Deadly Legacy E-Book

Alanna Knight

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Rose McQuinn
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 358

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Rose McQuinn has agreed to help her neighbour, Mrs. Lawer, by delivering what she claims to be a family legacy to her only living relative. But Rose's philanthropic journey takes a turn towards the dangerous when she herself is attacked on a train and Mrs. Lawer and her maid are found dead upon her return to Edinburgh. Investigating further, Rose finds links to Royal history, the theatre world, and her own home in Solomon's Tower. Balancing the murder investigation along with her obligations to family and friends, Rose discovers ties that seem to reveal that the past has not completely left the present.

Leseprobe

Deadly Legacy

ALANNA KNIGHT

For Jenny Brown, Helen and Morna the Mulgray Twins, with love.

Contents

Title PageDedicationCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOURCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVECHAPTER TWENTY-SIXCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTCHAPTER TWENTY-NINECHAPTER THIRTYCHAPTER THIRTY-ONECHAPTER THIRTY-TWOCHAPTER THIRTY-THREECHAPTER THIRTY-FOURAUTHOR’S NOTEAbout the AuthorBy Alanna KnightCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

Autumn 1901

Anyone out walking on Arthur’s Seat that Sunday morning, breathing in the September sunshine and bold enough to stop and stare into the kitchen window of Solomon’s Tower, would have found their curiosity rewarded by a scene somewhat familiar in many Edinburgh suburbs. A scene of tranquil domesticity.

While I frowned over a book, Detective Inspector Jack Macmerry solemnly read a newspaper, and a dog, larger than normal, occupied the rug in front of a cheerful log fire.

But all was not as it seemed; there was much that was not revealed by that first glance at this picture of married bliss. Not least that we weren’t married, except under the Scottish law of ‘marriage by habit and repute’. Writing up Rose McQuinn’s last case in my new logbook, I had not yet lost my sense of excitement at setting foot, as it were, in a new century. The last night of December 1900 had seen a terrible gale sweep nationwide across Britain, leaving a trail of destruction violent enough to bring down one of the ancient stones at Stonehenge.

Despite the Astronomer Royal’s assurance that numbering begins at one, not zero, to many that storm was an omen for the new century, especially as rumours had drifted from the Isle of Wight that Queen Victoria was approaching the end of her sixty-three years’ reign, described by some as ‘glorious’.

Her death on 22nd January shocked an entire nation, destroying delusions of her immortality and prayers for her survival, which were not shared by her son and heir, who had given up hope of ever being king while his stubborn old mother ruled over him (as well as her subjects) with a rod and will of iron.

However, this royal drama made little change to the war with the Boers, an event paled to insignificance by Her Majesty’s funeral cortège followed by the crowned heads of Europe, most of whom were close relatives. All recorded on what promised to be a new marvel of our age: moving pictures, viewed by thousands for the first time.

But to return to that domestic scene in Solomon’s Tower. Another look at DI Macmerry would have revealed that his anxious frown was not caused by whatever changes the reign of the new king, Edward VII, might bring to the Edinburgh City Police. He was in fact much more concerned regarding the welfare of three-year-old Meg, his motherless daughter, visited far too rarely in Glasgow and now to be even more inaccessible, having recently moved with her adoptive parents to a rural area of Perthshire. Added to that was the seed of doubt in his mind as to whether the child really was his, or whether he had been trapped into marriage by the oldest trick in the book.

As for the dog by the fire, Thane was not in any sense a domestic pet, but a very large deerhound whose origins lay within the mysterious depths of that extinct volcano Arthur’s Seat, from which he had emerged to become part of my life and my protector when I first arrived in Edinburgh six years ago.

On this particular Sunday morning, Jack tried to put his concerns about Meg out of his mind and was engrossed in an article concerning the anniversary of the Battle of Prestonpans, Prince Charles Edward Stuart’s successful prelude to the disaster of Culloden.

It was a well-known local fact that during his 1745 campaign laying siege to Edinburgh, the prince had lodged down the road from Duddingston while his army, their cannon trained conveniently on the city, had camped on Arthur’s Seat and most likely in this very house, Solomon’s Tower.

This possibility was substantiated when Jack and I came across the existence of a secret room at the top of the spiral staircase. Besides past centuries’ accumulation of dust and spiders’ webs, evidence of human occupation was indicated by a uniform cloak hanging behind the door and the abandoned fragment of a yellowed and almost illegible map on the table. These tokens gave no hint as to the identity of the occupant – Jacobite or Hanoverian deserter – who had presumably left in a great hurry with his pursuers hot on his heels.

Jack and I decided to close the door on that incident in history and the room had been reopened by me, two years ago, for another fugitive fleeing from the law. A secret refuge and a tragic incident that I did not want to remember but found hard to forget.

To return to Prestonpans. The secret room and that long-ago battle, all would have remained part of Edinburgh’s history had not Thane, on one of his rambles with Jack on Arthur’s Seat, unearthed a rusted sword, identified by a military antiquarian to be of Jacobite origin.

This find was a turning point for Jack and had him delving into historical accounts, where more interesting and alluring facts emerged than twentieth-century police files offered. Such as the rumour of French gold, which had followed the prince to Scotland to assist in his campaign but had mysteriously vanished and, in doing so, had intrigued historians ever since. That it might have reached the prince in Duddingston preparing for battle led Jack to the intriguing discovery that Arthur’s Seat had a hundred hidden caves suitable for buried treasure.

Because of his profession of solving murders, the existence of an unsolved mystery on our doorstep, so to speak, was irresistible and, with Thane, walks on unexplored sections of the hill became Jack’s favourite leisure pursuit.

Had Jack been a Highlander loyal to the Stuart cause, I might have understood, but he was a Lowlander, his duty owed, his oath of allegiance given, to the Queen, a direct descendant of the House of Hanover.

As this new hobby coincided with our discovery of the secret room, Jack now saw himself in the role of military historian, declaring that perceived wisdom held that most successful battles were fought in summer, when there was food for men and horses, while in the autumn Highland chieftains were unwilling to call their clansmen to take up arms, leaving harvests to rot and families to starve in the bitter winter – a theory disproved, Jack pointed out, by the springtime disaster of Culloden and the autumn victory at Prestonpans.

Now each September Jack and I would go on a carriage drive, allegedly for a breath of fresh East Lothian air, but in reality a pilgrimage, a walk across the old battlefield with Jack making encouraging noises to Thane, hoping that he would unearth a treasure greater than the King George II coin, his sole discovery to date.

Hopeful for something larger, like the Jacobite sword, all he ever received from Thane was a look of reproach that said plainly he was not that kind of animal. Besides, it was certain knowledge that this particular ground had been traversed and trampled across by souvenir hunters for a hundred and fifty years and what Jack was expecting was a miracle.

I refused to be convinced about the Stuart cause, and Jack, completely failing to understand my lack of excitement and enthusiasm, looked at me in amazement.

‘I thought that Bonnie Prince Charlie was every Scotswoman’s hero.’

I shook my head. ‘You’ve been influenced by too many tales of Flora MacDonald. He certainly wasn’t mine.’

For me, the past was gone and I was content to bury it along with the very recent past which had confirmed my widowhood. Now it was the present affairs of Scotland, along with the whole rapidly changing face of Europe and worldwide events, that engrossed and concerned me.

I didn’t much care which king or queen ruled over us as long as they understood that women were no longer men’s chattels, playthings or breeding machines.

Women’s suffrage was my burning issue, rather than a royal prince, a pretender to the English throne whose family exploits were a historical disaster. I refused to regard as a hero the incompetent misguided prince who had cost so many loyal followers their lives, and the terrible disasters wrought by Butcher Cumberland on the survivors. Indeed, I considered the Jacobites initially responsible for the Highland clearances.

My battles were with the times in which we now lived, and I was deeply involved with the Women’s Suffrage Movement in Edinburgh – my ‘obsession’ as Jack called it – since I had lately been appointed chairman of the committee which met each month, and we were shortly hoping to welcome the great Emily Hobhouse herself.

My fellow campaigners were amazed that men could be so blind to the Boer War, which had exposed every kind of social weakness in Britain, in particular malnutrition, poverty and ignorance. Even the newspapers had seized upon the fact that in every big city, almost a third out of eleven thousand volunteers for the war would be rejected as physically unfit.

The census figures were most revealing, showing a budget lingering on tariffs and refusing to consider welfare in a country where middle-class families now had an average of four children, while in labourers’ families the figures of infant mortality and child bed-deaths had changed little since the Middle Ages.

Our movement was supported by mothers, sisters and wives of all classes. We demanded not only for the right to vote, but radical social reform. Out of four million women, over one quarter were domestic servants – overworked, underpaid slaves of employers, where ostentation and drudgery went together.

Since the death of Queen Victoria, no one knew what to expect of the future reign of King Edward VIII. ‘It seemed we stood on the edge of a precipice,’ Jack said, little guessing that in fact his life, mine and that of the child he rarely saw were indeed trembling on the brink. In a few days the whole scene of our domestic life would be irrevocably changed for ever.

CHAPTER TWO

As with most major events in one’s life, there were no dramatic signals, only a chance meeting in Jenners with one of my elderly clients, for whom I had sorted out a very minor domestic problem regarding a missing watch she suspected had been stolen by the window cleaner. After an exhaustive search and extensive enquiries it was later discovered by me on my hands and knees in the shrubbery, having fallen out of the window when it was opened by the maid.

For some reason she remained grateful to the extent of even acknowledging my presence in company – not at all usual with most of my clients, who were usually eager, or had good reason to wish to forget the painful incident which had led them to commission my assistance.

On this occasion I had been in the toy department looking for a suitable present for Jack’s wee Meg. I had little experience of such matters, but possibly a great deal more than Jack, and feeling triumphant over the purchase of a small pretty doll with a spare set of clothes, I made my way upstairs to the restaurant.

And there was Mrs Lawers. ‘I saw you entering the toy department when I was on my way upstairs and …’ She paused. ‘Do please join me, that is if you haven’t an engagement and can spare a few moments.’

I took a seat opposite, and ordered my pot of tea, putting down my new purchase on a vacant chair.

I said, ‘A doll for a small girl.’

‘Might I take a look?’ Smiles of approval followed and she said, ‘I have been similarly engaged – a pretty dress for a friend’s granddaughter in London. The good Lord did not oblige me with children of my own.’

I regarded her thoughtfully; it did not take any great flight of imagination to realise that there was something more significant heavily at work in Mrs Lawers’ mind than polite rejoinders concerning Edinburgh’s weather and the inevitable change of royalty, which all loyal citizens seemed to feel obliged to include in their conversations.

Mrs Lawers had aged considerably since our last meeting. I noticed the walking stick, and at my enquiry regarding her health, she sighed.

‘I have chronic rheumatism and the physicians say there is little hope. It is very sad as I am almost unable to travel any more.’ Tears had welled in her eyes; she touched her breast in the region of her heart. ‘I fear I am not well or long for this world, my dear; my only wish is to see the only kin I have, a cousin never met since childhood, to pass on to him some valued family items, including documents, long in my keeping.’

She paused and looked at me, biting her lip. ‘I am almost afraid to ask this question, an impertinence really and one you may not even consider. My cousin’s family home is at Lochandor, in Perth. I have never visited them, but believe it is a fine old house.’ Another sigh. ‘And that is where I wish to travel.’ Leaning across, she placed a hand on my arm and said hesitantly, ‘I wonder … could I possibly engage your services as a travelling companion, to see me safely there, my journey – my mission – fulfilled?’

I recognised ‘engaging my services’ as the polite way of hinting that a fee was involved, but the request seemed odd. She must have seen by my reaction that this was a curious request. Surely she had servants who might accompany her.

Smiling sadly she shook her head. ‘I know what you are thinking, my dear – this is what is required of one’s personal maid. But there is a problem. I have no one who I can trust; my dear Hinton is as old as I am and equally infirm. There is no one else. A solicitor is too busy and would not even consider such a request, but I wondered … that is, if you were not busy with a case at the moment …’

An anxious frown, then she brightened. ‘And when I saw you I decided that the good Lord had given me a sign, had sent me an angel.’

I hardly saw myself in such a role, but I was intrigued and sorry for the old lady. Still it did not quite make sense until she leant over the table again and whispered, ‘I must have someone I can trust, you see. These packages I will be carrying have long been in my family’s possession; they are a legacy handed down through the generations.’ A sigh. ‘As the last direct descendant I have been trustee of the legacy all my life.’ A sad smile. ‘Now my life is drawing to its close, the legacy’s safekeeping must not be imperilled. It is essential that I go to Lochandor and see it handed on in person, delivered to the remaining member of our family.’

Watching me intently as I refilled our teacups, she said, ‘I am aware that I am asking a great deal and you must have time to think about it and to make any necessary arrangements. But as you are a young lady on your own …’

She left it unfinished. She must have been one of the few who did not know of my scandalous existence as the common-law wife of Jack Macmerry.

I could not refuse her request face-to-face, but it was true I needed time to consider, to discuss it with Jack. I promised to let her know shortly.

She frowned. ‘Do not leave it too long. I must leave by the end of the week.’ Looking over her shoulder as if she might be overheard, ‘There is … danger, danger for me,’ she whispered, ‘if I do not leave soon. There are others who wish to lay their hands on … what I am taking to Lochandor. Will you call upon me when you have decided – tomorrow perhaps?’

I promised to do so and escorted her to her waiting carriage. Since she lived in Duddingston village, her road led via Arthur’s Seat and I would be dropped off at Solomon’s Tower.

She was silent on the short journey, sitting back with her eyes closed, pale-looking and seeming utterly exhausted. I already had misgivings about what a visit to rural Perthshire with this frail old lady would involve.

As the carriage drew up at my home, she handed me the leather bag which she carried. ‘Will you take care of this for me?’

I was startled. It looked ancient and shabby but I presumed it was a favourite and long-treasured handbag. As I had not said yes to her request I replied, ‘If this contains the valuables you mentioned, surely I am not the proper person; it should be with your bank.’

She shook her head. ‘This satchel never leaves my possession, day or night, but alas I have reason to believe I cannot keep its contents safe in my own home a day longer. There are dangerous signs around me, my dear. They are no longer secure under my roof,’ she added, staring in the direction of the loch, ‘and for that reason I now feel they will be safer with you in neutral territory.’

And taking my hand, ‘I hope and pray most earnestly that you will decide to accompany me. It will merely be two days, to see me safe to my family, that is all I ask, and you will of course be a guest at Lochandor.’

I left her, wondering what on earth I had let myself in for. What would Jack say? And what did this bag contain that was so precious?

Jack’s response wasn’t as mocking as I expected. His immediate interest was the fact that Mrs Lawers lived in one of the Duddingston houses associated with Bonnie Prince Charlie. And that satchel, he declared, was exactly the kind officers carried during their troop manoeuvres in 1745.

Had I been inside her home? What did it look like? I assured him that it looked merely ordinary, the sitting room low-roofed, the windows small. He seemed disappointed, obviously having expected something a mite more grand and dramatic.

‘Lochandor did you say? Is that her destination?’ And unrolling one of his maps, pointing to the district, he traced his finger down an inch or so to the west. ‘Tarnbrae – now that is a coincidence, it’s where Meg is living now with her aunt and uncle.’ Taking out his wallet, he removed an envelope. ‘Here it is; Joe has taken a position as clerk to the local laird.’

I had to confess I knew very little about Meg’s adoptive parents. ‘Remember I told you, Joe worked in the shipyard on the Clyde, but his health has been poor, and he applied for this job, apparently got it too. Pam said it would be good for them to get away into the country for a change.’

Putting down envelope and map, he regarded me triumphantly. ‘Well done, Rose. Yes, by all means, I think you should take up Mrs Lawers’ offer. Gives you a chance to look in and see how Meg is settling down. And you can give me a full report.’

I said, ‘I was thinking about Meg – in fact that’s how I came to meet Mrs Lawers.’

Showing him the doll, he nodded appreciatively. ‘You can give it to her yourself, that’s even better.’

He sighed and shook his head sadly, and I heard in that sigh echoes of guilt for his neglect of his daughter, the wee girl he had seen no more than for a duty visit once or twice a year since the day she was born, who had been gratefully adopted by her childless aunt and uncle.

‘I would love to go with you, but there are matters at Central Office. I am in court, we’ve got witnesses from Glasgow, a murder investigation on our hands …’

There was to be another, nearer at home, quite soon.

CHAPTER THREE

A month had passed since Jack and I made the annual pilgrimage to the battlefield at Prestonpans. Now the first leaves had changed colour; a riot of yellows, reds and oranges had replaced the massed greens of summer. This annual scene of earthly beauty was breathtaking but transient; already storms were growling over the Firth of Forth, unleashing heavy rain clouds, driving across fields and gardens, while the first icy winds swept down from Arthur’s Seat, hiding its lofty lion’s head under a swirling shroud of mist.

My proposed journey with Mrs Lawers would involve travelling by train to Perth, then by coach across a rural area, to me a virtually unknown and curiously alien land. I hoped that the never-reliable weather wouldn’t mean an early snowfall, bringing with it the yearly closing of the Highland glens and inaccessible travelling conditions. Even close to towns, winter journeys were always hazardous and subject to long delays.

‘The autumn colours will be superb,’ said Jack encouragingly. ‘Only wish I could go with you,’ he repeated. ‘I am so anxious for news of Meg. Tell her I promise I will visit her next summer. Maybe earlier, it all depends,’ he added vaguely.

How far away summer seemed. Sometimes I wondered if his new obsession with the Jacobite Rebellion was his escape from the present, from feelings of guilt for the neglect of the daughter born of that swift unhappy marriage to her mother on the rebound of my rejection. A marriage made in anger and revenge for my refusal to become his wife.

And if this supposition was true, then I too had a share in his guilt: my lame excuse for not agreeing to marry him – that Danny McQuinn might still be alive – had resulted, directly or indirectly, in his hasty union with Meg’s mother, and now I felt a responsibility towards this unwanted child I had never met.

The day of my departure with Mrs Lawers approached. In reply to my acceptance I received a very substantial fee with a note that a hiring carriage would take us both to Waverley railway station.

My absence promised to be brief indeed; merely deliver Mrs Lawers to Lochandor, call on Meg in her new home, perhaps spend the night with her adoptive parents, and return the next day.

Jack would be home each night and Thane was in charge of the Tower as always in our absence. We never locked the kitchen door once he’d learnt how to lift the latch with his nose. He would feed himself, returning to hunting as he had done long before he came into my life. I had no idea how old he was at that time. He seemed young and hadn’t aged at all, so I tried not to remember that a dog does not live for ever and that the lifespan of large breeds was even shorter than small ones.

Except that Thane was more than a dog. I would close my eyes and simply hope that this strange creature did not obey the natural canine laws. He had survived more ‘deaths’ than a cat’s nine lives, a fact that neither of us could explain, and if I ever wondered out loud as to Thane’s background, Jack merely shrugged, shook his head and said, ‘Thane is Thane. That’s all we know of him or ever will. We must satisfy ourselves that we need never expect to know more about him than we do at this moment.’

And so I prepared to leave, heartened as ever that it would take a very brave burglar to face this particular and peculiar resident of the Tower.

At last I was ready, and as a cautionary measure, remembering Mrs Lawers’ fears for her life and safety, however irrational, I decided to be prepared for any emergency and took out of my study desk a small derringer and checked it for bullets, thankful that Jack was not observing my actions.

He would have been scandalised. I had learnt to use guns and rifles from Danny McQuinn in our pioneering days in Arizona. I was even rather a good shot, although I hoped that I would not have to prove that once again. I was prepared only to use this ultimate deterrent in direst necessity.

My small travelling case normally served as my carrier. Jack had devised and made it for me some time ago, to leave my hands free for the handlebars of my bicycle. It fitted comfortably on to the back of the machine and was considerably easier to carry with a shoulder strap than the rather unwieldy large suitcases and hatboxes now considered fashionable by most ladies.

Jack had already departed for the Central Office when I heard the carriage arrive. To my surprise, the woman who emerged was not Mrs Lawers. This must be Hinton, the maid whom I had never met, since she had been away at the time of the missing watch incident.

Looking past the maid, I expected to see Mrs Lawers already seated. But the maid was alone. She came forward rather tearfully and introduced herself. ‘I have sad news. Alas, my mistress is very poorly this morning.’

‘I am sorry to hear that. The journey is to be delayed, then?’

‘We cannot delay,’ was the reply. ‘This is a matter of utmost urgency and you are to proceed immediately as planned to her destination. My instructions are precise; I am to accompany you and I have acquainted myself thoroughly with her map. I know exactly where we are bound for.’ She hesitated and looked at me keenly. ‘You have the small satchel she left with you in safe custody. I am to take charge of that also.’

I looked at her. Mrs Lawers had stressed that it was not to leave my possession and it was now firmly locked away in my carrier across my shoulder. I said, ‘It is safely packed.’

‘Please hand it over, then.’

Remembering my promise, in Mrs Lawers’ absence I felt the momentary stirrings of unease. Something was not quite right.

‘Later, miss,’ I said. ‘It is not very convenient here. Wait until we reach the station.’

She glanced at the travelling case, frowning, as if doubtful about the reliability of such a piece of insubstantial luggage, and as the swaying coach hurtled down the steep hill towards the Pleasance, I added, ‘Has Mrs Lawers someone taking care of her in your absence?’

‘A kindly neighbour will look after her.’

As she spoke, sitting opposite I had a chance to take a good look at the maid Mrs Lawers had described as elderly and infirm like herself. Miss Hinton certainly did not look old, in fact she looked scarcely older than myself. Slim and youthful, apart from somewhat prematurely white hair, glimpsed under the felt bonnet, she was wearing a smart navy-blue costume and black boots, the garb of a lady’s maid. And then there was her cultured accent.

‘I gather you have been with Mrs Lawers for some time.’

‘I have, madam.’ Avoiding my gaze, steadfastly looking out of the window, she seemed nervous, eager to reach the station as we were held up by a cart which had shed a load of coal. As a delay seemed inevitable, I decided to ask how she had met Mrs Lawers.

‘We met in the usual way of a servant applying for a situation.’

‘But you are not from these parts. You are a long way from home.’

Turning her attention away from the commotion outside, she gave me a startled glance. ‘What makes you think that, madam?’

‘Your accent. You are from the Highlands, are you not?’

‘That is so. I was brought up near Inverness.’ A frowning look. ‘But I believe I lost my accent long ago.’

‘Your accent, perhaps so. But your natural language gave you away – there is no “yes” or “no” in Gaelic. Am I right?’

She smiled wryly. ‘That is correct. You are very observant, madam.’

We had reached the station and as we alighted she stretched out her hand for my bag. ‘Allow me to take that, madam.’

In answer, I slung it over my shoulder. ‘Not at all. I am used to carrying it. It isn’t heavy.’

She stood firmly in front of me. ‘But I insist, madam. Let me take it for you.’

I shook my head equally firmly. ‘Thank you, miss, but I would not dream of letting another woman carry my luggage.’

Ignoring that, she stretched out her hand in an attitude of command.

‘Thank you. But no.’ And glancing past her, ‘I notice we are in good time for the next train. While you purchase tickets, I shall take the opportunity of adjourning to the ladies’ waiting room and avail myself of the toilet facilities.’

I walked ahead, aware of a tightening of her lips, a frown of impatience. My insistence had annoyed her and as we walked into the waiting room and I headed towards the cubicle marked ‘Ladies’ she remained at my side. ‘No need to take your travelling case, madam, I will look after it.’

I pretended not to hear her, went inside and locked the door. There was something about her determination to lay hands on my luggage that made me uneasy. Undoing the carrier’s lock and opening it was quite difficult in such a confined space. I unfastened the strap on the old leather satchel, revealing its contents as a small sealed package.

I remembered my conversation with Mrs Lawers and gathered that it had been in her family’s possession for a long time, handed down generation to generation. It was certainly very old, yellowed with age; the writing on the outer parchment, a faint sepia faded with time, confirmed its value – even if this was purely sentimental, since Mrs Lawers was herself now old and infirm. But that it had some other value to someone else, particularly to her maid Hinton, seemed obvious by that woman’s odd behaviour, her determination to wrest it from my possession.

I had a sudden idea how to ensure the safety of its contents. Transferring the package to the voluminous pocket of my travelling skirt, I concluded my ablutions and returned to the café carrying the satchel to where Hinton waited seated by the window which overlooked the platforms.

Relieved to see me again, the maid’s eyes were immediately drawn to the satchel, and pointing to two cups on the table, she said rather impatiently, ‘So there you are, at last. I decided that as we still had time, we should refresh ourselves, so I purchased tea from the refreshment counter over there.’

I looked in the direction of a small and unprepossessing serving hatch, where a surly-looking attendant operated a tea urn and hovered over some tired-looking scones.

I thanked Hinton for her consideration, however, and she shrugged. ‘Better drink up. You took longer than I thought. We don’t want to miss this train. I presumed that you take sugar?’

I didn’t normally but thought it rude to complain, glad to have even a drink that was oversweet. Watching this enigmatic person, who was perhaps more used to dealing with old ladies, I was somewhat amused by her attitude towards me. I wondered if she was always bossy, used to treating her employer in this manner, especially when she contemptuously declined my offer to pay the few coppers involved for the cup of tea.

The Inverness train for Perth steamed into the station and we took seats opposite one another in an otherwise empty carriage which Hinton had chosen on the grounds that it is nicer for ladies travelling together to have some privacy.

Once inside, I settled down in my corner while she offered to put my two pieces of luggage, carrier and satchel, on the rack above our heads.

‘Thank you, no. It is a short journey, we have plenty of room.’

‘As you wish.’

My movements watched intently and with palpable disapproval, I slung the strap of the carrier over my arm and entwined the satchel over my wrist before settling back and staring out of the window. It was a grey weary day and after a few minutes I discovered that I was feeling very weary too.

My companion was silent. I studied her from narrowed eyes, observing again that her description failed to meet that of ‘old and infirm’ – she appeared to be both young and healthy and had rather large hands and feet. She was also quite tall – but so are most women compared to myself, a couple of inches under five feet.

Eager to learn more about Hinton, I considered polite conversation, but the words refused to assemble; suddenly it was too difficult to summon the energy to talk, and my eyelids were growing heavier, heavier.

I yawned and thankfully closed my eyes. After what seemed like only a minute, they opened again with utmost reluctance as the train jerked to a stop halted by a signal ahead.

Hinton was watching me. She smiled. ‘Did that waken you?’ And when I lied and said that I wasn’t asleep she replied, ‘You seem very tired, madam. You might as well take the opportunity to rest. I will wake you when we reach Perth, then we will take a carriage from the station.’

I found myself hardly listening, yawning again. This overwhelming desire to close my eyes and fall asleep during the day was quite extraordinary. It was only eleven-thirty in the morning and I had a desperate need for only one thing.

All my senses commanded: Sleep!

CHAPTER FOUR

I knew no more until air blasting in from an open door forced open my eyelids, still agonisingly heavy. What on earth was happening to me?

I was being held by Hinton. She was a strong woman, towering above my small stature, her arms grasped firmly around my waist.

I panicked, confused.

‘What’s happening? Has there been a crash?’

Clinging to me, she didn’t reply.

I struggled in vain. Had I been dreaming, opened the door for fresh air and was now in danger of falling out of the moving train?

And then—

And then I was suddenly alert. I was in danger indeed. But not from falling.

I was being pushed – pushed forcibly out of the open door.

Through the smoke, a steep hill, and as the train slowed down to round a corner I was in mid-air – my feet dangling above the rails.

I struggled with Hinton, calling for help.

No one heard me, and suddenly released from her iron grip, I flew through the air and hit the ground, tumbled on to a grassy verge, and began to roll steadily down the hill, my progress accelerated by agonising encounters with small stones, then halted momentarily by a series of tall weeds and shrubs.

In desperation I found one and clung on. Looking up back at the railway track far above me I called again for help. In vain.

The noise and smoke of the train had been replaced by silence as I hung there, trying to sort out my bruises and addled wits.

I was still so tired. There was no sign of the satchel which had contained Mrs Lawers’ legacy at the start of our journey. My travelling carrier, however, had accompanied my fall and I saw it lodged some ten feet away.

I wanted to reach it, but discovered I was too weary to make the effort. All I wanted was to close my eyes again, confident that this was just some terrible nightmare.

Soon I would wake up again. I always did.

Suddenly, my face was wet; I struggled to open my eyes. My face was being licked by … Thane!

No, that wasn’t possible, although the grey hairy face at close range might well have been his. A large dog was at my side, and hurrying up the hill, rifle in hand, a middle-aged gentleman dressed like a gamekeeper.

He rushed to my side. ‘Pilot spotted you, miss. What the devil has happened? Are you hurt?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t remember – I think I must have fallen off the train.’

He lifted me to my feet, very gently. ‘I’m a doctor, miss. Let’s make sure you’re all right. Let’s see, now. Can you walk a few steps?’

I managed, clinging to his arm and stumbling down the hill where he retrieved my carrier and pronounced my progress was excellent.

‘Arms and legs not injured. Excellent. A few bruises, I dare say, but they’ll soon mend,’ he added cheerfully. ‘Fortunate that you fell down a grassy slope. Excuse me a moment.’ He stopped. ‘Would you mind … er … breathing on me please.’

I did so and he nodded grimly. ‘Just as I thought, miss.’

He said nothing more until we were safely on the footpath below, the deerhound, so like Thane, walking at his side.

Releasing my arm, he asked how I was.

‘My shoulder is rather sore and my knee. I think it is bleeding.’ I could feel it sticking to my skirt.

We were in a village street and he pointed to a little cottage, some fifty yards distant, almost concealed by trees. ‘That is where I live. I have my surgery there, and once we have attended to your cuts and bruises, I’ll get the carriage out and take you to the railway station. Where were you heading?’

I told him Perth and he nodded. ‘You’re nearer Edinburgh than Perth; this is Kingmere.’

A brass plate on the door declared its owner was Dr Hugh Everson. The interior was neat and pretty, suggesting that the kindly doctor was no bachelor, confirmed by family photographs on the sideboard.

‘My wife is away visiting a friend in Kirkcaldy, who has been ill,’ he explained, his arm supporting me and leading the way into a small but well-equipped surgery. Removing my cloak, he bathed and bandaged my cut knee and gently examined my arms and shoulders.

‘All present and correct, madam. May I know your name?’

‘Mrs McQuinn,’ I said. ‘Thanks to you, Doctor, I’ve survived – I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.’

He smiled.‘Your thanks belong to old Pilot here.’

And before I could tell him the coincidence of Thane he stood up and regarded me sternly. ‘One more thing I must ask …’ He hesitated a moment. ‘Tell me, Mrs McQuinn, are you on some kind of drugs?’

‘Drugs? Of course not.’

‘You are absolutely certain. No kind of medication?’

‘No. I assure you I am perfectly healthy.’

He nodded but looked rather doubtful. ‘Very well. If you have any problems, then you can consult your own physician when you return home. Meanwhile I will make us a restoring cup of tea before you continue your journey – in safety this time.’

Dr Everson placed the cup of tea before me and proffered milk and sugar, which I declined. The first sip and the mists of confusion began to clear.

‘I was perfectly fit until I boarded that train for Perth. But I have not the slightest idea why I required fresh air, opened the door, and fell out of the train.’

Now as I said the words, the pieces of the puzzle began to fit together. Those last moments – the maid Hinton’s strong arm around me, my cries for help unheeded … and the thought came sharp as a knife: did I fall or was I pushed?

‘Your questions intrigue me, Doctor. Is there some point to them? Do I look as if I might be an opium addict?’

He smiled. ‘Far from it, Mrs McQuinn, but many ladies take laudanum for relief from pain – our late Queen set a lamentable fashion.’ He shook his head. ‘As I lifted you, it was not opium or laudanum I detected on your breath but a substance much more dangerous.’

And as I raised the cup again to my lips, I thought of that other time in Waverley station. Hinton with the two cups of tea.

‘Then I know the answer to your question, Doctor. I was travelling with a woman who tried to rob me.’ I told him about the refreshments and he said firmly, ‘It is obvious that she put something in the tea to drug you, and when it took effect, she pushed you off the train. What did she steal?’

‘Nothing. I felt uneasy about her from the outset of the journey, her insistence that she should carry my bag I found rather odd.’ And I told him of how I had taken the precaution of removing the package from the satchel in the ladies’ lavatory at the station.

‘I have the packages she wanted safe here,’ I added, indicating the large pockets of my skirt, an invaluable necessity for the convenience of a lady cyclist, but I omitted any mention of the derringer I also carried which I had had no opportunity to use.

Dr Everson listened, his expression grave. ‘This is a very serious matter, Mrs McQuinn. Attempted robbery and assault. A matter for the police for immediate investigation.’

He sat back and looked at me. ‘This woman is a dangerous criminal. She tried to kill you. You must inform the police. At once,’ he repeated.

‘I shall do so when I get home, Doctor. My husband’ – how odd the word sounded – ‘is a detective inspector with Edinburgh City Police.’

The doctor gave a sigh of relief. ‘Then he will know what to do, although I fear by the time you get back to Edinburgh it will be too late to catch this woman. She almost got away with murder.’

And that was all she got away with, I thought triumphantly, imagining her anger when she opened the satchel and discovered the small doll, intended for Meg’s birthday, which I had substituted in the ladies’ lavatory for the sealed package.

I was considering continuing my journey to Lochandor, but on my feet again, I realised that I was still severely shaken.

A glance in the mirror produced a very dishevelled image; in general I looked awful, with dusty clothes and wild hair, never easy to control at the best of times, clearly sending a message to all the world that I had been pulled through a hedge backwards. Which, in fact, was not far from the truth.

I had tried to restore equilibrium. The doctor had provided soap, a towel and a clothes brush, but when I reappeared he would not hear of my plan to continue my journey, insisting that doctor’s orders were that I return to Edinburgh immediately and inform my husband of the attack made on me and allow him to begin investigations for my attacker’s capture.