Sadie left and I went into my study. I had nothing to do and the Tower now so still and empty, I felt very alone. Being sick had drained me of energy and enthusiasm. Sorting idly through papers on my desk, my mind backtracked to my soul-bearing with Sadie. I thought of her collecting the parcel for Meg and that I should have been the one to decide what she would wear. It was no comfort to know, as I had always known from the moment she came into our lives, that given a straight choice, however much Jack had once loved me, now he would always choose Meg.
She was his child, she was his image and these days I noticed an increasing movement of our world around ‘Meg thinks … Meg says … Meg wants …’
Not for a moment must this imply that I was resentful, the wicked stepmother. I loved Meg with all my being. She was the child I had never borne, the replacement for that beloved infant son with my first husband Danny McQuinn. The baby who still lived in my heart, whose frail ghost still rose from the unmarked grave in the Arizona desert that I had dug with my own hands and laid him to rest.
After several miscarriages I knew I was unlikely to bear Jack a child. The St Ringan’s curse my sister Emily and I called it, by which all Faro women could bear only one live child. If Jess Macmerry never forgave me for Jack’s baby I had lost in those early months and was at that particular time my only reason for getting married at all, I had sought and found a granddaughter for them, reunited with her father but with no past memories. She loved both of us, her mother and father. But Jack was first – and the thought came unbidden and sometimes too often that now in my early forties, I was almost there, stepping over the threshold into middle age. With a loving husband and step-daughter, I had nothing to complain about, but it didn’t help to know that somehow I had failed as a wife.
I was not – or ever likely to be – the first person to live and die for anyone’s love; for blood, as previously mentioned, is thicker than water and that no amount of devotion can equal. Once I had prided myself, preened secretly, that I was first with Pa – now he had Imogen, happy together and settled in Dublin. Now there was no one wanted me above all others, and that included Thane, rushing to Meg’s side, tail wagging in delight, as soon as the door opened or he heard her footsteps on the stair.
I made a resolve that morning. Unburdening myself to Sadie had been a catharsis, a confessional Meg would have said, like the Catholic pupils at the convent. Yet Sadie had seemed impressed, even envious.
I stood up, cleared away the papers from my desk and made careful notes of what was required for the Glasgow court, telling myself to get a grip, stop feeling that life was slipping away. Be grateful, and be like Meg, say thank you, God, for every day. And go now, feed Thane.
Yes, there was Thane, my beloved deerhound. What about Thane? Thane had always been Meg’s from the first day they met when she was three, his allegiance was to her. He would go with them to the farm, sure of a warm welcome, indulged by Andrew Macmerry. And give Thane his due, he knew when he was on to a good thing.
Sadie had returned and smiled as she unpacked the groceries. ‘You’re looking better, Rose. A bit more cheerful than when I left.’
‘I’ve been gathering the threads, busy with things, that’s always good for the spirit.’
‘I was going to ask you something,’ Sadie hesitated, frowned. ‘I’ve been thinking just now. If you had been going with them, I would be off on a week’s holiday. Now that you are staying—’
‘No! You must still have that holiday. I insist. You deserve it, you work so hard for us all the time. And I can look after myself for a few days.’
‘Are you sure?’ She looked at me doubtfully.
‘Of course I’m sure. Have you somewhere to go?’
‘Yes. I was planning to go to Bute, catch up on old relations,’ she added.
‘Is that where your family came from?’
‘My parents, yes.’
I laughed. ‘I had no idea. I thought Mrs Brook being your aunt, Edinburgh born and bred …’
She nodded vaguely and I realised that was a foolish presumption as she said: ‘I was born near Rothesay.’
She said no more, retreating up the spiral stair to tidy Meg’s bedroom and put out her change of clothes when she returned from school. Scrambling about with Thane outside on the hill in her uniform was strictly forbidden after one or two disasters.
Suddenly I was aware of how little I knew about Sadie or of what had been the pattern of her life before coming to Solomon’s Tower.
She came downstairs, looked at me and said: ‘I’ve just had a great idea.’ Pausing, she smiled eagerly. ‘Why don’t you come with me, Rose? To Bute.’
CHAPTER THREE
Sadie’s suggestion took me by surprise. The idea of going on holiday with her had never entered my mind. I had never been to Bute, although Pa had long ago and he once compared it to Orkney. He liked it, reminding him that he was also an islander, an Orcadian born and bred, he said proudly.
Sadie was saying: ‘Look, I have to go through Glasgow, change trains there for Wemyss Bay, go across on the ferry.’ She laughed excitedly. ‘Why don’t we go together? I’ll do some shopping while you’re at your court case, then you come to Rothesay with me. You like islands, don’t you – brought up on Orkney with your grandmother? You’ll love it,’ she ended enthusiastically.
I think we both realised that a change of scene was called for and I suspected that apart from my slow recovery from what had seemed a particularly bad cold, another reason for my discontent might well be that I was perhaps now entering what the ladies of my acquaintance delicately whispered as ‘the change’, something all women dreaded, heralding the approach of middle age. The idea hadn’t occurred to me so far to be scared, but maybe the symptoms were imminent and at that moment Sadie’s suggestion seemed like a small miracle. The perfect answer, and I was certain that Jack would be happy about it too, with his insistence that I needed a holiday.
I considered Sadie as a possible holiday companion. Thirty-six, unmarried, she had no objections to being what they called a spinster or ‘being on the shelf’, as she laughingly described herself. I discovered that she had made a lot of man friends through the years and she always seemed to have some chap on the go. And that worried Jack more than it did me, especially when we met her in Princes Street, walking in Holyrood Park or Salisbury Crags’ Radical Road nearby. And always on the arm of yet another man.
‘Never the same one twice,’ and Jack would frown. Once pressing on, with polite bows exchanged, but no introductions, he whispered: ‘I was wondering, do you think we’re paying her enough?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, Rose, surely the same thought must have occurred to you – that she’s maybe making a bit of extra cash on the side.’
‘Jack! That’s awful. What a dreadful thing to say.’
But now that he had mentioned it, I gave Sadie’s behaviour a certain amount of thought. Certainly there was nothing in her appearance to arouse such suspicions. She didn’t behave flirtatiously towards Jack, she didn’t dress flashily nor was she a beauty, a stunner as men called them, although she had pretty chestnut hair and elegant hands – what Grandma Faro called a lady’s hands. She used to say they were a real giveaway of age too. Something you can’t disguise, she insisted, and made me very self-conscious in childhood about my short fingers and toes, haunted by the fear that they might be webbed, like those of my selkie Orcadian great-grandmother.
Certainly with Sadie, it was more than pretty hair and elegant hands that gave her that mysterious sex appeal, an irresistible chemistry that had men flocking to her side. If I had ever attempted to discuss such matters with Gran, she would have been quite shocked that I could let such notions ever pollute my innocent young mind. She would have said firmly she knew about such disgusting things and that particular appeal I was referring to, in her opinion, had more to do with the farmyard than the farmhouse. They belonged in the same category as rude or naughty words that, when utter
ed, I had to go and wash out my mouth, but alas there was no means by which I could wash out my childish mind of certain sordid and unexplained images.
Discussing this with Jack, I told him how at school long ago I had encountered any number of Gran’s wicked women. We laughed and concluded that in another age Sadie might have had the right qualities for a courtesan, a breed where beauty was not quite enough.
Once, I decided while we were sewing together to cautiously ask why, since she was so domesticated, she had escaped the matrimonial net. She shrugged and said she knew men and she liked them, they liked her too but marriage – she held up the sock she was darning – no, that was out of the question. I nodded sympathetically; she was one of this new age of emancipated women, like many of my suffragette colleagues, who refused to abandon their freedom and become men’s slaves.
The subject closed, I decided wryly that perhaps she saw too much of what it might become, aware of those threadlike cracks in my marriage. Jack was a good husband and a fine policeman, but he was also a very ambitious man and had no scruples or hesitation in putting every hour of his career ahead of his domestic life.
Later I was to be told that when she was orphaned in Bute in her early years, she had been fostered by a couple who seemed right enough, but behind closed doors there was a horror story. Strangely enough, although the man abused her, it obviously hadn’t put her off men altogether.
My thoughtful look at the suggestion of a holiday in Bute hadn’t gone past her. ‘Oh, do come, Rose, you’ll love it,’ she repeated.
‘Where will we stay?’
‘My family connections are near Rothesay, an ancient castle, and if any of them are still alive – it’s twenty years since I left – I thought I might look them up.’ She shrugged. ‘Remote cousins.’
The mention of an ancient castle was enough to make me shudder and have second thoughts. Although Solomon’s Tower was what it said, an ancient pele tower built some centuries ago, I never wanted to live anywhere else. But while it was dear to my heart, I wanted a change from stone walls that seeped in draughts, cold, vaulted ceilinged rooms with only the kitchen warm enough to survive the winters. The thought of a voluntarily chosen holiday in another ancient ruin sounded like utmost folly.
Sadie observed my doubtful expression, and smiled. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but what I have in mind is this chap I met in Duddingston – his uncle has a first-class hotel. It has all modern luxuries, as well as lifts, a bathroom for each floor, bedrooms overlooking the bay. All the rich folk from Glasgow go there, so it really is something. And we can stay there. Plenty of room out of the main tourist season.’
‘How much will it cost – sounds very expensive?’
She shrugged. ‘If you can pay your way, Rose, don’t worry about me.’ A small hesitation. ‘I have savings put by – you and Mr Jack are very generous with my weekly wages.’ And as my thoughts drifted inevitably to Jack’s outrageously wicked suggestion about her extra cash, she added: ‘I have a small legacy, from another aunt, put by. So I can afford it.’
And that finally made up my mind, I decided that I owed it to myself, and at this moment what I needed most was a warm, luxurious hotel for a few days, and Sadie’s description had definite appeal.
It remained to persuade Jack. Sadie was with me when he came in from work, as if for moral support. I need not have worried. He thanked her and, I fancied, with a sigh of relief, making me wonder if perhaps he knew more about those threadlike cracks than I thought and that, after ten years of marriage, the petals in that bed of roses were beginning to wilt a bit. But as Sadie went out, with a delighted smile, Jack gave me one of his big hugs and kisses, making me feel guilty of such disloyal thoughts.
‘If you can’t come to the farm then this seems the perfect answer,’ he said reassuringly. ‘A great opportunity going with Sadie, a nice woman I can trust to take care of you.’ I had no chance to register a protest about needing care as he continued: ‘A great place Rothesay, very popular, especially for ordinary Glasgow folk with big families in the old queen’s reign. They called it going “doon the watter”.’
Warming to the subject, he nodded eagerly. ‘I’ve been there a couple of times and one of our lads from there was never tired of singing its praises. So go for it!’ A wide grin spread as he grasped my hand across the table. ‘The change of scene will do you a world of good. I know that hotel too, but it’s very expensive, top-class.’ He frowned. ‘We can manage, but what about Sadie?’
‘No. It was her idea. The uncle of a man she knows owns it and she assured me that she can afford it.’
Jack’s eyebrows rose at that. ‘Can she indeed? Hardly from what we pay her.’
‘She has savings, apparently, a legacy she inherited from an aunt. Not our Mrs Brook.’
Jack gave me one of his wry looks and shook his head. I could read his thoughts, which took me back to our earlier conversation about her making a little extra on the side.
‘I don’t doubt her, Jack,’ I said sharply. ‘Perhaps this fellow from the hotel is getting her a discount. Especially as she is from Bute,’ I added indignantly.
‘She never told us that,’ Jack said. ‘We thought she was from here, being Mrs Brook’s niece.’
Meg who had been listening silently to our conversation came over, took my hands and wailed: ‘I’ll miss you, Mam. It won’t be the same without you. And Thane will miss you as well, won’t you?’ she added, giving him a pat.
At which Thane looked wise as always, not having anything dog-like to add in the way of words.
I didn’t say a word to Meg but Thane was one of my chief worries these days. How old was he? I had no means of knowing his age when we first met on Arthur’s Seat, where he seemed to be living wild when I returned to Edinburgh from the wilds of Arizona, after the disappearance and presumed loss of my first husband, Danny McQuinn. The huge deerhound, who appeared in my life and saved me from rape by drunken tinkers, looked fully grown and I would have said in the prime of dog life.
That was in ’95, and although eleven years had fled, Thane didn’t look a day older. He hadn’t aged like the rest of us and yet I knew, having made careful enquiries, that hounds as large as Thane don’t live as long as the smaller breeds. I often sighed, aware that the inevitable must happen, preparing myself mentally for when, sooner now than later, he must leave us. A day as inevitable as life itself but we couldn’t bear to think about it.
Jack and I were well aware that Meg would be inconsolable. He was so much part of the furniture of our lives, of Solomon’s Tower and Arthur’s Seat. Jack tried to be very philosophical about it all, insisting that Thane was ‘just a dog, after all’, despite the many instances I had recorded through our years together that he was more than just a dog. He had remarkable qualities, a kind of telepathy that existed between him and Meg – and me. He knew when we were in danger, knew when we needed him. Difficult to explain to anyone, but we were very conscious of it.
At this moment Jack and I shared a rare moment of telepathy. He squeezed my hand gently and said: ‘Go and enjoy yourself and stop worrying about Thane, he’ll be waiting for you when you get home again.’
And so the plan to visit Bute went ahead, Sadie saying she would let the hotel know, as with our heads together we went over timetables of trains and ferries. Each day it drew nearer, Rothesay with its luxury hotel, when my dreams of having a few days relaxing in warmth and comfort would soon become the reality of prepared meals and sitting by a window overlooking the sea. Sadie’s ancient castle and her odd relatives I had mentally resolved to avoid at all costs.
When the day of departure arrived, Jack saw us off on the Glasgow train, surprised at our lack of luggage, just one large case each. He grinned. ‘Is that all? I expected hatboxes and sundry small cases and valises,’ to which I responded sharply:
‘You know me better than that.’
I had a good training. The years of my life in the Wild West with Danny had not included the acquisition
of possessions beyond the minimum required for surviving attacks from hostile Indians and bandits.
Jack grinned. ‘You’re looking very smart, in your best city costume – for the Glasgow court, no doubt.’ His eyes widened. ‘And a hat too. That’s a rarity.’
I never wear a hat if it can be avoided, at constant war with my unruly mass of yellow curls resistant to combs, brushes and the passing years. However, I have a code of dress for business assignments, which Jack doesn’t often see.
He smiled at Sadie. ‘You travel light, for a young woman. I wondered if the motor car would be large enough for all your luggage.’
She laughed. ‘Spinster ladies have to adapt. We do not always have escorts and porters can be expensive.’
On the platform, I was saved a dreaded tearful farewell from Meg, who was not allowed by the nuns to miss school except in extremis – sickness or a death in the family – into which category seeing her mother off on a week’s holiday could not be included.
The train slid towards us, and halted noisily, billowing steam. Jack saw us into our compartment; luggage stowed, he kissed me and shook hands with Sadie. The whistle blew, we were off, Jack left behind on the retreating platform, a diminishing smiling figure, hand raised.
As we sat back in our comfortable seats, Sadie sighed. ‘We’re on our way, Rose.’ She clasped her hands. ‘On holiday! Oh, isn’t this just marvellous?’
I love trains. Even the shortest journey is exciting for me, although shrouded by a landscape lost under heavy grey skies with the threat of imminent rain offered nothing worthy of note and had us both resorting to magazines from the newspaper stall.
And as Edinburgh retreated, folded back into the gloom, I found myself remembering last night as Jack and I prepared for bed. Maybe he was having second thoughts about me leaving when he said: ‘Bute’s a neat, tidy island. Nothing exciting ever happens; only one murder and that not-proven was twenty years ago. You’ll be safe enough there,’ he added with a somewhat cynical laugh.
Murder Lies Waiting Page 2