Death at Glamis Castle (27 page)

“Good evenin' tae ye, Oliver,” said Thomas Collpit in a loud and genial voice, drawing the constable's pint. At his words, as at a signal, the buzz of voices resumed.

“Good evenin' tae ye, Thomas,” the constable said, forcing a normal tone. He turned away from the publican to face the room, his narrowed glance taking in the assembled men. Robert Heriot, the schoolmaster, was talking with Peter Chasehope, the joiner, at a small table in the corner. At the larger table under the front window, the one-armed baker, Alex Ross, and the Reverend Cecil Calderwood were sharing a boisterous tale with the old ballad collector, whose fiddle lay on the table beside a bottle of good Scotch whiskey, while Douglas Hamilton, a gamekeeper from the castle, was hunched dourly over an empty glass. As the constable watched, the ballad collector picked up the bottle and refilled it, although Hamilton looked like a man who had already had more than enough of drink. There was nothing unusual about that, however, since Hamilton frequently drank too much.

At the end of the bar, the station clerk, a brash, bearded young man named Gibbie, raised his pint. “So, Constable! Did ye see that train o' bonnie soldiers that coom in this mornin'? Brought in a great lot o' bicycles, too, an' God knows what else. What'd'ye know of 'em, eh?”

Chasehope, the joiner, who fancied himself well informed about everything that went on in the village, glanced up from his pint. “Milit'ry maneuvers is what was told tae me, Gibbie,” he replied loudly, his side-whiskers bristling. “Testin' some new-fangled bicycles afore they take 'em tae Africa tae use 'gainst th' filthy Boers.”

“Testin' bicycles,” harrumped the schoolmaster scornfully. “I tell ye, Peter, I dinna like it. Soldiers cyclin' along th' roads like fiends and bargin' through th' woods an' fields with a' manner o' noise, an' none can say what they're really up tae. Could be mortal mischief.”

“Could be they're Germans,” said the old ballad collector helpfully. “Over near Glasgow way, at the shipyards, they turned up three German spies yesterweek.” He glanced brightly around the table, his gaze birdlike. “Bad folks, those Germans.”

“Nae, sir,” the joiner disputed him. “The soldiers dinna be German spies, for they speak English.” He pulled his brows together with a wise look. “What they're really doin', if ye should like my opinion on th' matter, is
huntin'
.”

“Hunting?” asked the ballad collector in surprise. “Hunting for what? Grouse?” He frowned and shook his head. “Nivver did I see sae many a-huntin'. The grouse'll be outnumbered, for sure.” He laughed heartily, and Hamilton, the only one who seemed to have got the joke, joined in.

“Hunting for
who,
more like,” said the baker sternly, thumping the table with his stump of an arm. “For that laird that's gone missin' from th' castle. Angus Duff sent his men out tae find him early in th' week, but they coom up empty-handed, so now they've brought in th' soldiers tae search.”

“Aye,” Hamilton agreed in a sour tone. “They've posted men on a' th' roads. They dinna let folks in or out unless they're sure it isna him.” He lifted his whiskey and drained it in a gulp. “A brigadier named Sheridan is in charge o' the show,” he added, wiping his mouth. “Lord Sheridan, it is.”

The ballad collector leaned forward. “Sheridan, ye say?”

“Aye.” Hamilton hiccupped.

The constable stared uncomprehendingly at the men. He knew that rumors flew through the village like fire through dry grass on a windy day, but where had they heard all
this,
which was supposed to be entirely secret?

“Ye're a' daft, ever'one o' ye” The station clerk chuckled into his blond beard. “Lairds don't go missin', that's only for poor men, who've nae other way out o' their debts. Wherever did ye hear such foolery?”

“My cousin's son Tom works in th' stables up at th' castle,” the baker replied, lighting his pipe with his one good hand and leaning back in his chair. “He told his mum, an' his mum told me when she coom in tae get a fresh loaf. Said he heard th' soldiers talkin' about this laird they're 'sposed tae find. An' since there's only one laird lost, it must be him.”

“A lost laird,” the ballad collector chortled, refreshing the baker's glass. He picked up his fiddle and bow and began to saw at the strings. “His lairdship he went a huntin', and nivver was seen again,” he warbled.

The schoolmaster, who had perhaps had more ale than was good for him, laughed heartily. “I shouldna wonder that Laird Osborne wandered awae an' got lost. From a' I hear of th' fellow, he's tot'lly daft.”

“Deaf, rather'n daft,” said the joiner darkly. He reached for the whiskey bottle, but the old ballad collector forestalled him, putting down his fiddle and filling the joiner's glass with a flourish. “Can't hear a word said tae him. My niece Mabel told me all about it. An invalid gentl'man, third son of a duke or somethin'. Has lived hidden away at th' castle for nigh on fifty years. Gaes naewhere, only paints pictures an' walks in th' woods.” He seemed about to say more, but pulled down his mouth, muttering, “Wretched fellow.”

“Deaf, eh,” said the ballad collector, shaking his head sympathetically. “Poor chap.” He glanced at Hamilton, sprawled in the chair next to him. “You work at the castle, eh? Have you met his lordship?”

Hamilton tipped up his glass and drank. “Oh, aye,” he said sourly. “I've met the fellow, an' it's true. Deaf as a post, an' daft as well.” His chuckle was bitter. “Thinks he's the Bonnie Prince, he does.”

The constable was dumbfounded at this unexpected fragment of information. The Bonnie Prince? Lord Osborne must be as mad as a hatter! Then another thought came, and he shivered. If Lord Osborne imagined himself to be Prince Charles Stuart, perhaps he fancied Flora as the Flora MacDonald of legend, who had ferried the Young Pretender to the Isle of—

“The Bonnie Prince, is it?” exclaimed the ballad collector.

“Now, there's an admirable chap. Would that he were wi' us again!” And he swung into a soul-stirring rendition of the first verse of “Will He No Come Back Again?”

 

At the familiar refrain, “Will ye no come back again?” the whole room joined in with good heart and harmony and much stamping of feet, until the old black rafters rang with the men's voices. Pleased with themselves, they sang the song again, and at the conclusion, several of the thirsty fellows elbowed their way to the bar to have their glasses refilled.

Reverend Calderwood, however, was frowning. “I don't see,” he said sternly, “that 'tis anything tae celebrate. A poor deaf man who's daft enough tae think he's our Royal Charlie . . .” He shook his head mournfully. “Christ tells us that we should rather pity such wretched folk, than heap scorn on them.”

“Ye wouldna pity th' fellow, Reverend,” said the joiner darkly, “if ye knew what th' castle folk are sayin' he's done.”

“Whatever he's done,” Reverend Calderwood replied in a pious tone, “Our Lord will forgive him. God is gracious tae forgive our sins, no matter how low we have—”

“What's he done?” asked the ballad collector, putting down his fiddle and cocking his head to the side. “What's he done, this poor, deaf Royal Charlie?”

“What's he done?” The joiner pushed back his chair with a loud scraping sound. “They say it's him who murdered Hilda.”

A quiet descended on the room. Behind the bar, Thomas Collpit's wife dropped a plate, shattering the silence with a great crash of crockery. Pale and shaking, she bent to pick up the pieces.

“Murdered Hilda?” the reverend whispered. “May God hae mercy on his wretched soul!”

“Murdered Hilda?” gasped the station clerk in great excitement. “Ye don't say!”

“A
laird
murdered our Hilda?” cried the baker.

“Aye. And what's more,” the joiner continued, in a low and deliberate voice, “ 'tis said that Angus Duff an' Simpson the house steward found her dead in th' laird's rooms an' carried her poor body tae th' spot where Flora found it.”

The constable felt himself gaping. “How do ye know that, Peter Chasehope?” he asked, finding his voice at last. “Can ye swear to it?”

The joiner gave the constable a stony look. “I can only swear to what my wife's niece Mabel said. She's a maidservant at the castle, ye know. She told me and her aunt at tea this evenin' that it was th' deaf laird who cut Hilda's throat.” His hard glance softened. “She says he did it for th' sake o' Flora. She says a' th' castle folk think so.”

At this mention of Flora's name, all eyes went to the constable, who felt his throat gone dry. The scaly red devil that had ridden on his back all the way from the gypsy camp to the village now crouched on his shoulder, grinning hideously and shaking his barbed tail with a dry rattle.

“Flora?” Oliver whispered. “What does this laird hae tae do wi' Flora?”

The joiner shifted uncomfortably. “Well—” He stopped.

The constable pulled in his breath. “Well, what, Peter Chasehope?” he demanded hoarsely. The devil jumped from his shoulder to the floor, then leapt up and grasped his throat in its two gnarled hands, as hot as if they'd just been struck from an anvil. “Speak up, man!” he croaked, as the grip tightened on his throat. “What're ye sayin' aboot Flora?”

“I'm sayin',” the joiner said in a low voice, “that this laird an' Flora made it up b'tween 'em tae leave, an' Hilda got in th' way, an' he killed her.” He cleared his throat. “At least,” he amended, “that's what Mabel says they're sayin' at th' castle.” He cast a half-defiant look around him. “O' course, it may be a lie, for aught I know. Ye can't always b'lieve them castle folk. No morals, most of 'em. 'Cept for Mabel, o' course.”

The constable tried to speak, but the devil grasped him so tightly by the throat that he could not say a word, could scarcely breathe. Flora's pale face, once so pure and blameless, seemed to swim before his darkening gaze, suffused with shame and guilt.

“There's a judgment preparin',” said Reverend Calderwood ominously. He raised his voice, declaiming. “This is th' work of the de'il, of th' foul fiend who dwells among th' high an' mighty an' wreaks great harm on th' poor and th' lowly.” He clasped his hands and cast his eyes upward. “Oh God, deliver us from th' devils of lust and avarice and murder. In Laird Jesus's name, amen.”

“Amen,” several of the men echoed, while the station clerk raised his glass and cried “Hear! hear!” and one or two stamped their feet.

Hamilton cleared his throat loudly. “O' course, it may be a lie,” he said, agreeing with the joiner, “but I heard th' same thing said 'mongst the stable staff. 'Twas his lairdship who murdered Hilda.” His words slurred and he stopped to get command of his voice. “But Osborne isna the laird's real name. He's somebody else a'together.”

“Somebody else?” asked the ballad collector, goggling at him in amazement. “A duke in disguise, mayhap? The ballads are full o' dukes in disguise.”

“A duke or a son of a duke,” said Hamilton with a wise look. “He's somebody high up, for sartin.”

“Douglas,” the joiner said, “ye've drunk too much again.”

The ballad collector eyed Hamilton. “How d'ye know he's not who he says?”

Hamilton shrugged. “There's them that's seen his quarters. Pictures of the Royal Family a' around.” He tossed off the rest of his whiskey and stood up. “Time tae go home,” he said thickly. He swayed.

“I'm off as well,” said the baker. He put his hand under Hamilton's elbow to keep him straight on his feet.

“And I,” said the ballad collector, picking up his fiddle and packing it into its case. “Enough good times for one evenin'.”

The constable turned back to the bar. “Pull me another pint, Thomas,” he said sourly. Beside him, the devil leapt up onto the bar and squatted there, giggling and scratching and making fiendish faces, as Oliver drained his glass and called for another.