Death at Glamis Castle (3 page)

From somewhere behind and below him, Charles half-heard the sound of hoofbeats, and he shifted his position, still lost in thought. With Britain's possessions now flung across a quarter of the globe (that the sun never set on the British Empire was not just a figure of speech), Hadrian's Wall offered a lesson from which the government and the British people might well profit. Whether they would, of course, was doubtful, for the temptation to Empire was as strong at the beginning of this new century as it must have been in Hadrian's distant day. What would the Romans make of the land they had so arduously occupied, as it had been altered by time and technology, transformed into a world they would scarcely recognize? And what would they say of the British Empire, with its jingoistic fervor, its irrepressible confidence in its own economic and technical superiority, its seemingly-incurable blindness to its many intractable social problems?

“Halloo, m'lord! Halloo!”

The shout shattered the noon-time silence and jarred Charles from his thoughts. He turned as the hail came again, from the village constable whom he and Kate had met when they arrived the week before at Haydon Bridge, where he had joined several members of the Newcastle Society to undertake another excavation at Housesteads and Kate had taken to photographing the ruins and tramping the ancient hills in search of inspiration for another of Beryl Bardwell's books.

“Beggin' yer lordship's pardon,” the constable said breathlessly, as he dismounted from his horse. “I've been instructed t' locate ye and deliver this telegram.” Reaching into the pocket of his blue tunic, he produced an envelope. “I'm also t' escort ye to the train.”

“The train?” Charles took the envelope. “What train? Why?”

The constable straightened his shoulders, obviously feeling the gravity of his mission. “A special train, waitin' fer ye down below, sir.” He puffed out his cheeks and added importantly, “The biggest engine I ever did see. They've cleared traffic fer it all th' way from Newcastle to Carlisle.”

Charles slit the envelope with his pocket knife and scanned the telegram. It had been sent by Andrew Kirk-Smythe, whom he had met half a dozen years before at a house party given by Lady Warwick, where the young man was acting as bodyguard to the Prince of Wales. Charles had quite liked the young lieutenant and knew that he had done well for himself, continuing in the Royal service. The Prince of Wales was now King Edward VII, the “E.R.” of Kirk-Smythe's telegram, the one man in the British Empire with the temerity to intrude upon Charles's holiday and expect his instant acquiescence.

Charles frowned. But what was this “matter of gravest importance”? And why all the secrecy? Obviously there was something here that Kirk-Smythe felt he could not trust to the discretion of the local telegraphist. With a sigh, Charles folded the telegram, thinking that it was a good thing that they had packed their baggage into the motorcar that morning. The prospect of returning to the soot and grime of London, only a fortnight after Parliament's adjournment, did not fill him with enthusiasm. Still, there was nothing for it but to find Kate, tell her the news, and board the train.

The constable was already mounting his horse. “Beg pardon, m'lord, but they're waitin' fer ye.” He picked up the reins. “If I may be so bold as t' ask, sir, wot's so important that they're willin' to block th' line?”

Charles swung his legs off the wall. “I haven't the foggiest,” he said.

 

 

A half-hour later, Kate piloting their Panhard through a wretchedly rutted lane, they bounced over a ridge and saw the train waiting for them on the North Eastern Railway line. Charles, still expecting only a rather ordinary locomotive and tender with a single coach, was startled to see a new Big Atlantic, the monster locomotive that was being operated experimentally by the North Eastern line. Its out-sized boiler and firebox dwarfed those of ordinary locomotives, and it hissed steam through the exhaust vents of the piston cylinders like a leaky dragon, impatient to be about its business. To this massive engine and its formidable tender were coupled, not the single passenger coach that Charles had expected, but a Royal Mail coach, two baggage cars, and three large passenger coaches. A motley group of men lounged about the idling train, smoking and talking.

“My goodness,” Kate gasped in dismay. “They've sent that behemoth for
us?
Where in the name of heaven is it taking us, Charles?”

“Not to London,” Charles replied, “unless the engineer plans to run to Newcastle in reverse. The train's headed west, toward Carlisle.”

“But what about our automobile?” Kate asked uneasily. “We're not going to leave it here, I hope.”

As she pulled on the brake and brought the motorcar to a stop, a dapper, mustached gentleman in an ulster and felt hat, stick tucked under one arm, stepped smartly forward and stopped, snapping his heels together, his spine straight as a ramrod. Charles expected him to offer a salute, but after a second's hesitation, the mustached man extended his hand.

“Lord Sheridan,” he said in clipped tones, “Paddington here. Apologize for the inconvenience. Good of you to break off your holiday and join our little expedition.”

Charles climbed out and shook Paddington's hand. On the other side of the car, Kate was being helped out by several of the men. They were dressed, Charles saw, in civilian clothing, some of it ill-fitting and worn, although the men themselves were clean-shaven and well-groomed and carried themselves with a wary alertness. At the train windows sat others, similarly attired. Despite their efforts at disguise, they had the look of the military about them. But all available military men of this caliber had long ago been dispatched to fight the Boers, and there were virtually none left in England. None, that is, except—

Charles looked once more at the lounging men. “Household Guards?”

Paddington regarded him with a rueful smile. “Found us out, have you? Coldstream, First Battalion. Colonel Paddington, at your service.” He executed a flourish with his stick.

“I see,” Charles said crossly, not seeing at all. “What the dickens is this all about, Paddington?”

“Afraid I haven't a clue, sir,” the colonel replied in a brisk, cheerful tone. “Happy to put you in the picture with what little I know, though, once we're under way. If you'll board—”

Charles put a hand on the motorcar. “Lady Sheridan is coming with me, of course,” he said. “And the Panhard.”

“Ah,” the colonel said, less cheerfully. He glanced at Kate and the motorcar. “Afraid my instructions didn't mention—” He managed a tactful cough. “That you were accompanied.”

Kate raised the veil of her motoring hat and bestowed her most dazzling smile on Paddington. “The Panhard doesn't take up a great deal of space, Colonel, nor do I. Surely you have room enough for all three of us and our baggage.”

Paddington visibly melted under her charm. “Right you are, your ladyship.” He turned to one of the men. “Jenkins, be a good chap and clear some room among the kit so the motorcar can be loaded. And see to her ladyship's luggage.”

At Jenkins's command, the lounging men dropped their cigarettes and sprang into action. The door of one of the baggage cars slid open, and several men leapt in. Bundles, boxes, and bags were shifted out of the way, and in a moment, four stout wooden poles were handed out and slid under the Panhard's chassis. One man stationed himself at the end of each pole.

“Make ready, men,” Jenkins barked. “On three, now. One, two, three!” The Panhard was raised to shoulder height. “For'ard!”

The eight men stepped forward, and the vehicle was neatly maneuvered into the baggage compartment. When it was inside and secured, the men busied themselves re-packing the boxes and bundles around it. The door slid shut, and without a word, they formed a file and climbed into the nearest passenger coach, just as the engine's huge brass whistle gave a deafening blast and steam hissed from the massive pistons. The dragon was anxious to get under way.

Colonel Paddington escorted Kate and Charles to the last car, a first-class carriage, and they took their seats. A moment later, a second whistle blast echoed down the green valley. The car clanked and knocked as the couplings took up the slack, and they were off to points unknown, abandoning the ghosts of Housesteads to the dim and distant past.

William Brighty Rands 1823-1882

Romany saying

 

 

 

 

The small gypsy camp at Roundyhill, on the road between Glamis and Kirriemuir, was a hubbub of activity. A half-dozen raggle-taggle families prepared their dinners over fires on the ground near their tents or compact traveling wagons. Laughing children played among the dogs and cats and ponies, kicking stones, tossing balls, chanting favorite songs. Handsome women in bright-colored dresses and knitted scarves stirred soups and bubbling stews in iron kettles, and the air was rich with the scent of paprika-spiced stews made of rabbit and pheasant, taken from the fields of nearby estates. Swarthy-skinned men sat on their haunches around the fires, their dark eyes and white teeth and gold earrings flashing. As dinner was handed round by wives and sisters and mothers, they laid aside the odd bits of work that occupied them during the early evening: the mending of pots and pans; the weaving of baskets and repairing of bellows and harness; the whittling of wooden objects. For a little while after dinner, there would be music and lively dancing and stories around the fires, as a velvety darkness fell over the valley and the moon rose above the hills to the east. And then there would be quiet, as everyone retired to beds or blankets on the ground, and a nighttime's slumber.

The caravan had been at this encampment for several weeks, and all had settled into their routine of work and play. The young men were employed at their usual itinerant labors among the estates and farms in the Strathmore Valley, where their services were in much demand as farmers began the late-summer harvest of grains and vegetables. Old men whittled clothes pegs and skewers from wood gathered by the children, while the young women went into the neighboring villages and hamlets to hawk the hot pies and sweet tarts they baked, and the oldest women, bent and gnarled and wise-looking, told fortunes along the roads. A few of the bolder and more enterprising men did not work in the fields but rather prowled the neighborhood, looking for the odd pony or loose chicken or laundry left on the clothesline. Failing these, there were always rabbits and pheasants to poach, for the manor fields were rich in game, and the gamekeepers were not able to watch every corner.

These particular gypsies were regular visitors to this area of Scotland, usually appearing in late summer and lingering through the harvest, then moving south as winter approached. They had traveled together for years, most of them, although there were a few new additions to the group: a family of knife grinders from Surrey, driving a small cart ingeniously fitted up with a forge; and a ragged tinker with raven-black hair who had joined the group just a few days ago, coming from Arbroath, a small fishing town on the coast.

The tinker, who went by the name of Taiso, was new to gypsy life and had acquired his fitted-out wagon, pony, and tin tinker's pig from an old man who could no longer make use of it. Now, his simple meal of rabbit stew simmering in a pot slung over the fire, Taiso sat smoking his pipe on the top step of his caravan, surveying the camp. His hair was dark and rough-cut, like the others, although his skin was several shades lighter, his eyes an almost glacial blue, and his nose patrician, in a narrow, aristocratic face. His features did not surprise the gypsies, for many of them counted middle-European nobility among their ancestors, and his proficiency in Romany was a passport to easy acceptance. They were an hospitable lot and accustomed to welcoming other gypsies without asking where they came from or who they might be, requiring only that they do their share of the communal work and not interfere with the camp's usual activities.

This lack of curiosity suited Taiso very well. Even had he wished, he might not have been able to answer their questions truthfully, having very nearly forgotten who he was and what part of Europe he called home. Over the twenty-five years he had moved from country to country in pursuit of his profession, he had perfected the useful art of submerging himself in his current identity, to the point where he always became the man he pretended to be. Like an actor, he had developed an enormous repertoire of roles and moved so easily and skillfully from one to another that he felt perfectly confident in his ability to become anyone he wished.
Si khohaimo may pachivalo sar o chachimo.
There are lies more believable than truth, it was said among the gypsies, and Taiso knew precisely how to create them.