He paused to eat the sandwich I had provided. ‘Good this! Seen Meg, have you?’
I told him of Mrs Blakers unannounced visit with Meg when he was away and her invitation that we go and see them when he returned. He nodded approvingly but was quick to change the subject and said, ‘I gather from the office there’s absolutely nothing new on Mrs Lawers.’
I smiled watching him eat. There were quite a lot of new developments from my point of view. ‘Mr Hayward’s help about the map has been invaluable. When you’ve finished, it’s all spread out on the big table through there.’
He put a delaying hand on my arm. ‘First, all I’ve missed. Bring me up to date – right back to the beginning. When I was in hospital this business of the legacy and your attempts to deliver it – what really happened, Rose?’
So I told him then, somewhat reluctantly, about the attack on the train by the bogus maid Hinton.
He was even more horrified and concerned than I had expected.
‘You are quite certain she drugged your tea in the station?’
‘Well, it’s very unlikely that I fell asleep on that short journey.’
Jack shook his head and said sternly, ‘This is a police case, Rose. You should have told me—’
‘And you would have told me to call it off.’
‘Then you should have gone straight to Gray.’
‘And faced his arch sneers about my imagination? No, thank you. This was my problem, it’s what I do for a living, remember. You know me better than this, Jack. My case, and I was going to investigate it. Especially when both the women were murdered.’
‘And you were likely to be the next on the killer’s list,’ Jack added grimly. ‘Yes, you do thrive on danger – I’ve seen evidence of that with my own eyes. So you went back again, in spite of it all.’
‘I was armed – with my derringer, this time.’
Jack sighed deeply as I added, ‘To find that the relative who refused to accept the legacy in the first place had died of a heart attack. I fared no better at Tarnbrae. It will be news to you, but Meg’s uncle has remarried.’
I told him about the new wife and the four children and said, ‘Meg had been moved into the Lochandor orphanage and then to Edinburgh, just down the road at Newington. I felt quite heartened by that, so near to us. But no, another false trail; she had been moved once again, this time settled with prospective adoptive parents. You can imagine my relief when I met her happily installed with the Blakers in Joppa.’
Jack’s head jerked up. ‘That was your first meeting? What did you think of her?’ he asked anxiously.
I took his hand. ‘Jack dear, she’s your image, I would have picked her out in a hundred children as your daughter. Same eyes, same smile, even your sandy hair.’
‘Poor kid. Not destined to be a great beauty.’
‘She’s lovely.’
He grinned and I knew that he was pleased – and under it all, I sensed a feeling of relief. Babies all look alike, even to fathers, but a little girl aged three is a person, and when they met Jack would know now, without doubt, that he had fathered her. He said, ‘We must go and see her.’
‘I thought you were calling in at Joppa on the way back.’
‘Wanted to see you,’ he said quickly, but he was uncomfortable. It was a lie, a nice one specially for my benefit, but I wasn’t the reason for his change of mind. He was on a cliff edge, scared of his possible reception by his little daughter. What if she didn’t recognise him, turned away from him? No, he wanted – needed – support when they met for the first time in her new home.
Watching me pour another cup of tea, he asked, ‘Any more adventures to report?’
I told him about the meeting with Beth and her extraordinary story about the switched babies. ‘I was beginning to remember all those terrible tales about baby farmers in the eighties.’
‘The police haven’t forgotten, Rose. They are keeping a close eye on places like Lochandor Convalescent Home, especially where there is an orphanage attached for unwanted babies.’
I was relieved to hear that and we went through to the Great Hall with the pieces of the map spread on the table.
‘They certainly seem to be part of the same map, with a piece cut out from the centre,’ Jack said.
‘I don’t know if there are words on that missing piece, but look at this …’ And I gave him the magnifying glass to study the words ‘Slow Moon Store’ and ‘Simon’s Brass’.
As he studied them thoughtfully I said, ‘They must be significant. Simon was the first name of the Jacobite spy, according to the evidence of Lord Tweeddale’s letters to the Court of Enquiry. And ‘Brass’ could refer to the thirty thousand pounds he stole from Pinkie House and carried to Prince Charlie.’
Jack put down the glass and I went on slowly, ‘This might interest you: Reslaw was his second name. Rearrange the letters, and behold! You get Lawers.’
‘Good girl – I’d never have thought of that and it’s so obvious.’ Leaning over he kissed me: my reward!
We both looked at the words again and I wrote them down.
‘Slow Moon Store – wait a minute. That’s Solomon’s Tower.’
Jack was writing busily. ‘Rearrange the letters of Simon’s Brass and we get an anagram of Samson’s Ribs.’
We hugged each other and looked at the map again.
Jack whistled. ‘We’ve got it, Rose, the answer – the missing piece of the map. Samson’s Ribs with Solomon’s Tower. And that’s here – where Reslaw hid the treasure.’
‘So now we have a clue to the identity of our fugitive in the secret room. None other than Simon Reslaw – who had cheated both Hanoverians and Jacobites and made off with thirty thousand pounds.’
We stood up in one movement. Jack took my hand.
‘It must be up there – in the secret room. Come on!’
We seized oil lamp and candles, raced up the spiral stair, opened the panel into that dark forbidding room and looked around. Stone walls, a chair and table, a few shelves in a recess, my hiding place for the documents the burglar sought in vain.
Jack set the oil lamp on the table. ‘Thirty thousand pounds is a lot of money. What was it in – coin? No. Most likely paper, eighteenth-century promissory notes.’
‘Then there is always the possibility that our fugitive took it with him.’
‘I wonder. His hiding place in the tower had been rumbled. He was being hunted, his pursuers on the premises, literally at his heels. Left in a tearing hurry, without his officer’s cape or the map.’
Jack paused, looked around. ‘Didn’t want to risk losing all that money by having it found on him. My guess would be that he hid it somewhere – in this room – intending to come back for it later. But where?’
There weren’t many hiding places. And we got no further. Someone downstairs, at the kitchen door. A voice. ‘Anyone there?’
Seizing the oil lamp and blowing out the candles, we closed the panel, and as we raced down the spiral stair, Jack said, ‘How on earth did we hear that so clearly?’ And I remembered he didn’t know about the laird’s lug.
Sergeant Wright was standing at the open kitchen door. He saluted us both.
‘Chief inspector would like to see you, sir, down the road – at our investigation. If you have a moment.’
Jack groaned, seized his coat, realising it would take more than the promised one moment.
He kissed me briefly and was gone.
Deciding I had better return to our unfinished task, wishing I’d had time to delay Sergeant Wright and find out if he was the policeman friend of Adrian and Steven who knew so much about Jack and me, I had another caller.
This time I opened the door to Beth.
‘Rose, I am sorry to call on you so informally but I have two tickets for the Jacobite evening at the Pleasance and I decided to hand them in to you, in case we don’t meet before the performance.’
‘I’m sure it will be a great success, very popular.’
‘I hope so too, but there are problems. Steven should be playing one of the major roles, but he has taken off to London. Left a note for Adrian, says it’s very important, but it really is too bad. Poor Adrian will have all the responsibility if he doesn’t get back in time. Typical of Steven, of course.’
She hesitated. ‘I can’t stay. Nanny is taking care of Lillie – I’ve been in town with Adrian, but he has rehearsals for the show all day.’
She didn’t linger, refused to take payment for the tickets. ‘They are with Adrian’s compliments; actors always get one or two.’
After she left I considered the tickets, wondering if Jack would like to go, but as a keen Jacobite enthusiast he might be full of caustic comments on what was historically accurate, or, more to the point, inaccurate. And as always, whether he would be my escort on the night depended on the vagaries of Gray and the Edinburgh City Police.
I decided Amy Dodd a better prospect as a companion, although she might have tickets already, and if Jack was free and so inclined, he could accompany us.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I was looking forward to the Portobello Players’ performance and in particular to seeing Adrian as the great actor, who Beth solemnly declared was just awaiting discovery and a great future in the London theatre.
Jack came home late that evening; it was past midnight and I was asleep. He crawled into bed trying not to disturb me. I stirred and whispered, ‘Goodnight.’
We could talk tomorrow morning. I wakened early, went down and made breakfast. Jack appeared yawning as always after a late night. I told him about Beth’s visit and, as I suspected, he wasn’t madly interested in the prospect of the Jacobite play but gallantly offered to escort me if I couldn’t find a more enthusiastic companion.
As he was singularly preoccupied, very thoughtful and not disposed to conversation, my attempts at resuming our discovery of last night were lost in a tide of words that drifted over his head. He was always like this at some crisis point in a case.
‘Tell me about it later, Rose.’
A knock at the door, a brief kiss for me and there was Sergeant Wright waiting for him. I followed them out. At the gate I saw they were heading not towards Edinburgh but in the direction of the loch. Obviously developments of a crucial nature not to be discussed with the general public. In this case, including me.
A calm sunny day, vibrant autumn colours painting the garden. Too nice a day to miss – there wouldn’t be many once the fierce icy winter winds blew in from across the Firth.
It really was too good to stay indoors and I wasn’t lured by the prospect of a dark sojourn in the secret room. That could wait until Jack and I explored together.
So I got out my bicycle and headed towards Duddingston and Amy Dodd, pausing midway to look down again at the place where Thane had led me to the grim discovery of the still-unidentified body. But the scene was deserted of all humans; only the heron and the wild geese occupied the peaceful waters of the loch.
Amy wasn’t at home. I hesitated about leaving the ticket and a note as the chances were that she would have one already, going with some of her friends. There was nothing else for it, Jack would go with me or I’d go alone.
With the extraordinary swiftness of weather changes in Scotland, and over Arthur’s Seat in particular, the day turned cold and grey.
The Causewayside street was silent, the houses deserted. Mrs Lawers’ house still empty and forlorn-looking, perhaps because of the tragic memories it aroused. There was no sign of M Debeau either, his door firmly closed, and I wondered if my stern talk to Amy had improved matters or if he was still the victim of his neighbours’ prejudices and suspicions. I wished now that I had asked him to interpret those old letters written in French, perhaps by the prince himself.
As I cycled back, the police were down at the loch again, diligently searching the shore for clues.
A familiar figure, Sergeant Wright was leaving them, walking up the steep slope. I waved, and lingered until he reached the road. I wanted a word with him, but not about the dead man.
He greeted me, and nodding back towards the busy uniformed figures at the edge of the loch said, ‘If that bush hadn’t stopped him he would be right under the waters of the loch, lain there for ages with only the geese and the herons, and any murder trail long gone cold.’ I followed his gaze. On a dull day it looked a dreary place, dark waters almost hidden under an entanglement of tall weeds.
‘Still no idea of his identity?’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘We’re working on it.’ Any further conversation was interrupted by a shout from below.
‘Maybe they’ve found something,’ he said eagerly. ‘Excuse me, Mrs McQuinn.’ And he was off again before I had a chance to ask if he was the actors’ policeman friend.
Jack came home early that evening and greatly to my surprise, having expected some reluctance, was willing, even eager, to go to the Jacobite play. I had certainly misjudged his reactions and I was now glad and relieved that Amy had not been at home after all.
Supper over, we decided to have another look for the location of the laird’s lug. Upstairs, armed with our usual rather primitive means of illumination where some sort of searchlight would have been more effective for that dark, almost windowless room, we began a minute search.
I had told Jack that the first place of my search had been the alcove with its two shelves, but to no avail, so together in the manner suggested by Jack as that used in police investigations, we began testing the stone walls for possible crevices from floor to ceiling. We went over every inch of that ancient wooden floor for loose boards, which wasn’t too difficult as the room was roughly the shape of a box or a large pantry, eight feet square.
We stood up, considered. There was no place to hide anything, but that laird’s lug had to be somewhere, so we went back to the alcove with its two shelves.
‘Here goes – our last resort.’ And Jack produced a chisel and dislodged the shelves from the walls. A great flurry of choking dust and there, in one corner, an aperture. Jack brought the oil lamp closer.
‘There’s a deep shaft here.’ And considering the geography for a moment, he added excitedly, ‘This might well connect with the chimney in the kitchen. Hold on.’
He opened the panel and ran downstairs into the kitchen.
‘Rose, are you there?’
I shouted, ‘Yes, loud and clear.’
‘Be right back with you.’
He came back and I said, ‘I heard not only your voice but every footstep.’
‘In the old days, what is now our oversized kitchen must have been the dining room of the old Tower.’
‘We’ve solved that problem anyway.’ And we grinned at each other, delighted with our discovery, but there was more to come.
The oil lamp raised again, I peered down the aperture. ‘There’s a tiny ledge, something lodged there.’
‘Probably a dead bird,’ said Jack.
‘Well, in that case, you put your hand in,’ I said.
Jack grimaced, sank his arm in up to the elbow and dragged out a black and ragged piece of cloth. We put it on the old table, and with growing excitement, shook off the gathered dust of times past.
It wasn’t heavy, but we were almost afraid to open it.
Jack looked at me and sighed. I said, ‘Go on.’
He pushed back the cloth to reveal paper. A huge amount of shredded paper.
Jack let some of it run through his fingers. A disgusting smell arose. Mice or rats!
Although I hadn’t any desire to touch it, gingerly I gathered up a few pieces and quickly let them fall.
We stood looking down at what we had found, then we turned and looked at each other. The desire was there to either laugh or cry with disappointment.
‘The treasure?’ I whispered.
Jack nodded.
On the table all that remained of a king’s ransom – thirty thousand pounds – in promissory notes once signed by the English Treasury and stolen from Lord
Tweeddale.
‘A king’s ransom, right enough,’ said Jack. ‘A fortune today but in those days …’ He scattered a few fragments with his hands. In those chewed-up papers there was barely one recognisable word.
Jack shook his head. ‘Mrs Lawers’ legacy – this is what it was all about, a treasure beyond man’s wildest dreams.’
And I thought of the cost as he went on, ‘This little pile of rubbish is responsible for at least three murders, that we know about. And there might be even more, a lot more, in the last one hundred and fifty years. Who knows?’
He paused, adding reluctantly, ‘A king’s ransom, all chewed into fragments, expensive bedding for countless generations of industrious mice.’
‘Terrified mice,’ I added. ‘Scared up here to a safe retreat by Hedley Marsh’s monstrous army of cats.’
We went downstairs again, threw the shreds on the fire. It burnt briskly and we watched thirty thousand pounds of Hanoverian money go up the kitchen chimney. Perhaps we even thought but did not brood upon what it could have bought, how it could have changed lives in the year 1901.
We had only the satisfaction of having solved the identity of the refugee who briefly stayed in the secret room in 1745.
Simon Reslaw had vanished, never to return and collect his stolen fortune. That task he had bequeathed to his ancestors. They too had failed. We had succeeded, but we still didn’t know who had murdered Mrs Lawers and her maid, or the identity of a dead man by the shores of the loch.
Neither of us slept well that night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
A letter came from a prospective client requiring my services on a domestic matter of an indelicate nature, but such matters, the sources of my income and livelihood as a private investigator, were out of my province at the moment.
Jack needed me; there were murders to solve, as well as Meg’s future with the Blakers. However, I replied immediately saying that I was heavily involved at present, which was true, but hoped that my services would be at her disposal the following week and suggested a date when I would call upon her. I awaited her reply, etc etc.
Deadly Legacy Page 19
