We left the estate and drove along the River Dee toward Braemar. I decided to keep quiet about today’s shooting incident. There was no sense in worrying my grandfather unduly. But I found that I couldn’t put it out of my mind. I kept hearing the whooshing noise of those bullets flying past me. Who would want to shoot at us?

I went over the scene in the Padgetts’ dreary living room and my head started buzzing with strange thoughts. Someone with a grudge against the royal family? Someone who was not entirely mentally stable? Someone with unlimited access to the royal lifestyle? Didn’t all these add up to Major Padgett, who had seen a promising career and royal favor shrink to a dreary house tucked away in the back of beyond?

Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Castle Craig, Braemar
August 21

As I drove I worked out what I should say in a note to Sir Jeremy. I was, after all, making a preposterous accusation. But it seemed the only concrete lead so far. I remembered Mrs. Padgett’s anxious, guarded face. Had she had to shield a husband with mental problems all these years? Did she suspect that he had anything to do with the shooting? If she did, she was a good actress, I decided. She had looked genuinely startled. So had the major himself. Tread carefully, therefore.

The road ran along the side of the river through a dramatic valley framed by soaring hills. In places the valley narrowed and the river flowed swiftly, dancing merrily over stones on its way to the coast. In other places it was more sedate, with meadows on either side. Fly fishermen in waders stood in the shallows flicking their lines in and out of the water. After a pleasant drive the old granite tower of the Braemar church was visible through the trees and we came into the village. There was nobody at the inn except for a daft-seeming young girl who giggled as she spoke in such broad Scottish that I had trouble understanding her. Something “she’d no ken and she’d whist but she was oot the noo.” Although who “she” was and where she had gone were beyond my comprehension. I presumed this girl was not the normal receptionist or it would have been extremely bad for trade.

Given the circumstances I wrote a simple note. I need to speak to you urgently. Georgiana Rannoch.

I was just leaving when a large woman came in, panting with exertion. “Och, I’m sorry, my dear,” she said. “I was out delivering a meal to old Jamie. He canna cook for himself these days and yon girl is too daft to be trusted not to spill it—aren’t you, you daft ha’porth? What can I do for you?”