It was hardly a setting to inspire confidence in new clients and, when I decided to take matters a little further by explaining that having recently returned from abroad I had some financial business to transact, I was not altogether surprised that such news heartened the old man considerably.
His manner changed immediately, shoulders straightened, there was even a faint smile and a bow. A slightly gleeful rubbing together of hands was further indication that on the whole, business was far from brisk. 'Mr Bolton is not available at present-'
A fact fairly obvious, otherwise I should not have broached the subject and risked an encounter. Observing my change of expression, which he had taken for disappointment, he said hastily: 'Mr Bolton carries on a considerable amount of his midweek business from his home. However, if you would care to leave your address, I could get him to call on you, madam.' When he added, 'Mr Bolton sees clients in their own homes if that is more convenient,' I wondered if for clients I should read Lily of the Lodge.
The old clerk's face fell when I said I was travelling north to the Orkneys but that I would get in touch when I returned to Edinburgh more permanently.
As I left the office I knew two things for certain. The old clerk's manner had told without any words that the business was in a poor way and clients few. The depressed and neglected state of the office confirmed my suspicions.
Alice's story about Matthew selling their carriage and walking or riding on tramcars to work for his health's sake might be true. In the light of what I had just seen, it took on a new significance as I made my way to Portland Crescent, Newington, where a well-starched maid demanded my business and indicated that appearances were kept up inside the Bolton home. 'Is Madam expecting you?' the maid insisted doubtfully, examining my appearance from top, to toe and taking in that bicycle parked by the railings.
I could read her mind: here was that charity woman back again looking for another handout.
She sniffed. 'You'll need to come back later. Madam isn't at home.'
I refused to be dismissed. 'Kindly inform her that Mrs Rose McQuinn is here.'
'You'll need to tell her yourself - she is out and won't be home until half past four.' With that, the door slammed in my face.
I stood on the step, wondering what to do next. I didn't want to return to the Tower but I might fill in a little time at a teashop.
As I rode towards South Bridge my front wheel got entangled in the tramway line and I fell off. Onlookers rushed towards me, hands raised me from my undignified position on the ground.
Was I hurt? No, just my pride.
The bicycle? I tested it gingerly. Undamaged. Dusting myself down I left them, heartily wishing I wasn't morally obligated to Alice by accepting her gift of a bicycle, one that I could well afford to buy.
I devoted some further thoughts to Matthew. Considering the shabby state of his office, there might be some good reason to link his odd behaviour not only, with Lily Harding but also with some crisis in his professional career, such as embezzlement or blackmail.
Whatever this crisis might be, it had to be quite beyond the normal run of financial matters, since he could not confide its nature even to his wife. And if I was to help Alice and her marriage, that was what I had to discover.
I was completely inexperienced in such matters and, as I rode towards the Pleasance, I never fooled myself for an instant that it would be an easy task.
The wind was blowing from the east, bringing with it sounds of music from a distant brass band. There was even a whiff of smoke and that gamey circus smell blowing from the area of Queen's Park.
All thoughts of teashops disappeared as I watched family groups making their way briskly in that direction.
I soon discovered the reason. Outside the enclosure, clowns on stilts were shouting: 'Ladies and gentlemen - for your free entertainment. We are inviting you to come inside and inspect our performers. Come and see the animals and the clowns.'
Such publicity was an obvious draw. Young children with parents were much in evidence, a Punch and Judy show and clowns who were expert jugglers. The trapeze artists were also clever acrobats.
And there was Cyril Howe himself.
I wheeled my bicycle over to the edge of a group of spellbound children to whom he was demonstrating sleight of hand. As a very clever magician drawing rabbits out of a hat,
Howe was an outstanding performer, making doves disappear and reappear, drawing multiple scarves out of his sleeves. Not only the children were spellbound that day.
A master of his craft, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. This Cyril Howe had charisma and, as ably demonstrated from the applause and cries of delight greeting every new trick, his audience was falling into his hands. Soon they would be imploring their parents to take them inside the big tent.
'Where are the Indians, mister?' shouted a small boy.
'They are out exercising their horses, young sir.'
'That's a shame, mister. I came specially to see them.'
'Well, you'll have to come back again this evening. Bring your parents and come to a regular performance.'
'But that'll cost us money,' shouted the small boy's elders, a remark that raised a laugh and a cheer.
'And worth every penny, sir, I assure you. You'll not be disappointed. Take my word for it.'
Personally I wouldn't have taken Cyril Howe's word for buying a penny bun, but admittedly he was a man of many talents. From this distance he looked handsome and strong. No doubt his wife was right and that charisma extended to extramarital activities.
Ever hopeful, too, I thought, remembering his none too subtle approach to me. A very different version from the frightened train passenger at Dunbar, so furtive and preoccupied with his female companion that he failed to recognise me, on our second encounter, as the other occupant of the compartment.
I left, wondering how many other sides there were to Cyril Howe after the caravan door closed and his shrill, unhappy wife removed her spangles.
I didn't envy her. That thought brought a gloomy reminder of my forthcoming visit to Alice Bolton whose matrimonial problems I had cheerfully promised to investigate.
The undeniable fact that I had not the least idea or experience in such matters, or any certainty of where to begin, was now weighing heavily upon my conscience.
Chapter Fourteen
Alice greeted me warmly and upset my plans by saying that Matthew would be joining us shortly. 'When I told him about our meeting and that you were coming, he was delighted and said that although he was very busy just now he would make a special effort to be here. He knew that you were my particular friend and remembered that you were very clever - and pretty,' she added. That pleased her. Her gentle smile was without any malice.
I was furious. Matthew's good opinion or favourable memory was the last thing I wanted. I could hardly conceal my annoyance.
'What is it? I thought you would be pleased.'
'Please, Alice. Don't you realise that if I'm to ... follow him, try to find out what is going on with this other woman, it is essential that I don't meet him face to face?'
She had winced when I said 'this other woman'. Now she looked very prim and said: 'I can't understand in the least why you are so distressed about Matthew wanting to meet you-'
I listened despairingly. Obviously she hadn't thought any further than the day or given the consequences of such a meeting any consideration regarding the difficulties it would bring. 'Don't you see that if I meet him', I said, interrupting her protestations, 'he will think it very odd if he discovers that I am trailing him secretly. If he confronts me how on earth can I explain what I'm up to? Alice, please, think about it, use your imagination. He might misinterpret my actions, believe I'm infatuated with him - how embarrassing that would be, for all of us!'
She gave me an odd look and then said: 'Oh, Rose, I'm sorry. He was so ... nice ... this morning. He remembered that it was my birthday at the weekend and has promised to buy me a bracelet-' Then she added: 'Si
nce he completely overlooked our wedding anniversary last month, such a sweet gesture.'
A gesture which, I thought, for those not so innocently minded could be interpreted as an admission of guilt by a defaulting husband.
Alice sighed deeply. 'Oh, Rose, perhaps I was mistaken to confide my troubles in you.'
'I beg your pardon, Alice, am I hearing correctly? Confiding troubles are what friends are for,' I added gently and she began to cry.
Out came the piece of cambric. I watched as she dabbed her eyes. I hoped she didn't do this too often in front of Matthew. Tears are a considerable advantage to some women and make them look soft and appealing. Alas, Alice was not one of them; she merely looked red-eyed and red-nosed, snuffly and remarkably plain.
'When he was so nice about my birthday - and about meeting you - I thought perhaps I had been too hasty and had misjudged him. He does work very hard, you know. He is so conscientious about his family firm.'
I listened and said nothing. I wondered how long it was since Alice had seen her husband's office. Being hard-working and conscientious about his clients was not the impression I got from my visit. Or from the old clerk's excuse that his master was frequently absent and preferred to meet his clients at home. A fact Matthew had apparently forgotten to mention to his wife.
'Poor Alice. There, there, do stop crying. Is this a complete change of heart you're having? Are you telling me you might have been imagining Matthew's strange behaviour?' I asked sternly.
Alice looked up at me, sniffed and shook her head. 'I wish I could say yes to that. I wish I could say I was wrong, but during the past month he has been like a stranger. So distant and refusing to send that dreadful friend of his away. It's too awful - what our neighbours must think, lowering the tone of the street with tramps living on our premises-'
The tears threatened again and I said: 'Look, do you want me to go on with this? Incidentally I would be the happiest person in Edinburgh if you said, "No, Alice. I have been mistaken."'
'I can't. Things have been so ... awful, I can't begin to explain. Oh, Rose, what shall we do?'
'I know what I shall do, Alice. I shall go home.'
'Home! But you can't go home-'
'I must. Don't you see it would ruin my plans to meet him at the moment?'
'But what can I tell him?'
'Say I'm indisposed - he won't ask questions about that, he's a married man after all-' and, cutting short her protests: 'You'll think up something convincing.'
I left her hurriedly, feeling awful that she was so unhappy and upset. I was sorry about causing her any further distress, seeing that her nerves were already considerably overwrought regarding her wretched husband's mysterious behaviour. And I couldn't honestly believe that any woman with just a mite of intuition could get into such a state without cause.
I made my escape by the front door, waved off tearfully by Alice, with a promise to return soon, some afternoon when she might be alone.
I wheeled my bicycle along the road and, once out of sight of the front door, I had an idea. The visit need not be entirely wasted I thought, as I crept stealthily along the narrow back lane to where, over the garden wall, the back premises of the Bolton house were visible.
I tried the gate, found it unlocked. I was in luck and let myself in, hoping that the shrubbery which hid the coachhouse from the kitchen would also conceal me in the unlikely event of Alice looking out of the window.
From the outside the coachhouse appeared neglected and dilapidated, all signs of paint on the one window and the door had vanished long ago. I couldn't imagine anyone living in such a hovel, even in its better days. An experimental glance through the one grimy window confirmed my worst fears of a gloomy interior, which appeared to be empty.
Taking a deep breath, I tapped on the door. I did not expect any reply, so lifted the latch and let myself in. The one room smelt of damp and was intensely cold. Even on a summer's day the sun must never have penetrated beyond the high garden wall.
I spared a thought for the poor underpaid coachman with his horses who had once lived in this vile place, for when my eyes adjusted to the gloom I saw only bare boards, dust and cobwebs. The squalid scene was completed by a stall long since deserted, the only evidence of an occupant a few wisps of dirty wet straw and a broken harness. On one wall was a tiny grate, which could not possibly have heated more than a kitchen cupboard and obviously had not seen anything as healthy as a fire for many a day.
I looked around, considering. The premises, if such squalor could be dignified by the word, seemed surprisingly deserted to have a resident tenant. One would have expected a shelf of dishes, tins of food, eating utensils and a bed with blankets.
The sole furniture was a rickety old kitchen chair and a large battered wooden box that might contain garden implements. At the moment it served as a table for a stump of candle and some empty bottles, one containing liquid. On the floor, a filthy towel covered a basin and jug.
I decided at least there must be water somewhere and, glad to open the door and fill my lungs with fresh air, I found a tap outside, presumably used for coachhouse and garden.
Inside again I decided to investigate the wooden box. It was firmly locked, a recent innovation since the padlock looked new and shiny.
I was completely baffled. What I was witnessing suggested that Matthew's vaunted hospitality and indebtedness to his great friend did not even include the most rudimentary of home comforts.
What did it all mean? I looked around for some clue, wondering what, if anything, I had missed in that cold, unfriendly place. And I reached one positive conclusion. Whatever the reason Matthew had given to his wife, he was not speaking the truth.
There was a much deeper more sinister purpose for his friend's presence. And the word 'blackmail' forced itself to the front of my mind.
I was wrestling with the thought, trying to make sense of it, when the door opened and a man appeared.
Even against the light he was a very rough-looking labourer in dusty, stained clothes, wearing a scarf about his neck and a cap pulled down well over his eyes.
That he didn't expect a visitor was obvious. My appearance startled him. Taken aback, his hand flew to his cap, not to raise it politely for sure, and I didn't know which of us was most scared. 'What d'ye want?' he yelled at me.
I began to apologise and he shouted: 'What are ye doing here, poking about? I'll tell the maister - he'll get the polis to ye.' And, as if to make sure I understood, he seized an empty bottle and raised it in a threatening gesture.
I waited no longer, stuttered out some wild excuse, seized my bicycle and fled, terrified to waste time looking back in case he was following.
But when I turned round at the end of the lane the garden door was firmly closed and, riding fast homeward, I found myself remembering, because I notice such things, that he had nice hands.
Nice hands and no manners. And whatever his background, he was no labourer and never had been, that was for sure.
I was still trying to make some sense of it all when the Tower came into view. An elegant carriage with a coat of arms was parked at the gate.
I had a visitor.
Chapter Fifteen
'Vince!'
I could hardly believe my eyes. But nothing had prepared me for the change - no, indeed, the transformation - in my stepbrother who stepped out to greet me.
Gone was the rather shy, indecisive young man lacking in self-confidence. His place had been taken by a rather stout, middle-aged man with blond beard and moustache, a gold watch-chain, silk top hat: the air of opulence, the new gravitas eminently suitable for even a minor physician in the Royal household.
It was his voice first of all that told me this wasn't another of my dreams. 'Rose - Rose.'
With a scream of delight I flung myself into his arms.
I was incapable of coherent speech; such high emotions were bound to lead to tears and it was some time before I could find words, or breath.
'Rose!
' Vince was similarly afflicted. He held me close, his chin resting on my head. He smelt of cologne - a good smell, something he had despised in his earlier years as unmanly.
At last he spoke. 'Ten years is such a long time. Rose.'
'Too long,' I sobbed.
'Let me look at you,' he said, holding me at arm's length and surveying me with a critical and, I suspected, a well-trained medical eye. 'You look lovely,' he said with a sigh, 'a little too thin and your hair has been bleached by the sun.'
He let a straggling ringlet wrap around his finger, a gesture I remembered from childhood when I sat on his knee and he read stories to me. He grinned. 'Most of Her Majesty's ladies would give anything for natural curls such as these.'
'And yours,' I said.
He laughed, running a rueful hand through his hair. 'Sadly mine are growing somewhat fewer. I have a lot more face to wash these days. But Livvy assures me that the high Roman noble brow suits me. What do you think?'
'I agree with her.' That was true. The blond curls inherited from dear Mamma that had given us such a strong likeness had darkened in Vince and thinned with age. The boyish air they had lent him in youth had been a constant source of aggravation in the early days of his medical career. Certain, then, that no patient would take him seriously, he need have no such worries now. He looked eminently mature and reliable.
Following me into the kitchen he said:
'This is just a very fleeting visit, I'm afraid. We are en route to Balmoral and I have permission to leave the Royal train while Her Majesty pays a brief call at Holyrood house. There are redecorating plans afoot for the Royal apartments and she insists on overseeing them personally. Despite John Brown - and now the Munshi's influence and advice - everything planned and decided by Prince Albert's command is sacrosanct. Even after all these years.'
'You will at least have time for a cup of tea,' I said and, looking at him again: 'Your clothes are lovely. You're so well groomed, such an elegant gentleman.'
He laughed at that too. 'You should see the others at court. I pale into insignificance there, I can assure you. I'm just a provincial, a poor Scots doctor, but I'm learning,'
The Inspector's Daughter (A Rose McQuinn Mystery) Page 10
