In all truth, I was more fascinated by surreptitious glances at the Royal guest than the circus acts so far. This was the closest I had ever been to her and I wished I had brought my journal along to make some sketches.
The next act was a virtuoso appearance by the magician, Cyril Howe himself. I was near enough to observe that he was sweating, occasionally muttering through his smiles to his assistant, wife Daisy, her spangles trembling. Doubtless both were nervous in case the rabbit didn't miraculously appear from the hat, or Daisy failed to reappear when the magic cabinet door was reopened.
Then, to my surprise I noticed in the front row of the tiered seats Cyril Howe's other lady, she of the dragon pendant. Sure that her presence must have totally unnerved the magician, since she must have been prominently in his line of vision, I wondered if that was the reason he was in such a panic. And why Daisy's spangles were trembling: not with fear but with rage. Poor Howe, I thought, perhaps he wished he could make both ladies disappear as easily as he dealt with the pair of white doves.
Everything went smoothly and to loud applause as the Howes bowed and left the ring. The brass band played a patriotic number while the safety net for the high-wire act was replaced by a ten-foot-high fence of robust iron bars.
A ripple of excitement went around the audience as into that enclosure, bringing with them the smell of the jungle, the lions in their ornate cage were pulled into the arena by plumed circus horses, nervous and less than happy at this burden of ferocity they were escorting.
I glanced at Her Majesty, animated, clapping her hands, enthusiastic as any of the small children in the audience as the lion tamer entered the ring.
Raj (born Abel White in Liverpool) had a muscular frame attired only partially in a small leopard skin, perhaps as a warning to his current charges that this was the fate in store for them if they misbehaved or disobeyed him. Protected by a long pole to keep any unruly charges at a respectful distance, Raj had his lions leaping up and down on boxes to his command, obligingly opening their mouths in approximations of fierce roars. The more sluggish performers with a tendency to yawns of boredom were prodded into short-lived shows of ferocity.
I was losing interest, still more intent on keeping a watchful eye on Royalty.
At last came the moment she and the rest of the audience had been waiting for. The lesser lions were persuaded back into their ornate cage by clowns with long sticks and wheeled away. One solitary beast remained and the ringmaster, a silver-clad Cyril Howe, came forward. 'It is essential for Monsieur Raj's safety that we have absolute silence. Any sudden noise that might frighten this savage beast could be fatal to him.’
A roll of drums. Raj bowed to the Queen and, after stroking the lion's mane and murmuring a few words of reassurance, opened his jaws slowly and thrust his forearm inside. Withdrawing it unscathed to tumultuous applause, he bowed again.
Another louder roll of drums. Silence as Raj now thrust his head inside the lion's open mouth, withdrew it and, with no doubt considerable relief, patted the savage beast as if he had no more harm in him than the pussycat by the fire.
Her Majesty was ecstatic and I was sceptical. Perhaps my eyes were sharper than those of Royalty. Sitting slightly to the left side of Raj and his lion I suspected that the man was never in any real danger. And that his savage beast was toothless, elderly and was probably fated to die in tranquil old age, bequeathing that mangy coat as legacy for good conduct to his trainer.
As everyone cheered and clapped, I was inclined to agree with Pappa's reactions. Now, as a grown-up, I was understanding and sympathising with his ready excuses for not accompanying his two small daughters to the circus. He hated seeing caged animals or birds, this failing greeted with wry amusement by his policeman colleagues since his activities had succeeded in putting so many humans behind bars through the years.
The climax was the Wild West Show, Chief Wolf Rider and the Sioux Ghost Dancers, a very impressive performance of daring rough riding on and off and under horses, of jousting with lances. The clowns reappeared in the guise of stern brave United States cavalry, who struggled and fell obligingly dead at the Indians' feet, presumably in a re-enactment of Custer's Last Stand.
The Sioux war cries no doubt chilled the hearts of the audience, except that for me they were a mere parody of real life.
I noticed Her Majesty's deep frown, not quite certain whether she should applaud such savagery. No doubt it evoked thoughts of natives in outposts of her Empire where the British flag flew somewhat unsteadily.
I wondered if she had observed that the Sioux were one short. Eleven riders instead of twelve, which put Chief Wolf Rider into some difficulties in the formation riding sequences. Had the missing Indian succumbed to the thick white haar, the atrocious weather, such conditions not readily encountered in his homeland on the sun-baked plains of the American West? Was I the only one who noticed? It was almost impossible to tell individuals apart at long range with warpainted faces streaked white and red but I did wonder if the missing Indian was the young man I had seen with a crucifix like Danny's.
Chapter Twenty
The final parade around the circus ring over, the audience applauded and stood respectfully to attention as Her Majesty left the tent. She had abandoned her frail incognito disguise and the brass band struck up 'God Save the Queen' to loud cheering.
We followed the Royal party. Vince took my arm and at the entrance to the tent we bumped into Jack Macmerry. He looked very surprised indeed to see me in such illustrious company and I felt rather pleased.
'I'll take you home,' said Vince. 'But first let's eat. I'm famished. Café Royale, I think.'
We left the carriage with Vince's instructions to collect him from Solomon's Tower at ten.
'Is that all right for you, Rose? Not too late?'
I was delighted and looking forward to seeing the inside of Café Royale again. As we were led to a table, Vince was genially hailed by one of a trio of men, rather flash and flushed with wine.
'Thomas Carless,' Vince whispered. 'Edinburgh's most notorious gambler. Sails close to the wind in his business dealings, too.'
We had met before, but where eluded me. I gave up trying to remember, happy to be hearing news of Vince's children: Jamie, who was going to be clever and go to an English public school before Oxford or Cambridge.
'Naturally we would prefer a Scottish university, but having been educated in England...' Vince seemed apologetic, before switching to my little nieces and sounding just a little reverential about their Royal playmates: so many offspring of Princes and Princesses that I was absolutely bewildered. Impressed, of course, but lost.
I didn't care in the least what he talked about. I was just happy, joyful beyond words to be with my dear Vince, although this rather corpulent balding Dr Laurie was now far removed from the hero-worshipped stepbrother of my early years.
'Met any old friends yet?' he asked.
When I mentioned Alice he twirled the wineglass in his hand and looked mysterious. 'Dear Alice. She had quite a passion for me, you know,' he said idly.
I didn't know, but I wasn't altogether surprised as it was a further explanation of why, according to Mrs Brook, she came to Sheridan Place so regularly when I was away. And yet, so keen to see me, she never mentioned these visits in her exceedingly rare letters.
Poor Alice. And another missing piece of a jigsaw from the past fell into place as Vince went on hurriedly, 'I never encouraged her, Rose. I thought of her as just a little girl, like you, and a gap of twelve years was not a prospect I could take seriously. It was all rather embarrassing and I was heartily glad when she transferred her affections to Matthew Bolton.' He smiled. 'I introduced them, as a matter of fact. Do you see me as an unlikely Cupid? Even I was surprised at the speed of events thereafter.'
He paused, frowned and I asked: 'How so?'
'Well, quite honestly they had so little in common. The Peels were very wealthy at that time, as you know.' He hesitated: 'I realise it's uncharita
ble but I often thought Alice's money was the answer. Perhaps Matthew saw it as a way out from following in his family's footsteps. He loathed the idea -'
Vince was repeating much the same version of the tale of Alice and Matthew I had heard from Mrs Brook.
He sighed. 'I met a chap in my London club. We got talking and he knew Matthew. This chap hinted that he had got through his wife's fortune somewhat rapidly. He was a compulsive gambler, even as a lad.'
'I had no idea.'
Vince smiled. 'He would bet on anything, sixpence on two dogs crossing the road, idiotic things no one else would ever think of. And I wondered how Alice reacted to this addiction. She was so prim and proper. Except in her pursuit of me,' he added.
'I suppose life is like that,' I said, suspecting already that in common with many women of my generation she had hidden depths, passions which must be concealed from the conventions of our Edinburgh society.
Vince shrugged. 'Opposites do attract and many marriages are based on compromise - or money. Or both. I assume they have adjusted like the rest of us and are settled and happy together.' He thought for a moment. 'Gambling is an addiction, hard to get out of the system once it takes a hold. I suppose Matthew restricts his to a rubber of bridge or the horses at Musselburgh races.'
I said nothing. I couldn't bring myself to go into Matthew's strange behaviour or his weird friend in the coachhouse. Perhaps I should have sought Vince's advice, but it was Alice's confidence, her secret I would be betraying.
At last it was time to return to Solomon's Tower and the doorman summoned a hiring carriage. Princes Street and Waverley Bridge were busy at this hour of the evening. Pedestrians as well as private carriages were making for theatre and concert hall with gentlemen hurrying to their private clubs.
'We're off to Balmoral at the end of the week,' Vince told me. 'I'll try and see you again, if I can be spared.'
'I hope so - surely doctors aren't needed every moment of the day.'
'You'd be surprised,' was the rueful reply, 'with an extensive household on the move, how many sore throats, stomach upsets, cut fingers and imaginary ailments can be produced every day.'
Pausing, he looked out of the window. 'This damned mist! Can't even tell if we're on the right road.'
I assured him that we had turned on to Queen's Drive. Arthur's Seat was just visible in the gloom of early darkness.
When we stepped out of the carriage, while Vince paid the cabman I shivered. The mist had lifted very slightly but it was bitterly cold and clammy.
'Of course I'm coming in for a while. See what's been happening in the Tower since you took over. Don't suppose you have anything to drink?'
Considering that he had consumed most of a bottle of wine with our hearty supper, I felt the offer of a cup of tea might be more appropriate.
He grinned, reading my thoughts. 'You are quite right. Rose, dear. We do get into very bad habits in Her Majesty's service.' And, patting his rather tight brocade waistcoat with unmistakable satisfaction: 'These are the inevitable results you see before you. Ah, well, there's a price to pay for everything. Would a cigar offend you?'
'Of course it wouldn't.'
Lighting up, he trotted after me, admiring everything, up the spiral stair and down again. Back in the kitchen he was pleased to see the kettle boiling and pronounced the peat fire a great success. 'A decent cup of tea, at last.' He sighed. 'No one in Holyrood - or in St James's for that matter - seems to have heard of how to make tea. Hot, not boiling water - dreadful. Weak as water. Even Her Majesty complains that no one could make her tea like dear John Brown. Apparently he had his own methods of improvement, by doctoring it with whisky-'
As we sat at the table happily gossiping, with me wishing the evening would last for ever, I was telling him about my visit to Mrs Brook when we heard the sound of trotting horses.
A carriage stopped on the road outside.
'That'll be for me. Dammit! Just when I was enjoying myself so much. Dearest Rose, we seem always to have so little time-'
'Before you go. I haven't fed Cat. The last of Sir Hedley's great feline tribe. And quite incredibly old. She's out in the stable - you must see her.'
'Must I?' said Vince grimly, his glum expression reminding me that he had never liked his benefactor, despite the old man's devotion to him. And 'never liked' was putting it mildly.
As he put on his evening cape I poured milk for Cat, longing to keep him here on any excuse until the last possible moment, to extend the glorious evening, knowing how long the hours would be, tonight and tomorrow and the next day, without him. Loneliness, homesickness for my ain folk that got worse.
'I haven't shown you a drawing of my deerhound.'
Vince laughed. 'The hound that never was, you mean.'
I made no comment as I produced the drawing I had made of Thane the day before. Even to my own eyes it was a creditable likeness, although there was still work to do on the shaggy coat, the final touches.
Vince handed it back and smiled. 'You're teasing me, Rose, dear. That's very naughty!'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean this is an exact copy of the old print I told you about.'
'No, it isn't. Look behind him, there's the hearth - the fire.'
But Vince frowned, shook his head obstinately.
'I'm telling you. It's him - Thane. He came in and sat where you are standing now, as he often does - and I drew him.'
Watching his expression I felt annoyed and cross with Thane, too, that he never put in an appearance, proving that he was no figment of my imagination and that I was speaking the truth. ‘You think I'm making it up,' I said sadly.
He put his arms around me, kissed my cheek. 'Of course not, silly girl.' He paused and, as if wanting to change the subject, said lightly: 'You know, when you were a little girl you could draw the most convincing fairies.'
I knew what he was getting at. 'And they didn't exist. Is that what you're saying?'
'No. What I'm saying is that you always drew very well. Well enough to have been a very creditable artist, made a career of illustrating books.'
When I laughed, he said: 'I'm serious, Rose. You could have done it easily, if you hadn't-' He shrugged.
Hadn't rushed off to America to marry McQuinn and waste your life were the unspoken words.
I didn't want our lovely evening to end on this sour note because, being me, it was these last few moments together I'd keep on remembering. 'I must go and feed Cat, before it's completely dark.'
'Off you go, then. There's a novel by one of the Brontes that Olivia was given as a present. It came over with the other books from Sheridan Place by mistake. I'll just have a look for it.'
He went over to the bookcase while I took the other lamp and walked across to the stable with Cat's bowl.
As soon as I opened the door I knew something was amiss.
Cat wasn't in her usual place.
Instead, there was a man's arm, brown and bare and unnaturally still, sticking out of the straw.
I took the lamp closer. What was this? Another drunken tinker?
With Vince close by in the house, I went forward bravely, touched the man's arm with my foot. 'Hello there!'
There was no reaction. I leaned down and seized the bare wrist. It felt like ice. Even a drunken tinker would have moved. I expected groans and curses.
Nothing. I carried the lamp upwards for a closer inspection of this mysterious intruder.
Lying face downwards was a motionless form, the head turned into the straw at an unnatural angle.
I waited no longer and rushed back to Vince. 'Come quickly. There's a dead body in the barn. A man - I think he's been murdered.'
The man was young, very dead and even discounting the buckskin jacket he was Indian. The twelfth man missing from Chief Wolf Rider's troop whom we had seen performing at the circus four hours ago. And this one I had seen before. He wore a crucifix around his neck.
Vince looked up from his examination. 'Murdered? No,
Rose. I suspect he died naturally from a fractured skull. He also has a broken arm. Though what he was doing here in your stable I have no idea.'
'He's from the circus. They exercise their horses on the hill every day.'
'That's the answer, then. Probably took a fall. There's plenty of bruising. Of course, he could have been waylaid, attacked and severely beaten, crawled to the nearest habitation for help.'
'He may have been murdered, then.'
'I can't tell for sure. But I don't think so.' He looked up and smiled grimly. 'How the mind immediately turns to murder in this family, doesn't it, now?'
'How long has he been dead?' I asked.
'Some time. Rigor has set in so I would say six to eight hours - offhand. It's some time now since I worked on corpses and I may be severely out of practice.'
'Then I can tell you exactly when I think it happened.'
Vince stared at me. 'How on earth?'
'This afternoon, about two o'clock, I was sewing and I heard a lot of movement on the hill. You know how sounds carry in the mist.'
'What sort of sounds?'
'A horse galloping - neighing. Other weird sounds - I can't say exactly because I didn't feel like going out to inspect.'
‘That was wise of you.' He was studying the crucifix. 'A Christian Indian. Didn't your Danny wear one like this?'
'Yes. And I noticed this poor lad particularly because of it. A group of them rode past me the other day. I wondered then-'
Vince shook his head. 'No, Rose. If you're wondering whether it belonged to Danny I can only say that would be the coincidence beyond belief. There are millions of these worn by Roman Catholics the world over.'
'But he was from Dakota, where Danny disappeared, chasing renegade Sioux Indians - most likely from his tribe!'
I was glad of Vince's arm around my shoulders. I was shivering.
'You're clutching at straws. Rose, dear,' he said gently. 'But to be practical we must inform the police at once. I'll give a note to Everett. And we'd better let the circus know right away. His friends will want to make arrangements.'
The Inspector's Daughter (A Rose McQuinn Mystery) Page 15