by Cavendish
“So you do believe that Miss Carmichael herself has been trying to make contact and not just the shapeshifting monster posing as her?”
“I have to believe it. Why would the creature we saw be telling you to find its killer? That doesn’t make sense. The voices in your head. You’ve heard her.”
“I think I’ve heard her. And I’ve heard the other voice too. The raucous male voice. Whoever – whatever – that tells me I belong in the graveyard and calls me Kirsten.”
“What if that is the voice of Miss Carmichael’s killer? What if Miss Carmichael was killed by the Auld De’il?”
Hannah chewed her lip. “It doesn’t match the stories circulating at the time, or the eye-witness accounts. Miss Carmichael was murdered by a gang of ruffians, chief among them a young man in his twenties who was never caught. That sounds like a human to me. Nothing like what we’ve seen. Except.…”
She remembered her encounter with the strange, unpleasant man when she had slipped back to Murdoch Maclean’s time. Who was he? “Supposing we did find him, what then? Is he human? Is he the Auld De’il? Both? What does she want us to do with him?”
“Exorcise him. Banish him. Something on those lines, I would imagine.”
Hannah looked around. “So where is he?”
The voice sounded harsh, raucous. “Closer than you think.”
“Did you hear that?”
George looked at her blankly. “Hear what?”
“Damn voice in my head again. It sounded so loud this time.”
“What did it say?”
“It…he said he was closer than we think.”
Cold, icy fingers of air rustled the hairs on the back of Hannah’s neck.
She whirled around. “Stop it!”
George grabbed her hand. “What’s happened?”
“Something breathed on me.” Powerful hands closed around Hannah’s throat. In flashes, a contorted – but human – mouth, blackened teeth, filthy skin. Eyes filled with hate. Strength borne of madness and a hatred that was almost impersonal. Her attacker wasn’t trying to kill her; he was attempting to kill anyone like her.
From far away, she heard George shouting as she sank lower and lower into unconsciousness. She clawed at the invisible assailant. A dark mist descended in her mind as she struggled to breathe. Her windpipe was closing. The smell of sulfur burned her nostrils and blackness enveloped her.
Chapter Eleven
September 1881
Miss Carmichael opened the door of her home and the sweet scent of lavender greeted her. She inhaled it gratefully. After the noxious odors of the Old Town, the fresh aroma cleansed her nostrils and calmed her soul.
She stood in front of the hall mirror and removed her hat, careful not to disturb her tidy bun with her hatpin. She started to hang her coat in the wardrobe, saw the mud on the hem and tutted. That would never do. She would tell Lucy, her maid, to take it to be cleaned tomorrow. Meanwhile, she hung it on the coat stand well away from anything that could become contaminated by goodness knew what made up that mud. She lifted each foot in turn and unbuttoned her boots. Lucy would clean those later. Wash them more like. They too had become caked in the Old Town filth.
Smoothing down her skirt – miraculously free from staining – she slid her feet into her slippers and made her way into her tidy sitting room. The glass-domed mantel clock tinkled its chime, announcing the hour. Four p.m. A cup of tea would be welcome and Miss Carmichael pressed the bell.
In less than a minute, the familiar, cheerful nineteen-year-old maid-of-all-work stood before her.
“I think a pot of tea would be nice please, Lucy. And some of your delicious scones if there are any left. I’m afraid Miss Gascoigne and I made rather a dent in them yesterday afternoon.”
Lucy smiled. “I tried out a new recipe. I’m glad you enjoyed them. I think there’s a couple left. Would you like Earl Grey or Assam?”
“Earl Grey I think today, please.”
“Very good, Miss. I noticed your coat and boots had got a bit dirty. I’ll look after them for you.”
“Thank you, Lucy.”
The girl smiled again and left, closing the door quietly behind her. Miss Carmichael sighed and settled herself comfortably on her settee.
The rattle of the crockery woke her. “My goodness, I must have dropped off,” she said as Lucy set the tray down on the occasional table next to her.
“I’m not surprised, Miss. You work too hard. Spending all that time in the Old Town. I hope they appreciate it.”
“I’m sure they do, Lucy. And it’s important to help those less fortunate than ourselves. I am so lucky to have my little house and a regular income from my investments when there are families in Henderson Close that scratch around for a stale hunk of bread.”
Lucy looked a little skeptical. “There’s a lot that could do more for themselves. Thieves and vagabonds many of them. Feckless too.”
“Now, Lucy. That’s unfair and, in my experience, untrue.”
“You can’t deny it’s a dangerous place, Miss. I wouldn’t go there alone. I worry about you.”
“Most kind, Lucy. Thank you, but I assure you I’m not worried. What could they possibly want with an old lady like me?”
“You’re hardly old, Miss. You’ve barely a grey hair on your head.”
A bit of an exaggeration but the girl meant well. Miss Carmichael was only too aware of the middle-aged woman who stared back at her from her dressing table mirror every morning as she arranged her hair. Where had all the years gone? Flown by.
Lucy left her and Miss Carmichael sipped her tea. Tomorrow she would return to Henderson Close and take some children’s clothes donated by kindly members of the parish. She and Lucy had spent a couple of productive evenings mending and repairing sleeves, cuffs, hems and loose buttons. Freshly laundered, they were now ready to provide protection in the windy, wet and freezing winter months, which would all too soon be upon them. Poor Mrs. McDonald had been at her wits’ end wondering how she was going to clothe her fast-growing family. And she wasn’t the only mother who would benefit from Miss Carmichael’s visits.
* * *
The sun did its best to brighten up the filthy streets but the effort was too great. All it achieved was to shine a spotlight on the muck and hopelessness of the place. The noise of humanity selling its wares, conducting its business and fighting its foes nearly deafened Miss Carmichael as she quickened her step along the street on her way to Henderson Close. How often had she made this same journey? Countless times. Yet she could never get used to the racket or the stench.
She stood in front of number seventeen and raised her hand to rap at the door.
“Gi’e me the bag, ye auld cow.”
The boy couldn’t have been more than fourteen. The smell of his unwashed body assaulted her nose and she fought the urge to gag. His face and neck were covered in pimples and bites. Dear God, had this child got no home, no parents? There were plenty who hadn’t around here.
He took a step closer and the smell sickened her. She fought hard to give no reaction and to stand her ground.
“Are ye deaf? I said gi’e me that bag.”
Miss Carmichael tightened her hold on the Gladstone bag she was carrying. “There is nothing in here that could possibly interest you.”
“I’ll decide that. Now gi’e it to me.”
The door of number seventeen burst open and a furious Mr. McDonald pushed past Miss Carmichael, drew his fist back and landed a punch on the boy that sent him spinning into the dirt. Blood poured from the boy’s split lip.
“Awa’ wi’ ye!” Mr. McDonald yelled.
The boy struggled to his feet, glared at Miss Carmichael and spat blood and phlegm. “Ye’ll regret this. I’ll molicate ye.”
Mr. McDonald drew his fist back again. “Get.”
With one las
t defiant look, the boy staggered away.
Mr. McDonald took Miss Carmichael’s arm. His wife appeared at the door and helped her in. “I’ll make you some tea. We still have some left from the quarter pound you brought last time.”
Miss Carmichael smiled gratefully. “Thank you. I’m sorry to be so shaken but that’s the first time I’ve ever felt threatened here.”
Mrs. McDonald’s eyebrows rose. “Really? Well, I suppose that’s because most folk around here know that you come to help us. But that Bain lad.…” She shook her head.
“He threatened to molicate her,” Mr. McDonald said. “That’s no way to speak to a lady.”
“Molicate?” Miss Carmichael asked. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that word.”
“No,” Mrs. McDonald said, “I shouldn’t think you are. That’s not a word you’d hear in the New Town. That no good Bain lad threatened to beat you up, but don’t worry. He’ll no’ touch a hair o’ your heid. My Andy will talk to his faither. Ye’ll no be having any more trouble with him. Round here we know how to teach our bairns to behave.”
Miss Carmichael was sure they did. If battering the child’s backside black and blue counted.
Half an hour later, Miss Carmichael, now less shaken, left the McDonalds still fondling the clothing she had brought them. She had stayed a little longer than she intended and the light was fading fast. She must get a move on. It really wouldn’t do to get caught in this part of the city after dark.
Her anxiety spurred her on. The street was less crowded now. In dark corners, shadows moved. Across the narrow Close, one in particular seemed to match her step for step. She shook her head. Fancy being scared of her own shadow. Even so, she walked a little faster.
And that’s when she realized it wasn’t her shadow at all. Someone was following her. Deliberately. Her heart beat quicker. She must remain calm. Show any fear and, if someone really was following her, they would know they had her in their power. That’s what she had been taught and she knew it was a valuable lesson.
Miss Carmichael turned out of the Close and onto the High Street. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the figure stop and slink back into the shadows of Henderson Close. But not before she had got a look at it.
A sight she would never forget.
Chapter Twelve
Mairead stood uncertainly. Her head buzzed and she staggered, trying to make sense of her surroundings. She looked down to see she had been sitting on a bench in a churchyard. Staring around her, she saw no one, but the church looked familiar. Greyfriars. How had she managed to get herself here without any recollection of doing so? The last thing she could remember was being at…at work. She had gone for her keys before she and Hannah were due to go to the pub. But, if that was the case, how had she got here?
She rubbed her eyes. It was all so vague. She wrapped her shawl more closely around her. That was a clue. She must have been at work because here she was dressed as Emily Macfarlane. She reached up to her head and felt her servant’s cap firmly in place and her hair tucked neatly inside it.
She looked at her wrist but dressed in character meant she did not wear her watch. It was daytime and.… It was all wrong. It couldn’t be more wrong.
Mairead made her way to the exit, her heart beating faster with each step she took. She stopped and stared. Horses and carts clattered up and down Candlemaker Row. People dressed in Victorian style meandered along. The occasional glance came her way only to be swiftly averted when she caught their eye. Mairead descended the steps. At least one sight was familiar. A small statue atop its drinking fountain. Greyfriars Bobby – the faithful little Skye terrier who had guarded his master’s grave for fourteen years before finally expiring himself. A small dog stopped to drink from the trough. Mairead watched it, her mind reeling in disbelief.
No water had flowed through this fountain or into the trough since it was switched off in the mid-1970s.
What was going on? The oddest ideas flashed through her mind only for her to dismiss them instantly. Maybe they had closed the area off so that scenes for a film could be shot. But, if that were the case, where were the cameras? Director? Crew? Maybe she was still asleep. A sharp pain stabbed her foot as her thin soles made contact with a stone. Awake. Definitely awake.
She must get to Henderson Close. It wasn’t far. Maybe by that time she would have walked through this weird time-shift and back onto familiar territory.
She kept her head down and pressed on, along George IV Bridge, and turned right into the High Street. Still nothing was right. No motor vehicles. Only horse-drawn carriages and unfamiliar shops selling old-fashioned wares.
Ahead of her, the familiar bell tower of St. Giles’ Cathedral, on her side of the street, so she should be approaching the entrance to Henderson Close any second now.
She almost missed it.
The rubbish-strewn street, dirty, ragged children playing in the filth. Mairead wandered, as if in a nightmare, casting quick glances over her shoulder, ignoring ribald comments from men with rotten teeth, avoiding the eyes of careworn women who eyed her suspiciously. Compared to them, she was well-dressed if a little conspicuous. Her clothes would have been worn by their grandmothers, or even great-grandmothers. Life was short here.
At last she saw a sign she recognized. ‘Murdoch Maclean. Printer’.
In all this craziness, relief swept over her. She made straight for his shop, never pausing to consider that he was a complete stranger.
She opened the door and stepped in. The man had his back to her but as he heard her, he turned and wiped ink-stained fingers on his apron.
“Ah, Miss Car— Ye look different today, lassie.”
Mairead stared at him. “Sorry?”
“Ye’re the image of her but you’re no’ her, are ye?”
“I’m really confused. Who do you think I am?”
“It does na’ matter. There’s a lady who comes from the New Town. Miss Carmichael. You’re no’ her sister, perhaps?”
“I don’t have a sister.”
“Aye. So what can I do for ye?”
“Please…could you tell me what date it is?”
“The date? September 7th. Wednesday.”
Mairead took a deep breath. “And what year, please?”
Murdoch Maclean laughed. “What year? Lassie where ha’ ye bin? It’s 1881 of course.”
“It can’t be 1881. Are you sure?”
The smile died around Maclean’s lips. “Are ye no’ well?” He tapped his head.
“No. Nothing like that. It’s just.… I’m having a most peculiar day.”
“Aye and ye’re no’ the only one. Another lassie came into my shop a few days ago. She was no’ right either. Dressed like my auld granny. And you are too.”
Mairead’s eyes lit up. Hannah. It had to be. George had told her their friend’s strange story. “Mr. Maclean, do you know where she went after she left here?”
“I hae no idea. One minute she was here. Standing where ye are now. And the next, she had gone. Why two lassies like the two of ye should be here in the Closes, I cannae imagine. Ye dinna belong here. Go home to your own kind.”
Mairead’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t think I can. I think I’m trapped here for some reason and I have no idea how I got here in the first place, so how can I get back?”
Murdoch Maclean made a tutting noise. “Ye cannae stay here. It’s no’ safe for ye. Go up to the New Town. Go to St. Andrew’s and St. George’s Kirk. It’s on George Street. Anyone round there will tell ye’. Go up to Princes Street. Can ye find your way there?”
Mairead nodded.
“It’ll be dark soon. Ye don’t want to be here when it is. Who knows what might happen to ye? A young woman out alone. When ye get to the kirk, ask them for Miss Carmichael. She’ll look after ye. Off with ye now and watch yersel’.”
Mairea
d turned to leave. At the door, the stench hit her with renewed energy. She gagged. The printer had been right. The light was fading, and it was getting colder. She had no alternative but to follow his advice if she wasn’t to be left sleeping rough in the worst part of town.
Mairead crossed over Waverley Bridge, unable to believe the sight below her. Steam trains belched smoke into the air, creating a fog that made her choke and set her eyes watering. She recognized Princes Street by the Scott Monument and some familiar buildings but everywhere seemed coated in a thick layer of soot.
She was losing the light fast as she hurried along the wide street, which bustled with all manner of traffic – human, horse-drawn and mechanical. After some minutes, she found herself at the junction with George Street and then she saw the church. Please let there be someone there.
As she approached, she saw a light through a window. Then it extinguished. Her spirits sank, but the door opened and a man she took, by his dress, to be a minister of the church emerged. He saw her instantly and his eyes widened.
“Please can you help me?” Mairead asked. “I’m trying to find Miss Carmichael.”
“Trying to find her? I thought you were her for a moment. Certainly a few years ago she could have been your twin.”
“I need her help.”
The minister hesitated for a moment. “She lives nearby. Come, my child, I will take you to her.”
They walked mostly in silence until the minister stopped in front of the shiny, black door of the small Georgian townhouse that was Miss Carmichael’s home.
“Now, let us see if she can help you.” The minister rang the doorbell.
A maid answered. Her shocked glance as she took in Mairead’s appearance told her that, yet again, here was someone who was taken aback by the resemblance between her and the woman she was about to meet. The maid held the door open wider. “Please come in and I’ll tell Miss Carmichael you are here.”
They waited in the hall.
“My dear,” the minister said, “I quite forgot to ask your name.”
