A Dangerous Past

by Clare Jayne

  “Then perhaps you should think of your family and cease meddling in crimes,” McDonald said, the cutting words spoken in a concerned tone that he could not take offence at.

  “Your life is your own,” Chiverton disagreed at once. “No one but you should have a say in what you do.”

  “Nonsense,” McDonald said, turning towards him. “Everyone has responsibilities to those they care about. You simply get away with more because you are a younger son.”

  “Did you happen to notice that, aside from Fiona, none of my family attended the tea party I held at my new home? My father and brother are barely speaking to me, nor allowing my mother and Fiona to do so, because someone may see Alex spending time at the house and speculate. I chose to put my feelings for Alex ahead of their plans for me. I believe I had a right to make that choice but it did not come without a heavy sacrifice.” Chiverton looked from McDonald to Ewan. “This is your decision but you must decide what you are willing to lose for it.”

  Nervous, Ewan said, “I have made up my mind that this – catching criminals – is how I intend to spend my life. If I lose my standing in society and gain the reprobation of my sister’s family I will accept that. This path interests me more than any other. It is what I want.”

  Chiverton stepped forward to pat Ewan’s shoulder. “You may rely on continuing to have my friendship.”

  They both turned towards McDonald, who huffed out a breath. “I think that the two of you are foolish and reckless, but that is not new. You will not lose my goodwill either. I suppose you still wish to marry Miss Campbell too?”

  Ewan nodded. Having a closer relationship with Ishbel meant even more to him than the crime work. “I do. If she will have me. In truth, I am not sure what she wants from our relationship.”

  “When did you last propose marriage to her?” McDonald asked.

  “I asked her some months ago.”

  “Only once?” McDonald checked.

  “Well, yes.”

  “That is not enough,” Chiverton said.

  “Younger men might expect to propose on a weekly basis,” McDonald lectured, “but, while that seems excessive, she can hardly be sure of your feelings if you do not express them regularly.”

  Ewan had not expected this. “I had not wished to be rebuffed...”

  “... No one does,” McDonald interrupted him. “If your intention is serious, you must risk it. Have you even written Miss Campbell poetry?”

  “My valet felt that, given Miss Campbell’s academic knowledge, she might not take my efforts seriously.”

  “That is irrelevant,” McDonald said.

  “I once wrote Alex a sonnet,” Chiverton joined in. “We both laughed over how bad it was but I believe it helped ensure that Alex took my affections seriously.”

  Ewan frowned. He would have to study some of the better writers. “A sonnet...”

  * * *

  “I have a guinea for you in exchange for some simple information.”

  Standing next to a row of houses after carrying goods to a local merchant’s home for a fee, Jed Cassell looked at the speaker with suspicion. The large, muscular man was Gabe Fryer and he was well-known for accepting money to rough people up. One man Gabe had beaten had nearly died and Jed had not realised Gabe was out of gaol yet. Any deal he wanted to make was likely to be over something Jed wanted nothing to do with. Besides that, the man stank as if he had not washed in months.

  “What information?” he asked, keen to get the conversation over with.

  Gabe grinned. It wasn’t a pleasant expression and that was only partly because of his yellow, rotting teeth. “I just need to know who hired you to find out about Morag Duncan’s death.”

  Jed’s breath caught. The killer must have heard about his enquiries and feared being found. “Who wants to know that?”

  “I do.”

  “You know what I mean. Perhaps I can pay better than your current employer.”

  “I doubt it,” Gabe said with a snort of amusement.

  So he was being paid a good deal. That revealed more than he’d likely intended. “You know I canna reveal who hired me. I’d lose my job as a caddy.”

  “I wouldna tell anyone where I got the information,” Gabe promised. Jed had rarely heard a less reliable oath.

  “Is this about Morag’s criminal work? Are her former employers trying to hide their involvement?”

  Gabe strode forward and, before Jed could even raise his fists, grabbed him by the neck. Jed was a strong man but he struggled ineffectively against the vice-like grip, panicking as fingers cut off his air supply. Gabe had approached him now for a reason: this street was too quiet for anyone to come to Jed’s rescue.

  “This would be a good time for you to change sides,” the man said into his ear, as Jed continued to push frantically against the painful hold, his heart pounding and his vision blurring as he tried and failed to breathe in sufficient oxygen. “If you keep asking questions, your life may be as short as Morag’s was. Tell your employer that this aint none of his business.”

  The choking grip on his neck vanished and Jed doubled over, gasping for air. The simple act of breathing in and out had never felt so good. By the time he recovered his breath and his wits, Fryer was gone.

  Touching a hand to his throat, Jed got moving on shaky legs towards a high quality part of the city: Mr MacPherson had to be told of this.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ISHBEL RETURNED home from a fascinating scientific lecture just in time to receive a visitor. Miss Chiverton wore a dress of the palest blue material that elegantly showed off her slender figure and brought out the deeper sky-blue of her eyes, but was so flimsy and pale that Ishbel would have dismissed the cloth for herself as being too likely to show mud or ink-stains.

  “I hope I have not ill-timed my call,” Miss Chiverton said, following her into the house and removing her hat, which was in the same shade of blue as her dress. She brought with her the scent of lilacs but there was something strained about her air as she added, “I know that you have a great deal to occupy you.”

  Mr MacPherson was due to arrive soon but Miss Chiverton was unlikely to have any objection to his presence and they had no urgent demands on their morning. “Your timing is perfect. I am glad to see you again.”

  Miss Chiverton had once before wanted to turn their acquaintanceship into friendship but then the scandal about Ishbel’s mother had been publically revealed and Mrs Chiverton had kept her daughter away from Ishbel’s company. Until now. Ishbel was happy to see her but wondered what had happened to cause the young woman to disobey her parents’ wishes.

  They handed their outdoor accoutrements to the butler and went into the drawing room, a footman following to close the window and add coal to the fire. Ishbel offered Miss Chiverton the chaise longue and sat down in a nearby upholstered chair.

  “How is your new murder going?” Miss Chiverton asked, her intent expression suggesting that she did not notice her poor choice of words.

  “We have not made a great deal of progress so far but it is necessary to be patient in such matters. We learn a great deal of information and then have to work out which is important, a little like playing chess without being able to see one’s progress until the end of the game.”

  A second footman brought in their cups of chocolate. It was too early in the day for cakes, although Ishbel had been dressed for enough hours that she would have been glad of something to eat. They sat in a formal but friendly manner and delicately sipped their hot drinks, the rich, bitter taste of the chocolate proving fortifying to Ishbel.

  “How is your cousin?” Miss Campbell asked.

  “Very well.” Ishbel was no good at these polite conversations but knew enough to respond to a question with a question. “How is your family?”

  Miss Campbell put her cup down onto its saucer and stared at it. At length she said, “My oldest brother became engaged to be married at the end of last year and now Eddie has moved out of the house, so my p
arents have no one to focus their marital plans on save me.”

  “Oh, dear.” Ishbel could think of nothing worse and, from Miss Campbell’s unhappy expression, nor could she. “Is there anyone specific that they wish you to marry?”

  “Not yet. I have received some... romantic interest since I came out into society.” She paused and then her shoulders slumped and she gave an exasperated sigh. “I have turned down six offers of marriage so far.”

  “Six? That seems excessive!”

  “Quite,” Miss Campbell agreed with feeling. “If I knew how to put them off before they got to the proposal, I would. I was flattered at first but one gentleman I have never had any liking for remains persistent and others appear on a weekly basis.”

  Ishbel took in Miss Chiverton’s appearance and realised that she must seem like the ideal woman to a great many men. She had a rare beauty, polished manners and came from a wealthy, respectable family. That she possessed a good mind and the ability to see all that was superficial in the world around her were very likely qualities that eager courters would not even notice or would expect her to hide when she took on the role of wife.

  Now that she recalled it, Ishbel had turned down three proposals herself in her first season and that was before she had even met Ewan. She had been too unsure of herself at seventeen and too aware that her decision not to marry would not be appreciated, to take any pleasure in the interest. Until she met Ewan and changed her mind about everything. Aware that Miss Chiverton seemed to be hoping for some form of advice from her, she belatedly suggested, “Perhaps you could carry a textbook wherever you go – I have found that this disturbs the majority of men.”

  Miss Campbell’s eyes brightened. “I will do so.”

  They took a sip of their drinks in unison and the butler entered the room to announce Mr MacPherson’s arrival. The women put their cups and saucers down on the coffee tables situated close by for this purpose and stood up as Mr MacPherson walked in. Ishbel and Miss Campbell curtsied as Mr MacPherson bowed to each of them and Ishbel found herself taking in his engaging smile as if seeing him anew.

  He sat down with them and made polite conversation, asking all the correct questions to Miss Campbell, but Ishbel could tell that something was troubling him and, as they caught each other’s eye and a look of understanding passed between them, she waited for them to be alone, so she could find out what was wrong.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I MUST admit that this information is unsettling,” Ishbel said, after Miss Chiverton left, when Mr MacPherson told her what happened to Jed. “Is Mr Cassell hurt?”

  “No. He says he is unharmed and more determined than ever to help us solve this matter.”

  “Good.” She found herself liking the young caddy more than ever, although she was concerned for his safety, alone on the Edinburgh streets at all hours. “The person who hired this criminal to talk to Mr Cassell does not know who we are, so we are in no danger for the moment. It is frustrating to think that the ruffian probably knew the name of Morag’s killer.”

  “Jed told me that the man is a long-time criminal who was clearly being paid a lot not to reveal anything about his employer. There would be no use in approaching him and it might bring danger down on us.”

  “This proves that Morag’s death was not the result of a theft,” she said.

  Mr MacPherson’s expression was distracted as he agreed with her. “Ishbel, I know how much your freedom means to you, but would you have a footman accompany you whenever you leave the house alone? We gave our names to some of the shopkeepers when we asked about Morag, so it is only a matter of time before our identities are known by this criminal. It would be easy for someone to harm or threaten you.”

  He had not called her by her first name since before their estrangement and it was pleasant, more so than perhaps was warranted, to hear him do so now. She disliked what he was suggesting but could see that the wisdom in the idea. “Very well. Just until any peril is gone.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I trust you will be careful too.”

  He smiled. “I shall.”

  “Until we hear more from Mr Cassell, I am not sure how we should proceed with our enquiries.”

  “Nor I.”

  “Then perhaps we should consider what we have learnt so far.” When he agreed to this she went and fetched her notes on the matter and said, “Morag Duncan, a young working-class woman, was killed on the Thursday of last week in an alley not far removed from the heart of the city. We do not know why she was there but it is possible that it had to do with some criminal activity. She was killed in what the Town Guards are assuming was a robbery but we have established that this conclusion is wrong. Also, a guinea coin was left behind.”

  She paused and Mr MacPherson took over the summary. “She had been a thief when she was a child, stealing from a woman at the factory where she worked.” In a different tone he said, “Would it be useful to look further into the theft? Could Morag have had a grudge against the woman she stole from?”

  “It was a very long time ago,” Ishbel said. “Unless someone forced her to commit the theft, I do not believe it could have any relevance to what she did after that.”

  “Could there have been someone we have not heard about who compelled her to steal? We have assumed that she had turned away from crime until George Smith tempted her back to it, but what if there was someone else all along?”

  Ishbel considered this. “Her parents seemed genuinely upset over the past theft. Her father was angry at the idea of her being involved in anything illegal and the lawyer, Lord Tain, said that her parents had been shocked over what Morag had done. She has no other family on her father’s side but we know nothing of other relations.” She stood up once more. “I will ask Lucy to join us. She will know more on the subject.”

  She found her lady’s maid upstairs and explained their idea as she brought her down to the drawing room. Lucy curtsied to Mr MacPherson and, with clear uncertainty over the decorum of such a thing, sat down with them.

  “I met Morag’s grandparents a few times,” Lucy said, “but I believe only her father’s mother is still alive – Mr Duncan’s mother, that is, not her real father. I never heard a word said about there being any criminals amongst their relations and children hear a lot that would not be spoken of in front of adults. Mrs Duncan has a married sister who lives close by but I really think that Mr and Mrs Duncan would have disowned anyone who did anything illegal, particularly anyone who might have been a bad influence on Morag after the factory robbery. Both of them are God-fearing and being respectable matters a lot to them, particularly Mr Duncan.”

  Ishbel recalled the man who had been furious at the idea that Morag might have stolen the guinea found with her and Mrs Duncan saying that anger was his way of dealing with the grief. She thought that Lucy was most likely correct in her assessment of them. “Did she have any other friends in her childhood who she could have kept in touch with?”

  “There was one other girl who grew up in the same street as us. Her name was...” She squinted at the far wall before saying, “... Lottie. I remember her saying that she was named after the queen, as if it made her better than the rest of us. She and I didna take to each other – I found some of her comments too mean-spirited – but Morag liked her. Lottie was a year younger than us and admired Morag, enjoying hearing about her dreams for a happier future. I dinna ken if they stayed friends, though. I can tell you where she lives, or at least where her parents lived, if you want to speak to her.”

  Ishbel considered the suggestion and said, “It can do no harm.”

  Chapter Twenty

  LOTTIE JONES was now Lottie Miller and had three young children, whom she curtly banished upstairs when Ewan and Miss Campbell called. She had light brown hair cut in a modern style short curls around her face and green eyes highlighted by the deep green morning dress she wore, that was cut in a fashionable but severe style.

  Lottie added another log to th
e fire and made tea for them all, although it was early in the day for the drink, and they sat in a rough circle around a medium-sized table in the parlour, sun lighting up the room from a large window. “Dear Morag and Lucy,” she said, feigning the English accent that was spoken by most of the upper classes, her tone perfunctory, “we were such good friends. I was heartbroken to hear of Morag’s death.”

  “Did you keep in touch with Morag much after she left her parents’ home at one score years, Mrs Miller?” Ishbel asked.

  Lottie studied her with shrewd eyes and answered in that deliberate, quiet tone. “Yes, of course. We met every month or so to talk.”

  “Your family did not worry about the fact that she had been accused of theft?”

  “I did not tell them. I felt Morag particularly needed my friendship after that unhappy incident. They found out eventually and warned me to shun her but I didn’t. It was one mistake and she regretted it bitterly.”

  “Why was that?” Ishbel asked.

  Lottie raised an eyebrow. “It nearly ruined her life, Miss Campbell. If she’d been taken to court, who knows what the punishment might have been?” There was something in her tone that was at odds with her words, as if she had taken some enjoyment in hearing of such dark events. Ishbel could already see why Lucy, who was straightforward and kind-hearted, had never liked her.

  “What was her life like after that?”

  “Her father managed to get another job for her, something similarly tedious and exhausting. She stuck at it for about a year and then found another job that she liked better. Mr Duncan wasn’t happy about it but he accepted that at least she was still working hard.”

  “Then it must have annoyed him that she had no employment recently,” Ishbel said.

  “Oh, yes. They argued about it a lot. I told her that she should find herself a good husband – I’d met Mr Miller by then and, as you can see, I have a very comfortable life.”

  Since it seemed to be expected, Ishbel said, “Your house is lovely.” She had seen enough working class homes to recognise that this was one of the better ones, small but possessing furniture of a reasonable quality and if Lottie did not have to take on a job at all, in addition to raising her children, then she was fortunate. This room was also kept in immaculate condition. Ishbel would have found it hard to believe that there were any children in the house if she had not seen them herself. There was not even any noise from upstairs to indicate their presence.