Ghost Walk E-Book

Alanna Knight

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

Seitenzahl: 356

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

It is 1897 and three years have passed since Rose McQuinn's husband, Danny, disappeared in Arizona. Believing him to be dead, she returned to Scotland to start her life afresh. She has now fulfilled her ambition of becoming a 'Lady Investigator, Discretion Guaranteed' and is about to marry her lover, Detective Inspector Jack Macmerry of the Edinburgh Police. But pre-wedding jitters become the least of her worries when a nun from the local convent claims to have received a letter from Danny. Is the elderly nun simply confused, or could Danny really still be alive? Unnerved and determined to find out the truth before her wedding, Rose begins to investigate. However, after two suspicious deaths, all the signs suggest that a ghost is about to walk back into her life.

Leseprobe

Ghost Walk

A Rose McQuinn Mystery

ALANNA KNIGHT

For Camilla and Lorn, with love

‘No living man I’ll love again

Syne that my bonnie man is slain;

Wi’ ane lock o’ his black hair

I’ll chain my heart for evermair.’

(‘The Widow’s Lament’ – Old Border Ballad)

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphChapter 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-NineAbout the AuthorBy Alanna KnightCopyright

Chapter One

June 21, 1897:

The Queen’s Diamond Jubilee should have been my wedding day, a momentous event, but with little impact on my future as a Lady Investigator, Discretion Guaranteed.

Jubilee fever was sweeping over the country. A rare opportunity for celebration and inebriation. That was in my future husband Jack Macmerry’s words how the citizens of Edinburgh viewed it.

And who was to blame them, he added, frowning over the extra work for the police in keeping order, dealing with drunkenness, loose morals and more sinister issues.

Jack’s parents, however, were very patriotic and determined that this remarkable coincidence was to herald a day to go down in the annals of the Macmerry family. I could imagine his mother was already picturing the smiling faces of her unborn grandchildren on the mantelpiece. I shuddered…

His parents’ delighted reactions that this would be a memorable occasion were reported to me by Jack who looked suddenly anxious.

And with good reason.

Ten years ago, the 1887 Golden Jubilee had been accompanied by Fenian assassination attempts discreetly kept from public knowledge.

I said: ‘Now that the Queen is so old, perhaps they won’t consider it worthwhile and will let nature take its course.’

But Jack wasn’t so sure about that. It seemed that not only the Fenians wanted rid of her.

There were those much nearer home, if I got his meaning.

My eyes widened at that. But truth to tell the old queen wasn’t all that popular with her English Parliament, keener on ruling from her Scottish retreat at Balmoral Castle. According to her son, the Prince of Wales, she was heavily under the influence of some questionable servants with peculiar interests, such as spiritualism. Bertie didn’t care for them at all and was most eager to rule the country and Empire while he still had some life left in him.

Which was questionable considering his present life-style.

The excuse was that as youth veered into middle age and an increasing corpulence, so did his despair at ever becoming king. Most days he felt sure that his tiresome indomitable old mother was going to live for ever – and possibly outlive him. Faced with this gloomy prospect he had nothing more worthwhile to pass away the time of his unkingly days, months and years than to relax in the arms of a succession of mistresses, his long-suffering Princess of Wales having learned to close her mind to such humiliation and even to manage a bleak smile when encountering these royal playthings at social events.

‘Bertie would never… his own mother!’ I exclaimed.

Jack shook his head and smiled. Whatever happened, Edinburgh City Police would have to do without him.

He didn’t need to spell that out either. He’d be on honeymoon. Even a detective inspector, newly appointed, had his weak moments. And Jack had had plenty of them since we met two years ago, any excuse to lead me up the aisle and slip a wedding ring on my finger.

He little knew how near he was to that now. I had not yet shared with him my suspicion that I may be carrying his child. After all, we would be wed within weeks, and there would be time enough to tell him then. And I did not want to suffer the extra pressure that he would certainly impose on me to move the wedding date forward.

Let me make it clear. It wasn’t that I didn’t love Jack.

Friends nudged me and whispered that any girl would jump at the chance, sighing over his good looks, the fair hair and high cheekbones of the Lowland Scot, very different indeed to the black-haired, blue eyed Celtic warrior, my first husband – Danny McQuinn.

I was afraid. Afraid still of that dream in which a door opened and Danny, whose death I firmly refused to acknowledge, walked in with a perfectly simple and completely logical explanation of where he had been for the past three years since the day he walked out of our home in Tucson, Arizona, never to return.

I told myself that I could never ever love any man as much as I had loved Danny. The dream persisted and became an obsession, as well as providing an excellent excuse for not getting married a second time.

A more truthful reason was that I enjoyed my new life following in the footsteps of my illustrious father, Chief Inspector Jeremy Faro, and ignoring the occasional grim look in Jack’s eye which clearly indicated that once we were married he would soon put an end to that nonsense.

Not because he feared rivalry of a wife in the same profession – unofficially – but because he loved me and feared for my life.

On two memorable occasions he had saved me from death at the hands of a killer who I had unmasked. Perhaps he felt that twice was more than enough and wasn’t prepared to let my lucky escapes go to my head, feeling with good reason that he could not always guarantee to be around at the crucial moment.

And so, the wedding plans began with a long promised visit to Jack’s parents who farmed just over the Border, a visit I had evaded for two reasons.

The village had remote associations with Danny. He used to visit one of his relatives, a priest, who had brought him over from Ireland as a child in the late ‘40s. Good sense told me that was a mere excuse and that there was little chance of Father McQuinn still being alive.

The real reason was that any visit to Jack’s parents meant that they would hear wedding bells for their one and only bairn. Two years without a formal engagement, neither fiancée nor wife and the revelation that we were lovers would be extremely embarrassing for devoted parents.

The Macmerry farm was in Eildon and constructed, like most of the village, from stones from the ruined Abbey, a beauty spot popular with lovers and families on summer picnics.

Eildon’s days of glory had ended some six hundred years ago when King Henry the Eighth, who was as enthusiastic about matrimony as I was to avoid it, decided how he would deal with the Pope’s refusal to permit him the luxury of bigamy. He had responded to excommunication by chopping off a few heads and rewriting the rules. These included destroying the abbeys and transferring their wealth, which was considerable, into the Royal purse.

May blossom had become the buds of June and I sat in the garden with Thane, my deerhound, who had temporarily abandoned the yellow gorse to pretend to be a domestic pet.

He spent a lot more time with Jack and me of late and, stroking his head, I wondered if it was only trust or because he was getting old.

Where did he live on Arthur’s Seat? I had long since given up trying to solve the mystery of his origins, how he existed and looked so well cared-for. And why there was a deep bond, a strange telepathy between us where he often seemed to read my mind or understand when I was in danger.

I was happy that morning, weddings were still far off and the sun was warm on my arms. To a blackbird’s serenade above our heads, I opened the newspaper Jack had left with me that morning.

It promised to be dull reading. The main item as usual was Jubilee fever, its spread infecting Edinburgh and its environs with a daily outcrop of summer fetes and fairs.

There was one just a short distance away, within walking distance or a bicycle ride from where I lived in Solomon’s Tower, at the base of Arthur’s Seat.

The Sisters at St Anthony’s Convent were today having a ‘Modest Charity Fair in aid of their Orphans.’

My interest was immediate. The Sisters were a teaching order of nuns. And Danny McQuinn had been one of their orphans.

When his parents died in Ireland during the Famine, the priestly relative heading for Eildon, at his wits end about what to do with a little lad, had deposited him en route at the Catholic orphanage in St Leonard’s.

Danny was clever and had grown up a credit to the Sisters who educated him. At seventeen he joined the ranks of the Edinburgh City Police as constable and worked his way up to become the trusted sergeant of my father, Chief Inspector Faro.

When I was twelve years old, Danny had rescued me and my younger sister Emily from kidnappers during one of Pappa’s most sinister cases. Suffering thereafter from a case of terminal hero-worship, I was determined to marry Danny when I grew up. And that is exactly what I did, completely oblivious of the existence of any eligible young men of my own age. It was always Danny – although I have to confess that marriage was never really his idea.

Not his strong point, he said as he tried to talk me out of it, bringing sadly to mind the old adage: ‘There are those who kiss and those who are kissed and there are those who love and those who are loved.’

I had long realised sadly that where Danny was concerned I was in the latter category, but I was nothing if not tenacious, my mind firmly resolved to follow him out to America and share his life in the still untamed state of Arizona.

Danny wasn’t strong enough to send me back home again. And so we were married. We had ten years together until the day in August 1894 when he walked out of the house never to return.

I was not unaware of the daily hazards of his life with Pinkerton’s Detective Agency and the Bureau of Indian Affairs. He had enemies on both sides, he said, a timely warning to prepare me for the possibility of his disappearance. I had been left with careful instructions.

Wait six months only and then, acknowledging that he was missing, presumed dead in some unmarked grave in Arizona, I was to return to Edinburgh where I would be safe.

What he did not know was that I was carrying his child.

I had not known for certain either, somewhat cautious after several miscarriages in our ten years of marriage. But the baby son Danny had longed for was born strong and healthy, only to die of a fever on a Navajo reservation where we had taken refuge from an attack on settlers by renegade Apaches.

Thoughts of Danny and that baby in its unmarked grave were still a bitter agony. I had a sudden wild idea that a visit to the orphanage and acquaintance with any of the now elderly nuns who might have known him might also offer healing or even exorcism, especially when I was on the threshold of a second marriage.

Not quite a new idea. In the two years of my life just half a mile away I sometimes felt guilty at not visiting the convent and asking the nuns to say a Requiem Mass for Danny McQuinn. A devout Catholic, he would have wanted that, but I also knew that it would be like drawing a line across twelve years of my life. And so, always ready with excuses, telling myself next week, next month, I had pushed it aside, perhaps with the feeling that a Mass for Danny’s soul would pull down the curtain of finality.

None of this, of course, did I confide in Jack. I doubted whether his strict Presbyterian upbringing could cope with such superstitious Popery. As it was his lips would tighten perceptibly and his eyes turn cold, his manner suddenly remote, at the least hint or mention of Danny.

With good cause, I recognised the signs and had learned to avoid any mention of my late husband whom Jack understandably regarded as a rival he could do nothing about, untouchable and deified by death.

Telling Thane where I was going and pretending that he could read my mind and the newspaper, he watched me take out my bicycle and saying no, he could not come with me, I left him looking quite dejected as I set off alone for the convent at St Leonards.

Chapter Two

The Little Sisters of the Poor’s Summer Fair had brought out the best in Edinburgh weather, warm and sunny with the merest hint of a breeze. I free-wheeled gracefully downhill towards the tall grey house which had once been Danny’s boyhood home.

What had he been like then? I wondered, hoping that a class group photograph might at least provide clues to those early years lost long before we had met. The enigma of a lad who had hated England so passionately and chanted ‘God save Ireland’ but had yet joined the Edinburgh City Police. Although his nationalism did not waver, I knew that at Pappa’s side he had helped to foil at least one assassination attempt on the Queen of England.

Such were my thoughts as I rode along the drive where figures, black-robed, white-coiffed, fluttered busily from stall to stall across the lawns.

I soon discovered plenty of pretty things to buy, witness to the nuns as excellent seamstresses and housekeepers. Not only homely pots of jam and vegetables from the gardens but delicate nightgowns and robes very suitable for a bride’s trousseau. And, nestling coyly alongside, the inevitable baby layettes regarded as a discreet but necessary follow-up to the honeymoon.

I moved away rather quickly. On to crocheted shawls, tablecloths and antimacassars which seemed appropriate gifts for my future in-laws next week.

As I made my selection, the best of Edinburgh’s weather having overreached itself, the day went into sudden decline. A deluge had all the visitors racing for shelter.

The nuns had foreseen such an eventuality and were well prepared as we were speedily ushered into the assembly hall of the convent where tea was being served.

Looking around, I saw fewer ladies than I had expected taking seats at the flower bedecked tables with their white lace cloths and I noted that the nuns were counting heads.

Doubtless, the well-trained Edinburgh Presbyterian matrons, casting nervous glances over their shoulders at sanctuary lamps and statues of the Virgin and Child had quickly decided that patronising stalls under anonymous non-denominational skies outside was one thing. But stepping under the sheltering roof of a Popish establishment with the sniff of incense was quite another.

I had no such qualms. I drank the tea and ate the sandwiches and cake. My life at Solomon’s Tower tended towards the spartan and despite my lack of inches and small frame, I was always hungry these days.

Thoroughly enjoying this unexpected treat for a sixpence I looked around at the impromptu waitresses. The older girls from the orphanage wore neat grey uniforms while those attending the stalls were doubtless young novices who had not yet taken their vows. Here and there I identified accents other than local. French, Irish – but all had gentle serene expressions, faces empty of the marks that living in the world outside the convent leaves on women stressed by childbirth, the rearing of a family and its attendant responsibilities.

About to leave and inspect the weather, I was asked to sign the visitors book at the door. I could hear Jack’s cynical interpretation of this invitation as a useful trap for the unwary.

‘Very useful indeed having the names of sympathetic ladies when they do door to door with their collecting tins for the orphanage.’

As I lingered inside waiting for the rain to abate, I was approached by one of the older nuns. Making an opening remark about the weather, she smiled:

‘I noticed you signing our little book – Mrs McQuinn.’ Her pause was a question. ‘An Irish name?’ she smiled. ‘Are you from Ireland, my dear?’

I said I was from Edinburgh. ‘McQuinn is my married name.’

I looked at her. Perhaps she had known Danny, but it was difficult to attach ages to those smooth faces unlined by the passions and torments of domestic life.

‘My husband was at the orphanage here. Thirty years ago. But that would be before your time,’ I added gallantly.

She laughed. ‘Not at all. I had just taken my vows. I am Sister Angela by the way,’ she added. We shook hands. Less smooth and unlined than her face, they told a tale of frequent encounters with hard rough work.

‘Danny McQuinn.’ She smiled. ‘I remember how proud Sister Mary Michael was of him. I’m sure she would be delighted to meet you.’

This was an unexpected stroke of luck. ‘She is still with you?’ I had almost said alive, but remembering that Danny referred to her as an old lady over 20 years ago, that seemed highly unlikely.

‘Yes, she is still with us.’ Sister Angela nodded gently and sighed. ‘But only just! She is past ninety and infirm in body, but her spirit is quite indomitable as she waits patiently for the call to meet her Maker.’

As she spoke she considered me thoughtfully. ‘She lives a life of meditation and sees few people. But I am sure she would make an exception in your case, someone with a connection to one of her past pupils,’ she added enthusiastically.

‘I would like that very much.’ With a feeling that she was perhaps over-optimistic about the old nun’s memory, I could not pass up even this remote possibility of a glimpse into the missing years of Danny’s early life. ‘Perhaps we could arrange a time for me to call on her.’

‘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 getting 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 emigrants 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.’

His words had come home to roost with a vengeance. History was repeating itself with Detective Inspector Jack Macmerry who, whatever his emotions regarding his inaccessible and dead rival, would have shared his sentiments on that particular issue.

I had no idea what were the views of Edinburgh City Police on the subject of female detectives or the milder term ‘lady investigators’, but I could guess that they regarded criminal investigation as a ‘men only’ province.

I felt so impatient with authority. Would a day ever dawn when women ceased to be treated as playthings or breeding machines, when they would be given equal rights with men. My hackles rose in anger at the suffragettes’ gallant struggles as portrayed in a recent pamphlet which I had been at pains to keep concealed from Jack.

Watching him eat his supper that evening, I observed that this had not been one of his good days. He was in a bad mood, his perplexed frown told me all I needed to know. His current investigation was not going well and it would not be a clever move on my part to bring up the subject of Sister Mary Michael’s mysterious note from Danny.

So in my mind I went over and over the details of that brief and frustrating interview and realised that she had told me something of importance. That his relative Father Sean McQuinn, whom I had presumed would be dead by now, was not only alive but occasionally came into Edinburgh and visited the convent.

And suddenly I was quite eager to visit Jack’s parents on the off chance that the priest might have news for me.

Jack was surprised by this burst of enthusiasm but my preparations in the days that followed were accompanied by ghosts of the past, the agonies of the last three years with their false hopes and dreams.

Reason and pride – of the wounded variety – insisted that if Danny were alive, he would never have allowed me to suffer so. We were a devoted couple. He was my only love and my despair, for I thought that love awakened when I was twelve years old would last forever.

I had never imagined the remotest possibility that I could love again, desire and marry another man – and yet, Jack Macmerry was on the threshold of disproving that theory.

I believed that Danny had loved me too, although doubts crept in sometimes that he was not quite as passionate or single-minded in his devotion as I had been. After all, I had pursued him to America and rather forced his hand if truth were told. That did arouse feelings of guilt, but I told myself firmly that such overwhelming emotions were more natural to womankind who stayed at home, raised families and waited on their men. Feelings which I had to admit sat uneasily alongside the women’s rights I so fervently supported.

In the end, it all came back to that inescapable wounded pride and the reassurance I needed that if Danny were still alive and well and in Scotland, I was the first he would have got in touch with, the most important person in his life.

And on days when logic needed extra sustenance I told myself that the old nun had been mistaken and for her, confused by the passage of time, three weeks could have been three years. So taking comfort and refuge in Sister Angela’s consoling explanation regarding common Irish names I looked forward to Eildon and meeting Father McQuinn.

He would confirm that Danny was indeed dead and that there no longer existed any impediment to my marriage to Jack Macmerry.

Chapter Four

As it turned out, I was to travel alone by train to meet my future in-laws for the first time.

Jack was summoned to appear as a police witness in a Glasgow court. This last minute change of plans put me in an ill humour, recalling as it did childhood occasions in the household of a Chief Inspector where my sister Emily and I soon realised that Pappa was never there when we needed him.

In despair and anger, I thought, was this to be the set pattern of my life as a policeman’s wife – for the second time? Was I being foolish, indeed insane, to expect anything better?

I should have realised when I followed Danny to America that life was to be no romantic bed of roses. Hazardous and uncertain, it had eventually made me a widow. I had now learned to live with that bitterness and grief but was I in my right mind even to consider a second marriage to a policeman, especially since I was independent, with a successful career?

Although Jack certainly did not approve of my choice, he knew when to keep his mouth shut and to accept that I could deal with ‘discretion guaranteed’ cases that were not within the scope of the Edinburgh City Police.

Domestic incidents involving the behaviour of relatives, cheating