The Shadow of the Sycamores

by Doris Davidson

  ‘Only me.’

  ‘I’ve just thought – would the workers have been paid to keep their mouths shut?’

  Becky’s sly grin was accompanied by a wink. ‘Aye, well, maybe a puckle palms was greased.’

  Knowing that this was as much as she would admit, Henry got slowly and cautiously to his feet and was relieved that he could actually stand without falling over. ‘I had better be going, Becky. My wife’ll be wondering where I am.’

  ‘Have you far to go?’

  ‘Ardbirtle.’

  ‘How did you get here? Have you a car?’

  ‘No, I walked a bit then I got a lift in a van.’

  ‘How are you going to get hame, then?’

  ‘I’ll walk it.’ Henry felt ill at the thought of the long trek ahead of him.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing! By the look o’ you, you wouldna get half a mile afore you collapsed in a heap. I’ll ask Jackie, that’s my son-in-law to gi’e you a lift. He’s oot at the back wi’ his new motorbike and he’s dying to try it oot.’

  Fay was on the verge of going to the police when she heard a motorcycle stop at the door and, by the time she looked out of the window, Henry was being helped off the vehicle, looking somewhat under the weather. Her first thought, naturally, was that he was drunk, although she had never known him to be drunk in all the time she had known him. She went out angrily to help him inside but the young man gestured to her to let him finish his job.

  ‘My ma-in-law said he’s had a bit o’ a shock so go easy on him.’

  ‘Thank you for bringing him home,’ she remembered to say before he jumped on his steed and roared off.

  Looking at her husband, now seated in his chair by the fire, she saw that his face was ashen and he was obviously in such a state of shock that she asked no questions. When he was ready, he would tell her where he’d been and what had happened to him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The more Henry mulled over the information Becky had imparted, the more desolate he felt. Jerry’s child had definitely died back there in 1916, naturally or not, so there was no grandson and, therefore, no great-grandson. Despite little Laurie – a sturdy six-year-old now – being the very image of Jerry at that age, he was no relation whatsoever.

  That was hard enough for Henry to accept and, all credit to him, it made no difference to his attitude towards the boy but something worse than that was eating away at his innermost fibre. He had sought proof that Jerry was innocent of any crime but he still wasn’t sure. Becky’s assurance that his son couldn’t have killed anybody had to be set against the fact that the Millers had swiftly covered up the whole diabolically sordid affair and had even bribed the joiner and probably several others to keep quiet. They wouldn’t have done that if the male patient had been responsible for the two deaths, nor if the killer had been the girl who was Jerry’s wife. She had been the last one to go and Jerry was the only one left alive … and, therefore, the only suspect.

  If the police had been involved, they would have found out whether or not the girl’s death was suicide and, if was, they’d have written off the case as nothing further to investigate. She had killed the other two and then killed herself.

  But the police had not been informed – that was what he couldn’t get over. There had been no investigation. What reason could there have been for that? Surely, even if the guilty party was one of the patients, the good name of The Sycamores would not be sullied. The Superintendent – Miller – could not be held responsible as the insane could not be monitored twenty-four hours a day. On the other hand, Jerry was a paid employee, trusted to behave with propriety, and he must have interfered with the young nurse, made her pregnant and been forced by the Millers to marry her. It was probably this side of things that they successfully hid, afraid that it would be a black mark against them if it was made public – a very black mark.

  Unable to sleep with the burden of not knowing weighing heavily on his mind, Henry turned to his other side. It struck him suddenly that there could be another explanation. Jerry had been a personable young man, handsome, quiet and willing to do what he was told when he was told. Could it be possible that Mrs Miller had taken a fancy to him? Her age at the time was unknown to him but he hazarded a guess at between forty and fifty – an age when some women tried to regain their lost youth by having an affair with a much younger man. If that were the case, she would have done her best to shield him.

  But that didn’t make sense either. The easiest way to take suspicion off Jerry would have been to lay it at the girl’s door … or the man’s. They were both dead and couldn’t deny any accusations. But what was he thinking about? He was as good as saying that Jerry was guilty. Sighing raggedly, he turned over again.

  ‘What’s wrong, Henry?’ Fay asked, sleepily. ‘You’ve been tossing around all night. What’s bothering you?’

  ‘Oh, my Fairy,’ he groaned, ‘everything’s bothering me. We can’t be sure that Jerry was innocent. Maybe he enlisted to run away from what he’d done.’

  She groped for his hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. ‘No, my dearest Tchouki, don’t get lost down that road. He enlisted because both his wife and his child were … dead … however it happened. Certainly not by his hands.’

  ‘That’s what’s bothering me, though. His child – if it was his child – never got past infancy so we have no grandson and no great-grandson. Our Laurie’s not ours at all.’

  ‘But we always knew that. We’re only his guardians until his mother thinks it’s safe for him to be with her in London. That’s why, God forgive me, I often hope the war goes on forever and she doesn’t come to take him away.’

  He put his free arm around her now. ‘I feel awful sad when I think I’ve nothing to show for my life.’

  ‘We’ve got Mara.’

  ‘She’s the finest daughter a man could ever have … but she’ll never give us a grandson now. Even if she ever does get married again, she’s too old to make a son. I’m the last in the line, Fay.’

  The catch in his husky voice made her kiss him. ‘Last is always best,’ she assured him. ‘Besides, I love you, my darling Tchouki, as much now as when I was bandaging your poor hand all those years ago.’

  ‘I should stop moaning, for I’m a lucky man. I’ll love you, my Fairy Fay, till the day I die – and pray God I go first for I’d be lost without you.’

  James Ferguson had been feeling down for a few weeks. The war reports had made him recall the son he had lost because of the last conflict with Germany. And he wondered, as he had so often done over the years, if it would have been better for Leo to have been killed outright instead of lingering on for so long, only part of a man. It was good that he’d had someone like Samara Rae to look after him for most of the time. She was an absolute gem who deserved better than having to care for an aggressive, twisted man with a grudge against the world.

  His own wife couldn’t hold a candle to Samara. Maddy was a self-centred moaner, who was pleased with nothing unless it benefited her, and it was always he who had to toe the line. Tonight was different. He had stood at a graveside this afternoon, as her body was lowered into the ground, and all he had felt was an immense joy. He had put up with her for almost thirty years but at last he was completely free.

  The funeral was attended only by some of her friends and they all wore the same look of boredom on their faces as she had. Once it was over, he had taken the bus into the centre of the city with no idea of what he meant to do but there was always plenty to see in Princes Street. It was just after five yet it was already beginning to get dark and the large stores, whose windows used to blaze with light to attract customers, had the blackouts up, as was demanded of all buildings in this time of strife. It hadn’t stopped the crowds, though. Offices were emptying, feet were scurrying here, there and everywhere and the headlights on all the vehicles were shaded with cardboard to conform to the blackout. The bus conductresses were shouting, in their usual quaint patois, ‘Come oan, get aff!�
� as the people waiting to get on board were held back by those trying to get off.

  Ferguson sauntered along, drinking in the normality of it and praying that his beloved city would not be flattened by bombs like parts of London had been. He took his time, savouring each step, and, having walked the whole length of Princes Street, he crossed over to go back along the world-famous gardens. It was well past six o’clock now and the shop and office workers had made their various ways home but there were still people on the move.

  Uniformed men and women from all parts of the world had been sent to Britain and, next to London, the place they most wanted to see was Edinburgh – a Mecca for sightseers in wartime as much as in peacetime. It was getting too dark to read the flashes on their shoulders as they strolled past him on the lower path between the street and the railway line but he could recognise some of the tongues. French, Polish, Norwegian, Australian, Canadian and, of course, now that the Yanks had come in, American.

  James felt tired now, really tired, as if he had walked from John o’Groats to Land’s End, and he plumped down gladly on the first empty bench he came to. Atop the huge mass left by volcanic activity in some distant historic era, the castle was silhouetted blackly against the sparse light that was now left in the sky. There had been quartered all the Scottish regiments who had defended the Scottish capital against the English, and other marauders, down through the years. It had always attracted tourists and was well worth a visit – as he recalled from having explored it several times when he was younger, always coming across something of interest that he hadn’t noticed before.

  His stomach giving a sudden rumble and he wished that he had eaten something after the funeral. He certainly was a foolish old man, as Mrs Gove, their housekeeper, often jokingly remarked when he was trying to do something that involved any exertion. It was good to sit here quietly, though, with nobody to bother him and nothing to go hurrying home for. It would take time to adjust to being his own master, he supposed. A man needed something, or someone, to give him direction, to guide him through the days.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, do you mind if I sit here?’

  James looked up and quite liked what he saw – a tall young man in air-force blue, smiling shyly. ‘No, no I don’t mind.’

  ‘I bet you’re like me,’ the stranger said. ‘You’ve been walking around so much your feet are killing you. Am I right?’

  James grinned. ‘I’ve walked too far, I know that. Haven’t done much walking at all for … oh, goodness knows how long. Car from door to door, usually.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with most people nowadays. There’ll come a time when human beings lose the ability to walk and, in a few generations, they won’t have any legs at all.’

  James couldn’t help laughing at that. ‘No, I don’t agree with you there. How can young men like yourself find a girlfriend if you don’t walk around a bit? And, once you’ve found her, you have to romance her – take her for walks in secluded places. You’ll know all about that, though.’

  ‘Not really. I’ve never been one for chatting up the girls. I’m a bit shy.’

  They talked on companionably for fully twenty minutes, then James’s stomach gave another loud rumble. ‘Oh, excuse me.’

  ‘Have you eaten anything today?’ The young man sounded quite concerned.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ James admitted, ‘it’s been a most unusual day for me. I buried my wife this afternoon …’

  ‘Oh I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘No need to be. I’m not. She ruled the roost and I’m glad to be rid of her.’

  His companion quickly covered up his astonishment. ‘Look, I don’t think we should sit here much longer. The damp’s coming down and it won’t do your chest any good. What about having a bite to eat somewhere with me? I’ll pay.’

  ‘Indeed you’ll not.’ James was outraged at the idea. ‘I’ll pay. I’m nowhere near the breadline yet.’

  He rose stiffly and staggered a little as his legs took his weight. ‘It’s with sitting too long,’ he excused himself.

  The young man took his arm. ‘My dad says, if he sits for any length of time, he has the devil’s own job to get moving again.’

  Over the next hour or so, James learned that his companion’s name was Malcolm Fry, that his mother had died when he was only eight and that his father had looked after him single-handedly from then on. In return, James said that, after his first wife died, he had stupidly married a younger woman who had just been after his money.

  Malcolm insisted that James should get a taxi home and he was glad to agree. It had been a taxing day. While they were waiting, he gave the young man his visiting card. ‘I’d be pleased if you could come to see me tomorrow, Malcolm. I’ve a feeling I’ll be a bit lonely. Make it about one o’clock when my stalwart housekeeper will have lunch ready. That is,’ he added hastily apologetic, ‘if you’re not doing something else.’

  ‘I’m on a forty-eight hour pass from Turnhouse and I’ll be delighted to come.’

  ‘That’s settled then – see you tomorrow.’ Once inside the vehicle, James waved feebly in response to the young airman’s salute, then lay back, feeling every one of his seventy-odd years.

  That evening, he thought over the last few hours. He had enjoyed the walk along Princes Street but the interlude with Malcolm Fry had really bucked him up. It had been good to have young male company again and he found himself wishing it was the next day so that they could talk again.

  AC1 Fry had spent the night in a boarding house just off the Queensferry Road. It was good to be away from the dozen or so men with whom he normally shared a room – heaven to be able to lie quietly without being disturbed by different levels of snoring and groaning and other natural, but infuriating, noises. He had looked forward to having time to himself yet, by the time he had gone round the castle, walked down High Street as far as St Giles’ and then cut through to walk along Princes Street Gardens, he had had more than enough. The first few benches he saw had been fully occupied so his feet had rejoiced to see only one old man on the next seat he came to.

  He had thoroughly enjoyed talking to James Ferguson and was looking forward to seeing him again. His overcoat had looked very expensive, probably Crombie cloth, and, when he took it off in the restaurant, he had noticed that his suit, too, had been of the very best quality. A man of means, then – perhaps inherited but more likely to have been earned in some highly qualified position. He would have interesting tales to tell.

  James was impressed that his visitor arrived at one minute to one o’clock. Most of the young people he had ever come in contact with had been hopeless with time, late for everything, and usually with no apology or explanation. Mrs Gove had produced a good square meal, nothing fancy but very palatable and filling – thick lentil soup, a dish consisting of potatoes, onions and cheese (a favourite when she had used up their ration of meat), followed by seven-cup-pudding, a favourite of his. They both refused her offer of tea to follow (‘Sorry, no coffee.’) and adjourned to the sitting room.

  ‘I was thinking last night,’ he said, after speaking about the weather and barely touching on the situation in the Far East. The war had no right to intrude. ‘Can you drive, Malcolm?’

  ‘I’ve had a licence for over five years. I never had a car of my own but Dad let me drive him around and sometimes let me borrow his Austin.’

  ‘That is excellent. You will not be averse, therefore, to have the same arrangement with me? I still tootle around Fife, though I am not too happy to drive into Edinburgh. All that traffic makes me nervous.’

  ‘I’ll be delighted to take you anywhere you want … if I’m not on duty.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I understand that. I will tell you what I had in mind, if I may? There is someone I have not seen for many years and to whom I would love to pay a surprise call. It is much too far for me to drive and we would need at least one full day to get there and back and allow us some time to talk, although an overnight stay would perhaps be be
tter.’

  ‘That would be fine by me,’ Malcolm smiled, ‘but maybe we should wait till the weather’s more reliable. I’d feel happier if I could have a few short journeys first, anyway, to get used to your car. What is it, by the way?’

  James screwed up his face. ‘My wife made me buy a Rolls. She was an out-and-out snob, you see. It’s fairly old now but still in the best of conditions. If you like, I’ll have my garage give it a good going-over, just to make sure that everything is as it should be.’

  ‘That would be a good idea but, to tell the truth, I’ll be scared stiff to drive a Rolls. What if I scrape it or damage it?’

  ‘It will repair. Do not worry – I am sure you’ll manage. We can go to South Queensferry for a start – that’s not far – and then, once you are used to the feel of it, you can have it for an evening. You can impress your lady friend.’

  ‘I don’t have a lady friend. I did have but we stopped seeing each other a few months before I was called up and I never met anyone else.’

  ‘You will, lad, you will,’ James smiled knowingly. ‘A good-looking fellow like you? The lasses should be falling over themselves to get you.’

  To Malcolm’s relief, that subject was dropped and he was taken out to the large garage at the side of the house to see the Rolls Royce, an impressive vehicle by anyone’s standards. The bodywork was a pure shiny black and the trademark figurehead stood atop the bonnet, over the radiator, with, it seemed, her hair and her filmy dress streaming out behind her in the wind.

  The inside was even more luxurious. The fascia was in gorgeous walnut, the seats were in a muted green leather and all the gadgets were made of chrome, the gear lever having a padded leather top. The carpets on the floor had a deep pile, deeper than Malcolm had seen in any house, and were in a dark green, which toned in with the upholstery.