Murder Lies Waiting

by Alanna Knight

  ‘Any ideas about their mysterious companion?’

  ‘Sitting opposite them at the table and in my line of vision.’ I smiled. ‘He was no problem for me, Sadie. I meet those who are his very image every day in Edinburgh.’ (And many more during the years of my activities as a private investigator, I thought privately.) ‘Everything about him, from well-polished hair to well-polished shoes and in between an immaculate black suit and decorous necktie, proclaimed to all the world that this was a man of substance, most likely a lawyer.’

  Pausing, I looked at her and held up the book. ‘I had left this on my table and Harry picked it up and was going to bring it up to my room. I think he was hoping for an opportunity of chatting with you, really. He asked if you were accompanying me on the drive down to St Blane’s.’

  I waited, giving her a chance to comment. She made none, merely shrugged, so I continued: ‘He said that Gerald also drives.’

  Surely that must arouse a flicker of interest, since it seemed obvious that to any woman offered a choice between the two men, the older one would be much more attractive, and from Sadie’s point of view, nearer her own age than the younger man, but she merely shrugged.

  Dismissing this speculation, I said: ‘I decided to take a chance to find out more about the gentleman with the Vantry couple in the hope that he might be a regular visitor to the hotel. When I said I was almost sure I had met the Worths’ guest somewhere before and asked if he was from Bute, Harry said he’s a local lawyer, a most esteemed member of the community, much sought after when there are tenant problems with wealthy estate owners.’

  ‘But you were right about him being a business acquaintance,’ Sadie said.

  ‘Yes, when I said I must have been mistaken about thinking I knew him, Harry just grinned and said: “Not at all, madam, gentlemen in his profession tend to look alike.” I didn’t want to give the impression that I was being nosy so I laughed and said: “Now I know who he reminded me of – he’s the very image of an Edinburgh lawyer of my acquaintance.”’

  Sadie’s hair was still drying. She had a book to read but as it was early still and a fine autumn evening with just a hint of a sunset glow over a wine-red sea, I decided to take a walk along the seafront and have a quick look at Rothesay Castle. I had chosen the right time of day with a few rosy clouds floating over its lofty summit. In much the same fashion as an ageing woman, this thirteenth-century castle benefited from the absence of revealing sunlight, giving the appearance of being remarkably well preserved for its age. The gatehouse, I learnt later, had been reconstructed six years ago and the great hall restored for general use. I hoped our time here would allow a closer look.

  The shops in the square were closed, all but one, the kind of general store that stays open until all hours in cities and the kind that I find irresistible, enjoying an exploration of the shelves and notices, which give an insight into what is happening in the local and nearby areas.

  I was in luck. On the wall a tramways timetable, with a couple for trams to Port Bannatyne, including one each morning and afternoon that travelled the extra distance to St Colmac and back to Guildford Square, presumably for the extra convenience of local travellers with business or shopping in the town.

  I heard nine strike on a nearby clock. There weren’t many people about; the sea crept towards the shore, transformed by moonlight into a dizzy froth of lacy waves, quite beautiful but devoid of any audience. The only walker was a man with two large dogs. They seemed well behaved enough except that they refused to walk past. Both sat down firmly, staring up at me, and could not be cajoled to proceed on their way.

  The walker was exasperated as he had to pull them violently out of my way. He apologised. ‘Goodnight, miss. Don’t know what’s got into them, must be the full moon or something.’

  All I could do was smile, shake my head and say: ‘Dogs!’ Especially when a Yorkshire terrier leapt up into its owner’s arms with a shrill yap of terror as we met. ‘Silly little thing,’ she was saying consolingly as I walked past.

  Encountering the dogs, while heading onward to the hotel, made me think of Thane and our close bond through the years. My deerhound was more like a fellow human than, as Jack called him, ‘a mere dog’. I missed him on walks, even more than Jack or Meg.

  Sadie was still awake, reading in her room, when I returned with the welcome piece of news about the tramway. ‘Ten o’clock will be perfect and save the huge expense of the hotel motor car.’ I wondered if her accompanying sigh was of approval for my shrewd negotiations regarding our holiday finances, or of relief that I would not be driving her down to Bute.

  ‘We needn’t wait until the return journey on the four o’clock one in the afternoon either,’ she added. ‘As long as it isn’t raining, we can always walk the few miles back. I am sure I can remember a shortcut.’

  So it was decided. She would inform Harry, although I was certain from his enquiry as to whether my maid would be travelling with me that any disappointment on his part would be on more grounds than the loss of several pounds.

  I had come prepared with my sketchbook. Standing stones and a ruined castle were excellent subjects and offered hopeful opportunities of adding to my pictorial journal of new places visited, which I tried to maintain, not always successfully, on holidays.

  After a substantial breakfast served by a silent waiter, with neither Harry nor Gerald in evidence, we walked out to be greeted by a fine, sunny morning and as we reached the tramway terminus, about a dozen other passengers were already assembled. They seemed to know one another, all talking volubly, their English accents giving the hint that they were late tourists in the area.

  They greeted us amiably as we waited but even before I had a chance to put my observation and deduction technique into operation, announced that they were, in fact, archaeology students touring Bute and various other islands looking at standing stones.

  Sadie, fearless among these harmless strangers at declaring herself a native of Bute, had questions piled her way, to which she was able to contribute little of value. She was quite vague regarding how many standing stones were still intact – four she thought, as well as at least four remains of others.

  I realised, as perhaps they did too from their solemn faces, that Sadie had not been particularly interested in this aspect of Bute history. However, our interest quickened when the leader of the group said that they had been invited to Vantry nearby to look at what remained of the ancient castle.

  Sadie immediately seized upon this and pushed me forward: ‘My friend Mrs Macmerry is an authoress. She is writing a book—’

  No more was needed. At once, what she was hoping for, an invitation to join them was forthcoming and I was plied with the usual embarrassing and searching questions about my non-existent writing. Was it fiction, or fact, or fiction based on historic fact? I opted for the latter and as excited interest lurched in the direction of Sir Walter Scott, I hastened to add that I was still at the note-taking and research part.

  ‘That is why we are here,’ Sadie put in firmly.

  As we boarded the tram, I determined to take a seat well away from my eager questioners. Sadie gripped my arm and whispered: ‘This is a great opportunity. What a piece of luck.’

  And that was where it ran out for the day. With the suddenness characteristic of the island, within moments the weather had changed dramatically. Rain streamed down the windows even as our journey began. By the time we reached Port Bannatyne and turned west towards St Colmac it was torrential, the standing stones barely visible. The archaeologists did not share our dismay, they merely laughed grimly and said they were well used to digging in all weathers on remote sites and always came prepared and equipped with suitable boots, raincoats and heavy umbrellas.

  Sadie and I did not share their enthusiasm, nor were we clad for such an expedition and even that tempting invitation to Vantry was overcome by the prospect of clambering across wet fields. The outing was a time-wasting disaster.

  ‘We can’t
do anything in this weather,’ I told Sadie. ‘We will have to delay our exploration of the countryside around Vantry until it clears.’

  There was nothing else for it but to remain in our seats, and after the ten-minute wait staring glumly out of the rain-streamed windows into the mists where the archaeologists had cheerfully vanished, we made the return journey to Guildford Square. However, the tramway journey had proved one thing. We now knew that we could take it as far as Port Bannatyne, and it was not impossible to get off at the turning to St Colmac and walk the rest of the way.

  Sadie sighed. ‘I suppose so. As I remember, it’s about ten minutes’ walk up quite a steep hill. Vantry is at the top.’

  We arrived back at the terminus. Although the first step in any investigation is the scene of the crime, even before that, according to Pa, one must always carefully acquaint oneself and be ready with all information available. So my first port of call, heedless of the weather but with an umbrella purchased at a local store, would be the local library and a look at the old newspapers. Hopefully they would be stored in the archives.

  Sadie wasn’t impressed by my decision. She was cold and hungry, her thoughts lingering on the warm hotel lounge.

  No, of course. I didn’t mind, I told her, hardly wanting her looking over my shoulder, asking endless questions at this particular stage of my investigation. We parted company and in the library I was fortunate, for not only were there available old newspapers relating to the trial but also a file containing reports of each day’s activities.

  The library assistants were obviously curious about this tourist’s particular interest in this piece of old news, so when I mentioned writing a book there was an immediate burst of activity. I was to feel free to come in at any time and consult the file on what had been Rothesay’s most stirring and sensational murder case. I was set down at a large table and as I trawled through the yellowing papers there were also drawings made at the trial.

  What interested me most was a sketch of the sixteen-year-old girl in the dock who bore not the slightest resemblance to Sadie Brook. With a sigh of relief I realised that was all they had to go by twenty years ago. Unfortunately, taking pictures by camera for newspapers had not reached the level that we now expected and the drawings were only moderately skilful, although the artist had managed to make the suspected murderess look vaguely sinister. It was an ordinary plain face, rather tight-lipped, but there was a certain slyness in that sideways glance that I thought might somehow influence readers as well as a jury to say ‘Aye, looks like a killer, that one does’.

  I folded the newspapers, closed the file and taking my notebook, thanked the librarians for their co-operation and to their questions added that I would most certainly be returning later and would be most obliged if they would keep the file accessible.

  Outside it was still raining, a trial we should have expected as a constant possibility of island weather, and should it worsen, the grim reminder that the Wemyss Bay ferry would be cancelled. Already viewed from the hotel window that smooth-as-glass sea of yesterday had erupted into waves like white horses rearing up and thrashing against the shore.

  There was plenty indoors to keep me occupied. The hotel’s reading room and library shelves mostly contained novels of romantic fiction left by lady visitors, nudging alongside historic well-worn books of local interest. I also had my notes to reread, and for Sadie this provided an interesting interlude.

  She had been spending a lot of idle time closeted with Harry in the office he shared with Gerald next to the reception desk and she came out to me, beaming. Harry was taking her to the local picture house that evening. There was an American film showing and a local pianist played accompanying music.

  Of course, she said, I was most welcome to go with them. She was sure Gerald, although not consulted, would come along too. I declined the invitation – issued more out of politeness, I felt, than keenness for my company – with thanks. In fact, I was already beginning to have some doubts about Sadie’s sea captain lover, in whose interests this journey to Bute and her conflict with the past had been initiated. Certainly, although first impressions suggested that Harry was young enough to be her son, he was an attractive lad and obviously thought Sadie was a stunner. How fortunate that he had still been an infant at the time of the murder case as I now had reason to wonder how this visit was going to end, and whether proving her innocence was maybe providing a platform for something greater in her life.

  As long as she could keep out of Uncle Godwin’s way. I gathered that she was learning a great deal about him and the unhappy state of affairs that existed with his nephew. Harry, she said, had told her that approaching age had made him more cantankerous than ever and this included an obsession about having money of his own, constantly asking Harry and Gerald for a few more pounds to spend. Although Harry maintained that he had a good allowance from the hotel’s finances, he was extravagant, an inveterate gambler and an alcoholic, constantly slipping down unobserved during the night to the cellars for another bottle of vintage wine and whisky.

  I watched Harry and Sadie leave together and as it was pointless retiring at so early an hour, and until I had sorted out my thoughts and my notes, a more agreeable way was to spend the rest of the evening in the lounge with its substantial log fire, relaxing in one of those luxurious armchairs in the shade of a rather exotic and perhaps not real palm tree. I settled down and prepared to dip into the history of Bute from the reading room library after making notes on the day’s events.

  Engrossed in my activities, I was suddenly conscious of a tall presence hovering above me, a masculine throat clearing. I looked up.

  A police uniform.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A policeman. A moment’s panic. Had something happened to Jack and Meg? What had I done amiss? How on earth did he know me?

  He bowed, smiling. ‘Mrs Macmerry? Chief Inspector Jack Macmerry’s wife?’ I said yes and he laughed. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but you being from Edinburgh, I guessed there must be a connection.’ He smiled again. ‘It’s an unusual name and Jack wasn’t married when I left, we used to tease him about it being time he found a wife and got himself out of the bachelor police lodgings. Well, well. Now what a coincidence.’ His appraising look said that Jack’s choice pleased him. What was this, I thought, some sort of pickup?

  He was tall, fair-haired, a good-looking fortyish, I guessed, and as I am slightly under five foot tall, sitting down strained my neck looking up at him. I indicated the seat on the other side of the small table between the deep armchairs.

  He sat down still smiling and held out his hand. ‘Thank you. I’m Peter Clovis, sergeant here. Jack may have remembered me – we were good pals – when he knew you were coming to Bute.’

  What a relief. Seeing that the introduction was involving Jack, it must be respectable. I nodded vaguely, trying to place his name. Jack had probably mentioned him but I had not a clue to his identity. Tactful concealment was indicated and I smiled. ‘Am I right in thinking that you were with the police here before coming to Edinburgh?’

  He grinned. ‘Correct! A born and bred islander, Mrs Macmerry, although I left the force here twenty years ago, often regretted it each time I came back across in the ferry.’ He shrugged. ‘But I was young then and lured away by the city lights. I thought of Glasgow first of all, but when a vacancy came up with Edinburgh City Police, I took it. No regrets—’

  I was no longer listening. Twenty years ago. An ominous thought. While he talked, my rapid calculations did not make good reading. I guessed he was about the same age as Jack and that meant twenty years ago, as a Bute policeman, he must have remembered, if he had not actually been involved in, the murder investigation involving Sarah Vantry. Even if that was not the case, he must have heard all about it, a sensational topic for every conversation and I felt certain that, even now, I could go out on to the high street, just mention Sarah Vantry to anyone of our generation or older, and I would receive a whole rundown on the horrific story
.

  Rothesay was that sort of place: there was never a lot to report in the local press and events were eagerly seized upon. In particular, scandals or murders, rare as hen’s teeth, were highlighted and became a talking point for as long as anyone could remember, destined to play their part in the fabric of local history.

  This was bad news, especially for Sadie, despite the consolation that as she had been only sixteen, he would probably not recognise her. But had she changed all that much from girlhood? Most women of thirty-six would have done so, unless she had any distinguishing features that would remain in the minds of those who had known her. I didn’t know of any such features except the glorious chestnut hair and at that moment I was again conscious of how very little I really knew about Sadie Brook, either, and could only suppose a natural delicacy or fear of our reactions had prevented her from confiding any of her past during our days in Solomon’s Tower.

  Mrs Brook was such a trusted family retainer that Jack had never thought – and I would never have dreamt – of asking for something like a reference for her niece as our housekeeper. So there she had established herself with us, on the surface busily taking care of us, cooking excellent meals, taking my bicycle to go shopping or into Edinburgh and collecting Meg from school, I thought grimly – all providing a cloak to examining my records as a lady investigator.

  I knew now from her own words that drawing me into proving her innocence was always at the back of her mind. Had it actually only become an urgency after meeting Captain Robbie who had wooed and won what she hoped was a permanent place in her life?

  And now sitting opposite in the handsome, well-upholstered, richly carpeted lounge in the Heights Hotel, chatting to Sergeant Clovis about my husband, Chief Inspector Jack Macmerry, and various activities they shared, like golf and so forth, in Edinburgh, I realised this was the man who could put an end to Sadie’s plan and destroy all her hopes of having me prove that she didn’t push her half-brother Oswald down the Vantry stairs to his death.