by Clare Jayne
Ewan drove them in his curricle, passing a large throng of people close to the city’s gallows in the centre of the Old Town, next to the Tolbooth Prison. “Someone is being hanged today,” he observed.
Miss Campbell put a gloved hand on his arm, urgency or alarm in the gesture. “Oh, I believe it must be Mr Brodie.”
“Do you wish to stop and watch?” He had no stomach for such a sight but most people viewed it as entertainment, as the crowd here attested.
“No. Were he a killer I would not object, but I feel sorry for Mr Brodie. I will never understand what motivated him to become a thief when he had a good life but he and his accomplices harmed no one, just embarrassed them. This does not feel like justice.”
“I agree,” he said, remembering the proud, confident man in the courtroom. He continued driving them to the address of the first tradesmen’s shop which turned out, instead, to be a terraced house, as he continued to wonder what motivated someone to become a criminal. For some he knew it was desperation – a man with a starving family would have a reason to steal – and for others a bad temper or too much alcohol might produce a violent outburst. But when someone had everything they could want, as Mr Brodie had seemed to have, what prompted them to fall into such a dangerous life?
He helped Miss Campbell from the curricle, her small gloved hand fitting perfectly inside his. The street clearly housed the poorer members of society, the houses tiny and the roads smelly and uncared for but there were no shops or workshops visible. They knocked on the door as Ewan wondered if an error had been made with the unlikely address, but it was opened by a muscular man several inches taller than Ewan who confirmed himself as Mr Roberts, the chimney sweep.
He led them into the kitchen where a couple of boys were playing at dice and shooed them out.
“The matter is rather delicate,” Miss Campbell said, sitting on a stool at the uneven kitchen table in the grimy room as if completely at home there, “and I want to make it clear that we are not accusing anyone of anything, simply searching for information. Lady Tinbough has had a valuable emerald necklace stolen within the last couple of weeks and we were told that Pete, one of the boy’s you employ, visited to sweep the chimneys during that time.”
Mr Roberts, who stood leaning against a kitchen counter in the tiny room, yelled for the boy in question and one of the lads came back in. The boy was around ten, with an under-fed scrawny look, and must have been working today as his face, arms and clothes were covered in black smudges.
“Pete, have you ever seen any jewellery in Lady Tinbough’s house?”
“Aye, Mr Roberts. The rich ladies and gents are always wearing glittery things.”
“Did you ever take anything like that?”
The boy’s eyes widened and darted to each of them then back to his employer. “No, Mr Roberts – I swear!”
“If you’re lying I’ll find out.” Roberts folded muscular arms and glowered at the boy who flinched and backed away.
“I’m not, I promise,” he said, speaking rapidly. “You can search me and search my home. I wouldn’t be that dumb, sir. I know what happens to thieves.”
“We believe you, Pete,” Ewan said, bothered by the boy’s distress. He patted his tiny shoulder but the boy only relaxed when Roberts’ expression eased. “Did you ever see anyone else with jewellery – someone that it didn’t belong to, like a maid or visitor?”
Pete glanced at Roberts before answering. “No, sir.”
“Thank you,” Miss Campbell said, smiling at the laddie. “You’ve been very helpful.” She gave him a coin which he pocketed with a thank you, brightening.
“All right. Get!” Roberts said and the boy ran out.
“We appreciate your assistance, Mr Roberts,” Ewan said, letting the man show them back through the dim, narrow corridor to the front door.
“People employ me because they know I’m honest and my boys get that. I’d never be involved in any theft and neither would they.”
“We understand,” Ewan said, “Thank you.”
They stepped outside, the brightness a contrast to the interior of the house even though the day was an overcast one. A few small children were playing outside and Ewan watched them, thinking of the boys inside and the drudgery of their lives. He was aware that young boys were always used for such work as they were small enough to fit up the chimneys but it had always bothered him.
“It is not right to see children having to work,” Miss Campbell said, echoing his thoughts.
“No, it is not.” A woman walked past them and gave him an interested look, her rouged cheeks and lips and the patches on her face that might hide signs of disease suggesting she might be a prostitute. This was no neighbourhood for Miss Campbell to linger in. He put a hand on her arm and they walked back to the curricle. He helped her up then walked round it and got in, taking the reins.
“We can visit the other tradesman tomorrow,” he suggested as the horses trotted forward, leading them back to Miss Campbell’s home.
“Could we go and see the maid’s family first?” she said. “If she is the guilty one then I suspect there is more to all this than we know and the sooner we can locate her the better. Even if she is not the thief it worries me the way she left Lady Tinbough’s house and I would like to find out if she needs help.”
“Certainly,” he agreed. Knowing there was nothing they could do for the working children like the chimney sweep’s boys, it would be good to find someone they could assist. That was, as long as the maid was not the thief. If she was, then it was unlikely anyone could do anything for her – her fate would probably be the same grim one William Brodie had faced today.
Chapter Seventeen
“SIR, YOU need to see this.”
Ewan was breakfasting early ready to meet Miss Campbell. Without his usual late night outings, it was not as difficult to begin the day at this hour as he had imagined just a few weeks ago. It meant he was neglecting his friends which he regretted, but this was more important and, also, he had not entirely forgiven McDonald for his insulting comments about Miss Campbell. The lack of support from both his friends had been a blow but he hoped, in time, to show them how wrong they had been about her.
Ewan sat at his large, polished dining table, a medical book open in front of him, and took in Angus’s frowning expression and the item he was holding. He got up and walked forward to study the object: the flowers were painted black; it was a funeral wreath. What was his footman doing with a funeral wreath? “I do not understand,” he said. “Where did this come from?”
“It was delivered here,” Angus said, “left on the doorstep with your name on the card. You haven’t had a relation die, have you, sir?”
“No, I have not.” It struck Ewan as he looked at this symbol of death that it was a warning, although he could hardly believe such a thing. Their investigation into the robbery must have come to the thief’s attention – they must be closer to catching the culprit than they knew and the person had had the effrontery to threaten him with this.
“Might I ask if this is about the missing necklace, sir?” Angus said.
“Yes, I believe it is.”
Angus held the wreath further away from him, looking at it with dislike. “What will you do?”
“I will catch the thief and see them punished. Destroy the wreath – burn it.”
“Yes, sir and... if there’s anything further I can do to assist you in finding such a low rascal, just say.”
Ewan smiled, appreciating the show of support against behaviour that had left him angry and rattled. “Thank you.”
It was only after Angus had left that another thought occurred to Ewan that turned his blood cold. What if Miss Campbell had also been threatened like this?
He abandoned his half-eaten food and called for his curricle to be brought round, donning hat and gloves before hurrying out. He drove the horses as quickly as the streets would allow to the Huntly residence and jumped down, striding to the door and knocking sharp
ly upon it.
After what felt like an interminable wait, the family butler opened it and Ewan asked him, “Has anyone delivered anything to Miss Campbell today or left anything on the doorstep?” The man frowned, presumably thinking this was none of his business. “Please. I need to know. I am worried something might have been sent as a... cruel joke. I am concerned only that she be spared any unpleasantness.”
“Nothing has been delivered or left here for any of the family, sir,” the butler told him and Ewan leaned against the door, overcome with relief.
“Are you well, sir? Perhaps you should come inside and have a seat.”
“Mr MacPherson?” It was Miss Campbell’s voice and he looked behind the butler to see her standing in the hallway, young and innocent. It struck him at that moment that he was in love with her. He had not known the depth of his feelings before now but he could no longer imagine a life without her in it and the thought that she might have been distressed or, worse, harmed was unbearable.
She walked forward, ginger curls dancing, as the butler opened the door wider to admit him. Ewan stepped inside, fixing a smile on his face that felt unnatural in the aftermath of his fear for her and drank in the puzzled warmth in her large, dark eyes as she said, “I had not expected you so early but that is perfect. We can go and see the maid’s family and try to make some progress in finding her.”
“Yes.”
She drew closer to him with a swish of petticoats. “Are you perfectly well? You look pale.”
“I could not be better. Shall we go?”
The butler brought her hat, gloves and parasol and she took them, then accepted Ewan’s arm. He could feel the warmth of her hand through his coat and shirt as he caught the butler’s eyes on him, puzzled and concerned. Ewan shook his head minutely. He made up his mind in that instant not to tell Miss Campbell what had happened. He did not want her to be frightened and he was the only one threatened – perhaps the thief did not even know of her – so he would keep the matter of the wreath to himself for now. It made it all the more urgent that the thief be swiftly caught and he determined to think of nothing else until that result was achieved.
“I have a lecture at eleven o’clock,” she was saying as they left the house and she jumped up into the curricle, “but that gives us more than two hours.”
She took a piece of parchment from her reticule and read the address off it and they set off, turning off the wide tree-lined streets down side lanes into a grimy street that smelt as if the waste cart had not yet cleaned up the nightly refuse. Ewan could think of nothing but Miss Campbell and the realisation that he truly did love her. He had to prove himself to her before she was likely to consider an offer of marriage.
Should he have told her about the wreath? He changed his mind a dozen times during the short ride before deciding that she could come to no harm as long as she was with him or her family. If Ewan received any more serious threat then he would tell her everything and beg her to let him handle this alone.
Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed when they reached their destination. He helped Miss Campbell down from the curricle, once more acutely aware of the shared touch and of having her close to him, close enough to smell the soap she used and catch the faint whiff of ink.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked, hand still in his, as they stood on the pavement in the dingy street. She had her head tipped slightly to one side and wore the trace of a smile in answer to his. Ewan’s heart did a strange little dance in his chest.
“I am just glad to be here with you,” he said.
“Investigating?” She looked uncertain of how to respond.
“Yes,” he lied.
She gave him a quizzical smile then let go of his hand and turned towards the house. She knocked on the door and a woman in a faded dress opened it. She had the kind of face often seen in the poorest people of looking old before her time, worn out eyes in an unlined face and grey in the brown hair. She seemed shocked to find such well-to-do people on her doorstep.
“Could we speak to you about Aileas, Mrs Jones?” Miss Campbell asked gently.
“Er, yes. Please come in,” she said, leading them into a narrow room that was the equivalent of a parlour. Two girls of around seven sat on the floor playing with a straw doll and took in the guests with wide eyes. When Ewan and Miss Campbell turned down her offer of tea they all sat down and Mrs Jones asked, “Do you know where Aileas is?”
“We had hoped to ask you that,” Miss Campbell said and Mrs Jones slumped slightly in her chair. She had the end of a bruise on her jaw, the colour pale yellow with a hint of purple.
“She hasn’t been home in nearly a month,” Mrs Jones said with a tremble in her voice. “I don’t know what to think. What do you want with her?”
“Only to help,” Miss Campbell promised and Ewan watched as Mrs Jones looked hard at her, then the change in the woman’s expression when she decided to trust them.
“Were you told that she vanished from her job without giving any notice?” Ewan said.
“Aye. The butler came round, angry about it, but I couldn’t tell him anything. If someone upset her or scared her away from Lady Huntly’s house, she didn’t say anything to me or her Da about it.”
“Then why did you think she might have been afraid?” Ewan thought of the wreath and how much easier a young girl would be to scare.
“That’s the only reason she would’ve left. She was so proud when she got that job. We all were. She’s only sixteen and to be a lady’s maid at that age is a big achievement.”
“Did she get along with everyone there?” Miss Campbell asked. “Was there anyone she didn’t like or anyone who made things difficult for her?”
“No one that she said, but she isn’t one to complain.”
“Perhaps she found Lady Tinbough a difficult employer,” Miss Campbell suggested. “It has been suggested that Her Ladyship can be a bit bad-tempered with servants.”
“Aileas would never run off like that over some harsh words. She was grateful to be there. Even if she wanted to leave she would’ve put in her notice. Without a character reference she won’t ever get another job that good. It would’ve taken something really bad happening to make her run away like that.”
They took their leave of Mrs Jones at this point, promising to let her know when they found Aileas.
“We have to find out what happened to her,” Miss Campbell said as he helped her back onto the curricle.
“From what Mrs Jones said of her character I find it hard to believe that Aileas is the thief.” Ewan took his place beside her.
“I do not care about that. If she is in trouble then that is far more important than the necklace.”
“I agree,” Ewan said, “but if she is hiding from something or someone then she could be extremely difficult to find.”
“If we can determine why she left her job then that could lead us to her. I will speak to Lady Tinbough’s servants again this afternoon.”
“I will accompany you.”
“That is not necessary,” she said. “They might be more forthcoming with a woman, particularly the maids.”
“Then I will wait for you outside the house,” Ewan said. “Please humour me on this. I am beginning to think there might be some sinister aspects to this entire matter that we do not yet understand and that could make it dangerous.” He thought again of the wreath. “Promise me you will not look into any part of this alone. I would never forgive myself if you came to harm.”
She nodded. “You have my word. We will solve it and find Aileas together.”
Chapter Eighteen
ISHBEL RAN gloved fingers over an intricately engraved pine coffee table, feeling the swirling leaves and vines carved into the pale wood.
Since they still had more than an hour before she had to be at the College, she and Mr MacPherson had agreed to speak to the carpenter who had visited Lady Tinbough’s home. Ishbel cared less about this than finding out about Aileas but, like Mr MacPhe
rson, she felt that the maid had almost certainly not committed the theft and they had made a commitment to solve the crime, so they still needed to find the real culprit. Besides, with no further information on Aileas, unless they heard from the caddie looking for her, Ishbel could think of no way of finding her, not that she intended to give up; far from it.
“This is beautiful work, Mr McDougal,” she said. “I am not surprised that you are employed by some of the wealthiest households.”
“That’s kind of you to say,” the carpenter said but the expression in his grey eyes remained hard. He was a slender, well dressed man with a strong, local accent. “You told me there’d been a theft?”
“Lady Tinbough has had an emerald necklace stolen from her,” Mr MacPherson said. “It happened during the last couple of weeks and we wondered if you had seen anything suspicious at the house.”
“You mean, you wondered if I took it. I didn’t.”
“Mr McDougal, we have spoken to a couple of dozen people about this – anyone who works at the house or visited it during that period,” Miss Campbell said. “We have no reason to suspect you of the crime. We just need to look into every possibility. I promise that we will do nothing to harm your good reputation as long as you are innocent.”
“Thank you, Miss,” he said in a less hostile tone. “I haven’t ever seen an emerald necklace, either being worn by Lady Tinbough or lying about. I normally arrange to make any furniture repairs when the house owners are out, so the noise dinnae annoy them, so I’ve never spoken to Her Ladyship. It was Lord Tinbough who saw a dining table and matching chairs I made for another gentleman and hired me the first time. That was several years ago. Why would I risk a good career to suddenly steal something? That Deacon Brodie’s made the upper classes think no craftsman can be trusted but we’re nae idiots – he got hanged in the end for his thefts, didn’t he?”
