As the door was open, I rang the bell and went inside to discover a large hall with an imposing-looking desk and a lady receptionist. As I approached, the veiled lady in green velvet who had declined to let me share her carriage was ascending the large staircase, preceded by servants carrying her luggage.
Without looking up, the receptionist asked, ‘When are you due, madam?’
‘I have only just arrived.’
She shook her head. ‘That isn’t what I meant, madam.’ Frowning, she consulted a list which obviously perplexed her. ‘What name, madam?’
When I said Mrs McQuinn, there was a further search of the list. ‘And is that the name you are using?’
I was utterly confused, but before I could explain my business, she held up a hand and said, ‘Very well. But we were not expecting you so soon,’ and regarded me closely for the first time. ‘May I enquire when is your expected delivery date, madam?’
I shook my head. ‘I am here to deliver a package to Mr Lawers.’
Her face reddened. ‘Oh forgive me, madam. I thought you were booking in for your baby’s arrival.’
She stood up. ‘Come with me, please.’ I followed her to a window. ‘Mr Lawers no longer lives in the house, madam.’ And pointing to a path down the drive hidden by trees she added, ‘You will find him over there. The lodge near the main gate.’
I would have asked more, but a bell rang noisily and she rushed off. I walked in the direction indicated, through overgrown shrubbery, and emerged at a small cottage with an almost non-existent garden, whose walls had completely vanished under the onslaught of very determined and invasive ivy, the visible door badly in need of a coat of paint.
Mr Lawers thankfully was at home, a middle-aged rather portly gentleman whose somewhat seedy appearance suggested that he had seen better days. Having once owned the magnificent house, it was obvious to all the world that he had fallen on ill times.
He was not in the least pleased to see me. I thought the door was to be closed in my face before I uttered my first words.
He sighed. Remaining memories of gentlemanly behaviour decreed that I be invited in, however reluctantly, and as I followed him, he cleared his throat and said brusquely, ‘Thought you were selling something.’
I bristled at this comment, again a tribute to my travelling costume, adapted for cycling rather than train journeys for wealthy clients. Indicating a seat on a sagging leather armchair, he grimaced when I produced the package that had been entrusted to me.
‘From Mary Lawers? And what on earth am I supposed to do with her precious legacy? I have no family to hand them on to.’ An exasperated sigh. ‘Do you know what this contains?’
When I shook my head, he said, ‘Utterly worthless, madam. Letters between Prince Charlie and my ancestor Justin Lawers, who was with him before the battle of ’45. And a piece of jewellery. None of it is worth a scrap. You’ve made a long journey for nothing, madam, for a mad old woman’s whim.’
The remark made me angry. I thought highly of Mrs Lawers and she certainly was not mad.
I stood up preparing to leave and said stiffly, ‘I have delivered my message according to Mrs Lawers’ instructions.’
‘Oh, do sit down, you’ve come a long way. Let me at least conform to the rules of hospitality and offer you a cup of tea. I had just made one for myself when you arrived.’
I guessed that Mr Lawers was apologising for his rudeness and was doubtless a rather lonely man. I could hardly refuse, and indeed my curiosity was aroused. He walked with a stick, and I guessed from the photographs and medals on the sideboard, doubtless demoted from the big house, that he had been an army officer.
I learnt in the course of conversation, now eagerly supplied by Lawers, that his family had owned all this vast estate for generations.
Some parts of the house were very ancient and were a refuge to the loyal followers of Prince Charles Edward Stuart during their campaigns and after the disaster of Culloden and Butcher Cumberland’s vengeance on the Highlands.
He ended sadly, ‘My father, alas, gambled away all our fortune, and when I returned wounded from fighting the Boers a couple of years ago, he had died and all I inherited was a list of debts outstanding. There was nothing else for it but to sell the house as a convalescent home for gentlewomen with respiratory illnesses.’
I concluded that Mr Lawers did not have very good eyesight, or was simply unaware that there was another more secret purpose behind the convalescent home.
As I was about to leave, he took the package from the table and handed it to me. ‘Be so good as to return this to Mary Lawers with my compliments.’
When I looked surprised, he said sternly, ‘I have never met this remote relative since childhood and I have no one to hand these on to.’ He shrugged. ‘The existence of this family legacy is not of the slightest importance to me; I do not care what becomes of it – it is a matter of complete indifference to me. I have greater problems in my life, and as a matter of fact, between us, Mrs McQuinn, I will immediately consign them to the fire here, as soon as you leave.’ And taking the poker he stirred the flames.
Here was a quandary indeed as he thrust the package into my hands. What could I do but accept his decision, although I did not relish the prospect of explaining the situation of his reception of the package and its intended fate to Mrs Lawers. There was no possible argument; I realised he was quite adamant. At the door we shook hands and he enquired as to whether I was returning to Edinburgh. When I told him of my next destination, he added an apology for being unable to take me to Tarnbrae, on the neighbouring estate some three or four miles distant. He knew little of its present circumstances as there had been a lasting feud between the two families for several generations.
We said farewell and I walked down the drive in no good or easy mind. Although my mission had been accomplished in the legal sense, I could not consider that in any sense my fee had been earned. Nor could I be indifferent to the fate of this family legacy, allowing it to be destroyed by an uncaring relative when it was of such great value and importance to my client – she having been its guardian for her lifetime – and, for some reason as yet unknown, of considerable importance to her bogus maid, who was prepared to commit murder to gain possession of it. That it had almost cost me my life was an added incentive not to abandon what I now knew as historic family documents sentimentally protected over the generations.
The railway halt was deserted. How on earth was I to reach Tarnbrae other than on foot? And which direction? Here was a dilemma indeed. I was studying the small map of the area that Jack had drawn when the sound of a carriage came clattering down the hill. It was my old friend, the driver. ‘Didn’t keep you long, miss. Did ye no’ get the job?’
I shook my head vaguely and he tut-tutted. ‘I need to go to Tarnbrae. Can I get a train from here to the nearest station?’
He laughed. ‘You just get aboard, miss, and I’ll take you there – I have a lady friend who lives nearby and she will give me something to eat. It’s a good excuse to call on her while her man is at work. Do you want to sit inside or would you enjoy the fresh air?’
I decided on the latter and he gave me a hand up to the seat beside him. ‘Do you go often to the convalescent home?’ I asked.
‘Lochandor? That’s what they call it.’ A mocking laugh. ‘Well, miss, I have a steady job there. This is for your ears only. It isn’t really a convalescent home for sick gentlewomen but a place of refuge for very rich young women who get themselves into trouble and whose families can afford to put them away out of sight for a few months.’
‘What happens then, to the babies, I mean?’
‘There’s an orphanage in the grounds. I expect the unwanted babies are sent there to be put up for adoption. I can only say that when the young ladies no longer have a big belly – if you’ll pardon the expression – I put them back on the train to Edinburgh or wherever they are going.’ His laugh was loud and scornful.
Backstreet abortions were the province of the poo
r, crudely performed and mostly fatal, but for the rich Lochandor was the perfect disguise, the solution to an unwanted pregnancy. The two heavily veiled ladies I had encountered fitted the roles as well as the anonymity of the house.
‘We’re almost there, miss,’ said the driver, whose name was Jim. He pointed with his whip, but we had not passed through any habitations, only vast areas of farmland, with no smoke to indicate the unseen presence of a village.
As we drove through the gates of Tarnbrae, I kept a lookout for the cottage which I imagined would be Meg Macmerry’s new home. The rhododendron drive was identical to that of Lochandor Convalescent Home. This time, however, a sign proclaimed: ‘Tarnbrae Golf Course. Visitors welcome.’
The driver nodded. ‘They are doing very well. It’s a great game, everyone’s at it these days.’ In my acquired role as maidservant there was little point in bringing up the subject of where I might find the cottage which was my destination.
Handing me down and letting his arm linger a fraction too long about my waist, he doffed his cap and with an appraising look he smiled. ‘Been very nice meeting you, miss.’ And wishing me well, he nodded in the direction of the golf clubhouse. ‘They’re always taking on new staff, so maybe you’ll be lucky this time. And maybe we might see each other again,’ he added wistfully.
I smiled vaguely and he refused my offer of a fare, pushing the coin aside. ‘You keep it, miss. I was coming this way anyway and your company has been a pleasure.’
Remaining in the role of servant that he had allotted me, I thought of the married woman down the road and decided that my friendly driver was something of a flirt, if not a philanderer. Thanking him once again, I set off through this new set of gates, and as there was no lodge immediately visible I headed in the direction of yet another mansion. Slightly less grand than Lochandor, and now home to a golf course, Tarnbrae was my second stately home in one day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I climbed the steps into the splendid oak-panelled reception area of the golf house, its opulent airs increased by a distinct and not unpleasing smell of expensive cigars. The sight of an unattached female, from her appearance certainly not of the class the gentlemen were used to, created something of a stir of indignation and a flutter of newspapers from the armchair brigade.
But before the man in charge of receiving members, who was darting towards me, could utter one word of rejection, I held up my hand and reduced his stern expression by putting on my very best Edinburgh accent and proclaiming, ‘I am in search of a family by the name of Pringless. I have been given to understand that they occupy a cottage in this vicinity,’ I added with a sweeping gesture taking in the grounds beyond the windows.
It was with considerable relief to both of us that he recognised the name and, leading me to the door, indicated the direction. A short distance away, concealed by a vast amount of shrubbery from the golf course itself, stood a neat little cottage, very spruce with a well-kept garden, where windows prettily curtained told of comfortable domesticity and gave assurance that I would find Meg Macmerry’s welfare was in good hands.
I rang the bell, waited. No reply. Tried again, looked, listened, waited. It seemed that there was no one at home.
So frustrating. All this journey for nothing. I was sure that Jack would have sent them a letter to expect my arrival, but thanks to my earlier journey to Lochandor they must have been expecting me the previous day. I could hardly expect them to remain close at home in such circumstances, no doubt equally annoyed at my non-appearance.
With a sigh, I returned to the clubhouse, and in reply to my question the lofty gentleman who was in charge, indicating that he could not be expected to know their whereabouts or be involved in such tedious matters, summoned one of the porters returning from upstairs.
‘Pringless, miss. Aye, new here they are. Moved in recently. I’ve no idea where they are – out for the day, maybe,’ he shrugged. ‘Could be away tattie howking. It’s that time of year. Always a bit of extra money to be made. Lots of folk round here go each year,’ he added encouragingly, and looking me over candidly, ‘If it’s work ye’re after, lass, I could write a note to them for you.’
I thanked him for his consideration and, in my best Edinburgh accent again, said that I could write – and read. His embarrassment was my scant reward; his face reddened and he suggested that he would see my note was delivered.
Telling him I could take care of that myself, I walked down the steps resolving to do something immediate and drastic about my appearance. My lack of interest in fashionable clothes – or indeed any, other than those needed for bicycling – had twice portrayed me as a maid seeking employment. How Jack would enjoy that when I told him.
What to do next? In no mood to search the potato-picking fields of the area in search of Meg’s adoptive parents, although logic suggested that if such was their destination they would have taken her with them, I returned to the cottage, tore a page out of my notebook and wrote that I was a friend of Meg’s father and hoped to find them at home on a future visit. With that Jack would have to be content.
Walking in the direction of the entrance gates, completely dismayed by my present predicament, the prospect of the long walk back to Lochandor’s railway halt and a possibly long wait for the next train home to Edinburgh, the drive seemed interminable.
I was suddenly aware that the slight headache which had been hovering for a couple of hours was gathering violent momentum. I also felt very sick indeed, my stomach churning, although I had eaten nothing since breakfast. Worse, my vision became blurred. Dizzy, I felt distinctly faint.
Needing to give relief to what I hoped was a temporary upset that would pass in a few minutes, I sat down on the grass verge. I felt really dreadful. Was this the reaction from my fall from the train that Dr Everson had warned me about? There was another terrible possibility looming. That I had succumbed to Mrs Lawers’ influenza. She had looked very poorly the day we met in Jenners and it was quite possible that she already had the influenza on her and was in a highly infectious state.
My troubles had just begun. As I sat there feeling very sorry for myself, it began to rain. Wondering how on earth I was going to shelter and get to the railway station I stood up, shivering and so weak that I could hardly drag one foot after the other. Panic overwhelmed me. I felt so terrible; was I going to die out here on the drive to the Tarnbrae golf course?
At that moment, the rumble of wheels approached from the clubhouse direction. The driver saw me, stopped and leant out. I realised I must have been a dreadful sight when he called, ‘Anything wrong, miss?’
A passenger looked out of the window and asked what was the matter.
I could hardly speak but gasped out that I had called on a friend who was not at home.
The young woman looked at me. ‘You can’t stay out there in the rain. Come inside.’ And so saying she opened the door. I was assisted up the step, ushered to a seat and asked my destination.
The three passengers were a young married couple and the girl’s brother, and as they made room for me, the talk was about what shots the two men had played, their handicaps and so forth. All this seemed to give them cause for fierce argument.
Thankfully ignored, I leant back, eyes closed, and heard the young woman whisper to her companions, ‘She’s very pale, poor thing, she looks quite ill.’
A gentle touch on my arm. ‘You don’t look at all well, miss.’ I murmured some vague response. There was more whispered conversation as I tried to summon up energy to reassure them and failed.
‘Look,’ said the brother, leaning forward. ‘I am going to Corstorphine. Please allow me to see you safely to Edinburgh.’
The carriage journey seemed endless. Finally the couple were dropped off on the outskirts of the city, accompanied by cheers and laughingly rude remarks between the two men regarding the success of their next golfing assignment and the practise needed.
I tried to respond civilly to the young man’s polite remarks as we
headed into the city but I heard not a word of his conversation, barely able to keep my eyes open, my head pounding a fearful tattoo with every jolt of the carriage, every cobblestone like a sharp nail driven into my skull.
I expected to be set down in the centre of the town, and as we crossed Princes Street and began the slow climb up Waverly Bridge I said, ‘You have missed your road.’
My escort, whose name was Eric, smiled. ‘You are in no fit state to travel anywhere, miss, and it is my intention to see you safely home.’
When I protested that this was taking him out of his way, he held up his hand. ‘I am taking you to your own door, miss, so if you will kindly give me directions.’
Five minutes later Arthur’s Seat hovered above us, shortly followed by Solomon’s Tower, at the base of Samson’s Ribs. I blessed this man and his kindness, for as he handed me down from the carriage, my legs were shaking. I was in a state of collapse as he took my arm and led me to the front door.
‘What a lovely house. Have you someone to take care of you?’
As I was replying that I had, he took from his pocket a small sachet of powder.
‘Our mother was a nurse before she married father, and as I suffered from violent headaches as a boy, this was her unfailing remedy, one I never travel without.’
I took it and thanked him once more for his generosity. Turning to leave he looked up at the impressive walls of the Tower and producing his card he smiled. ‘Perhaps we might meet again and I would be permitted to call on you; we might have dinner and a theatre when you are feeling well again.’
Again I thanked him, barely able to speak, and frowning he said, ‘I don’t know your name, Miss …?’
I gasped out, ‘It’s Mrs … Mrs Rose McQuinn.’
He bowed. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon. I had not realised – I do apologise.’ And most embarrassed, he regarded my ringless hand.
‘There is no need. Mr McQuinn passed away some time ago,’ I said. ‘I shall not forget your kindness, sir.’
Deadly Legacy Page 4
