Maggie (6 page)

And now, thought Mr. Byles bitterly, there was this earl wishing to marry Mrs. Macleod. He was probably insane, but the Marquess of Handley had great power, so it would not do to cross him and he was obviously urging Strathairn in his folly. Mr. Byles stole a look at the earl’s face. It was a strong handsome face with a good chin and firm mouth. He did not look at all like the type of man who would want to be in the same room with Handley, let alone allow him to join in this idiotic scheme. But a lot of very honest and respectable people entertained Handley. Had he been plain Mr. Jones, reflected Byles, then everyone would at once see him for what he was—a poisonous, plotting, evil man. But they only saw the title and a peerage seemed to cover its owner in a sort of rosy glow. Ah, well, Maggie Macleod had the hangman to face so she would probably consider a proposal of marriage trivial by comparison.

A warder, standing at attention outside one of the cells, saluted smartly and unlocked the door. The earl felt his mouth go dry.

Maggie Macleod rose to her feet as they entered. Mr. Byles jerked his head at the wardress who had been sitting with her, and the woman quietly left the room.

“Visitors for you, Mrs. Macleod,” said Mr. Byles.

Maggie’s eyes flew to the earl’s face. There was a sudden flash of recognition. Her face was very white against the black frame of her hair and the black bombazine of her severe gown. She had gone against Flora Meikle’s advice, deciding that mourning was more suitable. Her hair was severely dressed, falling in two smooth wings from a central parting and fastening in a knot at the nape of her neck.

“And what can I do for you, gentlemen?” Her voice was
soft and lilting.

Mr. Byles cleared his throat awkwardly. “Mrs. Macleod, may I present the Marquess of Handley and the Earl of Strathairn. My lords… Mrs. Macleod.” Both men bowed and Maggie executed a low curtsy.

Somewhere up above in the street outside a drunk was howling ‘Bonnie Mary of Argyll’. A sharp voice was then heard telling him to shut up, and a silence fell in the narrow cell.

The air was clammy and cold and smelled of fog and Jeyes Fluid.

The Marquess of Handley nudged Mr. Byles with his elbow. Mr. Byles started, cleared his throat, and said, “Mrs. Macleod, his lordship, the Earl of Strathairn, is desirous of marrying you.”

Her large brown eyes widened, looked startled, and then filled with bitter contempt. “Another one,” she said wearily.

All through the court proceedings, she had carried in her mind that little golden picture of the man in the carriage who had gallantly saluted her. And now he was here before her. And he was as twisted and deformed in soul as all the rest. Before her marriage, her life had not been happy, but it had been bearable. She should never have drugged her father’s whisky that night. God was punishing her, as she had known He would.

“Another?” echoed the earl.

“Oh, yes,” sighed Maggie. “They come by every post. Proposals, that is.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Yes, yes,” said the marquess testily, after a pause. “But this is a lord and a gentleman who wants to marry you.”

“Ah, and I should be flattered? What is the point of this bad joke, my lords? If I marry my lord here, he will shortly find himself a widower.”

The earl walked forward and took her hand in his. “Look
here,” he began. “I don’t like this any more than you do…”

“Then why are you doing it?” her soft voice interrupted him. She gently removed her hand and hid it in the folds of her skirt.

The earl shrugged impatiently. The narrow confines of the cell made him feel claustrophobic. He felt trapped in some medieval nightmare. He said harshly, “Just answer one question, Mrs. Macleod. Will you marry me or not?”

She raised her eyes and studied his face for a long time. Maggie was almost willing him to change back into the man of her dreams instead of this dilettante who amused himself in a criminal cell. But he did not look amused. He looked…he looked as if he were hoping like mad that she would refuse.

Maggie’s glance travelled to the Marquess of Handley’s face. He was watching the earl with a sort of avid, gleeful look. She suddenly thought she had the answer. It was merely some sort of casual joke. Let’s pass this dreary, foggy morning by going and proposing to Maggie Macleod.

To her own ears, her voice seemed to come from very far away, as if it belonged to another person, a person who said calmly, “Yes, I will marry you. I have a mind to go to my grave a countess.”

She caught a look of disappointment on the earl’s face and answered it with a little nod of her head as if what she had seen there had answered her unspoken question.

“Very well,” said the marquess gleefully. “First, it must be understood that no one is to know of this marriage. It is to be kept secret.”

“Of course,” said Maggie. “You would not want the world to know what great fools you are making of yourselves.”

“That’s enough of that,” said the marquess sharply. “Do you agree to keep silent?”

She spread out her small hands in a submissive gesture.
“Why not?” she said. “The hangman will silence me soon enough.”

“Then,” said the marquess, looking at her with dislike, “it is enough that you state in front of me and Mr. Byles that you are man and wife.”

Maggie’s face had gone totally blank. She performed her part of the ridiculously brief ceremony with complete indifference. Once again, the reality of death faced her, and if it amused these men to humiliate her, then it was of no matter.

The warder rattled his keys impatiently outside the cell and Mr. Byles said, “We must go, my lords.”

Above their heads, a bell rang shrilly for the start of the afternoon’s court proceedings.

The earl turned in the doorway of the cell, and said, “Mrs. Macleod…”

“You forget,” she corrected gently, “I am now the Countess of Strathairn.”

“Yes, but that’s a secret among the four of us,” said Mr. Byles hurriedly. “Come along, my lords.”

The earl suddenly wanted to convey to Maggie how this mad proposal had come about, but she had picked up a small Bible and had started to read. As the cell door slammed behind them, he felt sure she had already dismissed them all from her mind. Maggie Macleod was preparing her soul for death.

Mr. Byles went one way to enter the court, and the marquess and the earl left by a side door which led out of the building.

Fog swirled about the two men as they stepped out into the street; choking, dense fog.

“Well, Strathairn,” mocked the marquess. “How does it feel to be married?”

The earl swung his fist and smashed the marquess full on the end of his long nose with such force that he catapulted
across the greasy cobbles and fell on his bottom in the mud.

“You’ll regret this,” hissed the marquess, mopping the blood streaming down his face with a large handkerchief.

“Hear this, Handley,” said the earl, walking forwards, catching him by his flowing ascot, and jerking him roughly to his feet. “One day, you’ll curse the day you ever met me.” Then he threw the marquess away from him and stalked off down the street.

The earl felt cold and depressed and sick. Had he not felt so ill, he felt sure he would have been able to find a way out of honouring such an atrocious bet. Little bits of the night before came back to him in brief flashes, like the lights of the shops seen through the shifting fog. Then the thought struck him that the marquess would be every bit as reluctant to receive publicity about the bet as he was himself and he cursed himself for a gullible fool.

He hesitated at a corner of the street, wondering which way to go. He was reluctant to return to the Farquharsons and face Roshie’s questioning gaze.

He remembered guiltily that he had left his host’s house without saying where he was going and when he would return. Although it was only a little past lunchtime, the evening editions of the papers were on sale, and he bought two from a newsvendor, then pushed open the door of a pub in Ingram Street and escaped out of the cold fog.

Most of the people were finishing their dinner—dinner being taken at lunchtime and high tea in the evening. The room was rather like a railway train, being split up into a line of booths. He selected an empty one, realizing he was very hungry. He looked at the menu wondering what on earth cock-a-leekie soup might be—and what on earth were neeps? He finally decided on a plate of roast mutton and a tankard of beer, giving his order to the waiter, and spreading out the newspapers he had bought on the table.

Both had managed to get artists into court and both
carried sketches of Maggie Macleod. They were surprisingly good, the artists each in their way having managed to capture her look of lost, childlike innocence. The earl realized with a jolt that not for one minute had he ever considered her guilty, despite the damning evidence against her. The trial, he read, was expected to finish on the following morning.

When his food arrived, he ate steadily and conscientiously, trying to blot out from his mind that he was a married man, shortly to become a widower. Although the articles about Maggie were more sympathetic than previous articles had been, they still seemed to expect her to be found guilty.

One of the newspapers, more enterprising than the others, had gone to Maggie’s home and had unearthed the strange story of her marriage. Several of the townspeople of Beauly were quoted as saying that John Fraser had shut up shop and fled when he had heard the news of his daughter’s arrest. They also said that Maggie had been brutally treated as a child, and, in their opinion, she had been
sold
to the inspector by the grocer.

At last he finished his meal and plunged out into the city of eternal night. A hansom loomed up in the fog and he asked the driver to take him back to Sandyford Place. He apologized to Mr. Farquharson for his absence, saying he had dined.

Mr. Farquharson looked troubled, and, at last, asked his guest to join him for a drink in his study.

The elderly Scotsman lit the gas fire and poured two glasses of whisky into heavy crystal goblets and then sat down opposite the earl with a worried look on his normally cheerful face.

“I hope nothing untoward happened last night,” Mr. Farquharson began.

“Why should it?” The earl swirled the amber liquid
round his glass and avoided his old friend’s gaze.

“Well, I didn’t want to ask Handley to dinner and that’s a fact. Now Robey and Ashton are nice young men. They’re both lately married and not yet used to being tied down. But they’ll settle all right. But Handley… there’s always been something unsavoury about Handley. Nothing that I could say for sure. But he more or less invited himself. I hope he didn’t get up to any mischief.”

The earl had a sudden longing to tell him everything, but he was bitterly ashamed of his stupidity, and pride kept him silent.

“No, nothing,” he said lightly. “We played cards at The Club, that is all.”

“Oh, well…” Mr. Farquharson looked more cheerful. “Did you take a fancy to either of the Bentley girls? They’re fine lassies with a good dowry apiece.”

“I have not had enough time to form an opinion,” said the earl cautiously.

“That’s just what I was saying to Martha,” said Mr. Farquharson. Martha was his wife. “I said, our young lord didn’t really have a chance to get to talk to either of them. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. We’ll have an impromptu little soirée tonight, and the ladies can perform for you. They live quite near so it’s only a matter of sending…”

“No!” said Peter. “I mean, that would be splendid normally and I should look forward to it no end, but the fact is I am feeling terrible. I drank too much last night and all I want is a quiet evening with yourself and Mrs. Farquharson.”

“Well, well. If that’s your wish. I have a wee bit of excitement to offer you tomorrow, bye the bye. I have managed to get us seats in court to hear the end of the Macleod trial.”

The earl closed his eyes. Already in his mind he had been planning to go to London, to put as far a distance between
himself and Glasgow as possible. But, he reflected wryly, at least he should attend and see the last of his wife before the judge put on the black cap.

There was nothing he could do to save her. He had no influence in high places. She had the best counsel she could possibly have—even the newspapers admitted that.

An appeal! Surely he could petition for a stay of execution at the very least? That was something he could do. And that meant staying on in Glasgow.

“Why?” demanded the earl suddenly. “Why on earth come here to retire? Scotland is full of so many beautiful places.”

Mrs. Farquharson looked amused. “Don’t be too hard on Glasgow. So far you’ve seen it at its worst, what with the fog and the freezing weather. But there’s something about it that always brings you back. The people, I think. I often think they are the noisiest, drunkenest, funniest,
kindest
people in the whole world.”

“They are not very kind to Maggie Macleod.”

“Och, if the girl’s innocent, they’ll not be letting her hang. You’ll see.”

He’s talking about my wife
, thought the earl.
Maggie Macleod is my wife!

The newspapers, who were unfortunately allowed to try, sentence and condemn anyone they pleased, had subtly changed their attitude towards Maggie Macleod. A note of reluctant admiration for the brave young figure in the dock had crept into their reports. More emphasis was put on the vast disparity between her age and that of her late husband. The inspector had been fifty-four. It was pointed out in the Press that her signature did not match the signatures in the apothecaries’ books, and, if Mrs. Macleod had been guilty, then surely she would have signed a false name.

But it was evident from the opening of the last day of the trial that High Court judge, Lord Dancer, did not share the views of the reporters who were already crowding the Press bench. As the trumpeters sounded their opening fanfare he strolled into the court, nonchalantly swinging the black cap in his hand.

In England, the black cap that the judge donned when pronouncing sentence of death was a small affair, a piece of black silk. But in Scotland the judge donned a black tricorne, like an old-fashioned highwayman’s hat, and many who had seen ‘The Grim Reaper’ donning it before said he wore it with an air and at just the correct angle, as if he had practised putting it on in his bedroom looking-glass.