He inclined his head, a gesture which in a human might have been interpreted as polite refusal.
'All right. It's been very nice meeting you. Now off you go - home to your master. He'll be looking for you.'
The deerhound stood still, looked quite hurt and then moved a step closer to my side.
'Good dog, yes, you are. But you must go home.'
He yawned again. Then a sound, something beyond my hearing range, alerted him.
Danger, danger, he trembled, staring down towards the park. Then I heard the noise: some wild beast, a very faint roar, from the direction of the circus far below us.
Of course, that was the answer. What an idiot I was. This extraordinary dog was one of the Great Performing Animals from the poster I had seen in the Pleasance. I touched his head, stroked his shoulders. The long, soft grey hair confirmed my discovery.
He had escaped from the circus and might be valuable enough to be stolen, so I must get him back there without delay.
But how? What to lead him with? In the absence of a stout rope, I took the buckskin belt off my skirt and put it collarlike around his neck. It was too large and I spoke soothingly, hoping he wouldn't resist and take a bite out of my hand. I was greatly relieved when he merely regarded this action with mild curiosity.
His behaviour confirmed my suspicions. Remembering how I had watched unbroken horses fight against saddles and bridles on the prairies, I guessed that he was used to wearing a collar.
'Come along, now. I'll take you home,' I said. Holding on to my belt, we began to trot briskly down the hill. I hoped he wouldn't try to dash ahead and throw me flat on my face. But no, this amazing, mild and well-mannered creature, who could outcourse a greyhound in the hunting field or bring down a stag, walked obediently at my side, setting his pace to mine and pausing when I faltered.
I was glad of this chance, curious to inspect the circus on the common ground in Queen's Park. It covered a vast area and had spread itself like a small village, firmly entrenched with its caravans and tents, its tepees: an exotic scene with the first lamps and torches lit against the approach of evening and the next performance.
Smells of wood fires, cooking, crushed grass and boiled sweets competed with the more menacing jungle odours of caged animals. The sound of a barrel organ on the carousel, the cries of vendors still brought a glow of excitement, touching as it did a chord of happy childhood.
The circus was an event much anticipated in Sheridan Place and talked over wistfully with Gran in Orkney, anxious that it would coincide with our summer visit to Edinburgh.
Emily and I spent school holidays with Pappa and looked forward to being with him every day, sure that he would have planned all sorts of treats. Alas, all too often, since criminals did not cease their activities to suit two small girls, Pappa was in the midst of some murder inquiry and our outings were deputised by Vince.
Rather scornfully declaring he was past childish amusements, Vince was eager to pass us on to Mrs Brook. Sometimes he came to the circus, though, and was soon throwing dignity to the winds, the first to shriek with mirth at the clowns' antics or to hush little Emily's fears as the lion's tamer thrust his head into its jaws. 'Nothing to get alarmed about, girls, he's done it hundreds of times,' Vince would murmur. 'The beast's been yawning for ages - he's so old and tired they could hardly get him through the wire trap into the big cage. He's probably just had a good meal - or been drugged, or both. That sharp stick he's being poked with, that's the only way they could get a roar out of him.'
The clowns and the acrobats, the trapeze artists and fire-eaters were even then our favourites and I never gave a thought to the other side of seals barking, performing elephants and wild animals, never considered the cruelty involved in their training.
That awareness only came with a wider sense of the adult world.
The deerhound was conscious of the animals, too, and that they were strange and hostile. The hair on his neck bristled.
I didn't want to encounter any cages and, beyond the gate and a small ticket office very busily employed, was a wooden fence to hold the curious at bay. I made a mental note of performance times and resolved to buy a ticket for some appropriate matinee.
There were abundant posters and I found myself staring at 'Chief Wolf Rider of the Sioux'. Complete with war bonnet and warpaint, it was a lifelike poster, and one which set my heart beating faster and turned my blood to water again.
The smell of horses, their whinnying, the sound of hoofbeats approaching us, removed me from Edinburgh straight back to the American West. I felt a sudden pang, the prick of tears. Dear God, I missed Danny so and I found myself shivering as I remembered those renegade Sioux who had broken out of the reservation.
At my side, the deerhound needed no second bidding to steer clear of the horses and wild animals.
As I made my way to where a group of caravans hinted at more domesticated lives, I told my fast-beating heart to be calm, that this was no mirage: I was home and safe.
Nothing could hurt me any more. The future was up to me, but if I were to survive the present, then I must learn always to put the past behind me, those nightmare months of waiting for Danny to return. The long trek back east, the tiny grave of our child, which I would never be able to find again, lost for ever: Danny's son and mine.
As we crossed the enclosure there were voices, a sudden stir of activity in the huge tent as the crowds began to gather, to scramble for the best seats on the wooden tiers.
Outside torches were lit, illuminating other enticing posters: 'Chief Wolf Rider's Wild West Show', 'See the Sioux Ghost Dancers and Custer's Last Stand'.
I shuddered, for the depictions, crude as they were, touched that chord of memory. Would I ever be able to summon up enough courage to watch a performance, see it as a tame and innocent entertainment? I told myself that the Indians were most likely fakes, white men painted like half-naked savages, remote as the moon from reality...
Suddenly a small group on horseback came riding into the enclosure. They looked better fed than I remembered and better clad in buckskins suitable for a British climate.
There was nothing particularly savage about the young riders. They were laughing and looked as if they were enjoying themselves. Without blazes of warpaint and feathered war bonnets, the impressive and vivid costumes used in their acts, these tame Indians were a far cry from the savage killers I had encountered. They even saluted me gravely, Christian manners too, and offstage their leader wore a cross about his neck.
My mouth went dry.
Their shouts to each other in their own tongue, the drum of hoofbeats, now conjured up terrible scenes of lances with scalps, their mirth the screams of the dying.
As they rode past I trembled, wanted to run. Run!
A wave of sickness swept over me. The leader was quite close, near enough for me to see that cross. A crucifix identical to the one Danny always wore.
The deerhound felt my terror. Edging closer, he growled, rumbling deep in his throat, a soft but dangerous sound.
A warning to enemies that he was on my side.
Chapter Eight
The Indians rode out of sight. At my side the deerhound relaxed, danger averted.
But soon darkness would be complete.
With an effort I remembered the purpose of my visit. 'I wonder where your master is,' I said. 'Show me where to find him.'
He looked at me, head on side, clearly bewildered by the request, as if I should be providing the answer.
'Come along, then, he must be here somewhere. And you're big enough to be recognised by folks who know you both.'
We walked through the dusty ground towards a group of caravans. One of them had a look of importance, larger and more ornate than the rest.
'Is this where your master lives?' I asked. But the dog just stared ahead. He made no resistance, however, when I walked across the clearing towards the caravan.
Before I could walk up the steps the door was flung open. A woman,
no longer young but gaudily costumed in tights and spangles, appeared. She was in a fine old rage, yelling back over her shoulder to someone inside: 'And you go to hell and take your paramour with you. May you rot in hell, the both of you.'
There was a murmur, indistinguishable but unpleasant, from the unseen occupant which further incited the woman.
'Rot in hell, I said. You can tell her that. And I'll not divorce you. Never. All you want is her money so tell her I want that necklace back you tried to impress her with, tell her that you stole it from me. It was my mother's and there's her curse on it.'
She paused for breath, stamping her feet, dancing with rage. 'Are you listening? Go on, rot in hell. Do you hear what I'm saying?'
It was difficult for the whole circus not to hear her and I stood there, mightily embarrassed at being a witness to this extraordinary domestic quarrel. Obviously here was a woman with no qualms about washing her dirty linen in public.
Suddenly she turned, saw me. 'And what do you think you want?'
Smiling confidently and trying to look as if I hadn't been listening to her tirade, I pointed to the dog. 'I brought him back. I assume he belongs here.'
It was too much to expect this to calm her down, that she would respond to a joyous reunion with a lost dog. She stared at him angrily and I realised she probably didn't even know he had taken off. And seeing her temper I wasn't surprised.
I found it very unnerving at close quarters and suspected that Master Deerhound was a sensitive creature, especially when it came to humans with violent manners who made a lot of noise.
Ignoring him completely, she sauntered over and stopped. Hands on hips, she pointed to the caravan she had just left. 'What do you want with that bastard? Answer me. It's him you want, isn't it - the dog is just an excuse.'
I was speechless but before I could think of a suitably chastening reply, full of righteous indignation that I was a married woman and so forth, she took my silence for guilt and screamed: 'You can take that dog away - right now. Do you hear me?'
'Isn't he yours?' A lame question in the circumstances.
'He is not. And the smell of him will upset our animal acts, spoil their performance.'
Summoning up all the dignity I had left, I asked coldly: 'May I speak to whoever is in charge of the circus?'
She jabbed a finger at the caravan she had just left. 'That rotten bastard in there. He is in charge.' And with a mirthless laugh she came close and stared into my face. 'Another whore, eh? Edinburgh is full of them.'
I was furious at this unwarranted attack on my character, but made allowance for the smell of drink on her. That, as well as the Sioux braves, took me back a long way to many a bar room of the true wild and lawless West where this lady's demeanour would have gone down exceedingly well for keeping unruly cowhands in good order.
Taking my silence for guilt, she became even more infuriated. She seized my arm in a painful grip. 'Answer me. Another of his whores, is that who you are?' And, staring at the region of my stomach: 'Has he got you with a bairn too?'
The deerhound didn't like her manners either or the way she swayed towards me. Again that warning growl, rumbling deep in his throat.
She was totally unaware of the danger as he strained forward. I hung on to his collar but, fortunately for everyone concerned, at that moment the caravan door opened. 'Daisy. Come inside at once and sober up. Stop making an exhibition of yourself.'
She threw back her head and laughed so heartily that she staggered and almost fell. 'I thought a pretty whore would have you jumping up and down again.'
A tall man was silhouetted against the lamplight from inside the caravan. He came down the steps and hurried towards us. 'What's all this about? I'm Cyril Howe, I'm in charge here,' he added in a voice of authority.
And to my astonishment I found myself staring into the face of the man who had boarded the train at Dunbar in the furtive company of a woman who was definitely not, after the tirade I had just overheard, his legal wife, this loud-mouthed harridan who flounced back into the caravan.
'And what can I do for you, young lady?' he asked, smiling, piling on the charm.
He hadn't recognised me as a fellow traveller from Dunbar to Edinburgh. Not that I was unduly surprised, considering the distraught manners of Mr Howe and his companion on the train that day. I was pleased to see that I hadn't been too far wrong with my assumptions regarding his taste in dress. It was perfectly appropriate for a ringmaster at the circus.
'Don't take any notice of my lady wife,' he said. 'She has a jealous disposition. I'm afraid she is at rather a delicate age.' His accompanying sigh indicated a long-suffering husband with quite a lot to put up with and sorely in need of comfort and understanding.
And all this to me, a stranger. I did not care for his ingratiating smile either. My sympathies were with his shrewish wife who doubtless had plenty of reasons for being thoroughly unpleasant to strange young women who flocked to her door with tearful claims of having been made pregnant by her husband.
Howe pointed to the deerhound. 'You can't bring him in here, y'know, miss. Strange dogs upset the animals.'
'I apologise. I thought he might be yours.'
'What made you think that, miss?' he enquired thoughtfully, taking a better look. 'We only have small dogs in our acts, poodles and the like. They're easy to train - and feed. These big fellows are difficult to handle and they eat as much as the ponies.'
I looked at the deerhound who looked back at me with an expression that in a human could only have been interpreted as 'I told you so.'
'Where did you find him?' Howe asked.
'He was wandering about on Arthur's Seat. I assumed he was lost, and with the circus being near at hand...'
Howe nodded, somewhat more eagerly, came forward and eyed the dog up pretty shrewdly, in the way of one who knows quite a lot about animals. 'Well, now, he seems in good condition for a stray. If he's biddable, I might well find a place for him in one of our acts.'
I could see the way his mind was working. After his statement that big dogs were difficult to train as circus performers, I doubted whether this one would ever do his bidding, unless it was attached to a pony carriage to trot his tiny poodles round the ring, dressed up as little people in frills and flounces.
Howe's expressions said he was having second thoughts. He had decided that this was a valuable animal for breeding and that some dealer would give him a good price, no questions asked.
But the deerhound was sharp. He got the message too.
As Howe advanced and put out his hand, he backed away, showing all his teeth. No benign grin this time. No longer gentle, he growled threateningly. Suddenly ferocious, he barked, twisted out of my belt around his neck and loped away out of the enclosure like an arrow from a bow.
Howe gulped, regained his composure. 'Well, if he troubles you again, remember what I said. I'll be glad to take him off your hands.'
There was nothing more to be said and, bidding him goodnight, I began rolling up the belt I had been left holding and thrust it into my coat pocket.
Howe was watching me. 'That's an Indian belt, isn't it,' he said.
'It is. A present.' I began to walk away.
Howe sidled up to me, put a delaying hand on my arm. 'A moment, miss. If you're looking for work, I might be able to accommodate you.'
Did I look that shabby and poor, I thought, as I said: 'Thank you for the offer but I am not seeking employment. And it's Mrs, not miss. I happen to be married,' I added and, hoping he'd get the message, I looked pointedly at his hand.
He smiled as if that information wasn't important and, quite undeterred, came closer, rubbing shoulders with me. 'live nearby, do you?'
'Yes.'
He smiled slowly. I didn't like his closeness and he knew it, but refusing to be put off he said: 'Please yourself - missus. But remember, we can always use pretty young women like yourself in our acts -missus'.
He chortled, his emphasis on the word saying that he wasn'
t fooled and I was making it up, taking refuge in respectability. 'Just remember if you have any ... problems. We pay good money too - for good services. If you know what I mean.' The accompanying leer left no doubts about that. I turned on my heel with as much dignity as I could summon and made for the exit.
As I was leaving, I noticed Constable Macmerry with another uniformed policeman. They were strolling round the tent but didn't look as if this was a social occasion and they were looking for tickets for the next performance, all prepared to enjoy themselves at an entertainment. Their manner was preoccupied and purposeful. It suggested that they were after something. Or someone.
I hurried across the rough ground, a short cut above the road, still keeping a lookout for the deerhound. There was no sign of him and I realised that he was probably on his way back to his rightful owner after his little adventure and I'd never see him again. Just as well he escaped from Cyril Howe, I thought, or I might have had some explaining to do to a distraught and angry owner about giving away his valued pet.
I put my hand in my pocket. The belt wasn't there.
I realised I must have dropped it. I stopped in my tracks, wondering whether I should go back for it. I had taken the short cut through bracken and across rough ground. It was now almost dark, but for the gleam of a full moon rising above Arthur's Seat that would light my way home.
Realising I had more chance of breaking an ankle than finding the belt, discretion said no and, as if to confirm this, the rain began, a steady drizzle, hiding the moon.
There was nothing for it but to get up early next morning and retrace my steps as far as the circus.
I guessed even then the futility of such a search. I'd never see it again or that blessed dog. Sad and angry, I was ready to blame him. If I hadn't been so concerned for his welfare I wouldn't have lost my precious buckskin belt.
Treasured as one of my last links with America, it had been a symbol given to me by the old Sioux woman who nursed me back to life after my baby died.
Chapter Nine
I had a bad nightmare involving Alice, Matthew and the mysterious widow. It refused to be shaken off and the feeling of imminent disaster remained with an urgency that demanded immediate action.
The Inspector's Daughter (A Rose McQuinn Mystery) Page 6