‘How about now?’ chirped Sister Angela. ‘If you are not too busy.’
I said I wasn’t and she nodded eagerly. ‘Her room is close by.’
It was quite an ordinary large rambling house, spartan as became a convent, the sole decoration of stark walls and uncarpeted floors were a few holy pictures with here and there a sanctuary lamp glowing under a statue of Mary and Jesus.
She stopped before the open door of the chapel and alongside one with a notice ‘Sister Mary Michael.’
‘Wait here, Mrs McQuinn.’ A moment later she emerged and I was ushered into a room as close as one could get to a monastic cell plus the homely addition of a fitted cupboard known to every householder as the Edinburgh press.
A quick glance took in a small bed, table, and sitting in an upright wooden chair by the window, her body bent almost double, an old nun.
As Sister Angela introduced us, my heart rebelled against such an appalling lack of comfort for a woman past ninety. A few cushions and and an extra blanket could hardly have offended against holy church.
‘This is Mrs McQuinn, Danny’s wife.’ Sister Angela’s voice was louder than when we had spoken together, tactfully indicating deafness.
Sister Mary Michael turned her head slowly towards me and smiled. I could not vouch for what she saw through eyes filmed and hooded with age.
Sister Angela had retreated to the door and I hovered wishing I had somewhere to sit down. That hard little bed would be better than nothing.
For a few moments I was aware of thoughtful scrutiny.
I guessed that the Little Sisters were probably well aware of all the Roman Catholics in Newington and she was exploring the sensitive ground of rarely speaking to someone whose religious inclinations were not her own.
I took a deep breath. ‘Danny is dead, sister. I am a widow and have been for the past three years.’
This took her by surprise. Her hands fluttered. ‘Surely not, surely not,’ she murmured staring up at me.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Three years, you say.’ Bewildered, she shook her head. ‘But that cannot be.’ And turning her head towards Sister Angela, she pointed.
‘In the cupboard, please. Bring me the cardboard box.’
Sister Angela did as she was bid and I watched as she lifted the lid and a mass of folded yellow papers and notes overflowed.
‘It is here somewhere.’
We watched patiently as she shuffled among the papers. ‘I had it here,’ she said helplessly.
Sister Angela’s offer of help received an impatient gesture. With her hand restraining the unruly contents of the box, the old nun looked at me.
‘I had a note from Danny,’ she said firmly. And frowning, shaking her head at the effort of remembering. ‘Now when was it? Yes, yes, just recently. I remember.’
That couldn’t be. But my heart pounded just the same.
‘How recently?’ I asked.
She stared towards the window. ‘Three weeks – yes, I am sure. It was three weeks ago. But I seem to have mislaid it.’
She had to be mistaken. I caught a sympathetic glance from Sister Angela and I interrupted those scrabbling movements among the papers.
‘It isn’t possible – the time, I mean. You see, Danny has been dead for three years,’ I said patiently.
As if she didn’t hear me, she continued pulling out papers and thrusting them back again. Some fell on the floor and were retrieved by us.
‘It is possible, Mrs McQuinn,’ she said. ‘His note is here somewhere.’
I told myself she was very old, obviously confused and upset as she kept protesting, mumbling:
‘It was definitely here, just a short while ago.’
‘Would you care to borrow my spectacles?’ asked Sister Angela, producing them from her pocket.
‘If you insist. If you think that will help,’ was the icy response. ‘But I remember perfectly what Danny’s note looked like.’
We waited patiently for another search aided by the spectacles but with no better result. Finally thrusting the box aside with a despairing and angry glance, she took out a large brown envelope.
We watched hopefully. A triumphant sigh. ‘These are class photographs. I am sure there is one with Danny.’ Adjusting the spectacles, she took out the cardboard mounts.
‘Ah yes. Here is the year Danny came to us. I remember it well, the very day it was taken.’
A group of small boys sitting cross-legged in the front row. One unmistakably a very young and beautiful child. Danny. Even before her finger directed me to him, my heart leapt in recognition and tears welled in my eyes.
Here was Danny as I had never known him. An image I had hoped would one day be that of our baby son, had he lived.
‘An older relative, a priest brought him to us from Ireland. He used to look in and see the boy and he has kept in touch with us –’
Her voice was fading. Her breathing growing heavy, eyes closing. All this undue excitement was too much for her, falling asleep as she spoke to us and Sister Angela was just in time to seize the cardboard box and its contents before they slid to the floor.
The action alerted the old nun, who jerked awake.
‘We are just leaving,’ Sister Angela whispered.
Sister Mary Michael gazed up at me. ‘I am sorry I couldn’t find Danny’s note to show you, Mrs McQuinn. But I do remember the exact words. It said: “Forgive me. I have sinned. Pray for me.”’
Once more, as if the final effort had been too much, her chin sunk to her chest.
I stared at her. It couldn’t be. Wanting to stay, to argue, as Sister Angela put a gentle hand on my arm and with an apologetic glance led me towards the door.
Outside she said, ‘That often happens these days. She tries very hard, you know.’
I leaned against the wall. I wanted to know so much more.
‘Don’t upset yourself, Mrs McQuinn. Gracious, you have turned quite pale.’
My head was whirling as I tried to set my thoughts in order.
Danny – three weeks ago. And I, who had lived through years of horror and danger in Arizona and never turned a hair, fainted away for the first time in my life.
I was conscious of being supported to a bench, a glass of water. Sister Angela’s face looming over me. ‘Take a few sips. That’s better.’ She patted my hand gently.
‘I’m sorry. Three weeks ago – it just isn’t possible.’
‘Now don’t you be worrying yourself, my dear. You must remember that Sister Mary Michael is different to the rest of us. Time gets like that for old people. Three weeks, two or three months.’ She shrugged. ‘They are much the same to her.’
‘But not three years, Sister. She was very definite about that. And three years ago was the last time I saw Danny. I have every reason to believe that he is dead.’
Sister Angela shook her head. This experience was beyond her. She didn’t know what to say, who to believe.
‘And that note,’ I insisted. ‘If that was true, what she remembered. Why should he ask forgiveness, that he had sinned? I don’t understand. It doesn’t even sound like Danny –’
Sister Angela seized on that gratefully. ‘There you are then. You are probably right. The note was from someone else. After all, Danny isn’t such a rare name, is it. She saves all her prayer notes. Yes, that could be it. From some other Danny,’ she added consolingly.
But I wasn’t convinced. ‘She recognised him in the photograph, pointed him out. She didn’t seem mistaken about that.’
There was a note of hysteria in my voice and Sister Angela looked anxious.
‘If it was Danny then why hasn’t he got in touch with me?’
She looked away, embarrassed. The ways of married people were an unknown territory, far beyond her.
I stood up swaying. I felt deadly sick.
She took my arm. ‘Now, Mrs McQuinn, I know it’s all very upsetting, but remember what I’ve told you.’ And suddenly confidential: ‘It’s gettin
g worse. Just last week even, she was absolutely certain that she had never met our parish priest before – and he comes every week to say Mass –’
But I was no longer listening, deaf to these examples being trotted out for my benefit. I was aware of the overpowering smell of incense. I almost ran outside to breathe in the fresh air.
‘At least the rain has stopped,’ said Sister Angela, eagerly grasping normality again. ‘Have you far to go? You’re still looking very pale,’ she added regarding me anxiously.
I straightened my shoulders with effort. ‘I’m fine. I have my bicycle. Over there by the wall. I live just half a mile away.’
Regarding the machine with considerable trepidation she said, ‘Perhaps you should contact Father McQuinn. I’m sure we have his address somewhere. I can go and look for it,’ she added helpfully, ‘if you wait a moment.’
Thanking her, but saying that wasn’t necessary, I was aware of her anxious expression as she watched me ride away, down past the stalls deserted after the rain.
Chapter Three
The fresh air didn’t do much good. I still felt dreadful by the time I reached Solomon’s Tower. Dreadful – and angry too.
If Danny McQuinn was alive, for heaven’s sake, why hadn’t he got in touch with me, his wife, first of all. Did I no longer matter? Was I less important than the orphanage who had brought him up?
I told myself it couldn’t be true. There had to be a mistake otherwise the implications of the prayer note Sister Mary Michael had received were the stuff that nightmares are made of. And I was back in that constant dream made manifest by that renewed longing to see him again, the frail hope of the joy of opening the door and seeing his smiling face. He was taking me into his arms…
And then I woke up.
Now that fleeting moment of madness, of dream fulfilment, had been replaced by a sense of impending doom and I remembered the solemn pagan warning: Take care what you ask the Gods for. Their answer may not be quite what you expected or even find acceptable.
Despite the now bright day, the Tower seemed suddenly brooding and desolate, and I realised why local people thought of it as a sinister haunted place. In no mood for empty echoing rooms I sat on the wooden bench outside making the most of the soothing comfort, the solace of warm sunshine.
It was all I had. In a sudden orgy of self-pity I decided that when I needed tenderness and reassurance, a banishment of my fear, Jack Macmerry wasn’t there. No doubt he was busy tracking down criminals on Leith Walk. Even Thane had disappeared when I yearned for a friendly welcome.
Should I tell Jack about my strange experience? I quickly decided against that, recalling tight lips and cold eyes at the mention of Danny McQuinn.
I closed my eyes and rested my head against the wall, letting the gentle scent of summer flowers and fresh cut grass drift over me.
Oh Danny – it can’t possibly be true. You would have come to me first. Sent me a message before anyone.
And that was the unkindest cut of all. I thought again of his life with Pinkerton’s Detective Agency and the Bureau of Indian Affairs, remembering his warning that there were plenty of hazards, for he had enemies, as he described it, in both camps. They were the unquestionable reason for his precise instructions about that six months waiting time before I returned to Edinburgh.
Or how he never knew that day he walked out of my life for ever that I was carrying his child after a long history of miscarriages and false alarms. Then when pregnancy had seemed beyond belief I bore the baby son we had both longed for, only to lose him with fever.
As I prepared to quit Arizona my frequent and frantic enquiries to Pinkerton’s branch in Tucson met with little response, even, I thought, with cruel indifference. Either they knew something they were not at liberty to tell me, or they were speaking the truth, equally baffled by Danny’s disappearance.
If only I could have talked to someone, a friend who knew him, but there was little hope of that, for, always on the move, staying in Arizona’s infamous shack towns, we had little chance to form lasting friendships.
There were none of his colleagues I could turn to. He had always been seriously noncommittal about his activities. An occasional visitor with an Irish accent about whom no information was volunteered made me aware that Danny’s sympathies lay with the Caen na Gael, a group of Irish Americans who funded a movement to free Ireland from British rule. There were other secret visitors and when my offered hospitality was unceremoniously declined, I suspected that Danny was also a secret Government agent.
On one occasion I made the accusation. How he had roared with laughter at such an idea.
Jabbing a finger at me he said: ‘Ask me anything about Pinkerton’s and I’ll tell you what you want to know. Go on, ask me.’
And that invitation was irresistible. There was one matter concerning my own future I was most eager to discuss.
‘I know for one thing that they employ female detectives.’
Getting it wrong, he raised a mocking eyebrow. ‘So you think I have a fancy woman.’
I gasped for I had to confess that the thought had never occurred to me.
Taking my astonishment for anxiety, he kissed me gently. ‘No one but you, my Rose.’
‘I’m just interested, that’s all.’
Eyeing me doubtfully, he sighed. ‘Sure, Allan Pinkerton employs a few brave women. He is keen to employ females as he believes them to be at least as clever and daring as men in detective work – and more imaginative.’ His somewhat sceptical tone regarding Pinkerton’s confidence in this novel and daring procedure had raised a hue and cry within his organisation. And none was more concerned than Danny McQuinn, alarmed that his own wife might have inherited her famous father’s talents. He often said Pappa had wished for a son, interpreting this as a wish that I had been a boy rather than the wistful ache and guilt for the stillborn baby that had cost his dear Lizzie, my Mamma, her life.
‘If Mr Pinkerton approves why can’t I – I mean – you could recommend me, Danny. Please. I would love to try my hand at catching criminals. You know I was well trained in observation and deduction by Pappa at a very early age.’
‘Observation and deduction!’ He shook his head, then added seriously, ‘And how far do you think that would get you in this lawless land where criminals shoot first and answer questions afterwards?’
‘But –’ I began indignantly.
Danny held up his hand. ‘No, Rose. Definitely not – now or ever. You don’t know what you are talking about. I wouldn’t consider such a thing –’
‘But Danny,’ I pleaded, ‘I wouldn’t be alone. We could work together.’
He leaned back in his chair, regarding me narrowly, a searching gaze of critical assessment. As if seeing me for the first time, his look asked was I to be trusted, and made me feel not only uncomfortable but afraid.
The moment was gone in a flash. He laughed, took my hand. ‘So you think you’re a brave woman, Rose,’ he said softly. ‘You think you could deal with outlaws and murderers because your illustrious father taught you some clever method of observation and deduction.’
Shaking his head, he went on, ‘Believe me, you’d need a lot more than that in some of the situations you’d find yourself in, or the sort of criminals I encounter on a daily basis, little more than animals, the very dregs of humanity. Situations where I might not be around, or even in a position to protect you from rape – from torture and slow death.’
Ignoring that I said defiantly, ‘Whatever you say, I’d still like to meet Mr Pinkerton.’
Leaning forward, he laughed again, tenderly cupping his hand under my chin. ‘Is that so now? And don’t think I haven’t any idea what this famous meeting would be all about. I can read your mind.’
‘I would like to talk to Mr Pinkerton,’ I insisted. ‘He is from Scotland, after all. We would have that in common.’
‘Yes, he’s from Glasgow. Know why he came to America?’
‘I expect he thought like many emigra
nts that it was a land of opportunity.’
Danny shook his head. ‘Of necessity, in his case. His militant activities in the ‘40s on behalf of the rights of the working man brought him to the close attention of the law and he was forced to flee the country.’
I knew some of the story from his autobiography, Thirty Years a Detective, published in ‘94 (the year he died), which I had read avidly.
In Chicago, he found like-minded thinkers, sympathetic folk and a job in what was a very rudimentary police force. A brave dogged hardworking lawman, he was soon rounding up small time criminals, powerful gangs and counterfeiters. Such was his success that after having been in America only eight years, he was able to set up his own agency.
From ‘60 to ‘62, Pinkerton was responsible for the personal safety of President Abraham Lincoln and for a time spymaster as Head of Intelligence to General McLennan, operating behind the enemy lines during the Civil War.
When the war ended the General was removed from office, his activities no longer needed and Pinkerton also returned to his detective agency.
Danny however, in common with many other Americans, had his own theory about Lincoln’s assassination. Had General McLennan stayed in the secret service, they felt certain that the quick-witted Pinkerton might have got wind of the plan and averted what was, for America, a national disaster.
‘Pinkerton was ruthless too,’ said Danny. ‘The end justifies the means if the end is justice, was his slogan. He behaved outrageously outside the law and was well known to have authorised illegal burglaries on behalf of clients. And the killing of bank robbers on the grounds that had they ever come to court, juries might not have convicted them.’
Pinkerton wrote several other books and, after his death, the agency he had founded went on, grew in splendour and fame. Known to the world by its slogan “We Never Sleep” with its logo of a wide-open eye, they were always on the lookout for experienced lawmen like Danny McQuinn whose last word on the subject was a firm:
‘Detective work is no job for a married woman.’
Ghost Walk Page 2
