The Balmoral Incident (12 page)

Now that crisis had been dealt with I knew I could delay no longer. I must leave Meg with Thane and Mabel and set off immediately if I was ever to solve the mystery surrounding Lily’s death, whether it had been an accident, or whether, as I firmly believed, she had been murdered. And I had only days left to do this, even though I was acting against Vince’s wishes, Inspector Gray’s stern command and with precious few clues to follow.

The first place to begin was also the nearest. The stables where, according to Mabel, Lily had spent many of her leisure hours.

My entrance caused a little stir and not just among the horses. Unlike Olivia and Mabel, who were very definitely upper-class ladies, the appearance of this small woman with unruly yellow curls and a rather untidy gown raised considerable doubts as to whether the situation demanded
the manner appropriate for what the stable lads had been brought up to regard as their betters. There was an air of uncertainty. Was I to be treated as serving maid or lady?

I remembered that first occasion when I had called in to enquire about a pony trap for the girls to discover that Mabel had the only one available. One lad bolder than the rest made up his mind, sallied forth and gave me an impudent stare. Another lad nudged him, winked and said: ‘Go to it, Bobby.’ Bobby had the look of a wide boy eyeing me up and down, considering his chances as he would all females from sixteen to sixty. A Casanova born in the wrong century and the wrong society to wreak havoc in female hearts, he was doubtless the lad Mabel had seen talking to Lily. Doubtless he had taken her on too.

Later, reporting my interview with Bobby to Mabel, she sighed wearily and said: ‘I dare say she would be delighted, grateful to have any fellow give her a second glance.’

‘Oh, I think it was perhaps more than that.’

On this occasion the lads came forward and stared at me again, uncertain.

‘Where is Bobby?’ I asked.

Jock, the older of the lads, came closer. Weather-beaten with a skin like crinkled leather, the result doubtless of forty years in charge of the stables, he shrugged. ‘Where is he? Who knows, miss? (I left that misstatement uncorrected) A right chancer, that one.’

‘Did he say when he would be returning?’

Jock stared at me. ‘No. Just walked out. Here today and gone tomorrow. Typical of lads these days. Not like when I was young and loyal to the family—’

My mind was racing. Two days ago, around the time Lily was drowned. Was Bobby her killer? I interrupted: ‘Did he say where he was going?’ I smiled, trying to make it sound like a usual polite enquiry, but Jock wasn’t fooled. He frowned, gave me a hard look. Why did this woman across at the cottage want to know Bobby’s movements? A bit old but you never knew with Bobby. His glance suggested he was calculating if I was one of his tarts.

I knew what he was thinking and decided immediate explanation was needed. ‘It concerns Lily, the young girl who drowned. Just talking to people who knew her, like Bobby,’ I added lamely.

Jock nodded. This seemed to satisfy him. ‘We dinna’ ken all that about the lad. Came from over Ballater way. Beater first, for the shooting, when he was about twelve. His mother was a servant up at the castle. He was adopted as a bairn—’

Now that was an interesting link to follow but I didn’t want his life story which, having won Jock’s confidence, I felt might be lengthy.

‘Was he friends with Lily?’

Jock paused and laughed. ‘Friends? Is that what you ladies are calling it now? There’s no word like that for Bobby, not with a lass. Ask the lads here.’

One of them listening, stopped polishing the harness and grinned. ‘Not with Bobby. It was all or nothing. A leg over—’

Jock coughed, threw an embarrassed glance in my direction and the lad stopped, flushed, and resumed polishing the saddle with great vigour. Here was a reason for getting rid of Lily. Had she regarded Bobby as her
chance to escape from Mabel, form a new life? And had he lost his temper at that suggestion and killed her?

Jock had turned to another lad who had been on the fringes listening to the conversation. ‘Pete, you kenned Bobby more than the rest of us. This lady wants to know about him and the poor lass that drowned.’

Pete came forward nodding eagerly. ‘Ye ken, Jock, we all saw them at your seventieth birthday party.’

Jock took up the story, grinned. ‘Aye, aye, loads of ale and other things too, ye ken.’

I suspected drugs too, as Pete went on: ‘Right enough. Seems the lassie didna’ understand what we were saying. Only came in a lot ’cos she liked the horses, talked to them.’ He shook his head. ‘Bobby didna’ understand a word of it. Like foreign, it was.’ That didn’t surprise me. The locals were used to speaking Gaelic and I found the Aberdeenshire dialect when they reverted to it for my benefit completely baffling too.

‘Aye, Bobby thought he’d made it with her, that she was maybe from one of yon places abroad, ye ken,’ said Jock.

‘Austria, the Lipizzaners,’ the knowledgeable Pete nodded. ‘Where they breed them special kind o’ white horses.’ He shook his head. ‘Aye, kenning so much about horses, I said it was a pity they didna’ employ stable girls here.’

‘We wouldna’ get much work done, I’m thinking,’ said Jock and raucous laughter met this remark with all its possibilities where lascivious lads like Bobby were concerned.

As for me, I was getting nowhere fast, and trying to
sound casual I asked if they knew where he had gone.

Jock shook his head. ‘Bobby could be very secretive-like, didna’ say all that much about himself ’cept when he was bragging about all the girls he’d had. He was aye after the main chance, ye ken.’

‘Was he upset about the girl drowning?’

Again Jock shook his head. ‘Could be. But not what you might call heartbroken for a lass he had been courting. All he said if I mind it right was “Too bad. What a waste of a good—”’ He stopped, blushed at the word he had bitten back, forgetting that I might be a lady.

‘Does his mother still work up at the castle?’

Jock looked vague. ‘I think she left a while back, found the work too hard for her. Chronic rheumatism, and all the early mornings, the stairs and them cold corridors.’

I asked for her name and he grinned. ‘Mrs Biggs. Bobby liked his surname, said it fitted him – in every way, ye ken.’

Thanking them for their help, I left with great dignity and a feeling that without doubt my interest would continue to be a talking point and a matter of some speculation.

I was certain Bobby’s sudden flight was connected with Lily. Either he had killed her or her killer suspected that she had passed on to him some dangerous information. Anyway, I had gained something. I had a name. Would Mrs Biggs be a large enough needle to find somewhere in a haystack in Ballater?

Mabel was sitting at the window reading a book about the suffrage movement she had brought with her. I wondered if she still felt a bit let down now that the
speech she had worked on for the Pankhursts’ welcome had not been needed after all.

She looked up and said: ‘I saw you coming out of the stables.’

It was a question really, so I told her about Bobby and Lily and what the lads had told me. She nodded absently, didn’t seem interested, keen to get back to her book.

I said I thought I would go to Ballater and hoped that a woman who had been a servant at Balmoral Castle would be remembered.

And I got some help from Mabel. One of the suffrage ladies had also been a servant and might possibly know a Mrs Biggs. A forlorn hope maybe, but it was a beginning and I was ever optimistic – having started from less in some of my past, most successful cases, I knew the value of tenacity.

Mabel offered to take me in the pony cart next day, but I declined. Time was vital and with the address of a certain Mrs Semple I set off on my bicycle. Fortunately it was a pleasant afternoon. I loved the feeling of warm sunshine and no disagreeable wind to hold me up. The wheels turned smoothly as the miles disappeared and I gave thought to what lay ahead supposing I met Mrs Biggs and Bobby.

I had established a certain set of rules in my profession. If you want information it is important at that first meeting to put your prospective client at his or her ease. Never pitch yourself too high. Thankfully my unfashionable appearance gave me an air of informality. I flattered myself that it gave clients confidence and I could drop a notch further when necessary. I can speak upper-class Edinburgh but I have a less formal accent for all occasions
which I used in Arizona where Danny and I frequented the saloons in the company of cowmen and prostitutes, the latter from whom I learnt some remarkable self-defence which I had used to good effect when necessary.

I was lucky at Ballater to find Mrs Semple at home. She recognised me from our meeting in Aberdeen and, too polite to ask why, said yes, she remembered Mrs Biggs from the days they were servants together. A very nice woman, and yes, as far as she knew she was now living at Crathie. There were not a lot of houses and she should be easy to find.

Politely declining the invitation to tea and doubtless satisfy her curiosity regarding my mission, I remounted my bicycle and set off, thankfully with the wind at my back, on the few miles back to Crathie. Deploring the fact that I had probably passed by her door en route to Ballater, luck was with me and the first person I encountered was the local postman walking along the road past the church.

He pointed to the cottages just above us. ‘Mrs Biggs? Aye, number four just along there, second house,’ he replied, eyeing me curiously and with not a little envy, I fancied, obviously not used to seeing a young woman riding a bicycle that would have made his life very much easier.

The cottage, small and neat, was one of six with a splendid view towards Lochnagar. Thanking him and following his directions I tapped on the door, holding my breath. Would she be at home?

The door opened. ‘Mrs Biggs?’

An immediate explanation for the reason for my visit was not necessary. As was the custom, I was first politely invited in; the bicycle parked outside her immaculate
garden frowned over doubtfully as a possible blot on the landscape.

The interior of the pretty, ivy-covered cottage lived up to what one might expect, the smell of lavender polish over well-cared for sideboard and table, handsome home-made rugs, embroidered antimacassars on armchairs and plump needlepoint cushions. Exclaiming over them in the course of conversation I discovered that Mrs Biggs had been no ordinary servant but a favourite needlewoman to the late Queen.

I was not the only visitor. She was having tea with another lady from our Aberdeen meeting, Mrs Rayne, who welcomed me and began by asking after Miss Penby Worth. She sounded rather in awe of her but both ladies, as I joined them at their afternoon ritual, were more than a little curious about the purpose of my visit.

I had to think of a good reason swiftly. A quick think provided the answer. I turned to Mrs Rayne. ‘This is a most fortunate coincidence, but it is you, Mrs Biggs, I wished to consult. You see, since we have been staying in a cottage on the Balmoral estate, my little daughter, Meg – she’s seven – is very interested in horses and I believe your son Bobby, having worked in the stables, is an expert.’ (Nothing like a bit of flattery.) ‘They tell me he has moved on but I would like a word with him as I wish to purchase a suitable pony for her.’

It all sounded a bit lame to me but Mrs Biggs seemed quite impressed. She beamed at me. ‘You’re in luck, Mrs Macmerry, Bobby is at home right now, has a new situation down south, but came to see his mum first for a wee visit.’ She added fondly, ‘He’s such a good lad.’

Mrs Rayne took the hint and rose politely and said to Mrs Biggs: ‘Thank you for the tea, my dear.’ And to me, ‘Please remember me to Miss Penby Worth.’

There followed a few quick words about the next suffrage meeting, in whose house and what time and I looked round the walls at a collection of photographs, some family and some suffrage, a banner in the hall. If you were a Roman Catholic you had a photograph of the Pope but for a member of women’s suffrage it was Emmeline Pankhurst.

As the door closed on Mrs Rayne, Mrs Biggs called: ‘A lady to see you, Bobby.’

Bobby peered out of the kitchen where he had obviously taken refuge from his mother’s visitor, his anxious expression going over what new misdemeanour was being brought to his door.

His smile was a question, that curiosity wiped out completely when he realised who I was and that I was from Balmoral.

‘Mrs Macmerry is here to ask you about horses, dear. She wants a bit of help buying a wee pony for her little girl. You’ll be able to tell her all about that, I’m sure,’ she added proudly.

Bobby gave me a quizzical look, smiled at his mother, and giving her a hug, he seized his jacket from the chair: ‘Have to go now. Couple of lads to see at the pub. Be back later.’

I thanked Mrs Biggs and said goodbye. Bobby closed the door behind him, no longer the vibrant wide boy, and seized my arm firmly. I indicated my bicycle.

‘Did you come all that way on that thing?’

Not waiting for a reply he frowned, looking over his
shoulder nervously as if his mother might be watching. ‘Now what is all this about, missus?’ That backward glance confirmed one thing. He was scared.

‘Your mother misunderstood me—’ I began.

‘She does that a lot,’ he murmured. ‘Go on.’

Wheeling my bicycle, keeping pace with him, I said: ‘I’m enquiring about Lily.’ He paused, his step had faltered. ‘Lily?’ he said.

‘Yes, you remember Lily. And the policeman who came to the stables.’

At the word ‘policeman’ he suppressed a shudder as I went on, ‘They have to have some details, you understand. Name, address and so forth of her parents.’

‘Couldn’t the woman she worked for, that friend of yours, tell them that?’ he said impatiently.

I wasn’t prepared to go down that tedious road. ‘You know what employers are like,’ and aware that he probably didn’t, I went on hastily, ‘As she seemed to be friendly with you, I wondered if there was anything extra you could tell us about her. And as I was heading this way—’ I lied.