The Balmoral Incident (15 page)

Next day Jack walked in unexpectedly. No letter, no warning. He wanted to surprise us, having a few days respite after being in Aberdeen for what was proving to be a very complex and exhausting investigation regarding a criminal organisation in Edinburgh with links in other cities.

I had been so looking forward to seeing him and so had Meg, although maybe not quite so much as me. Thanks to Vince, she was making new and exciting friends and yesterday had been to a children’s party up at the castle. Several of the young royals were present including the King’s grandson Edward, son of the Duke of York. She said he didn’t join in the games and added scornfully that he thought a lot of himself and was at the age when boys didn’t like girls very much.

But to return to Jack’s unexpected visit. As ill luck
would have it, on the morning before he arrived, having been given a lift from Ballater railway station, I realised I was feeling distinctly unwell, in for a horrendous cold, or even the dreaded influenza. No one else had it, thank goodness, and heaven knows where I picked it up. I rarely take ill but when I do the symptoms make up for that rarity in their severity. A streaming nose, a violent headache equal I was sure to any of Mabel’s, who eyed me with anxiety, perhaps touched with resentment since the province of severe headaches was hers alone.

There was nothing I could do but retire to my bed with lemon drinks fortified with hot toddy or medicinal whisky, keep out of everyone’s way and hope to sleep myself better. I did not want to pass it on and if I was thankful for anything, it was that the delicate Faith had gone home.

Jack came upstairs and took one look at me. Sympathy tinged with irritation, I suspected, as if I had got the damned cold just to be awkward.

He sighed; he had so many plans for the precious few days together. However, he soon came round to forgetting all about me lying in my sickbed upstairs by spending every moment with Meg. I heard their voices from time to time, merry laughter drifting upwards, while I could hardly raise my head and felt that death would be too good.

I was just beginning to recognise signs of survival when Jack was about to return to Edinburgh, the carter giving him a lift into Ballater for the train next day.

Apart from sitting at my bedside and chatting for a
while after Meg went to bed, we had had no time together, as I insisted that he sleep in the bedroom Meg and Faith had shared, which considering my state of health, did not grieve him in the least.

As I rallied on his last day, it was imperative that I talk to him. I had a lot to tell.

‘Anything interesting happen?’

‘I expect Vince has told you about Mabel’s maid?’

The two men had spent convivial evenings downing drams together by the sounds of laughter drifting upstairs.

He nodded. ‘What a tragedy. Mabel must have been very upset.’

It wasn’t like that at all, I realised, the version he got from Vince. ‘Did Vince tell you that it might not have been an accident?’

Jack groaned and patted my arm. ‘He said Rose thought it might not be and I thought, “There you go again.” Typical. You can’t resist it, can you? Here for a holiday and you seize on a drowning as suspicious circumstances.’

He laughed and regardless of any lingering germs, gave me a hug. ‘Darling Rose, all you get when you have time on your hands is an overactive imagination.’ I began to protest vigorously. Only that morning, hearing male voices in the garden had revealed below my window, Jack and Vince in deep conversation with Inspector Gray.

When I asked why Gray was here, Jack shrugged. ‘Just a private matter.’

‘Staying at the castle?’

‘I believe so.’ And that indicated the private matter concerned the royals.

‘Someone stealing the spoons?’ I said lightly, aware that Inspector Gray’s presence meant considerably more than that; it suggested matters of deep concern to the state.

Jack smiled and said hastily: ‘Nothing to do with us, love.’ And eyeing me steadily with what I knew well enough to be a warning look he went on: ‘Whatever you’re thinking, love, just forget it, please. You’re not here for a murder investigation, even if the girl’s death wasn’t an accident, it’s none of your business or mine. They have a very efficient division, I’m sure, dealing with such matters.’

And suddenly, because I was being misunderstood again, I wanted to tell him about the Penby man, or Mr Brown as Vince had called him. But I was trapped. If he asked me why I was so interested, I couldn’t say it was because he reminded me of Danny.

Danny was the forbidden subject, it still hurt him to be reminded that Danny was the love of my life, my first love and that he believed he could never be more than second best.

And yet I had learnt to love Jack, I owed my survival to him in tricky situations back in Edinburgh where my investigation into a murder case had gone seriously wrong.

In all relationships someone once said: ‘There is one who kisses and one who is kissed.’ Jack knew which was his role. He loved me with a depth of passion I could never return and it had made him happy that after years of saying ‘no’ I had married him, although he protested at the time it was only for Meg’s sake to give her a mother. I insisted that it wasn’t, I had given him my word, and my solemn promise in those wedding vows, that I loved him.
We were happy, the three of us and I thought that was all that mattered.

Now, as he was leaving, I wished I could gather up Meg and we could go back together. But Meg had another party to go to and she had made a new friend, Rowena, whose mother Yolande worked in the kitchens and, with Jessie, brought us our daily meals and did our laundry. The exotic Yolande was a real gipsy. Meg was very excited about that.

And then there was Mabel to contend with. What to do about her? After the disappointment of the Aberdeen suffrage experience, when she had hoped to meet the Pankhursts which was her main reason for coming to Scotland, it would have been reasonable to expect that she would have wished to make the long journey back to London with Olivia. But it had obviously never occurred to her to cut short the Balmoral holiday, which had been a happy coincidence, and it would have been hardly tactful or polite to suggest it when she seemed quite content to remain with us until after the Highland Games and then return to London on the train via Edinburgh.

Alone with her most days, she was not the most engaging of companions by any stretch of imagination, a rather dull woman, self-centred to the extreme, a law unto herself, who I knew not one whit better after three weeks living under the same roof than I did at our first meeting. Always polite, our conversations were negligible and mostly concerned with day-to-day domestic matters. She no longer talked of dear Emmeline and Christabel and seemed to have forgotten all about them, although
her reading matter was still devoted to books about the movement.

After Olivia’s departure when we had been somewhat relieved to revert to meals delivered from the royal kitchen, never fond of walking, Mabel either spent time in her room reading or on most days with the pony trap driving around the estate, following the shooting party or driving into Ballater. I suspected that she was a lonely person when in a rare moment of confidence she said it reminded her of the governess cart of her childhood, and when she suggested that any time I wished I could accompany her into Ballater, I felt rather guilty as, thanking her, I declined since I had my bicycle.

Perhaps it was the symptoms of the cold that had struck me down, but after Jack left I was unhappy, ill at ease and homesick for my own home, for Arthur’s Seat and Edinburgh. Suddenly I felt confined by this cottage holiday, which instead of a month of easy, happy, carefree days enjoying a new experience, had seen a tragic accident to one of our party, which I still believed was murder. I had almost quarrelled with my beloved Vince, and Jack’s hoped-for visit had seen me laid low with an atrocious cold and fizzled out like a damp squib.

Meg, however, with all the resilience of childhood seemed to have forgotten her heartbreak over cousin Faith and had found an exciting new friend, off each morning to play with Rowena. We hadn’t met as yet but Meg whispered proudly that although Rowena lived in the royal household her mother was a true Romany and they had once lived in a caravan.

Thane had also been temporarily abandoned in her new regime, which was not a bad thing. I had no means of knowing how he regarded this temporary desertion. He did not reveal any sign that he had lost Meg and merely returned to being my shadow, my loyal protector.

But even in the brief time we had left, the holiday had its surprises and some grim events lay in store.

My thoughts were never far from Lily’s death, where every instinct as a detective told me this was no accident whatever they wished to pretend, and any reasons for upsetting the royal shooting season’s apple cart appeared thin indeed.

Murder was murder and being expressly forbidden, also by Jack, to keep out of it, did not lessen my determination to solve it. What was the hidden agenda, what were the authorities, namely Inspector Gray, so anxious to conceal? I realised it was becoming an obsession, a permanent itch impossible to ignore. With another week to endure before the Games and our return home, I thought longingly of Solomon’s Tower.

What upset me most of all was the change in my long and loving relationship with Vince. We had always been close but since we came to Balmoral and particularly since Lily’s death, his attitude towards me had changed
completely. To my horror he saw me as a potential troublemaker, meddling in affairs that did not concern me but might have disastrous repercussions on his position as physician to the royal household. I had never seen Vince in a role where he was afraid of anything before but that warning to me held a risk I could not take.

I felt very let down by present events – even Jack had dismissed my suspicions about Lily and I felt wounded, that he should have known and understood me better. However, during those long evenings having drams together while I lay upstairs nursing my wretched cold, I suspected that Vince had persuaded Jack as well of the somewhat vague explanation of Inspector Gray’s presence at the castle, all of which added further to my conviction that there was more than a servant girl’s murder at its core. I needed to escape for a while from a cottage that had become claustrophobic, my thoughts going round and round like rats trapped in a cage. I needed to lose myself for a few hours in the calm beauty of the landscape, in the hills that had been here long before humans and would still be here when humans with all their griefs and joys were no more.

At least I still had Thane, loyal and faithful, nothing had changed there. At home in Solomon’s Tower when I was perplexed by an apparently unsolvable crime, I would climb through Hunter’s Bog to the heights of Arthur’s Seat and look down on the sprawl of Edinburgh city far below. It always helped to clear my mind and I would return home more often than not with a key to the labyrinth.

It just might work here. I would climb the hill on the Tomintoul road overlooking the castle, with its
magnificent view of the undulating hills of Deeside, past Bush Farm, the one-time home of John Brown, who had created such an almighty stir in the late Queen’s reign. A troublemaker and worse, King Edward’s resolve had been strengthened to remove all traces on the estate of his mother’s favourite ghillie.

I would take my sketchbook and Thane, although we had to make our journey across the estate by a circuitous route. This did not seem necessary since Meg’s outburst regarding her ownership of Thane unless the King made his own secret arrangements and decided to kidnap him. But in this particular part of the world with royal prerogatives one never really knew what was law and what wasn’t, so I decided to err on the side of caution and continue to avoid any contact.

It was a lovely clear day; autumn’s changing colours were still to come, with no hint beyond a time of mellowing, of deepening colours and a golden glow over everything. The treetops looked heavily burdened, overleafed and weary somehow. As if having accomplished all that nature intended, blossomed, flourished and provided shelter for little animals and nests for the next generation of songbirds, as well as their more raucous uncouth neighbours, they were ready to sigh and shed their leafy load and go to sleep until spring woke them again.

Our climb was assisted by a slight but welcoming breeze. At last we reached a suitably sheltered place to set up my campstool.

As I began drawing, at my side Thane seemed content after exploring new smells and sounds with canine intensity. He had enjoyed the longer walk and exercise
after being restricted to the wood by the cottage.

Suddenly he sat up, alert, a low-pitched growl.

‘What is it?’

Turning his head, he stared towards the top of the hill behind us and I saw the glint of sunlight on glass. Twin circles – someone with binoculars was watching us.

I wasn’t afraid. Thane would take care of me and he was more than a match for any man. But I felt anger now, all I had wanted was a bit of peace to draw, now it was being invaded and I felt too uneasy to relax. Small chance of that as footsteps were descending, twigs snapping under swift-moving feet. Branches being pushed aside as the watcher was making his way downhill and had to pass us by if he was to continue down the track.

He came into view a few yards away and my heart thudded as my senses recognised that fleeting resemblance, the tumbling locks of dark hair, even the walk. Vince had recognised it. And did anyone who ever knew Danny see it – would Jack too, I wondered?

I stood up, deciding to confront him this time.

‘Good day to you, Mr Brown.’

He stopped, a moment’s bewilderment as he looked back over his shoulder. And I knew the grim truth, it confirmed my suspicions. That whatever Vince said, Brown was not his real name.

Thane was leaping towards him, seeing him as a threat. I was safe enough. But wait a moment, what was going on? Thane had reached his side and, far from confrontation, there was a lot of tail-wagging, excited barks. Thane had found a friend. And so had Mr Brown, stroking him, ruffling his ears.

‘Hello, old chap, how are you?’

I was taken aback. I was not witnessing a polite meeting of strangers but a reunion as Brown crossed the short distance, his hand on Thane’s head. He came close, close enough for the echoes of spent tobacco smoke. Even if he didn’t smoke cigars, those he associated with did. The smell of old tweed, this male closeness disarmed me. My body yearned to lean into that warmth. It struck a chord long since lost, reminding me of greeting Danny after one of our long absences from each other in Arizona, while he went far afield on business from Pinkerton’s Detective Agency. When I never knew if I would ever see him again, always afraid I would lose him. Which I did.

From his tall height, looking down at me, he smiled, an endearing smile. ‘You are not lost this time, miss, I’m relieved to see.’ And squinting at the drawing. ‘That’s very good.’

‘Thank you, Mr Brown.’

Again that slightly baffled smile, that wavering moment.

‘I see you have put your binoculars away. Why were you spying on me?’

That startled him. An uneasy shrug.

‘Just walking, were you?’ I asked.

Ignoring my question, he said: ‘May I?’ leaning over so that I could not see his expression clearly, he had taken refuge in turning the pages of my sketchbook.

He pointed to the drawing I had made of Lily, and said: ‘This looks familiar.’

I felt embarrassed. There was one of him on the next page, drawn from memory.

‘Did you know Lily?’

‘Lily?’

‘Yes, the girl who drowned.’

He was concentrating on turning the pages. ‘No.’

‘I saw you talking to her.’

‘Did you?’ He did not raise his head, the question casual, of no importance.

‘Yes,’ I said.

He sighed, closing the book. ‘I don’t remember. Perhaps she was lost,’ he smiled. ‘Like you, asking me for directions.’

So he was lying. He knew it was Ballater. I felt triumphant.

‘I don’t think that was the reason.’

‘Why not?’ He regarded me slowly, a patient smile.

‘She wasn’t English, Mr Brown.’

He was silent, frowning now, staring down over towards the turrets of the castle still far distant.

I had to know more about him, fill in the gaps. He was no ordinary ghillie, that was for sure. Not one of the visiting sportsmen either. He just didn’t belong in either category, or on the Balmoral estate. Alien somehow to these surroundings, as if he had wandered into this place, this time.

‘Brown isn’t your real name, is it?’

He turned those strange luminous eyes. ‘No. The men call me Saemus.’

‘You’re a Scot?’

He shrugged and I persisted.

‘Or Irish. Is it Irish you are?’ (Like Danny, my heart fluttered) ‘Saemus is the Gaelic for Thomas.’

He looked away frowning, towards the distant hills,
the far horizon as if they might provide the answer.

Then with a shrug: ‘I am nothing,’ he said coldly.

That seemed odd and I asked: ‘Why are you here in Balmoral?’

He had recovered whatever he was in danger of losing by my questions. He smiled. ‘Perhaps I am a guest like yourself.’

‘I don’t think so, you don’t dress like the sportsmen, or the ghillies.’ I paused. ‘No, you are a man here with some purpose. I can recognise that. And you appear unexpectedly in strange surroundings.’ I could not say Penby, but I added, ‘I saw you with the gipsies when we first arrived, on our way here.’

He gave that a moment’s thought. ‘A social call. They are my friends, they speak my language.’

‘Gaelic?’

Again he shrugged. ‘Metaphorically speaking, I understand many languages.’

‘So you are a scholar too?’

He looked away. ‘Perhaps.’

I took a deep breath. ‘I think you knew Lily. And that you killed her,’ I said slowly, even knowing it was madness. Looking at Thane, after that show of friendliness I could no longer rely on his protection. In a minute this man’s hands would be about my throat, but there was no water here to conveniently dispose of my body and have it dismissed as drowning.

In one swift movement, he dropped down to my side and took hold of both my hands. It was handholding, a warm friendly gesture. He wasn’t going to kill me. ‘Why all these questions?’

‘That is my business.’

Suddenly he was laughing at me. ‘You are not a very clever detective, Rose McQuinn.’

That startled me. ‘How did you know my name?’

He turned away, his face suddenly sad. ‘I know everything,’ and letting go my hands, no longer warm, he stared ahead down towards the castle. ‘And if I were to kill someone, and I do know how,’ he said coldly, ‘I would do it differently.’ He picked up a twig and snapped it. ‘Not dump them in the river, hoping the body might be washed into the sea forty miles away.’

And I knew he spoke the truth. He had killed but then so had Danny and so had I, a necessity of survival against hostile Apaches and bandits in Arizona.

He stood up again, and looking down at me, bowed. It was suddenly an old-world gesture. Whoever he was, he had the manners of a gentleman but without another word, he turned and walked quickly away down the hill.

The weather was changing, a chill wind had taken over, clouds overtaking the blue sky, sweeping in from the west. I was no longer in the mood to draw. I went back to the cottage, going over that odd conversation, remembering those strange eyes, amber in colour. Not in the least like Danny’s blue Irish eyes, but tantalisingly familiar.

And I knew where I had seen them before. I looked into similar eyes a dozen times a day, every time Thane leapt up to greet me.