Death at Glamis Castle (25 page)

Kate looked at the list she'd jotted down, which consisted of the cook, the laundress, the housekeeper, and an upstairs maid. “Well, then, since there are only four, my inquiries shouldn't take long.”

Simpson bowed. “I'll have each of them sent up.”

“Oh, no,” Kate said hastily. “I'll go find them myself, where they work—that is, if you have no objection.”

Simpson coughed. “Of course, if your ladyship wishes,” he replied delicately, forebearing to point out that this might be considered an invasion of staff privacy. But Kate was experienced enough with her own servants to know that they were more forthcoming if she met them on their turf, if only because she surprised the information out of them.

“One more question,” she said, looking down once again at the list. “What do these women know of Lord Osborne?”

Simpson pursed his lips. “All four are aware that an invalid gentleman by that name lives in the west wing. They are not supposed to know anything other than that, although—” He stopped.

“Although one of them may in fact have discovered his real identity?” Kate pursed her lips. If so, that information might not be so closely-held as the Royal Family would like to think. Prince Eddy's identity could be known all over the village, and perhaps beyond—which meant that a clever German agent might have easily got wind of it.

Simpson looked uncomfortable. “It's possible,” he conceded warily. “As your ladyship undoubtedly knows, it is very difficult to keep secrets from servants.”

Kate regarded Simpson with a small frown. Of course,
he
had been in on the secret, presumably from the beginning, as had Duff. Perhaps one of them had revealed the Prince's identity. Oh, it was all so complicated! Just the sort of mystery that Beryl loved to unravel.

Some moments later, Kate found herself in the castle's vast flagstone-floored kitchens, seated beside a cheerful fire with a cup of fragrant tea. Across from her sat the astonished cook, Mrs. Thompson, whose face was as round and ruddy as a Christmas pudding. Over her shoulder, Kate could see a high tripod with metal shelves holding burnished copper saucepans, and a huge black kitchen range that occupied half of one whole wall, the usual equipment in a country-house kitchen. A sullen kitchenmaid in a blue cotton dress and white apron was wielding a large, sharp knife, chopping vegetables for that night's dinner at the long wooden table in the middle of the room, and making quite a bit of noise about it. On the table sat a large china plate of sandwiches, covered with a damp towel. Beside it was a bowl of grapes.

Mrs. Thompson was a homely soul, who—once past her surprise at her ladyship's visit—was more than willing to answer her questions about the MacDonalds, mother and daughter.

Shaking her head, she said sadly, “They're gude folks, both of 'em, an' loyal workers who never shirked a day. Hilda was a'ready here when I came, five years agon. 'Tis a great wickedness wha' was done tae her. My heart gaes out tae Flora, poor thing.”

Kate set her teacup in its saucer. “If Flora were to go away somewhere,” she asked carefully, “where might she go?” At the table, the kitchenmaid stopped chopping.

“Gae awae?” Mrs. Thompson asked doubtfully. “I'm sure I canna say, m'lady. P'raps tae that cousin o' hers, who lives in Edinburgh. Or tae Bavaria, where Hilda's people live.” She frowned. “But why should Flora gae anywhere, wi' her poor dear dead mother still lyin' 'bove ground? An' her with a gude place and a cottage an' all? Why, she's much better off here than in Edinburgh.” She sniffed. “Or Germany, sart'nly.”

As to Lord Osborne, Mrs. Thompson could report only a few salient facts. “He's partial tae fish,” she said, “an' stuffed partridge, an' rice puddin' wi' nutmeg.” She smiled, showing a missing tooth. “An' my gooseberry fool, which he told Hilda is th' best he's tasted in this world.” Her smile faded and she leaned forward, dropping her voice. “Is't true that he's dead? He's been ill so long, poor wretch, an' we've sent up nae meals sin' Sunday.” Becoming aware of the silence in the room, she planted her thick hands on her knees and turned around to glare at the kitchenmaid. “Get back tae work, Sally me girl, or ye'll find yerself in th' scullery!”

Mrs. Thompson's feelings about Flora were shared by Mrs. Wollie, the laundress, a large-framed, muscular woman with a pock-marked face. Her cotton skirts were tucked up out of the damp and her sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms that would have done credit to a blacksmith. Mrs. Wollie was loose-tongued and not as deferential as Mrs. Thompson.

“Gae awae?” she repeated incredulously, turning from the clothesline in her basement empire where she was pegging freshly-washed sheets. “Flora wudna gae without seein' her mother put intae the graveyard. It wudna be Christian, now, would it?” Questioned further, she became vague. “Anyways, where wud she gae, poor thing, and she wi' naebody left i' this world save a cousin who cooms an' goes now an' then?”

Mrs. Wollie seemed to know little about Lord Osborne's person, although she knew a great deal about his laundry. On Wednesdays, Flora had charge of washing the clothing—shirts and collars and smallclothes and such—of an invalid gentleman who contributed no more than two sheets and two pillowcases to the household laundry each week, as well as one or two tablecloths, seven linen napkins, and three towels and a facecloth.

“No bother 't all, is he,” she added approvingly. “Nowt like Lady Glamis, wi' all those children spillin' chocolate an' wipin' jelly fingers on th' nursery nappikins an' tablecloths.” She snapped a pillowcase violently. “Thank th' gude Lord
they've
gone!”

To Kate's inquiry about gypsies and tinkers in the neighborhood, Mrs. Wollie offered a more informative response. “O'course there be gypsies,” she said, as if Kate had asked a foolish question. “They're camped at Roundyhill, where they always stop, th' whole lot o' em. One o' th' men, Awld Pietro, carves new pegs for me every year, tae replace th' ones that break. They dinna last forever, ye know.” In evidence, she held out a broken clothes peg. “As for tinkers, ye mun ask Mr. Fewell, th' third footman. He's responsible for seein' tae th' mendin' o' pots an' pitchers an' basins an' such. He'd know if th' tinker's been round yet.” When asked if Flora might have been inclined to go off with any of the gypsies, Mrs. Wollie's response was equally definitive and scornful.

“Flora? A gypsy? Dinna be daft! Flora's a
gude
girl! She hasna even had a sweetheart, though there be sev'ral who fancy her—like th' young constable, who wears his heart on his sleeve. Anyways, she's devoted tae th' invalid gentleman.” She sighed gustily. “Ye should see the pair of 'em walkin' in the grounds in the afternoon, their heads close together. Like innocent lovers, they are.” She pushed up her sleeves. “Now,'f ye'll pardon me, I've got starch cookin' on th' fire for Mr. Simpson's collars.”

Kate had just left the room and turned into the hall, pondering the ambiguities of “innocent lovers,” when Sally the kitchenmaid stepped out of the shadows near the laundry-room door, startling her.

“I heard ye askin' Cook aboot th' invalid gentleman,” she said. She leaned closer, speaking in a hurried whisper. “Mrs. Thompson dinna ken naething aboot him an' her—Flora, I mean. But
I
do.”

Kate took an involuntary step backward. The girl's breath smelled of onions and garlic and rotten teeth, and her hair had not been washed for some time. “What do you know, Sally?”

“Needs tae be somethin' in it for me,” Sally said sourly. “I has tae work for a livin'. Got six brothers ‘n' sisters an' a sick mother, haen't I?”

The girl was far too thin to be pretty, with knobby wrists and sallow skin and unnatural spots of color in her cheeks that told of consumption, and Kate felt a sharp sympathy. Service was a hard life for young women, even when they had a relatively secure place. Kate reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a sixpence.

“It's all I have,” she said apologetically.

“Then it'll hae tae do, won't it?” the girl replied, snatching the coin out of her hand and thrusting it into her dirty bodice. She glanced over her shoulder to assure herself that they were alone in the hall.

“Flora thought she was sae smart,” she said sourly. “Strut-tin' round th' grounds wi' that rich gentl'man o' hers, recitin' poetry, puttin' on airs, like she was a real lady.” Her laugh was short and sardonic. “Fawn o'er him, she did, like she really thought he'd marry her an' make her an honest woman. And her nae better'n me!”

It was impossible to tell whether the girl was speaking the truth or something close to it, or fabricating a complete lie out of jealousy and resentment. Kate moved a little closer.

“Do you think,” she asked quietly, “that they might have been lovers?”

Sally's eyes glittered. If the question shocked her, she didn't show it. Her scornful reply came without hesitation. “I'm sure of 't, more fool she. These rich gentl'men, they can't wait tae get yer skirts o'er yer head. But once they do, it's done wi' ye, they are, an' on tae the next.” Her thin face twisted. “It happened tae me sister, who went out an' hung herself in th' gentl'man's barn for th' shame of it. An' now it's happened tae Flora.”

Hung herself? Kate pulled in her breath, feeling herself grow cold. But it should not be a shock. She understood too well the risks that were run daily by young women in service, easy prey to men of birth and education who ought to know better than to wrong those who were without defense. And while the men were rarely, if ever, called to account, the women, ill-used and desperate and pregnant, had no alternative but shame and the workhouse—or death.

“I'm very sorry for your sister,” Kate managed, feeling an infinite sadness, undergirded with anger. “But how do you know that the same thing has happened to Flora? Did she
tell
you so?” If Prince Eddy had taken advantage of Flora, Kate vowed fiercely to herself, she would see justice done, if she had to take the matter directly to Queen Alexandra. She leaned forward, her hands clenched at her sides. “How do you know?”

“B'cause he's gone, isna he?” The girl laughed mirthlessly, showing rotten teeth. “He's gone, an' Hilda got her throat slit when she tried tae stop him, an' lit'le Miss High-and-Mighty's run off with a gypsy. Ye said so yerself. An' who but a harlot wud do such a low thing?” And with that parting remark, she turned and went down the hall toward the kitchen, swinging her hips in an exaggerated flounce.

Chagrined, Kate stared after the girl, realizing that Sally had overheard the question she had put to Mrs. Wollie about Flora and the gypsy and would now spread the gossip as if it were gospel to all her friends. Unless Kate missed her guess, both Sally and the constable were all too ready to conclude the worst about Flora, and perhaps from not dissimilar motives. Jealousy was a stern and powerful shaper of perception. Was the conclusion a valid one? Perhaps, perhaps not. Who could tell?

Kate waited a few moments for her feelings to subside before she went to seek out her next interview, with the housekeeper. Their conversation took place in the tea pantry, where Mrs. Leslie was setting out the afternoon tea on a large silver tray sitting on a tray stand in the center of the room. This interview yielded somewhat more real information than the others, for Mrs. Leslie, a genial little black-garbed woman with a horsehair bun on the top of her head, only partially disguised by her own hair, had a longer acquaintance with the MacDonalds. It turned out that she had known Flora's father Malcolm as well, who had died some ten years earlier.

“Malcolm was a MacDonald of Skye,” Mrs. Leslie said. She took down a tin of ginger biscuits and carefully counted out a dozen, placing them on a crystal plate. She peered into the tin with a puzzled look, as if expecting to have found more. “Such a fine man, Malcolm,” she added. “ 'Twas quite a love match, him and Hilda. 'Tis a great pity he didna live tae see his daughter grown up, and sae beautiful. Hilda always hoped tae take her back tae Skye again, tae visit Flora's grandparents.”

“Flora has family there, then?” Kate asked.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Mrs. Leslie replied, taking down a box of almond confections. “Malcolm took the family tae visit there when Flora was a young girl.” She opened the box and frowned down into it. “Really,” she said, in an accusatory tone, “I must speak tae Simpson. Someone has been stealin' from the tea supplies.”

“Do you think,” Kate asked, “that Flora might undertake such a journey for herself?”

“Oh, I'm sure she will,” Mrs. Leslie replied, arranging candies on a small silver tray. “When her mother's taken care of proper, that is. I've heard her humming the song.”

“The song?”

“Why, the ‘Skye Boat Song.' Aboot Bonnie Prince Charlie. Ye've heard it, I'm sure.” She looked up, blue eyes twinkling, and sang a catchy tune, half-under her breath: “Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing, ‘Onward,' the sailors cry; Carry the lad that's born to be king Over the sea to Skye.”

Hearing the melody, Kate remembered the song. It had been written some twenty years before and had been so popular that it was often sung at musical performances. It told the romantic story of the escape of Bonnie Prince Charlie, “the lad that's born to be king,” to the Isle of Skye, disguised as the servant of the famous Flora MacDonald. If she remembered correctly, there was even a verse that mentioned Flora: