Dandy Gilver and the Proper Treatment of Bloodstains

by Catriona McPherson

  ‘Didn’t you ever talk about funerals?’ I asked her. ‘Don’t you know what he would have wanted, if you c—’

  ‘If I care?’ Lollie said. ‘I shouldn’t care, should I? And yet, it’s hard not to. And no, we never spoke of such things. Pip was twenty-six, why would we?’ I had not been imagining long, morbid discussions on their own account, of course, but rather thinking of Hugh and how he always spent the return trip from any funeral in high dudgeon about the mawkish unsuitability of the chosen hymns and the scandalous impropriety of anything – from florists’ wreaths to panelled coffins – that his father and father’s father and his father had ‘managed perfectly well to die without, Dandy’. What he would do when this much-vaunted new prayer book finally came out, I could not imagine; I had never seen anyone walk out of a funeral in protest before but I would not put it past him.

  ‘We only ever spoke of it once,’ Lollie went on. She was looking at herself in the glass as though she were some sort of puzzling find brought home from a nature walk; she pulled at her eyelids and stretched the skin on her cheeks this way and that. It was disconcerting to watch and I caught hold of her hands, as though to inspect her nails, really just to stop that dreadful, inquisitive mauling.

  ‘When was that, dear?’ I said.

  ‘When he went to Paris without me. It was the only night we spent apart after we were married. He made a joke of it; saying that if I were proved right, if the aeroplane went down – that’s why I didn’t go with him, you see – I would have carried the point and should feel free to bring his body back by boat.’ She smiled, remembering, and her skin looked tight and dry as she did so. ‘I shouldn’t think there are instructions, in the will,’ she said. ‘Pip was never one to make demands about things. Not at home anyway, or at his tailor’s or at his bank. He was the most easy-going man, really, Dandy. Everyone said so.’

  I thought it best to remain silent.

  ‘He could get rather impassioned about his model boats,’ Lollie went on, ‘but even when one of those was broken through a servant’s carelessness he just shrugged it off. He was—’ She broke off. ‘Except he wasn’t,’ she said, with a harder note in her voice. ‘I keep slipping into the most fearful maudlin daydreams, Dandy. As if I’m under some kind of spell. I know very well what he was and so do you.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said, thinking that this robust mood would carry her out of the house and into her motorcar better than any other. ‘And don’t worry about the funeral. Two horses and “Lead, kindly light”. These things practically organise themselves.’

  Faulds, sombre of face and – for once – silent of foot, let us out of the front door. John was waiting at the kerb. It was the first time I had seen him in his full livery: a high-collared tunic to match his breeches and a grey cap with a gleaming black peak, his face as impassive as a guardsman’s under its shadow. He opened the back door of a very new Rolls-Royce Phantom and between us we helped Lollie up into the seat. John leaned in and put a rug over her knees, then offered a hand to me to help me into the front. I thanked him, finding my voice a little shy, for it was an odd business to be handed into a car by a young man one has seen singing music-hall songs in his shirtsleeves, and an unaccustomed experience to sit beside him, no glass to close between the two of us.

  Lollie, behind me, was looking out of the window at the quiet streets. There were nannies, off to Princes Street Gardens with their charges for an hour before luncheon, pairs of girls – the well-turned-out daughters of the New Town – making their way arm in arm to the jewellers’ and dress shops of George Street, pairs of matrons – their mothers – on their way to Marshall & Aitken, and upright old men marching to the New Club for the day. What there were not, though, were delivery boys on their bicycles, nor coalmen on their carts, sweeps with their barrows, not even the late postman on the parcel round.

  ‘How quiet it is today,’ Lollie said, with a wondering note in her voice, as we came around Charlotte Square. ‘The whole world seems to have stopped. Not only me.’

  At the west end, a policeman mounted on a horse was standing backed into the doorway of Mather’s public house.

  ‘Trying to stop them gathering today,’ said John.

  ‘The publican won’t be very pleased,’ I said, ‘to have a great hulking police horse driving away his custom.’

  ‘There’ll not be much beer left now anyway, Miss Rossiter,’ John told me. ‘There’s been three nights since the last delivery and there was parties all over the night it begun.’

  ‘I heard them,’ I said, remembering the cheers and shouting drifting in the bedroom window in the small hours of Tuesday morning.

  ‘Any excuse for a booze-up,’ said John. ‘Best night out since Hogmanay.’ He winked at me. ‘Or so I heard, anyway.’ Here he dropped his voice even further in case Lollie could hear him. ‘Till the funeral, eh?’ He jerked his head towards his mistress. ‘Talk about having something to celebrate.’

  ‘Poor master,’ I said. ‘There are limits, John.’

  ‘He didnae think so,’ John retorted. ‘And I should know. I spent more time with him than anyone else, except Harry maybe.’

  ‘True,’ I said. ‘One could hardly drive him around and not get the measure of the man.’

  ‘Aye, I got his measure,’ he said. ‘And I wasn’t feart for him, like some I could name. He was your typical mummy’s boy. Sleekit wee bully-boy. Nice as ninepence when anyone was watching and then a right so-and-so when he got the chance.’

  ‘Was he a right so-and-so to you personally?’ I asked. John nodded.

  ‘He used to make me sleep in the car,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t so bad in the summertime but once in the winter I near about froze to death.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘How did he stop you going inside and sleeping in your bed? How could he?’

  ‘No, not at home,’ said John. ‘This was if he was away out somewhere and he would say to me to just wait in the car, then he just never came back and the night would go on and then in the end I’d realise that he wasnae gonny come back and he’d done it to me again, so I’d just have to doss down until the morning.’

  ‘Where was this?’ I said, wondering what these solitary outings of Pip’s might be.

  ‘Eh?’ said John. ‘Oh, you know, here and there. Nowhere special. I can’t remember where it was we were the last time it happened.’

  His vagueness set a faint alarm bell ringing in me, but at that moment we drew up outside the offices of Murray and Ettrick in Coates Crescent and I had to concentrate on assisting Lollie. We were met at the door by Mr Ettrick himself, as I should have expected given the size of the estate; if Mr Murray had been there brushing flies from our path with banana leaves it would not have been too surprising.

  ‘All alone, Mrs Balfour?’ he said, his eyes passing over me without stopping and peering at the inside of the motorcar behind me. ‘I expected Mrs Lambert-Leslie to be with you.’

  ‘She’s on her way from Inverness,’ said Lollie, ‘but might take some time.’

  Mr Ettrick shook his head and tutted, then ushered Lollie up the steps and through the glass doors with one hand in the small of her back and the other thrown wide as though to ward off any harm coming at her in a flanking manoeuvre. I supposed that a solicitor had to be solicitous, if anyone did, and she was a new widow and very fragile-looking, but still as I followed them – Miss Rossiter, of course, was not included in the ushering – the crease of concern between his brows and the way he stooped over her, as well as that arm shielding her from one knew not what, began to worry me.

  We crossed a dark hallway, deeply carpeted in blue plush and shining with the gleam of mahogany, the glitter of brass and the wink of polished mirrors, and rose up a set of wide and shallow stairs. Somewhere, deep in the innards of Murray and Ettrick, at least a few typewriting machines were clacking away like crickets, but these front parts – the stairs and the cavernous room we were taken into at the top of them – were hushed and still, free
of any modern trappings and looking, with their tall cases full of well-bound books and deep button-backed chairs, exactly like a club library, only less smoky.

  I seated myself neatly on a hard bench just inside the door and watched as Mr Ettrick led Lollie to an armchair and settled her into it as though she were a grandmother. As he turned away from her, his frown deepened and he rubbed his palms on his trousers.

  ‘Now . . . Mrs Balfour,’ he said, once he had sat down on the other side of an imposing desk, and clasped his hands together on top of it. ‘First of all, please allow me to say how very sorry we are. Murray and Ettrick have long been honoured to serve the legal needs of the Balfour family and we feel in our small way some of the shock and disbelief this most dreadful event must have brought to you.’ The words were conventional, but Mr Ettrick was an old hand at it and the tone and expression were perfect. Then he faltered. ‘Let me say, dear lady,’ he went on, looking down at his hands on the desk, ‘that we did not draw up your late husband’s will, nor did anyone in this office co-sign it as witness. We merely held it. We . . . that is to say, I . . . no one read it until yesterday morning.’ At this point Mr Ettrick’s discomfort led him as far as to acknowledge my existence. He gave me a quick look and then glanced towards the empty chair beside Lollie. I rose silently and came to sit in it.

  ‘Very well then,’ he continued. He wore the usual tall stiff celluloid collar of the town solicitor and at that moment it appeared to be strangling him. He gulped once or twice, then took a pair of small spectacles out of his breast pocket and wound them onto his ears with some deliberation. He was a man in his fifties but just then I could see the twenty-year-old he had once been. He drew towards him the green paper folder which was the only item on the desk-top and opened it.

  ‘I, Philip James Balfour of 31 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, do declare this 5th day of March in the year 1926 that this is my last will and testament and renders all earlier testamentary documents bearing my name null and void.’ Mr Ettrick cleared his throat and gripped the paper a little tighter. ‘I hereby give and bequeath everything of which I may die possessed or which may be hereafter due to me, both heritable property and moveable assets, in their entirety, to my cousin, George Pollard, formerly resident in St Mary’s Square, Gloucester.’ The solicitor bent his head and I felt Lollie stiffen in the chair beside me. ‘This disposition of my estate is in recognition of and recompense for the iniquities meted out from my forebears to that branch of the Balfour family connected by marriage to the Pollard family and to which my esteemed cousin belongs.’

  ‘He can’t do that,’ I said, putting an arm along the back of Lollie’s chair. ‘Mr Ettrick, I must protest in the strongest terms to you subjecting Mrs Balfour to this performance. You know very well that under Scots Law the widow cannot be disinherited.’

  Mr Ettrick was holding up a hand like a policeman stopping traffic.

  ‘If you would allow me, Miss er . . .’ he said, and bent his head to continue reading.

  ‘I request that this gift and bequest be paid not earlier than two calendar years after the date of my death until which time it shall be held in trust for the said George Pollard excepting the payment of funeral costs and other necessary expenses, for example but without prejudice to the generality, outstanding personal bills.’

  ‘But he can’t,’ I insisted. ‘This is nonsense.’

  ‘Please,’ said Mr Ettrick. ‘If you would have just a little patience. I am coming to it, I assure you. I appoint Bertram Ettrick, Solicitor, as my executor and overseer of the trust and request specifically that he expedite with all possible haste the removal from my house at Heriot Row all servants and other residents, including Miss Walburga Percival.’

  ‘What?’ said Lollie and I felt a jolt pass through her.

  ‘There’s a little more,’ said Mr Ettrick, his voice so quiet now that I could hardly hear it. ‘There’s a codicil, requesting that George Pollard, after the will is fully executed of course, ascertain the burial place of my wife, Josephine Beatrice Balfour née Carson, born 22nd August 1890 and died 10th July 1924, and erect there a monument, the choosing of which I entrust to him, assured of his affectionate attention in this matter.’

  ‘Who?’ said Lollie. She was sitting forward, straining out of her seat, almost keening towards him, trying to understand. Mr Ettrick, unable to bear the look upon her face, directed his gaze instead at me.

  ‘Who witnessed it?’ I asked and he nodded slightly, as though acknowledging the sense of my question.

  ‘It was witnessed by a Miss Margaret Anne Taylor and a Miss Jessie Armstrong Abbott. Neither are known to me.’

  ‘Abbott and Maggie,’ said Lollie, in a dazed voice. ‘My maids, Mr Ettrick. Two of my maids.’

  ‘Ex-maids,’ I said, furiously thinking what that might mean, for it had to mean something.

  Mr Ettrick had risen and gone to a section of bookcase lower than the rest where a sherry decanter and glasses were set out. He poured himself a stiff measure, swallowed it in one gulp and then refilled his glass and two others. He handed mine to me with a grim look and then placed Lollie’s carefully into her hand, wrapping her fingers around it. She put it down into her lap without a glance, but I admit that I knocked mine back just as readily and as indecorously as Mr Ettrick had his first and, I saw, his second.

  ‘I thought you were a maid yourself, madam, at first,’ he said to me. ‘I do beg your pardon.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Now, Mr Ettrick, the question is this: is it legal? It’s perfectly wicked, but is it legal? Will it stand?’

  ‘Ah!’ said Lollie and she raised her hands as though at some spectacle laid out before her, letting her glass tumble down, spilling sherry over her skirt and stockings. ‘1924! And we were married in 1921. And so we weren’t married, were we? I see.’ She sounded relieved, happy to have sorted the puzzling words of the will into something that made sense to her; she even smiled a little, but no sooner had the smile left her lips than she swayed back in her seat and then in one fluid movement, like an eel, she slipped downwards and, unless I had caught her under her arms and held her, would have slithered onto the floor.

  Mr Ettrick, sturdier after all than the strangulated neck inside the stiff collar suggested, easily took her weight from me and carried her over to a sofa against the far wall, where he laid her down and stood over her, shaking his head and breathing loudly.

  ‘If this earlier marriage to Miss Carson is right enough,’ he said, ‘and if she really did die in 1924 then, yes, I daresay it’s perfectly legal and I’ll have no choice but to execute it. The wording is not what I would have written myself, but – most unfortunately – it’s clear enough that any objections would be batted away as cavils. If I had known what was in it, it would have been a different matter, though, I can tell you. Murray and Ettrick have never been party to any such thing in eighty years of practice, Miss er . . .’

  ‘What interests me particularly,’ I said, thinking back over all that I had just heard, ‘is the two years’ delay. Have you ever come across such a thing before? Is it usual?’

  ‘Never,’ said Mr Ettrick. He stooped to retrieve Lollie’s sherry glass and returned it to the tray, taking the opportunity while he was there to pour himself a third measure. ‘It’s quite common to have a stipulation that a will has to be executed within a year, or two, or five, if there’s some doubt as to whether the legatee can be traced, for instance. But as to waiting two years, I have no idea.’

  On the couch, Lollie shifted a little and moaned softly.

  ‘I’ll fetch the chauffeur,’ I said. ‘She should be at home.’ Then I shook my head and laughed. ‘Home! She has no home, does she? You are charged to break the household up as soon as you can manage it.’

  ‘Expedite with all possible haste,’ said Mr Ettrick, nodding. ‘It sounds marvellous, doesn’t it, Miss er . . . but Mr Balfour had no legal training and, legally speaking, it doesn’t mean a thing. That is, I interpret it as meaning “carry out
with as much haste as is commensurate with the comfort and convenience of all affected parties”. Yes, indeed, that’s what it means to me.’

  Mr Ettrick, in other words, was that fabled beast: a lawyer with a heart of gold. He was in Pip’s employ and could not resign from it, but he was in Lollie’s corner. He was a small mercy in all of this and I thanked heaven for him.

  10

  ‘And you had no idea, madam?’ said Superintendent Hardy. He was sitting on the dressing stool in Lollie’s bedroom looking like a shire horse in a hat shop against the lavender silk. Lollie had gone straight to bed upon her return and when I had tried to get her up again, tried to persuade her that it was highly improper to summon the policeman to her bedside, she had only laughed a rather hysterical laugh and asked me why she should care about what was proper now. She laughed again as Hardy spoke to her

  ‘Not “madam”,’ she said. ‘“Miss”! I’m not a married woman. I’m a . . . I’m a . . . I don’t even know what the current term is for what I am.’

  ‘Mrs Balfour,’ said Superintendent Hardy, who must have been squirming but was hiding it very well. ‘My dear madam. Let us pay no attention to any of that until we see what’s what. I for one don’t believe it.’

  ‘Then why would he have said it?’ said Lollie. ‘Written it? Put it in the most serious document anyone ever writes in his life?’ I was standing beside the window looking out along the street for her doctor, to whom I had sent an urgent message to attend. Lollie, I feared, was beyond the reach of toast water, fish custard, or even port and brandy now, and as pitiful as her tears had been in the first throes of grief, as worrying as her blank, pale face and toneless voice had been when the shock had benumbed her, this was worst of all. Now her eyes glittered and her voice had a rich chuckle in it, and she made me think of a child’s balloon dancing at the end of its string as the breeze tried to twitch it away. I only hoped the doctor would come soon with some kind of stout medicinal tether for her.