Rose McQuinn 7 - Deadly Legacy (15 page)

Uneasily, I wondered: how did she know that I was living in that ancient dwelling at the foot of Samson's Ribs? Did she even know of DI Macmerry's existence?

Hardly a consolation that he was at present disabled, lying in the infirmary. Of course, I had Thane to protect me, but I had now added the precaution of keeping the derringer loaded and close at hand, and I certainly wasn't afraid to use it if necessity arose.

I still had my letter of authority from Jack and accordingly set off next morning to call on Mr Hayward at his home in the west end of Edinburgh. Despite the library being unable to give me his details, finding someone when armed only with their name is an important skill for a lady detective and some gentle enquiries at the university had produced the professor's address. Parking my bicycle, I walked up the stately steps of number 7 Melville Crescent.

Alas, I was out of luck. There was no reply, so I scribbled a message that the map was urgently required by DI Macmerry. When would it be convenient for me to call and collect it, or could it be delivered as soon as possible to Solomon's Tower?

With that unsatisfactory arrangement I had to be content. There was nothing else I could do, staring helplessly at the line of windows in the grand terrace all gazing down coldly upon unwanted callers. Their lofty regard and closed shutters on Mr Hayward's house hinted at a lengthy absence.

This terrace was not a place that encouraged nosy or even friendly neighbours and I could hardly imagine myself instigating a door-to-door enquiry. However, fortune decided to shine on me. As I was walking down the steps a solemn bespectacled young man briskly approached. I mentioned Mr Hayward, he shook his head and pointed to the letters he was delivering.

'Away from home. Off to Aberdeenshire for the shooting - we're expecting him back any day now.'

With no indication as to who 'we' referred to and a stern expression which forbade any further enquiry, at least I now had a time gauge.

* * *

I returned home to find a message had been left for me. Mr and Mrs Blaker had returned. They were now in residence and would be delighted to make my acquaintance. One cheery light in the gloom. I was about to meet Meg at last.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

She stood at the door at Mrs Nora Blaker's side. I went forward, extended my hand, and a lot of thoughts rushed through my mind as I gathered that small chubby hand into mine.

Relief flooded over me. She was so obviously Jack's child, a small female edition in his image, with sandy hair, bright hazel eyes and a wide mouth. When Jack saw her again, infancy vanished into a little girl, his misgivings that he had been trapped into that short loveless marriage could be stilled for ever.

I smiled delightedly but she was not prone to smiles.

As we assessed each other in that first cautious encounter, she regarded me solemnly. Was the next move up to me? But I was at a disadvantage. True, I had nephews and nieces from my stepbrother Vince in London and my sister Emily in Orkney, distant and therefore rarely, if ever, met, but this was a new experience, making the acquaintance of a three-year-old.

Gazing at Meg I knew better than to rush forward and seize her in a fond embrace that would embarrass and terrify both of us. Children, I realised, should be left to make the first overtures after careful contemplation and cautious consideration of these monuments of humanity towering over them. Smaller than average, nearer the ground with my four feet ten inches, was that in my favour as she looked at me so gravely from the side of the two tall people who were to be her new parents?

Her eyes wandered to my wild yellow curls and less-than-elegant appearance. A flicker of comparison perhaps.

Meanwhile I had no idea what was expected of me, as we stood statue-like for what seemed a very long time, both, as it were, considering the next move.

Mrs Blaker's gentle laugh broke the silence. 'This is Mrs McQuinn, Meg. She is a friend of your pa.'

I gave the tiny hand a gentle squeeze. 'Rose - please call me Rose.'

She was interested now. A quick glance at the tall couple for their approval, then she left them and came to me.

She smiled and I choked, for even in miniature that smile was Jack's.

'Rose,' she said, and stretching up a hand she touched a curl of my hair. 'Pretty.'

It was a bond; I gulped. Only her father ever called that unruly mop 'pretty'.

'Did you like the dolly your pa sent?'

She looked away, nodded vaguely.

'Oh, she loves it, don't you, Meg?' said Mrs Blaker encouragingly, leading the way through the hallway and up a splendid oak staircase into a handsome drawing room well appointed with soft sofas, plump cushions and an assortment of small tables made childproof by the removal of their precious ornaments to lofty shelves and mantelpiece.

Still holding Meg's hand I said, 'What a lovely room. Do you like your new home?'

Another nod, frowning, evading eye contact. Mrs Blaker invited us to sit down and Meg hitched herself up on a sofa next to me.

Mrs Blaker knelt down beside us, stroked back childish curls. 'Meg needs a little time to get used to things,' she said softly. 'She has the prettiest room in the house. Why don't you show your room to ... er, Rose, Meg dear?'

A polite nod, a thoughtful glance in my direction; her tiny hand in mine, she led the way across the corridor.

Mrs Blaker opened the door. The room was pretty, plenty of lace and satin, and pink everywhere, as befitted a small girl. There were dolls too - lots of elegant dolls, many dressed in the latest fashions. My heart failed me; small wonder she had been uncertain with Jack's gift perched alongside the richly garbed aristocrats of the doll world and looking like a poor relation.

The Blakers lingered by the door. Piers Blaker, who had followed us upstairs, watched silently, having said not a single word beyond the polite bow at introduction. I wondered if the fostering idea had been his wife's, or maybe he was just overwhelmed by all this femininity.

I caught his eye, smiled. Mrs Blaker touched a bell pull, and as he bowed and left us to it, a maid appeared.

'Bring Meg some milk and a biscuit please. It is time for her tea, and her afternoon rest.'

Meg darted an anxious look at me and sensing dismissal I said, 'Your pa will be coming to see you very soon.'

A frown - she didn't understand very soon - and I added, 'In a few days.'

I could hardly explain the delay as she still looked doubtful, frowning, and I wondered how much she remembered of Glasgow and who this man called 'Pa' really was.

I followed Nora Blaker downstairs and the room seemed strangely empty without Meg's small presence. Mr Blaker was now sitting at his desk, busy with papers, and turned round to join us in the talk about Meg's adoption.

I explained that her father was in hospital at the moment.

Anxious looks, murmurs, was it something catching? I felt that fears of the dreaded consumption haunted the middle class.

'He had an accident, nothing serious,' I lied. 'He will be delighted to know that I have seen Meg and he will certainly be pleased to know that she is to have such a lovely home with you.'

There wasn't much more to say and Mrs Blaker escorted me to the front door, with assurances that I must come again and any time.

As we shook hands, she said, 'You have no idea, Mrs McQuinn - having this lovely little girl at last means so very much to me.' She sighed. 'I can't believe it is going to happen at last, after these long years of waiting and hoping.' She frowned. 'We have been married five, nearly six years, you know, and we had lost hope of having a child of our own.'

'It could still happen.'

'You really think so?' she said anxiously.

I smiled politely but didn't add that Danny and I had been married ten years before a baby arrived.

I walked down the steps, glad to have met Meg and heartened by the awareness that I had somehow established a bond with Jack's child.

He would be pleased. But there were vague misgivings stirring, threatening confidence in the glowing future for Meg promised by the Blakers, and all this talk of adoption.

There was a reason for my unease and it had nothing to do with Meg. I kept remembering how Mr Blaker kept in the background, said little, and then I knew the reason why.

Piers was an unusual name and this was not our first encounter. A couple of years ago he had been involved in a particularly nasty and spiteful divorce action by one of my clients, who needed the services of a private investigator because of her own husband's high profile in Edinburgh society. Mr Blaker had been threatening to make matters worse by making public love letters sent by her.

It was not a comforting thought that one of Meg's prospective parents hid an unpleasant past as a blackmailer.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Before I could go down to the hospital and console Jack with the outcome of my meeting with Meg, I had an unexpected visitor. I opened the front door to a distinguished silver-haired elderly gentleman.

He bowed, looking embarrassed. 'Pardon me for applying so vigorously to the doorbell, but it seems to be out of action.'

'A little rusty, I'm afraid.' Another of Jack's repairs for when he had time on his hands that wasn't urgently needed by the Edinburgh City Police. I was making up quite a list.

'I am Trevor Hayward,' said the newcomer. 'Is Mr Macmerry at home?'

'Not at present, I'm afraid. But do come inside.' So this was the librarian-cum-historian who I hoped was now going to produce Jack's map. As I introduced myself, he said, 'Ah, the young lady who left a message at my home.' He paused. 'Then you know why I am here. I apologise for the informality of the visit, but I had someone to see in Blacket Place and on impulse, to save a second journey, I took a chance on Mr Macmerry being at home ...'

So he was unaware that Jack was a detective. As I led the way across the Great Hall he looked around, shook his head and smiled. 'I have not set foot inside Solomon's Tower for many years. It belonged to an old friend - long before your time.' And with a rueful glance, 'He was a bachelor, and the house is much improved by a lady's hands, better than I ever remember it,' he added candidly.

Thinking of the doorbell that didn't work, creaking floorboards as well as an uncertain roof, I said, 'There is much work to be done, inside and out.'

He smiled. 'That is to be expected considering that it has been bravely standing here on Samson's Ribs facing all manner of weather for three hundred years.' Another wry glance. 'At least it does not smell of cats.'

Leading the way into the kitchen, I laughed. 'Now there is a very large dog.'

Thane was nowhere to be seen, absent on one of his daily forages.

'A species I much prefer. May I?' And laying his case on the kitchen table he opened it and took out the map Jack and I had found. 'This is definitely part of a rather crude map, a plan of battle manoeuvres. Note the roughly torn edges. Not giving away much helpful information I'm afraid, but my researches suggest that Mr Macmerry's theory was right and that it was drawn in 1745, possibly on the eve of the Battle of Prestonpans.'

Pausing, he looked at me and asked, 'How did Mr Macmerry come by it?'

Reluctant to mention the existence of a secret room, I said, 'Among some old junk in the upstairs regions. We thought it might have been left by a soldier or an officer from that time - billeted in the Tower.'

He rubbed his chin and said eagerly, 'That is a perfectly logical explanation. The prince, we are given to understand, was in a house in Duddingston. His highlanders camped hereabouts on Arthur's Seat, but presumably those in command might well have been billeted here.' Looking at me, he tapped the map. 'This, of course, is only speculation - a fragment of the original map on its own is merely of historic interest.' I decided to show him Mrs Lawers' piece of the map and the letters which I had brought down to study that morning, explaining that it had belonged to a lady recently deceased.

Eagerly he spread it out alongside Jack's map. I watched as he studied the two pieces minutely.

'There is certainly a similarity in the parchment - only an expert could tell if it was from the same roll.' He shook his head. 'If you look carefully, you will observe that the edges do not fit together and might well be from two different maps.'

Taking out a magnifying glass, he examined the edges and gave a nod of satisfaction. 'The similarity of the writing, however, illegible and faded as it is, suggests that these two pieces were part of a larger map, but for some reason, the middle section linking them together has been removed.'

Straightening up, he said, 'Why, or indeed by whom, is a mystery.' And shaking his head, 'Alas, I can tell Mr Macmerry no more than that, but I have a large collection of maps of the period - and if he would wish me to investigate further I will do this immediately and return with my deliberations.'

I did not want to part with Mrs Lawers' map, even knowing it would be in safe hands. I needed to discuss it all with Jack but time was short. Perhaps that missing section held the clue to Mrs Lawers' murder and for that I must leave no stone, or map, however improbable, unturned.

Mr Hayward was looking at me, obviously waiting for me to say 'Yes, please take it', and I did so.

He smiled, placing the two maps carefully in his case. 'Mr Macmerry may rest assured, they are in safe hands.'

I offered him tea, and in a mood to linger, he accepted. Sitting at the table, he looked round and asked, 'May I enquire how Mr Macmerry came by the Tower?'

'It doesn't belong to either of us. My stepbrother, Dr Laurie, was left it by a grateful patient, Sir Hedley Marsh.'

He gave me a look of triumph. 'My old friend!'

This was my chance to find out more about that formidable old man, who scared us as children playing on Arthur's Seat. When he emerged and shook his stick, that was enough to send us rushing away in mortal fear for our lives. No nightmare story or threat for disobedience from our housekeeper at Sheridan Place could equal the terror of the resident of Solomon's Tower.