Rose McQuinn 7 - Deadly Legacy

by Alanna Knight

  I promised to do so and we parted with mutual good wishes.

  After a mercifully uneventful journey, at Perth station I seized a carriage for Tarnbrae, which excited interest from a more than usually talkative driver, rare in Edinburgh where they tend toward the taciturn. He regarded my lack of golf knowledge as a serious shortcoming.

  Informed that Tarnbrae was famous, I soon discovered the reason for his particular interest - he presumed I was heading for the tournament. Did I have a ticket? If not, he could procure one for me, at only a fraction more than the asking price at the gate, with the solemn warning that to his certain knowledge they had been sold out days ago. He was clearly disappointed at my refusal and I guessed that this was a little lucrative sideline during such events.

  Paying my fare, I opted out of the drive up to the clubhouse and was put down at the ornate gates, heading in the direction of the cottage, where a wisp of smoke from the chimney brought a sigh of relief.

  A tap on the door, the sound of footsteps.

  They were at home. The patter of feet increased and shrill voices declared children.

  At any moment now I was to see Jack's little daughter for the very first time. I took a deep breath and arranged my face.

  The woman who opened the door was somewhat slatternly in appearance, very harassed, thirtyish with thin lips, brows knitted in annoyance allied with shouts and threats that boded ill for the still-invisible children.

  My heart sank a little. I had imagined Pam, who I had never met, as a homely, smiling, motherly soul and this woman's demeanour failed on all accounts. But I told myself sternly that I must not make hasty judgements on first impressions, especially when it was obvious that her scant patience related to the fact she was in the later stages of pregnancy.

  The door behind her opened and a noisy group of children poured into the passage, led by one screaming lad of about five, yelling about what Ned had been doing. This she quelled by telling him to be quiet, adding a sharp slap across his head which merely turned his yells into roars.

  As the others huddled behind him, trying to evade the same punishment, I looked for Meg.

  To my dismay I saw that all were boys. Four of them, in varying ages from eighteen months to eight in what are commonly called 'steps of stairs'. But no small girl.

  Where was Meg?

  'Well, what's your business?' demanded the woman.

  She had shoved the boys unceremoniously back into what was apparently the kitchen, closing the door with terrible threats as to what would happen if they dared to come out again and interrupt her when she was busy. The subsequent silence suggested trembling in terror, out of sight.

  I said, 'You are Mrs Pringless?'

  'That's my name.'

  'You are the adoptive mother of Meg Macmerry?'

  'What is this about?' she demanded suspiciously. 'Who are you anyway?'

  'I am a friend of Meg's father. As I was to be in the area, he wished me to call and deliver his fondest greetings to his daughter with her birthday present.'

  That sounded an impossibly bad way to put it, but it was too late to withdraw the words. I saw the Pringless woman stiffen, regarding me through narrowed eyes. I added, 'Her father is naturally keen to have information regarding her welfare--'

  'Then he is not up to date with what's going on here,' she interrupted impatiently. 'I am Joe Pringless's new wife, as from two months past. His first wife, who was the lass's aunt, died earlier this year.'

  That Pam had died and her husband remarried was something of a shock. I said, 'We had not heard--'

  She put up a hand. 'These are my four lads - I was a widow. I couldn't take on any more bairns - especially a lass with this lot; you've seen for yourself how rough and rowdy they behave, a terrible handful - even their poor father could make nothing of them.' She sighed for a moment and patted her stomach. 'And now this, another one.'

  I hadn't time to wish her joy of it when a man's voice shouted, 'Who is it?'

  She sighed. 'That's Joe. You'd better talk to him.' She called, 'A visitor here for you,' and ushered me hurriedly into some sort of living-room-cum-bedroom with untidy pallets on the floor - a slatternly evil-smelling place, with children's battered toys, soiled linen and a strong odour of urine.

  Joe was slumped over a table, reading a newspaper, a bottle in one hand, with all the signs of overindulgence already having overtaken the man who had left Glasgow dockland to upgrade himself with a better life as clerk to a laird.

  'A visitor, ye say.' Curiosity led him to turn round and try unsuccessfully to rise to his feet. He gave up and stumbled back into his chair as his wife said, 'She's here about yon lass.' With that she went out, and firmly closing the door behind her, left him to an explanation in much demand.

  He indicated the chair opposite which I approached cautiously and swept some dirty undergarments on to the floor.

  'Go on, miss. Sit ye down.' And lifting the bottle. 'A drink perhaps?'

  I would have loved a drink of tea at that moment but a swig from his ale bottle had no appeal whatsoever.

  'Where is Meg?' I demanded.

  He stared at me, taking in the words slowly as if having difficulty in understanding them.

  I added sharply, 'I expected to find her here with you.'

  His eyes evaded me, searching the corners of the room, as if she might be lurking there. 'Oh aye, she was here with us, until recently. Ye'll ken that her aunty, my late wife, died of consumption in the summer?' And without waiting for any response, 'Annie nursed her in the last months.'

  'You were fostering other children--'

  'No, just Meg then. When Pam died, Annie moved in - we're just married.'

  I could see the reason for that: as well as nursing Pam she had been consoling the husband with some missing home comforts. I thought of the result - the unborn child filled in a whole lot of the story that was thankfully left to imagination.

  'Where is Meg now?'

  He tried looking at me, but his gaze was shifty. 'She's fine - all is well with the wee lass, I assure you.'

  'Then why was her father not informed of this change of circumstances, namely that her aunt had died?'

  Again he looked at me. 'We didna' want to worry him, but Annie wrote a letter. Did he not get it?' I said, 'The last letter her father received was when you were moving here to Tarnbrae six months ago. There was no mention that Pam was in poor health.'

  'Oh,' was all he could summon up as a reply, frowning, thinking hard.

  'I want to see Meg,' I said firmly. 'If you will be so good as to inform me of her present whereabouts. And tell me what has happened in the meantime.'

  'Aye, aye, let me explain. Annie was living here - when Pam died - had all these lads and she didna' think it a proper place for a wee lass, seeing as they were a bit rough. If ye see what I mean.'

  I didn't, but it was becoming repetitious and abundantly clear from my recent witness of their behaviour.

  He sighed deeply. 'As Annie's expecting another, that makes things a bit awkward. I'm out of work at present, so there's no money coming in.'

  I gave the ale bottle an accusing look, no doubt the reason for Joe losing his job, as he went on, 'It was all going to be too much for Annie. The wee lass had all her own way with my Pam - spoilt her a bit, right fond of her, fair doted on her in fact, especially as we had no bairns of our own.'

  He frowned, a moment's thought. 'So Annie and me thought she'd be much happier with a family who wanted her, needed a bairn of their own.' He paused. 'We decided the best thing was that we put her up for adoption.'

  I was horrified. 'You did this - without even consulting her father?'

  He shook his head. 'Ah, but we did. Just that exactly. Annie wrote to him.' Then looking at me very directly, suddenly quite sober, 'To be quite honest about this, I didna' ken how well you are acquainted with Macmerry, but we thought he would be quite glad not to have the responsibility. It's not as if he's a married man and could have ever offered her
a home.'

  As he spoke he was looking me over very candidly, as if trying to assess what position I held in Jack's life.

  'Between you and me,' he added confidentially, 'Macmerry's never showed that much interest in the wee lass. Of course, I kenned from my poor Pam that his marriage to her sister had not been a success - to put it mildly. And after she died, he was right glad we took the bairn in. A busy policeman chasing criminals in Edinburgh hadna' much time to spare and didna' want to spend it with the bairn Pam believed he never wanted in the first place.'

  Although I listened in shocked silence, I knew Joe Pringless made sense; he was speaking nothing but the truth. The truth I had heard in as many words from Jack himself. Now the situation was obvious. Perhaps the wily widow had seduced Joe and he had got her pregnant, but the conditions of marriage had undoubtedly been that he would take on her children but would get rid of that existing encumbrance, namely Meg Macmerry.

  Again I asked him coldly, 'And where is Meg now?'

  'She is being well cared for, a better life than she would have here, I can assure you,' he added almost sadly, and a quick look around that squalid room and his future expectations did not surprise me. 'We did it all proper. I had an advert put in the local paper.'

  How horrible, how heartless. A child advertised like a saleable commodity, or a domestic pet urgently in need of a new home. Aware of my shocked expression he went on hastily, 'There's a lot of wealthy folk in big estates round here. As a matter of fact there's one just a few miles away and they have a good reputation - a convalescent home for gentlewomen and there's an orphanage attached.'

  I thought of Lochandor as he smiled proudly. 'A real lady saw our advert and came along, said she would be glad to take such a nice pretty wee lass. Meg seemed to take to her, went over and held her hand. The lady laughed, gave her a hug and asked if she was a good little girl ...'

  I was seeing it all and my eyes filled with tears as he continued, 'The lady said we were not to worry. They would find her a good home and parents who would love her and do right by her.'

  He stopped there, looked away, and I asked the obvious question. 'Was this offer free of charge?'

  Embarrassed now, he said, 'Well no, I had to pay her for her trouble. Five pounds it was ...' And then looking at me quite brazenly, 'I hope, of course, to recover this from her rightful father.'

  And that made me so furious I could have hit him. It required little imagination to realise how dreadful the effects of all this bargaining, this transaction, would have on a three-year-old child uprooted from the only true home she had ever known from which the aunt she had regarded as her mother had suddenly disappeared.

  Biting my lip to contain my growing fury, and ignoring his hint about the money, I said coldly, 'If you will give me the address.'

  'Here it is.' He took out a stump of pencil, scribbled on a piece torn off the newspaper. I glanced at it and saw with considerable relief that it was Lochandor.

  Watching me, his relieved expression was replaced by a crafty look. 'I suppose there would be a chance of getting the money back - for bed and board and keep, like, these past years - from her father, the policeman.'

  'You suppose wrong,' I said, 'and he's not a policeman, he's a detective inspector.'

  He grinned. 'Why, that's even better!'

  'It is not, I can assure you. And he will be exceedingly displeased that he was not consulted about this very important matter of his daughter's future.'

  Joe shrugged. 'But I told you, Annie wrote a letter to him. I told her what to say. Blame the post if it never reached him.'

  If it was ever written. I began to have doubts about him entrusting a letter that required the utmost delicacy to the slatternly Annie with so much else to take care of - a new husband and her own brood.

  As I left, he did not rise to see me out, merely stretched out his hand for the bottle again.

  Annie was digging up vegetables in the garden, the boys rushing about, scrambling and fighting and swearing at each other. She was doing her best to ignore their activities and I had for her a fleeting shaft of sympathy. Whatever she had done or had not done, hers was not an easy life, nor were her future prospects hopeful with a lazy husband whose fondness for drink had cost him the 'better life' for which he had abandoned Glasgow's dockland.

  She looked up briefly as I reached the gate. 'Got it all settled, then?'

  'Yes,' I said, and holding out the note, I pretended to study it. 'Your husband's writing isn't very clear. What is this word?'

  She never moved. 'Don't ask me. I canna' read. Never learnt, never had time.' And looking anxiously towards the cottage door, 'But he doesna' ken. Never telled him.'

  Her words gave me all the proof I needed. The letter to Jack had never been written.

  CHAPTER TEN

  As I regained the drive leading up to the Tarnbrae golf course, I stepped aside for a carriage emerging empty from the entrance of the clubhouse. Having delivered his fare, the driver leant down and asked, 'Can I take you anywhere, miss?'

  I said 'Lochandor' and climbed aboard, thankful for this fortunate encounter and no longer having to contemplate the long walk ahead.

  As this driver was more of the taciturn variety I was used to, I had ample time to go over that interview with the Pringlesses and how I was to tell Jack, who would be furious as well as anxious and distraught.

  Poor Jack. I hated to think of his agony when all of this was added to his already well-established feelings of guilt.

  I could do no more than hope Meg would go to a childless couple longing for a child. Jack had been extremely fortunate that after her birth her own aunt had been in a similar situation.

  To take a practical view, all things considered, the prospects offered as Joe Pringless related them suggested a happier future than with her real father to whom she was a constant reminder of a time he was most eager to forget. But the child was my main concern and, however reluctant, I had to consider the alternative which would be obvious to everyone except myself and Jack.

  She could come and live at Solomon's Tower. But I would be a poor substitute for Aunt Pam, my life devoted to a career as a private investigator. And, alas, one whose every inclination defied motherhood. Marriage to Danny McQuinn had been marked by a series of miscarriages. After ten years we had given up hope. Ironically after Danny disappeared I had discovered that I was pregnant. This time I had successfully given birth to a healthy and utterly adored baby.

  Maternal feelings aroused for the first time overwhelmed me, wrenched brutally from my heart when our baby son Daniel died in Arizona. His death tore me apart and I had, even to this day, never fully recovered from his loss, although that part of my life was over for ever. I had lost my beloved husband and my beloved baby and I never wished for another.

  Happy to accept Jack Macmerry as a lover when I came to Edinburgh, I had been horrified to find myself pregnant with his child a few years ago. Marriage was arranged, but I was involved in a murder case that almost cost me my life as well as a miscarriage.

  I had wept, but not a lot, resigned to the fact that Faro women had never been lucky in childbirth - my own mother had died with the son Pappa longed for. It was like a curse upon us, something to do with our Orkney origins and a selkie ancestress, or so legend told it. As for me, selfishly perhaps, I was happy with my present existence and a prospering career.

  Jack had made a promise that he would take care of me, and accepted that we resume our life together, but he never again tried to persuade me into marriage. The situation suited us both - or so I pretended to believe. I retained my independence, happy to stay that way without the bonds of matrimony.

  As we approached the gates leading to the convalescent home, it was with mixed feelings, remembering my last visit, that I headed in the direction of the lodge, framing the words that might influence Mr Lawers and change his mind with the news of his relative's death.

  In the middle distance some ladies were taking a little gentle
exercise on a well-cultivated lawn. But my reconciliatory efforts were not needed. There was no Mr Lawers and no lodge - just a burnt-out ruin, the roof lying open to the sky.

  I stood back in amazement. All this in a few days. Ironically I thought of my last visit; instead of burning the unwanted package, Mr Lawers' house had itself been consumed by fire.

  But what of its owner? And I made my way up to the convalescent home to discover what had happened.

  It was the same woman I had met on my earlier visit but this time she received my question regarding Mr Lawers with considerable tact, and her face told me the worst.

  Mr Lawers had not perished in the fire but from a heart attack shortly afterwards. The matter of his funeral and so forth was being dealt with by his solicitors in Glasgow but an enquiry brought forth the curt reply that such information was only available to members of the family, with proof of their identity.

  To pursue the matter further seemed utterly hopeless. By his own admission he had no family; with his passing the Lawers were extinct, and as if fate had stepped in, my mission had been decided and the future of Mrs Lawers' package rested, however reluctantly, in my hands.

  Such were my thoughts as I walked through the grounds towards the orphanage hoping to see the lady, Mrs Bourne, who had taken Meg into her custody.

  The orphanage, originally the stable block, proclaimed its presence by a handsome signboard invisible from the convalescent home.

  The reception area was clean and cheerful, its desk occupied by a woman with a welcoming smile.

  'Mrs Bourne? She is not here at present. Can I help you?'

  I explained my business with Meg Macmerry and she sighed. 'Such a pity, madam, you are too late. Mrs Bourne has taken that little girl to Edinburgh to present her to interested new foster-parents. Here you are ...' Pausing to scribble an address, she added, 'How unfortunate, you have just missed them. They left for the train half an hour ago.'