A Dangerous Past

by Clare Jayne

  Lottie seemed delighted by the compliment. “Mr Miller has an excellent job working in a fashionable shop. He is often left in full charge of it.”

  “That must be very pleasant for you both,” Ishbel said and looked over at Mr MacPherson.

  He took her silent hint and got the conversation back to the reason they were here. “Was Morag still living with family friends at that time?”

  “Yes. She stayed with them for four or five years. They had older children of their own and I believe it was nice for them to have a younger child to look after, although of course Morag was out working a lot of the time.”

  “I presume they were people of good character?”

  “Very respectable,” Lottie told them. “I think they attended the same church as Mr and Mrs Duncan.”

  “And their children were the same?”

  “I suppose so. If you are wondering if any of them encouraged Morag to steal, then I think not. They only had one unmarried daughter left at home when Morag started living there and they didn’t get on well at all. Morag would never have stolen in order to win her goodwill. No, I think it was a silly impulse to steal the money. I imagine Morag thought of all the pretty things she could buy and never considered what would happen if she was caught. She certainly thought about it afterwards, though. When she told me all about it, she was shaking at the thought she could have been imprisoned. I’ll never forget the look of terror on her face.” Once again there was a hint of relish in her voice over what Morag had suffered.

  “Then why would she risk her life again?” Ishbel asked.

  “Was she doing that?” Lottie did not look shocked. “I wondered how she got her money lately but she wouldn’t admit anything. If she was in trouble again, she was doing it for the same reason as most young women do foolish things. Love.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  LOTTIE MILLER looked pleased to find that her words had got their full attention.

  Ewan wondered why his instincts told him not to accept everything she said as the absolute truth. Lottie was attractive, although not in a way that stood out from other women, and dressed neatly, a bright ribbon in her hair to suggest that her looks were still important to her. There was something cold about her attitude, though, that showed in the stern way she had controlled her children, and she was clearly keen to do all she could to improve her standing in the world. She adopted a different accent to impress them and her words about her husband suggested that she would not relax until he had the most successful job possible.

  “Who was Morag in love with?” Miss Campbell asked, outshining Lottie in every way without trying. It was like comparing the glory of the sun to a shadow.

  “Why, George Smith, of course. He told her he loved her and wanted them to have a grand life but it was obvious that he wasn’t sincere.”

  “How?” Ewan asked.

  “After months of living under the same roof, they were not engaged. She believed every piece of flattery he paid her, the silly girl. She wouldn’t listen to any of my warnings or advice and, beneath the compliments and crooked smile, George Smith was nothing more than a cheap criminal.”

  “Do you think he could have hurt her?” Ishbel asked, frowning.

  “Perhaps.”

  “When was the last time that you saw Morag?” Ewan asked.

  Lottie considered this for perhaps longer than was warranted, still enjoying having her wealthy guests paying her so much attention. “It would have been just under two weeks ago.”

  That would have been just before the visit to her parents. “How did she seem to you?” he said. “Happy? Worried?”

  Lottie’s brow furrowed. “Nervous.”

  “About what?” Ishbel asked.

  “She wouldn’t tell me. She kept saying it was nothing but she was fidgeting and distracted.”

  “What did you converse about?”

  “My life and hers. George, and how they would be so happy together. Actually, there was something odd. She asked if I loved my children and if all parents loved their children. When I said yes, it seemed to put her in a better mood.”

  “Her family told us that Morag asked about her father when she last saw them.”

  “But he’s dead, isn’t he?” Lottie said. “Why would that have anything to do with her death? I thought... well, I hate to even suggest such a terrible thing of a friend, but I wondered if she was expecting a child.”

  She had lowered her voice to a whisper and Ewan could only just make out the words. He paused to consider them. If George had never intended to marry her, how would he react to hearing such news?

  * * *

  “Do you think George might have killed Morag?” Ewan asked when he and Miss Campbell were alone in the library of her house, surrounded by the sight and smell of books.

  “It seems unlikely,” Miss Campbell said, surprising him.

  “Surely he is the most likely person to have committed the deed?”

  “In an alley where he might have been caught? With a knife that would have covered him in blood? She lived in his house. If he had wanted her dead he could have found a safer way to do it.”

  He had not considered this. “But if she told him she was with child, might he not have panicked and got rid of her by the quickest means?”

  “Why? She could not force him to marry her. He was already a criminal, so I doubt he would care about treating a young woman shamefully. Besides, this is a guess on Lottie Miller’s part and she might not have been correct. There are many reasons that Morag might have been dwelling on the subject of family. She might have feared that her parents would find out she was involved in crimes again. She might have been looking for more information about her father or his family.”

  “But neither of those concerns would be likely to have led to her death.”

  “She mixed with criminals. To me, that seems by far the most likely reason for her death and the guinea coin she had suggests being paid for something illegal.”

  It was likely that Miss Campbell was correct, although the subject of a possible baby stayed in his mind. “Then I think we will have to rely on Jed to find out more about that. She had been involved in selling stolen goods for a time, though, so I wonder what happened recently to make Mrs Miller think she was nervous.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  EWAN TORE up another sheet of paper and let his quill hover over a fresh one. He had not expected this to be quite so difficult. Part of the problem was that he was not sure how Miss Campbell would react to unexpectedly receiving poetry from him and he feared that a badly written sonnet would lessen her opinion of him rather than the reverse. Both Chiverton and McDonald had felt strongly that he should be more active in his courtship of Miss Campbell, though, and, on consideration, he thought that they were right. If he was not sure of her feelings, how could she be certain of his?

  He resolutely dipped his quill in the pot of sepia ink and looked down at the dauntingly blank page. After some seconds, a blob of ink dripped onto the paper, necessitating yet another fresh start. If he kept on like this he would run out of paper.

  Ewan’s butler walked in, an annoyed look in his deeply set eyes. “There is a Mr Cassell here to see you, sir. Are you at home to him?”

  Ewan put down his quill and stood up. “I will be glad to speak to him.”

  He followed MacCuaig into the hall and greeted Jed, inviting him into the drawing room.

  “What have you discovered?” he asked, waving the muscular young man towards a chair. Jed waited until Ewan was seated before following suit, as always looking uncomfortable in an affluent environment.

  “George Smith has a reputation for treating the lassies badly, Mr MacPherson. He makes promises of marriage and a fine life that he has no intention of keeping, encouraging the women into worse and worse crimes. One of his lovers even sold her body, with him said to keep most of the money she made, until he discarded her for a younger, fresher lass. It’s believed that he also forced his sister into p
ick pocketing and, later, more daring thefts – he has her completely under his control. It’s only good luck that neither of them’s been arrested yet.”

  “Or bad luck for Morag.” The news confirmed Ishbel’s opinion that George would have had little reason to care, let alone kill Morag, for bearing his child, if that had indeed happened.

  “Miss Duncan had spent a lot of money in the last couple of weeks. Either she’d been involved in a much bigger crime than before or she was being paid generously by someone for something. I couldna discover more than it. Also, Gabe Fryer has been causing more trouble,” Jed told him and Ewan listened intently. “Several people were given bribes not to tell us anything more about Morag Duncan. It seems that Fryer managed to find someone to tell him your name and Miss Campbell’s. No one’s been paid to do anything violent, though; I checked that.”

  “Then Miss Campbell is not in any danger? None of us are?”

  The younger man’s keen eyes and thin mouth drooped downwards. “I canna say for sure, sir. All I know is that someone with brass dinna want the two of you to find out anything about Morag’s death. If I hear anything else I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you, Jed.”

  Ewan paid him for the work he had done and Jed left him to his thoughts and to another attempt at sonnet writing.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “THE FACTS Mr Cassell has uncovered lead us back to George Smith and the work he had Morag doing,” Ishbel said, putting her gloves on. They were walking in the formal garden behind the house, the garden no more than greenery at this time of year before any of the flowers began to blossom, although there was a pleasant fragrance from the herbs.

  “Yes, and I have been thinking about the money she had,” Mr MacPherson said. He slowed his long strides to keep pace with her, the red frock coat and matching breeches he wore today giving him a regal look. “You recall that Lottie Miller said she had told Morag that George was not treating her honestly?”

  “Very clearly. I got the impression that Morag usually listened to Lottie and that she was annoyed that Morag was so much under George’s influence.”

  “But what if Morag had begun to take Lottie’s words seriously? That could be why she had more money recently, that she had stopped sharing it with George, and she might have been nervous because she wanted to get away from him.”

  “That is very possible,” she said, part of her mind enjoying the dappled light that fell beneath a pear tree, while the rest of her concentration was on the problem, “and if he thought she was cheating him out of money he felt he was entitled to, that might be enough reason for him to murder her.”

  “He could have confronted her in the street about the guinea she had on her and, when she admitted the truth, he might have killed her in the passion of the moment.”

  They had learnt during their last criminal matter that people sometimes felt the need to keep knives with them for protection. In George Smith’s case, he might have carried a weapon for a darker reason. “Your theory is certainly plausible. I think we should see Smith again at once.”

  “Yes.”

  She began to walk towards the path to the front of the house and realised he was not following. When she turned back to face him, there was an odd look on his face and something hesitant in his manner. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” He cleared his throat. “Not at all. This is something I wrote for you.”

  He stepped forward and she took the sealed note he held out, breaking the wax and opening it. She had expected it to be something to do with the case and so she did not immediately understand what she was looking at, but then she realised. He had written a sonnet about her. She read it slowly. It was not flowery or elaborate but there was a beauty in the turn of phrase he used and it showed that he saw her in a way she had never imagined anyone could, as someone extraordinary.

  “I am no great writer...” He began uncomfortably.

  “... It is lovely,” she interrupted him. “I am very glad to receive it.” Her own words were failing her now but, as his gaze met hers, she hoped he could tell how much she was moved by this gesture of affection.

  They walked out to the pavement and she let Mr MacPherson take her gloved hand to help her into his carriage, the touch making her skin tingle. She remained composed with difficulty. He still loved her. She had not been certain and the fear that she had destroyed his feelings with her clumsy behaviour had haunted her.

  The carriage came to a measured halt in front of the building where Smith had a flat. The cobbled street around them looked grubbier in the sunlight than it had in the rain, the houses discoloured and unkempt, weeds pushing through the stones and piles of unwholesome debris lying in corners. The odour was also foul, a mixture of human and animal waste from the horse manure in the roads and the contents of chamber pots thrown out of windows.

  They entered the unlocked door and walked up narrow stairs, rats scurrying away at the sight of them. Mr MacPherson knocked sharply upon Smith’s door and, after a minute, footsteps sounded and the man opened it. He looked taken aback at the sight of them and none too pleased. He reluctantly admitted them to the main room, which was as squalid as ever, with half-eaten food lying about and damp stains on a corner of the ceiling. There was no sign of his sister.

  “I told you all I knew about Morag,” he said, folding his arms. He was only half-dressed, wearing shirt and breaches but without waistcoat, jacket or neck-cloth, so more of his chest was revealed than was decent in front of a lady.

  “Hardly,” Ewan disagreed. “We know that you involved her in criminal work, selling on goods that you stole.”

  Smith’s dark eyes widened and darted from one to the other of them. “You canna accuse me of such things.”

  “I think that you killed Morag,” Mr MacPherson went on. “I think you suspected she was keeping money from you. Perhaps she wanted to leave here.”

  “She never,” he said with a return of his former arrogant confidence. “She wanted to marry me. She was desperate for someone to show her a life that was more than just hard work that would one day kill her.”

  “Then where did she get the guinea that was found on her when she died?”

  “A guinea?” His surprise looked unfeigned. “That’s impossible. Look, I might not have been as fond of Morag as she was of me, but she was my sister’s friend and we were both upset over her death. If you still dinna believe me, then just ask at the Fox tavern. I was dicing and drinking there with friends and came home to hear that she’d just been killed.”

  “We will check this information.”

  “Do what you want,” Smith growled, stepping close to Mr MacPherson in a menacing stance, “but dinna come back here. I’ve had more than enough out of you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  IF SHE and Mr MacPherson had thought that George Smith might be lying about where he was when Morag died, they were soon proven wrong. The tavern manager and several customers remembered him being there, the date standing out with them as they had all heard about Morag’s murder. The statements ended any possibility that Smith could be the killer, which was a blow since they had no other real suspect.

  It was approaching the hour when luncheon was served in Ishbel’s house – a meal she usually missed due to her academic schedule and other pastimes – so she invited Mr MacPherson to join her family. Harriette and Lord Huntly were used to Ewan’s company by now and treated him with an easy familiarity which, where Harriette was concerned, meant a great many sarcastic comments. For the first time, Ishbel dared to imagine joining such a gathering where she and Ewan were married and the pleasure this idea caused was almost overwhelming.

  When the meal was over, she and Mr MacPherson removed to the library to discuss how to pursue their murder enquiry now that their main suspect was found to be innocent. They both remained standing, moving around the spacious room as they considered what they had learned.

  “I believe we have not just exonerated George Smit
h but also his criminal friends,” she said. “After all, if Morag had been killed because of her illegal activities, surely Mr Smith would be in danger too since they were equally involved in them? He has not shown the slightest fear for his safety in front of us.”

  “Morag could have been involved in something that he was not aware of. He seemed shocked to hear about the money she had on her when she died.”

  “Yes, we should certainly try to find out where it came from,” she agreed, picking up a book from the table in front of her and absently returning it to its correct place on the shelves. “Also, I am not certain how it could be relevant but I keep thinking of Morag’s questions about her real father. I believe I will send out letters requesting his name from her mother’s Marriage Certificate.”

  “We could just ask Mrs Duncan.”

  “Mr Duncan, we have been told, is a jealous man and this is probably nothing to do with our enquiry, so I would not like to bother the family for no reason while they are grieving. Even if the father had relations still alive, I can think of no reason for them to harm Morag. It is just something we know she was preoccupied with before she died.”

  “Then who should we question next?” Mr MacPherson asked, leaning against the marble mantelpiece. “It seems as if our enquiry has come to a halt.”

  “Morag’s throat was cut. We agreed that her death would have been a messy one. I find it difficult to believe that no one saw a person whose hands, if not clothes, were covered in blood. I did not show you the alley where she died but both ends of it turned into busy streets.”