The frown that crossed Jack’s face told me to be careful, that the words ‘nuns at St Leonard’s’ conjured up Danny McQuinn for him.
So with a hasty change of subject: ‘Only two days now, Jack. We had better go over the sequence of events,’ I said firmly.
‘A good idea. What have you been doing while I was away? How are you getting on with Ma?’ he added anxiously.
‘Improving considerably. We seem to be coming to an understanding. And she’s making me a bridal wreath to wear instead of a bonnet.’
‘She likes you a lot, you know. It’s just that you are – well, a bit different from the lasses here at Eildon. Not quite what she expected. But you’ve won her over. As I always knew you would,’ he added as we went upstairs to pack for a fortnight’s honeymoon in London.
Jack watched as I spread my wedding gown along with my shoes and the rest of my trousseau on the bed. He sighed deeply. ‘We could do with an old-fashioned trunk.’
‘Do you like these?’ I asked proudly, laying down the new shirt and tie I had been hoarding secretly for him.
‘Great! They look very expensive.’
‘They were. Nothing but the best in the circumstances.’
And with his head in the wardrobe. ‘Where did you put my suit, by the way.’
‘Your – suit?’
‘Yes, the one I bought for the wedding. You were to collect it from Solomon’s Tower.’
‘I – I haven’t seen it, Jack.’
‘You must have seen it, Rose. It was in the cupboard next to the wardrobe in our bedroom.’
I sat down heavily. I had never even opened the cupboard.
‘Jack,’ I whispered in horror. ‘When it wasn’t in the wardrobe, I presumed you must be wearing it for the Glasgow trial.’
‘Then you presumed wrong!’ he snapped and stared down at me angrily. ‘Why should I wear my new suit for a crime trial in Glasgow, for heaven’s sake? And the reason it wasn’t in your – the wardrobe was that there wasn’t room for it. You have every available inch of space.’
Letting that sink in for a moment, he added dolefully, ‘And another thing, our tickets for London and the wedding rings are in the jacket pocket.’
‘Oh, Jack, I’m sorry.’ I couldn’t bear to argue that I could hardly be blamed for that and near to tears I said: ‘What will we do?’
‘I take it you mean what will I do?’ he demanded, angry again. ‘There is only one solution. I will damned well have to go back on the train to Edinburgh tonight and collect it – and come back again – the day before our wedding. Dammit, dammit!’ he added furiously throwing a pair of shoes on to the floor.
I burst into tears, said I was sorry, it was all my fault – even though I believed it wasn’t. But he believed me, and contrite, hugged me and said it wasn’t the worst thing that could happen after all. He’d pick up the train from London to Edinburgh when it stopped at Eildon, spend the night at the Tower and be back tomorrow on the night train. ‘Maybe I should take Thane with me,’ he concluded.
I hadn’t considered Thane being freed again on Arthur’s Seat, back to his old haunts. I suddenly thought of him spoilt by all his new friends in Eildon and missing them. How would he readjust without us? Had we ruined him for ever by introducing him to this new world?
We heard Jack’s parents arrive downstairs and dear Jack saved my face by explaining that he had to return to Edinburgh and collect his wedding suit which he had forgotten. So gallant of him, I thought as he added:
‘I thought I might take Thane with me –’
There was a positive storm of protest from Andrew. ‘Why do that – we were hoping that you’d let him stay here with us until you got back from London. He’s happy here, you know.’
I left them to it and went out to the barn. To ask Thane what he thought about it. I realise that may seem very odd, but I was sure he always understood what I was saying to him. He listened, intelligence gleaming in his eyes and when I explained that we would be back in two weeks, would he be happy to stay here with Andrew, he licked my face. In a human I could only call it a smile of assent.
Hugging him, I went back into the house where Jess was making sandwiches for Jack to take on the train, a quantity sufficient to see him to London and back rather than the hour’s journey to Edinburgh.
I decided to walk with him to the station and there we found that the train had been delayed at Newcastle by a derailed goods van and was running late. In exposed parts like Eildon a waiting room, however bare and chilly, is a necessity for winter travellers and even the summer ones are abundantly grateful.
As we waited I told him about Ned Fraser’s extraordinary story about the suicide who had first removed his jacket and shirt and carried no luggage. I mentioned it with a certain diffidence expecting my account to be met with Jack’s usual cynicism.
However Jack, who obviously did not heed Ned’s reputation as a gossip merely nodded and said, ‘We know all those details, Rose, and the police are looking into it. They are regarding it as death in suspicious circumstances.’
‘A Fenian plot?’
He shrugged. ‘Possibly.’
I considered this noncommittal response. Jack’s discretion was even worse than Vince’s, at times it could put a clam to shame.
‘Do you agree with me now that Father McQuinn and his housekeeper were also murdered?’
‘That has been added to the equation,’ was the enigmatic response.
‘At least you don’t think I imagined it,’ I said sharply. ‘About the suicide – have they a suspect in mind?’
Jack shook his head. ‘Let’s just say there were some very odd passengers travelling on the train that night, sharing the dead man’s compartment. Extensive enquiries are being made, I assure you.’
‘Odd passengers indeed –’
I thought of the ones Ned had described. A man muffled up to the ears. A mere thought, that might have no relevance at all.
But at that moment the train steamed into the station. Jack was kissing me goodbye and it was too late to tell him –
‘See you tomorrow evening.’
‘Hope you’ll be in time for your stag party.’
He grinned. ‘Don’t worry about that. Goes on all night – see you at the church. Bye!’
The train moved off and from the steam Ned Fraser emerged having changed places with the waiting guard.
He was exactly the man I wanted to see right now.
As we walked back towards the village, I asked him to describe again the events relating to the suicide and he confirmed that the police were very interested in his story.
He had been asked for a full statement. He sounded delighted at this sudden popularity.
‘Tell me again about the passenger with his face all muffled up,’ I said.
‘The one I thought had the toothache or something, you mean, miss.’
‘Yes. Was he tall or short?’
‘Couldn’t tell you that, miss. He was sitting down.’
I left him at the farm road, certain in my mind that I had the solution to the suicide. Remembering Dr Blayney and his earache, I only wished I had Vince to go through his visit to the Verneys again. Especially the bit about the don who had a remarkable collection of scars for a scholar.
Was Blayney the man who was muffled up to the ears, who had for some reason, as yet unknown officially but most probably concerned a Fenian plot, attacked the real Dr Blayney who was sitting opposite ‘reading a book in a foreign language’?
Having spotted his victim shortly after leaving Edinburgh he had waited for the right moment just past Berwick and had thrown him off the train, after first removing, for some reasons unknown, the man’s jacket and shirt.
If only I had time to investigate. If only the wedding was a still week away.
Jack’s parents had retired so I sat at the kitchen table and made careful notes of all that I had discovered. All that was lacking was the real identity of Dr Blayney’s impostor and – since ev
ery murder must have its motive – the reason why?
As I was writing I remembered that heavy Irish brogue and throwing down my pen, thought I had the reason at last.
The bogus don from Dublin was a Fenian terrorist who had sneaked into the Verney household. To make plans to assassinate a member of the Royal family who, according to Vince, was coming on a secret visit at, or around, the time of the Jubilee celebrations.
Tomorrow I must tell Constable Bruce, surely this would arouse him from his lethargy – here was a chance for promotion, a chance to shine in the annals of Eildon.
Almost too excited to sleep, I remembered the note that had been put through the door of Solomon’s Tower. As I suspected, it was from Sister Angela and read:
‘Dear Mrs McQuinn. I regret that we could not meet on your recent visit. I thought you would like to know that dear Sister Mary Michael had made a mistake. She confused Danny McQuinn with a message she had received from Daniel McLynn, an unfortunate youth once under our care and now serving a prison sentence.
I do hope this eases your mind. Yours in Christ, Sister Angela.’
What joy, I thought. Now at last, I can believe that there will be no just cause or impediment to my marriage to Jack. And that Danny McQuinn’s ghost is laid to rest at last.
At last? Not quite. But how wrong can one be?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tomorrow would be my wedding day.
I awoke after a nightmare-ridden sleep about Dr Blayney, determined to get rid of the Claddagh ring. Its presence in my jewel box was a symbol of Danny haunting me with his memory as well as the fear that if Jack found it, I might have some explaining to do.
Now that was over. Free of Danny’s ghost, I would take it over to the Abbey custodian today, but first of all, I must call on Constable Bruce and tell him of my discovery of the bogus Dr Blayney.
I went across to the stable knowing that these days I could never depend on Thane going anywhere with me since he seemed to prefer Andrew’s company in the fields. I have to admit I felt a sense of disappointment to see the stall he had been given next to the horse Charity was empty once again, although I fully realised that I should be grateful that Thane would be well cared for in our absence and when we returned from London he would go back with us to Arthur’s Seat.
And casting aside my twinges of guilt about the effects of his sojourn of domesticity, I hurried down the gaily decorated village street to the police station.
The door was opened by Mrs Bruce wearing her most disapproving expression.
‘Well, what do you want?’
I thought the answer was a trifle obvious, but I gave her my most pleasant smile and asked, ‘Is Constable Bruce at home?’
She sniffed. ‘He is.’
‘May I see him then?’
‘You may not, miss. And I will tell you why not. He is in his bed with the influenza.’
‘Oh, I am sorry.’
‘Not as sorry as I am, having to run this house single-handed.’
‘Is he very poorly?’
‘Very. Not eating a thing and a raging fever too. I can tell you I am at my wits’ end.’
There seemed hardly any point in such circumstances in asking her to give him a message, so weakly saying that I hoped he would be better soon, and to give him my best wishes, I had hardly got the words out before the door was firmly closed on me.
I met Jack’s mother coming out of the grocer’s shop with a laden basket over each arm. I insisted on carrying one of them back to the farm with her despite her protests. These provisions were for the bride’s evening party and we had a long argument about the preparations, none of which she would allow me to help with.
‘It’s not the bride’s place,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t be lucky,’ she added darkly. I failed to see how making a few scones or setting a table could interfere with whatever fate had in store for me.
‘All you have to do is talk to folk and look pretty, not that looking pretty will be any trouble to you,’ she added with one of her almost-smiles.
No, she didn’t need anything else from the shops. She had everything in hand and although she bitterly regretted the absence of Mrs Ward, now laid low with the influenza, Mrs Johnston and the ladies of the congregation would be delighted to help prepare our wedding reception in the village hall.
It was useless to argue, so with the Claddagh ring burning a hole in my pocket I set off for the Abbey.
The day was bright, the sun brilliant and I just hoped and prayed a little that it would stay that way for tomorrow, that all would go well, in particular that Jack got back safely this evening and that the trains would not be delayed.
The custodian’s office was open. He seemed surprised when I handed over the ring but very solemnly opened a ledger and made a note of when and where exactly it was found as well as my name and address.
‘We keep them for three months and if no one claims them, they become the property of the finder.’
Thanking him, I never wanted to see the Claddagh ring again as I watched him open a drawer in his desk, tie on a label and place it in an open tin box. There were other pieces of jewellery, a weird assortment of rings, brooches, bangles and hatpins all similarly labelled as well as an untidy selection of larger articles: gloves, handkerchiefs, scarves.
He smiled at my exclamation. ‘These are just the small things. We get visitors to the Abbey from all over the world. In that cupboard over yonder, I could show you umbrellas, parasols, cloaks, hats and walking sticks. Come back in the autumn. We have a sale for maintenance of the Abbey fabric fund,’ he added encouragingly.
‘Visitors from all over the world’ might well include Ireland, and that was a consoling thought as I emerged once more into the brilliant sunshine of the ruined cloisters and walked back across the lawns.
Suddenly I had that odd feeling once again that I was being watched from the ruined tower. From the shadows high above me a figure moved.
My heart beat faster. Was my mysterious stalker still at large?
If only Thane were with me.
A moment of panic. I fought back the desire to take to my heels and run for the exit when my name was called:
‘Miss Rose! Over here.’
It was Annette standing at the foot of the tower’s spiral staircase.
I walked across and she said: ‘This is most fortuitous. There is someone I want you to meet –’
A figure loomed behind her.
‘Miss Rose, this is my husband – Danny McQuinn.’
Blinded by sunshine I could only see the shadow of the man who moved forward. I felt faint with shock, a darkness swirled over me.
He grasped my hand. ‘Miss Rose, delighted. Annette has told me so much about you. Please call me Danny.’
I stared at him. My eyes were in focus again. My heart had resumed its normal beat for this man was not my Danny. There was no facial resemblance. His swarthy good looks suggested Mexico in origin.
Annette was hovering, holding his arm. Amazingly, my violent reactions had gone unobserved.
‘Meeting you like this was so fortunate,’ she said. ‘We were going to call on you, but Danny wanted to see the Abbey again. He knew this area well.’
‘Yes, indeed. An amazing coincidence when we first met in New York,’ said the false Danny, smiling at her.
She merely nodded, nervous and ill at ease. Where was all the excitement, the joy of fulfilment? No doubt unseen problems back at Verney Castle that her husband was unaware of as, still smiling benignly, he said:
‘I had heard of Eildon before my family emigrated from Britain. My cousin was the parish priest here.’
And it was at that moment the terrible implications of this situation became evident. The existence of two Danny McQuinns was rare but not impossible but the possibility of two Danny McQuinns who both knew Eildon and whose cousin was the late Father McQuinn was asking too much of coincidence.
We were walking towards the entrance. I hardly heard a word th
at Annette was saying. I felt that my face was white and stiff with shock and hoped she did not notice.
What was I to do? I could hardly tell this doting bride that her new-found husband was an impostor. That would break her heart and send her scurrying back to the convent. From my personal point of view an impostor, a criminal perhaps, was even worse than the fortune-hunter I had originally suspected.
The Verney carriage had arrived and was waiting at the entrance.
‘He has to go into Edinburgh to see lawyers and I have papers to sign,’ Annette said to me. ‘I know that you are very busy just now, but would you please come and take afternoon tea at our cottage?’
I looked at her. Even her voice sounded different, excitement and jubilation replaced by a businesslike precision. ‘It is our last chance of a meeting before your wedding.’
The false Danny’s own expression was inscrutable and I got the feeling then that whoever he was and whatever his motives for marrying the Verney heiress, love was not one of them.
‘Alexander wants to see you again and I have promised him that you will come this afternoon,’ said Annette.
‘I presume you will be living in Edinburgh when you return from your honeymoon,’ said the man at her side. ‘The lawyers have promised me the keys of some suitable houses.’
There was a pause. Perhaps I was expected to contribute some helpful hints and information on the availability of Edinburgh houses, but I could think of nothing except my eagerness to escape from this nightmare situation.
‘If we have to leave Eildon before Alexander goes to prep school, Father Boyle has very kindly promised to take over his tutoring,’ said Annette. ‘They already have daily Latin lessons but this afternoon Alexander will be excused.’
As Danny handed her into the carriage, she leaned out of the window and said again in that flat toneless voice, ‘Please say you’ll come, Miss Rose. For Alexander’s sake.’
Ghost Walk Page 20
