Christopher decided not to enquire any further.
Once they were installed, quite cosily, in the local history section of the library, he investigated possible sources. He found local newspapers on microfiche and partly indexed on computer almost at once, and set Mrs Stevenson to work on going through them while he checked out more publications and made friends with the librarian, who got very interested when he mentioned Pitkirtly.
‘That must be an exciting wee place,’ she said. ‘Hasn’t somebody been murdered in the library there? Just the other day?’
‘It was this lady’s cousin,’ whispered Christopher, making gestures he hoped would lead her gaze to the right place. ‘Better not say too much – it might upset her.’
The last thing he wanted was to get side-tracked into gossip about the murder. He could understand the librarian being curious about it though – and perhaps even a bit apprehensive.
‘All right, I won’t say any more,’ whispered the librarian. ‘Have they caught him yet?’
‘Caught who?’ whispered back Christopher. He glanced round at Mrs Stevenson to find that she was staring back at them. Her attention must have been attracted by all the whispering. He coughed, and said in a normal voice, ‘So do you have anything about Pitkirtly?’
‘I think that would be mostly at Inverkeithing or Culross,’ said the librarian regretfully. ‘But we do have a collection of some basic material to do with Pitkirtly, I think. Just give me a minute and I’ll look it out for you.’
Christopher thanked her profusely and went to see how Mrs Stevenson was progressing.
‘This microfiche thing doesn’t work,’ she said accusingly. He gave her a demonstration.
‘Any luck with the catalogue?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t had time to try it out yet. Maybe you could have a go.’
He sat down at the computer and typed ‘Jessie Watson’ into the search box. No results. ‘John Watson’. Aha! A report from 1956 headed – he nearly fell off his chair – ‘Historic Murders of Old Dunfermline.’ He scanned down the digitised newspaper page, taking in the main details as he had been accustomed to do when he was an archivist himself, cataloguing manuscripts so that other people could search for and find them.
‘Oh, my God,’ he said as he reached the end of the page.
Mrs Stevenson ignored him, perhaps in protest at his language.
‘Look at this,’ he said to her, turning the computer screen so that she could see it more easily.
She read down the page. Her jaw dropped.
‘Oh, my,’ she said. ’John Watson. And son. Murderers.’
She made it sound like the name of a family firm.
‘And look at this!’ Christopher’s voice rose to a squeak as he clicked and the next page appeared on the screen. ‘The family did change their name, when Jessie married again!’
Mrs Stevenson leaned across to have a look before he even had time to turn the screen round again. Her eyes were like saucers.
‘Farquharson. Oh, no, surely not...’
‘We need the births, deaths and marriages now,’ said Christopher. He approached the librarian again. She handed him a small pile of books, which he put down carefully on the table next to Mrs Stevenson, before obtaining the microfilm with the official records on it.
Family history shouldn’t be this exciting, he thought as he fumbled with the microfilm reader. In the end the librarian had to come and thread the film through the spool for him. He must have looked like a complete idiot. It did cross his mind to reveal that he had once been an archivist, but he decided he would look like even more of an idiot if he did that.
They chose to look for the marriage record first, having obtained a rough date from the newspaper report.
‘There it is!’ squealed Mrs Stevenson after one or two false sightings. ‘Jessie Watson, nee Murray, married Jack Farquharson or Ferguson... What does that mean, or Ferguson?’
‘At one time the two names were interchangeable,’ said Christopher. ‘But that was mainly before the time of official records. It’s quite unusual to find it happening in the 1930s.’
‘I wonder what happened to the boy who was locked up,’ said Mrs Stevenson.
‘Hmm,’ said Christopher. ‘The brother who murdered his sister. He was only twelve then. He wouldn’t have gone to an adult prison even in those days. He probably got out when he was eighteen or so. What was his name again? Bill?’
‘Yes, from William, after my grandpa.’
‘Bill or William Watson. We could try the marriage and death records.’
They drew a blank but Mrs Stevenson had a bright idea. ‘Maybe he changed his name as well. Maybe he took on his mum’s new name.’
‘So – Bill Farquharson or Ferguson.’
They found marriage records for a William Farquharson at the right sort of time, assuming he had got out of prison or Borstal soon after becoming an adult. He had married a girl called Marion Reynolds.
‘How do we know he’s the right one ?’ said Mrs Stevenson.
‘We don’t,’ said Christopher. ‘Unless – maybe he named his children after other family members. It used to happen a lot before the craze for celebrity names.’
They searched the birth records, each at a different microfilm reader to cover more ground. After a whole blank reel, Christopher was losing the will to live, when there was a shriek from Mrs Stevenson.
‘Look! Look, Christopher!’
They stared at the screen together. Gloria Farquharson’s birth record of 1964 stared back at them.
‘Is that Ms Farquharson?’ said Mrs Stevenson, staring at it in wonder. ‘Our Ms Farquharson?’
‘It certainly could be, from the date,’ said Christopher.
‘Look – her parents were William Farquharson and Marion Reynolds. So – she might have been related to me!’
‘It looks like it,’ said Christopher cautiously. His thoughts were whirling round as he tried to assimilate the new information and its implications. ‘First cousin once removed, or something.’
‘Yes, because she’s in a different generation,’ Mrs Stevenson nodded wisely. ‘Was in a different generation, I mean. If only I’d known about this sooner! Why didn’t my mum tell me?’
‘She probably didn’t know,’ Christopher pointed out. ‘It sounds as if that side of the family were so bad that she cut them right out of her life.’
‘The whole family wasn’t bad!’ protested Mrs Stevenson. ‘Ms Farquharson was a good person. She did a lot for Pitkirtly.’
‘It looks as if her death could be connected to the others after all,’ said Christopher, frowning. He glanced down at Mrs Stevenson, and was aware of the exact moment when she grasped the full implications of what he had said.
‘Oh, my,’ she murmured again.
‘We’d better get this information to the police in case they haven’t already found out,’ said Christopher. ‘You could be in danger, Jemima. Maybe they can give you some protection.’
‘We should try and confirm it first,’ suggested Mrs Stevenson. ‘After all, a good researcher always cross-checks his sources. This might have been a completely different William Farquharson. There were other Farquharsons around – remember my great-great-uncle, who swindled that lady’s great-great-grandsomething?’
‘Could have been the same family,’ said Christopher, ‘after all, it isn’t that common a name. Not in Pitkirtly.’
‘Ferguson’s more common,’ said Mrs Stevenson.
‘Will we have a look for more children?’ Christopher said. ‘That might help.’
‘I still don’t know why anybody would pick on my family like this,’ said Mrs Stevenson.
‘One more sweep through the records, then we’ll ring the police,’ said Christopher.
‘Wouldn’t it be better to go and see them? It might be hard to explain on the phone.’
‘Maybe you’re right. Come on, let’s get back to the microfilm. You’re right, we need to cross-check to confirm this.
Find another link. They’re more likely to take some notice of us then.’
They didn’t have to go much further to find it.
Christopher exclaimed aloud this time. He was starting to worry that the librarian would ask them to leave if they didn’t contain their excitement; but perhaps, on the other hand, she liked seeing people show some enthusiasm for a change.
‘Graham Farquharson, born 1966 to William Farquharson and Marion Reynolds. Graham – wasn’t that one of your family names?’
‘Yes! My mum’s brother was Graham. The one who went away to England and died. That was nice of them to name a son for him.’
‘Nice – yes. Well, that looks like the link we need. Or near as dammit... This Graham Farquharson needs to be found and warned too.’
‘If it isn’t too late,’ said Mrs Stevenson.
Chapter 27
Green bottles
‘Well, it was worth a try,’ said Big Dave philosophically, as he manoeuvred through the rush-hour traffic heading out of Edinburgh.
Amaryllis was sulking. It had usually worked up to now. Well, to be honest it had worked once before. She wasn’t to know that Detective Chief inspector Smith had chosen to visit the hospital at exactly the same time as she had. There was no way of gaining access to the mud-coloured man after all. Even she, with all her backup plans and abseiling training, had been forced to give up. Not only was he being guarded round the clock by uniformed police, but they had now been specifically warned not to admit anyone resembling her even if they were dressed as the Pope and claimed to have come personally to administer the last rites.
They were returning empty-handed. Well, not quite literally. Between telling them off and waiting to make sure they left, Mr Smith had taken an envelope out of his pocket.
‘This was delivered in the morning post at Mrs Stevenson’s house,’ he said. ‘You might as well give it to her yourselves. At least that would be something useful you’ve done today.’
Amaryllis had given the envelope to Big Dave, who had tucked it in his inside pocket as carefully as if it contained a priceless antique document, when it was probably only a piece of junk mail from some company that relentlessly bombarded over-seventies with advertisements for life insurance and funeral plans.
‘I wonder what the letter says,’ said Big Dave idly, perhaps trying to fill the gap in the conversation.
‘It might not be anything much,’ said Amaryllis, hesitating to mention her thoughts on the matter.
‘Likely one of those funeral plans,’ said Big Dave.
‘Maybe we should lose it, in case it upsets Jemima.’
Dave gave her a look, which she wished he hadn’t, since it caused him to look away from the traffic and almost run into the back of a Nissan Micra that was being driven by somebody very dithery.
‘That wouldn’t upset Jemima,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake, woman, make up your mind!’
She gathered he was addressing the Micra driver with this last sentence.
‘You should never throw away somebody else’s letters,’ he added, ostentatiously changing down a gear to accommodate the enforced lower speed.
‘You may be right,’ she said gloomily.
They were about to leave Edinburgh on the Queensferry Road when Dave spoke again.
‘Wonder how Jemima and Christopher are getting on.’
‘They’ve probably linked Jemima’s tree to Adam and Eve by now.’
He laughed. ‘Good boost for her research anyway, even if they don’t find anything useful.’
He picked up speed and they rushed past an illuminated road sign.
'Forth Road Bridge closed,' said Amaryllis.
'What?' said Dave. 'No, it won't be closed to cars. It'll be high-sided vehicles, that's all. Not surprising, in this wind.'
'It just said closed.'
'We'll see about that,' said Dave, accelerating up the hill as they passed Cramond Bridge. Amaryllis could feel the wind trying to force them off course. She didn't say any more about the bridge being closed. They would find out soon enough if it was.
A few miles further along, under ever-darkening skies, Dave swore, apologised and swerved on to the slip-road at the last moment, following the 'diversion' signs.
'Bridge closed to all traffic!' he complained. 'You'd think they'd give you more warning. I could've been halfway to Kincardine by now if I'd gone round by Newbridge.'
'We'll be late back,' said Amaryllis, clutching the side of the seat as he whirled round the Queensferry roundabout twice looking for the exit he wanted. 'I'll give Christopher a call in case they start worrying.'
'He won't have his phone on,' said Dave/
She tried anyway.
'Does Jemima have a mobile?' she asked after listening to Christopher's voicemail message. She had recorded it herself in a fit of annoyance with him for being so technologically inept. It said 'Sorry, Christopher Wilson is a Luddite who doesn't believe in switching his phone on unless he has to. If you leave a message he probably won't get back to you later.'
'Do you think she's any more likely to switch it on than he is?' said Dave with a grin. 'They're a fine pair. Both as bad as each other. Not safe to be out on their own.'
Just in front of them, a branch appeared briefly in the glare of the headlights and was whisked away by another gust of wind across the carriageway. Amaryllis, not a nervous passenger by any means, searched the car interior for alternative handholds.
The first massive drops of rain patterned the windscreen. Amaryllis felt cross all over again about their futile journey. Why had they bothered to cross the Forth in the first place? Why - ?
'Why didn't we just stay on our own side of the bridge, eh?' said Dave, picking up her thought and amplifying it. He turned the windscreen wipers up a notch and carried on driving at the same speed he always did. At this rate, she comforted herself, they wouldn't be too late back - assuming they got back at all. And yet for some reason she felt an urgency about their return. Something had gone wrong in Pitkirtly - Christopher and Jemima needed their help.
She wriggled crossly in her seat and tried to dismiss these fancies. They were based on nothing - she didn't believe she could possibly have read Christopher's thoughts and fears from this distance away and with no contact from him. It was ridiculous.
'It's not that far once we get to Kincardine,' said Dave. She realised he was trying to reassure himself as well as her. Perhaps he had the same sort of inkling that something was wrong. Except that she didn't think men had inklings - they were fragile, insubstantial feminine things, hard to grasp and liable to melt away when you touched them.
She gasped as Dave served to avoid more debris. Fortunately there were few other cars on the road in these conditions. He turned his head briefly to grin at her as they joined the M9 motorway.
'It'll be fine,' he said.
It was fine for a while, as the pick-up truck swooped up the first slope of the motorway and began to swallow the miles from there to the Kincardine Bridge. Well, not actually fine, Amaryllis knew: the wind still battered at the car and made it switch lanes at alarming, random intervals, and the windscreen wipers struggled to keep up with the scale of the downpour. Another branch or two flew past. She tried not to imagine that the next one might smash through the windscreen.
Dave started to sing. In many ways it was the last straw, and yet she found herself joining in. He had no sense of melody or rhythm, so he was an undemanding duettist.
They roared on through the darkness.
'And if one green bottle should accidentally fall,' bellowed Dave.
'There'd be twenty three green bottles hanging on the wall,' sang Amaryllis more tunefully, wishing he hadn't chosen a song with such dirge-like qualities.
By the time they finally approached Kincardine Bridge, they had lost approximately fifty-seven green bottles in all, and Amaryllis was starting to feel as if her head might explode. It was almost as bad as the time she'd been taken by the Americans in Hong Kong and forced t
o listen to an Osmonds' album for five hours...
Anaesthetised by monotony, she fell into a doze from which she was awakened by a severe jolt and a loud bang.
Chapter 28
Row your boat
On the way home on the bus Jemima was quiet, allowing the newly acquired information to sink in. She couldn’t quite get over the shame of having two murderers in the family, even if one of them was only related to her by marriage. One thing, though, she was no longer surprised that her mother had cut off all communication with that side of the family. She herself would have done much the same.
One of the murderers, John Watson, had killed someone in a street fight, which was nasty but could be understood, and his son, William Watson, later known as William Farquharson, had just been a boy when he killed his sister during a family argument. That was a bit different. Boys of twelve, she knew from experience, were capable of murder if they got angry. It was just good luck that ninety-nine times out of a hundred nobody was in the way when they exploded. But to turn on his own sister... Jemima sighed. She couldn’t help thinking he had deserved more than a few years in a Borstal for doing that.
She wished she had known Gloria Farquharson had been her cousin, if that was indeed the case. Jemima was quite strict about her family research and liked to be absolutely sure of her facts before writing things down on her big chart and in her scrapbook.
‘All right?’ said Christopher beside her.
‘I’m fine, dear,’ she told him. ‘It’s a shocking story, but somehow it is just a story. I don’t feel as if I’m part of it myself.’
‘I hope the police can find this Graham Farquharson before it’s too late,’ said Christopher.
‘We still don’t know why somebody should mean any harm to my family,’ said Jemima. ‘It could be some horrible coincidence.’
‘Maybe it’s somebody avenging the victims of John and William Watson in a weird way,’ said Christopher.
‘But the victims were part of the family too,’ said Jemima. ‘The only one who would want vengeance would be my Auntie Jessie, and I doubt she’s alive still.’
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