2 Reunited in Death

by Cecilia Peartree

  Reunited in Death

  Cecilia Peartree

  Digital Edition

  ©Cecilia Peartree 2011

  All rights reserved

  Chapter 1

  Rodent alert

  It was funny the way Ms Farquharson’s rings clicked against each other when she was agitated. Funny in the sense of being odd, of course, not in a humorous way. Mrs Stevenson wouldn’t have presumed to laugh at Ms Farquharson, who was far better educated and better connected than herself.

  ‘So you think it was a mouse?’ Ms Farquharson was saying to Grumpy Graham, the attendant. It wasn’t really fair to call him grumpy, but lots of people did. Probably anyone who knew him.

  ‘I’m not an expert on rodents,’ said Graham. ‘It could have been a rat, for all I know.’

  Ms Farquharson straightened her back and tried to look down her nose at him through the new-fangled varifocals she had complained about so much. He loomed over her, large and solid as Longannet Power Station.

  Jemima Stevenson, officially looking for a particular census film in the filing cabinets, edged further along the row to make sure she didn’t miss anything. It wasn’t that she needed to know whether Graham had found a mouse or a rat, but that she couldn’t resist observing the interaction between the two of them.

  ‘A rat?’ Ms Farquharson repeated. ‘Can you explain it?’

  ‘A rat – it’s a large rodent,’ said Graham. ‘Bigger than a mouse and not as big as a capybara.’

  ‘I think you know what I meant,’ said Ms Farquharson. ‘Can you explain the shortfall in cleaning standards that has led to this - situation?’

  Graham sighed.

  ‘You can’t get the staff these days.’

  Mrs Stevenson held her breath. It seemed to her that Graham was treading on very thin ice when he spoke to Ms Farquharson like that. She pulled out a drawer at random. The microfilm cases inside were so loosely packed that they clattered around as the drawer moved.

  ‘What was it you were looking for again, Mrs Stevenson?’

  Clarissa, the assistant librarian, appeared at her side.

  ‘Um – I’m not sure I can remember,’ said Jemima, cross with herself for making such a noise and with Clarissa for interrupting her.

  ‘Was it the 1851 census you were working on?’ Clarissa persisted.

  ‘1861,’ said Mrs Stevenson shortly.

  ‘And would it be Torryburn again, or Dunfermline?’

  ‘Oh – both.’

  Jemima turned back to watch Graham and Ms Farquharson.

  ‘I think they’re along here,’ said Clarissa. ‘You’ve come too far this way.’

  She took Mrs Stevenson’s elbow and started to steer her in the right direction. Just before Jemima reluctantly turned away, she saw Ms Farquharson’s face contort in a glare.

  ‘You won’t get far in life with that attitude, Graham.’

  To which Graham retorted, ‘At least I don’t treat people like dirt.’

  As Ms Farquharson turned on her heel and stormed off in the direction of her office, Jemima thought she heard him say one more word under his breath. But it was such an unlikely word that she thought her hearing must be playing up again. Oh, well, just another of the trials of old age. She sighed.

  ‘It's hard work, isn’t it?’ said Clarissa, opening a drawer and peering into it. ‘But you’re doing really well.’

  Jemima sighed again. She didn’t need this wee girl with her earnest brown eyes and the silly hairstyle to tell her she was doing well. She would know she was doing well by the feeling she got when it all fitted together and made a complete picture.

  Clarissa wouldn’t leave her alone after that: fussing around the microfilm reader as if Jemima had never used one before; peering over her shoulder as she worked; pointing out names she seemed to think Jemima had missed.

  If only a coach party of tourists would arrive unexpectedly in the library to distract the girl! But there was only one other customer, or client, or whatever people who visited a library were called these days, and she spent ages just browsing the romantic novel section. Romance! Ha! Jemima Stevenson could tell everyone a thing or two about romance, if anybody asked her.

  'Mrs Stevenson?'

  'Yes?'

  The girl had picked up an armful of books and was standing there with a wistful look on her face.

  'You've got a lot of - um - experience of life, haven't you?'

  Jemima reluctantly moved her gaze away from her notes on Pitkirtly in the 1880s. The girl was carrying far too many books, and a minor landslide was inevitable unless she could be persuaded to put down some of them immediately.

  'Here - let me help you with those,' she said, rising from the seat and reaching out towards the girl.

  Clarissa took a step back.

  'It doesn't matter,' she said. 'Sorry.'

  She was already turning away when Jemima said, 'What sort of experience were you thinking of?' at the same time reaching round to steady the pile of books. Having done this to her satisfaction, she indicated a space on the table. 'Put them here.'

  Clarissa still dithered. 'It's all right, Mrs Stevenson. I don't want to interrupt your research.'

  Too late now, thought Jemima crossly. As she closed her notebook, she forced herself to smile at the girl. She wouldn't be able to concentrate with Clarissa vacillating all over the place. Even the girl's hair couldn't decide what to do with itself - it was swept up at one side and trailing down at the other, obscuring nearly half her face. But Jemima Stevenson wasn't the kind of person to judge others by their hair.

  While Clarissa deposited the armful of books on the table, Jemima dragged over another chair, waited until they had both sat down, and said quietly,

  'So - what was it you wanted to talk to me about?'

  After a few more moments of prevarication, Clarissa confessed, 'Well, it's sort of - about men.'

  Dear God, thought Jemima, not that she thought of herself as religious, what have I done to deserve this?

  'Men.... I don't know if - '

  'Well, it's about a man,' said Clarissa, and lowered her voice still further. 'Andrew.'

  'Ah.'

  'I thought he - we -'

  'Were an item?'

  'Yes, I suppose that's one way of putting it. But we hadn't really got to that stage yet...'

  And never would if Andrew was as indecisive as Clarissa, thought Jemima.

  'But Graham says he's got a girl-friend,' said Clarissa, her eyes shining with tears. 'He's seen them together in that furniture shop with the mirrored bedside cabinet in the window- they were choosing a wardrobe! The cream one with the ivy leaves stencilled on the side!'

  She burst into tears then, noisily and messily. It sounded as if the ivy leaves had been the final straw.

  'So Graham remembered the exact wardrobe they were looking at?' said Jemima sceptically. She had never thought of Grumpy Graham as someone who would take an interest in interior design.

  'The wardrobe - isn't important,' gulped Clarissa. 'What am I going to do?'

  Jemima thought very carefully about what she should say next. Of course the girl was behaving like a teenager, with all the accompanying illusions and dreams: if Andrew was going to ask her out he would have done so by now, having had ample opportunity in the time they had been working together. Clarissa should pull herself together and get over it, as younger people might say. But there was something fragile and anachronistic about her. It would be cruel to crush her altogether. But just as cruel to encourage her to pin her hopes on Andrew.

  'It's nice you've got so friendly with Andrew,' said Jemima in the end. 'But maybe you're only meant to be friends and not anything more.'

  'Friends!'

  'Never u
nderestimate the value of friends,' said Jemima. 'That's one thing I've learned in my life.'

  'Friends! It's not the same thing at all!' wailed Clarissa. She sprung up from the table and started to sweep the books back into her arms. She bristled with anger; even her hair was suddenly charged with electricity, and the once damp wilting tendrils that had escaped from being swept up at one side were now standing out wildly at different angles. Well, at least she was no longer a wet, blubbering heap of misery, Jemima reflected, trying to convince herself she had helped in some way.

  ‘Pssst! Clarissa!’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Jemima, glancing across to the bookshelves.

  Clarissa stopped fiddling with the books, looked up and blushed. ‘It’s Andrew.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him? Is he afraid of being seen? Has he grown an extra head or something?’

  Jemima immediately took herself to task for saying this. She must have spent too much time with Amaryllis before the latter had gone off to Outer Mongolia – if she was there at all. You never knew with Amaryllis. What you saw wasn’t usually what you got.

  Andrew stepped out from the shadows of the self-help section, which Jemima was sure had only occupied half a shelf the last time she had looked – which admittedly had been some time ago – but which had now inexplicably grown to take up three rows of shelf space. She hoped he hadn't witnessed the conversation between herself and Clarissa. Even if he had, it didn't seem to have made any impression on him: he presented his usual anxious-looking face and somewhat untidy appearance.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said. ‘I thought Ms Farquharson might be here.’

  ‘She was shouting at Graham a minute ago,’ said Clarissa. ‘Is there some reason you’re avoiding her?’

  Andrew shrugged. ‘No more than usual.’

  Although not naturally a violent person, Jemima wanted to give him a kick. She wasn't at all convinced by Grumpy Graham's wardrobe story. Someone as weedy as Andrew was lucky even to have attracted Clarissa's attention, never mind carrying on another relationship behind her back. Was weedy the right word? Young people no doubt called it something else. Nerdy or uncool or something. Whatever name you gave it, the condition was characterised by hunched shoulders, long shapeless jumper and a straggly beard. She watched Clarissa looking at Andrew, and wondered if the wee girl had it in her to make something of him. But sometimes the material was so unpromising that you might as well discard it and start all over again.

  Now he lowered his voice. ‘She’s started going on at me again about popularising the museum displays.’

  ‘Popularising?’ said Clarissa.

  ‘I blame that management training course. Ever since then she’s been talking about mission and vision, and clients’ needs.’

  ‘Dumbing down,’ Clarissa nodded. They both assumed similar expressions of scorn. Clarissa seemed to have forgotten already that he had broken her heart.

  Jemima wanted to keep listening, but her eye was suddenly caught by the words on the screen in front of her. It was what she had been looking for – and yet...She took off her glasses, polished them on her cardigan and had another look, leaning forward to make sure it still said the same.

  She hadn’t expected to find a Farquharson in her family tree. It was as if the talk about Ms Farquharson had conjured up the census entry.

  ‘How are you doing anyway, Mrs Stevenson?’ said Andrew in the louder tone he seemed to think appropriate for addressing someone of her age. ‘Any black sheep in your family?’

  He moved round behind her to look over her shoulder. ‘My goodness, there’s a Farquharson!’

  At that moment the head librarian herself entered the library. She homed in on the little group at the microfilm reader.

  ‘Digging up our ancestors again, are we?’ she said to Jemima. This could have been the occasion to take serious umbrage about her private concerns being bandied around by the Cultural Centre staff, but she was still reeling from the surprise of seeing the name on the screen.

  ‘I’ve found a Farquharson!’ she blurted out, pointing at the census record.

  ‘Oh, surely not!’ said Ms Farquharson. She didn’t even bother to move to a position from which she could see the record for herself. ‘You’d better check your sources again, Mrs Stevenson. It’s easy for an amateur researcher to get it all wrong.’

  She turned and stalked off down the rows of shelves, pausing only to straighten a stray volume that was projecting too far forward in the Biography section as she passed it.

  As Jemima commented later to David, it was the sneering way Ms Farquharson said ‘amateur’ that really upset her. After that her heart wasn’t in it any more. She needed to talk to David and get the hurt and anger out of her system.

  Reluctantly Jemima packed her notebook, pencils and cardboard folder into her shopping bag, put on her tweed coat and the cashmere blend scarf David had given her as a birthday present, and left the library. She trudged towards the entrance foyer, from where two other doors led to the meeting room and to the local museum, and where she wished she had arranged to meet David as she sometimes did. It would have lifted her spirits to see his solid frame and cheerful face.

  As she went through into the foyer, the outer door opened with a whoosh and Christopher Wilson hurried in. Jemima had known Christopher for some time and liked him a lot. Her steps automatically speeded up a little, and she had just opened her mouth to speak when a black shape came through from the meeting room. A sharp voice said, ‘Christopher, how good of you to join us.’

  Christopher slid behind the reception desk and stared at Ms Farquharson.

  ‘I’d be grateful if you could do something about your timekeeping, Christopher.’ Ms Farquharson moved towards the desk. Jemima watched, still slightly taken aback by the woman’s sudden and dramatic appearance.

  ‘Otherwise I might be forced to take steps,’ the librarian continued. She glared at Christopher. His round face was impassive.

  ‘Steps?’ he said.

  ‘Steps I really would prefer not to have to take, Christopher.’

  ‘I’m very sorry I was late today,’ he said.

  Jemima began to chuckle inwardly. Mrs Farquharson evidently didn’t know the Christopher she knew – the man who had talked his sister down from the hospital roof; the man who had narrowly escaped death in a disused mineshaft; the man who had fearlessly organised a Christmas Fair in the middle of summer and who had persuaded Amaryllis to run a duck game.

  ‘Well, don’t let it happen again!’ snapped Ms Farquharson. ‘I doubt very much if that other job pays enough to keep you in the style to which you’re accustomed.’

  She swept into the library, followed closely by her black pashmina, which exhibited a life of its own, flying out behind her like the wings of a great black crow.

  ‘Well,’ said Christopher, at last free to focus on Jemima. ‘Who stole her cookie?’

  Jemima chuckled out loud this time. ‘That one’s just too big for her boots.’

  Christopher hung up his parka. ‘Sometimes I’d rather work full-time in the supermarket. Much less hassle.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ said Jemima. ‘You’re needed here. You should be in charge and that woman should go and work in the supermarket – if they’d have her there. They wouldn’t if they knew what I know,’ she added darkly.

  ‘What’s that, then? Go on, you can tell me,’

  ‘It doesn’t matter... When does Amaryllis get back?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow,’ he said, and she was aware that he couldn’t suppress his pleasure. ‘Dave and I are meeting her. Do you want to come too?’

  ‘We’ll see... Have you had a postcard?’

  ‘Amaryllis doesn’t send postcards.’

  She couldn’t work out from his tone whether he regretted this or not. It was hard to tell with Christopher.

  Chapter 2

  From the steppes of Central Asia

  Christopher paced the terminal building at Edinburgh Airp
ort, wondering why he was so nervous. It wasn’t as if he himself had been locked in a metal capsule with lots of people, who in his opinion were certain to harbour amongst them every virus known to man, while being treated with ill-disguised contempt by the cabin crew, consuming plastic food and heading for another country at speeds no human being was meant to endure. All he was doing was meeting Amaryllis.

  After a bit more thought he realised that the only thing he had to worry about was the potential faux pas of having come to meet the wrong plane on the wrong day, in which case he could slink off home again without anyone else being any the wiser. Or, he decided after a few more minutes’ thought, the embarrassment of having to report Amaryllis missing if she didn’t arrive on the expected flight. He wasn’t sure if she would like being reported missing, anyway. If she was missing, it would almost certainly turn out to be part of some secret plan of hers to do with that other life he was only dimly aware of.

  The doors opened with a decisive clunk. There she was walking towards him. Even after a long flight she was sleek as ever, moving like a panther, dressed like a vagrant. She had managed to get off the plane ahead of all the other passengers. She must have travelled clinging to the wing or something.

  He wasn’t sure whether to hug her or not. It had been a while since they last saw each other. Three months, in fact, since she had announced that she wanted to go and trek round Outer Mongolia, and that she didn’t suppose he would be interested in coming with her. She was right: he hadn’t been interested.

  He held out his hand to her. She took it, but leaned towards him and kissed him on the cheek.

  He leaned back.

  ‘How was Outer Mongolia?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  ‘Good journey?’

  ‘Yes, good.’

  ‘Have you got any luggage?’

  ‘Just this,’ she said, holding up a battered rucksack. Apparently she had travelled light, but then that was a sensible way to travel in such a remote area. Outer Mongolia didn’t sound like any place for these wheeled suitcases that all other travellers seemed to possess.

  ‘I don’t like those suitcases with wheels,’ he said, feeling foolish even as he spoke.