The Second Strain

by John Burke

  Adam checked with her that complimentary tickets had gone off to the three music critics who counted, and that someone was dealing with a demand from the most pompous of them for an ensuite room with a desk and laptop terminal in the Pheasant.

  Then he set off towards the haughs below Black Knowe to make sure that the marquee was being set up for the Folk Revel. And there were still arguments about parking spaces nearby. A couple of farmers had offered facilities free in the scruffier of their less fertile fields. Others wanted to section off bits of land and charge above the odds, and also be guaranteed against damage and vandalism.

  Neil Galbraith was there with his lumpy box of an open-reel tape recorder, greedily contemplating the soaring tower house rather than the men erecting the marquee. He greeted Adam as eagerly as Buchanan and Scott-Fraser had done earlier; which meant that, like them, he was interested not so much in Adam himself as in his possible usefulness.

  He set about ingratiating himself. ‘Had a word with my oppo at Border TV. All set to get the cameras and that long-legged interviewer here for the opening concert. I think you can count on a five-minute item in the local news programme.’ He glanced again at the tower. ‘Any chance of you fixing me an interview with this Erskine character?’

  ‘He’s only just got here. Might not be in the mood.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s so keen on his work, if your shop window’s anything to go by. And those leaflets I’ve printed for you. You must have some sort of leverage.’

  Meaning, thought Adam, that one good turn deserves another. Galbraith would pad his local paper with compliment’s for the Convener Depute and lean on his TV friends in return for an exclusive.

  ‘Maybe we could be going up to the house together,’ he went on. ‘You being well in with the laird, like.’

  Blatant. Crude flattery and insinuations. At the same time, Adam wanted an excuse, any excuse, to catch just a glimpse of the great man.

  Half reluctantly, half hopefully, he climbed the steep slope to the motte platform on which Black Knowe stood, with Galbraith humping the recorder and puffing beside him.

  The distant chime of the bell far within brought Mrs Robson to the oaken door.

  ‘Afternoon, Adam,’ she said amiably. To Galbraith she offered only a raised eyebrow and: ‘Young man.’

  Adam said: ‘Daniel Erskine is with Sir Nicholas?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Any chance of our seeing him?’

  Mrs Robson studied Galbraith’s small but heavy tape recorder doubtfully, unsure of it and of the request.

  ‘I’ll see.’ She sounded far from optimistic.

  She closed the door without inviting them to wait inside. Galbraith scowled. Adam, slightly dizzy with apprehension, looked back down the green slope . . . What would Daniel Erskine make of this view, corning back after so long? Inhaling the breeze, the smell of grass, the faint tang of wood smoke from a cottage on the edge of the town?

  The door creaked open. ‘Sir Nicholas wants you to go up, Adam.’ As Galbraith took a step forward, she said: ‘Not you. The laird’s guest isn’t interested in having his name in the papers.’

  Adam went up the broad stone stairs, breathless, and on into the hall. Sir Nicholas Torrance was on his feet, waiting to greet him with a friendly slap on the forearm. Another man sat in the window seat, a hunched silhouette against the brightness of the sky and the distant moors.

  Adam had waited so many years for this moment.

  Torrance said: ‘Adam, this is Daniel Erskine. I fancy you know as much about his music as he knows himself. Mr Erskine . . . Adam Lowther.’

  A gloved hand was extended. Adam did not know whether to grip it or simply touch it. There was no strength within the glove; just a wad of something spongy.

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you again, sir.’ It came out hoarse and crackly.

  ‘Again?’

  ‘I was in your music class at the Academy. For a little while.’

  ‘And Mairi McLeod,’ said Torrance.

  Although he was sitting in the full brightness of the window, Erskine remained a dark, shrivelled figure. The woman seemed to have drawn all the brightness into herself. Shaking hands, Adam felt a shock run up his arm. Hearing of Erskine’s amanuensis, he had visualized a spinsterish devotee with grey hair in a bun, and steel-framed glasses. This creature was a glowing vision with burnished golden hair on fire with sunshine, a long, creamy neck rising from her loose white shirt, and a scattering of freckles on her bare arms.

  Erskine had hardly lifted his head when introduced. Mairi McLeod turned her head slowly from clear-cut profile to challenging full face, her tigerishly tawny eyes staring boldly into Adam’s, lingering, appraising.

  Breaking the spell, Torrance said: ‘Right, Adam. Do sit down. And tell us how all your arrangements are going.’

  He outlined the programme, waiting for Erskine to show some interest. Then, for the benefit of the Chairman of the Gathering, he brought him up to date on problems of accommodation and transport, and how they were being coped with. At the same time he tried to awaken Erskine’s interest by enthusing about the programme for the opening concert, devoted mainly to Erskine’s own music: two of the early tone poems, and the Symphonic Variations to round off the evening. ‘And thanks to Sir Nicholas here, two of that wonderful violin and piano cycle will be performed in this very room.’ All the time he was watching, from the corner of his eye, the huddled shape of the man who had shaped his whole love of music. But it was Mairi McLeod whose eyes met his again when he mentioned the duets.

  Unexpectedly she changed the subject. ‘When it comes to accommodation, in my day the whole lot used to roll up with sleeping bags and stretch out on the grass or under the trees.’

  Torrance laughed. ‘Not what the senior members of our committee would approve, Adam?’ He did his own bit to try and stimulate their guest’s attention. ‘Thursday lunchtime, our friend here is going to give a talk about you to the Schiltron Circle. Right, Adam?’

  ‘Right.’ Abruptly he threw out the challenge. ‘Captain Scott-Fraser of the Circle is wondering whether Mr Erskine could spare a few moments to address them towards the end of the meeting. You always get questions at the end of these talks. I think it would be a great honour if the answers could come directly from you, sir.’

  At last the great leonine head with its mane of grey hair swung slowly round.

  ‘What the hell is the Schiltron Circle?’

  ‘A local group,’ explained Torrance. ‘We’ve got the usual cliques round here — Rotary, the Lions, Probus, the Incorporated Crafts. All earnestly doing good. And shoving their noses into everybody else’s business.’

  Adam was relieved that their host was doing the talking on this subject. He would never have dared even to imply that whiff of derision himself.

  ‘Never heard of it in my day,’ grunted Erskine.

  ‘They’d be grateful for just a few words.’

  ‘Not the sort of words I might give ’em, they wouldn’t. Anyway, I never go to lunches or dinners. Never.’

  Adam glanced at the gloved hands and winced silently. Seen this close, the enormity of what had been done to such a great composer was even more terrifying than reading about it on a two-dimensional printed page.

  ‘I think that if you simply showed up at the end of my waffling, and answered a few questions . . .’

  ‘They want me to answer questions? By God, that’s asking for it.’ It was difficult to tell whether he was chuckling or just grumbling to himself. But then his rheumy eyes grew suddenly bright below his straggling eyebrows and he was looking full at Adam. ‘Lowther. I heard that right, did I? Lowther.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Adam Lowther.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I did know a family of that name. There was a Molly Lowther?’

  ‘My mother. And my father was Jamie Lowther.’

  ‘Yes. So he was.’ Erskine edged himself forward on the window-seat. ‘They’re still here?’

 
‘My father moved us away. My mother died — she was expecting a child, but it . . . well, she was taken ill, and she and the baby both died soon after we’d left.’ Just like Nora and himself, he thought. The shock of an unwilling move, the loss of a baby. ‘And when my father died quite some years later, I came back.’

  Erskine was staring thoughtfully at him, more like a painter appraising a subject than a musician. With unexpected gentleness he said: ‘I’m sorry. Yes, I do remember them. And you’re Molly’s lad. And I did teach you music. Not for long, though.’

  ‘More’s the pity, sir.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. But well, now’ — this was even more unexpected — ‘you want me to address these Schiltron folk?’

  ‘They would appreciate it.’

  ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

  His brooding stare into Adam’s face was crossed by Mairi McLeod’s puzzled gaze. It was as if she had still not worked out what had changed his mind about coming to Kilstane.

  Chapter Two

  Lady Flora Hutchison was a slim yet powerful woman in her early thirties with sleek ashen hair and the confident air of a hostess accustomed to organizing dinner parties, garden parties and the everyday routine of her twin brother who sat meekly beside her. But at the moment she was not at her most confident. Lesley Gunn had caught them unawares, and could see that Lady Flora was making an effort to show herself capable of coping even with this awkward piece of news.

  ‘It really is rather embarrassing.’ She was probably annoyed more by having to confess her embarrassment to a police officer than by the turn of events itself.

  ‘Poor old Sinky,’ contributed Sir Hamish.

  ‘Sinky?’

  ‘Our old housekeeper. Mrs Sinclair. Always called her Sinky.’

  ‘Where does she come into this?’

  Lady Flora sighed. ‘When we disposed of the house’ — she glanced around the lounge as if briefly contrasting it with the more palatial surroundings of their past — ‘we made special arrangements for Mrs Sinclair. She’d worked for the family all those years, and her late husband had been my father-in-law’s ghillie. One couldn’t just leave her to find her own way in the world. We settled the west gatehouse on her for life.’

  ‘Least we could do,’ said her brother.

  ‘But the picture . . .?’

  ‘She came originally from Caithness, and was always going on about how she loved that painting. It so reminded her of the Whaligoe steps. So before clearing everything out we made her a present of it. And now one supposes she must have decided to sell it, presumably because she’s finding it hard to make ends meet. Embarrassing,’ said Lady Flora again. ‘But she’ll be very upset if she learns that we’ve heard about it. A bit disappointing, because she made such a thing about loving it, but we wouldn’t dream of making her feel awkward. Do you have to pursue this any further?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Lesley. ‘Just to tidy up the loose ends and make sure everything’s above board.’

  ‘She’ll be very upset.’

  Mrs Sinclair was indeed upset. For the first five minutes of the interview she was flustered and uncooperative. Even when shown the warrant card she had kept the visitor waiting until she had fetched her reading glass and peered at every word on the card. Then reluctantly she took Lesley through to a sitting-room crammed with furniture from what must originally have been a much larger room.

  She had a very red nose and a red face scoured by years of work, or fresh air, or perhaps too much drink in her declining years. Her hair was grey and wispy, with only a few straggling strands on top.

  Lesley went straight to the point. ‘I’m here about your missing picture.’

  ‘My . . . oh, no. I mean, who’s been saying I’ve . . . I mean, what picture?’

  ‘The Wilkie painting of which you were so fond.’

  ‘What has that got to do with the police?’

  ‘Have you sold it?’

  ‘Sold it?’ Mrs Sinclair flared up. ‘I’d never have done such a thing. Never.’

  ‘Then where is it?’

  Mrs Sinclair rubbed her nose even redder with her handkerchief: ‘What her ladyship would say if she knew . . . what they’d think of me . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid they do know. I had to approach them to establish the provenance of the picture and what happened to it. They were the ones who gave me your address.’

  Mrs Sinclair seemed to be collapsing in on herself. ‘I’m so ashamed. After all they did for me. I’ll nae be able to face them again. What’ll they be thinking of me?’

  ‘They’re not blaming you. Truly they’re not. The picture was yours, if you wanted to sell it, then —’

  ‘Sell it? I’ve told you, I’d never have sold it. It was taken.’

  ‘You mean stolen? Burgled?’

  ‘Aye.’ Mrs Sinclair was busy now crumpling her handkerchief into a soggy ball. ‘I wouldnae have dared tell them. I was so ashamed.’

  ‘What exactly happened?’

  ‘For a start, there were these people came to the door, only I wouldn’t let them in. Didn’t fancy the look of them. And soon after, there was this burglary, when I was out shopping.’

  ‘Ah. Knockers.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Lesley realized that it had come out sounding to the old lady like a rude word. ‘They come knocking at your door asking if you’ve got anything to sell. Promise to offer a good price for genuine stuff.’

  ‘Aye, that’s just the way it was. There were two of them. I didn’t fancy the look of them,’ said Mrs Sinclair again, more emphatically and self-righteously. ‘Wouldn’t let them in.’

  Lesley glanced back through the half-open door to the tiny lobby. ‘That console table — they probably offered you a couple of hundred for it?’

  ‘So they did.’ Mrs Sinclair shook her head, so that a few strands of hair glinted in the light from the window. ‘It was never worth that.’

  ‘No, it’s only a modern copy.’

  ‘So I knew they must be up to something.’

  ‘If you’d said yes, they’d have had an excuse to come in and look round to see if there was anything really valuable.’ Lesley looked up at a rectangular patch of wallpaper slightly less sunbleached than the rest. She stood up, set her back to the open door, and confirmed at once that anyone looking into the room from the front door would have had a clear picture of the Wilkie. ‘Knockers,’ she repeated. ‘If they can’t make a smart deal on the spot, they size up the joint and then engage burglars to collect what’s worth having. Didn’t you report it to the police?’

  ‘I was so ashamed. It would have got back to the ears of the family. After all they’d done for me . . .’

  ‘The main point is that you can confirm that you did not sell the painting, which you were perfectly entitled to do, but that it was removed by burglars?’

  ‘How many more times do I have to say it?’

  ‘Mrs Sinclair, please don’t be too upset.’ Lesley spoke as gently as possible. ‘We know where the picture is, and I think that in due course you will get it back.’

  The old woman looked at her half sceptical, half longing to believe that promise.

  Lesley drove back to Kilstane and made a phone call to the Arts and Antiques unit at New Scotland Yard. She was greeted with warm approval.

  ‘Yes, we’ve had our eye on that firm for a little while now. The Hawick people are perfectly respectable, but that little lot in Dalspie are part of a larger consortium, tied in with a very prestigious auction house right here on our own doorstep. Started out with small stuff — fiddling a lot of electric train sets through to the auctioneer’s own son, hiding valuable pieces in a tin bath full of junk and tipping a friend off that he could offer a derisory bid and carry it off. Not enough to be worth prosecuting in the early stages, but gradually the stakes have been building up. We’d be glad to have something really meaty now. Fashionable contacts at this end, but with a lot of shadows we’d be intereste
d in brushing away.’

  ‘Shall I go back to Dalspie and —’

  ‘Leave the next stage to us, and we’ll get back to you. As representative of the local force, you’d like to make the arrest yourself, if it comes to that?’

  And lose that poor Mrs Gillespie in Dalspie her job?

  Right now Lesley decided it would be more fruitful to follow up the little matter of the dead woman and her unborn child.

  *

  From the start they had been banking on some traces of flesh, some shreds of clothing which in the end would lead to the identity of the corpse. Just a few fibres could be enough for modern forensic scientists. But the remains on the slab were in poor shape for analysis. A large part of the torso had been crushed by the setting concrete. The casing had been done in a bit of a hurry and had sprung cracks here and there. Bacteria would have got in and rotted the flesh away completely over the years.

  And there were no remains of clothes. The woman had been entombed naked.

  ‘Only a few shreds of what looks like sacking,’ said DS Elliot. ‘Ordinary sacking. So all we really have to go on is bones.’

  ‘Dental records?’

  ‘I’ve started on that. But the local dentist is new to the district. Very modern, very with-it. No records left over from his predecessor. But I’m trawling through the school dental records, in case there’s some abnormality or some special treatment that survived into the adult jaw.’

  The pathologist pointed out that the bones in both the woman’s hands were badly smashed. Could this have been deliberate, or just part of the general crushing? Anything to do with the way Daniel Erskine’s hands had been crushed?

  Back in the station, Lesley approached the desk sergeant. ‘Do you still have any records of the time that Daniel Erskine’s hands were smashed? And what became of the assailant after he got out of prison?’

  ‘Before my time, but folk have long memories hereabouts. As I remember it, the man who did it was one of the Langs — the Roxburgh Street Langs.’ It was as if this was enough in itself to explain any murder or mayhem which might occur in the town. ‘He was an oil rig worker. The story went that he got back earlier than expected from one spell offshore, and found his wife in bed with this Erskine fellow. Dragged him out into the yard and went at his hands with a sledgehammer they used for breaking up lumps of coal. Fixed him well and truly.’