The Balmoral Incident (7 page)

And so we departed for Aberdeen the following morning, Mabel, who seemed to have recovered, in moderately good spirits. There was an air of excitement about attending a women’s suffrage meeting with the famous Pankhursts.

We couldn’t all go and Olivia, despite being sympathetic to the cause, elected to remain with the children in the cottage. She would have loved the chance of a visit to Aberdeen and waved us off wistfully when the motor car arrived to take us to Ballater. From there we would proceed with the local suffrage ladies in a large automobile, the envied property of the wealthy husband of one of them, which must have put Mabel’s patronising attitude of being considered ‘grand’ slightly out of countenance.

After being politely introduced, I let their
conversation drift over me, happy to enjoy those next few hours. The weather promised to be kind, calm and sunny as we approached the city, driving through the leafy twisting roads towards the growing suburbs of Banchory, Peterculter, Culter, Bieldside, Cults and the more modest streets of Mannofield. Then Queen’s Road, with its handsome mansions for merchants made rich from shipbuilding, fisheries and the like during the late Queen’s reign. Mansions architecturally turreted had sprung up like miniatures of Balmoral Castle, with a national desire for a lifestyle in imitation of their Queen. For less well-off or aspiring citizens, the suburbs owed their properties and prosperity to the railway trains carrying holidaymakers to fashionable Royal Deeside, and an ever-growing demand for guest houses en route.

As we approached our destination at Cowdray Hall in Union Terrace, I wondered at the choice of venue since a meeting with the Pankhursts sounded important enough to qualify for the Assembly Rooms on Union Street.

As we alighted from the automobile, a few ladies were carrying banners with suffrage slogans and a small crowd had gathered, presumably from the national press’s account of Pankhurst notoriety. But at second glance, the choice of venue became obvious.

Trouble was expected. I knew enough from Jack’s experience of political meetings in Edinburgh to understand that a decision had been made on high that the main street should be avoided as a potential danger spot. To put it plainly, police were everywhere, outnumbering the onlookers, mostly mounted on their splendid, glossy
well-trained horses who knew exactly what was needed to control and deal with unruly mobs and potential rioters.

I looked around apprehensively. I did not like those police horses that began stamping a little, great horses that by merely nudging could crack a rib or severely injure anyone in their path. And mingling with the small crowd some better-dressed men suggested policemen in plain clothes ready to move in smartly on any emergency.

As we trooped up to the entrance, the crowd’s murmurs intensified with growing hostility. I was aware of rude catcalls from the flat-capped workingmen who formed the majority of the onlookers surging forward. Obviously they did not believe in votes for their women and wished to remain the absolute rulers of their households, however poor they might be.

I was glad to get inside with the door closed.

The first surprise was that there were no Pankhursts in evidence. No dear Emmeline or Christabel on the platform and it soon became obvious from a few tentative enquiries that Mabel had made an error. But she stood her ground, saying she had been misinformed. She had been told definitely to expect them.

I felt bitterly disappointed, and as I listened I wondered – had they ever intended being present? The meeting was opened by the chairman of the local group and though absent in body, Emmeline Pankhurst was certainly present in spirit.

Two dedicated ladies, passionate to the cause, mounted the platform among cheers from the audience and the atmosphere was thick with Pankhurst messages and quotations.

‘We are here not because we are lawbreakers, we are here in our efforts to become lawmakers. The argument of the broken window pane is the most valuable argument in modern politics, for there is something that governments care for more than human life and that is the security of property, so it is through property that we shall strike the enemy. We urge you all to be militant each in your own way …’

I was well acquainted with their sentiments, knew them by heart from my addiction to the extensive suffrage literature, and so on and on for a very stirring hour, ending with questions from the audience. I felt delighted to be with so many women, sisters in spirit, who shared my belief in the fight for our future and the certainty that we must win in the end, yet unable to shake off the feeling of being let down somehow by the Pankhursts’ absence, and the feeling that this meeting was something of an anticlimax. I looked round the tightly packed audience mostly composed of women, as one might expect, with a few men looking sheepish as if they had been dragged along unwillingly by wife or sister, their distressed expressions saying they would rather be anywhere but sitting in Cowdray Hall at this moment.

A depressing sight, indeed, and I realised we had a long way to go before men could be persuaded that we women were their equals and had the right to vote for who should govern our country.

The speakers brought the meeting to a close with a blessing, one of Emmeline’s: ‘Trust in God – She will provide!’ That brought a laugh and plenty of cheering.

I nudged Mabel encouragingly, certain she would have something to say but she merely shook her head.

‘What about your speech, your vote of thanks?’ I queried.

‘Not appropriate, Rose,’ she whispered.

Feeling that someone should say something, I stood up and introducing myself as chairman of the Edinburgh branch, I thanked the ladies for their well-informed and excellent talk, how inspiring it was to all of us, and so forth. I ended by asking that the good wishes and firm resolve of all Scottish women who believed in the importance of our movement be conveyed to Mrs Pankhurst.

As we were leaving, it soon became obvious that despite her claims to be a dear friend of Emmeline and Christabel, no one knew or had even heard of Mabel Penby Worth. They regarded her with polite but vague smiles.

I was glad to leave the meeting and, waiting for our motor car outside, where police and crowds had thankfully vanished, Emily Dickson, a quite gentle-seeming woman despite her platform performance as a passionate speaker, came over to hold out her hand and thank me for my vote of thanks.

‘Mrs McQuinn,’ she said using my professional name which I still used despite my second marriage, ‘I have heard of you and the excellent work being done by our sisters in Edinburgh.’ Flattered indeed, I was aware of Mabel at my side, edging forward and longing to get in something about Balmoral Castle and our stay there.

I felt sorry for her, so sadly deflated. After all her boasts about her friends the Pankhursts, not even a chance to
read that prepared vote of thanks she had worked on so assiduously since our arrival at the cottage.

As Emily Dickson left us, we adjourned with our Ballater companions. We all felt we deserved a break and decided to take tea at the hotel across the road. After a delicious but brief afternoon tea, as we were discussing our share of the bill, a waiter came forward, touched my shoulder. ‘Mrs Macmerry?’ he whispered. How did he know my name, I wondered? ‘A gentleman wishes to speak to you in reception. If you will follow me.’

Mabel, who was deep in conversation with one of the ladies, hadn’t noticed any of this and I whispered: ‘Won’t be a moment.’ She nodded, presuming I was excusing myself to go to the lavatory.

Completely mystified, I followed the waiter. And there leaning on the counter—

‘Jack! What on earth?’

He kissed me and grinned. ‘I told you I might be in Aberdeen and here we are.’ He pointed to a nearby table and the unmistakable presence of my old antagonist, Inspector Harvill Gray, late of Edinburgh City Police and, much to my relief, recently promoted to Grampian as chief inspector.

‘Is this a reunion of some sort?’

‘Not quite, just a bit of police business.’ And his lips closed firmly, a remembered gesture. Whatever his reason, he wasn’t going to tell me. ‘I guessed you would be here at the meeting.’

‘Are you coming to Balmoral?’

He shrugged and said cautiously. ‘Maybe, but not today.’
A glance towards Gray who saw us and acknowledged me with a brief nod.

Apparently we weren’t going to join him. Jack took my arm and was ushering me back in the direction of the restaurant.

‘How’s Meg – and Thane?’

‘In splendid form, they’re loving Balmoral.’

Jack nodded. ‘That’s great. Take care of her.’ I wanted to know more, but Mabel and the ladies had come into reception. Our automobile was waiting.

Jack led me to the step, kissed me again. ‘See you soon – hope to have a day or two up there on the strength of this visit.’

‘What visit?’

He bowed a farewell to the ladies and Mabel asked: ‘Isn’t he coming with us?’

I shook my head and realised I didn’t even know whether he was heading back home or pushing on elsewhere. It was all very frustrating but one thing was obvious. The meeting between Jack and Gray was no accident.

Suffragettes? Or something to do with the ‘rumour’ I remembered Jack mentioning before we left Solomon’s Tower?

At my side, Mabel said: ‘I must write to dear Emmeline, tell her how we missed them both.’ I nodded absently, my tangled thoughts still on that brief meeting with Jack. ‘You would have so loved meeting dear Christabel,’ she added with a sigh. ‘A truly wonderful young woman, a noble creature …’

And so on and on. It had been a long and oddly frustrating day, not quite the return journey I had imagined,
full of eager, excited talk about meeting the esteemed Pankhursts. Instead the ladies were silent, obviously very weary as we travelled back through the growing dusk. We were all relieved to reach Ballater where we left the automobile and bid our companions goodnight. Dave was sitting patiently at the wheel of the motor Vince had sent to collect us.

I was glad to be back.

The next day Olivia had decided that the girls might enjoy visiting Vince’s quarters in the castle. Meg immediately asked if I could go with them.

Olivia laughed. ‘Of course she can, dear. Your mam is always included and Miss Penby too.’ (The agreed form of address from the girls – she was Mabel to the rest of us.)

I shared their excitement. This would be the first time I had been inside the castle since our arrival. There was only one problem – Thane. For obvious reasons he could not come with us and we were being very careful at keeping his presence unknown to the King, which meant restriction to discreet walks in the woods near the cottage well out of range of the castle.

Meg was disappointed, so was I. There seemed only one solution. ‘It’s only for a few hours,’ I said. ‘I’ll stay
with Thane. I can visit it with Uncle Vince some other time.’

Mabel, overhearing this conversation, said firmly: ‘You must go, Rose. That Dog will be quite safe with me.’

This generous offer was quite unexpected knowing how Mabel felt about Thane, but before Olivia and I could protest it was greeted by the girls as a great idea and a great relief to Meg in particular. It hadn’t escaped my notice that she spent a lot less time talking to Thane now that she had Faith as her dearest friend and the two girls were inseparable.

Still, I never liked leaving Thane with Mabel, who had added: ‘Lily will look after us.’ That seemed a forlorn hope indeed, but as I was being urged on every side, I could not refuse without rather pointedly suggesting that Mabel was incapable of spending a day on her own and looking after That Dog.

The royal household quarters had been severely upgraded since the Prince of Wales became king, and he had speedily demolished evidence of his mother’s sentimental attachment to clutter, in particular to that associated with her long-term widowhood. The modernisation in no way indicated the grandeur of the castle, which was something of a disappointment to Meg whose imagination had soared to lofty ceilings, panelled walls and turret rooms. Vince’s apartment, however, was modest, comfortable and most important, warm. Dismissing the late Queen’s firm belief that chilly rooms and cold beds were bracing and good for the soul, the King, who liked comfort for himself and everyone else, ruled that rooms with generously heated coal fires were
de rigueur
for his family, their guests and
for the servants too. It must have been a great relief for Queen Alexandra – not to mention her ladies-in-waiting, whose pale-mauve complexions and constant shivering both indoors and out had been ignored by the late Queen and regarded as a necessity of character building.

Leaving his rooms, we followed Vince out into the sunshine, across the lawn and into secluded and private flower gardens, as well as the vast walled kitchen garden which supplied all the vegetables and fruit throughout the seasons.

Then an unexpected delight for the girls. Turning a corner we were face to face with the Queen, walking with two of her ladies, one of whom acknowledged Olivia. Her name was Alice von Mueller and we were destined to have a closer acquaintance later.

Vince bowed, we curtseyed.

The Queen paused. ‘Ah, Dr Laurie, good day to you.’ And smiling down at the two little girls, ‘Enjoy the sun, my dears, while it is shining.’ As she walked on, taking her companion’s arm, she seemed to have a slight limp.

The girls were quite ecstatic. ‘Mam,’ said Meg in tones of awe. ‘That was just like being presented at Court, wasn’t it? And she called us “her dears”.’ We laughed. It had certainly made their day.

‘Such a nice lady, Aunt Rose,’ said Faith.

‘I thought she looked a little sad,’ said the ever-perceptive Meg.

I said nothing, I didn’t envy her her crown or her husband.

Spending the day with Vince was a rare pleasure. After a splendid lunch we played croquet on the lawn. Tea and
cakes were served to us, rich chocolate cakes with lots of cream; the girls were enchanted by such delights, and when darkness fell, they groaned, giving us appealing glances. They were in no hurry to return to the cottage.

And that gave Olivia one of her brilliant ideas. ‘Let them spend the night here, Rose,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sure nightgowns can be provided. It would be such a thrill for them, wouldn’t it, Vince?’

Vince frowned. ‘A splendid idea, but remember, dear, some of the household folk are looking in later to meet you.’ And turning to me, ‘Just a small social gathering but if the girls are bedded down, why don’t you stay, Rose? Have some refreshments with us before returning to the cottage.’

I was easily persuaded and Vince’s ‘neighbours’ as he called them were pleasant, jolly folk. Two were from Edinburgh and we had much in common. They were intrigued to know that my husband was a detective and asked if I ever heard details of Edinburgh crimes, especially murder.

Vince listened with an amused expression. My profession had not been mentioned. ‘What would they think if they knew?’ he whispered, refilling my glass.

One of them did. The lady I had seen with the Queen that afternoon who knew Olivia. I was enjoying myself. This was a rare treat. The refreshments provided were all that could be desired. Especially the wine. And that was my downfall.

I am not used to wine at home in Solomon’s Tower. Alcohol plays a very small part in my life, reserved for special occasions of celebration. But among the merry
chatter, the pleasant company, the local gossip of the other royal servants, I allowed my glass to be refilled rather too often.

Suddenly I came to my senses. I must leave immediately while my legs would still carry me back to the cottage.

I refused Vince’s gallant, but I suspected reluctant, offer to leave the jolly company and escort me back the short distance, insisting that I would enjoy the walk. Indeed, that was my purpose, breathing the night air with its faint breeze to clear my head. Besides, I had little time on my own just now, and accustomed to a more solitary and active life, the chance of a pleasant moonlight stroll, thinking my own thoughts, at that moment appealed as a very welcome interlude.

At the door, Vince put my light jacket about my shoulders and kissed me goodnight.

‘Sure you will be all right, Rose?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Quite sure?’

I smiled confidently, not to give him the slightest idea of my limited capacity for intoxicating wines from the royal cellars. ‘Of course, dear. Just a few steps, really.’

I breathed deeply and then the fresh air hit me. I was floating above the ground. So romantic too, with a moon riding high above the clouds. I wished Jack had been with me as I waved to Vince who was lingering at the door. As it closed I knew I had made up my mind. The short distance to the cottage was not nearly enough to enjoy the beauty of such a night. So humming a tune from a popular song one of Vince’s friends, who had a fine voice, had been singing at the piano, I decided to extend my homeward walk and take the longer way round through
the trees where I believed there was a woodland path.

And that was my second mistake. I had walked no more than a hundred yards when the track vanished. The sky, or rather what was visible through the treetops, had clouded over, the moon had disappeared and as that tall forbidding army of conifers closed in on me I knew I was lost.

I have absolutely no sense of direction and there was nothing to indicate where I was heading. Jack laughs at me. ‘But seriously, in your profession it could be the difference between life and death, never knowing which way to turn when you are being pursued by a man with a gun. Do I need say more? I’m surprised you’ve survived so long. You must have a guardian angel.’

Remembering Jack’s warning, trying to think clearly through that wine haze was little help and that guardian angel was having a holiday. Perhaps I could retrace my steps. I turned round knowing only one thing for certain, that idiotically, within a few hundred yards from home, I was well and truly lost in a thick forest with trees growing so close together that there was no possibility in the darkness of finding a path, or regaining the path I had travelled so far, if one existed.

Even the moon had deserted me. It was up there somewhere hidden by the tall treetops with only a brief glimmer as racing clouds obliterated its faint beam.

I stood still, momentarily breathless. I had to think of something. In despair I looked around again. What was the point in walking ahead? That was useless, even dangerous when I no longer knew where I was going or if it was the right direction.

Suddenly the absurdity struck me. Here I was lost somewhere on the royal estate surrounded by civilisation, people everywhere within walking distance, I could even hear the faint clip-clop of carriage horses on the Deeside road beyond the river but I might as well have been in the deserts of the Sahara.

And although it was hardly the time for frivolous thought that I might be in a serious situation, the wine effects had not yet worn off completely and I had an attack of helpless giggles. But my legs were letting me down; walking on this pine-scattered floor was like carrying lead weights, quite exhausting and treacherous.

I must stop. Wait for a moment, rest – and think what to do next. I leant against one of the inhospitable trunks, but its sharp bits digging into my back denied any possibility of relaxation.

Now the silence was invaded by intruders gathering around me. The small secret sounds of the night, the scuffles and twitches of a broken branch as an unseen army of small animals busied themselves about their nocturnal business. At least they knew where they were going and they had better eyes than mine. Another of my problems is that I have no night vision. Perfect eyesight by day but blind as a bat in the dark.

At my back, the spiteful tree trunk was urging me on. I walked a few steps and knew it was hopeless to proceed, perhaps the effects of the wine were wearing off and no longer bolstering my courage, all I felt was a great desire to sit down and close my eyes for a while. To sleep or weep for the predicament in which I had found myself, and for which I had no one to blame but my own stupidity.

Going ahead, stumbling through the forest was useless. It was like being trapped in a maze and there was only one sensible but unpleasant solution. Sit it out. Find a place and rest there until dawn shed some light on the way out.

A flicker of moonlight, not much but enough to spot a clearing and kick a pile of soft pine leaves against a nearby tree trunk. Running my hands down it suggested a smoother, more friendly one than the last.

I had never been afraid of the dark. Until this moment. In the stillness, I became aware of more sounds, a bird’s alarmed cry, an owl’s hoot, a spine-chilling scream from some poor creature caught by a predator. All far away, but closer at hand again those small scuffling, snuffling sounds.

Then the distant sound of a shot. A broken branch, more like a ghillie out after rabbits – in the dark? After that, I thought I heard the distant sound of dogs barking. Did that indicate the royal stables or were they wolves?

I listened again, imagination invaded by thoughts of a wolf pack, their eyes glowing through the dark, picking up my scent. No, no, absurd! I had been assured the last wolf had been killed a long time since. What about foxes then with their sharp teeth? I thought of my extremities being nibbled by foxes as I slept. Deer, what about deer? Would they attack? Or would they be more scared of me than I of them?

I wrapped my jacket more closely about me and too afraid to close my eyes now, I kept listening to the silence. A new sound that obliterated the panic of foxes or that imaginary wolf pack.

Running water, rushing water indicated a stream or a
river somewhere quite close at hand. I must be near the Dee. I stood up. Could I reach it? An encouraging sound but common sense told me it was folly to try, dangerous to follow, stumbling about in the dark. I was suddenly too weary, too tired.

I sat down again. Got to make the best of a bad job and grateful that it was a windless night and not raining, I snuggled into my thin summer jacket, closed my eyes, said a prayer and settled to await first light.

I awoke with a start. For a blissful moment thinking I was in my own bed and had had a terrible nightmare. I listened.

Breathing, definitely human, laboured and close by.

Then I knew I was not alone.