“How long until they go to Eton?” I asked.
“Ordinarily I’d object to such a question, but in these circumstances can only say not soon enough.”
“Henry doesn’t want to go to Eton,” Richard said. “Nor do I. I’d rather go straight to Cambridge, if it’s all the same to you. Eton sounds boring, and I don’t want to play cricket.”
“One cannot go straight to university. And as for cricket—” Colin stopped and shook his head. “Back to the nursery with you, old chap. Don’t make Nanny come looking for you.”
“Astonishing how individuals so small can wreak so much havoc, isn’t it?” I asked, after our son had exited the library, carrying three large books. “I expect it from Henry, but not Richard.”
“Let’s hope neither of them corrupts Tom.” I thought he was going to kiss me again, but a knock on the door stopped him. Our servants, at least, knew better than to descend upon us unannounced. “Enter,” Colin said.
“A telegram for you, madam,” Davis held out a silver salver to me. Once I had taken the message from it, he bowed and left the room.
“It’s from the photographer,” I said. “He’s sending prints of six photographs of the MacMasters. They should arrive no later than the first post the day after tomorrow. I wish it didn’t take so long to reach London from Edinburgh. What do we do in the meantime?”
“What would you say to making a visit to the Royal College of Physicians?”
“I’d far prefer that to waiting for something to happen. Onward!”
4
Neither Colin nor I had any illusions about what we might learn at the Royal College of Physicians. To start, Dr. MacMaster belonged to the equivalent organization in Edinburgh, and he most certainly would not have done anything to alert his colleagues in London to his true identity. Still, it was possible that by speaking with other physicians, we might gain insight into the man’s character and, perhaps, begin to build a better idea of where he might be hiding.
We were fortunate to find Sir William Selby Church, the president of the college, in its library, and my husband had no difficulty persuading him to sit down with us for a brief chat. “I’m afraid I’m unable to be entirely candid with you, Sir William,” Colin said. “Much of the work I do for the Crown requires discretion.”
“We physicians are keen to respect the privacy of our clients, Mr. Hargreaves, so the concept is not foreign to me.”
“I’m working on an investigation that concerns a doctor from Edinburgh, a member of the Royal College there. Due to a series of unfortunate—and tragic—personal circumstances, he left his home and his practice. We have reason to believe he is in London, living under an assumed name.”
“And you seek my assistance in locating him?”
“Only if such a thing is possible,” Colin said. “I’m wondering if you might have any insight into how a colleague of yours would behave in such circumstances. Could he still be practicing medicine?”
“It’s unlikely,” Sir William said. “His qualifications could only be under his legal name, and a man of principle would not mislead his patients with forged or invalid credentials. Why are you looking for him? Do you suspect him of malpractice?”
“Not at all,” Colin said. “The situation is of an entirely personal nature.”
“An inheritance?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say more.”
“Never mind. Can you tell me his name? It’s possible I know him by reputation. He may have published articles with which I am familiar.”
“Angus MacMaster.” Colin’s voice was low. “I ask that you please not alert any of your colleagues that we are looking for him.”
“Of course. You have my word. I’m afraid I don’t recognize his name, but if he has published, the topics of his research may illuminate his character and his interests in a manner that could send you in the right direction to find him. I’d be happy to direct one of our librarians to do a search.”
“We’d be most grateful,” I said. “Is there any way he could be treating patients? Vast swaths of London’s population is in need of medical care but can’t afford it. Are there clinics or surgeries in the East End, say, where his services might be welcomed, even if he cannot prove his qualifications?”
“I can’t pretend such a thing isn’t possible,” Sir William said, “but if he is treating patients, it’s unlikely to be in a setting as formal as a clinic. Would he help out his neighbors if they fell ill? I would imagine so. But I doubt very much you will find him practicing so openly.”
“What would you do if you found yourself unable to continue your work?” I asked. “Would it plague you?”
“Your wife has a flair for the dramatic, Mr. Hargreaves. I mean no criticism, Lady Emily, for you do cut to the heart of a physician’s desire to heal. To possess the knowledge to stop illness, to mend bones, to return to a person his health is a powerful thing. Choosing not to use it is unthinkable to me. What would I do if forced to stop?” He paused, took a deep breath, and pressed his hands together, almost as if in prayer. “I would find another way to help my fellow man. There are more ways than the medical to serve.”
“Does anything specific spring to mind?”
“I’m afraid not, Lady Emily, and even if it did, it’s unlikely that the man you seek would choose the same path as I. I wish I could be of more assistance. Now, let me take you to the library and we’ll see what we can dig up.”
Unfortunately, despite a thorough search, the librarian found nothing. Sir William told us not to lose heart. “If he was a general practitioner and hasn’t published, it’s likely he ran a busy practice and had no time for research. My best guess is that you are looking for an individual who is more interested in patient care than his own reputation among his colleagues. That is, he was not looking for a knighthood or invitations to lecture, rather the more humble reward that comes from the daily work of helping those who are ailing. Someone who would prefer the role of village vicar to that of Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“That’s actually quite useful, Sir William,” Colin said. “We’re indebted to you.”
“My pleasure. If you do find him, please let me know. I’d like to see how this all turns out.”
“Of course,” Colin said. We thanked him again and left the building, coming out into Trafalgar Square as the sun was setting. “Is it too cold to walk home? I can get us a cab.”
“I’d prefer to walk, so long as you stay close and keep me warm.” I looped my arm through his. “I felt much more hopeful this morning about finding the MacMasters than I do now. We’ve so little concrete information.”
“I agree but am, for once, slightly more hopeful than you, my dear. We’re beginning to get a feel for Dr. MacMaster, and if we can understand the man well enough, we will be able to begin making reasonable conclusions about where best to look for him.”
“London is enormous.” I sighed. “It’s not as if we can search for him house-by-house.”
“No, we shall have to be more clever than that. Perhaps it’s time for you to listen to your infamous intuition. Where does it tell you we’ll find him?”
“At the moment, I’ve not the slightest idea and long for that upon which you rely: concrete evidence.”
“If MacMaster is in London, where would a man like him choose to raise his granddaughter?”
“A modest neighborhood, one that’s crowded enough that he wouldn’t have to fraternize. He doesn’t want anyone to suspect he’s not who he claims.”
“Yet he may well have picked a spot where he can provide some sort of medical care. Perhaps an area that is less well-to-do than he could afford. What did Catriona’s diaries say about her education? Did she go to school or have tutors?”
“She mentioned a governess and that she hoped to have a drawing master but never said anything about school. Given that privacy is a concern, I’d guess the doctor would prefer to avoid school. The child would have contact with many more people and might inadverte
ntly reveal something she shouldn’t.”
“Quite,” Colin said. “Yet at the same time, if we believe he has chosen to hide in plain sight, why not school? The girl’s relationships with her teachers would be less close than with a tutor or governess, would they not?”
“But think of all the other children.” I shook my head and frowned. “No, I see what you mean. She can be as close as she likes with her schoolmates, because she herself would have no idea that she’s living in the midst of a deception. That said, we don’t even know how much education the MacMasters would believe she required. Many middle-class girls learn only those skills required to make a decent marriage. I do hope we manage to speak with Mrs. Gillespie. She’s bound to know Mrs. MacMaster’s views on the subject.”
“Mr. Jones might be able to offer some information as well,” Colin said. “He’ll know about Catriona’s experience, and his insights might prove more illuminating than whatever her mother chose to share with her friend. People often present carefully thought out versions of themselves, eager to be seen how they’d like to be rather than how they truly are.”
Just then, a small boy presented himself to us, holding in front of him a parcel wrapped in plain brown paper and fastened with twine. He thrust it at Colin. The moment it was out of his hands, the child turned on his heels and ran away, looking back for an instant and shouting, “For your sons!”
Colin tugged at the twine enough to peek through the paper. “More Christmas crackers,” he said.
“But not from Father Christmas this time. He was broad for a child, though, don’t you think? Short, but…” My voice trailed
“Don’t try to convince me it was an elf, Emily,” he said. “It was not an elf.”
“You’ll get no argument from me, but who knows what the boys will conclude.”
“Which is why I suggest we don’t tell them a thing.”
“They’re insightful little beasts,” I said. “They may see something we’ve missed.”
“So long as you don’t say a word about elves.”
* * *
As we made our way back to Park Lane, we debated whether to allow the boys to have the crackers, concluding that as the original three they’d received contained nothing sinister, we would give them to their intended recipients. We summoned the boys to the library as soon as we reached home.
“More crackers!” Henry cheered, holding his new sword above his head. “Can we open them?”
“Who are they from?” Tom asked. “I should like to know to whom we owe thanks.”
“Your manners commend you,” I said. “Unfortunately, though, we don’t know who sent them.”
“Was it Father Christmas again?” Richard asked.
“It wasn’t the same man we saw before,” Colin replied.
“These were delivered to us by a boy,” I said.
Henry lowered his sword. “Did he bear any identifying characteristics?”
“He was approximately ten years old, slim, dark-haired, and more or less clean,” Colin said. I raised an eyebrow and stared at my husband. “An ordinary delivery boy.”
“You’re quite certain he wasn’t an elf?” Richard asked. “They’re short, you know, so one might mistake him for a child.”
Now Colin raised an eyebrow at me. “I am certain beyond doubt that it was not an elf.”
Tom chewed on his lower lip. “I don’t believe Father Christmas has children, but I suppose he might hire some—”
“Why don’t we open them and see what’s inside?” I placed a hand on Richard’s shoulder and guided him over to his father’s desk, where Colin had laid out the crackers. “You pick one first.” They were covered in silver foil instead of gold like the original set. Richard stood before them, taking quite a while to choose.
“Come on now, hurry up!” Henry’s patience was only slightly worse than mine. Richard ignored his brother—and I suspect took even longer as a result of Henry’s interference—but at last selected the cracker tied with red ribbon. I helped him pull it. Inside, just as with the crackers from the previous day, were three sweets, a paper crown, and a motto.
Richard read aloud. “…if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it. I suspect this was meant for Henry.” Henry shot him an icy glare.
“You go next, Tom,” I said, not wanting to reward Henry’s bad manners.
“I know Henry likes gold, so I’ll leave that for him,” Tom said, reaching for the cracker tied with green ribbon. We pulled it apart, and this time I read the motto.
“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”
“May I open mine now, Mama?” Henry asked. “I’m sorry I was dreadful to Richard.”
I handed him the remaining cracker. He pulled it with his father, who read the motto while Henry put the paper crown on his head.
“Be ye strong therefore, and let not your hands be weak: for your work shall be rewarded.”
“It’s almost as if the mottos are for us, not them,” I said.
“They’re quite uninteresting,” Henry said. “A disappointment, I’d say.”
“These are Bible verses, Henry. I won’t have you speaking in such a manner about them.” I reached out my hand to him. “Give me the crown. You’re not fit to wear it if you’re incapable of seeing the value in these mottos.”
He complied with a sigh, then asked if he could return to the nursery. I gave him permission and his brothers followed after him. “I won’t have him turning into a little heathen,” I said.
“I shouldn’t worry,” Colin said. “Nanny wouldn’t stand for it. Henry may be strong-willed, but he’d never want to disappoint her. I think you’re right about the mottos, though. They do seem pertinent to our current work. Not to mention timely, encouraging us to have hope and patience just when you’ve admitted to losing the former. I should have gone after the boy who gave them to us and found out who sent him.”
“It’s too late for that now. All we can do is be on alert, should we see him or the man from Hamley’s again.”
“You expect more Christmas crackers?” Colin asked.
“They’re full of Bible verses, husband dear. How better to emulate the Holy Trinity than three deliveries of three?”
5
All that remained of the first set of Christmas crackers were two of the three crowns (Henry’s had, he explained, been destroyed in battle) and the mottos, which we had kept in the library. We saved all the bits of the newer ones and examined them after the boys had returned to the nursery, determining that they were manufactured by Tom Smith, the largest producer of crackers in England. Someone had carefully opened them, without making them pop, and replaced the original mottos with new ones that had been made with a typewriter, evident from both the font and the size of the type, larger than that ordinarily found on cracker mottos.
The next morning our breakfast was again interrupted, but this time Davis put our visitor in the green drawing room, suggesting he approved of Mrs. Bessy Gillespie, with her stodgy middle-class respectability, more than he did Mr. Jones. She started when we entered the chamber, explaining that she’d only taken a seat at our butler’s invitation.
“I told him there was no need to bring tea,” she said, clutching the handles of the reticule resting on her lap. “I had some at the hotel. I’ve never stayed at a hotel before, you know, and feel quite daring at having done so. Of course, I’ve never been to London before either. But I must stop blethering on. I’ve come, Lady Emily, in response to your telegram. It’s fortunate you sent it when you did, or I’d never have made the train. As it was, I set off for the station less than an hour after receiving your message. I didn’t think it right to descend upon your happy household in the evening, so waited until this morning to call. I do hope I did the right thing.”
“I’m most grateful to make your acquaintance,” I said, and introduced Colin to her. She was a petite woman, slightly rotund, with sparkling eyes and cheeks that co
lored crimson as my husband took her hand and kissed it.
“Oh, you are a gentleman, Mr. Hargreaves. I suspect the ladies are quite fond of you.”
“You’re very kind,” he said. “I do hope your trip was comfortable.”
“As comfortable as any could be on a train for so many hours,” she said. “I’ve no illusions as to why you contacted me, Lady Emily, so I’d best get straight to it. You want information about poor Maggie, and I’ve decided the time has come for me to reveal everything I know.”
This caused me to perk up at once. Could it be this easy? Did she know where to find her former neighbors? In an instant, I pictured her and Mrs. MacMaster writing secret letters to each other over the years, keeping their friendship alive, sharing confidences and, I hoped, details about Catriona’s daughter.
“It was terribly sad, all that happened with young Catriona,” she said. “She was a tidy thing, could have had any man of her choosing, but the girl ought never to have married that Welshman. It’s not right to go against the wishes of one’s parents, I always say. Nothing good ever comes from it. But young people, they do what they want, don’t they? No regard for their elders, no regard for what’s right.”
“But Dr. and Mrs. MacMaster did let her come home to them when she was with child,” I said. “So they must have decided to forgive her transgressions.”
“I’m not so sure about that. It wasn’t an easy time, those months she was back,” Mrs. Gillespie said. “She picked up a bad attitude from that husband of hers and refused to listen to a single word her parents said against him. It’s a wonder they didn’t fling her from the house.”
“They weren’t happy to have her home?” Colin asked.
“Happier than I would have been, but then I don’t have any children, do I? Which means I don’t possess the blindness that comes with being a parent. A mother can love even a badly behaved wretch.”
“I understand Catriona was her parents’ only child,” I said.
“Yes, and, oh, did they spoil her. I’m certain that’s the root of her bad behavior. They indulged the girl. They wanted a whole brood, but Catriona was the only babe who survived. The rest—six of them—were stillborn. And then to lose their daughter in childbirth. It was a tragedy of Shakespearian proportion.”
Upon the Midnight Clear Page 4
