The Balmoral Incident (13 page)

‘I know nothing,’ he interrupted. ‘Hardly knew the lass.’ He stopped. ‘Is that all?’ he added firmly.

It looked like the end of our talk. I said: ‘I gather you have a better job to go to. Better prospects ahead than the stables at Balmoral.’

He looked rather sick. ‘Who told you that?’

Ignoring that question, I smiled. ‘Why else would you leave?’

He stopped, rubbed his chin and said coldly: ‘I was told to leave, day before yesterday.’

‘Dismissed, you mean?’

‘No, nothing like that. I was – warned off.’ He sounded angry, indignant now.

That was a surprising piece of information. ‘By whom?’

He shook his head. ‘Don’t ask me. Someone high up, I was given a message, handed ten quid and told to go and not to ask any questions.’ He took a deep breath and sounded scared as he added, ‘Said I wouldn’t get any answers.’ His voice rose. ‘Just leave. Leave now, if you know what is good for you, that’s what they said.’ He paused ‘Otherwise—’

‘Wait a minute. Who were “they”?’

‘Don’t know. A man. Kept out of sight.’

‘Anyone you would recognise? What he looked like.’

He laughed. ‘Have a heart. It was dark, I was coming back to the stables.’

‘You must have some idea what he sounded like.’

He shrugged. ‘Taller than me, hoarse kind of posh voice. Think he had gloves on when he put the money in my hand.’

I stopped and looked at him. He was telling the truth, no doubt about that, and he was still scared. I said slowly, ‘So you were threatened.’

He nodded. ‘Exactly. So I packed my gear and went.’

‘But that is terrible,’ I said.

‘It’s terrible, missus, to have your throat cut – or, like Lily, be found drowned.’

‘You don’t think it was an accident?’ I asked quickly.

He laughed harshly. ‘Don’t ask me to answer that one, either.’

‘Hey, Bobby!’ Two lads were approaching and I knew
I would get no more information. But as I rode back to Balmoral, I had sufficient to confirm my suspicions, although no one else would be willing to believe me, not even Vince.

I was certain after meeting Bobby that he had not killed her, their brief relationship had meant no more to him than any of the other one-night stands with willing females that made up his love life. He would have simply laughed at her suggestion of a permanent life, of marriage based on their slight intimacy, told her not to be daft and walked away.

But to someone, Lily as Bobby’s lover had suggested that his continued presence at Balmoral was dangerous. I didn’t imagine for one moment that someone was a jealous colleague in the stables.

The fact that he had been warned off by a man ‘with a posh voice’ had sinister implications. I was now certain that Lily’s death was no accident. It had been carefully planned.

But why? For every murder there has to be a motive and that I was determined to find out. After all, ten pounds was a hefty sum of money, a small fortune for a stable lad to clear out and keep his mouth shut.

Only a few days remained before Olivia and Faith were to travel back to London by sleeper on the royal train to prepare for the imminent family wedding and a very tight schedule indeed.

Before they left us, however, Vince decided that no holiday for them would be complete without a visit to Loch Muick and a picnic at Glas-Allt-Shiel. He would drive us in one of the motor cars, followed by ghillies lured from the guns ostensibly to fish for trout, which were prolific in that area of the Dee at this time of year. The holiday was made all the more memorable knowing that the King and his entourage were also at Glas-Allt-Shiel.

Having considered this as a family outing I was surprised that Olivia’s friend, Alice von Mueller, was to come with us.

‘I was sure you wouldn’t mind,’ said Olivia. ‘She is so lonely and unhappy, I thought it would be a great treat for her.’

‘Of course, she’s most welcome,’ I said and Olivia looked relieved.

‘She did so enjoy meeting you.’ The anxious look that accompanied it, hinted that Olivia had not given up hope that I might be able ‘to do something for Alice’s problem’.

Without wanting to be heartless, unhappy marriages weren’t in my territory. I had met quite a few potential clients in Edinburgh and had to turn them away. A counsellor wasn’t quite the same as a detective. Advice – and I gave the best I could – was not the same as solving a crime. And I could only offer my services if a crime was involved.

I tried to explain this to Olivia – without success, I’m afraid – who viewed a cruel husband from the security of her own loving relationship with Vince. She had a tender heart for lost causes and made friends easily; friends like Mabel, who I suspected only she could understand and who was, quite frankly, something of a trial to the rest of us.

Mabel had shuddered at the very idea of a picnic. As for the idea of a row on the loch, greeted with cries of delight by the two girls, that did not tempt her in the least. She would remain in the cottage with That Dog. Her decision was a relief as I had been wondering what to do about Thane. We would only be gone for a few hours but I was nervous about leaving him behind with the ghillies, as he was too large to go out in the rowing boat. I felt grateful
to Mabel, as with the addition of Alice, Vince driving with her and Olivia in front, Meg, Faith and I in the back seat, a huge deerhound would have been unmanageable.

The weather was perfect and augured well for our planned day as we were greeted by a beautiful morning, a sheer blue sky. The road was rough and narrow in places, but not too difficult given the good weather we had that day. A few unexpected swerves had us clinging to the sides of the motor which, however, kept its equilibrium and behaved well in the circumstances. But I did tremble to think what it must have been like on horseback or in a pony cart just a few years ago when, in those sudden fierce Highland storms, the rain fell not vertical but horizontal.

Another curve and we got our first glimpse of the loch. According to Vince, who had visited it many times, in its variety of weathers it looked either noble or sinister.

‘Muick in Gaelic signified darkness or sorrow,’ said Vince. ‘Stepfather knew it well: on one of his cases when he was the Queen’s personal detective at Balmoral, he saved her life here from an assassin.’

I had a sudden cold feeling as he said: ‘You probably know all about it.’ I shook my head. Although Vince had often assisted him through the years, Papa never talked to us about his cases, especially any that involved royalty. His discretion was absolute.

The Queen had loved Glen Muick. I quoted from her journal: ‘The scenery is beautiful here, so wild and grand, real severe Highland scenery with trees in the hollow. We had various scrambles in and out of the boat and along the shore, saw three hawks, caught
seventy trout. For an artist the scene so picturesque, the boat, the net, the people in their kilts in the water and on the shore. The ghillies steered going back and the lights were beautiful.’

I had to agree with her, breathing in that clear air, her account sounded as if it had been penned just yesterday.

‘You should see it from the other side of the glen,’ said Vince. ‘It’s even grander, stretching away up to a great chasm filled by the waters of the loch. One can agree with “severe”, and in weather not ruinous to the view “solemn and striking” may seem adequate.’

He laughed. ‘A recess for those who like the bare bones of the heath rather than the prospect of Nature feathered and furred.’

The Queen had decided soon after leasing the original Balmoral from Sir Robert Gordon that it lacked the sufficiency of solitude. Noticing a lone cottage far up the glen in the wilderness beyond Birkhall, she considered that it had potential as a habitable shelter when the passion for still more privacy or even more strenuous exploration was upon her. The replenishing, its enlargement by a wooden addition, was followed by another small house a few yards away. This outpost nine miles south-east of the castle, on Abergeldie land, was called Alt na Guisach, after the name of the burn which poured down from Lochnagar to join the River Muick.

Our destination was closer. Glas-Allt-Sheil, ‘cottage of the grey burn’ or ‘the widow’s house’, was built by the Queen after Prince Albert’s death when she could no longer bear to stay at Alt na Guisach with its happy memories of their times there together. Of more modest
proportions with fewer rooms, it was useful for access across some very rough country rising behind. Glas-Allt-Shiel lay at the remote end of the loch where the burn runs in from the White Mounth, snow-capped before autumn, in the midst of a few sheltering trees and a little wooded promontory running out into the water surrounded by precipitous rocks.

As rugs were spread on the ground for our picnic, a group of ghillies were disappearing towards the fast-flowing river, nets in hand. In kilts and bonnets, and in their midst a tall, dark-haired man, hatless. My heart signalled his presence even before my eyes, and I wondered again about the story of John Brown and the Queen. Was it a myth as I realised I was seeing Glen Muick exactly as she had a generation ago? This was the land where time left no mark, with stones and boulders older than recorded history.

There were abundant trout in the loch still and present-day midges too, which would be equally troublesome in the evening, by which time we would have completed our day’s activities and be on the way back to Balmoral.

After we had consumed the contents of the picnic baskets, salmon sandwiches, fruit and Dundee cake, it was time to take the boat out on the loch. I was glad to see Alice laughing, looking happy and relaxed as we marched down to the promontory, the boat which was quite large swaying slightly as we clambered aboard. The once empty blue sky was now occupied by a few fleeting clouds and a slight breeze ruffled the water. That was enough to cause me some concern as Vince took his place alongside the rowers while I sat with Olivia and Alice, the girls running
forward to the bows, shrill with excitement and utterly fearless.

As we steered away from the shore, I gulped and took a deep breath. I have faced many terrors in my life and learnt to cope with them in the wild west of Arizona, but neither Apache raid, arrows or bullets scared me more than moving water, the fear of drowning.

Everyone, they say, has an Achilles heel. And this is mine. My recurring nightmare. Despite Orkney ancestry and an allegedly selkie great-grandmother, the natural ability to swim had been left out of my inheritance. Yet a possible storm on the loch had taken me by surprise. I had no unpleasant memories from childhood of crossing the notorious seas between Orkney, where Emily and I lived with Granny Faro after our mother died, to Edinburgh and summer holidays at Sheridan Place under the care of Papa’s excellent housekeeper, Mrs Brook.

Curiously enough my sea crossing to Orkney a year or two back, which I had anticipated in terror, was like a millpond. Perhaps travelling across smooth Orcadian waters was a blessing in my inheritance from Sibella, my great-grandmother.

Now as Meg and Faith beckoned us to move forward and feel the spray, I put on a brave smile. They were enjoying it, as were Olivia and Alice, no qualms or uneasiness in either of them. They did not seem to notice or feel alarmed that the sky had lost its tranquil blue and dark clouds were overhead. Vince, too, was enjoying himself with the other three rowers, sharing a joke.

I looked over the edge, the waves were gathering
around us, swirling, reaching out. The boat leapt suddenly and Vince shouted: ‘Sit tight. Nothing to worry about.’

One of the ghillie rowers grinned. ‘There’s a storm approaching, ladies, but don’t worry we are quite used to it and this wee boat can cope with anything.’

His companion grinned and nodded reassuringly. ‘You are quite safe with us.’

I didn’t believe him for a moment. We were now some distance from the shore, the idea being to row to the top of the loch as far as Birkhall and back again, a two-hour journey.

And I knew I would never make it. I felt my stomach heaving, delicious salmon sandwiches about to put in another appearance. In a few moments I was going to be very sick indeed. And that would not be the end of it; as well as disgracing myself and making everyone feel uncomfortable, this nauseous condition would continue until I stepped back on dry land back again.

Olivia’s hand was on my arm. ‘Are you feeling quite well, Rose?’

‘No. I feel very ill indeed.’

‘Oh, then we must go back immediately, get the rowers to return, Vince—’ she began.

He did not hear her against the creak of the oars, but the girls turned their heads, regarded us, frowning and I knew I could not do this to them, spoil their day.

‘No, Olivia. Just seasick, I’ll manage.’ I tried to sound cheerful.

She stared into my face. ‘My dear, you’ve gone quite green.’ She stepped forward, clinging on to the side and spoke to Vince. He turned and I heard her say: ‘You
must tell the rowers, we have to return, Mrs Macmerry is unwell.’

Cries not of sympathy but bitter disappointment from Meg and Faith, resentful looks too, I fancied, at the odd ways grown-ups could behave. I had ruined their day, this and not the picnic was what they had really been looking forward to.

It was Vince’s turn to look anxious.

‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘just put me ashore on the shingle over there and I’ll make my way back to Glas-Allt-Shiel. It isn’t far.’ I pointed. The chimneys of the house were still faintly visible.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Vince.

I nodded and he asked the rowers who were resting on their oars waiting for a decision to be reached: ‘Can you do that?’

‘Aye, Doctor.’ One pointed landwards. ‘Over there. There’s a wee sheep path to the top.’ But Vince was still uncertain. He looked at me anxiously.

‘I’m a martyr to seasickness, Vince, but all will be well once I’m on dry land.’

He glanced at Olivia. The two girls looked close to tears of disappointment. In something of a quandary, he nodded: ‘Very well, if you’re absolutely sure.’

As the rowers turned the boat and headed towards the strand, it was Olivia’s turn to look uncertain, as she shaded her eyes to regard the tall cliff standing a hundred feet high above the shingle. Sheep were grazing on the top.

‘Will you be all right, Rose? Are you sure – it’s very steep?’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said to her. ‘You heard the lad say there’s a sheep path.’

There was no evidence of that as the boat approached the rock-strewn shore and it did look alarmingly steep at closer quarters, a cliff towering above us, seven hundred feet and rising sharply.

But I had no option now, feeling increasingly sick, with an alarming headache of mounting magnitude. I knew the symptoms, my stomach still remembered them again from the two terrible sea voyages on the big ship back and forth from New York to the Clyde. Once to go out and join Danny in the 1880s, and back again, to return alone without him ten years since.

I looked again at the high cliff. I would rather risk the invisible sheep path than feel that death would be too good as I did at the moment, aware that I could not contain the contents of my stomach much longer.

I looked at the others in the boat as it bobbed up and down like an enormous cork. They were unmoved; I was to be alone in my predicament. Oh, the shame of that in front of them all. A precarious walk up a cliff path was nothing by comparison, the easier by far of two evils.

The boat slid towards the beach with its dark brooding cliff hovering above, even more threatening than it had looked offshore. The rowers knew the area around Glas-Allt-Shiel well and amid reassurances said that I must take extra care as the path was very narrow.

‘If you’re afraid of heights, don’t be tempted to look down back the way you came.’

His companion nudged him, a warning that he was being tactless.

Olivia steadied me in the swaying boat as I removed my boots, preparing to wade ashore. Meg was watching, biting her lip.

‘Shall I come with you, Mam?’

What a sacrifice! It took some effort but I managed a confident smile. ‘Of course not, dear. This will pass.’ She looked up at the cliff and shivered. I could see it scared her. She didn’t like heights.

‘See you back at Glas-Allt. Enjoy the trip,’ I added. The boat ground onto the shingle and as Vince lifted me over the side, the bile rose into my throat and I prayed that I wouldn’t be sick over him, then and there.

On a nearby rock, I waved to them as I sat down and put on my boots again, watching the boat turn back into the swirling waters waiting to engulf them. It looked dreadful and I fought mounting urges to be sick just watching them, suddenly fearful for their safety and for Meg, fearless, heedless of danger, very much her father’s daughter. I groaned. If anything happened to her … and what of Jack, heartbroken for all time, when I had promised to take care of her?

Even as I tried to banish such thoughts, the boat had become a tiny bobbing object only occasionally visible, rocking and rearing above the waves, growing smaller, almost indistinguishable from the waters of the loch.