The Sign of the Black Dagger

by Joan Lingard

  “It’s hard work, that,” said Tam.

  “Where will he sleep, do you know?” I asked.

  “I’m nae sure. He’ll likely just doss doon on the flair.”

  “In the scullery?”

  “Aye.”

  “But the floor’s hard and cold!”

  “So is the ground,” said William quietly and I subsided.

  Tam wished us goodbye and went about his business.

  We also came across the old woman in the shawl or, rather, she came across us. She latched on every time she saw us but she knew all the gossip and so we did not mind. It helped to pass the time while we waited. Her name was Peg.

  “Ye’re wastin’ yer time,” she told us. “Yer faither’ll nae come oot in this cold, nae aifter he’s been workin’ a’ day. They’re only fit tae drop when they finish, they skivvies.”

  Whenever any nobles went past she told us who they were. “There gaes the Duke of Buccleuch … He always looks right stuck up. And yon’s Lord Dalkeith…” People went in and out all day: visitors, servants, workmen. Peg said that they were fixing up the royal apartments, to make them fit for a king.

  The names of the French courtiers were too difficult for her but she said she could tell when someone was a Frenchie. She said you knew by the way they swaggered. “See that one!” She pointed a filthy finger at a man who was standing on the other side of the road with his back to us. “He’s one of the count’s men but he’s up to nae guid, if ye ask me.”

  He looked round as if he had heard her though I did not think that he could have done. Peg’s voice is hoarse from the smoking of a clay pipe and would scarcely carry that far. Also, there was much traffic about, with coachmen cracking their whips and carters shouting to each other.

  We recognised the man. He had grown familiar to us.

  “It’s Monsieur Goriot,” I said.

  “Ye ken him then?”

  “Only to see in the street. We have never spoken.”

  He was coming across the road. As he went past Peg, his long nose lifted in a sneer. You often see nobles putting on that kind of face when they encounter what they call ‘the lower orders’. Our father says that no one has the right to look down on others. One’s rank in life depends so much on good fortune. He quotes our poet Robert Burns: “A man’sa man for a’ that.”

  The Frenchman crossed the road and, after pausing to glance around, went through the main palace gates.

  “So you think he’s up to no good?” I said, to prompt Peg. I was prepared to believe that what she said was true.

  She lowered her voice, unnecessarily now, and leaned in to us. She does smell very badly. She said, “He’s up tae somethin’. I saw him in the howff las’ night” – that’s what Peg calls a tavern –“and I overheard him talkin’ wi’ anither man.”

  “But he’s French, isn’t he?”

  “Nae doot.”

  “So how could you understand what he was saying?” It was not possible that Peg could speak French!

  “I didne need tae unnerstan’. I could tell by the way they spake. Secretive like. In whispers. Lookin’ aroun’ tae see if onybody was listenin’.”

  “And you were, Peg!”

  “They wudne bother aboot me. But there’s nae fleas on Oul’ Peg!”

  I thought that there well might be so I moved back a bit. Our mother is furious when we bring in fleas. She tells us to keep away from the other children in the street but at times we do go and play tag with them, and William has been known to get into one of the bickers on a Saturday afternoon. He does not set out to fight but at times he gets drawn in. Maman does not know about the bickers, when boys coming from different parts of the town meet up. They start bickering and pelt each other with stones. Sometimes the Town Guard breaks it up but if they do the boys unite against them.

  William got into a fight that day on the way back home. As we were coming past the Tron Kirk a couple of boys began to follow and taunt us about our father. We know them; they live near us. It is no secret that our father is in Sanctuary. How could it be? The boys shouted insults, calling Papa a crook and a thief.

  “He is not!” I shouted back at them.

  William, who is slow to boil up compared with me, eventually turned to confront them, unable to stand any more. “Take all that back!” he yelled.

  “What are ye goin’ tae do aboot it?”

  “Come on, William.” I tried to take hold of his arm but he shook me off.

  He was on fire. He went forward to meet them, his fists up. He was broader and taller than they were but they lashed out with their feet and the bigger of the two had a stone in his hand. I saw his arm go up in an arc. I screamed but William had no time to dodge. The stone struck him a glancing blow on the cheek, enraging him further. He retaliated by swinging his fist and landing a powerful punch straight in the middle of the boy’s face. The boy went down, blood spouting from his nose. His friend hesitated, then turned and ran. William helped up the fallen boy who, after he’d run off a few yards, cried back, “We’ll get ye next time.”

  With a posse of reinforcements, no doubt. The incident troubled me more than it might have done ordinarily. I felt as if half of Edinburgh was out to get us or our father.

  When we reached home, William’s cheek was the first thing our mother noticed.

  “Have you been in a fight, William?”

  “Boys are aye fightin’,” put in Bessie.

  “William is forbidden to. It is only the riff-raff who fight. Oh, how I wish we could move to the New Town.”

  Little does Maman know that, sometimes, on a Saturday, a group of New Town boys come up to do battle with the boys of the Old Town, who then all join up together.

  A row ensued, but William did not reveal why he had been in the fight and by the time our father came home on Saturday midnight the mark had all but faded.

  Papa looked weary on this second visit, very weary. And he had a hacking cough. We saw a big change in him in that one week.

  “They must be working you too hard,” said our mother. “I did not think the comte would be a slave-driver. Have you told him that you are married to one of his countrywomen?”

  “I have not had the opportunity, Anne-Marie.”

  “Then you must when you have it. And are you eating enough? You look thin. Is the palace food so poor?”

  Our father coped well with all our mother’s questions and she gave them a rest for the remainder of the twenty-four hours. He went to bed and slept for fully twelve of them and even then had to be wakened.

  Too soon, Sunday evening came round again.

  Bessie had made up a parcel of food, as she had done the week before.

  “He shouldn’t need that, Bessie,” said our mother, coming into the kitchen. I was there already and had been helping Bessie to put it together. “We’re short enough of food ourselves, heaven knows. They are bound to have good food in the palace. Didn’t you say that the fleshers and bakers were doing good trade with the French court?”

  “I doot they’re gettin’ paid.”

  “That’s beside the point. They’re supplying the food. And knowing my French compatriots, they will insist for it to be well cooked. The beef will not be scorched to death.”

  “Let Papa have it, Maman,” I pleaded. “I feel sure he needs it.”

  “I will ask him if he does.”

  “He’ll say no,” I cried.

  But she had already left the kitchen. She came back a few minutes later to say that Papa insisted we keep all the food for ourselves. “He says you children grow all the time like shoots and need much food to make strong bones.”

  When she had gone again I said, “Bessie, I know he needs it. I can’t tell you how we know – William and I – but you can take my word for it that we do. Look how thin he is!”

  “Dinne fash yersel’. Ye’ll be walkin’ him oot tae the street? When ye go oot the door I’ll slip ye this parcel. Ye can put it under yer cloak and gie it tae him when he leaves th
e close.”

  She added that maybe she should not be doing this behind my mother’s back but the health of the master was more important. She had known him since he was a boy and had worked for his mother and father in this same house.

  And so we did as she had suggested. I held the package snugly under my cloak all the way up the close. At the top, our father turned to wave goodbye to our mother and Bessie, then we turned into the street.

  Before I had the chance to pass over the parcel, I saw the messenger-at-arms with his slanty-eyed companion. He was standing across the street waiting for Papa. William and I placed ourselves on either side of him.

  “Papa,” said William, “let us walk with you as far as the sanctuary tonight. No harm will come to us on the way home. The street is full of people and the Town Guard are about.”

  “There is no need for you to do that. You should be in your beds.”

  “Papa,” I said, “the messenger-at-arms is over there. He has the Wand of Peace with him.”

  “Papa,” said William urgently, taking hold of his arm, “we insist.”

  I took his other arm and we set off, our father still complaining, though only mildly. He had stopped once he saw that, indeed, we were being followed. Like the weekend before, he had left his departure a little late, lingering over his farewells with our mother, so we had to walk fast. We kept to the middle of the street as much as possible since the gutters are even worse on a Sunday night, with the scaffies not working on the Sabbath. Every now and then, however, we had to duck into the side to allow carriages and sedan chairs to sail past. Not that the sedans sail so smoothly. They lurch considerably on the rough road and their occupants are tossed from side to side.

  I glanced up at the Tron clock. Nine minutes to go.

  I noticed that our follower and his friend had moved ahead, though they kept turning back to check on us. We passed the Netherbow and the Canongate church and could now see the bottom of the hill. Some people were running but I did not think our father was fit enough for that. I resolved that next Sunday we would force him to leave earlier.

  “Hurry, Papa, hurry!” urged Will.

  He was doing his best. Once he skidded and would have fallen had we not held on to him. “Five minutes,” said somebody behind us. We broke into a jogging-trot. By now we were in the middle of a large crowd. When we reached the foot of the Canongate we all surged across the road together, rounding the Girth Cross, making for the Abbey Strand, which lay but a few yards away, and for safety.

  Waiting close to the sanctuary boundary was a number of people, amongst them our two enemies. They had their eyes fixed on us. I thought we should be able to get past them in time but with no more than a minute to spare.

  And then, too late, I saw the warrant officer nod at a man in a grey coat standing on the opposite side of the street. At that instant we drew level and the man in grey stuck out his foot and, hooking it around William’s leg, brought him down. Our father was thus tilted sideways. He staggered and fell right across the boundary line where he lay, winded, his head and shoulders in Sanctuary, the rest of him not.

  Quickly William scrambled up and between us we seized our father by the shoulders and began to drag him. The men descended on us, shouting that it was midnight – we could hear the chimes – and our father was theirs! The messenger-at-arms was trying to strike our father with his ebony wand whilst the others endeavoured to push us out of the way, but we hung on. We managed to clear Papa’s feet from the boundary, but only just. We sat down on the road beside him, panting. He was looking dazed. I heard a cheer and looking up saw Peg waving to us. The men we’d outwitted were cursing us soundly.

  After we had got our breath back we were able to rise and brush ourselves down a little. Bessie would have something to say about the state of our coats! We walked to the side gate of the palace, with Papa limping, whilst declaring that he was fine, absolutely fine.

  “Don’t worry about me, children. Look after your mother. All this is hard on her. She is far from her family and she did not expect to lead such a life here.”

  “She has us,” I said. “And Bessie.”

  “I know.” Papa smiled and put up his hand to touch my cheek. He kissed us both and said he would see us next Sunday, if not before.

  Watching him hobble towards the palace, we were filled with foreboding. How was he going to find the strength to carry on with that menial job? It was only after the door had closed behind him that I realised that I had not given him the parcel of food. I burst into tears.

  Chapter 11

  Gran arrived half an hour early for lunch on Sunday. She brought a bottle of wine for the adults and some chocolate for Lucy and Will.

  “I know you shouldn’t be eating sweets. But you’ve got good teeth – you get that from me. I’ve still got all mine. A bit of chocolate won’t hurt you once in a while.”

  She glanced round. “Your dad not in?”

  Lucy and Will looked at their mother.

  “Not at the moment,” she said. “Sit down, Mum. What about a wee sherry while you’re waiting?”

  “Wouldn’t say no.” Gran settled herself in an armchair. “Ranald working?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “He can’t be playing golf, surely, not in this weather?”

  Their mother poured herself a sherry, took a large gulp and sat down. Lucy and Will hovered, ready to give support.

  “Mum, I have something to tell you. Ranald—”

  “He’s not left you!”

  “No, well, yes. What I mean is, he’s missing.”

  “How can he be missing?”

  “He is.”

  “So he has left you.”

  “No, not in the way you mean. He’s been under a lot of stress with the business so he’s gone off for a bit.”

  “I never did think that would work out.” Gran sniffed. “What did he know about setting up a business? So it’s failed, has it?”

  “Seems so. Well, yes, it has.”

  “And he’s just taken off into the wide blue yonder leaving you to clear up the mess?”

  “That’s not fair,” Lucy burst out. “He needs time to think what to do.”

  “It’s all right, Lucy,” said her mother.

  “I always thought he was far too airy-fairy about practical matters,” Gran went on. She had hoped that her daughter would marry a lawyer who had been interested in her – but along had come Ranald Cunningham and swept her off her feet. That was how Gran referred to it, with a sniff, as if her daughter should have kept her balance and resisted.

  “Dad’s always worked hard,” said Will.

  “That may be so,” said Gran “but to what end? I mind the time when he was selling water-purifiers. Everybody was going to want one. He would make his fortune! Buy a villa in Tuscany! Trouble was he was only paid on commission and he didn’t sell many.”

  “The firm hadn’t done its market research properly,” said their mother.

  “There’s always some excuse. What about the service agency he set up? Talk about a hare-brained scheme! He would guarantee to find you anything you needed the minute you needed it. Someone to walk your dog. Look after your pet rabbits while you’re on holiday. Water your flowers. Dig your garden. Organise your children’s party. Do your weekly shopping.”

  “It wasn’t such a bad idea,” said Will. “People need these things done.”

  “Trouble was he didn’t have anyone to do it except himself. He was running all over the town like a flea on a hot griddle.”

  “Have some more sherry, Mum.”

  Lucy and Will remembered that particular phase in their father’s life. It was one they’d been involved in. They had been called on to help out at times. On one occasion Lucy was given a dog to walk. It was supposed to be a tame, quiet dog, but it had slipped its lead and run off and they’d spent half the day chasing after it until they’d had to go to the police. It was a valuable dog and was found eventually outside its own gate. There had been
lots of excitement in those days.

  “The very idea of him setting himself up as a business consultant! Helping folk to organise themselves. He couldn’t organise himself out of a paper bag.”

  They were worried Gran might choke. Her face was growing redder by the minute, from the heat in the room and the sherry and her indignation.

  “Ranald’s been good to you, Mum,” her daughter reminded her. “He gave you the money to go to Australia and visit Aunt Ruth.”

  “I know, I know. And I was grateful. I’d pay him back if I had the money. I will if I ever win the lottery. I’m just worried about the three of you.”

  Their father was good to everybody when he was in the money. He took his family on holiday, out to restaurants, bought them presents, lent money to friends who seldom paid it back. Where were they all now? Will wondered, then decided it wasn’t fair of him to think that. His dad’s friends didn’t know he’d disappeared or that he was in debt. Their mum was determined to keep it quiet and had told them not to say anything about it to anyone, at least not for the meantime.

  “So where has he gone?” asked Gran.

  “I told you, Mum, he’s missing.”

  “You mean you don’t know? He’s really missing?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I hope he doesn’t do something stupid. I’d hate to see anything happen to him.” They had known Gran would turn after she’d done her rant. Her bark was definitely worse than her bite. “I’m fond of him, Ailsa,” she went on, “in spite of everything, you know that. He’s a lovely man, Ranald, even if he’s not much use when it comes to providing for his family.”

  “Let’s go and eat. I’m sure you must be hungry, Mum.”

  When they sat down to the table Gran asked why didn’t Ranald just come home? After all, it was not the first time that his business venture had failed. They weren’t going to take it out on him.

  “Of course not,” said her daughter, carving the roast of pork. “But there is another complication.”