Rose McQuinn 7 - Deadly Legacy (19 page)

'Vince, you're confusing me with your royal employers. That doesn't happen to ordinary folk on such uncorroborated evidence like falling - or being pushed - out of a train, and a burglary with nothing stolen.'

Vince wasn't listening. He frowned. 'Tell me what you can remember about this map among those documents.'

'I have a very good memory, Vince, as you are well aware; I could draw it for you. The battle formations of the clans were probably drawn by the prince himself while he stayed at Mrs Lawers' house in the Causeway. Two opposing army lines drawn up facing one another. In the background, the shape of a mountain roughly drawn, the coast, Arthur's Seat and the Firth of Forth.'

Vince looked up. 'Obviously relating to Prestonpans.' He shook his head. 'But surely a crude map could not contain some secret never to be revealed.'

'What if it is only part of a larger map? Mr Hayward believed that to be a distinct possibility.'

'I still think that is extremely doubtful. More likely the truth must lie in those letters written a hundred and fifty years ago.' He groaned. 'And in French. How irritating.'

'But it does make some connection with the prince's campaign more certain. Perhaps he wrote the letters too. It was his native tongue after all, remember, not Scots.'

Vince sighed. 'Well, I wouldn't have been much use to you even if I'd seen the letters. Never was much good at French, or any languages come to think of it. Latin was hard enough, and once or twice failing exams put the possibility of doing medicine in question.'

The sun had fled, it was turning chilly, gloom had descended on the rocky shore, the ebb tide grey and uninviting. We went back to the waiting carriage, Vince thoughtfully silent.

In the Tower once more, while I made a cup of tea he hovered and said, 'I must confess the only likely suspect I have come up with from your evidence is Sergeant Wright.'

My eyebrows raised at that. 'Sergeant Wright?' I repeated. 'The most unlikely one if you knew him.'

He shook his head. 'But that's always the way of it. I shouldn't have to tell you that.'

'In this case, I'm sure you're wrong ...'

'Perhaps. But let's face it, he is the only logical person from what you've told me--'

'He certainly wasn't the policeman who came to my door with an urgent message to send me off to the hospital while he searched the house,' I interrupted.

Vince was silent again. 'Do you know what I think, Rose?' And without awaiting a reply, 'I think, in your best interests, that you should abandon this mystery, leave the matter of the two dead women in the hands of the police, where it belongs. Declare the case of Mrs Lawers' legacy closed - unsolved, meanwhile remaining custodian of the documents and the trinkets until such time as someone claims them - such as Mrs Lawers' solicitors.'

'That's unlikely. From what I heard from Jane Hinton, or her friend Amy Dodd, she was the kind of woman who did not trust anyone, and certainly not a bank or a lawyer--'

'Hear me out, Rose. If you don't find someone to carry this burden for you, you are chasing shadows ...' he paused and added grimly, '... but if there is something amiss and dangerous for the holder of these documents, then one of these shadows might materialise, knife in hand, from the darkness surrounding you.'

It was quite poetic the way he put it. Impressed, I said, 'Now you are just trying to scare me to death.'

'It's for your own good, Rose,' he said angrily, banging his fist on the table. 'Why don't you listen to reason for a change?' Watching my expression, he groaned. 'And if you'd had the sense to tell all this to Jack, I don't doubt for one moment that he would have felt as I do about it and utterly forbidden you to pursue it any longer.'

'Very well, I will tell him once he's restored back to health and strength after being spoilt rotten by his devoted mother.' I paused to see how he was taking this and added, 'Remember he has another problem waiting on the doorstep. A three-year-old problem which he has never managed to solve.'

'Meg?'

'Yes, Meg. And what he should do about letting the Blakers adopt her.' Over lunch I had confided my concerns about Piers Blaker.

Vince looked at me, considering, silent, as if searching for the right words. Then he smiled wryly. 'There is a very simple solution to the problem of Meg. So simple, I'm surprised that a lady investigator hasn't twigged it already.'

'And what is that?' I demanded sharply.

He grinned. 'I'm not going to put the words in your mouth, Rose. Just think about it, and the answer will come to you in a flash.'

He left soon afterwards with cheerful promises to meet again,
though God knows when that would be
, I thought miserably.

However, I did almost promise to visit St James's and see the family. But I knew that momentary enthusiasm would soon fade. The prospect of London did not enchant me; I found the thought daunting, even slightly scary.

There were other considerations. Would my sister-in-law Olivia have been changed by living within the royal circle? What would those three children make of their rarely seen aunt with the wild yellow hair and unconventional clothes? And what on earth would I wear, what kind of dress would be appropriate? Certainly nothing from a lady bicyclist's wardrobe in the wilds of Arthur's Seat. And I sighed, knowing this feeling of frustration and panic would inevitably provide another excuse for my not visiting London.

Almost before Vince was out of sight, watching the carriage hurtle down the road towards Waverley Station, carrying him back to his duties as physician to the royal household and out of my life once more, the fleeting nature of our few hours together hit me. These visits, twice a year at best, so often left many important things remaining unsaid, forgotten in the moment - incidents to make him laugh or raise his eyebrows in despair, the ones marked aside in my mind with the tag 'must remember to tell Vince that when I see him'. Alas, none of the Faros were great letter writers, and these visits aside, we had no other means available to stay in touch, although the invention of the picture postcard had been a godsend to Pappa, enjoying his retirement by travelling abroad with his writer companion, Imogen Crowe.

I went inside, closed the door and reread the two letters that had arrived. The impending visit of Mr Hayward and a note from Jane, indicating that the bodies of the two women having now been released, presumably after the Procurator Fiscal had recorded his deliberations, there was a funeral for me to attend.

And I was not looking forward to that either.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Arriving for a funeral at Duddingston Kirk by bicycle somehow did not seem dignified or appropriate. It might well raise eyebrows among the mourners - if mourners there were in any number.

So with my hair confined beneath a bonnet and instructed not to show one solitary wild yellow curl I set forth, accompanied by a brisk breeze along the road past the loch, and parked my bicycle at a discreet distance from the church, namely near the fourteenth-century Sheeps Heid Inn, still doing a roaring trade, especially when the working day was over.

Through the kirk gate, the bell tolling forlornly, I looked for recognisable faces awaiting the arrival of the two coffins. There were maybe twenty other mourners - mostly women and all strangers to me, possibly neighbours - sombrely attired, the men in tall hats, the women in black bonnets and bombazine.

Few to mourn Mrs Lawers and her faithful maid. In dying Mrs Lawers had indeed fulfilled her reputation to the very end of being a private person. I took in my surroundings: Duddingston's twelfth-century church, at the gate its 'loupin' stane' to assist worshippers to mount their horses, alongside the grim 'jougs', a forcible and public punishment for local transgressors, very unpopular with surprised fornicators.

A hand raised in greeting. Two figures extracted themselves from the small group, Amy Dodd and Jane Hinton. I joined them, and a nearby couple, whose name I did not catch, were introduced. Hands shaken, a solemn bow from the gentleman.

Amy was looking round for someone else to introduce me to when the hearse with its black-plumed horses arrived and we followed the two plain wooden coffins into the church. I looked around and wondered if the unpopular neighbour who Amy called 'the Frenchie' was present.

As the organ played dolefully I studied the interior of the kirk. Such an ancient building with its original Romanesque nave and chancel had known its days of fame. In the manse garden Sir Walter Scott, kirk elder, had penned part of
The Heart of Midlothian
, while in living memory the kind and much loved minister, Rev John Thompson, gave rise to a new phrase for Scots: 'We're a' Jock Tamson's bairns.' A keen painter in his leisure hours, naming his garden studio after the Scottish capital meant that his housekeeper could quite truthfully inform would-be visitors or informal callers, 'The meenister is in Edinburgh the noo.'

The service ended, a procession to the graveside, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the committal over, and as the small group dispersed I caught a glimpse of two familiar figures. Chief Inspector Gray and Sergeant Wright, hardly recognisable out of uniform, intent on studying tombstones and trying hard to look invisible.

Amy obviously had not seen them and said, 'Jane and I have laid on a little collation. Will you join us, my dear?'

I couldn't think of any appropriate words of refusal; besides, my curiosity was aroused for any further developments in the empty house next door and I still had questions to ask Jane.

I guessed there would be little chance of that since Amy's invitation seemed to have been extended to the neighbourhood, now being ushered into the parlour.

Jane, receiving the mourners, wiped away a tear. 'Poor Aunty, I'll miss her.'

Amy gave her a sympathetic hug, drew me aside and whispered, 'You'll never guess what's happened. The police came and d'y ken what? They took away the Frenchie.' A dramatic pause.

Overhearing her, Jane said, 'Just for questioning.'

'How do you know that?' Amy demanded sharply. 'They know he did it.'

Jane shook her head. 'Then why wasn't he in handcuffs if they were so sure?'

Amy nodded sagely. 'Aye, but they know he did it right enough. Just you wait and see. He'll not be back. That's the last we'll see of Monsieur Debeau, as he calls himself. Good riddance to bad rubbish I call it.'

And raising her hand in a gesture across her throat, eyes heavenward, she began slicing another loaf of bread.

The sandwiches were delicious and interesting - I wished I could have said as much for the company. Amy Dodd must have been a shining star among her neighbours, all of whom were agog that the Frenchie had been taken by the police, which became their sole topic of conversation. All of them full of hate and derision for no better reason than because he was different - and because he was French; although the Napoleonic wars were long distant, for many France was the enemy, still regarded with suspicion. There was one ancient chap who declared, incredible as it seemed, that he 'had been a lad at Waterloo'.

The other reason for their dislike was that M Debeau did not gossip, he kept himself to himself, and that was unforgivable. As I had earlier discovered with Amy Dodd, the neighbours liked a good gossip and in a small close-knit community anything that seemed faintly different to their conventional lives was seized upon and shredded very finely indeed.

I angled myself into a position close to Jane. She saw me, smiled and I said, 'I must leave soon.'

She glanced round the assembled mourners, now almost jolly with their post-funeral refreshments. 'I could do with some fresh air. I'll walk back with you.'

I explained about the bicycle and, unperturbed, she laughed. 'Maybe I can run alongside, work off some of those enormous sandwiches.'

As we left I wondered if I would be the centre of discussion once the door closed, and hoped that Amy would put in a good word for this strange woman who lived up the road in Solomon's Tower. Glad I had concealed the bicycle from prying eyes, I said to Jane, 'There are some things I'd like to know, if you have a minute.'

She nodded. 'Then let's have a seat by the loch - at least the swans are mute. I'm leaving soon, nothing to stay for now.' And I got the feeling that she would not be sorry. She waited for me to speak.

'Was there anything in your aunt's letters about Mrs Lawers that might give some hint about - about what happened to them both?'

Jane was silent for a moment, studying the geese who, after a flurry of interest, had decided that there was no food forthcoming and had grumpily retreated to the water's edge.

'She said Mary was getting a little odd. Blamed it on age - that sort of thing.' Turning, she looked at me. 'She said she hoped Mary wasn't going barmy because she was so scared - "scared of her own shadow", she put it. And she had never been the nervous kind.'

'When was that?'

'Oh, in the last letter I had a couple of weeks before ... all this happened.'

'Did she ever mention why she was scared - for instance did she mention any strangers calling at the house?'

'Not directly, only that she was in some kind of danger.'

'Something to do with a legacy?' I suggested.

Jane shrugged. 'I never heard that she had anything of value to leave.'

I was almost tempted to tell Jane the whole story then. I might well have done so had not the sky, which had been clouding over and steadily darkening, decided to unload a heavy shower.

Neither of us were prepared for it - Jane had no coat - and we both leapt back up the road, bade each other a hasty farewell and I rode back swiftly homeward. The conversation with Jane had been disappointingly vague and my thoughts had taken a new turn regarding Mrs Lawers' legacy.

The police arrest was an unexpected development. What did they suspect? Were the killings of the two women linked with M Debeau? Would Mr Hayward's researches reveal some connection with the unpopular Frenchman that Mrs Lawers perhaps had reason to suspect and fear?