Sinister, dark, I could well believe that its early history, lost in the mists of time, might have revealed a refuge for the Knights Templar after their flight from Jerusalem during the Crusades. Its reputation as a convenient place for Royal conspirators had continued down the ages from Mary Queen of Scots to Prince Charles Edward Stuart marshalling his Jacobites on the ground above the city at Hunter's Bog.
Isolated, alone on its rocky perch, it did not need great flights of imagination to understand how readily such a place became the setting for superstitions, a place to be avoided, with tales of saints and devils. Certainly it had never been built originally with domesticity in mind, there was the hint of the monastic in tiny arched windows, and of defence and fortress in high unscaleable walls and arrow slits.
I sighed. Even the gentle golden light of early evening could not turn it into a home. But perhaps I could. I had dealt with log cabins in arid plains, far less attractive prospects than Solomon's Tower. In that moment I resolved to accept the challenge it offered.
As we drove alongside it looked much as I remembered. Closer acquaintance revealed a small, tidy garden with possibilities for a vegetable patch and a seat on sunny days sheltered by the rocky overhang.
I said the words out loud and Jeffries, who was regarding the building with evident dismay, stared at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. 'Rabbits and rats and deer will soon put an end to such schemes, miss. To say nothing of weather, which can be severe. Arthur's Seat gets the full blast of any storms sweeping straight across the Firth of Forth,' he added as if he had forgotten that I once lived in Edinburgh.
I didn't care about his gloomy predictions. I'd transform this grim old building by investing some love and pride in its sad stone and mortar. Absurd as it is, I believe that houses have souls, a theory I would not care to admit to the incautious listener. And that houses said to be haunted have merely absorbed into their walls the hatred, agonies and cruelties inflicted on one another by human inhabitants.
The carriage stopped by the iron gate. I remembered that it creaked. Time had not changed that or produced oil for the hinges. I made a mental note to rectify the omission. Creaking doors set my nerves on edge. The ancient entrance was a heavy, studded oak door overlooked by a small turret, which had been built for defence against invaders, with burning oil, arrows or gunshot in mind.
I declined to have Jeffries stay after he had opened the door and set down my travel bags. He fussed over me dreadfully. Would I be comfortable enough, warm enough - safe enough?
Gloomily, he emphasised the last, looking around with ill-concealed anxiety at the stone spiral staircase leading to the upper floors. I wasn't nervous, was I?
His attitude would have struck fear into even the bravest but I put a good face on it, reassuring him on all these issues. Thanking him for taking such good care of me, even more thankfully I closed the door and watched him drive away.
Alone at last with my new home, I sighed with pure contentment and wonder as I looked around me. This was the first house I had ever owned, an exciting thought. I went through a kitchen and scullery up a few stone steps into the sitting-room with a large arched window that earlier had been the entrance to the Tower, some ten feet above the ground, once approached by a ladder that could be speedily uplifted, a further indication of ancient defence.
In more recent times the unsavoury domain of Sir Hedley's tribe of cats, it had been transformed into a comfortable, attractive room. Furnished in Olivia's particular style and good taste, had I closed my eyes, I could have been back in Sheridan Place.
I carried the most immediate of my travelling bags through a door which led up a spiral stair to the master bedroom. The four-poster bed was there, no longer a sanctuary for the feline inhabitants; there were new brocade curtains, rugs on the floor, a massive wardrobe and a cheval mirror, the last thoughtfully provided by Olivia as every lady's necessity.
The sight it reflected was far from agreeable: an untidy image of windswept yellow curls, too much hair for the thin pale face and startled-looking eyes. As for the rest of the sad-looking woman, her clothes did little to inspire confidence.
Drab and travel-stained cloak, down-at-heel shoes, a gypsy who would have been turned away from respectable doors, I resolved to invest immediately some of those guineas Mr Blackadder had given me in the purchase of a decent wardrobe.
But Olivia had thought of everything. Had she foreseen my reactions, I wondered, as I opened a cabin trunk at the bedfoot? A note inside said these were clothes and shoes she would not have any use for in London. If they were unsuitable then perhaps I would be so kind as to donate them to some charitable institution.
My feet were shorter and broader than Olivia's but I guessed, as I took out petticoats, drawers, chemises and nightgowns, plus stockings, that this treasure trove of garments, all neatly darned, which dear Olivia had thought too shabby for Court circles, were, alas, far removed from the practical requirements of a lady bicyclist.
There were baby clothes, too, in several different sizes, all a little yellowed by constant wear. I felt my throat tighten as I fought back those tears again. In her usual caring fashion Olivia had guessed the impoverished circumstances of our life in America and had tactfully decided with sensitivity and insight that charity begins at home. I was much indebted to her.
A door led into a recently installed bathroom with water closet and a smaller bedroom, which I remembered had been Sir Hedley's study. The nursery, I thought sadly, complete with cradle, that forlorn reminder.
I followed the stone stair up to the next floor. Even as I opened the door I felt the atmosphere change. According to legend this part of the house with its stone vaulted roof had been the Knights Templar's chapel. All indications of its religious nature had long since vanished, but the aura of sanctity and dedication remained undisturbed by passing centuries. Below the tiny arched window, with its stained glass high in the wall, a raised dais in the floor hinted at the one-time presence of an altar. Painted murals of biblical scenes flaked off the walls, ghostly images of prophets and saints obliterated by the passing centuries.
Olivia and Vince had left this strange room untouched.
I would set an antique oak table on the dais under the arched window, with crucifix and candles I'd light for Danny. A devout Irish Catholic, he had been brought up by the nuns at the Convent of the Sisters of St Anthony in the Pleasance.
When I was at more ease with my surroundings, perhaps I'd get them to say a Mass for Danny. He'd have wanted that although I dreaded telling them the fate that had overtaken their beloved protégé, the clever orphaned lad they were all so proud of, whom they had educated well enough for a career in the Edinburgh City Police.
I did not want to remember the last church I had set foot in: a refuge for the women and children in a settlement attacked by renegade Sioux Indians. In a retribution raid for the massacre of their own women and children by white soldiers-
The screams of the dying, the burning arrows-
Dear God - not even in nightmare, save me from remembrance.
And feeling this was a holy place where prayers might be heard and supplications answered, I knelt down on that stone dais and prayed for the repose of Danny's soul.
And for all those who had died that terrible night.
If he is alive, I whispered, please send him back safe to me.
Down the stairs again and into the bedroom, I was suddenly overcome by weariness, too tired even to feel hungry. Wanting only oblivion I threw off my clothes, seized one of Olivia's nightgowns and, crawling under those pristine white sheets, I laid my head gratefully on the lace pillowcase faintly perfumed with lavender.
And there I slept dreamlessly until morning came.
Chapter Four
I awoke refreshed and for the first time with a sense of well-being and inner strength. No longer dreading the day ahead or haunted by past sorrow but with a feeling of delighted anticipation, I opened the window.
Bey
ond the garden, a thin haze over the summit of Arthur's Seat, the butter blaze of sun-gobbled gorse haunted by the buzz of excited insects promised another fine day.
Down the spiral stairs my hand lingered on the ancient rough stone wall. This was the first day, the dawn of a new life and in the parlour every piece of furniture held some memory of Sheridan Place and surrounded me with the comfortable feeling of having returned home at last.
No longer need I fear the future or wonder where my next crust of bread was coming from. All that was gone for ever. I could make plans, in time I might again obtain a situation as teacher or governess. Although that idea did not greatly appeal at present, it could bring me a comfortable living when my vast fortune dwindled.
I took out the purse and shook out the coins. I still could not quite believe that all this - and much more - was mine to spend. Such wealth demanded outdoor wear suitable for riding a bicycle.
Out of the kitchen door and off to inspect the rest of my inheritance. A crumbling wall, the foundation of some earlier version of Solomon's Tower. Across a stretch of grass, a coachhouse-cum-stable with stall containing soft straw, fresh and dry, presumably the responsibility of someone who expected the new occupants to keep a carriage and horses.
Perhaps at some future date I might keep a few hens.
Returning to the kitchen, I saw that a fire had been set ready for lighting. A peat fire that brought back memories of my Orkney days, remembering how, once Gran set it going, she said it need never go out.
This morning, however, with no means of boiling a kettle I poured a cup of milk. Delicious, with a slice of fresh bread thickly buttered and a piece of cheese. Bacon and eggs would come later, once I had mastered the kitchen range.
Carefully unpacking Bess's basket of eggs, I discovered they had been set upon a newspaper for safety: a copy of The Scotsman. That it was two weeks old didn't bother me, I was very curious to know what had been happening in Edinburgh of late.
The most important item - after news of unrest on the fringes of the Empire, places I had never heard of, and Mr Gladstone's latest pronouncement in Parliament - was the Edinburgh murder.
Molly Dunn, a servant girl in Saville Grange in Newington, a suburb to the south side of the city (and a quarter-mile from Solomon's Tower) had been found brutally murdered, her body on the kitchen floor. The back door was unlocked and she had been taken unaware for there were no signs of a struggle, although a candlestick lay beside her. The police were working on the theory that she had been awakened during the night and had disturbed an intruder who had assaulted and then strangled her.
The gardener, on his weekly visit, had discovered her when he knocked on the kitchen door for his customary dinner of bread and cheese. Access denied him, he found the door unlocked and her body on the floor. At first believing she was in a faint, he was horrified to find that she was cold and must have been dead for some time.
The newspaper report continued:
Dunn was alone in the house at the time as her employers were in Stirling at a family wedding. Mr Elliott, a rich wine merchant in the city, stated that as far as he was aware the burglar had not got very far with his activities since no items were missing, although the house contains many valuable antiques and silverware. Mrs Elliott was in a state of shock when she spoke to the police who were carrying out extensive enquiries in the neighbourhood.
Saville Grange. I put down the newspaper. I couldn't place it but the name was familiar. I must have walked past the house many times in childhood days and afterwards, before Gran took Emily and me to live in Orkney when Mamma died with her stillborn baby who would have been our little brother.
Realising the murder had taken place so near at hand must have brought a natural feeling of unease to any woman living alone and accounted for Mr Blackadder's anxiety. Her killer being yet at large some weeks later made me wonder if the police detectives were as skilled as Pappa had been at solving domestic murders.
I was still so engrossed with the news items in the weeks-old newspaper spread on the table that I got quite a shock when I looked up and saw a policeman's helmet framed in the window.
He tapped on the glass and, on my unlocking the kitchen door, revealed the rest of a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early thirties. A handsome 'chiel' in the Lowlands tradition of high cheekbones, thick, sandy hair, a well-shaped mouth and eyes so dark blue they seemed at first glance to be black.
'May I ask what you are doing here, miss?'
I was somewhat taken aback. 'You may indeed. I live here and may I ask why you are staring in at my window?'
'Your window, miss?'
'My window. Who are you?'
'Constable Jack Macmerry, miss,' he said, saluting me politely. Then danger over, his manner suddenly relaxed and he smiled apologetically. 'I do beg pardon, miss. I live down the road at Duddingston. I pass by this house every day and although there was some activity a few months ago, I thought it was still unoccupied.'
He paused. 'We have instructions to keep an eye on it. Vandals and undesirables, if you get my meaning,' he added, with a heavy nod in the direction where the circus was sited. 'I take it that you are the new owner, miss.'
'I am and it's Mrs, not miss, Mrs Rose McQuinn. Would you like to see some proof? You may consult my solicitor, Mr Blackadder. The title deeds are with him-'
'No, no, I'll take your word for it,' he said hastily. Then, pausing to take stock of the surroundings, he asked, 'Aren't you scared, living here all alone - I mean, what with this murder nearby and all?'
I tried not to laugh since his textbook training obviously lacked a chapter on tactful and consoling speeches for ladies living on their own near a murder site.
Wondering how Pappa dealt with such exigencies in his police constable days, I pointed to the newspaper. 'I've just been reading about it. Fortunately I am not of a nervous disposition.'
Suddenly I interested him. 'Mrs McQuinn, did you say? Are you related to the Sergeant Danny McQuinn who was in the police here?'
'I am his widow. He died while we were in America.'
'My condolences, ma'am. I'm right sorry to hear that; my father worked with him in the old days.' He smiled. 'It's in the blood.'
'I know.'
Rubbing his chin, he looked at me. 'I seem to remember that Sergeant McQuinn married Chief Inspector Faro's daughter. Am I correct?'
'You are.' He had a good memory too. 'Congratulations, Constable Macmerry.'
'Fancy you being his daughter. He is still a legend in the Central Office, you know. They all try their best, but there's never been a detective like him - never will be, I reckon.'
'Oh, I don't know. Constable, you sound as if you're doing very well,' I said, thinking this might be an opportune occasion to establish friendly terms with the police. 'Look, I can't offer you a cup of tea but would you like a glass of milk?'
'I would indeed, Mrs McQuinn. I left the house early this morning and I didn't have time for breakfast.'
He relaxed, took bread and cheese, and from across the table he looked around and said: 'This house has quite an atmosphere, I grant you that. But it's lonely for a woman on her own. Would you like me to look in each day - when I'm passing?' he added awkwardly.
'I would greatly appreciate that, Constable. But I am well able to look after myself, rest assured of that.'
I thought it better to avoid mention of the pistol I had learned to keep by me - and to use with deadly effect - in America, so pointing to the newspaper, I said: 'Have they got anyone for the girl's murder yet?'
'No. But there have been quite a few leads. We expect to make an arrest any day now.'
I thought that was a pretty well-rehearsed little speech that came quite glibly from the lips of policemen baffled by a killer's identity and singularly lacking in clues.
'The gardener who found her gave us some very useful information. He'd seen some savage-looking stranger near the house around the time of the murder. He's very concerned, having found the bo
dy.
Earnest sort of chap, feels it's his duty to come into the station regularly to ask what progress we're making with our enquiries.'
He paused and gave a despairing sigh. 'Insists that the man looked like an Indian from the circus, whom he might recognise again.'
'The circus down the road? Is that why you're here?'
'Exactly, Mrs McQuinn. The police have their own ideas, but I've been elected to keep a sharp lookout.'
'The newspaper report said that nothing had been taken. So the motive wasn't likely to be robbery.'
I had already come to some conclusions of my own: the kitchen door unlocked - I knew what Pappa would have made of that. Poor Molly had most probably been killed by someone who knew her. Someone she trusted to let into the house. I'd be on the lookout for a jealous lover, rather than a circus performer who was taking some exercise,' I said.
He frowned. 'On the other hand, it could have been someone she was sorry for. A benighted traveller who needed help and she asked him into her kitchen. It does happen, you know. I suspect, Mrs McQuinn, that it's the sort of trusting thing you might do yourself,' he added with a note of triumph for his own shrewd appraisal of character. 'Now I must be on my way. Thank you for my late breakfast.' At the door he turned and saluted me gravely, looking rather anxious as if he felt I was taking his warnings all too lightly.
Hanging in a cupboard next to the kitchen range were a waterproof rain cape and a rather shabby straw shopping basket. The cape would come in handy for wet weather and the basket I'd press into immediate service for my visit to the shops on Princes Street.
I walked happily towards the Pleasance, enjoying the warm sunshine. Once, when there were only fields, this was a narrow track outside the city walls, part of rural Midlothian. Now, tall terraces of houses, close-packed, sprouted skywards.
Returning the basket to Bess, I walked on past the old Flodden Wall which once marked the city boundary. Built in 1513, it was intended to keep the English army at bay after the Battle of Flodden Field where the flower of Scottish nobility died at the side of their king, James the Fourth.
The Inspector's Daughter (A Rose McQuinn Mystery) Page 3
