The Sign of the Black Dagger

by Joan Lingard

  Gran was silent once she’d heard about the debts. She shook her head and got on with her lunch. She was quiet until it came to the pudding.

  “If the worst comes to the worst, Ailsa, I’ll have to sell my flat,” she announced.

  “You can’t do that!”

  “What happens if he goes bankrupt? You’ll be out in the street.”

  “We might have to sell this house. I suppose it could come to that.”

  That was what Lucy and Will feared.

  “You can’t do that – it’s an heirloom,” said Gran, as she poured cream over her apple crumble. “Better if I sold mine. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, whereas this is.”

  “But you like your flat. And where would you live?”

  “I’d have to come and live with you, wouldn’t I?”

  “Mum,” said her daughter firmly, “Ranald would never allow you to sell your flat.”

  The doorbell rang, closing off the conversation. Will went to the door.

  “I hope it’s not that Smith man again,” said Lucy.

  They listened. It sounded as if Will was talking to a woman but they couldn’t make out anything that was being said. He came back looking pale.

  “Mum, it’s the policewoman we saw at the station.”

  Their mother leapt up, as did Lucy. Gran stayed where she was.

  The constable put her head round the door. “May I come in?” She had a male colleague with her.

  “Of course,” said their mother, flustered. “Is there any news?”

  “Well, we’re not sure, Mrs Cunningham, I must stress that.” She looked at Will and Lucy.

  “It’s all right. You can say anything you have to say in front of them. And this is my mother.”

  “Well, as I said, we’re not sure, so this could well be a false alarm.” With another glance at Will and Lucy, she said, “A body of a man, no identification papers of any kind on him, but roughly corresponding with your husband’s statistics, six feet, dark hair, has been found.”

  “Where?” cried Lucy.

  “At the foot of Salisbury Crags, in Holyrood Park.”

  “Holyrood Park,” echoed Lucy.

  Gran got up and put an arm round each of her grandchildren. Lucy had started to cry.

  “There, there, love, it may not be him.”

  “Your grandmother’s right – it may not be him.”

  “But it could be,” said Will in a dull voice. Lucy was crying but he couldn’t seem to feel anything at all. Except numbness.

  The policewoman turned back to their mother. “I’ll have to ask you to accompany us, Mrs Cunningham.”

  “Of course. I’ll get my coat.”

  “We’ll come with you,” said Will.

  “No, you stay with Gran. I’ll get Jane to come with me.”

  After their mother had left with the two constables it was very quiet in the room. They all knew that she had gone to identify the body.

  “Let’s have a game of cards,” said Gran. “We can’t just sit here.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Lucy. “I don’t want to do anything.”

  Gran ignored that and cleared the dirty dishes into the kitchen, then she fetched two packs of cards from the bureau drawer. “I’m going to teach you to play bridge. So sit yourselves down.”

  They sat down. She dealt the cards. They played. They were still playing when their mother returned. They ran to meet her.

  “It’s not Dad,” she said, adding, “but it might have been. That’s what’s so awful.” Then she burst into tears.

  A little later, after they had all calmed down and his mother and grandmother had consumed a pot of tea, Will went to his room. He opened the drawer of his desk and took out the piece of paper his dad had doodled on. He stared at it, convinced, even more, that those symbols were meant to be daggers. They must be a clue as to what his father had been thinking about before he left. And the only place that could possibly throw any light on that was William and Louisa’s journal.

  Chapter 12

  William

  We decided that we would have to try to do something to help our father. If he were to continue to work as a skivvy and sleep on the floor he would end by being ill, for he has a weak chest at the best of times.

  Our only contact within the palace was Tam.

  “Let’s ask him,” said Louisa. “He might be able to help.”

  He had told us he’d been employed in the palace since he was a boy and knew all the Scottish noblemen who lodged there.

  We went down to the Abbey Strand yesterday and hovered until he appeared. He listened sympathetically and said he would see what he could do, though he could promise nothing.

  “Don’t tell our father that we asked you,” urged Louisa. “He’s very proud, you see.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  Encouraged, we went for a walk in the park. The snow had melted and the grass was green again. We turned our steps automatically in the direction of St Margaret’s Loch and the chapel that sat high above it. We thought that if Papa did get a break in his duties he might well go there.

  We began to scramble up the embankment and as we neared the ruin, we heard voices.

  “It might be Papa.” Louisa was about to surge forward but I held her back.

  “I don’t think it’s his voice.” I cocked my head. “They’re talking French.” Our father could speak French, but not fluently. To me, those voices – two, I thought – sounded as if they belonged to native French speakers. Our mother talked to us regularly in her own tongue so we were used to the rhythms and the way they flowed along.

  We moved up a little further and crouched down, close to the ground. I was certain now that neither voice belonged to our father.

  Listening carefully, we were able to follow snatches of conversation.

  You must go carefully…. You will find him in the last tavern in Leith at the bottom of the Walk… He will have a paper lying on the table beside him bearing the sign of the black dagger…

  We looked at each other, our eyes widening in astonishment at what we had heard. La signe du poignard noir!

  We continued to listen.

  Tell him that our plans are well advanced…

  Their voices dropped after that and we could make out no more. We crept back down the bank and went to stand by the loch where we could pretend to be interested in the ducks. Pieces of jagged ice still floated in the dark water even though the weather had turned a little milder. I felt sorry for the birds on wintry days and wished we had some bread to give them. They came swimming towards us but we had to show them that our hands were empty.

  In between watching the ducks we glanced up at the chapel ruin and after a few minutes saw a movement. A man emerged from behind the wall. We could not recall having seen him before. He looked as if he might be a valet. During our hours of loitering at the palace gates we had become accustomed to seeing all types of men coming and going and could generally guess what roles they had. Also, we had Peg to supply us with information.

  The man came at a half-run down the bank, his knees splaying out sideways as he tried to keep his balance. From time to time he skidded a little on the slippery grass, and at one point he almost lost his foothold. He had to put a hand down to save himself from falling. Once he reached the path he walked swiftly off towards the palace.

  Then the other man showed himself – and we had certainly seen him before!

  Monsieur Goriot stood for a moment brushing down his coat before he, too, set off down the hill. We put our backs to him and when we risked taking a look round we saw that he was making for Croft-an-Righ where Madame de Polastron lives. We watched as he went along the lane and into her house.

  “Interesting,” commented Louisa. “It is a pity we can’t go down to Leith and see the man in the tavern.”

  We were becoming as nosy as Peg herself! We were intrigued, though, to know what the two men could be plotting. Their plans were well advanced…

  We
found Peg on the Abbey Strand and Louisa gave her a poke of boiled sweets we’d brought for her. She said we were kind children and put one of the boilings into her mouth. She has only half a dozen teeth and they all look rotten.

  While we were standing there we saw Madame de Polastron’s son, Louis, coming down the Abbey Hill, accompanied by his valet. The boy’s clothes were made of velvet and the buckles on his shoes shone in a blink of sunlight. The valet held a hand under his elbow to guide him through the patches of muck lying on the road and support him should he slip.

  “He’s a braw lad,” said Peg. “He’ll mebbe be goin’ tae his dancin’ class at Signor Rossignoli’s.”

  We already knew about that, from Louisa’s friend Charlotte. Charlotte attends Signor Rossignoli’s dancing school in Gray’s Close, as Louisa herself did before our lives changed a couple of weeks ago. Amongst the bills that we’d found was one from the dancing teacher for a year’s tuition saying that if it was not paid within the next month he would have to ask Louisa to withdraw. Louisa blushed scarlet when she saw it. Whenever we pass Gray’s Close now I notice that she quickens her step and looks straight ahead.

  As the boy passed us he gave Louisa a smile which brought a faint glow to her cheek. According to Charlotte, he is in love with all the girls in the dancing school. Each day, when the class finishes, he waits at the bottom of the stair in order to catch them, one by one, and give them a kiss. And if they try to go past, his valet catches them and holds them for him. Louisa says that if she were there she would make sure that he did not catch her!

  Our mother had been amused when we told her. “It is very French of him. And, after all, he is the son of the comte, so people say.”

  “But not his legal son,” I had pointed out. “Doesn’t the comte have two sons by his marriage?” One of them, the Duc d’Angoulême, had recently arrived at Holyrood.

  “Still, he has royal blood, young Louis de Polastron.”

  “Well, I don’t care what kind of blood he has!” Louisa had retorted. “That would not give him the right to kiss me.”

  Our mother thinks Louisa is sometimes too headstrong and outspoken and that neither is a desirable trait in a girl. Our father laughs and says he likes her to be spirited.

  Louis de Polastron went on his way up the Canongate, attended by his valet. Louisa and I stayed on with Peg, hoping that Tam might appear again. We were not to be in luck. Once the afternoon had begun to fade we decided it was time to make for home and the heat of the fire. We felt sorry for Peg who had no fire to go to except the one in the tavern, but it was out of the question for us to take her home with us.

  As we reached Gray’s Close the dancing class was coming out. The girls spilled into the street, full of giggles. The boys were somewhat quieter. Charlotte left the throng and came to join us.

  “He is such a lad, the French boy!” she said, her dimples deepening. I do like her very much and sometimes Louisa teases me about her.

  “William,” she said, “Don’t you think Charlotte looks very pretty now that Louis has kissed her?”

  That set them both off giggling. Girls can be very irritating. At times I want to punch Louisa and on occasions have been known to do so, a reasonably gentle one, out of the sight of our parents, of course. She can deliver a good punch back, though it happens but seldom and we make up quickly.

  I looked away from the two girls to see Monsieur Goriot standing a few yards away, at the side of the street. He must have come up the hill behind us though we had not noticed him. He appeared to be waiting for somebody.

  It proved to be Louis de Polastron. Monsieur Goriot came forward when the boy emerged and greeted him.

  “May I escort you home, Louis?” He spoke to him in French, of course.

  I thought it odd he should come to escort Madame de Polastron’s son when he already had the valet. Perhaps he was trying to curry favour. He was wearing a simpering air now, different from how we had seen him before.

  He jutted out his elbow for Louis to take.

  The boy accepted. “Merci, Monsieur Goriot.”

  “Don’t you think he is handsome?” asked Charlotte, gazing after them.

  “Who? Monsieur Goriot?” said I, pretending to misunderstand.

  “Louis, idiot!”

  I shrugged and Louisa smiled one of her little smiles that make me want to give her a shove. I possibly would have done had Charlotte not been with us. We walked with her to her house further up the street, in the Lawnmarket, and then went home ourselves.

  Our mother was in a fuss for she had found that we were short of candles. She was telling Bessie that she must go in the morning to buy some. “They’re cheaper to run than the oil lamps and I am doing my very best to economise.”

  Bessie was trying to tell her that the candlemaker was refusing to serve her. “Nae unless he can see the colour of the money in ma haun.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.

  “Nonsense! We have bought our candles from Mr Charles since the day I came to live in Edinburgh.”

  “It’s true, Maman,” I put in. “We were in his shop last week and he gave me this bill.” I produced it from my pocket. I had neglected to give it to her or, perhaps, I had forgotten about it because I knew she would not be able to pay.

  “Have him add them to the bill, Bessie,” said our mother.

  “We can’t ask him to do that,” objected Louisa.

  “Besides,” I said, “he won’t do it. He asked for an early settlement. I expect he needs the money.” I did not add that he has children to feed too, for that would have sounded as if I were lecturing my mother.

  “You will just have to go to a different place then, Bessie. There are many other candlemakers in the town. We cannot be expected to live in the dark as well as starve.”

  We were not quite starving for, somehow or other, Bessie managed to produce some food for the table. Our father had left a little money which we were trying to use sparingly but it must run out sooner rather than later. What would we do after that? Beg, like Peg did? No, before that, we would have to start selling some of our things. Louisa, unknown to our mother, had already returned her muff to the shop; not that that had raised any money, but at least it had cancelled out one of our smaller debts.

  This morning, without saying anything, we each took some toys and half a dozen books that we’d had when we were younger. Even though we had grown past these things in age we were reluctant to part with them but knew that we must. We took the toys to the toy shop at the head of our own close. They had been bought from Mr Gray originally. Naturally he gave us less than our father would have paid, with them being second-hand. We then proceeded to Bell and Broadfoot the bookseller’s in Parliament Close. We found it difficult to haggle over prices as our father might have done but in the end we had enough money to buy a box of candles.

  Our mother was delighted. She did not ask how we had come by them, seeming to think that we had done what she had suggested.

  “She’s niver had tae manage the money hersel’, that’s the problem,” said Bessie, when we took the candles to her in the kitchen. “Yer faither’s aye protected her.” Bessie did ask about the candles and when we told her she said, “Yer mither could sell some things hersel’. They’d fetch mair money.”

  “That’s for her to decide,” I said.

  We went out again after lunch and the first person we encountered was Monsieur Goriot. He was out and about in the town a great deal more than any of the other French courtiers, or so it seemed to us, who are abroad much ourselves. We did not exactly encounter him; we merely passed in the street and as we did he gave us a long stare. He could not have known, though, I reasoned, that we had been spying on him. When I glanced round I saw that he was looking back too. He did not turn until I did. And when I risked a second glance he had disappeared. He must have gone into a nearby close.

  We had not long arrived at the Abbey Strand when Tam appeared. He greeted us with his usual cheery smile.

&nb
sp; “I was hopin’ I might see ye. I got yer faither a new job. He’s tae wait at table.”

  “Oh, Tam!” Louisa hugged him and he laughed and his face reddened.

  We were as pleased as if our father had been given high office in the realm.

  Chapter 13

  Lucy and Will had just finished reading the chapter of William and Louisa’s journal when the doorbell rang. Lucy slid the book into a carrier bag lying at her feet and pushed it behind a chair while Will sprang up to go and answer the door.

  “The stone, Will!” cried Lucy.

  He turned back and together they lifted it up. It took a minute or two to fix it firmly into the wall. The bell rang again.

  “I’m coming,” shouted Will, though there was no chance anyone would be able to hear him through the thickness of these walls.

  He opened the door to find one of their dad’s oldest friends standing outside.

  “Dan!”

  “Hi, Will, how’re you doing, man?”

  “OK.”

  “Dad in?”

  “No, but come on in.”

  Dan came in and said “Hi” to Lucy too, and then made for the radiator under the window, where he stood, warming his hands on it. “Cold out there.”

  “Want a cup of hot chocolate?” asked Lucy. “We were just going to have one.”

  “Love one. So your dad’s not in? I’ve just been round to his office but it was all locked up. What’s he playing at these days? Haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks and he hasn’t been answering the phone.”

  Lucy and Will looked at each other and nodded. They would have to let Dan know what was going on, whether their mother approved or not. She was very proud and wanted to go on pretending to the outside world that everything was normal. But it was not. Jane knew, and now Gran did. The latter was on the phone every two or three hours asking if there was any news and repeating her offer to sell her flat to pay off their debts.

  “Dad’s kind of disappeared,” said Will.

  “How do you mean disappeared?”