The Legacy of Lochandee

by Gwen Kirkwood

  ‘But surely Mrs Murray denied it?’

  ‘She fainted. She never did like the sight of blood. When she came round, she said she didn’t feel well and then the police came and Miss Pierce sent me home, telling me to stay away. George saw them bundling Mrs Murray into a sort of black van and she was crying. He tried to talk to her but the policemen shoved him away.’

  ‘That’s terrible!’ Fiona said in disbelief.

  Mrs Bunty looked at her, then lowered her eyes. She began to speak and stopped. Her hands were twisting knots in her neatly pressed apron but she seemed unaware of what she was doing. Then, as though making up her mind, she leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘She’s evil. It was her fault Mr Murray took pneumonia. That’s what killed him. Shock, and lying all night on the cold floor, the doctor said. He had fallen on a patch of grease outside his workshop. He often worked in the evenings. He was on his way back into the house for the night. We-we went to see him in hospital – George and me. She doesn’t know. She told us we weren’t allowed to visit. He could scarce get breath, but he told us to stay. Slowly – ever so slowly – he told us how she dragged him inside. He had pleaded with her to phone the doctor, or get George. She wouldn’t. She kept on dragging him then she left him all night on the hall floor. I found him there next morning when I came in to do the fires and cook his breakfast. He – he was in terrible pain and he kept going unconscious.’

  ‘But where was Miss Pierce?’

  ‘Upstairs in her room. So was Mrs Murray. She’d been keeping ever so well until Miss Pierce came back and said she was moving in permanently to take care of her.’ Martha Bunty gave a contemptuous sniff. ‘She insisted she had to take a sleeping pill every night. She told George and me neither of them had heard Mr Murray come into the house. She said he must have slipped on the polished floor.’

  ‘Who did you believe?’

  ‘Mr Murray, of course. His mind was clear, but he knew he was very ill. The nurse wanted to send us away but he said we must stay until he finished, even if it took him all night. L-looking back I-I think he knew he was going to d-die.’ Tears filled her eyes again, but Fiona could only pat her shoulder in silent sympathy, as she remembered the sprightly gentleman that Mr Murray had been.

  ‘He – he made us promise to look after Mrs Murray – my Hannah, he called her. I – we didn’t tell him that Miss Pierce had shut her in the little room halfway up the stairs. She wouldn’t let us see her. George climbed up a stepladder outside, but he couldn’t open the window. It’s never been opened for years. She wouldn’t let anybody see her, not even the vicar when he came to call. She was all smiles and sympathy with him, but she gave my poor mistress nothing but bread and a little drop of milk and she made her use one of them chamber pots fixed under a chair.’

  ‘A commode.’

  ‘I think that’s what she called it.’

  ‘Didn’t Mr Murray wonder why his wife had not been to see him?’

  ‘She told him the shock had upset her and she wouldn’t come out of her room. I-I didn’t like to tell him the truth, poor man. What could he have done? Mrs Murray only got out for the funeral and Miss Pierce never left her side and hardly let her speak to anybody.’

  If even half of Mrs Bunty’s tales were true, Fiona decided Miss Pierce was not a pleasant person to know, and certainly not someone to trust.

  ‘Can you tell me where Mrs Murray is? Do you think she would see me?’

  ‘Oh Miss! You can’t go there! She’s in the asylum!’ Mrs Bunty’s voice was hushed with shock.

  ‘Do you have the address? Could you write it down for me?’ Fiona took a notebook from her bag and handed her a pencil. The old woman wrote slowly, carefully and passed the notebook back to Fiona.

  ‘Do you know the name of Mrs Murray’s solicitor? Does he know she is in the asylum?’

  ‘I don’t think Miss Pierce’d tell him. He’s Mrs Murray’s friend. His name is Mr Wainwright.’

  ‘Thank you.’ On impulse Fiona wrote down the name and address of Mrs Maxwell at Glens of Lochandee, then she added the telephone number.

  ‘Keep this. I don’t know what Mrs Maxwell could do to help if Miss Pierce does turn you and Mr Bunty out of your home, but I know she would try. She liked Mr Murray and his son.’

  ‘Are you going to the asylum, Miss?’ she asked fearfully as Fiona folded the piece of paper neatly and put it in the pocket of her black dress.

  ‘I may do, but I would like to speak to Miss Pierce first. Do you think she’ll be much longer?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell, Miss. I’ve made some soup. There’s plenty, but she’s not one to offer hospitality, not like Mr and Mrs Murray. Would you like a bowl now and a slice of bread?’

  Fiona accepted gratefully, suddenly realising how hungry she was and how the time had flown.

  ‘Does your husband come in for lunch?’

  ‘He used to. We had all our meals here, in this very kitchen. Now he has to have it at home – on his own.’ Mrs Bunty frowned. ‘Mrs Murray wouldn’t like that. Once, when the doctor had given her some new medicine, she talked and talked. She told me her mother belonged to a wealthy family and they sent her to a school in Switzerland to finish her education. While she was there one of the German masters he – he … well, you know, Miss … against her will … She was only 17 when Elvira was born. It was a terrible disgrace to the family. They sent her to a little cottage in the hills with an old servant. When the servant died, she stayed there on her own with the child until a kind gentleman came walking by and stopped to ask for refreshment, because it was so hot and he had lost his way. He began to visit regularly. They married and my dear mistress was born. Elvira was ten years old by then and very jealous, Mistress Murray said. She shook her head sadly and said Miss Pierce was to be pitied rather than blamed, but then she was such a gentle soul herself. Suddenly she grabbed my hand and she said …’ Mrs Bunty stifled a sob. ‘She said, she hoped I’d always be there to help her against her sister’s malice and jealousy. She said Elvira must have taken it from her father because their mother was a kind, gentle woman.’

  ‘I see …’ Fiona felt she ought not to quiz the woman any more but she needed to find out all she could about Miss Pierce. She was almost convinced the woman was unscrupulous and would do all she could to claim Mr Murray’s wealth. She was glad she had come in person instead of relying on letters, but she wished now she had let Conan drive her to the people she needed to see.

  ‘That was delicious, Mrs Bunty,’ she said laying aside her soup spoon. The old woman smiled and was just about to warm the teapot for a cup of tea when they heard a cab drawing up at the front door. Swift as lightning, Mrs Bunty grabbed the empty soup plate and stuffed it in a cupboard, whisking away the side plate and breadcrumbs an instant later. She smoothed her apron nervously and moved into the hall to greet Miss Pierce.

  ‘Y-you have a visitor, Ma’am.’

  ‘I do not wish to see anyone. Get rid of …’

  Fiona had moved to the door behind Mrs Bunty and now she stepped forward, holding out her hand. ‘My name is Miss Sinclair,’ she said formally. ‘I was a client of …’

  ‘What are you doing in my kitchen? How dare you …?’ She turned on Mrs Bunty and for a moment Fiona thought she was going to strike the old woman. Mrs Bunty clearly thought so too, judging by the way she cowered back against the wall.

  ‘I asked your housekeeper for a glass of water,’ Fiona said quickly, shooting Mrs Bunty a warning glance. ‘I have come a long way and …’

  ‘You have no business in my house.’ She moved as though to open the door but Fiona stepped in front of her.

  ‘I came to see Mrs Murray. I am from Scotland and I am here on behalf of Messrs Jacob Niven & Son, the solicitors representing a client of the late Mr Murray.’ Fiona’s voice was cool now, her manner formal as she drew herself to her full height, head high, her slim shoulders erect. She felt an instinctive distrust of the woman who was glaring at her with pale hard eyes. She had to su
mmon all her will power not to shiver.

  ‘Your client sold the vase to Mr Murray. It’s too late to claim it back now. It belongs to his estate. I have nothing more to say. Good day to you.’ Again she made a move towards the door.’

  ‘A-ah …’ Fiona said softly. ‘Did I mention I was here about a vase?’

  The pale blue eyes glittered with fury as Elvira Pierce stared back at her. The narrow features turned an ugly shade of purple, then paled alarmingly. Her thin lips opened and shut twice before any sound came.

  ‘You had better come with me. We shall discuss your business in private.’

  She led the way towards the wide staircase and Fiona followed. Halfway up she stopped and opened a door, indicating Fiona should precede her. Too late, Fiona realised this sparsely furnished small room must be the place where Mrs Murray had been held a prisoner in her own home. She turned back towards the door but Miss Pierce was already closing it and she heard a key turning in the lock

  ‘The sale is tomorrow,’ Miss Pierce called triumphantly through the thick wood. ‘And possession is nine-tenths of the law, as you’ll find out.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  FIONA REALISED WHAT A fool she had been, to allow herself to be duped so easily, but it did not occur to her that she was to be kept a prisoner indefinitely, as Mrs Murray had been. Only now did she believe Mrs Bunty’s tales had not been exaggerated, nor the depths to which Miss Pierce would stoop to gratify her own greed.

  She moved to the window. It looked solid and heavy in keeping with the Georgian architecture of the house. There were six small panes in both the top and bottom sash and she couldn’t imagine when it had last been opened. Even if the weights were working, it was gummed fast with coats of paint. She could break one of the panes but it would be impossible to get out. She peered out but the room was to the side of the house and seemed to be part of a small extension, perhaps built on top of a wash-house, or some other outbuilding. She could just see a gravel path bordered by trees, which no doubt accounted for the dim light. Fiona wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling cold. The room was sparsely furnished with a small table, an upright chair, and a second one with narrow wooden arms, which on further investigation revealed the commode which Mrs Bunty had mentioned. She screwed up her nose in distaste, fully expecting to be released before she should need to use it. Only the carpet square and burgundy brocade curtains looked as though they had been part of the original furnishings. There was not even a light bulb in the overhead fitting.

  Time passed slowly and Fiona was thankful she had eaten the bowl of soup. As it was, she longed for a cup of hot tea. She got up from the straight-backed chair and rattled the door for the umpteenth time. She called Miss Pierce but there was no answer. The autumn afternoon drew slowly to a close, with the deepening shadows obscuring the corners of the room. Fiona realised it would soon be impossible to see and there was no fire laid in the grate, no matches or candle. She stifled a feeling of panic. She wished now she had waited for Conan Maxwell to accompany her, but one thing was certain, she would never admit to him what a fool she had been. Somewhere she thought she heard the strident ringing of a telephone, and she remembered she had promised to call Jordon Niven to report on her progress with Miss Pierce. They had thought she might be a little obstinate but they had never dreamt she would go to such lengths. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was 4.45 p.m.; he would be leaving the office soon and he would assume she’d forgotten to phone. Time was running out. Tomorrow afternoon the vase would be sold in London and, if Miss Pierce got her hands on the money, there would be less chance than ever of Mrs Maxwell getting anything.

  Surely there had to be some way of proving Mr Murray had not purchased the vase. She moved to the door again and hammered on it with all her strength. She took off her shoe and used the heel, keeping up the bombardment. The door was thick but surely Mrs Bunty must hear her.

  Then she heard the floorboards creak and knew someone was standing outside.

  ‘It’s no good making a fuss. There’s nobody to hear but me.’

  ‘Let me out of here!’

  ‘You can get out after the vase is sold, and the money is in my hands.’ Miss Pierce replied coldly. ‘You had no business forcing your way into my home without invitation. Now you must suffer the consequences.’ Her voice was muffled by the thick wood but Fiona had her ear pressed to the crack. She put her mouth to the keyhole.

  ‘If you really believe Mr Murray paid our client fairly, why are you so anxious to keep me a prisoner?’

  ‘You’re all the same, you lawyers, full of trickery and clever talk. Old Wainwright thinks he’s going to take care of my sister’s money with his legal trusts, but he can’t do that. He can’t! Do you hear me, he can’t. I’m her next of kin, her only kin. All her life she’s been protected, had everything she wanted – now it’s my turn.’

  ‘Miss Pierce, all this has nothing to do with the vase …’

  ‘A-ah, but Wainwright knows nothing about the vase. I heard Murray and his friend discussing it. Rare and valuable, they said. Now he’s dead, and the dead can’t speak. Who can tell whether he bought it or borrowed it? It’s mine now and I mean to have the money for it. Something of my own. I’m sick of depending on charity. Sick of it, do you hear? Now keep quiet and …’

  ‘But I need to go to the bathroom …’

  ‘There’s a commode. Use that.’

  ‘I’m hungry and thirsty.’

  ‘I’ll bring you bread and milk in the morning, before I leave for London. You’ll not starve until then.’

  Fiona heard the creaking boards and knew with dismay that she was walking away. The woman was heartless, or insane. She sagged against the door. The silence was almost tangible. She crossed to the window, wondering whether she could get one of the curtains down to wrap around herself. The room was getting colder with the encroaching darkness.

  What was that? She pressed herself against the window. Surely it was the crunch of gravel, but she couldn’t see anyone. Frantically she knocked on the window. Then she saw an elderly man step back from the path to stare up at the house. She knocked again and saw his eyes focus on her. Even in the gathering gloom she saw his mouth open, his eyes widen. Then, taking in her situation, his mouth compressed. He raised his thumb, then, almost instantly, he put a finger to his lips and disappeared. Fiona almost sobbed with frustration and despair. Surely he had understood she was being held against her will? Surely he would return? But what could he do? What could she do?

  Fiona pushed away the rising panic and made herself think. She could write a note. If the man returned, she would break the pane with her shoe and throw it through. She tore a page from her pocketbook and wrote Jordon Niven’s telephone number, then realised he would have left the office long since and she didn’t know his home number. Mrs Maxwell? But no, she wouldn’t know what to do. Mr Wainwright then? He was local. He didn’t appear to be a friend of Miss Pierce. Surely he would help, if only the man could find his telephone number in the local directory. Swiftly, she scribbled a message and searched for the small torch she carried in her handbag. She wondered whether the man was Mr Bunty, or just a prowler. Please let him come back, she prayed fervently as the minutes ticked away into an hour and darkness descended.

  Suddenly Fiona sat up with a jerk. There was a sound outside? She could just make out the rectangle of the window, a lighter shade of darkness in the wall opposite her. She crossed to it and peered out. She could make out the dark shape of a man carrying a stepladder. She was just about to break the glass, when she realised it would probably hit him. She bit her lip. A face appeared on the other side of the glass. Fiona pulled out her torch and held it up above the note she had written. She saw the man’s bushy brows draw together as he read her writing, then understanding dawned. He nodded vigorously. She was sure now that he was George Bunty. She saw a flash of relief on his leathery face and a faint smile. Once more, he gave the “thumbs up” sign. He began to descend, the
n changed his mind. He pointed to the window catch, but she had tried it already and she shook her head. He nodded resignedly, pointed to the note and disappeared.

  Fiona was realistic enough to know the man would probably not bring help until morning. She pulled hard on the curtains but the wooden pole held firmly, so she settled herself for a long, uncomfortable night and prayed that help would come.

  She must have dozed, because she wakened with a start and realised there was a light shining up at the window. Stiffly she got to her feet and peered out. Sure enough there was someone out there with a flashlight. She grabbed her own and waved it frantically. The other waved back and Fiona thought she caught a glimpse of shiny silver buttons, then the darkness swallowed everything up again and she wondered whether she had been dreaming.

  She heard nothing of the commotion outside the front door so it seemed hours instead of minutes before she heard the floorboards creak and voices raised in anger and a woman screaming abuse. She recognised it as Miss Pierce sounding both indignant and hysterical. Then a deep voice spoke sternly. Something about an arrest, a search warrant and holding a person against her will.

  ‘Officer, how can you believe such a thing?’

  Fiona gasped at her cool audacity. Suppose they believed her? She ran to the door and hammered on it with the heel of her shoe. ‘I’m in here! In here!’ she called frantically. There was a noise like a scuffle.

  ‘The key, if you please? Otherwise I must ask the constable to break the door down.’ There was silence. ‘Well? Which is it to be?’

  Fiona waited tensely. Then a key grated in the lock and the door swung open. It was only then that Fiona realised how anxious she had been – how near to panic. It took all her self-control not to burst into tears of relief. A man in police uniform stepped forward and took her arm, drawing her into the light.