A Dangerous Past

by Clare Jayne

  Mrs Duncan made no attempt at casual conversation: there was only one thing that mattered to her. “Have you found out what happened to Morag?”

  “I fear not,” Ishbel said and, as if a string had been cut, Mrs Duncan’s body slumped downwards in her chair. Ishbel’s heart went out to her – what must it be like to lose a child? “We have in no way given up, though, and we believe her death might have a connection to the past. Could you tell us the address of the family friends Morag lived with when she was younger?”

  If Mrs Duncan reacted to these words, Ishbel saw no sign of it. Ishbel wrote down the names, Mr and Mrs Adamson, and address given. There was nothing they could say to help Mrs Duncan until they could tell her why her daughter had died so they left her alone in an empty house.

  Once out in the cool, foggy street, Ewan said, “Mrs Adamson might be home at this time of day but, if we want to speak to Mr Adamson, I imagine we will need to wait until an hour when he will have returned from his place of employment.”

  “Perhaps around five thirty this afternoon,” Ishbel suggested, thinking that she would be unlikely to get back to her home before dinner was served, which would not please Harriette. Were she to arrive at the house on time but with no chance to chance her clothes, this would be viewed with equal annoyance. This all seemed inconsequential compared to the mother who had just lost her daughter.

  They reached the carriage and Ewan took her hand to help her in as he agreed to collect her for the visit this evening. When they were both seated, she asked, “Have your sister and brother-in-law recovered from the turmoil of Nan Smith’s visit?”

  The carriage began moving at a sedate speed as he replied. “Picton has not had a civil word to say to me since then. He is out again today searching for a house to rent so as to get the family away from my bad influence as swiftly as possible.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  He smiled, although his eyes remained sad. “I fear the situation will not resolve itself any time soon but I am confident that, in time, my sister will be reconciled to my engagement to you and Picton, to the work we undertake.”

  “I am sure you are right,” she said, although this was more hope than belief. “Perhaps the dinner party will be a step towards changing their opinions.”

  “Yes, it will.”

  It had to be, she thought, if they were ever to have a chance of an amiable relationship between them all.

  * * *

  “Mr Adamson isna home from his clerical job yet,” Mrs Adamson said as they sat down in her parlour, with the smell of food cooking from the kitchen beyond, “but I’ll be glad to answer any questions you have about Morag.”

  The timing of their visit had not been planned so well after all, Ishbel thought. Mrs Adamson looked at least four score years old, although her fair hair hid much of the grey. She had a long face and lines at the edges of her eyes, but her expression was good-natured.

  “It must have been a shock to you to hear of her death.”

  “Aye, we were grief-stricken.” Mrs Adamson shook her head as if she could still not quite take it in. “Morag lived with us for more than three years and we knew her all her life, so she was like family to us.”

  “So you continued to see her after she left your home?” Ewan asked.

  “Aye, of course. She popped by every month or so, although...”

  She tailed off and Ishbel prompted her, “Although?”

  “I was afraid she’d given in to the temptation of un-Christian behaviour again.” Mrs Adamson sighed deeply. “You know about the theft?”

  “At the factory?” Ishbel checked and then agreed that they did.

  “Perhaps we should have talked to her more harshly about her behaviour when that happened, but that isna the kind of people we are. I could never be stern with bairns and my husband is even more soft-hearted. Besides, her parents had obviously been angry enough – Morag could not hear the theft mentioned without her eyes filling with tears. She was ashamed of what she’d done, so we thought that would be an end of it.”

  “But it was not?” Ewan asked.

  “I knew nothing for sure,” Mrs Adamson said and moved to put another log on the fire before sitting back down, “but Morag would say so little about her life this last year. She wouldna give us her address or explain how she spent her time and there was something furtive in her manner that bothered me.”

  “Did she seem to have money?” Ishbel said.

  “Not much, but she couldna have managed to survive if she wasna getting money from somewhere. I am almost afraid to ask, but do you know what she was up to?”

  “The people she was staying with were criminals and they convinced her to sell on stolen goods for them.”

  “How cruel of them. And that was why she died?” Mrs Adamson asked.

  Before they could answer this, there were sounds from the end of the hallway and a thin man walked into the room, removing his hat before he caught sight of Ishbel and Ewan, his eyes taking in their good quality clothes. He looked to his wife questioningly.

  “Arthur, these are Mr MacPherson and Miss Campbell. They are trying to find out what happened to poor Morag.” He nodded and gave a polite bow to each of them before hesitating, then manoeuvring awkwardly between them to one of the remaining chairs.

  “I’ll check if the kettle is boiling,” Mrs Adamson said and left the room.

  “It is good of you to want to help Mr and Mrs Duncan,” Mr Adamson said, with an accent that was not Scottish or Engish, although Ishbel could not place it. He had the reserved air of someone with a shy nature and looked to be a similar age to his wife. His clothes were of a sombre grey colour and he had a strongly boned face and hooked nose.

  Mrs Adamson returned to say the water was still not ready and, seeing her embarrassment at not being able to provide her guests with a hot drink, Ishbel hastened to tell her that they would need to leave soon anyway as they were expected at their homes for dinner and had only called by to find out a few things.

  “Were you about to say what you had found out about Morag’s death?” Mrs Adamson reminded them and explained to her husband what criminal work Morag had been involved in.

  “We still do not know if she died because of the stolen goods she sold,” Ewan said. “It may or may not be relevant to her murder but we wanted to learn more about her past. Did either of you know her father?”

  Ewan looked at Mr Adamson as he spoke and Ishbel followed his gaze. Mr Adamson gave no guilty start and his expression remained sanguine. It looked as if another of their ideas was proven to be without foundation.

  “No,” he said. “We never knew Mrs Duncan’s first husband. They began attending our church together after they were married, about two score years ago. I had seen Mr Duncan there a few times while he was single but it was actually Morag who caused us to become friends. My wife and me have the greatest fondness for children.”

  He looked over at his wife, who returned his smile and took up the story, “I remember that I said to Mrs Duncan what a pretty bairn she had and after that we talked every week. When Mr Duncan found out about the factory job, we offered to let Morag stay with us as we knew her well and our own children were fully grown, two of them having left home to marry, which gave us more space. We were happy to have her here.”

  “Was there anything she said when you last saw her that struck you as odd or worrying?” Ishbel asked.

  “There was something about her mood,” Mr Adamson said and then waited for his wife to explain this.

  “Yes,” she said. “Morag had a nervous excitement about her, as if she had something to look forward to but wasna sure if it would be a good or bad thing.”

  “Did she give you any hint as to what it was?” Ewan asked, leaning forward in his chair.

  “No, she didna mention anything unusual,” Mrs Adamson said, brow furrowed in thought. “She talked about her family and ours and the cold winter we were having, nothing of any importance.”

  “Did sh
e talk of her father at all?”

  “Her real father?” Mrs Adamson checked. “No. Why should she? She never even knew him.”

  They left the couple to their dinner at this point and took Ewan’s carriage to her home.

  “Morag mostly spoke about family,” Ishbel said. “Her father might have been on her mind during the conversation, even if he was not directly spoken of.”

  “It was evident from Mr Adamson’s behaviour that he was not Morag’s father and both he and his wife seemed to have honestly cared for her. I doubt they can give us any more useful answers.”

  And Ishbel could think of no other middle-aged man who had been in Morag’s life. Perhaps they were wrong in pursuing this idea but, although she could not have said why, Ishbel believed Morag’s father mattered in some way.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  EWAN ATE his dinner with Matilda and Picton as soon as his valet had helped him change into a more appropriate outfit. Matilda wore a satin dress for the occasion and had powdered her hair, which transformed her appearance. Ewan could not recall seeing her with whitened hair – although he must have, a few times at least – and she looked like a stranger to him. His childhood with her felt long past. Her children, she said, had been given a meal in the nursery upstairs earlier and would go to bed soon.

  “I have signed the necessary papers to rent a house in Queens Street,” Picton said, “so we will depart tomorrow.”

  “I will miss having you all here,” Ewan said. The news was not unexpected but it felt as if he was losing his last chance to spend time with them. “I know we have had some disagreements since your arrival but I do still very much want to be a part of your family’s lives. I do not know if I can explain this in a way that will make sense to either of you, but the work Ishbel and I have undertaken has been for the sake of families grieving for their loved ones. The current matter we are looking into involves the murder of a young woman. I fear that the answers we find will not help Morag’s parents, but at least we can give them an understanding of what events led to their daughter’s death.”

  Matilda glanced at Picton and said, “That must be a terrible tragedy for them.”

  “I know you both only see the harm to my reputation in what I do,” Ewan went on, “but I only see the good Ishbel and I can achieve. We try to find justice for those no one else in a position of power cares about.”

  “How did you learn anything of such work?” Matilda asked between raising her spoon to sip small spoonfuls of soup.

  “We learned by asking questions. We try to gain enough information to piece together the dead person’s life, until we can determine who killed them.”

  “I should have thought a woman of good birth would find such subjects too distressing and beyond her intellect,” Picton commented and Ewan, who knew that his sister’s education had been a thorough one, saw Matilda purse her lips.

  “You forget that here in Scotland we like women to grow up strong-willed and intelligent,” he said mildly. “Miss Campbell may be more academically inclined than a lot of women and certainly knows more of medical matters than I do but there is nothing about her that I do not admire.”

  “Ladies in England have more feminine interests,” Picton retorted, “and I am glad to say that my wife takes after them.”

  An image came to Ewan’s mind of Matilda at around thirteen years old, running with him down a hill on their family estate, skirts flying and her face flushed red from exertion. She had won the race and he could recall the look of pride on her face at doing so.

  Silence descended on the group, except for the clink of cutlery against china plates.

  “I believe our mother read a great deal,” Matilda said unexpectedly.

  Ewan smiled at her, cheered by the implication of these words. “Yes, she did.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  LUCY SHOOK her head. “Robert McLennan,” she repeated. “No, I never heard the name spoken by Morag’s family.”

  “Thank you,” Ishbel said and let Lucy return to her work. Morag’s Birth Certificate had, against their expectations, included the name of her father, but no one they had spoken to had mentioned the man.

  “Then we...” Ewan broke off as the butler walked in.

  “Mr Cassell is back, Miss,” the butler said to Ishbel. “The mistress saw him and it did not put her in the best of moods.”

  Ishbel made a slight face. Harriette would get over her irritation at having a common caddy visiting the house. “Please send him in.”

  The butler did so. Ishbel could see why Jed’s grubby apron and dirt-stained fingers would offend Harriette but to Ishbel he was someone she and Ewan could rely on and he could not be more welcome. He had a good mind too and she trusted in his abilities.

  “I found out this morning that a man named Robert McLennan was Morag’s father,” she said. “He was not, as we had previously thought, ever married to Mrs Duncan. Perhaps he was already married when she met him or maybe he refused to marry her, even after she found out she would bear his child. Have you heard the name mentioned by anyone?”

  “No, Miss Campbell,” Mr Cassell said. “I can ask around, but it’s not an uncommon name.”

  “There would have been a connection between him and Mrs Duncan. Her maiden name was...” Ewan frowned and looked at Ishbel.

  “Elizabeth Grey,” she supplied.

  “Yes, Miss,” Miss Cassell said. “I’ve kept asking about Morag and none of the local shopkeepers remember seeing her on the day she died. It could be that someone dishonest doesna want us to know he had illegal dealings with her or that she was doing something other than shopping.”

  Ishbel thought about the alley where Morag had died. It was close to the centre of the city, with streets of shops at either end of it and the law courts nearby. “We know she had criminal acquaintances so perhaps she was watching a trial.”

  “I can find out what cases were in the courts that day,” Mr Cassell said at once. “There are also flats above many of the shops. She might have visited someone’s home. If any trial or building brings up a familiar name I’ll let you know.”

  He left them to continue their discussion alone and Ishbel rang for coffee and refreshments to be served.

  “I think Matilda might be thawing slightly,” Ewan said and told her about the dinner conversation with his family the previous evening.

  Ishbel was happy to hear what he said, hoping it meant that Matilda would give her a chance to talk frankly when they saw each other at the dinner party which would take place the next evening. “What sorts of books did your mother like?”

  “She liked to find out about plants,” Ewan said, “and she read novels sometimes, although I remember my father would make disparaging comments about the latter. He felt that they gave women fanciful ideas.”

  “That depends on the novels,” Ishbel said. “Harriette often reads them and I doubt anyone would dare accuse her of having got any foolish notions from a book.”

  “No,” he agreed with feeling and she smiled. He continued, “I am certain that my mother would have thought well of you. Most of my memory is of her being ill and I was still quite a young child when she died but she had a way of quickly understanding people’s hearts. I wish you could have met her.”

  “So do I,” Ishbel said, glad to know more of his past.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ISHBEL WAS relieved to be greeted in a civil way by Lady Picton when she arrived at the dinner party. There was an awkwardness between them, which was to be expected after what had happened when they last saw each other, but Ishbel thought that perhaps Lady Picton wanted to give her a chance and get to know her now. Harriette, of course, then gave Lord and Lady Picton the iciest of greetings which effectively cut short any exchange of pleasantries for the moment.

  As Ewan and his family welcomed the next arrivals, Ishbel crossed the drawing room to speak to Miss Chiverton, who looked up with a dimpled smile and left her brother and Mr McDonald’s side to jo
in her. The women curtsied and Miss Chiverton indicated the two men and said, “They are discussing upcoming fashions. How is it that men can discuss their tailors and horses for hours, yet they accuse women of having no intellectual ability?”

  “I cannot believe your brother would say such a thing,” Ishbel said as they meandered towards the refreshments table.

  “Eddie would not but Henry, like our father, enjoys a belief that women are an inferior species. And Mr McDonald is endlessly condescending towards me – is it not peculiar that two interesting gentlemen like Mr MacPherson and my brother would pick someone so dull to befriend?”

  “I am not well acquainted with Mr McDonald,” Ishbel said, surprised as this assessment, “but he has shown kindness to me when I needed it and I assume that he would not still choose to be friends with people who both, to an extent, flout society’s conventions unless he had sides to his personality that are perhaps not readily apparent.”

  “Please excuse me,” Miss Chiverton said at once. “I do not normally slander those around me and Mr McDonald is not always objectionable, but since I came out into society he has felt he has some right as a family acquaintance to give me advice on propriety. I have just now received a ten minute lecture from him about the colour of dress an unmarried lady should wear.”

  “I can see how that would be irritating.” Ishbel took in the pale yellow gown Miss Chiverton was wearing tonight. “Even if it were any man’s right to comment on such matters, I can see nothing he could object to in your current outfit.”

  “Nor did he, or I would have scolded him fiercely,” Miss Chiverton said with spirit and Ishbel burst out laughing. The two women giggled for several minutes, which made Ishbel realise how much she had needed some levity after the difficulties from the last week. From Miss Chiverton’s reaction she too had been under a strain lately and Ishbel recalled what she had said when they last saw each other about unwanted suitors.