by Amy M. Reade
He laughed. “Not like Seamus, but I could prevent myself from starving if I had to.” He put two plates of steaming pancakes on the table and bowls of soft butter and berries.
After enjoying a big brunch together, James went back to his house to get ready for work. I decided to spend a bit of time doing research. I had planned to take my laptop and work at another of Edinburgh’s museums, but instead I stayed home and did some research on the Internet.
The research was about McTaggart, one of my favorite subjects. I was trying to get a closer look at one of his paintings on my computer screen when I got a niggling feeling in the back of my mind. I didn’t know what was causing it, but I couldn’t shake it off. Something was wrong. Something about McTaggart and his paintings.
I closed my browser and went in search of a textbook I had bought on Scot impressionists. I found the page where the painting I had seen online had been reproduced, and I examined it closely. That uncomfortable feeling was still there, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I read the paragraphs associated with the picture, but they didn’t shed any light on my unease.
It was mid-afternoon when I headed out to visit Sylvie. Mum had texted me earlier that Sylvie had slept poorly during the night and was awake but a bit dazed and had a bad headache. When I arrived, I found Mum sitting in silence, watching Sylvie. A newspaper that looked unread sat on the bedside table. Seamus, she told me, had gone to the cafeteria for some take-away lunch. He appeared before long, looking tired and unkempt. He couldn’t have slept well in the chair next to Sylvie’s bed. I greeted him with a smile and he held up his lunch, offering me a share.
“No thanks,” I whispered. “I’ll get something in a bit.”
Seamus and I relieved Mum while she went next door to her hotel to rest and eat. Sylvie woke up and told us she also wanted something to eat. I was only too happy to call the nurse to ask for food. Sylvie hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. Seamus and I went for dinner in the cafeteria as dusk gathered outside.
“When do you think they’ll send her home?” Seamus asked, poking at his gluey-looking potatoes.
“I don’t know. I hope it’s soon. She’ll be more comfortable there than she is here, I’m sure.”
“Do you think she’ll be afraid to go back to the flat?”
I shrugged. “If she doesn’t remember anything, maybe she won’t realize there’s any cause for concern.”
“But she knows she was hurt there, even if she doesn’t remember exactly what happened.”
“True.” I didn’t know what else to say. I hoped Sylvie would feel safe in the flat and decide not to return to Dumfries with Mum, but I had no idea what the future held.
Dr. Yarbrough sent Sylvie home the next morning. She had a severe concussion and the bruising on her neck, he said, indicated somebody had tried to strangle her. In addition, she had been beaten about the torso and upper body and would be sore for several days. The first time she looked in a mirror, she cried. The purple bruises had become a mottled chartreuse and deep blue, and they covered every visible part of her.
Seamus and I took her back to the flat. Mum came with us, I think to satisfy herself that Sylvie was safe and with the hope that she would decide to return to Dumfries. But Sylvie never said a word about leaving Edinburgh. She was exhausted; I’m not sure she was even thinking about anything except getting into her bed as soon as we got home. The nights in hospital hadn’t been restful, with nurses coming in and out, bells and alarms ringing, and people coming and going into nearby rooms. She needed a good long sleep.
Mum left with reminders that we were welcome to come and stay with her at any time, and with promises to visit soon to check on Sylvie.
It was getting dark when Sylvie woke up. She appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking dazed and rubbing her head. “How long have I been sleeping?” she asked.
“Hours upon hours,” I answered with a laugh. “Seamus made dinner. Want some?”
She sat down at the table. Seamus served her a piping hot bowl of stew and some bannock. She ate slowly, almost as if she thought she might break if she made any sudden or quick movements. She winced when he patted her shoulder, and he drew his hand away with a grimace.
“Sorry, love.”
She smiled up at him. “It’s just that everything hurts,” she said. He handed her a cup of tea, and she drank it in just a few gulps. “The tea in hospital was never hot enough,” she said. Judging from the look on Seamus’s face, she had said exactly the right thing. He needed to feel necessary, to feel wanted. The only way she could do that was to show him how much she appreciated what he was doing for her.
She sat on the couch until it was time for bed. The three of us talked quietly of unimportant things, the doctor’s reminders to keep her calm uppermost in our minds. We talked about the weather, a new exhibit at James’s museum, and some of Seamus’s ideas for new paintings.
As bedtime drew near, Sylvie kept glancing at the front door. I knew she was checking and double-checking to make sure it was locked. She might not remember the attack, but she knew instinctively to be concerned about someone coming into the flat uninvited. I made a point of rattling the door handle and pulling on the locks, and I could see her shoulders relax when she was convinced we were safe.
The next morning, Seamus took care of Sylvie while I went down to the police station. I hadn’t heard anything about Neill and Ellie since Sylvie had been attacked, and though it had been necessary for me to be with Sylvie, I felt I had been away from the search and the investigation for too long.
I spoke to Officer Dunbar, one of the officers with whom I had met previously. She told me two policemen had returned to Candlewick Lane to see Alistair and Janet and had learned nothing new, though they had found my former in-laws surly and rude. I shook my head, knowing full well just how surly and rude they could be.
“Did the officers look through the house?” I asked.
“No. They didn’t have a warrant. There’s no evidence to suggest that a crime took place on the property.”
“But my daughter is missing and she has to be somewhere. Did they know there’s a soundproof room on the third floor of Janet’s house?”
The policewoman looked like I had struck her.
“Do you know this for a fact?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
And so I was forced to tell her the story of being locked in the third-floor bedroom with Ellie, and how that imprisonment and Janet’s subsequent lies about it had led to me being placed at the center for several weeks. The officer scribbled notes furiously while I spoke. When I finished, she stared at me, her mouth agape and her eyes wide.
“I wish you had informed us of these events earlier,” she scolded. “This may be enough for us to get a warrant.” She picked up a phone and spun around in her chair. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but when she hung up, she smiled at me. “I think we can get one. Now we can have a look around the farm, and with a little luck we’ll find something useful.”
I was elated. My face must have betrayed my excitement, because the officer cautioned, “Don’t be getting your hopes up just yet. We may not find anything. We’re just having a wee look around.”
“Do you think maybe Ellie is there?” The moment I asked the question, my hands began to shake. My heartbeat quickened, and I could feel myself getting faint.
“Dr. Dobbins, you have to relax. Go get yourself a strong cup of tea, and I’ll call you as soon as the officers get the warrant.” Her stern eyes looked into mine, and her voice softened. “We’re doing everything we can to find Ellie. You have to keep your wits about you, though. I’ll be in touch soon, I promise.”
Outside, I took several deep breaths in the cold, bracing air and pulled out my mobile phone. A moment later James’s voice came on the line, strong and sure. I told him what had happened, and he suggested we meet for lunch.
We met in the pub where we had firs
t had dinner together. He held my hands as we sat across from each other in a snug booth, listening as I related the entire conversation I had had with the police officer. I even found the courage to tell him about the bad time at the farm, the time I had spent at the center, and the gambling addiction that developed after we returned to the States. He was shocked.
“Janet and Alistair are beasts!” he cried. “I can’t imagine the horror of it! And then, to have to face Neill’s addiction…” His voice softened. “I’m so sorry you had to endure that.”
I could only nod, grateful that it was all in the past and that James was in the present.
“It sounds like the police are taking this very seriously,” he said finally. “Maybe they’re suspicious of Neill’s parents, and were looking fora reason and opportunity to get back into their house.”
“Do you think so?” I could hear the hope rising in my voice.
“It seems that way to me. At the very least, maybe they can glean more information about where Neill might have taken Ellie.”
We ate our meal in comfortable silence. The gentle clanking of silverware against plates and the low conversations taking place around us, punctuated by occasional raucous laughter, provided a warm, peaceful feeling I carried with me the rest of the day.
But it wouldn’t last.
CHAPTER 18
James had taken the rest of the day off, so after lunch he surprised me with an outing to Georgian House, a quaint historic home not far from the Princes Street Gardens. I knew of Georgian House, but had mentioned to James at one time that I had never had a chance to visit.
Georgian House was located on Charlotte Square, which had originally been designed by a young architect who won a contest focused on building a residential area outside Old Town in the 1760s. Conditions in the city had become so overcrowded and dirty that affluent citizens naturally moved to the new open square. First owned in the late 1700s by John Lamont, eighteenth Chief of the Clan Lamont, Georgian House had seen many owners over the years, including a judge, a minister, a wealthy widow, and a Marquis.
The inside, lovingly restored over a period of years, was breathtaking. The period furnishings, textiles, silver, and china were an art history professor’s dream. I don’t know if James had intended to spend four hours at Georgian House, but that’s what we did. Every room held a special beauty and luxurious utility that would have been the height of fashionable decor in the eighteenth century. I could barely tear myself away from the dining room clock, which dated from the 1600s and still kept time. The artwork was gorgeous, too, and perfect for the setting. I gazed at the paintings on the wall and was reminded of something, something about the McTaggart, but it was beyond my grasp and disappeared as a wisp of fog.
We continued our tour below stairs, which was as interesting as the floors above. The rooms where the servants worked in Georgian House had also been restored and featured a Murphy bed, lovely utilitarian furniture, and items that the servants would have used on a daily basis.
I couldn’t bring myself to leave until we were gently but firmly told the house was closed for the day.
Georgian House was exactly what I needed to occupy my mind and remind me of the beauty and grace of Edinburgh. Lately I had seen some of the city’s ugliness, and James had known exactly what to do to keep me grounded for an afternoon. I checked my phone only a handful of times to make sure I hadn’t missed a call from the police.
We were walking about Charlotte Square when the phone finally rang. Yanking it out of my pocket, I checked the caller ID and answered, breathless.
“Hello? This is Greer.”
“This is Officer Dunbar. I have some news for you. Could you come to the station?”
“Yes, of course.” My words came out in a rush. I covered the mouthpiece and looked at James. “Can you come to the police station with me?”
“Of course.”
I spoke into the phone again. “We’ll be there as quickly as we can.”
James grabbed my hand, and we made our way to the police station, dodging pedestrians who were obviously not in a hurry and darting across streets where it probably would have been smarter to wait for traffic. We arrived at the police station in record time, though, and rushed headlong into the vestibule.
My heavy breathing clearly alarmed the officer at the desk. “What’s wrong?” he asked, reaching for the phone. “Is there trouble?”
“No, no,” I assured him, holding up my hand to get him to stop talking for a moment. He looked at me, waiting for me to speak.
James must have had stronger lungs because he was able to talk calmly to the officer while I was still catching my breath. “This is Dr. Greer Dobbins. She received a call on her mobile phone from Officer Dunbar asking her to come to the station to receive some information. We’ve been running,” he added.
The officer reached for the phone again and dialed some numbers. He spoke in a low voice into the receiver and hung up in just a moment. “Officer Dunbar will be right out to fetch you.”
We waited in the vestibule until I saw Officer Dunbar coming toward us, and I rushed forward. “What have you found?” I asked.
“Come back to my office where we can talk,” she answered.
We followed her back through the warren of cubicles and offices until we reached hers. She motioned for us to sit in the two chairs opposite her desk.
“We got a warrant to check out the Gramercys’ house and the officers were very interested in some evidence they found in the soundproof third-floor bedroom you told us about.”
“Yes?” I could barely contain myself.
“It looks like someone has been in there. Staying in there. The bed was unmade and there were books on the floor. Children’s books.”
The tears started almost before she had gotten out the last words. I blinked rapidly to stop the flow so I could concentrate on what she was saying. James reached for my hand and held it in his.
“There was a pair of jeans in the closet and a sweatshirt.”
“What did the jeans look like?”
“I’ve got photos here,” she said, turning her computer toward us and hitting the arrow key. She landed on a picture of the jeans. Blue denim, green Xs on the back pockets.
I began to cry again, harder this time. “Those are Ellie’s jeans,” I told her, trying to choke back my sobs. “They were the only jeans missing from our house.”
Officer Dunbar picked up a phone and dialed. She murmured a few words to the person on the other end and hung up. She hit the other arrow key several times. “I’m going to take you back through these photos to see if there’s anything else you recognize.”
When the officers searched the third-floor bedroom at Janet and Alistair’s house, they were thorough. They had pulled out drawers, taken the bedding off the bed, and looked under the thin carpet. Photos showed the process of their search. Officer Dunbar paged through them one by one. The bed, bedding, floor, carpet, fireplace, chamber pot, Ellie’s jeans, books on the floor. The last photo made me cry again—her favorite pajamas, the missing ones. She had tried to fold them just like I did at home.
“I recognize those,” I told Officer Dunbar, wiping my eyes. “They’re Ellie’s. Ellie wasn’t there, though?”
“She wasn’t. But your former in-laws are at the police station near their home now, answering questions about what’s been going on in their home and where they think Ellie and Neill may be.”
“They must know something,” I sniffed. “She was there. They have to know where she went.”
“Hopefully we’ll come up with something, but we have to wait until the police get back to us. I just wanted you to have the information. We’re getting closer. I’ll call you the minute I hear anything.”
James and I stood up, and I shook the officer’s hand, thanking her over and over. We left the police station and James put his arm around me. “See? They’ll find her in no time, I’m sure of it. We just have to ha
ve a little patience. What do you say I walk you home and hope Seamus has made something wonderful for dinner?”
I settled into the hollow of his shoulder as we walked back to my flat in the drizzle. Soft yellow light from the streetlamps reflected off the wet cobbles, lending a romantic air to the cold evening. Leaves swept across the streets, and lights came on in flats that lined the sidewalks as people came home from work. People going about their own business, oblivious to the heartaches around them. It was like being inside a painting—a warm, dark impressionist painting. I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t been so worried about Ellie.
Seamus had, indeed, made a delicious dinner. I wish I could have enjoyed it a bit more, but my stomach was too tightly wound to eat very much. The salmon had a sweet, mild flavor that paired well with a spicy yogurt sauce. Creamy mashed turnips and buttered leeks completed the meal. I couldn’t even think about dessert, which was shortbread. James and Sylvie pronounced it flaky with just a hint of sweetness. I did manage a cup of tea after dinner while we sat around the table in the warm kitchen.
I wanted desperately to tell Sylvie and Seamus of the search warrant and what the police had found, but I knew such excitement and worry wouldn’t be good for Sylvie. I tried to stay quiet and calm while we all chatted quietly. I had to sit on my hands to keep from biting my nails.
When Sylvie went to her room to lie down, James and I told Seamus all about our visit to the police station. He gave me a broad smile, his beard lifting right off his chest. He put his burly arm around my shoulder. “See? We knew this would happen. They’re getting close now. You’ll have your bairn back with you before you know it.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said, reaching for my napkin. My eyes were starting to tear again,
“None of that, now,” Seamus cautioned. “It’s happy news. Let’s celebrate with a dram.”
He poured three short glasses of the golden whisky he kept on a bar cart in the kitchen and brought them to the table. I couldn’t bring myself to drink it, but he and James clinked their glasses together and offered a traditional Gaelic toast: