by Sue Lawrence
‘Mags, hi!’ she said, embracing her friend. ‘And Christine Duncan, look at you, you’ve not changed a bit!’
Christine smiled. ‘Think that’s a slight exaggeration, Trish. It’s been about thirty years! It’s good to see you.’
Trish leant in towards them and whispered, ‘I was just hearing some gossip from the receptionist about an American businessman – mega rich of course – who’s a regular guest here, no names obviously…’ She looked round at Mags and paused, as if for dramatic effect. ‘Anyway, he has his mistress staying with him for three nights; she arrives with him at the weekend. But he insists she’s not to be registered, no passport, nothing. Then she leaves on the morning of the fourth day and that very same afternoon his wife arrives and stays another five nights, same suite and everything!’
‘Bloody hell, what if someone had said something?’ Mags said.
‘He’d already asked the manager to brief the staff to say nothing about his previous guest to his wife and because he’s a platinum card holder, everyone has to respect his wishes.’
Mags looked amazed. ‘But how could he keep that from his wife?’ She shook her head. ‘Bastard!’
‘I know! Men!’ Trish smiled. ‘Anyway, how’s your handsome husband, Mags?’
‘Oh, fine. Bit fatter than he was but just the same old Doug. Do you want to sit down and join us?’
Trish shook her head. ‘I’m meeting the boss in ten minutes.’ She stood back to let the waiter serve their coffees. ‘How about a glass of bubbly too?’
‘Oh yes, please,’ said Mags, beaming.
‘Well, we’ve got to get back to Register House soon, it’s just a quick break and…’
‘For God’s sake, woman, chill,’ Mags snapped at Christine.
Trish perched on the arm of Mags’s leather armchair and waved to the barman who came to take her order.
‘And the kids? How’s Lottie? I’ve forgotten how many you have, Chris.’
‘Two. Jack and Anna.’
Mags reached into her basket for her phone. ‘I’ve got some photos here.’
‘How’s your mum?’ asked Trish, as Mags scrolled through the photo album on her phone.
‘She’s great, thanks, just the same. Never misses a trick. When I said you were back in town, she wanted to know if you can still do the splits!’
Trish burst out laughing. ‘I’ve not tried for some time, but I’ll let you know. Right, who’s who?’
Mags pointed to Lottie in the first picture then flicked to a photo of Lottie with Jack and Anna.
‘Is that Doug’s sister’s son?’ asked Trish.
‘No, that’s Jack, Chris and Gerry’s son.’
Trish squinted at the photo. ‘Oh. Something about the eyes reminded me of Doug.’
‘Hmm. I suppose they’ve both got brown eyes. I don’t really see it.’
‘I remember that night you met Doug, it was at that party at Katriona Mack’s house,’ said Trish. ‘Feels about a million years ago now. Chris and I both really fancied Doug but he was only interested in the beautiful Mags.’ Trish smiled.
Mags chortled and leant back as the waiter approached with a tray of two tall glasses.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Christine. ‘It was you who was trying to chat him up.’
‘Didn’t work though, did it,’ said Trish, ruffling Mags’s dishevelled hair. She looked at her watch and stood up. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to dash. Enjoy the champers!’
‘Cheers!’ said Mags and Christine, waving goodbye.
‘Hilarious,’ said Mags. ‘Why would she think you two fancied Doug?’
‘No idea, she was the one who was after him,’ said Christine, eyes focused on the champagne bubbles. ‘As you say, hilarious!’
‘God, if Doug heard that it might make him slightly less grumpy. I almost feel like telling him.’
‘Why’s Doug grumpy?’
‘Wish I knew. Lottie agrees with me, he’s been crabby and irritable for days now, daren’t ask him why. He’s usually so laid-back.’ Mags downed her coffee then reached for her glass. ‘Anyway, what a discovery this morning. So it looks like Elizabeth Barrie’s father was David Barrie but her mother was this Charlotte Whyte. And you don’t think it could be the same one from the manse then?’
‘Impossible I’d say, but let’s look at the censuses later. And what about David Barrie’s death by poisoning?’ Christine sipped her champagne. ‘What could that have been?’
‘No idea, but it said he was a farm hand so maybe something used on the soil?’
‘No,’ said Christine. ‘They wouldn’t have used chemicals back then, would they? Maybe some sort of food poisoning?’
‘Suppose so. We can mention it to Uncle Charlie at the funeral, see if it jogs his memory. Oh, are you going to drive us there or shall I?’
‘I’ll drive,’ said Christine. ‘You drive far too fast on motorways; it’d give the old folk heart attacks. I’ll pick you up at 8.30, then swing by Dad and Auntie Peggy.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Mags said. ‘Though I don’t drive that fast.’
Christine shook her head. ‘Ninety on a motorway is fast, Mags!’
Mags glanced at her cousin then leant over the table, twiddling with the stem of her glass. ‘What’s the latest on Connal from Ponteprydd?’
Christine placed her glass on its coaster on the table and pushed it away from her. ‘You do that just to annoy me, don’t you? It’s Colin from Pontefract. Anyway, I had an email from Sergent Price. Colin’ – she emphasised the name – ‘is pleading not guilty at the magistrates’ court hearing next week.’
‘Not guilty? How the hell can he do that? Weren’t there loads of witnesses?’
‘Yes, three witness statements and photos of skid marks and all sorts.’
‘You’re not thinking of going to the court are you, Chris?’
‘No, of course not. What’s the point.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Right, Register House shuts early on a Saturday.’
Mags raised her glass which still had some bubbles. ‘I’m not rushing this Bolly, Chris.’
Christine pulled her coat onto her lap. ‘Come on, get that down you. We need to get back over the road. Those censuses beckon, Mags.’
Chapter Twenty-four
1865
‘Is a penny bun like a scone, Miss Charlotte?’ Elizabeth stood in the clearing in the woods and looked up at the tall, slim figure who held her hand tight. Charlotte’s chin was tilted up as she gazed at the morning sun breaking through the branches.
‘No, it’s a mushroom, Elizabeth, and we are looking for some for the Minister’s supper.’ Charlotte strode over to a tree stump and beckoned to Elizabeth, who skipped over the dead leaves to join her. ‘Look round here.’ Charlotte poked round the trunk with a stick. ‘This is where I found them last week, a clutch of lovely penny buns. I was going to cook them for supper but Father went out unexpectedly and refused to eat them the next day even though they were fine.’
‘Why did Cookie nae cook them, Miss Charlotte?’
‘Why did Cookie not cook them.’ Charlotte raised her eyebrows. ‘She is permitted some free time now and then. Indeed, tonight is her night off again so I thought I would try once more to cook them for Father, as a treat.’
Elizabeth tugged on Charlotte’s grey dress. ‘Look, Miss, over there!’ She scampered towards the edge of the clearing, the skirt of her brown cotton dress flapping behind her. Charlotte stepped towards her and poked her walking stick into the moss. ‘Well done, Elizabeth Barrie!’ She laid her basket on the ground and took out a small knife. ‘Watch, this is how we cut them.’ She held the tops and deftly cut them off at the base. ‘These are truly fine penny buns, look how pretty they are with their fat creamy stem and curved brown cap.’
‘Aye, they’re like the ones the fairies live under.’
‘Precisely.’ Charlotte smiled and gazed down at her charge. ‘Elizabeth Barrie, I do believe your eyes get browner by the day. The colour of glossy black tr
eacle.’
The child smiled up at Charlotte, before a rustle from under a beech tree behind them made her start.
‘It might be a rabbit, let’s go and see,’ said Charlotte.
Elizabeth jumped over a couple of broken branches and looked down. ‘Here, Miss Charlotte,’ she shouted, ‘some mair penny buns.’
‘Some more, Elizabeth, not mair!’ Charlotte crouched down to where the child was pointing. A smile played on her lips, ‘This is more like the place the fairies live, Elizabeth. These are more toadstool than mushroom. Some mushrooms are not suitable for eating. Do you understand? They are poisonous.’
‘But I thought mushrooms were for the Minister’s tea.’
‘Yes, but some are not edible. That means they must never be eaten – ever. And that includes these ones here. If you are ever in the woods without me, do not touch them.’ She stood up tall. ‘Why don’t you run over there, you will find a little cottage through the woods. I will follow presently.’
Elizabeth picked up her skirts and scurried off, over the damp foliage and through the trees. Charlotte watched her go, then crouched down to scrutinise the mushrooms at her feet.
Soon she was striding off in the direction Elizabeth had headed, the basket on her arm covered with a cloth. She got to the little cottage just beyond the clearing and stood still, waiting to hear the child’s voice. She surveyed the front, the wooden door and window frames freshly painted. The roof was newly tiled and the chimney stack looked recently pointed, the mortar silvery grey against the sombre brick. And there was the climbing rose growing up the side of the door, with one deep red bloom. She leant towards the flower, shut her eyes and inhaled.
Then she realised she couldn’t hear Elizabeth.
‘Elizabeth, where are you?’
Silence. There was a caw of crows and she looked up to see a flock of dark birds swoop from a large tree up towards the low, drifting clouds. She shivered. It did not feel like September, it was chilly even in the middle of the day.
‘Elizabeth!’
She walked round the back of the cottage and looked all around.
‘Miss Charlotte, I’m here!’
The little voice came from the branches of the beech tree.
‘Someone’s gone and made a wee house up here!’
Charlotte picked up Elizabeth’s little boots from the base of the tree. She leant one hand against the large trunk and, peering upwards, could see Elizabeth sitting on a wooden board that had been placed across two branches, her bare feet dangling as she swung her legs back and forth.
‘I can’t get up there with this dress on. But I can see you.’ Charlotte stretched up onto her tiptoes and saw a second board placed higher up. ‘And look, can you see the roof above your head?’
‘Aye, just like a real house, Miss Charlotte.’
Charlotte stretched up on her tiptoes. ‘It is rather splendid, isn’t it? I used to love being up there. What can you see?’
‘I can see into the windaes o’ the wee cottage, cannae see anyone inside though. Who lives there?’
‘No one for now, but I believe there are to be new tenants moving in soon. It was owned by a farmer; it was for his woodcutter before he died. Corrie Cottage it was called, after the farm steading.’
Elizabeth began clambering back down towards the ground, her little feet placed firmly on each branch. She jumped down the last few inches and sprang to clasp Charlotte round the knees. ‘Well, if I owned that wee cottage I would let the fairies live up there in the tree. It’s like a magic treehouse.’
‘It is enchanting, isn’t it. Anyway, put your boots back on, I must be getting you home.’
They strolled back through the woods, hand in hand, until they reached the road. Charlotte released the child’s hand and said, ‘Now, just walk beside me. Mrs Barrie will be watching out for us.’
A figure emerged from one of the cottages on the main street. Margaret Barrie was untying her apron as she bustled down the street towards them.
‘I was wondering where you’d got to,’ she muttered, her face pinched. ‘Poor wee Jane’s still no’ well.’
Charlotte inclined her head. ‘I am sorry to hear that. Is there anything we can do to help?’
‘No, that willnae be necessary, Miss Charlotte, thank you,’ snapped the older woman, spying the basket. ‘You been picking brambles?’
‘No, Ma, we didnae go that way. We got penny buns for the Minister’s tea!’
Elizabeth started to tug at the cover over the basket but Charlotte spun round. ‘Yes, penny buns!’ She held the basket up high and held a finger to her lips. ‘But hush, we don’t want to disturb the fairies, do we?’
Margaret scowled. ‘Fairies, eh?’
Elizabeth started to jump and hop back along the road, playing hopscotch on imaginary markings. Margaret bellowed after her, ‘Elizabeth, have you thanked Miss Charlotte for taking you for a walk?’
The little girl hurtled back towards them, coming to a sudden stop in front of the women. She looked up at Charlotte and said, ‘Thank you, Miss Charlotte. Can we go back soon so I can play in the tree house again?’
Margaret glared at Charlotte. ‘What tree house?’
‘You know, the one at Corrie Cottage.’
‘What were you doing there?’
Charlotte shrugged. ‘We were on the quest for fairies living under mushrooms. And you must agree that the cottage is rather enchanting.’
Margaret gave her a withering look and began retying her apron with calloused hands. ‘Come away, Elizabeth, there’s work tae be done.’
Elizabeth leapt to the side to avoid Margaret’s grasp, and waved at Charlotte. Charlotte smiled and blew the girl a kiss, but Margaret yanked Elizabeth away by her elbow before she could blow a kiss back.
Charlotte sighed and walked back towards the manse.
She went into the hall and slotted the walking stick back into its usual place in the hat stand. She noticed a letter addressed to her on the hall table, in her father’s handwriting.
She put down the basket and ripped it open.
Charlotte, I have been called away unexpectedly on a Presbytery matter to Forfar. I shall not be back until late, therefore shall not require any supper. Your father.
Charlotte stamped her foot. She picked up her basket and trudged along the corridor to the kitchen. She went over to the fire, stoked it up with the poker then, one by one, tossed in the mushrooms from her basket. She ran to open the back door and flung the windows wide as the toxic smell began to fill the kitchen.
Chapter Twenty-five
2014
Christine parked her car at the end of the road and marched towards the house, her bulging bag of jotters over her shoulder. She glared at the cars parked outside her house. Why was she never able to park there herself, why did every single neighbour need two cars? She lifted up the lid of the green bin at the gate and glanced at the bulging bin bags; yet again they hadn’t been lifted.
But she had too many things on her mind to bother chasing that up with the council. School had been a nightmare: Ewan Rutherford had been sick all over his desk just before morning break and the classroom had smelled awful all day.
And this was the day Colin Clarkson was appearing in court. She had agreed with Sergeant Price she would phone him for results after four o’clock.
On the drive home from school, she had thought about nothing else, turning over, yet again, the events at the hospital that day. Was he one of the people she had seen in the A&E waiting room? There had been a man there, with the shiny suit, and he had a child with him, a little girl who looked about ten. That must have been him, she was sure of it. She had been in the same room as the man who had nearly killed her children, and she hadn’t even realised it.
God, if she could go back…
Well, he wasn’t going to get away with it.
Christine walked up the path to her house, shaking her head at the white plastic window frames glinting in the sun. So ugly. She would
love to have beautiful wooden ones like Mags’s, but Gerry said they couldn’t afford it.
She rammed the key in the lock, hung her jacket on the banister then headed for the kitchen. From her handbag she produced a large envelope, on which she had written CC/Pontefract. She placed it in front of her, with a pen and a pad of A4 paper alongside.
She dialled Sergeant Price’s number and cleared her throat.
‘Sergeant Price here,’ he answered, in his broad Geordie accent.
‘Hello, Sergeant Price, it’s Mrs Wallace here, Jack’s mum, from Edinburgh. I was just wondering how it went at the magistrates’ court today?’
‘Mrs Wallace, good to hear from you. How’s Jack?’
‘He’s better, thanks, but there’s still a way to go. He gets very tired.’
‘Understandable.’ There was a noise of papers being shuffled. ‘Well now, I’m sorry to say nothing happened today. The defendant didn’t turn up at court.’
‘What? How can he do that?’
‘It’s rescheduled for next month, the 30th. His lawyer might be playing for time.’
Christine leant back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling. ‘That’s so disappointing. How dare he. So nothing for another month?’
‘Sorry, Mrs Wallace.’
‘Does he ever ask about Jack?’
Sergeant Price cleared his throat. ‘He didn’t mention it last week when my colleague and I went to see him.’
‘You went to see him? What’s he like?’
‘I’m not really at liberty to say, Mrs Wallace. But Jack’s on the mend, that’s the important thing.’
‘He nearly killed my two children!’
‘Yes, I understand. We went to see him to challenge his premise that he’d been trying to avoid a minibus and that it was not his fault.’
‘Minibus? What a load of rubbish! None of the witnesses mentioned a minibus, did they?’
There was silence on the phone.
‘Sorry, Sergeant Price, I didn’t mean to shout. It’s really good of you to take time like this.’
‘You’re all right. As I said to you last time you phoned, Mrs Wallace, the facts speak for themselves. It’s all delaying tactics. In terms of witness statements and photos, he’s not got a leg to stand on.’