The Windsor Knot

CHAPTER 5

OF ALL THE royal palaces used by the monarchs of Scotland, only the palace of Holyroodhouse in Edinburgh is still used for royal hospitality and ceremonies. The Queen devotes most of her time in Scotland to her personal residence in the Highlands, Balmoral Castle, where she stays on holiday for ten weeks from early August until mid-October; but the Queen’s annual official visit to Scotland takes place in early July, at which time she occupies the nine-hundred-year-old palace of Holyroodhouse. It is a turreted, sandstone building, made gloomy by its deep-set windows and thick walls, and perhaps echoing the sorrows of its principal resident, Mary, Queen of Scots.

The original structure was an abbey, erected in the twelfth century by King David of Scotland upon the command of heaven. According to legend, King David insisted upon going hunting on the day of the Holy Rood (September 14), instead of spending the day in prayer and contemplation of the Cross (or Rood). During the hunt in the fields below Edinburgh Castle, the king became separated from his huntsmen, and he was thrown from his horse at the feet of an angry stag, its head lowered to gore him. Suddenly a mist enveloped the king, and when he put out his hand to ward off the attacking animal, he found himself grasping a cross between the antlers of the deer. The animal ran away-and King David resolved to build an Augustinian monastery, the Abbey of Holyrood, on the site of the miracle. In later years, Robert the Bruce held parliaments there.

In 1502, King James IV converted some of the structures into a royal residence in honor of his marriage to Margaret Tudor, sister of England’s King Henry VIII. This union of the thistle and the rose was celebrated at Holyrood, and the palace was further enlarged during the reign of their son James V. The abbey, destroyed in the “rough wooing” of the English in 1544, fell into ruins and was never rebuilt; only the foundations and the ruined nave of the church remain. The palace itself was rebuilt after the English invasion, and the daughter of James V-Mary, Queen of Scots-took up residence there in 1561. The nineteen-year-old Queen, already the widow of the King of France, married Lord Darnley in the Chapel Royal, and it was in Holyrood that the Queen’s secretary, David Rizzio, was murdered by Darnley and his men.

After Mary’s son, James VI, left Scotland to inherit the throne of Elizabeth I of England, the castle was abandoned by royalty for nearly two centuries. Bonnie Prince Charlie held court there during his ill-fated attempt to seize the throne, but it was not until the nineteenth century that another monarch took any interest in the palace. Queen Victoria, who loved all things Scottish, restored Holyroodhouse, and made it her custom to stay there once yearly, a tradition that has been continued by her descendants to this day.

During her week in residence at the palace of Holyroodhouse, the Queen is welcomed to the city by being presented with the keys of the city of Edinburgh in the Ceremony of the Keys, held in the west front courtyard. It is during this week that the Queen presides over the Ceremony of the Thistle-the Scottish equivalent of the Order of the Garter-in nearby St. Giles Cathedral.

She also hosts a tea party on the grounds of the palace of Holyroodhouse. With eight thousand guests, the event is about as intimate as a rock concert, but it is a singular honor to be invited-and the manicured lawns of the palace are lovely, as are the views of Arthur’s Seat and Salisbury Crag, majestic in the distance.

Cameron Dawson’s memories of the palace of Holyroodhouse are unfortunately centered on sheep droppings.

“Sheep droppings?” said Elizabeth, staring at the telephone as if it had misquoted the caller. Several days had passed since their last conversation, and she was phoning to report on the wedding progress, and to augment her newly acquired knowledge of things royal.

“Yes,” said Cameron, after the usual transatlantic pause. “You know, those little brown pellets that tell you where sheep have been…”

“In the palace?”

“No, of course not in the palace, twit. But just outside the gates of the palace and off to the right there is a rugby field belonging to the Royal High School. At least they use it for rugby. Apparently sheep also have the run of the field. Anyhow, when I was at Fettes-”

“You played rugby?” asked Elizabeth, momentarily distracted from contemplation of the palace.

“Yes, in the seventeenth fifteen.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I was an abysmal rugby player. The first fifteen is what you’d call the varsity, I suppose. They play in the school stadium and represent the school. And then you had a second team of fifteen players, and a third fifteen and so on.”

“And you were on team number seventeen?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose that’s why you played against sheep.”

“The better teams were made up of boys at higher grade levels than mine,” said Cameron reproachfully. “And I was rather thin in those days.”

“Get back to the sheep.”

“We played a Saturday-morning game against the Royal High School team on that field near the palace. I played fullback, where you stayed back and hoped the other team didn’t try to score. Nobody wanted to be tackled during that game because, as I said, the sheep used that field a lot more than the rugby team had. Of course, the other team’s colors were black and white, so there was a chance it mightn’t have shown up…”

“I trust the sheep won’t be grazing on the site of the garden party.”

“I doubt it, but you might want to wear brown shoes just in case.”

Elizabeth decided to ignore him. “Is it all set, then, about my going?”

“I think so. I hunted up Adam McIver, and he said he’d see what he could do.”

“Will we be able to go inside the palace?”

“Well, you can’t do as the sheep do, if that’s what you mean. But you won’t be able to wander about looking at tapestries, either. No tours while the royal family is in residence. It’s just an ordinary castle-paneled walls, paintings right and left, you know-the usual decor. Now, perhaps, at transatlantic phone prices, we ought to talk about the wedding.”

“All is well. The invitations are being printed; the department head has been placated; and the engagement announcement has gone out to the newspapers. I leave for Chandler Grove tomorrow. How are things in Scotland?”

“As far as wedding plans? No problem. Plane reservations are made and we’ve made all the phone calls to the relatives.”

“Solved your kidnapping yet?” asked Elizabeth.

“What, the gnome? No, but it’s the damnedest thing!”

“What?”

“We got a postcard from him today.”

“You did? From the thief?”

“No,” said Cameron dryly. “From the gnome.”

“I didn’t know it knew its address. What does the postcard say?”

There was a pause and then Cameron, obviously reading from the card in question, intoned: “Decided to go on holiday. Having wonderful time. Wish you were here.-(Signed) Your Garden Gnome. It’s addressed to The Dawsons.”

“Where is he?”

“The postcard is from Ibiza, and the stamps are Spanish. Postmarked there three days ago.”

Elizabeth burst out laughing. “Are you going after him?”

“No. I think that all our traveling will be in another direction. To the state of Georgia, to be exact. I told someone at church where I was getting married and he said, ‘In the Soviet Union?’”

“Yes, we tend to forget that they have a Georgia, too.”

“The accents are similar,” said Cameron.

Elizabeth ignored this gibe. “It will be wonderful to see your mother and Ian again.”

“Mother’s looking forward to her first visit to the States. She’s mad to do some sightseeing. Wants to know where she’s staying.”

Elizabeth smiled to herself. “You all are going to use my aunt Louisa’s place. It’s across the road from the Chandlers’.”

“Your auntie’s place. I see. And what’s it like?”

“Oh, it’s just an ordinary castle-paneled walls, paintings right and left. You know-the usual.”

In the frozen-foods aisle of the Chandler Grove Piggly Wiggly, Tommy Simmons was reading the nutritional information on the back of the microwaveable dinners. He supposed he ought to get into the habit of preparing real food, but there didn’t seem to be any point in cooking for one. Besides, people often took pity on his bachelor status and invited him out to dinner. Most of these dinners required him to give free legal advice on some minor matter, such as whether the owners of amorous tomcats could be made to pay child support for the resulting kittens (no), but Tommy didn’t mind. It made a nice change from land transfers and will drafting.

Perhaps he ought to try the diet frozen dinners, he thought, blanching at one five-hundred-calorie pasta entree. Just lately people had been exhibiting a regrettable tendency to overestimate his age. A sophomore from the local high school had tried to interview him on details of the Korean War. As if he’d admit to being on the planet during the Korean War! He blamed it on the Simmons family physique, which tended toward short stature and nonexistent waistlines. His hairline wasn’t much help, either; he was going bald on top, which only increased his resemblance to Friar Tuck. If the low-calorie cuisine didn’t improve matters, Tommy was afraid that he might have to invest in a videocassette and seek help from another Simmons: Richard, to whom he was not related.

He was just heading toward the produce section to purchase massive quantities of lettuce when a gaunt individual with an armload of herbal-tea packages backed into his cart. Not wishing to contemplate hit-and-run, the lawyer eased his shopping cart to the side of the aisle and rushed forward to see to the plaintiff.

“Are you all right?” he asked, for the fellow did look alarmingly pale. “I’m afraid you didn’t see me coming.”

“Oh, I’m fine. The velocity of that thing wasn’t-” Glowing dark eyes looked down into Tommy Simmons’s round face. “Hey, aren’t you the family lawyer? Makes you want to believe in synchronicity, doesn’t it? I was just thinking about you.”

Tommy would have willingly returned the compliment, but he had no idea whom he was addressing. “Well, it’s nice to see you,” he ventured. The dark-haired young man was dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt. He could be anybody.

“Thank you. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me. I guess lawyers have to have a good memory, but I’m flattered all the same.”

Inwardly, Tommy Simmons groaned. When someone said that, it was impossible to admit that you had absolutely no idea who they were. The only conceivable course of action was to keep the conversation going as neutrally as possible, and to hope that further clues would be forthcoming. At times like this, Tommy was haunted by the tale of an Atlanta colleague who had experienced just such a memory lapse once while talking to an elderly woman at a reception. After a few pleasantries, the woman had mentioned her son, and grasping at this clue to her identity, the fellow had exclaimed, “Oh, yes, your son. What’s he doing these days?” To which Lillian Carter had replied, “Oh, he’s still president of the United States.”

“Well, how have you been?” asked Tommy, casting about for safe topics of inquiry.

“All right, I guess. There’s not much to do around here, though. And the public library is most deficient in the sciences.”

Tommy endeavored to look sympathetic. Then, noticing the boxes of herbal tea, he said, “Well, there’s nothing I can do about the library, but I can recommend another place for you to grocery-shop. Did you know that a health-food place has opened in the old gristmill?”

The stranger looked interested. “No kidding! Macrobiotic stuff?”

“Er… probably,” said Tommy, who wouldn’t have shopped there at gunpoint. “Kelp and trail mix and that sort of thing. It’s called Earthlings. You should check them out.”

“Thanks, I will.” Tommy had intended for that to be the end of the encounter, but the young man steadied the tea boxes, making no attempt to move on. “Listen, there’s something I need to ask you.” He cast furtive glances up and down the aisle of the supermarket. “Just a quick question, really. Do you think you could answer it off the top of your head-without having to consult files in your office, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Tommy, eyeing his frozen food with some concern. “I could try.”

“It’s about my great-aunt Augusta’s will. You looked into the matter a couple of years ago when my sister Eileen-just before she-”

Tommy managed to suppress a smile of triumph. He had it! Charles Chandler! A bit more scruffy and gaunt than he remembered, but the family resemblance had struck him at last. “Yes, Charles,” he said smoothly. “I do recall that instance. What would you like to know about the will?”

“I wondered about the wording. You know, the circumstances required to inherit.”

“It was strange, wasn’t it?” said Tommy, nodding. “A classic case of the vindictive will. Some people love to take parting shots. Apparently your great-aunt had married against her family’s wishes and her fortune derived from that action.”

Charles blinked. “I guess you could say that. I heard that her husband died and she invested his money in California real estate. It’s all in trust now, though.”

“Yes. Apparently she wanted to remind the family that affairs had turned out for the best, despite their opinions to the contrary. Never mind that most of those who opposed her marriage had predeceased her.”

“Well, her brother-that’s my grandfather-is still around. But he hasn’t changed his mind, either.”

“Anyway, according to the terms of her will, she, being childless, left the money to whichever of her great-nieces or nephews should marry first.”

“Marry first,” said Charles. “Not just get engaged?”

“Correct. Remember, your sister was formally engaged before her unfortunate passing.” Tommy preferred not to utter the word death-just as he managed to avoid most of the other one-syllable expressions of Anglo-Saxon derivation. It was a natural inclination, fortified by his training in the law. “Remember that her fiancé did not receive the bequest.”

Charles nodded. “True. Okay, so you have to be legally married. No stipulations other than that?”

“I’d have to double-check, but I think the answer is no.”

“How much is the estate worth now?”

“Now that I would have to look up,” said Tommy, edging toward his grocery cart. “But considering what has happened to California real estate in recent years, I’d say well over a million. Yes, that’s safe to say. I think you could sell a doghouse in Los Angeles for that.”

Charles grabbed the attorney’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Thanks!” he cried. “You’ve been a great help!”

“No, not at all. You’re entitled to know.” Tommy could hear the self-justification in his own voice, as if he were denying responsibility for the outcome of this discussion.

Tommy Simmons wheeled his cart toward the checkout counters with the inexorable feeling that while he may have been helpful to Charles Chandler, he had also just been a great nuisance to somebody else. He wondered who would suffer from Charles’s newfound discovery.

Although the wedding of Elizabeth MacPherson was still more than ten days away, the atmosphere on the Chandler premises had begun to take on that charged quality indicative of approaching thunderstorms. Both Amanda and Mildred, the housekeeper, had taken to following the other occupants about with hand-held vacuum cleaners; the carpeting was clammy from frenzied applications of rug shampoo; and the smell of Murphy’s Oil Soap lingered in the air.

Moreover, despite all attempts to convey to Amanda their sincere and complete indifference to the impending occasion, the male Chandlers were endlessly regaled with the minutiae of the plans concerning the decorations, the reception, and the costumes of the participants, themselves included.

In desperation Dr. Robert Chandler had invented the necessity to rewrite chapter seven of his book on the whim of his editor, who was conveniently away on vacation in Nassau, unaware that he had been cast as the villain of the charade. The fugitive author had taken refuge in his study, ostensibly to complete this vital task, with strict orders that he was not to be disturbed, and his wife supposed him to be toiling away before the silent word processor in thrall to a deadline. He was careful to keep the television volume turned low and to hide his cache of Louis L’Amour novels behind the filing cabinet in case of unannounced visits from the wedding terrorists.

The doctor’s companion in exile was Valerian, an imposing Maine Coon Cat, whose shaggy and shedding dark coat had thrown him into disfavor with the current regime. After having been driven from the sofa, the armchair, and even the carpeted staircase by cleaning fanatics, the feline emperor had demanded asylum by scratching on the door of the doctor’s study and meowing piteous complaints about his ill-treatment. All eighteen pounds of him were now comatose and sprawled across the book galleys as he recuperated from the fatigue of an interrupted nap. His fellow refugee napped in the chesterfield chair by the window.

When someone tapped softly at the door of the study, Dr. Chandler awoke with a start-and with just enough presence of mind to thrust his paperback between the seat cushion and the arm of the chair. Valerian did not twitch so much as an eyelid.

“Come in!” called Dr. Chandler, scrambling to get to his desk. Unfortunately, his manuscript was buried under an avalanche of cat, so he endeavored to look busy with a yellow legal pad.

“Robert, I thought you might like some coffee,” said his wife, appearing in the doorway with two cups and a plate of cookies on a newly polished silver tray. The tray and the fact that the cups were from a set of antique Bavarian china, usually kept in the bow-fronted display cabinet, were other signs of the rampant formality occasioned by the wedding. “I see you plan to join me, dear,” said Dr. Chandler, eyeing the second coffee cup. “How thoughtful.”

The invasion having been accomplished with the utmost civility, Amanda set the tray on the glass-topped table and settled into the chesterfield chair with the air of one who is about to preside at a meeting. “How is your chapter coming?” she asked, handing him the plate of cookies.

“Oh, tolerably,” he replied, glancing nervously at the cat. “It’s painstaking work, you know.”

“No. I cannot think why anyone would want to write a book. It pays very little and people only seem to read them in order to express unkind opinions about them.” She shrugged. “Really, why bother? But you go right ahead with your little hobby. I just wanted to tell you how things were progressing with the wedding.”

“Elizabeth isn’t even here yet,” he grumbled, thinking it only fair that the blushing bride should share in the general inconvenience.

“No, but that hardly matters, does it? Brides are a nuisance, anyway. They always come up with the most unsuitable ideas and often one has to be quite firm with them.”

“Why shouldn’t she have some say-so, Amanda? It’s her wedding!”

Amanda laughed. “Really, Robert, you might as well ask the cow how it wants the roast cooked. Elizabeth will be wise to leave everything to me, as I have a great deal of experience in social matters. She did phone to ask about locating one of her old school friends from high school. Wants her for a bridesmaid.”

“And were you able to assist her?”

“Oh, yes. She certainly isn’t hard to find.” Amanda paused for effect. “It’s Jenny Ramsay.”

Dr. Chandler thought hard. “That name sounds familiar. Have we met her?”

“Every day for four years, Robert. She’s the weather girl on Channel Four.”

“Oh! Jenny. The perky little blonde who does the parades and things.”

“Exactly. Elizabeth hasn’t seen her since high school, but apparently they’d made some sort of teenage promise to be bridesmaids at each other’s wedding. I told you brides were dangerous.”

“She’ll look quite nice as a bridesmaid.”

“Certainly she will.” Amanda looked as if she wanted to add something, but apparently she thought better of it. “Oh, well!” she said with a little laugh. “Where was I? Oh, yes. I have made an appointment with Country Garden in Chandler Grove so that we can talk about the flowers-Elizabeth will be able to contribute to that discussion. And I have spoken to Mr. Compton at the community college about handling the photography. Now the caterers pose a bit of a problem. Lucy Bedford is on vacation this month and I had counted on using her. However, Charles recommended a new group in town. He has spoken to them and they are coming out tomorrow, so perhaps it will be all right.” Pushing her reading glasses back on the top of her head, she took an appraising look at her husband. “I’ll need to take a look at you in your black suit, dear. I did think that morning coats might be nice, but we can’t be sure of what the groom is planning to wear. Possibly a kilt.”

“He’s on his own, then.”

“He will have to be telephoned. I will delegate that to Elizabeth. Now, is there anything else I’ve forgotten?”

“Are you sure this is all right with Doug and Margaret? She’s their only daughter, you know.”

Amanda looked thoughtful. “I imagine it’s a great relief, really. You know that Margaret’s idea of formal entertaining is two tables of bridge. Besides, I think they may see it as a kindness.”

“How’s that?”

“Because we lost our little girl just before her wedding.” To her husband’s surprise, the brisk efficiency dissolved into the faltering voice of one trying very hard to overcome great obstacles.

Dr. Chandler kissed his wife’s cheek. “If there’s anything I can do, Amanda, just let me know.”

She patted his hand. “Thank you, Robert. I am managing well enough right now. You go back to your cowboy book.” With that she picked up the tray and was gone.