I turned the pages and found an item reporting the tragic death of two labourers on the new high terraces when the scaffolding platform had collapsed in a gale. The work was exceedingly dangerous, their courage praised. WORTH THEIR WEIGHT IN GOLD was the headline. Few men would tackle the daily hazards involved, for a fall meant certain death and builders were willing to pay high wages, for such men were rare and must have exceptional heads for height, particularly in Edinburgh, notorious for fierce winds.
With some relief I turned to the book reviews: Across the Plains, a new book by Robert Louis Stevenson, the Edinburgh writer who had gone abroad for his health and had died in Samoa last December. Both title and subject intrigued me, as I had read that this was the true story of his journey to California from Scotland to persuade Fanny Osbourne to divorce her husband and marry him.
After an interlude of giving vent to my wounded feelings by composing reproachful letters to Emily, letters which I would be too proud to send, I decided go to Thin's on South Bridge and buy a copy of Stevenson's book.
First of all I fed Cat. She was getting used to me but when I attempted to pat her head she snarled. This was a mere gesture of showing her few remaining teeth but enough to make me keep my distance and not destroy the little progress we were making. Something had happened to destroy her trust in humans and I would have to overcome that hurdle before she was ready once again to be a domestic pet sitting by the fireside.
As I wheeled out my bicycle I shaded my eyes, searching the hill for Thane. It seemed silly to keep calling him.
In Newington I was once more aware that females on bicycles were still enough of a novelty to attract amused looks and shocked whispers from ladies.
My progress was also the target for whistles from men working on the buildings and high scaffolds. The steeple of a new church was being erected. The men roosting on their apparently fragile perches were daring indeed to be so diverted by a mere woman's presence far below. Or was this the male's instinct for bravado, allowing their attention to wander even momentarily. One man braver than the rest seemed intrigued by my appearance far below, but when I looked up he had the decency hastily to avert his gaze.
The wind was growing stronger. On most days at Solomon's Tower I was confronted by a stiff breeze blowing across Arthur's Seat. I had yet to experience a real storm with the kind of gale blowing across the Firth of Forth which ripped chimney pots from roofs and sent them flying, while uprooting great trees as if they were no stronger than matchsticks.
At last in Thin's bookshop, having bought Mr Stevenson's book, I browsed through the shelves. And there was one I recognised: Fingerprints by Francis Galton. I took it down and sighed deeply. Published in 1892 while we were in Dakota, Danny had been obsessed by this revolutionary discovery in the science of crime-solving, forever trying to persuade the Pinkerton Detective Agency of its merits. A copy of the book had been my last gift to him. My eyes filled with sudden tears.
A voice behind me: 'Excuse me - don't I know you?'
Mystified, I turned to confront a woman of about my own age. I hadn't the slightest idea who she might be.
'Rose - I'm Freda Elliott - we were at school together before you went to Orkney. And we used to meet in Edinburgh during the holidays. You had a charming stepbrother who has done very well for himself, we hear,' she added coyly, holding out her hand.
I took it, hoping my smile signified recognition.
'I would have known you anywhere. Rose. You still have that glorious fair hair. Just as you had in childhood, it hasn't darkened at all. But you are very thin!'
I was flattered by her first observation at least.
But who was she? At last the pieces fell into place even without the reference to Vince. This was Freda, the schoolgirl I had never liked. But thin lips, narrow eyes and beanpole figure had greatly improved with age.
'How lovely and so unexpected to meet you like this,' she said. 'I heard that you had gone to America and married.'
I shook my head. 'I am a widow now, alas.'
'How sad!' And then a quick change of subject. 'Did you live in New York?'
When I told her the West, she looked disappointed and her eyes widened in astonishment. Such travel seemed beyond her imagination, much too dangerous to contemplate for a genteel Edinburgh lady.
We were now outside the shop and she pointed to a waiting carriage. 'Can I give you a lift somewhere?'
I indicated the bicycle parked by the shop door.
Freda eyed it and, clearly put out as she tried to think of some reason why a lady would want to have such a machine in her possession, asked, 'Um - do you live far away, then?'
'Near Duddingston,' I said casually. Solomon's Tower was something of a shock to the uninitiated, with its sinister reputation, and I was in no mood for yet another lecture on the perils of isolation.
'You are not very far away from me, then. You will remember Saville Grange from the old days.' I nodded and she continued: 'Do let's meet again - soon. We were such good friends.'
Another nod from me, now feeling miserably guilty for not having liked her long ago.
'Are you engaged for tomorrow morning? No. Then come to lunch. I'll send the carriage for you-'
'No need. It isn't far-'
I knew I had said the wrong thing as she sternly eyed the offending bicycle.
Obviously she did not wish the neighbours, assuming they were on the lookout and interested enough, to think she had eccentric modern female friends who belonged to that dangerous new breed of suffragettes.
Her thoughts were quite transparent and, searching for the right words, she smiled bravely. 'I could not permit that, my dear Rose. It might be raining. Besides, the carriage is always at hand,' she added smoothly. 'Shall we say about noon? Have you a calling card?'
'No, I've just arrived back-'
'Of course, of course. Getting organised takes a little time. What is your address?'
I sighed inwardly. There was no help for it. 'Solomon's Tower on the Duddingston road.'
Her jaw dropped. 'Solomon's Tower, I understood that it was a ruin, that no one had lived there for years.'
'My stepbrother inherited it from Sir Hedley Marsh and it is now a most comfortable house.'
'I see,' she said in the confused manner of one who didn't see in the least. And recovering: 'Very well. Until tomorrow, then.'
It was too late now to refuse her invitation and a sudden idea was giving me pause for thought: that this chance meeting might be a piece of luck, although somewhat disguised at the moment, a gift from providence for a novice crime investigator with interests in the vicinity of Saville Grange. I might well learn something to my advantage, even the possibility of unravelling some of Alice Bolton's problems. A closer scrutiny of Freda's next-door neighbour, Lily of the Lodge, would not come amiss although I felt it highly unlikely that I'd be fortunate enough to see her receiving a furtive visit from Matthew Bolton. And in my heart of hearts I still hoped that Alice was wrong about her husband's adultery.
But perhaps Freda had been right about the weather. There was a stiff wind blowing down from Arthur's Seat, bringing with it the threat of a fine drizzle. And there, waiting for me outside the kitchen door, was Thane.
I hugged him and got my face washed in return.
'You are real. I didn't just imagine you.'
He wagged his tail in complete agreement and as he followed me into the house, I decided not to miss this opportunity. Taking up my neglected journal, I decided to do a sketch of him. He seemed to know what was involved as he lay on the floor watching me and keeping much more immobile than many a human model I had tried to draw.
Later he trotted behind me to the stable as I carried my bowl of milk for Cat.
She never appeared to move from her straw bed and merely opened her mouth, more grimace than snarl, as if the latter would be too much effort. 'I don't think she likes me in the least,' I said to Thane. 'But she doesn't let her finer feelings affect her appetite. Wh
at do you think?'
Thane opened his mouth in that strange approximation of a human grin and settled down on the kitchen floor as I stirred the peat fire into life.
Soon the kettle on the hob was boiling and with some skilful manoeuvring and much patience I cooked bacon and eggs, and fried bread too, discovering that I was very hungry.
Thane watched this procedure intently. 'Do you want some?' I asked.
He looked at the pan and turned his head away with an almost human sniff of dismissal and disdain. Obviously cooked food wasn't one of his requirements.
How did he live out there on the hill? I guessed that rabbits were his staple diet, eaten au naturel, fur, bones and all. I shuddered at the thought but I wasn't prepared to dwell on that or let his eating habits end a promising friendship.
I must never forget that Thane belonged to the animal kingdom. In that savage world, creatures undomesticated by humans, including the wild song birds I found so pretty and utterly delightful, lived and had their being by preying on lesser ones down the survival chain: creatures smaller and more helpless than themselves which they caught and ate while still alive.
Thane remained at my side while I lit the lamp and read my new book. Occasionally he came over and laid his head on my knee to be patted. It was to be a memorable evening, comfortable, safe and measured in terms of what Pappa called companionable silence.
At last Thane stood up, yawned and in another curiously human way he trotted to the door, almost indicating that it was time he took his leave.
I took out a bowl of milk for Cat and when I opened the stable door he looked up at me eagerly. 'Do you want to stay here?'
Trotting inside, after a sniff at Cat which she pretended not to notice, he lay down on the straw, prudently as far away from her as possible.
Bidding them goodnight I went inside, put out the lamps and, preparing for bed, looked out of the window at the great bulk of Arthur's Seat like a crouching lion against a clear, starlit sky. The feeling of protection remained and despite my bitter disappointment over Emily I felt I could look beyond it, with a curious feeling that I was meant to remain here in Edinburgh; that my life, after floundering down many byways, was moving in a positive direction at last.
The day that had begun sadly had ended happily. Happiness is like that. It isn't a time that lasts in our lives but is only to be measured in retrospect, in a series of isolated moments.
Such were my last thoughts as I laid my head on the pillow.
Dreamless sleep was rare of late but there were no hobgoblins from the past to torment me, no demons crouching in the dark corners of my mind.
I awoke refreshed, but when I went out to feed Cat, Thane had gone once more. I didn't feel too badly, confident that he would return. We were friends, we trusted one another, perhaps even shared a strange telepathy, although I would have found it difficult to convince any other human being of that.
Or even that my deerhound existed at all beyond the confines of my imagination.
Chapter Seventeen
There were no curious onlookers on the tree-lined road as the Elliots' carriage took me to Saville Grange.
At the gates of the drive the coachman leaned down and said: 'Would you mind walking up to the house from here? It's just a step,' he added encouragingly. 'And I have an urgent message to deliver for the mistress.'
I said 'Of course,' but as he drove off I realised that most guests would be taken right to the front door. I'd observed his careful scrutiny of me and my surroundings as he waited outside the Tower. My unfashionable dress suggested that I wasn't one of his mistress's usual smart, well-off ladies.
He had made the obvious mistake that he needn't put himself out and that I was visiting his mistress in some other capacity than that of an old friend. And who could blame him when my appearance suggested a lass being interviewed for the now vacant position left by Molly Dunn's unfortunate demise?
I was sorry I hadn't had an opportunity to discuss that recent tragedy with him as I went down the drive where Foley was bending over the flower beds. My footsteps alerted him and he looked up. Shading his eyes, he stared at me for a moment.
Obviously he hadn't recognised me out of the context of Solomon's Tower, so to speak. Perhaps he had come to the same conclusion as the coachman: that I was a servant looking for work.
'Good morning, Mr Foley.'
He saluted gravely. 'Good-day to you, ma'am. Visiting the mistress, are you? Fine day for it.'
Freda had seen me coming and ran down the front steps. No formality of maids here as she tucked an arm into mine: 'Why on earth didn't Byrne bring you right to the door? I can't think of what's got into him. The very idea - I shall reprimand him severely-'
'No need. I didn't mind the walk-'
'But I do! One of my guests-'
'What a lovely garden you have,' I interrupted the tirade which threatened to become embarrassing.
She smiled delightedly. 'You like gardens, do you? Shall we walk around a little? It's clouding over, so we might as well enjoy the sunshine.'
The gardens were vast. If the Elliotts decided to sell, there was ample room for several villas with neat gardens to replace trees and flowers, and tiny secret arbours with stone seats overlooked by stern Greek statues and an ornamental pond. Greenhouses with vine and fig trees flourished lushly on the south-facing walls of the kitchen garden.
It was all very opulent, an impressive sight of urban Edinburgh's wealth. And as a hint of how dramatically such circumstances could change, tantalising glimpses of the roof and tall chimneys of the now derelict Peel House.
Sadly I remembered Alice's garden where we used to play as children, never as grand as this and now waiting finally to be demolished when the property developers moved in.
There was a saying among the Sioux Indians:
Everything changes
Only the earth and the hills remain.
It could have been written as an epitaph for Alice and Matthew Bolton, dealt poorer hands in the game of destiny than their next-door neighbours, I thought, as we turned on to the side path parallel with Peel Lodge, all that remained of a once grand house and abundant wealth. At my side Freda prattled on, very knowledgeable about plants and flowers. Fortunately my comments were not needed. All that was required, when she occasionally paused for breath and approval was, 'Really?... Is that so?... How nice.'
The tour complete, we entered a small courtyard with several doors, one of which led to the kitchen.
At my side, Freda chatted on, assuming I was madly interested in the diseases that infected fruit trees. She paused and, conscious perhaps of my silence, smiled. 'Do shout if there is anything you would like for your garden and Foley will bring you a cutting.'
'We'll go in this way, shall we?' And, opening the door: 'If you don't mind going in by the servants' quarters, that is?' she added brightly.
Over the threshold and I was standing on the very spot where Molly Dunn had been murdered. The kitchen was spick and span, the walls smooth, unmarked by violence, the stones silent, unblemished by sudden death.
But I had a tingling sense of dread. A girl had been raped and then strangled, she had taken her last breath on this floor.
Freda was still chatting, obviously no listener but a compulsive talker. How had she reacted to that fearful scene awaiting her return to Edinburgh that dreadful day? Had she grieved at all for the poor girl beyond the horror of having her nice home tarnished and made notorious by a murder? Such were my thoughts as she opened the oven door and a blast of hot roasting meat met our nostrils.
As my thoughts were on a particularly brutal murder, the smell was suddenly offensive and despite having felt hungry a few moment ago I felt sick, no longer looking forward to lunch.
'Everything is going splendidly,' said Freda with considerable satisfaction. 'Lizzie will serve us. This is cook's day off, I had completely forgotten when we met... Come along.'
I followed her down a dingy corridor to a baize door lea
ding into a vast hall. A glimpse of a carved oak staircase, marble floor and tall pillars, then we were in the handsome panelled dining-room overlooking the terrace, a long shining table set for luncheon.
Inviting me to be seated, Freda rang the bell and Lizzie appeared with the soup tureen. As she served us, I studied her expressionless face and wondered about her secret reactions to the fate of Molly Dunn, about whose character I knew so little.
Doubtless Vince would dismiss this urgent and morbid desire to interview all those in a house where murder had been committed as a direct inheritance from Pappa.
The maid dismissed, as if interpreting my thoughts, Freda said: 'Lizzie is a day servant temporarily. We don't have anyone living in just at present,' she added smoothly.
I made no comment thinking this hardly surprising, considering what had happened in the kitchen we had just left. Any hopes I nursed that Freda might introduce it as a topic of conversation were soon dashed and realising it was not within the bounds of good taste to ask how she felt personally about the servant girl's murder I concentrated on the soup.
The vegetable broth was excellent and, having overcome the finer feelings that had assailed me on the subject of roast meat, I could find no fault with the main course or the dessert, a particular favourite. It was years since I had tasted sherry trifle, Mrs Brook's speciality, and putting aside all thoughts that it was considered impolite and unladylike, I eagerly accepted a second helping.
If this was lunch, I thought, what then was dinner?
A moment later came the explanation. 'Piers is away on business. You know, of course, that he is an MP.'
I didn't. Freda went on: 'He is in Glasgow all this week and I find the days rather tedious; it is so good to have one's friends to share meals with-'
'Do you see anything of our other friends - Alice Bolton? She used to live next door.'
'Alice?' She shook her head. 'We have rather lost track of one another, I'm afraid, since she moved. Circumstances change, you know,' she added and I guessed I had touched a sensitive chord.
The Inspector's Daughter (A Rose McQuinn Mystery) Page 12