The Balmoral Incident Page 2
Meg loved living in Solomon’s Tower and there had been many changes since she first came into our lives as a scared three-year-old who had suffered many trials and cruelties before I tracked her down, this orphaned child of Jack’s first, brief, unhappy marriage. At least some of the responsibility of Meg lay with me, for he had married her mother on the rebound since I had sent him packing. They were strangers, he knew nothing about her and was never quite sure if the child was his. When Margaret died shortly after Meg’s birth, much to Jack’s relief her childless, married sister Pam gladly took over the responsibility of his baby daughter and during those first three years of her life it was almost as if he tried to forget her existence. When I first set eyes on her, all my own misgivings melted away. I knew she was Jack’s and at their first meeting their likeness was undeniable. As a little girl she was his image. The sandy, slightly curling hair, the large hazel eyes, the wide mouth. Indeed, as the years passed she grew even more like him but with a gradual refinement of features hinting that one day she would be a young woman whose good looks a father would be proud of – if it were possible that Jack could be any prouder than he was of her at this moment.
I would look at them sometimes and sigh. Life had been good. Here we were, a happy family the three of us, four if we included Thane, Meg with parents who loved her and loved each other. She did not know it, but this happy family was because of her own existence, since having lost my beloved first husband, Danny McQuinn, in tragic circumstances I had consistently refused to marry Jack Macmerry. Meg’s presence had changed all that.
As I made tea, Vince had been telling Jack about the Balmoral visit. Jack came over and put his arm around me. ‘I’m sorry, love, that I can’t come too. It sounds such good fun. Pity about Thane.’
Meg was stroking Thane’s head. She looked up, said very firmly: ‘I’m not going with you. I’ll stay here with Thane.’
What a sacrifice, I thought, to love him so much. As we seated ourselves round the kitchen table, Jack said sternly: ‘You can’t stay here alone.’
‘Who is to take care of Thane if Mam and I are all away?’
In the normal way Jack would have done so. But as Jack was on a murder case with leads in Aberdeen and Glasgow, his movements from day to day were unpredictable.
And long before I met Jack Macmerry I was well acquainted with the situation that dominated a senior detective’s domestic life, its inevitability had stalked my early years, the rare holidays my sister Emily and I looked forward to with Papa. The last-minute changes, the tears and disappointment, and after I married Danny McQuinn and lived in Arizona where he worked for Pinkerton’s Detective Agency, I had learnt to respect that. If a policeman’s life was not an easy one, neither was his wife’s. I knew what I was taking on. As Robert Burns put it, ‘the best laid plans o’ mice and men’ could well and often be asundered. I was fortunate, I could take refuge in my own career.
Meg regarded us pityingly. ‘I won’t be alone. Thane will look after me.’
Jack shook his head. He was at a loss to explain and I could see how he hated having to disappoint Meg who was no longer smiling, her happy mood lost, her small fists clenched, her lips quivering as she fought back tears. And before any of us could think up an answer she said: ‘I am not going – anywhere – unless Thane comes too.’
Vince, well served in diplomatic dealings with royalty over the years, stepped in. He put his arms around her and contemplated Jack and me over her head. ‘That is no problem, dear. Leave it to me. I’ll arrange everything. There are plenty of dogs in the stables near your cottage. One more won’t make any difference. We will take Thane with us, if your Mam and Pa approve, that is.’
How on earth would this work? I had qualms and Jack’s frown was doubtful but I sighed with momentary relief, echoed by Meg, who flung her arms around Vince. ‘Oh, thank you, Uncle Vince, thank you.’ And to Thane who showed not the slightest interest in this conversation as if it did not concern him in the least, ‘Isn’t that lovely, Thane? You will love it and we will have a splendid time – all those lovely grounds for us to play in.’
I wasn’t too sure about that, either, as I thought of the vast assortment of dogs and horses.
Jack obviously had the same misgivings. ‘Hope you don’t all end up in the Tower of London.’
CHAPTER TWO
And so the plan of departure took shape. I would drive down with Vince in the Beast to collect Mabel, who would stay overnight with us. The next morning we would join Olivia and Faith on the royal train in Edinburgh and continue the journey to Balmoral. As the motor car was not yet in general use, I suspected that we would be met on arrival at Ballatar Railway Station by the old style carriage, the same as used by the King’s mother Queen Victoria, but perhaps a safer and surer way for four adults, a small girl and a very large dog to travel the twisting roads to the Castle.
We were not to journey to Peebles alone with the Beast. On hearing Mabel’s collection address, Jack had consulted his maps. Penby House was only four miles from his parents’ farm at Eildon. And as it was his mother’s birthday next week, a perfect opportunity to call in, drop off a present. Meg could deliver it in person, giving Andrew and Jess Macmerry a visit from this adored and (from their point of view) too-rarely seen only granddaughter.
‘Meg put you up to this, Jack,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘Truth is, she’s mad keen to have a ride in the Beast and she’s made something at school, a tea cosy, specially for Grandma.’
Meg could have asked for the moon, neither Vince nor Jack could resist her. I considered staying behind but Vince insisted there would be room enough for Meg between us in the front, with Mabel and her luggage in the back seat. I could only pray that there wouldn’t be rain to accompany us.
Vince merely smiled at that. ‘Umbrellas will be provided.’
And so we set off. Meg with an almost tearful farewell to Thane. ‘Why couldn’t he come along too? He could run alongside,’ she wailed.
‘No,’ said Vince firmly, ‘that is out of the question. A motor car will cause enough consternation where we are going without a dog the size of a pony.’
And so we set off, Meg clapping her hands in delight, thrilled beyond words at this new adventure, with some misgivings on my part. However, I got used to the looks of amazement from passers-by as Vince occasionally applied the horn, a sound like the wrath of God, and the Beast only let us down twice on the journey, requiring his liquid refreshment. The frantic search for water from a ditch had been overcome by Vince carrying a large bottle of water with us.
Jack had sent a telegram from the Central Office and at Eildon the Macmerrys were waiting to receive us. They did everything but put flags out. What a reception. Andrew went into ecstasies over the Beast which Jess regarded with some apprehension concerning the safety of its occupants, in particular her precious wee granddaughter. Her relief was evident when we reached the farm in safety as if we had travelled not merely the miles from Edinburgh but across the high seas from China on an old-style clipper.
The cosy farmhouse with its peat fire, a feast set out on a snow-white tablecloth. Pies, scones, cakes, biscuits, everything that became a banquet was visible. I was relieved that the pies did not include veal, observing that the fatted calf, happily grazing outside, had not been sacrificed.
Kisses and cuddles were in abundance while across the table Jess studied Vince with reverence. Normally she never stopped talking but she hadn’t a word to say, staring at Vince round-eyed. She almost curtseyed; overcome by his royal associations she didn’t know what to call him, something between Your Highness and Sir. I certainly gained prestige for possessing such a famous stepbrother.
With so much food in evidence, and drink, drams provided by Andrew, with small sherries for the ladies, Vince was having a whale of a time and, even knowing his capacity and aware of the hip flask, I hoped he would be able to continue the drive for Mabel, whose existence had been temporarily forgotten as the reason for our
visit. ‘This lass you’re down here to collect,’ said Andrew, ‘whereabouts is she staying?’
This interrupted the serving of more trifle to Vince. As Jess called him ‘sir’ Vince’s eyebrows shot up and touching her hand gently, he said firmly: ‘I presume you’re teasing me, Jess Macmerry. I’m not “sir” to anyone but the stable boys.’ He took her hand, kissed it and smiles were exchanged. To Andrew he said:
‘Mabel Penby Worth is the lady’s name, she’s a school friend of my wife Olivia, visiting an elderly relative at Penby House—’
Across the table Andrew laid down his glass and said slowly, ‘Penby House, did you say?’
‘Yes indeed, I gather it’s just a mile or two up the road from here.’
‘Well, by all that’s holy,’ said Andrew thoughtfully. He looked quite shocked.
‘Fancy that,’ said Jess.
Vince laughed. ‘What’s wrong?’
Andrew shook his head, in the manner of one busily rearranging unpleasant thoughts. ‘Well, it’s just that – oh, I don’t know, but there’s always been a lot of gossip about the Penbys. Never very popular with the locals. Bad landowners. The old lady is the last of them, an invalid for years and not quite right in the head. Tried to commit suicide over an unhappy love affair, so the story went.’
‘That was donkey’s years ago,’ Jess put in. ‘And she’s been a recluse ever since. Poor soul.’
I was eager to hear more of this local scandal which was cut short as Meg bounced back into the kitchen from feeding the hens. Clocks were consulted, it was time to leave. Meg clutched to her adoring grandmother’s bosom, with a tearful plea to stay, Jess eyeing the Beast warily and embarking on a catalogue of possible disasters, despite Vince’s attempts at consolation.
‘What will happen if you get stuck somewhere?’ she demanded and with a protective arm around Meg. ‘That monster and our precious wee darling?’
Vince chuckled. ‘If you think our Beast is an odd-looking vehicle you should have seen its predecessor.’
Andrew nodded enthusiastically. ‘Aye, saw one myself at a cattle market in Stirling, in the eighties. That was a sensation! Terrified the crowds. For all the world like a hansom cab rattling along the road – lacking a horse! Weird!’
‘There the likeness didn’t end,’ Vince put it. ‘Like the horse it frequently stopped and had to be encouraged to proceed. In this case by restorative drinks of water.’
‘How did they manage that?’
‘Usually with a teacup from the nearest ditch.’ Vince shook his head. ‘Sometimes this disagreed with its digestive system and made it cross, so it blew up and spattered the driver with orange spray out of the boiler.’
They both laughed as Vince went on. ‘And at any steep hill it was not equal to the horse. It simply stopped dead, sat there breathing asthmatically while the luckless occupants had to get out and push.’
‘In the middle of nowhere, man, that’s a terrible thing to happen,’ said Andrew while Jess continued to clutch Meg, unconvinced about this strange-looking machine’s merits.
Vince smiled. ‘Ah well, the age of chivalry still exists. It was a code of honour that a moving motorist should not pass by on the other side, leaving stranded a less fortunate fellow motorist.’
Andrew said: ‘I remember fine reading about that. The fraternity of the road was to acquire a new meaning since the days of the highwayman and the Red Flag Act.’ He nodded doubtfully, ‘Aye, all well enough, but I still like to feel the solid warm flesh of a horse under me when I travel.’
Kisses were exchanged. We were on our way.
Warned that the house was remote and a little difficult without a made-up road, we were especially grateful for Andrew’s instructions.
His cut-short history of Penby House’s inhabitant had led me to expect a forbidding Gothic ruin but instead we approached a large characterless box-like mansion with many windows, perched on a small incline overlooking the Borders farmlands and a distant view of the Eildon Hills.
A short drive to the front door, in spite of an echoing bell, it remained ominously closed. Were we expected?
At last the door was opened by a pale young woman, presumably the maid. As we waited for her to announce us, the house smelt unpleasantly old, as if everything and everyone had gone to dust long ago. A vast cold reception area, an array of dark and somehow forbidding ancestral portraits lined the lofty staircase walls with uncarpeted treads guaranteed to echo every footstep.
Meg shivered. She was conscious of this air of desolation and held my hand tightly. ‘What is this place, Mam?’
I didn’t say so, but it had the cold unhappy air of an institution, and I guessed we were both reliving the warmth of that world we had left at the Macmerry’s farm. Love and laughter were long vanished from this house, had they indeed ever existed within these grim walls.
Meg was staring up the stairs as we waited for the maid to summon Mabel.
A sound of footsteps and a tall figure, Mabel Penby Worth, appeared from what was possibly the drawing room. The young maid who had opened the door to us was now at her side, carrying her luggage. Lily by name and, surprisingly, her personal maid, who was to accompany her to Ballater.
As for Mabel’s elderly relative, the reason for her visit, we were not to meet her.
‘Aunt Penby does not receive visitors these days.’ We were not really surprised for we had gathered from Andrew and Jess that she was a recluse. My imagination painted a Miss Havisham and I suspected that all three of us, Vince and I, and particularly Meg, were glad indeed to be leaving and deprived of the pleasure of that meeting.
Vince murmured that we were short of time but as we walked past an open door, I was conscious of another smell invading the emptiness.
Cigar smoke. Very prevalent and very expensive. Where was the man? Or did the old lady have eccentric habits too? We paused while Mabel had a final check on her items of luggage and I noticed on the hall table a few scattered photographs. One signed – of a younger King Edward, as Bertie, Prince of Wales and some other royals, indicated that Penby House had indeed seen better days.
Vince indicated the signed photograph. To Mabel he said: ‘You have met His Majesty?’
‘My mother lived here one summer when she was a girl.’
‘Did she meet him?’ asked Meg in tones of reverence.
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ and the cold reply said the subject was closed.
We boarded the Beast, which wiped the smile of delight from Mabel’s rather sullen countenance when she realised she was to share the back seat with Lily and the luggage, since she was larger than Meg and I who occupied the front seat with Vince.
I turned, saw a shadow at a corner of the house, standing still, watching us. A working man, perhaps a gardener. Tall, lean, black hair and a long, rather pale face. He saw me looking in his direction and quickly withdrew. I felt almost embarrassed. Strange how any man who resembled Danny, even vaguely glimpsed, could still after all this time make my heart leap.
Later in our acquaintance when I asked Mabel did her aunt live alone in that vast mausoleum of a house, Mabel confirmed that she was a recluse and had no servants living in.
‘Her physician looks in fairly regularly.’ Had our visits coincided and was that the answer to the cigar smoke, quite unrelated to the man outside who was, to judge by his appearance, possibly the gardener?
I was puzzled why Mabel, one gathered by her conversation, much used to comfort and luxury, had taken the trouble to stop off en route to Edinburgh. As if aware of my unasked question, I was informed: ‘One feels duty-bound, family obligations – that sort of thing – when one is in the area, coming north.’ (Which of course, she was not. Peebles was quite a circuitous route from the direct train to Edinburgh.)
‘We used to visit in the old days, and it would have seemed quite callous to ignore her now,’ she went on, ‘one’s only remaining relative.’ There was a slight pause and I said: ‘So you know Penby quite well.’
She would have been pleasantly surprised had she been with us at Eildon.
CHAPTER THREE
Mabel Penby Worth. I wasn’t sure what I expected, perhaps a replica of gentle Olivia. Mabel was a surprise and I didn’t know quite why then, except somehow she wasn’t the image I had from Olivia’s description. She looked like a fighter, not the kind of woman who would take defeat easily. In fact, the personification of the women’s suffrage movement to which I was to gather she had dedicated her existence. A consoling thought, indeed.
I was impressed, we suffragettes could hardly lose with females of Mabel’s calibre on our side. Quite tall, robust in frame, a strong, determined countenance under that bonnet and a strong handshake to go with it, as did the sensible, rather mannish travelling costume, a long tweed tailored jacket and skirt and a wide-brimmed velvet hat.
Her maid Lily was an addition we had not been expecting, but Vince indicated that was an easy matter to sort out as he arranged them in the Beast, which did not altogether please Mabel who gave us a helpless look. As if to suggest there might be some other means of transporting Lily to Edinburgh. There was no alternative so Mabel sat as far away as was possible from one’s personal maid on the back seat of a motor car.
We had not the slightest sympathy for her. As far as I was concerned she had missed the whole point of the suffrage movement that all women from all walks of life were equal, or should be. However, Mabel soon forgot her discomfiture and waxed lyrical about this means of transport, sentiments which soon became urgent whispers of doubts when we had to stop several times on the hilly return journey, to relieve the Beast’s snorts and breathing problems with administrations from the water bottle.