Deadly Legacy
ALANNA KNIGHT
For Jenny Brown,
Helen and Morna the Mulgray Twins,
with love.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
AUTHOR’S NOTE
About the Author
By Alanna Knight
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
Autumn 1901
Anyone out walking on Arthur’s Seat that Sunday morning, breathing in the September sunshine and bold enough to stop and stare into the kitchen window of Solomon’s Tower, would have found their curiosity rewarded by a scene somewhat familiar in many Edinburgh suburbs. A scene of tranquil domesticity.
While I frowned over a book, Detective Inspector Jack Macmerry solemnly read a newspaper, and a dog, larger than normal, occupied the rug in front of a cheerful log fire.
But all was not as it seemed; there was much that was not revealed by that first glance at this picture of married bliss. Not least that we weren’t married, except under the Scottish law of ‘marriage by habit and repute’. Writing up Rose McQuinn’s last case in my new logbook, I had not yet lost my sense of excitement at setting foot, as it were, in a new century. The last night of December 1900 had seen a terrible gale sweep nationwide across Britain, leaving a trail of destruction violent enough to bring down one of the ancient stones at Stonehenge.
Despite the Astronomer Royal’s assurance that numbering begins at one, not zero, to many that storm was an omen for the new century, especially as rumours had drifted from the Isle of Wight that Queen Victoria was approaching the end of her sixty-three years’ reign, described by some as ‘glorious’.
Her death on 22nd January shocked an entire nation, destroying delusions of her immortality and prayers for her survival, which were not shared by her son and heir, who had given up hope of ever being king while his stubborn old mother ruled over him (as well as her subjects) with a rod and will of iron.
However, this royal drama made little change to the war with the Boers, an event paled to insignificance by Her Majesty’s funeral cortège followed by the crowned heads of Europe, most of whom were close relatives. All recorded on what promised to be a new marvel of our age: moving pictures, viewed by thousands for the first time.
But to return to that domestic scene in Solomon’s Tower. Another look at DI Macmerry would have revealed that his anxious frown was not caused by whatever changes the reign of the new king, Edward VII, might bring to the Edinburgh City Police. He was in fact much more concerned regarding the welfare of three-year-old Meg, his motherless daughter, visited far too rarely in Glasgow and now to be even more inaccessible, having recently moved with her adoptive parents to a rural area of Perthshire. Added to that was the seed of doubt in his mind as to whether the child really was his, or whether he had been trapped into marriage by the oldest trick in the book.
As for the dog by the fire, Thane was not in any sense a domestic pet, but a very large deerhound whose origins lay within the mysterious depths of that extinct volcano Arthur’s Seat, from which he had emerged to become part of my life and my protector when I first arrived in Edinburgh six years ago.
On this particular Sunday morning, Jack tried to put his concerns about Meg out of his mind and was engrossed in an article concerning the anniversary of the Battle of Prestonpans, Prince Charles Edward Stuart’s successful prelude to the disaster of Culloden.
It was a well-known local fact that during his 1745 campaign laying siege to Edinburgh, the prince had lodged down the road from Duddingston while his army, their cannon trained conveniently on the city, had camped on Arthur’s Seat and most likely in this very house, Solomon’s Tower.
This possibility was substantiated when Jack and I came across the existence of a secret room at the top of the spiral staircase. Besides past centuries’ accumulation of dust and spiders’ webs, evidence of human occupation was indicated by a uniform cloak hanging behind the door and the abandoned fragment of a yellowed and almost illegible map on the table. These tokens gave no hint as to the identity of the occupant – Jacobite or Hanoverian deserter – who had presumably left in a great hurry with his pursuers hot on his heels.
Jack and I decided to close the door on that incident in history and the room had been reopened by me, two years ago, for another fugitive fleeing from the law. A secret refuge and a tragic incident that I did not want to remember but found hard to forget.
To return to Prestonpans. The secret room and that long-ago battle, all would have remained part of Edinburgh’s history had not Thane, on one of his rambles with Jack on Arthur’s Seat, unearthed a rusted sword, identified by a military antiquarian to be of Jacobite origin.
This find was a turning point for Jack and had him delving into historical accounts, where more interesting and alluring facts emerged than twentieth-century police files offered. Such as the rumour of French gold, which had followed the prince to Scotland to assist in his campaign but had mysteriously vanished and, in doing so, had intrigued historians ever since. That it might have reached the prince in Duddingston preparing for battle led Jack to the intriguing discovery that Arthur’s Seat had a hundred hidden caves suitable for buried treasure.
Because of his profession of solving murders, the existence of an unsolved mystery on our doorstep, so to speak, was irresistible and, with Thane, walks on unexplored sections of the hill became Jack’s favourite leisure pursuit.
Had Jack been a Highlander loyal to the Stuart cause, I might have understood, but he was a Lowlander, his duty owed, his oath of allegiance given, to the Queen, a direct descendant of the House of Hanover.
As this new hobby coincided with our discovery of the secret room, Jack now saw himself in the role of military historian, declaring that perceived wisdom held that most successful battles were fought in summer, when there was food for men and horses, while in the autumn Highland chieftains were unwilling to call their clansmen to take up arms, leaving harvests to rot and families to starve in the bitter winter – a theory disproved, Jack pointed out, by the springtime disaster of Culloden and the autumn victory at Prestonpans.
Now each September Jack and I would go on a carriage drive, allegedly for a breath of fresh East Lothian air, but in reality a pilgrimage, a walk across the old battlefield with Jack making encouraging noises to Thane, hoping that he would unearth a treasure greater than the King George II coin, his sole discovery to date.
Hopeful for something larger, like the Jacobite sword, all he ever received from Thane was a look of reproach that said plainly he was not that kind of animal. Besides, it was certain knowledge that this particular ground had been traversed and trample
d across by souvenir hunters for a hundred and fifty years and what Jack was expecting was a miracle.
I refused to be convinced about the Stuart cause, and Jack, completely failing to understand my lack of excitement and enthusiasm, looked at me in amazement.
‘I thought that Bonnie Prince Charlie was every Scotswoman’s hero.’
I shook my head. ‘You’ve been influenced by too many tales of Flora MacDonald. He certainly wasn’t mine.’
For me, the past was gone and I was content to bury it along with the very recent past which had confirmed my widowhood. Now it was the present affairs of Scotland, along with the whole rapidly changing face of Europe and worldwide events, that engrossed and concerned me.
I didn’t much care which king or queen ruled over us as long as they understood that women were no longer men’s chattels, playthings or breeding machines.
Women’s suffrage was my burning issue, rather than a royal prince, a pretender to the English throne whose family exploits were a historical disaster. I refused to regard as a hero the incompetent misguided prince who had cost so many loyal followers their lives, and the terrible disasters wrought by Butcher Cumberland on the survivors. Indeed, I considered the Jacobites initially responsible for the Highland clearances.
My battles were with the times in which we now lived, and I was deeply involved with the Women’s Suffrage Movement in Edinburgh – my ‘obsession’ as Jack called it – since I had lately been appointed chairman of the committee which met each month, and we were shortly hoping to welcome the great Emily Hobhouse herself.
My fellow campaigners were amazed that men could be so blind to the Boer War, which had exposed every kind of social weakness in Britain, in particular malnutrition, poverty and ignorance. Even the newspapers had seized upon the fact that in every big city, almost a third out of eleven thousand volunteers for the war would be rejected as physically unfit.
The census figures were most revealing, showing a budget lingering on tariffs and refusing to consider welfare in a country where middle-class families now had an average of four children, while in labourers’ families the figures of infant mortality and child bed-deaths had changed little since the Middle Ages.
Our movement was supported by mothers, sisters and wives of all classes. We demanded not only for the right to vote, but radical social reform. Out of four million women, over one quarter were domestic servants – overworked, underpaid slaves of employers, where ostentation and drudgery went together.
Since the death of Queen Victoria, no one knew what to expect of the future reign of King Edward VIII. ‘It seemed we stood on the edge of a precipice,’ Jack said, little guessing that in fact his life, mine and that of the child he rarely saw were indeed trembling on the brink. In a few days the whole scene of our domestic life would be irrevocably changed for ever.
CHAPTER TWO
As with most major events in one’s life, there were no dramatic signals, only a chance meeting in Jenners with one of my elderly clients, for whom I had sorted out a very minor domestic problem regarding a missing watch she suspected had been stolen by the window cleaner. After an exhaustive search and extensive enquiries it was later discovered by me on my hands and knees in the shrubbery, having fallen out of the window when it was opened by the maid.
For some reason she remained grateful to the extent of even acknowledging my presence in company – not at all usual with most of my clients, who were usually eager, or had good reason to wish to forget the painful incident which had led them to commission my assistance.
On this occasion I had been in the toy department looking for a suitable present for Jack’s wee Meg. I had little experience of such matters, but possibly a great deal more than Jack, and feeling triumphant over the purchase of a small pretty doll with a spare set of clothes, I made my way upstairs to the restaurant.
And there was Mrs Lawers. ‘I saw you entering the toy department when I was on my way upstairs and …’ She paused. ‘Do please join me, that is if you haven’t an engagement and can spare a few moments.’
I took a seat opposite, and ordered my pot of tea, putting down my new purchase on a vacant chair.
I said, ‘A doll for a small girl.’
‘Might I take a look?’ Smiles of approval followed and she said, ‘I have been similarly engaged – a pretty dress for a friend’s granddaughter in London. The good Lord did not oblige me with children of my own.’
I regarded her thoughtfully; it did not take any great flight of imagination to realise that there was something more significant heavily at work in Mrs Lawers’ mind than polite rejoinders concerning Edinburgh’s weather and the inevitable change of royalty, which all loyal citizens seemed to feel obliged to include in their conversations.
Mrs Lawers had aged considerably since our last meeting. I noticed the walking stick, and at my enquiry regarding her health, she sighed.
‘I have chronic rheumatism and the physicians say there is little hope. It is very sad as I am almost unable to travel any more.’ Tears had welled in her eyes; she touched her breast in the region of her heart. ‘I fear I am not well or long for this world, my dear; my only wish is to see the only kin I have, a cousin never met since childhood, to pass on to him some valued family items, including documents, long in my keeping.’
She paused and looked at me, biting her lip. ‘I am almost afraid to ask this question, an impertinence really and one you may not even consider. My cousin’s family home is at Lochandor, in Perth. I have never visited them, but believe it is a fine old house.’ Another sigh. ‘And that is where I wish to travel.’ Leaning across, she placed a hand on my arm and said hesitantly, ‘I wonder … could I possibly engage your services as a travelling companion, to see me safely there, my journey – my mission – fulfilled?’
I recognised ‘engaging my services’ as the polite way of hinting that a fee was involved, but the request seemed odd. She must have seen by my reaction that this was a curious request. Surely she had servants who might accompany her.
Smiling sadly she shook her head. ‘I know what you are thinking, my dear – this is what is required of one’s personal maid. But there is a problem. I have no one who I can trust; my dear Hinton is as old as I am and equally infirm. There is no one else. A solicitor is too busy and would not even consider such a request, but I wondered … that is, if you were not busy with a case at the moment …’
An anxious frown, then she brightened. ‘And when I saw you I decided that the good Lord had given me a sign, had sent me an angel.’
I hardly saw myself in such a role, but I was intrigued and sorry for the old lady. Still it did not quite make sense until she leant over the table again and whispered, ‘I must have someone I can trust, you see. These packages I will be carrying have long been in my family’s possession; they are a legacy handed down through the generations.’ A sigh. ‘As the last direct descendant I have been trustee of the legacy all my life.’ A sad smile. ‘Now my life is drawing to its close, the legacy’s safekeeping must not be imperilled. It is essential that I go to Lochandor and see it handed on in person, delivered to the remaining member of our family.’
Watching me intently as I refilled our teacups, she said, ‘I am aware that I am asking a great deal and you must have time to think about it and to make any necessary arrangements. But as you are a young lady on your own …’
She left it unfinished. She must have been one of the few who did not know of my scandalous existence as the common-law wife of Jack Macmerry.
I could not refuse her request face-to-face, but it was true I needed time to consider, to discuss it with Jack. I promised to let her know shortly.
She frowned. ‘Do not leave it too long. I must leave by the end of the week.’ Looking over her shoulder as if she might be overheard, ‘There is … danger, danger for me,’ she whispered, ‘if I do not leave soon. There are others who wish to lay their hands on … what I am taking to Lochandor. Will you call upon me when you have decided �
� tomorrow perhaps?’
I promised to do so and escorted her to her waiting carriage. Since she lived in Duddingston village, her road led via Arthur’s Seat and I would be dropped off at Solomon’s Tower.
She was silent on the short journey, sitting back with her eyes closed, pale-looking and seeming utterly exhausted. I already had misgivings about what a visit to rural Perthshire with this frail old lady would involve.
As the carriage drew up at my home, she handed me the leather bag which she carried. ‘Will you take care of this for me?’
I was startled. It looked ancient and shabby but I presumed it was a favourite and long-treasured handbag. As I had not said yes to her request I replied, ‘If this contains the valuables you mentioned, surely I am not the proper person; it should be with your bank.’
She shook her head. ‘This satchel never leaves my possession, day or night, but alas I have reason to believe I cannot keep its contents safe in my own home a day longer. There are dangerous signs around me, my dear. They are no longer secure under my roof,’ she added, staring in the direction of the loch, ‘and for that reason I now feel they will be safer with you in neutral territory.’
And taking my hand, ‘I hope and pray most earnestly that you will decide to accompany me. It will merely be two days, to see me safe to my family, that is all I ask, and you will of course be a guest at Lochandor.’
I left her, wondering what on earth I had let myself in for. What would Jack say? And what did this bag contain that was so precious?
Jack’s response wasn’t as mocking as I expected. His immediate interest was the fact that Mrs Lawers lived in one of the Duddingston houses associated with Bonnie Prince Charlie. And that satchel, he declared, was exactly the kind officers carried during their troop manoeuvres in 1745.
Had I been inside her home? What did it look like? I assured him that it looked merely ordinary, the sitting room low-roofed, the windows small. He seemed disappointed, obviously having expected something a mite more grand and dramatic.
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