Fields of Blue Flax (13 page)

Lottie stood up and lifted the lid of the piano stool where the music was kept. She rifled through the sheet music and, after selecting something, sat back down and raised her hands over the keys again.

After a few bars, Lottie turned her right hand to the side, so her palm was uppermost, laid her fingertips on the keys and slid her fingers up two octaves. She played, using the same movement of her hand after another few bars, nodding at her mum. After a couple of minutes, she finished and sat back, shoulders relaxed.

Mags stood smiling, as she always did when her daughter played.

‘It’s the glissandi, Mum. Dad goes berserk when he plays a glissando in this Debussy prelude. I’ve noticed his fingertips bleeding before. I told him he should change technique and
do it like this.’ Lottie demonstrated the same movement but with her thumbnail. ‘But he insisted on doing it his way, using his fingertips, so the top knuckles bleed. Though it’s a long time since I’ve seen him do that. Last time was ages ago when he was in a foul mood.’

‘A bit like how he’s been for the past few days,’ Mags said. ‘So does this bleeding fingers thing happen to everyone who plays that Debussy piece?’

‘No, it depends how sensitive your fingertips are, and Dad’s are really sensitive. That’s why I didn’t think he ever played this piece now. Wouldn’t look good delving into a patient’s mouth with scabby fingers, even with those plastic gloves on.’

Mags looked down at her hands and wiggled her fingers. ‘Never realised that about glissandos.’

‘Glissandi,’ Lottie corrected, raising an eyebrow. ‘They’re usually played from top to bottom but Debussy was always a bit different. Do you not remember that undergrad concert you and Dad came to and I’d to go on after Phoebe Begbie playing her Debussy? She’d left so much blood on the piano I had to wipe it off with my sleeve before I could start. It was disgusting.’

‘I’ve never noticed blood like that after Dad’s played though.’

‘He must be especially stressed right now. It’s really satisfying doing one, just bloody painful.’

‘Reckon I’ll stick to cakes,’ said Mags, heading back towards the kitchen. ‘Wish I knew what’s bugging your dad though, Lotts.’

Christine walked up the steps to Register House and turned to look at the imposing statue of the Duke of Wellington
on his rearing horse below. She heard someone calling her name and looked up to see Mags standing at the front door, waving at her. Well, that must be a first, she thought, Mags arriving before her. She trotted up the final steps and hugged her cousin.

‘Fancy a quick coffee first?’ Mags asked. ‘We need to discuss our strategy.’

Christine pulled back her sleeve and checked the time. ‘Well, it’s only just after ten, but yes, okay, a quick one. We need to chat about that funeral Dad and Auntie Peggy want us to go to.’

‘Whose is it again?’

‘Their second cousin, I think. Jimmy someone. Never met him.’

The two women made their way to the café.

‘And it’s this Saturday?’ asked Mags.

‘Yes,’ said Christine.

‘We won’t know many people,’ said Mags. ‘Auntie Bella will be there though, I imagine. She’s a hoot.’

‘Yes, larger than life, isn’t she? She used to smoke a pipe.’

‘And I can still remember at a family party not long after I got married – think it was Mum and Dad’s silver wedding or something – she asked me if I actually enjoyed sex. I was so stunned I couldn’t reply but she carried on regardless and told me she never really liked it but put up with it till her husband had that operation.’ Mags burst out laughing. ‘Way too much information!’

Christine smiled and spooned up the foam from her cappuccino, then placed the spoon neatly on the saucer. ‘Right, let’s drink these quickly then get to work!’

An hour later, Mags turned to Christine at the next
computer.

‘Why the hell can’t we find her birth certificate? Did she actually exist?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose she might have been born in England, or Canada even. How on earth would we find her then? What’ve you been typing in?’

‘Just Elizabeth Barrie and her parents’ names, but I’ve been trying further afield than Tannadice and Dundee. Still nothing.’

‘Unless they weren’t both her parents? Did they go in for adoption in those days?’

‘No idea.’ Mags leant back against her chair and looked up to the ceiling. ‘I’ll try searching for Elizabeths in the general area around Tannadice.’

Ten minutes later she prodded Christine’s arm. ‘Look,’ she hissed. ‘Read that!’

Christine peered over and read out loud, ‘1860 births, Parish of Oathlaw in the County of Forfar. Surname Whyte. Name of baby Elizabeth, born February 29
^th
at Corrie.’ She looked at Mags and shrugged. ‘So? Still no Barrie. Why do you think this is connected to…’

Mags jabbed the screen with her finger. ‘Here, look. Name of father – David Barrie, farm servant. And then right below it says illegitimate. God, look what’s written here at the side, Chris.’

In the left hand margin, written in the same hand, was an extra paragraph. It looked out of place: none of the other babies registered had anything written there.

In an action relating to the paternity of a female child born 29th February 1860 named Elizabeth Barrie at the insistence of Charlotte Whyte of Corrie, Parish of Oathlaw, against
David Barrie, farm servant, Tannadice. The Sheriff Court of Forfar on the 4th day of June 1860 found that the said child was the illegitimate child of the parties aforesaid. Signed George Stewart, Registrar. June 18
^th
, 1860
.

Mags smiled at her cousin. ‘Reckon your dad was right, Chris. That must be the secret!’

‘Yes, but hang on, something’s ringing bells about the name. The mother’s name is Charlotte Whyte, and it’s an unusual spelling. Was that not the name on the grave with the lily of the valley? She was the minister’s daughter, remember?’

‘God, yeah, but don’t be daft, it can’t be the same person. I mean, what are the chances of a farm labourer having it off with the minister’s daughter in those days.’ Mags shook her head. ‘We should try to find David Barrie’s death certificate next.’

The search did not take long.

Death certificate 1860

Name: David Barrie, male

Address: The Village, Tannadice

Parent’s names: John Barrie, farmer, deceased and Lorna Barrie née Mackie

Spouse name: Margaret Barrie, née Harris

When died: June 25
^th
1860, Tannadice, Parish of Oathlaw Cause of death: acute kidney failure as a consequence of accidental poisoning

Buried in Tannadice Churchyard

Signed George Stewart, Registrar

‘Poisoning! God, I need another coffee. Let’s go over to the Balmoral and have one there, at least it’ll be made from proper beans.’

‘Unbelievable,’ said Christine, grabbing her coat.

Chapter Twenty-three

2014

The wind had picked up since earlier, canopies were flapping over shops and everyone was rushing, heads bent down towards the pavement. The flag above the Balmoral Hotel’s grand entrance was taut against the freezing easterly wind. Mags and Christine hurried through the revolving door and into the hotel lobby, a haven of calm from the storm. The concierge smiled. ‘Can I help you, ladies?’

‘Yes, please, where do we go for coffee?’ Christine tucked her hair behind her ears and smoothed down her skirt.

‘Up the stairs straight ahead.’

‘Thanks,’ said Mags. ‘Could you please let Trish Hay in HR know that her friend Mags is in there? In case she has time to pop in and see us.’

‘Certainly, Madam.’

Trish was an old school friend of Mags, who had recently moved back to Edinburgh from London.

They had just ordered coffee when a tall woman with flame-red hair rushed in.

‘Mags, hi!’ she said, embracing her friend. ‘And Christine Duncan, look at you, you’ve not changed a bit!’

Christine smiled. ‘Think that’s a slight exaggeration, Trish. It’s been about thirty years! It’s good to see you.’

Trish leant in towards them and whispered, ‘I was just hearing some gossip from the receptionist about an American businessman – mega rich of course – who’s a regular guest here, no names obviously…’ She looked round at Mags and paused, as if for dramatic effect. ‘Anyway, he has his
mistress staying with him for three nights; she arrives with him at the weekend. But he insists she’s not to be registered, no passport, nothing. Then she leaves on the morning of the fourth day and that very same afternoon his wife arrives and stays another five nights, same suite and everything!’

‘Bloody hell, what if someone had said something?’ Mags said.

‘He’d already asked the manager to brief the staff to say nothing about his previous guest to his wife and because he’s a platinum card holder, everyone has to respect his wishes.’

Mags looked amazed. ‘But how could he keep that from his wife?’ She shook her head. ‘Bastard!’

‘I know! Men!’ Trish smiled. ‘Anyway, how’s your handsome husband, Mags?’

‘Oh, fine. Bit fatter than he was but just the same old Doug. Do you want to sit down and join us?’

Trish shook her head. ‘I’m meeting the boss in ten minutes.’ She stood back to let the waiter serve their coffees. ‘How about a glass of bubbly too?’

‘Oh yes, please,’ said Mags, beaming.

‘Well, we’ve got to get back to Register House soon, it’s just a quick break and…’

‘For God’s sake, woman, chill,’ Mags snapped at Christine.

Trish perched on the arm of Mags’s leather armchair and waved to the barman who came to take her order.

‘And the kids? How’s Lottie? I’ve forgotten how many you have, Chris.’

‘Two. Jack and Anna.’

Mags reached into her basket for her phone. ‘I’ve got some photos here.’

‘How’s your mum?’ asked Trish, as Mags scrolled through the photo album on her phone.

‘She’s great, thanks, just the same. Never misses a trick. When I said you were back in town, she wanted to know if you can still do the splits!’

Trish burst out laughing. ‘I’ve not tried for some time, but I’ll let you know. Right, who’s who?’

Mags pointed to Lottie in the first picture then flicked to a photo of Lottie with Jack and Anna.

‘Is that Doug’s sister’s son?’ asked Trish.

‘No, that’s Jack, Chris and Gerry’s son.’

Trish squinted at the photo. ‘Oh. Something about the eyes reminded me of Doug.’

‘Hmm. I suppose they’ve both got brown eyes. I don’t really see it.’

‘I remember that night you met Doug, it was at that party at Katriona Mack’s house,’ said Trish. ‘Feels about a million years ago now. Chris and I both really fancied Doug but he was only interested in the beautiful Mags.’ Trish smiled.

Mags chortled and leant back as the waiter approached with a tray of two tall glasses.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Christine. ‘It was you who was trying to chat him up.’

‘Didn’t work though, did it,’ said Trish, ruffling Mags’s dishevelled hair. She looked at her watch and stood up. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to dash. Enjoy the champers!’

‘Cheers!’ said Mags and Christine, waving goodbye.

‘Hilarious,’ said Mags. ‘Why would she think you two fancied Doug?’

‘No idea, she was the one who was after him,’ said Christine, eyes focused on the champagne bubbles. ‘As you say, hilarious!’

‘God, if Doug heard that it might make him slightly less grumpy. I almost feel like telling him.’

‘Why’s Doug grumpy?’

‘Wish I knew. Lottie agrees with me, he’s been crabby and irritable for days now, daren’t ask him why. He’s usually so laid-back.’ Mags downed her coffee then reached for her glass. ‘Anyway, what a discovery this morning. So it looks like Elizabeth Barrie’s father was David Barrie but her mother was this Charlotte Whyte. And you don’t think it could be the same one from the manse then?’

‘Impossible I’d say, but let’s look at the censuses later. And what about David Barrie’s death by poisoning?’ Christine sipped her champagne. ‘What could that have been?’

‘No idea, but it said he was a farm hand so maybe something used on the soil?’

‘No,’ said Christine. ‘They wouldn’t have used chemicals back then, would they? Maybe some sort of food poisoning?’

‘Suppose so. We can mention it to Uncle Charlie at the funeral, see if it jogs his memory. Oh, are you going to drive us there or shall I?’

‘I’ll drive,’ said Christine. ‘You drive far too fast on motorways; it’d give the old folk heart attacks. I’ll pick you up at 8.30, then swing by Dad and Auntie Peggy.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ Mags said. ‘Though I don’t drive that fast.’

Christine shook her head. ‘Ninety on a motorway is fast, Mags!’

Mags glanced at her cousin then leant over the table, twiddling with the stem of her glass. ‘What’s the latest on Connal from Ponteprydd?’

Christine placed her glass on its coaster on the table and pushed it away from her. ‘You do that just to annoy
me, don’t you? It’s Colin from Pontefract. Anyway, I had an email from Sergent Price.
Colin
’ – she emphasised the name – ‘is pleading not guilty at the magistrates’ court hearing next week.’

‘Not guilty? How the hell can he do that? Weren’t there loads of witnesses?’

‘Yes, three witness statements and photos of skid marks and all sorts.’

‘You’re not thinking of going to the court are you, Chris?’

‘No, of course not. What’s the point.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Right, Register House shuts early on a Saturday.’

Mags raised her glass which still had some bubbles. ‘I’m not rushing this Bolly, Chris.’

Christine pulled her coat onto her lap. ‘Come on, get that down you. We need to get back over the road. Those censuses beckon, Mags.’

Chapter Twenty-four

1865

‘Is a penny bun like a scone, Miss Charlotte?’ Elizabeth stood in the clearing in the woods and looked up at the tall, slim figure who held her hand tight. Charlotte’s chin was tilted up as she gazed at the morning sun breaking through the branches.

‘No, it’s a mushroom, Elizabeth, and we are looking for some for the Minister’s supper.’ Charlotte strode over to a tree stump and beckoned to Elizabeth, who skipped over the dead leaves to join her. ‘Look round here.’ Charlotte poked round the trunk with a stick. ‘This is where I found them last week, a clutch of lovely penny buns. I was going to cook them for supper but Father went out unexpectedly and refused to eat them the next day even though they were fine.’