The House on Candlewick Lane

by Amy M. Reade

  James turned to me at a stoplight. “See? Sun’s out. It always comes out, you know.”

  I smiled at his poetic attempt to make me feel better as he drove me back to Bide-A-Wee. When we got there, he said he had to drop off his car at home and then run some errands near his office. He invited me to go with him, but my back was hurting again, and I wanted to lie down. I thanked him and promised to call him later.

  As I walked up the front steps to Bide-A-Wee, I noticed the door was slightly ajar. A small piece of wood in the door jamb was splintered and broken. I pushed the door open tentatively.

  CHAPTER 14

  The living room of Bide-A-Wee was a shambles. Sofa cushions were scattered across the floor, a chair was knocked over, and the desk drawers were all pulled out, their contents strewn about the room.

  “Sylvie? Seamus?” I hurried to the bedrooms, which were in the same condition. No one else was home. I ran back into the living room, fumbled in my handbag for my mobile phone, and called the police, quickly followed by Sylvie, then Seamus. They promised to come home as quickly as possible.

  The police arrived first. I was sitting on the front steps when two officers pulled up to the curb. They went into the flat ahead of me, one of them taking photos of the front door, the rooms, and the mess, the other asking me questions.

  When they asked where I had been earlier in the day, I intentionally misled them. I didn’t want them to know where I had spent my morning. I didn’t want them bothering James with their questions, and I didn’t want them to know I had visited Alistair and Janet. I also didn’t want to be accused of interfering with a police investigation. And though I hadn’t had a chance to look around yet to see if anything had been taken, I couldn’t imagine robbery was the motive for the break-in and vandalism. I told the officer and his partner— who by then had finished photographing the damage—about why I was in Edinburgh and the attacks on me in St. Giles Cathedral and Princes Street Gardens.

  “So you think one of the people looking for your ex-husband could have broken in here to find information on his whereabouts?”

  I nodded. “Absolutely. The man from St. Giles told me he knows where I live. I guess this is proof he wasn’t bluffing.”

  Sylvie arrived then, followed a few minutes later by Seamus. They were shocked when they saw the condition of the flat. The officers questioned them extensively, asking them many of the same questions they asked me. When asked where they had been, Sylvie said she’d been job-hunting and Seamus had been sketching at one of the museums along the Royal Mile. Both, of course, denied knowing who might have broken into the flat.

  Sylvie turned to me. “Do you really think that the person who did this is the one looking for Neill?”

  “I do,” I answered. “The man, or the people he works for, must be desperate to find Neill. I don’t have any information that would help, though, so he wasted his time coming here.”

  I was surprised by my own reaction to the break-in. I wasn’t afraid, just angry. Angry that someone would violate my home and my personal belongings. And a small part of me was glad—glad that whoever came into my flat had wasted precious time looking for Neill when I had no information that could help. Glad that the person’s goal was thwarted.

  But my thoughts quickly snapped back to Ellie. As much as I didn’t care what happened to Neill after the harrowing events he’d put me through recently, anyone who was able to find Neill would probably find Ellie, too. I blinked, coming out of my thoughts about Ellie, and realized Sylvie was speaking to me. “Hmmm?”

  “I said, were you able to find out anything when you visited Neill’s parents today?” I looked daggers at her. I hadn’t wanted her to say anything about my visit to their farm.

  The officers looked at me. “You didn’t say that’s where you were,” the lead officer said.

  “I didn’t get out there today,” I lied, staring at Sylvie.

  The officers stared at me for a moment. I don’t think they believed me, but they asked me no further questions. They did warn me, however, against contacting the Gramercys and interfering with an ongoing case.

  They finally left with a promise to be in touch as soon as they were able to investigate the break-in further and with an admonition that if we found anything missing from the flat, we were to notify them immediately. I couldn’t imagine what further investigating they could do, but I assumed I would hear from them again at some point. And as for items missing, I knew nothing would be. I already knew who had broken in—the man who had attacked me in St. Giles Cathedral and again in the Gardens. Whatever he was looking for, he wasn’t going to find it in my flat.

  Sylvie turned to me after the officers had left. “Och, Greer, I’m sorry I mentioned Alistair and Janet’s farm. I didn’t realize you wanted to keep that a secret. Why didn’t you go out there?”

  “I did.”

  “Greer, you should have told the police.”

  “If the police find out I was there, they’ll say I’m interfering with their investigation, and they might not be as interested in helping me or in sharing any information with me. I need to know everything I can.”

  I picked up the books that had fallen to the floor, stacking them neatly on one of the side tables. Sylvie and Seamus joined me, making piles of mail and papers. As we worked I told them of the events at the farm and of running into Beatrice.

  It took a few hours to clean up the mess, which had probably taken our intruder minutes to create. Whoever he was, he had gone through the kitchen cupboards, probably just for spite, and knocked down tins and bags of pantry staples. Seamus found this especially offensive. He shooed Sylvie and me out of the kitchen while he cleaned up the mess. We could hear him muttering to himself as he went about his work. It brought a smile to my face, the first in hours, to know how intent he was on having a clean and orderly kitchen.

  I sat with Sylvie in the living room, lying on a heating pad as my back was in agonizing pain. My mobile phone rang. It was James.

  After I filled him in, he couldn’t believe what I had found in my flat just after he dropped me off. He chided himself aloud for letting me go inside alone. “I should have walked you to the door, especially with your back bothering you,” he said.

  “How were you to know what would be inside? And I was perfectly capable of getting into the flat by myself, thank you very much,” I said, hoping he could hear the smile in my voice.

  He obviously couldn’t. “Greer, I’ll never forgive myself. What if that person had still been in there? What if he attacked you again?”

  “James, you’re really making too much of this. Come over and see for yourself. The flat is cleaned up, and I’m all in one piece.”

  “Invite James for some dinner,” Seamus called from the kitchen.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked James. “Seamus wants you to come for dinner.”

  “I’ll be there,” he promised.

  A short while later, James arrived. When he first came in, he scanned the room slowly, as if trying to imagine the damage, or perhaps trying to divine the identity of the culprit. But he relaxed when he saw that my back was feeling a bit better—thanks to pain medication and the heating pad—and that the flat wasn’t in as bad a condition as he expected.

  The four of us ate a quiet dinner together around the kitchen table. James had brought a bottle of wine, and Seamus had prepared a luscious salmon with whisky sauce, swedes and tatties, and a beet salad.

  There was no fire in the fireplace that evening. Everyone was tired from a long and stressful day. I was still surprised that I wasn’t more worried about the break-in. I doubted it wouldn’t happen again, since there was nothing valuable or even interesting in the flat. No appreciable amount of money, no valuables except Seamus’s paintings, which were untouched, no documents of any kind that would be of interest to an intruder. I kept all my identification, including my driver’s license and temporary passport, on me at all times.

 
But as I lay in bed, I found that my brain wasn’t prepared for sleep in the way my body was. I stared at the ceiling, doubts beginning to creep into my thoughts from the darkness surrounding me. What if the man or people looking for Neill hadn’t ransacked the flat? What if it was someone completely unrelated to Neill’s disappearance with our daughter? What if the person was actually looking for Seamus?

  That thought worried me the most. I found myself wondering about the people Seamus had known in prison, the people he had dealt with in his violent past. Could they have come looking for him? Could the ransacking have been a message directed at him? I had no way of knowing. He hadn’t told the police about his past, though I was sure it would be easy enough for them to figure out on their own with the click of a mouse.

  And I couldn’t discuss it with Seamus—that was the worst part. I wasn’t even supposed to know about his stint in prison. He would likely be furious with both Sylvie and me if he realized she had told me. I didn’t want to discuss it with Sylvie because I didn’t want her to worry. She, too, seemed quite convinced the break-in was related to Neill, so I didn’t want to upset her unnecessarily with dire thoughts about Seamus that might not even prove to be true.

  I finally fell into a fitful sleep and woke feeling groggy and agitated. When I stumbled into the kitchen to make a pot of tea, Seamus was already there, whistling softly and emptying the dishwasher. I stood in the doorway in the still-dark living room, wondering whether Sylvie and I were really safe with him around. I felt suspicious, confused, and unsettled, but above all, angry with myself for feeling that way about Seamus. He turned to me with a smile, scratching his unruly red beard, when I stepped out of the shadows and into the kitchen.

  “Mornin’ Greer! I’ve a pot of tea on. Care for a cuppa?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied, my mistrust evaporating again in the face of his kindness and cheer.

  He poured me a cup and sat down across from me with his own tea. “Were you able to sleep last night?”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “I don’t believe you. You look awful this morning.”

  “Thanks,” I said, grimacing.

  “You know what I mean. You have dark circles under your eyes, and you have that tired look about you. You worried about yesterday?”

  I sighed. “A little. I’m starting to have doubts about who broke in. Maybe it wasn’t someone looking for information about Neill, after all.”

  He leaned back and looked at me. I stared into my teacup, feeling uncomfortable. Did he know what I knew?

  “You mean like a random stranger?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “But why would a stranger choose this flat? It doesn’t stand out. There are plenty of other flats on the street, and lots of cars parked right outside. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Nothing about it makes sense,” I replied.

  “Why don’t you go over to the police station and see if they’ve found anything?”

  “I suppose I could do that,” I answered slowly. Maybe he didn’t know Sylvie had told me about his past. He wasn’t acting like someone who was trying to hide something. He seemed sincere in his suggestion.

  He was really trying to help.

  I pushed back from the table. “You’re right, Seamus. I will go over there to see if they’ve found anything. Maybe they’ve interviewed the neighbors, and one of them saw someone.”

  “Aye, perhaps they have. Want porridge? I’ve got some on the stove.”

  After Seamus’s hearty breakfast, I showered and made my way to the police station. Seamus went with me, then continued on to his errands. My back still hurt, but it was better than yesterday. At the station, I asked to see the lead officer. When the receptionist told me he was in a meeting, I decided to sit and wait for him, no matter how long it took.

  To my surprise, I didn’t have to wait long. He came out to greet me fifteen minutes later and led me back to his “office,” which consisted of a desk that he shared with another officer inside what looked like an old coat closet.

  “I came to see if you’ve found anything more since yesterday.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” he said.

  I raised my eyebrows, waiting for him to speak.

  “It seems one of your neighbors, a woman who lives down the block a bit, saw someone— a man—knocking on your front door yesterday. She heard him calling your name. She might not have noticed him except for that.”

  “Calling my name?”

  “Yes. Could it have been Neill?” the officer asked.

  “I suppose. There was no child with him?”

  “No. He was alone.”

  “Then I hope it wasn’t Neill, because that would mean Ellie was alone somewhere. Besides, why would Neill ransack my flat?”

  “You probably know that better than I would. Has he ever done anything like that in the past?”

  “No,” I said, before I remembered something. “Wait. He did make a mess in my house back in the States. He was looking for passports in the safe I keep in my office.”

  “What does Neill look like?”

  “Tall, thin, brown hair, wears glasses.”

  “Hmm. Probably not him, then. According to your neighbor, this man was heavy-set and balding.”

  “Definitely not Neill, then,” I said, not knowing whether to feel relief or frustration. While I would love to find him, I didn’t want to think he had left Ellie alone somewhere. But the man who had accosted me at St. Giles and at the Gardens was heavy, and balding, at least a little.

  I shared this with the policeman. “Do you think it was the same man?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “So where do you go from here?”

  “Keep asking around. Someone else may have seen him leaving, may have gotten a better look at him. We’ll keep you posted,” he said, pushing back from his desk.

  Apparently that was my cue to leave. I walked slowly back to the flat by myself, my thoughts churning. I didn’t want to be out walking alone, but I didn’t want to bother Sylvie or Seamus or James and ask for an escort.

  I didn’t know what to do next. The few leads I had followed had been unsuccessful. I still planned to follow up with Alistair and Janet, but I knew they wouldn’t tell me anything. Yet. And if they thought I alerted the police, they would never give me the information I wanted. I needed to bide my time, to wait until they were ready.

  For the next few weeks things were relatively quiet while I waited to hear news of Neill, Ellie, and of the person who had broken into my flat. It seemed the police were no closer to finding any of them. It was December, and Edinburgh was getting colder and colder with each passing day. Every morning I was finding it harder and harder to get out of bed. I was depressed and listless, and Sylvie and Seamus and James were at a loss in trying to buoy my spirits.

  That Christmas was the worst of my life. I had bought small gifts for Sylvie and Seamus, and they had also bought some nice things for me. But opening gifts was the last thing I wanted to do. I cried easily that day, feeling hopeless and sorry for myself. I’m sure I was a damper on Sylvie and Seamus’s spirits, but I couldn’t help it. I was miserable and lethargic, wanting nothing more than for the day to end. I wondered constantly what Ellie was doing and whether Neill had given her any Christmas presents.

  And New Year’s Eve wasn’t much better. James and I spent the evening in the flat while Sylvie and Seamus went out with friends. James had asked me to go out to dinner, but I simply couldn’t bear the thought of seeing all the people of Edinburgh out celebrating while my heart broke.

  My research was one of the only bright spots during the long, dragging days of winter. In an attempt to stay busy and keep my mind occupied, I had decided to spend my idle time doing a wee bit of research on Scottish art. I made several field trips to nearby museums, where I had obtained special permission to access some of the galleries that were closed to the public.
<
br />   It was an especially dark, rainy day when I packed up my computer and headed off to the City Art Centre, where a magnificent collection of fine paintings by Scottish artists rivaled any collection in the world. I had done quite a bit of research on McTaggart and his paintings, including the one hanging in Janet and Alistair’s home. The son of a crofter, McTaggart had left home at sixteen to pursue his art in Edinburgh. I got goose bumps when I looked at McTaggart’s paintings, not just because I was mystified by the haunting, almost ethereal, beauty of his work, but also because of the ugly memories that the painting in Janet and Alistair’s house represented.

  I strolled around the museum, listening to snippets of murmured conversations about art, the weather, the architecture of the building, the items available in the gift shop, and places to get lunch along the Royal Mile. It was just another outing for the people milling around me. None of them seemed to be suffering, to be missing their little girl, to be wondering when they might see her again. None of them seemed preoccupied with fear and desperation, with depression and longing. I felt alone in a sea of happy faces, and I began to feel ill.

  I knew seeing James would lift my spirits, so I called him and suggested we meet for lunch. He agreed readily, and a short while later we were each tucking into a hot bowl of lamb stew at a cozy pub not far from the museum. My mood, like the day, had been growing darker and darker, and it was nice to see a friendly face across the table. I instructed him to talk about his work so my mind would stay focused on something other than my own troubles. He obliged, telling me about a young boy who had wiped his peanut-butter-covered hands all over a priceless painting and an artist who demanded that each of her paintings be hung in a room by itself to allow the viewer to see each painting without being distracted by any other works of art. He rolled his eyes at the eccentricities of some of the artists he dealt with regularly, but concluded by saying that those “quirks,” as he called them, drew visitors to the galleries. His eyes crinkled in the corners when he laughed. I felt better after our lunch together and went home in a lighter mood. I stopped at the police station before going home, just to check in and remind them I was still waiting for news of Ellie and Neill. I hadn’t expected them to have any new information, but I did like to stop there every few days to keep my case in the forefront of their minds.