire,” he said.

Kate stared at him, trying to see his face, to read the truth behind his eyes. “A fire?” she whispered disbelievingly.

Toria's face went still. She was holding herself rigid, as if she were afraid of making a sudden movement. “A
fire
?” she echoed, but there was no disbelief, only a kind of dull acceptance in her voice. Her lips parted twice before she was able to clear her throat and say, finally, “I see. Did he . . . I suppose he set it himself, then. Like the fires at Sandringham.”

“At this point, I'm afraid the cause can't be determined with any degree of confidence,” Charles replied, and Kate knew from the absolute bleakness of his tone how wretched he must feel about this turn of events. “His body was found at the back of the ice house. It's like a cave, dug into the stream bank and lined with ashlar bricks. There was no ice, and it was full of the straw in which the ice had been packed. He was sleeping there, apparently. Somehow, the straw caught fire. He couldn't . . . get out.”

Toria's voice was low and so taut that it seemed to vibrate, and her face was shuttered so that no feeling could be read. “That business of the woman's murder . . . Has it been resolved?”

Kate, still trying breathlessly to cope with the idea that Eddy was dead, wondered at this apparently abrupt change of subject. But Charles appeared to understand the association and was prepared to respond to whatever question lay hidden beneath. When he spoke, his voice was comforting.

“I received a report this morning that the body of one of the gamekeepers has been found at the edge of the millpond. He was drowned.” He gave Kate the smallest of warning glances. “A suicide note was found in his coat pocket, confessing to Hilda MacDonald's murder. He apparently killed himself out of remorse.”

Toria seemed to sag with relief. “Then my brother had nothing to do with her death?”

Charles's answer was emphatic. “Nothing at all, Your Highness,” he said. “You have my word on it.”

Toria pushed her chair back and stood, working to control her face. “I need to see him,” she said in a thin, mechanical voice, void of all feeling. “I must be sure that it's Eddy. My father will want to know that he is really—”