Rose McQuinn 7 - Deadly Legacy (10 page)

It must have been dawn and a baby crying that shot my fitful dozing into wakefulness. I wondered where I was. I had been dreaming I was back in Arizona, and the baby, my own wee Daniel, was awake and crying to be fed.

One moment of wild sweet joy and then alas, the present's bitter reality.

The day had begun. I did my ablutions while Beth fed her baby. Giving her the privacy of the room for a while, I went downstairs in search of breakfast, to be told there was only porridge.

I accepted gladly - for another shilling. Beth came down, we ate and left. I refused payment of her share of what had been a miserable night's lodging and hopefully we walked back to the station halt where the trains between Perth and Edinburgh stopped 'on demand' according to the timetable.

With two minutes to spare, the only prospective passengers, we found an empty carriage.

Sitting opposite, we didn't talk much on that journey. Maybe her silence, her air of preoccupation, indicated regret that she had said too much, while I was considering what sort of a reception awaited her from her unforgiving parents at the stately home; perhaps for Beth there was little left to say. She had talked herself out last night. It was the old story, so often easier to confide in a stranger on a journey never to be met again than in one's nearest and dearest.

As Edinburgh came into view, she smiled and apologised - in case I thought badly of her. I was quick with reassurances and added that if ever she needed a friend she could contact me.

'You are very kind, Mrs McQuinn, but I have been giving much thought to what will happen when I arrive home with a baby - in full view of the servants.'

I mentally envisaged the consternation and horrified whispers below stairs, as she went on, 'I have decided to call on Nanny Craigle. She took care of me from infancy and has always been a loyal servant. She now has a boarding house at Portobello - Adrian and some other actors stay with her when they are not on tour.'

She looked thoughtful, gave a wavering sigh, and I doubted whether this was a good move as she went on, 'I am going to throw myself on her hospitality. I can leave the baby with her while I approach my parents and put myself and my future at their mercy. I am sure Nanny will help,' she added in a tone of desperation.

We boarded a hiring carriage that would take her on the first stage of her journey home and deposit me en route. I was somewhat insistent about paying my share, but she laughed and assured me that she had money for the fare, otherwise she would have taken the local train.

We left the Pleasance, climbing the steep hill, and at the base of Arthur's Seat arrived at Solomon's Tower. Beth was one of the few people who did not gasp with admiration at the sight of that ancient and imposing tower. The reason was easy to guess: to someone who lived in a historic mansion on a grand estate it must have looked less than impressive.

We parted most cordially and again she thanked me for my kindness to her. 'What would I have done without you? You have been a true friend - may I call you Rose?'

'Of course. And I was glad to be of assistance in your hour of need. Truly, if you ever need me, feel free to call at Solomon's Tower.'

I hoped all would go well for her. Watching the carriage head down the Duddingston road, I thought she would remember the address without my business card, which seemed somewhat inappropriate.

Looking out of the back window, she turned and waved goodbye. I did not envy her the prospects of the immediate future, aware that I was unlikely to hear the end of that extraordinary and tragic tale or ever set eyes on Beth Montiford again.

As always, I had misjudged the workings of destiny.

CHAPTER TWELVE

As ever, Thane was waiting to greet me. Of Jack there was neither sign nor message. This was disturbing. Surely he must have been anxious when I had not returned home last night, but he had not left any word before departing for the Central Office that morning.

I was fond of remarking, 'The lot of a policeman's wife, or even his common-law wife, is not a happy one.' To which Jack always grinned and replied, 'That goes with the marriage licence.'

And it was sadly true. Unreliability was the name of the game. In my young days at Sheridan Place, my father, Chief Inspector Jeremy Faro, was never there, always chasing some criminal or other, when we children, my sister Emily and I, most wanted him. I sighed. No doubt Jack would have some fine excuse and explanation, as always, when he got home in time - or thereabouts - for supper.

Until then I had a lot to consider. First and most important I must go to the address I had been given and see Meg, knowing how delighted Jack would be that she was to be so near at hand. Later, we would discuss her future.

Then there was the matter of Mrs Lawers' package, still in my possession, its future weighing heavily upon my conscience. What was to become of it? I hoped Jack would tell me what progress had been made in the mysterious affair of the deaths of Mrs Lawers and Hinton. Should I now reveal the existence of a bogus maid and my own perils at her hands?

I was suddenly very tired. The events of the last few days were catching up on me.

Taking out my bicycle from the barn I discovered a slow puncture. And again the weather defeated me: the fierce cold wind hurtling along Duddingston Road, past the loch and round the base of Arthur's Seat, would be in my face on the hilly return journey.

At that moment it was too much. Drained of all energy, I decided to abandon the plan and bring my logbook up to date with the events of the last few days, before attending to some wearisome and much neglected domestic matters, such as ironing, before preparing supper.

The kitchen was cosy, the peat fire welcoming. I sat down in the armchair, book in hand - promptly fell asleep and awoke to the clock chiming seven.

It was growing dark and Jack had not returned. Irritation with the whole of the Edinburgh City Police became alarm when, an hour later, there was still no message.

Everything was so still outside. The hours passed slowly and the creak from a loose floorboard that had developed just inside the back door (which Jack had repeatedly promised to mend - when he had time), now influenced by the high wind, constantly alerted me to a familiar footfall that failed to materialise.

I picked up a book but, too uneasy to read, concentration was beyond me. Midnight came; a full moon illuminated the garden and the sky was full of shining stars - all so peaceful, yet I was suddenly afraid, for Thane seemed to have caught my mood and had been unusually restless, roaming back and forth to the kitchen door all evening as if he too anticipated a visitor.

I patted his head. 'Tell me what's wrong, Thane. What is it?'

Gazing at me with that familiar intense look, I felt him shiver. I repeated what I had said so many times: 'Oh Thane, if only you could talk.' And as always he raised a paw, laid it on my knee, a gesture of protection.

I went upstairs to bed. There was no point waiting any longer; it seemed doubtful now that Jack would return before morning, coming in the door with his usual cheery greeting, grinning apologetically, full of laments and excuses.

I slept surprisingly well considering, to be awakened from a disturbing dream by someone knocking on the front door. The grandfather clock struck seven, and putting on my robe I ran downstairs. Thane was already there, waiting.

I opened the door to a man in police uniform who I recognised as Con Wright, Jack's new sergeant. One look at his face, even before he uttered a word, told me that word was not good news. My heart sank.

'It's the inspector, Mrs McQuinn. There's been an accident.'

'How bad?' I demanded.

The sergeant gulped, as if he found it difficult to find the right words. 'He's been shot.'

My hand flew to my mouth. 'Is he ... is he ...?'

'No, no. He's in the infirmary ...' He looked at me, trying to think of something consoling. 'I'm sure there's a good chance he'll recover ...'

So there was hope, then. There had to be hope.

Jack dying? No, that was impossible, but even as I whispered the words I knew that was a lie too. I had dealt enough with death to know there is no answer to its call.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

'What happened?'

'We had a hostage situation in the Canongate. The inspector insisted on going in, reasoning with him, getting the woman and bairn to safety.' He paused. 'The wanted man shot him point-blank. In the chest.'

I was shaking. I had to sit down. 'Come in for a minute, Sergeant.'

He followed me into the kitchen, took a seat at the table, looked up at me as if awaiting comment or instructions.

The kettle had been over the hob on the peat fire all night. I hoped it was hot enough for tea. Such a silly thing to feel that was important when at this moment Jack might be dying.

Jack dying? The thought was impossible. It just couldn't happen. Not now, when I was planning to bring him and Meg together in Edinburgh.

I set out two cups, hovered with the teapot, my hand shaking.

'Let me do that, Mrs McQuinn.'

I watched him put in the milk, sugar for him, none for me.

'When can I go in and see him?'

'Well, not today. But soon. They'll let us know when he can have visitors.'

I gulped. 'That serious, is it?'

He nodded. 'For a while, maybe. The bullet ... you know ... have to remove it and so forth.' A pause. 'The inspector is strong as a horse, don't you worry, Mrs McQuinn, he'll pull through all right. You'll see,' he added, that note of much needed hope mostly, I felt, to reassure himself.

He drank his tea, made some conversation about Thane, what a fine dog, etc - anything to keep away from Jack perhaps bleeding to death a mile away. I interrupted, asking a question I knew was idiotic.

'Will they let him come home once they've operated?'

He stared at me as if I was mad, which I probably was at that moment. 'Well, it might take a wee while before he's ready for that.' And carefully putting down his cup, he seized his helmet and said, 'Have to be off now, Mrs McQuinn. Anything you need, get in touch with Chief Inspector Gray.'

I closed the door, sat down and wept. It wasn't an indulgence I often allowed myself, but this morning I decided I deserved it. Thane came over and leant gently against my side, gazed at me imploringly.

I got up. 'Things to do, Thane.'

First of all I would walk across to the Royal Infirmary and talk to the doctors. I went to the barn for my bicycle and must have repaired the slow puncture automatically before setting out. The kit was on the barn floor when I returned, but I remembered nothing of that repair or of the short journey to the hospital, apart from propping up the machine outside and discovering which ward Jack was in.

The receptionist's face was so serious I was almost certain that I had come too late.

As I dashed along the corridor, there was Chief Inspector Gray talking to one of the nurses. His presence would have made me realise, if I had not already done so, the full measure of what to expect regarding Jack's condition. That he was holding on to life by a frail thread and I might already be too late.

Gray was coming forward very briskly; he bowed and looked sympathetic before addressing me. Courteously this time. Jack would have been most impressed.

But I was suspicious by nature. This change of heart also had a hint of finality, that he was already mentally composing the funeral eulogy for his best officer. Was I to be forgiven? Jack Macmerry could have gone so much further with a conventional lifestyle, a wife and family, but a long-term mistress or common-law wife did not sit well in the personal details on the promotion report. The sanctity of the family was everything. It even outdid a brilliant mind in the echelons of Edinburgh society, where conventions and respectability decided a man's merit, rather than sheer guts and bravery.

Well, they'd had sheer guts and bravery this time, his cohabiting with a lady investigator (despised by the Edinburgh City Police and adherents) the only fly in the ointment ... if Jack survived.

Gray was saying, 'This is an anxious time for you, Mrs McQuinn.' A grave headshake. 'Indeed, for all of us. Jack is a fine officer, the very best and we don't want to-- We cannot afford to ... to lose him.'

A man approached. White coat, serious expression and the dangling stethoscope announced 'doctor'. A door opened from the operating room and we stepped aside - a stretcher with a sheeted figure, a still white face barely recognisable as Jack.

I called his name and the doctor held my arm. At least the sheet wasn't covering his face. He was still alive.

Gray stepped forward, gave me a hard look and said to the doctor, 'This is Mrs McQuinn, a close friend of Inspector Macmerry.'

He was introduced as Mr Wainland, which indicated the rank of surgeon. He bowed, arranged his face into the right aspect of cheerful but cautious optimism. I regarded the white coat, not covered in blood, quite pristine, substituted for the butcher's leather apron or even the greatcoat, white shirt and cravat of the dandified surgeons operating before medical students in the past century.

'Is he going to be all right?' I asked. It sounded so banal but it was precisely all I wanted to know.

The surgeon straightened his shoulders and I could see how exhausted he was. 'It has been a long and delicate operation but we managed to remove the bullet without damaging the main artery.'

At this information CI Gray nodded eagerly. A lot of technical medical detail followed which I didn't understand, but was relieved to see it ended with the slightest of smiles.

'We have reasons for hope, especially as the patient has a good health record, and given a little time, should make a good recovery. Rest assured, we have done all we can. The rest we leave in God's hands,' the surgeon ended piously.

'When can I see him?'

He frowned. 'Not immediately, I'm afraid. In a day or two, let us see how he progresses ...'

A nurse hovered. His attention needed urgently, the surgeon bowed and was gone, bustling down the corridor.