Upon the Midnight Clear

by Tasha Alexander

  “It’s not that I object to celebrations,” Colin said, “but I cannot tolerate them every second of every day for weeks. Furthermore, you’d think after this many years, she’d stop trying to persuade me to wear that Father Christmas costume.”

  “I suspect Rodney prays that someday you’ll take pity on him and step into the role.”

  “If my options are their annual Festival of Horror or vainly assisting Mr. Jones, I shall choose the latter.”

  “It’s unkind of you to call it that,” I said. “The boys quite enjoy the charades tournament.”

  * * *

  Mr. Jones did not reappear on our doorstep for several hours, at which point, Davis (no doubt against his better judgment) brought him to us in the library, where Colin and I had cleared a large table to use as a base of operations. I glanced through Mrs. Jones’s childhood diary while Colin quizzed him as to his in-laws’ lives and habits.

  “There’s no other surviving family,” Mr. Jones said. “They were a sociable couple who enjoyed entertaining, but preferred a few valued confidantes to lots of casual acquaintances. Mr. and Mrs. Blackley, who lived in the next street over, spring to mind, but Bessy Gillespie might prove more useful. Catriona told me many times that Mrs. Gillespie was like a sister to her mother. I spoke to her when I went to Edinburgh before heading to Australia. She swore up and down that she had no idea what became of her friend.”

  “Did either the doctor or his wife have any medical conditions that we might use to identify them?” Colin asked. “Something that would require frequent treatment, perhaps?”

  “No, but even if they did, Dr. MacMaster would be capable of dealing with anything of the sort.”

  “How about their hobbies?” I asked, putting the diary on the table.

  “Nothing unusual, I’m afraid.”

  “It need not be unusual,” I said. “If they’ve gone into hiding, they will have made deliberate decisions to keep from being discovered, but given how much time has passed, it’s likely that they won’t be too careful about keeping their interests secret.”

  Mr. Jones beetled his brow. “The doctor was fascinated by railways. That’s part of the reason I sought employment with one. I’d hoped it might endear me to him, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. He collected timetables and liked to watch the Special Scotch Express arrive at Waverly Station. When Catriona was back living with her parents, she wrote me that he kept careful track of the Race to the North that summer, run by the railways with service between London and Edinburgh.”

  Colin nodded. “So likely to take notice of any significant railway developments. And his wife?”

  “I couldn’t really say. She pottered about in her garden a bit, but I’ve not the slightest idea as to what she was doing.”

  “I’ll see what I can learn from Mrs. Gillespie,” I said. “You told us that rumor claims the MacMasters came to London. Why London?”

  “Probably because the doctor abhorred the place. It’s the last city anyone would expect him to call home.”

  “Is that the sole reason you believe they came to London?” I asked.

  “The family’s driver, who took them to the station the day they left. The timing was correct for a London train.”

  “They may have boarded a train for London, but that doesn’t mean they stayed here,” Colin said.

  “Dr. MacMaster despised the place,” I said. “That combined with the size of the city, making it relatively easy to hide in plain sight, supports the theory.”

  “Possibly,” Colin said. “Do you know, Mr. Jones, where your father-in-law banked, or the name of his solicitor?”

  “The Royal Bank of Scotland. As for the solicitor, I believe he was with a firm called Ralston and Sons in Edinburgh.”

  “Very good.” Colin rose to his feet. “One last thing: Do you have a photograph of your wife that was taken before your marriage?”

  “Please don’t tempt me to believe that my dear Catriona could still be alive,” Mr. Jones said. “I know it to be impossible. If she lived, she would have written, she would have come to me.”

  “I don’t doubt you,” Colin said. “What I’m hoping for is the name of a photographer used by the family. You told us you don’t have pictures of the MacMasters, but it’s possible that whoever took portraits of them might still have the negatives.”

  “I should never have thought of that.” He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket, removed a cabinet card, and handed it to my husband.

  “J. Hendry, Edinburgh,” Colin said, reading the line stamped in gold beneath the photograph. He returned it to Mr. Jones. “She was a beautiful girl. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Jones’s eyes glistened with tears. “I’ll never replace her in my heart, but finding my daughter will ease a measure of my pain. No doubt it’s too much to hope, but if anyone can help me it’s you, Mr. Hargreaves.”

  3

  Once Mr. Jones left us—Colin breathing a sigh of relief the Bible verses in the boys’ Christmas crackers did not move me to suggest we offer him one of our guest rooms—we got down to work. Although the MacMasters had orchestrated their disappearance nearly a dozen years ago, we felt that we had a few relatively strong leads. My husband set off for the London branch of the Royal Bank of Scotland, confident that speaking to someone in person gave him the best chance at learning anything useful, while I was left to the telephone and telegraph.

  Not surprisingly, Mr. Hendry was not in possession of a telephone, so I penned a message to him that could be sent via telegram, asking him to forward as quickly as possible any photographs he had of Dr. and Mrs. MacMaster. That done, I steeled myself to face the telephone.

  We’d had the wretched contraption long enough that I ought to have come to terms with it, but I still despised its very existence, even while acknowledging its usefulness. No one—myself included—could argue there was a more efficient way to gather information, but admitting that did not preclude me from disliking speaking into it. I felt self-conscious barking into its transmitter (Colin insisted one could use an ordinary volume, but somehow I always found myself speaking loudly), and the voice responding through the receiver never sounded right to me.

  I braced myself, tapped the switch hook, waited for the operator, and asked to be connected to the Edinburgh post office. Once through, I explained to the man on the other end of the line that I was trying to write to two individuals but that the only addresses I had for them were likely to be out of date. Could he check the directory and confirm for me? A few minutes later, I knew the current residence of Mrs. Bessy Gillespie, but he could find no listing for Mr. and Mrs. Blackley. I thanked him, rang off, and immediately penned an urgent message to Mrs. Gillespie.

  That done, I summoned Davis, gave him the telegrams I wanted sent, and asked him to have a footman fetch the Post Office London Directory from Colin’s study. The poor lad appeared a quarter of an hour later, laden down by the bright red books.

  “I had no idea there were so many.” I said, directing him to place them on the table we were using for our investigation. After dismissing him, I opened the volume containing an alphabetical list of London residents by surname. Although I had no expectation of finding Angus MacMaster, it would have been foolish not to check. There were three MacMasters listed, none with the initial A. I jotted down their addresses and then reached for the Trades Directory volume. There, I searched for physicians. The list was so long as to seem endless, filling page after page, and I knew there was no sense in going through each name. Instead, I inserted a bookmark so that we could access it easily later, should we settle upon a name Dr. MacMaster might have adopted.

  Next, I rang for Mrs. Elliott. When she arrived, bringing with her a much-appreciated pot of tea and a plate of ginger biscuits, I showed her the list of the MacMasters’ former servants.

  “It’s twelve years since their employers left Edinburgh, but I’m hoping we may be able to track down some of them,” I said. “Do yo
u have any suggestions as how to best go about this?”

  “If you’ll let me manage it, madam, that would be the most effective strategy. I’m familiar with all the employment agencies in town and have a friend who is a housekeeper in Edinburgh. She may have some information.”

  “You’re a treasure, Mrs. Elliott. I’m so grateful you came to London with us when I know you’d rather be at Anglemore.”

  “I go where I’m needed, madam. The truth is, I’m the only one who can stop Ailouros from screeching on the train.”

  Our cat, Ailouros, had never much liked travel, but the boys—Henry, in particular—never liked being without their feline companion. It was all I could do to stop them from putting a lead on the poor creature and dragging it around town with them. Their enthusiasm was charming in its way, although I’m certain Ailouros did not agree.

  That settled, I turned my attention to Catriona’s childhood diary. Most of the entries were the mundane sorts of things one would expect to find in such a volume. She adored her nanny, named her dolls, and didn’t like rice pudding. She preferred taking her meals in the nursery because her father quizzed her about her studies when she dined with her parents, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to learn how to ride. Horses, she believed, were too large to be trusted. She loved to draw, and many of the pages were filled with brightly colored representations of her toys, her friends, and, as Mr. Jones had told us, a rendering of the house in which she hoped to live as an adult. This took up two full sheets, and at first glance showed the sort of cottage typical in the Scottish Highlands: painted white, with a thatched roof. Closer inspection showed it to be at least six times the size of an ordinary cottage, with pink curtains in all the windows and a veritable ocean of heather surrounding the structure. She had titled it Pàrras.

  I crossed to the shelves where we kept reference books and pulled down a Scottish Gaelic dictionary. Pàrras meant paradise.

  A twinge of sadness came as I read this. The poor child. But then I considered the idea that Mr. Jones wanted to build the house for her in India. I couldn’t imagine a Scottish cottage suitable for the climate there. Still, it was sweet of him to want to fulfill her girlish fantasy.

  Having dealt with the diary, I now had nothing to do but wait for my husband to return. Or a response to one of my telegrams. Patience had never been one of my strong suits, so in order to pass the time, I went up to the nursery to see the boys. As usual, the place was a chaotic shambles. Nanny did her best to keep things tidy, but Henry made this all but impossible. At present, he was standing on the top of a table in the center of a circle of pillows stacked to form the keep of a castle, waving over his head the toy sword he’d found in Hamley’s the previous day.

  Richard was curled up on a window seat with a book. “What are you reading?” I asked.

  “Works in Iron: Bridge and Roof Structures.” He held it up for me to examine. “It’s a bit outdated, having been published in 1877, but I don’t believe we’ve anything more recent on the subject.”

  “I had not realized our library was so deficient,” I said.

  “It’s a bit of a disappointment. I’m hopeful Papa can correct the situation.”

  Tom sat on the floor in the corner furthest away from Henry’s would-be castle. He was building an elaborate model of a zoo, housing his collection of lead animals in enclosures fashioned from wooden blocks. Nanny was watching them all from a rocking chair near a window, a half-knitted jumper on her lap.

  “Who was the man downstairs, Mama?” Henry asked. “We don’t know him, do we?”

  “We were not previously acquainted with him,” I said.

  “So why did he come to our house?”

  “To ask your father and me to help him search for his daughter.”

  “Quite careless of him to have lost her, I’d say.”

  I smiled. “I’m afraid it wasn’t so simple as that, Henry.”

  “It rarely is.” Richard closed his book and slid off the window seat. “May we offer any help, Mama?”

  “No, but it’s kind of you to ask.”

  “Is she with her mother?” Tom asked, a zebra in his small hand.

  “Unfortunately, her mother died when the girl was born.”

  “I see.” Tom’s lips pressed together in a firm line. “My mother didn’t die, but she couldn’t take care of me. I guess it’s a bit like that for this girl.”

  “A bit.” My heart ached for the boy. Colin and I had decided from the beginning that we would never lie to him about his birth. Tom understood he was our ward, but we were the only parents he had ever known. We hoped, someday, we could formally adopt him. If, that is, we could convince his mother to allow it.

  “I hope the little girl has wound up in a house as nice as this one.” I could see a hint of strain in his dark eyes, but he was smiling broadly, never wanting to cause anyone discomfort. I bent down and gave him a hug.

  “Do you think Father Christmas is going to bring us any more crackers?” Henry asked. “Early ones, like he did yesterday?”

  “That man was not Father Christmas,” Richard said. “His coat was all wrong.”

  “Perhaps he was in disguise,” Henry said.

  “No,” Tom said. “Everyone recognizes him from his beard and his red cheeks. He can’t disguise himself.”

  “I think he can,” Henry said. “If not, Richard wouldn’t say the coat was wrong. Besides, lots of people have beards.”

  “Not long white ones like Father Christmas,” Tom said.

  Henry leapt down from his castle. “I shall fight you to the death for refusing to recognize the truth.”

  Nanny put down her knitting and rose from her chair. “That’s quite enough, boys. Gather round, I’ll read you a story.”

  I left them to it and went back to the library, where I found Colin returning the telephone receiver to its hook. “The bank manager was singularly unhelpful,” he said. “I didn’t expect much else, but was able to confirm that the MacMasters are still drawing on their accounts.”

  “Did he give any indication as to where they now live?”

  “Not deliberately, no, but he did not speak in terms that made it sound as if they’ve gone abroad. I did get him to confirm they are not now—and never have been—in Australia.”

  “Does he know whether they are living under assumed names?” I asked.

  “Not so far as I can tell, but I was careful to give him no cause to suspect Mr. Jones is looking for them. I also rang the family solicitor in Edinburgh, Mr. Ralston, but he was more reticent than the banker.”

  “How did you identify yourself?”

  “I used my own name with both of them, but told Ralston that I’d been asked to make contact so that the Royal College of Physicians might update their records. He refused to divulge any information about his client. No surprise there, but I had to try. I told him we would be in town for the rest of the week and that should Dr. MacMaster wish to speak to me, he can find me here. To which Ralston replied that if his client wished to alert the RCP of his whereabouts, he would have done so long ago. He’ll report my visit to MacMaster. If the man’s curious, there’s a chance he may come looking for me.”

  “If nothing else, he may wish to confirm that you’re not connected to Mr. Jones.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  “I may have erred in the telegram I sent to Bessy Gillespie,” I said. “I was quite direct about telling her I wished to speak to her about Maggie MacMaster.”

  “Mrs. Gillespie doesn’t have a telephone, does she? Which means she can’t call her friend, but only reach her through the mail or by telegram. I’ll ring the police and ask them to have someone keep an eye on her house, her post, and whether she—or one of her servants—goes to a telegraph office. I think it highly unlikely she knows where the MacMasters went. To let her have that information would have put their hiding place at risk. Mr. Jones knew of their friendship, and they would have expected him to talk to her if he ever suspected their s
ubterfuge—which is precisely what he did.”

  “Yes, I recall that. It’s part of the reason I didn’t try to hide the motivation for my inquiry. She heard from Mr. Jones himself months ago, and if she could have told Mrs. MacMaster about it, she would have done so at the time.”

  “You did the right thing, my dear,” Colin said. “I’m hopeful that she will reply because she, too, wishes she knew where her friend is.”

  “She might be the last person who saw the MacMasters before they disappeared.”

  “And, as such, could know something of use to us, even if she’s not aware of it.”

  “So what do we do in the meantime?” I asked.

  Colin met my eyes and held my gaze. “Chess?”

  “Seems a bit taxing at the moment. My brain needs a rest.”

  “Is that so?” He took me in his arms and gave me a disgracefully thorough kiss. “Whatever shall we do instead?”

  “Waltz?”

  “Whatever you desire, my dear.” He took my hand, wrapped his arm around my waist, and started to spin me around the room.

  “I understand it’s preferable to have music.” Richard’s voice seemed to come from nowhere.

  “I swear I looked under my desk,” Colin murmured, releasing me. This was not the first occasion upon which one of our sons had caught us out, unaware of his presence in the library. Last time it had been Henry, and the precise circumstances in which we were disturbed led us to start locking the door behind us. Obviously we had failed to do so on this occasion.

  “It is possible to purchase a device called a gramophone capable of playing music in any space,” Richard said, his head popping up from the back of one of the wingback chairs near the fireplace. “Perhaps you and Mama should acquire one if you want to waltz in the library.”

  “I shall take the suggestion under advisement,” his father said.