The Dark Water

by Helen Moorhouse

  “Ow! Mrs T! What was that for?”

  “Where would you like me to start, Martin,” replied the housekeeper, sternly, but still with a hint of mirth to her voice. “For weakening the legs of our kitchen chairs? For idling when there’s fuel to be brought in and the post collected from the village? For distracting my kitchen maid?”

  With that, Claire looked up long enough to see Mrs Turnbull smile warmly and wink at her as she placed a basket filled with vegetables and herbs from the kitchen garden on the big wooden table.

  “Plus, the car needs a bit of spit and polish, I think you’ll find. The McKenzies are arriving this evening and the lad will be staying for the rest of the summer so you’d better get ready for full-on nannying for the next month or so.”

  Martin shrugged. “I like the lad,” he said simply, standing up with a jump and re-rolling his sleeves. They insisted on rolling back down his arms.

  “And if he’s here then it gets me out of the house for a while. A bit of fishing and climbing and running and jumping with young Larry there. This is great news in fact! And with that, I will bid you ladies good day. I think the young master might like himself a new catapult in case of any dangers while in the countryside so I must commence a’whittlin’ post haste!”

  Martin swept dramatically toward the kitchen door, doffing an imaginary cap as he did so.

  “Post office post haste!” shouted Mrs Turnbull after him with a warning tone to her voice but he was gone, the door swinging behind him.

  Mrs Turnbull tutted as she began to lay bunches of herbs from the basket on the table.

  “That boy,” she said with a sigh. “No wonder he’s such good company for Laurence – he’s barely more than a kid himself. And worse than that, he’s a city kid let loose in the countryside. It’s like letting a wee monkey out of a cage.”

  Claire slowed again, partly to watch with interest what Mrs Turnbull was doing with the herbs, partly to finally ask the question that had bothered her since she had first met Martin.

  “Where is Martin from, Mrs Turnbull?” she said in her usual quiet, hesitant way.

  “London, dear,” replied the older woman, preoccupied with sorting the rosemary from the thyme. “Near enough to where Mr Calvert and Mr Ball come from, I think – it was Mr Ball who brought Martin here in the first place, if you understand . . .”

  Claire didn’t, but at that moment Mrs Turnbull changed the conversation to a description of what she planned for dinner and the subject was lost.

  “Now, I’m going to do roast pork this evening so I’ll be adding this – rosemary – to the meat and then popping some of this – thyme – into the stuffing, along with some parsley and onions. It’s Laurence’s favourite. He’s Mr Calvert’s godson, Claire, and the apple of his eye so you’ll need to be very attentive to him while he’s here for the summer. Not that he’ll be indoors much, of course. He’s always outdoors, and if he’s not then he’s down in the garage pestering Martin to teach him about cars and engines. I think we’ll find that for the rest of the summer we’ll have two young boys to put up with!” Mrs Turnbull smiled again. “He’s a lovely lad, though. And his mother is an absolute gentlewoman. She doesn’t come as often as she used to, of course, but she may come and I never know if Captain McKenzie is arriving with her so I always cook a bit extra just in case. Heaven knows it never goes to waste with Mr Turnbull on the premises!”

  And with that, she turned back again to her task, shuttling between the pantry and the kitchen table, setting about preparing that evening’s meal. And all the time Claire watched her, learning as she did. More new arrivals, she thought to herself. She hoped the boy wouldn’t make fun of her eye – the boys at school had, of course, calling her all sorts of names and teasing her by running up just behind her and tapping her shoulder roughly, just where she couldn’t see them with her poor peripheral vision.

  “Can you give me a hand with the stuffing, Claire?” said Mrs Turnbull suddenly and Claire found herself busy once again, washing her hands thoroughly with pungent carbolic soap and then enjoying the delicious soft feel of crumbing a stale loaf. She took a deep breath and inhaled the aromas of the herbs and the onion that Mrs Turnbull was chopping beside her. They worked in companionable silence as they prepared the meal and, when they were finished, shared a cup of tea and Mrs Turnbull told Claire of the boy’s exploits on previous visits. And as always, Claire sat in silence and absorbed it all until it was time to move on to the next task.

  Claire Drummond was busy and satisfied, she realised. In fact, she verged on happiness.

  CHAPTER 11

  November 11th

  Martha pressed the ‘off’ switch on her PC with a flourish, simultaneously reaching behind her for her scarf. She glanced at the clock. Officially she wasn’t supposed to leave the office until after five but Maisie was gone since three to a dentist’s appointment and she didn’t think that leaving half an hour early would cause any problems, especially on a dark, miserable day. The phone hadn’t rung for three days straight – apart from another message for Martha where the caller had refused to leave a name and had politely said they’d call back. She had assumed it was just a random sales call – for stationery or something similar – and had put it to the back of her mind.

  Martha hurriedly stood up and pulled her coat on, rummaging in her pockets for her knitted gloves. She leaned over to pick up her umbrella but a glance out of the window proved that it was completely unnecessary. A gust of wind lashed the rain against the ancient panes and Martha reckoned that she wouldn’t even get the umbrella above her head before it needed to go in a bin. She decided to just pull on a woolly hat she kept in her bag and make a run for it as best she could.

  She still had a couple of things to pick up, but the majority of her purchases had fitted into the backpack she had brought today, with the intention of walking home. She was keen to get home early, to get out of the weather firstly, but also to get started on cooking dinner. It had been a week since she had visited Gabriel’s flat and she still hadn’t found the right time to talk to Will. He had been completely tied up with two investigations and writing up the subsequent papers for the college – in fact she had barely seen him over the entire weekend and he had stayed late at the university the past two nights. She had insisted that he be home early tonight because she wanted to cook a special dinner, to sit down and relax together, have some wine and a proper conversation. And she wanted to tell him all about Gabriel and see if she couldn’t get him to help.

  Martha stood at the door to the office and glanced back to make sure that everything was in place for the following day. Blinds closed, check – petty cash locked away, check . . . Martha’s eyes were drawn back to her own desk where she let them rest for a moment on the bizarre gift she had received that day. Puzzled again by who could have sent them, and what they meant, she stared at the small bunch of blue thistles that had been delivered to the office that morning. Tied beautifully with a blue bow, they had been dropped up by a lady Martha recognised from the flower stall across the Royal Mile. She sold all the usual sorts of flowers but the thistles were a huge draw for tourists, being the emblem of Scotland. Martha thought them beautiful with their dusty shades of blue and purple – she had included thistles in her wedding bouquet actually, when she had married Dan. Roses and thistles and hypericum berries. It was no reference to Scotland. She had no idea then that one day she’d end up living there.

  The bunch contained just five or six of the spiky flowering plants. There had been no card, no wishes, just a message delivered by the stallholder that they were to be given to Martha Armstrong and that was it. Martha and Maisie had puzzled over them until Martha had decided enough was enough and popped them into a vase and left them to one side of her desk. Perhaps they were from Gabriel – a thank-you for listening the previous week, or a spiky reminder to talk to Will for him more likely. But thistles of all things? People sending flowers normally didn’t select thistles as top of their wish lists
. Martha was stumped. She decided to leave them on her desk – they’d still be there on the following Monday when she came back in and maybe some inspiration as to their source might hit her over the weekend. Besides which, she had too much to carry as it was, without lugging them home and damaging them in the process.

  Another gust of wind lashing the raindrops against the window roused her from her thoughts and she shuddered. Best get going then. She disliked being in the office alone late in the evening, once it had grown dark, and hurriedly opened the door, pulling it shut behind her and locking it before hurtling down the dark stairs with its blown bulb. The offices overhead were vacant in the old and badly maintained building and the sounds of wood settling, the creaks and groans of the old structure reminded Martha too much of past experiences to warrant her staying around for long in the dark.

  She turned right and made her way toward the castle. Her destination was a small coffee and cake shop hidden down one of the closes off the Royal Mile. She intended picking up a lemon cheesecake, Will’s favourite, and then making a run for the nearest taxi rank – she had no intention of walking home in this weather. A gust of wind slowed her progress and she battled against it, holding tight to her hat and the strap of the backpack for ballast. She stepped closer to the buildings on her right as she approached the tiny archway entrance with its steps down to the cobbled close which was her destination.

  The archway provided shelter for a moment and she held tight to the metal railings, knowing that the ancient steps were uneven and slippery. The wind howled down the Royal Mile behind her and her back was pelted with heavy rain. She knew she mustn’t slip – the backpack contained two expensive bottles of wine and she had no intention of landing on her back and having them not only break but in the process ruin the fresh ingredients for the casserole that she planned.

  So intent was Martha on staying upright and safe that she didn’t see the figure step out and stop dead in front of her as she reached the bottom step. Even if she had wanted to, by the time she looked up and registered the black shadow in the darkness of the archway, she couldn’t have turned to run because it had reached out an arm and grabbed hers tightly in a vicelike grip. As Martha felt the fingers close around her arm, a chill ran through her entire body, her mind growing blank with a fear overload and she screamed, unconsciously, as loudly as she could.

  “Martha, Martha! Jesus! Easy, woman!” The figure spoke in a voice that she recognised but in her panic couldn’t place.

  Suddenly the grip on her arm was released and the shape stepped backwards, away from her, making a rustling sound in the darkness. Martha whipped her head around – partly to check that there were no other assailants blocking her in from behind, partly to see if there were any passers-by who could help. She half-turned, prepared to run back up the steps but at the same time fearful of slipping. As she took a look back at whoever – whatever – it was that was standing in her way, she suddenly registered that, yes, she did know who it was. And that it was the last person she expected to see in a dark alleyway, in Edinburgh, on a stormy winter’s evening.

  The figure took another step backward, the light from a streetlamp further down the close illuminating its features. Raising a palm toward her in a conciliatory gesture, was Dan Smith. She hadn’t seen her husband in almost two years and here he was, in the dark and the cold and the wet. With a huge bunch of roses and thistles now visible in the hand that wasn’t raised in peace.

  “Hallo, love,” he said. “Sorry if I gave you a fright.”

  Martha stared at him, unable to think straight, unable to even fully remember his name for a second until the adrenalin coursing through her body had calmed a little. She looked him up and down, in his long, black trench coat, collar turned up and hair soaked against his head.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” she snarled, at last able to form words, fury rising in her gut.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

  Martha couldn’t take it all in. “What are you doing here?” she demanded again. “Hanging out in alleyways, frightening the life out of me? How did you even know I’d be here? Are you bloody following me? ‘Cos if you are Dan, I swear . . .”

  Again he placed a hand on her arm gently. “I’m not, Martha, I promise,” he said calmly as she shrugged his hand away and pulled her backpack up further on her shoulders. “I knew that you’d be finishing work soon so I was heading up to your office to meet you when you finished. And to give you these . . .” He held out the bunch of flowers to his ex-wife.

  Martha couldn’t believe what he was doing, and couldn’t believe how much rage she felt. She impulsively smacked the bouquet away as hard as she could, knocking it out of Dan’s hands and onto the wet cobbles. He glanced forlornly at the bunch as it fell to the ground but made no effort to pick it up.

  “You’ve finished earlier than office hours, have you?” he asked softly.

  Martha wanted to scream.

  “How the hell do you know where I work? And what time I finish? And what are you doing in Edinburgh? I don’t bloody well want you here, Dan. It’s been two years . . .” Her voice trailed off. This was too huge, too complicated, and she just did not want it to be happening.

  She stared at the face once so familiar to her. She often dreamed about Dan, even though she’d never tell Will that she did. They weren’t affectionate dreams – they were troubled ones where he’d try to take Ruby away from her or, worse still, ones where she was sharing romantic and happy moments with someone she thought was Will and who would then turn into Dan. His betrayal of her with their colleague, Paula, for years before Martha had found out, still hurt her deeply, even though her life with Will was happy and settled. Dan had lived two lives – one with Martha, expecting Ruby, living in their home in the London suburbs and being the devoted husband – one with Paula in their luxurious apartment at Canary Wharf, where Dan eventually settled once Martha discovered the deception and kicked him out shortly before Ruby was born. He had never known his daughter, had chosen to leave regardless, leaving Martha alone and Ruby fatherless – until she had met Will.

  Dan was soaked and looked dishevelled, but she could see that he was still attractive in a distinguished way. His blonde hair, parted to one side, gave him an aristocratic look – Brideshead, Sue had liked to call him. He had pale skin and distinctive cheekbones, his light-blue eyes a little bloodshot. Dan did very well for himself by painting a picture of a gentle English aristocrat with an old-fashioned charm. In reality, he was a ruthless advertising man who had reinvented himself when he first moved to London in his late teens. That was the key to Dan: things were never quite the same underneath as they seemed on the genteel surface.

  “Look, Martha, can we talk? Maybe sit down and grab a coffee or a bite to eat maybe?” he said softly.

  Martha recognised the tone – it was one he used on clients to take them in, become their friend, and it worked very well in his career. It was also the tone that he had used on her too many times as he tried to lie his way yet again out of another situation. It reminded her that she had believed him for so long with his untruths, his whole other life, while she stayed at home, excitedly awaiting the birth of their baby, yet another start for the two of them, or so she had thought. The softly put request didn’t calm Martha at all – in fact it had the complete opposite effect and she tried to push past him to get down the alleyway back into the open air and make her way home.

  “I think we’ve done all the talking that we ever need to do, Dan,” she said through gritted teeth as he once again grabbed her arm, this time succeeding in stopping her in her tracks.

  Martha looked up at him – at six feet tall, Dan towered over her five-foot-three frame, but their faces were close. Martha knew that she could barely conceal the contempt in her eyes but couldn’t fathom Dan’s expression as he seemed to look at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. She stared at him defiantly while he blinked and shook his head slightly, as
if trying to clear his thoughts.

  “We need to talk Martha – about Ruby, about . . . us,” he said. “There are things I need to say to you – that I’ve come a long way to say. I haven’t been stalking you, but I did find out where you worked – I’m staying in the hotel at the bottom of the steps there . . .” He looked behind him, indicating the path downwards where Martha knew there was a chain hotel although she couldn’t remember the name. “I was taking this short cut up to your work. The flowers were stupid – I’m sorry about those, and the ones I sent to you earlier – but I didn’t want to just appear empty-handed and a box of chocs just didn’t seem right.” He smiled a little, continuing to stare at her. “I’m sorry if I scared you – I just saw you on the steps in front of me and I thought you were going to slip so I grabbed your arm. Old habits, I guess.” He hung his head a little, as if to indicate shame.

  Martha didn’t know if he was acting or genuine. Typical.

  She wrenched her arm free and took a step backwards. This was massive. She’d have to think about it but she had so many other things to worry about at the moment. She didn’t want to talk to him, but he was right – he’d obviously travelled a long way here to talk to her about something and she at least owed him the courtesy of a few moments of her time. Martha sighed. This was just an added bother that she could do without.

  “Look, Dan. You’ve given me an awful fright and you should have called before just . . . turning up like this,” she said, looking at the ground.