With some regret he realised that another visit to the poorhouse was inevitable; his excuse, accomodation for his frail old mother. Could he also solve the sinister riddle of Agatha Simms’ empty coffin and Tibbie’s disappearance? Had she been taken to the poorhouse, kidnapped from Liberton by the fine gentleman with his carriage, and kept a prisoner and was she trying desperately to escape?
At least McLaw’s final recapture meant that futile search was over and, as always, he was glad another working day with all its trials was over. Time to draw breaths of fresh air and, longing for the peace beneath the smoke arising from the cottage chimney, he thought with delight how lucky he was to be a happily married man with smiling faces awaiting him. Already he was looking forward to spending the evening with Lizzie, busily knitting for the baby or quite absorbed in a romantic novel.
Faro regarded her fondly. She felt cheated and quite cross, throwing the book aside, if the author failed to provide a happy ending. Real life, she knew from her own bitter experience, was not like that, but one expected better treatment in fiction.
‘That’s not fair,’ she would say and the author, more often than not a woman, would be firmly crossed off her list of future books from the library.
He never discussed his crime cases with her and she shuddered away from details about any local crimes, or killers like McLaw, but as she was preparing supper, knowing how he loved trains, she asked if his journey had been successful. He realised then that she might be interested in Belmuir House since it had all the right ingredients for one of her romances, including a lady laird.
Omitting any details of his activities or the reason for his visit to the poorhouse, he described his encounter with Lady Belmuir and her dogs and his impressions of the stately home with its lovely gardens and the pretty village.
When she said: ‘How lovely, and such a nice train ride too, right to the gates,’ he suffered a pang of guilt at her wistful expression. Although she never complained, he realised she didn’t have much of a social life, taking care of him and Vince. Sometimes he took her to a concert, but he was aware that she didn’t enjoy opera or classical music as much as he did. Beethoven and Bach were lost on her; what she really loved was an evening at the variety theatre, with its comics and sentimental songs. She loved dancing too, but a little of that went a long way with a policeman who suffered sore feet from excessive walking every day. Their reading, when he had time for such relaxation, was poles apart and poor Lizzie, he thought guiltily, had few treats beyond the activities afforded by the local church, like the women’s guild. And when the baby arrived she would be even more restricted.
What was it that had brought on this line of thought? Was it the meeting with Lady Belmuir who had aroused memories of Inga and a bond that was infinite but indefinable? Unrelated to transient material things like literature or music, it was rooted somewhere deep within them, in the history of Orkney, this island of myth and legend, wild seas, tall cliffs, whirling seabirds, and high winds, a vivid breathing landscape where they once roamed hand in hand, bound together in a physical attraction that neither could deny.
He made a sudden decision, and putting an arm around Lizzie, he kissed her gently and said: ‘On my next day off, we’ll have a train ride. I’ll take you to Belmuir and we’ll have lunch at the Coach and Horses. Would you like that?’
She clasped her hands. ‘Oh, Jeremy, that would be wonderful. Maybe we could see those lovely gardens too.’ And hugging him: ‘You are such a dear, you are so good to me.’
That made him feel guiltier than ever, and taking her for granted was seriously neglecting his home life. He made a silent resolution to do better. After all, being a detective sergeant wasn’t the most important thing in his world. Lizzie and a family came first, otherwise he was in danger of becoming like Inspector Gosse.
Vince came in from school but over supper he didn’t share his mother’s excitement about Belmuir House or even ask wistfully, as he did on the rare occasions when they discussed some planned excursion, could he go with them. During these past few days he had seemed preoccupied, frowning over his Latin homework, which, apart from hearing his recitation of the irregular verbs, was an area of his education his stepfather couldn’t help him with. Foreign and ancient languages hadn’t been on his Orkney school curriculum.
Faro observed that whatever was bothering Vince did not affect his appetite. After a hearty supper, he once again sprang from the table, gathered the plates and offered to wash the dishes and take Coll out for his evening walk.
Faro had given up protesting that Vince enjoyed that particular task, as the boy insisted: ‘I want to do it, Stepfather. You and Ma need a bit of peace, a quiet moment after working all day.’
Their eyebrows raised at that, both somewhat surprised by this new Vince.
‘He has always been a good lad, but he is so extra considerate these days,’ sighed Lizzie, patting her belly where the baby was now making his or her presence seen and felt.
‘He’s growing up,’ smiled Faro, ‘almost a man, dear.’
Lizzie shook her head. ‘I know, but I like my little lad. I’ll miss him,’ she said wistfully and frowned. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think he had a sweetheart, some local lass he was secretly meeting out on the hill.’
Faro laughed. ‘He’s still a bit young for courting.’
Her words, however, struck a chord. There was something odd in Vince’s behaviour. Normally he told Lizzie everything and this new secretive quality didn’t fit his personality, or his relationship with Faro either. This healthy, oversized appetite was strange too.
‘He eats more than you, Jeremy,’ Lizzie said in surprise.
Faro sighed. He had plenty on his plate, of the non-digestive kind, to concern him without worrying about Vince’s appetite or his mysterious behaviour. Perhaps it was an interest in some local schoolgirl, as Lizzie suggested. After all, he had fallen deeply in love with Inga St Ola when he was fifteen, although it was two years before she, some five years older, recognised and briefly returned his passion.
‘Definitely a lass, don’t you think?’ said Lizzie firmly.
But she was wrong. It was no lass, but the gypsy Charlie who occupied a major part of Vince’s thoughts, the object not of affection but of constant anxiety.
How much longer could he deceive his parents, smuggling out food that never seemed enough for the hungry young man in the stables?
‘Is that all?’ was his constant moan. ‘Couldn’t you bring a bit more? I’m starving.’ Vince felt little sympathy as he too was starving, saving half his meal for Charlie.
‘How’s your ankle? Is it any better today?’ A question always met with the same reply.
‘Not much.’ Charlie sighed. He could now stand with the stick and hobble about, but he too was fed up with living in this cold, disused stable with the wind blowing in through cracks everywhere.
He had made a decision. He must move on and for that he had to have the boy’s help. What he needed more than food was money, enough for his journey and to survive.
There must be money in the cottage. He knew that. The boy was educated, and his parents didn’t seem poor. The father was working – Vince had been vague about where, he hadn’t said more than an office. Probably a clerk and that sounded like good money. He’d only glimpsed the mother from a safe distance, youngish, small and a bit plump, with a shawl over her head.
Still, it didn’t seem right to steal from them even presuming he could get away with it. He had a slight attack of conscience, although he knew that after all his experiences he could no longer afford finer feelings. But stealing would be letting down this nice young lad and getting him into an awful lot of trouble. After all, Vince had saved him, taken care of him; but the main thing was that he had to get away as soon as possible.
Vince was greatly relieved that evening to hear that Charlie must move on and to be free of his main concern of how much longer he could conceal his gypsy’s presence from his parents.<
br />
‘I need money,’ said Charlie firmly. ‘I can’t walk properly yet, but I can get on a train. Are there trains to this Kirk Yetholm place?’
Vince liked trains, studying timetables and planning all manner of imaginary journeys. He knew all the direct routes north and south, and from his geography map was aware that Charlie’s destination was in Northumberland. ‘The nearest station is in Newcastle.’
‘That is excellent. I expect there will be some means of getting to Kelso by coach.’ So saying, he looked hard at Vince. ‘But I must have money.’
Vince realised he would do anything now to get Charlie on his way. But as for money, his weekly pocket money of sixpence would never do. However, he had been saving for Ma’s birthday and even something for the baby too. Two pounds was a fortune, a lifetime’s savings. He was reluctant to let it go, even to get Charlie away, but he left the stable that evening promising he would try and get a few pounds from somewhere.
Next day, coming home from school, he took a route by the High Street. Perhaps there might be some coins from the broken cash box lying about, overlooked in the dark outside lavatory, dropped when the wanted man McLaw, according to the police, made his escape.
To Vince’s surprise the shop door was open, the window blinds raised and when he stepped over the threshold he saw that Mr M’s bookshop was open again for business, what little there was of it.
The only person at the counter was a rather pretty girl who smiled at him, and a young man, fresh-faced and eager and introducing himself as Tommy Wilder, came forward and greeted him affably.
‘I’m a relative of the late owner, a second cousin, really, but I always called Mr Molesby uncle.’ He laughed as they shook hands and Vince knew that this must be the sailor who had sent those postcards from abroad, stuck on the bedroom mirror.
‘I used to look in and see him for a while whenever my ship docked in Leith, but that wasn’t very often, I’m afraid.’ He shrugged. ‘I live in Dundee and I’ve given up the sea. This summer was my last trip.’ And stretching out his hand to the girl, she put down the book she was looking at and came to his side. With an arm about her, he said: ‘We wanted to get married, you see, and Lily wouldn’t have a sailor for a husband – not with all those years wasted and empty while I was away on two-year voyages.’
Lily squeezed his hand and gave him an adoring look. Vince was very impressed. She was an extremely pretty girl with long auburn hair.
They smiled at him, then suddenly the mood changed. Tommy looked solemn. ‘I was very cut up about Uncle’s death. I only heard about it from an Edinburgh pal,’ he added ashamedly and Vince saw the black band around his sleeve. ‘I’ve just arranged for his funeral. He would want to be buried in Greyfriars with his Molesby ancestors, who were from these parts.’
The girl smiled at him sadly and Vince was suddenly bereft of words. Since Mr Molesby’s death had been recorded as a heart attack, there would be no problem from the police of his release to relatives for burial, but Vince wondered how much Tommy knew of the details, as he said apologetically: ‘I hadn’t been over to visit Edinburgh for the last few months. I’m afraid I’ve sadly neglected Uncle; had I known about his poor health I’d have made every effort to see him and see that he looked after himself.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a long haul from Broughty Ferry and I’ve been trying to get work. My da’s a fisherman, but I didn’t want that either.’
Sighing, he looked at the crowded shelves, the books tumbling over each other and added wistfully, ‘I’ve always loved books, especially the old ones, and history in particular. I’ll miss old Uncle Jim.’ He shook his head. ‘What an awful thing to have happened when he was all alone here. I had to come and arrange the funeral and sell the bookshop. But when I saw it again and how Lily just loved it, we both knew this was what we wanted.’
He regarded Vince thoughtfully. ‘I gather he disturbed a burglar, so I was told, had a heart attack. Is that so? It was an accident?’
Vince thought of all Gosse’s horrible interrogations but said: ‘I think so.’
Tommy nodded. ‘His heart was bad, I seem to recall that runs in the family. Perhaps he had some warning, knew he was in danger but chose to ignore it. He was that kind of old gentleman. Last time I saw him he said he had always wanted me, his only kin, to have the bookshop, but in those days I was so keen on the sea, I couldn’t think what it would be like to be shut up all day. But now …’ He paused to tighten his arm around Lily. ‘Now that I’m to be a married man,’ he added proudly, ‘I cannot bear to think of us being parted for two days never mind two years at a time.’
‘Did your uncle leave a will?’
‘Oh yes, I had the lawyers’ name and I’ve been to see them. It’s all there in black and white, the bookshop to be mine. I think I’ll grow to like Edinburgh.’
‘You will, Tom,’ whispered Lily. ‘We both love it already.’
He smiled down at her. ‘Well, I hope so.’
Believing like everyone else that Mr M had no family and hearing that he had left the bookshop to Tommy Wilder was news to Vince and gave him sudden hope.
Perhaps Tommy would give him a weekend job like Mr M had, the chance to earn a few extra shillings. If he gave Charlie all his money, maybe he could save up enough to buy Ma a present after all.
‘I worked for your uncle at weekends,’ he began, and he looked round the shelves. ‘I was going to catalogue the books for him.’
Tommy whistled. ‘I say, that is a good idea.’ And with a glance around, ‘They are in an awful muddle, right enough.’
Vince cleared his throat and said boldly. ‘I was wondering if I could do the same for you, sir, come in on Saturdays and a bit of Sundays for the cataloguing?’ he added desperately.
Tommy looked dubious, he frowned and Vince guessed that he was asking a lot. However, Lily squeezed Tommy’s hand. She had taken a liking to this good-looking young schoolboy.
Now Tommy smiled at her. ‘I’m sure Uncle would have wanted you to continue. When I last saw him he said he was getting too old for running the shop but if he could find a nice, bright lad, say, from the Royal High, his old school, who wanted to make something of himself and loved books and was to give him a hand at weekends, that would be a great help. He made it sound like a very busy shop.’
Pausing, he smiled at Vince approvingly. ‘I see by your uniform that it could have been you he had in mind. What an odd coincidence, he must have seen into the future,’ he added. And with that he opened a drawer and took out some coins. ‘Here, take this – in advance. And start on Saturday.’ He grinned. ‘I think we’ll get along well and you must feel free to borrow any you like, as long as you return them. I’ll trust you.’ He laughed. ‘What’s your name?’
As they shook hands, Vince felt very proud at that moment. Great to be trusted by another grown-up the same way he had been trusted by the gypsy Charlie. It was great to be in the shop again, he loved the smell of it, of old books, the solemn leather line-up of works on law and medicine and philosophy all tightly packed together and overflowing the shelves.
For the first time he noticed something that hadn’t been there before. On the wall behind the counter there was a picture of a younger Mr M smiling, shaking hands with an important-looking man.
Tommy saw him looking at it and said, ‘That’s Uncle on what he called the best day of his whole life. It was taken with Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford – he was one of his best customers. I found it in a drawer and I wanted everyone to see it, it deserved a place of honour, although Uncle was too shy and too modest to hang it in the shop. Good for business, too,’ he added shrewdly. ‘I hope a lot of our customers will be delighted to see it and be impressed by the connection with our most famous author.’
Vince thought his stepfather for one would be interested as Sir Walter was his favourite after William Shakespeare. He went closer for a better look. A good likeness of Mr M, still slim and with all his hair, a nice-looking, middle-aged man in his best Sunday
clothes.
As he left the shop with the new owner and his pretty wife-to-be, he hoped he too would meet some girl as attractive as that in a few years’ time. What a lucky man Tommy was. And he thought about the younger Mr M. There was something familiar about that photograph hanging on the wall, something lodged in the back of his mind that refused to come forward. It nagged him like the fragment of a forgotten dream all the way home.
What on earth could it be?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Before he went to bed that evening, Vince slipped out to the stable as usual and handed over the coins to Charlie.
‘It is all I have so far, I’m sorry.’
Charlie weighed them in his hand as if testing that they were genuine. He sighed. ‘You’re a good lad, Vince, but this isn’t nearly enough.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t get very far on this, I’m afraid.’
Vince awoke in the middle of that night. He had had a dream, or rather a nightmare. He sat up in bed. It was the photo of Mr M in the bookshop. The clothes he was wearing, they were the same as Charlie’s. Much too tight and made for a smaller man. Smart clothes he claimed had belonged to an elderly man who had died in the gypsy camp that he had ‘borrowed’ to run away to the Borders from that forced marriage.
Vince now had a sickening feeling that the dead elderly man version was correct, only not in the gypsy camp but in the bookshop. He gulped, remembering that Mr M had been found dead in his underwear. What was bothering him was that when he and Stepfather had looked in the wardrobe, there was only his rather shabby, everyday clothes and not the best suit he would certainly have worn to go to church at St Giles’ on Sunday.
He was in a furore and felt cold all over. Had Charlie been his killer? A thief and a liar? If this was so, he might try to rob the cottage and then Ma would be in danger.
Akin to Murder Page 9
