Read Rose McQuinn 7 - Deadly Legacy Online
Authors: Alanna Knight
As I cycled back, the police were down at the loch again, diligently searching the shore for clues.
A familiar figure, Sergeant Wright was leaving them, walking up the steep slope. I waved, and lingered until he reached the road. I wanted a word with him, but not about the dead man.
He greeted me, and nodding back towards the busy uniformed figures at the edge of the loch said, 'If that bush hadn't stopped him he would be right under the waters of the loch, lain there for ages with only the geese and the herons, and any murder trail long gone cold.' I followed his gaze. On a dull day it looked a dreary place, dark waters almost hidden under an entanglement of tall weeds.
'Still no idea of his identity?' I said.
He shook his head. 'We're working on it.' Any further conversation was interrupted by a shout from below.
'Maybe they've found something,' he said eagerly. 'Excuse me, Mrs McQuinn.' And he was off again before I had a chance to ask if he was the actors' policeman friend.
Jack came home early that evening and greatly to my surprise, having expected some reluctance, was willing, even eager, to go to the Jacobite play. I had certainly misjudged his reactions and I was now glad and relieved that Amy had not been at home after all.
Supper over, we decided to have another look for the location of the laird's lug. Upstairs, armed with our usual rather primitive means of illumination where some sort of searchlight would have been more effective for that dark, almost windowless room, we began a minute search.
I had told Jack that the first place of my search had been the alcove with its two shelves, but to no avail, so together in the manner suggested by Jack as that used in police investigations, we began testing the stone walls for possible crevices from floor to ceiling. We went over every inch of that ancient wooden floor for loose boards, which wasn't too difficult as the room was roughly the shape of a box or a large pantry, eight feet square.
We stood up, considered. There was no place to hide anything, but that laird's lug had to be somewhere, so we went back to the alcove with its two shelves.
'Here goes - our last resort.' And Jack produced a chisel and dislodged the shelves from the walls. A great flurry of choking dust and there, in one corner, an aperture. Jack brought the oil lamp closer.
'There's a deep shaft here.' And considering the geography for a moment, he added excitedly, 'This might well connect with the chimney in the kitchen. Hold on.'
He opened the panel and ran downstairs into the kitchen.
'Rose, are you there?'
I shouted, 'Yes, loud and clear.'
'Be right back with you.'
He came back and I said, 'I heard not only your voice but every footstep.'
'In the old days, what is now our oversized kitchen must have been the dining room of the old Tower.'
'We've solved that problem anyway.' And we grinned at each other, delighted with our discovery, but there was more to come.
The oil lamp raised again, I peered down the aperture. 'There's a tiny ledge, something lodged there.'
'Probably a dead bird,' said Jack.
'Well, in that case, you put your hand in,' I said.
Jack grimaced, sank his arm in up to the elbow and dragged out a black and ragged piece of cloth. We put it on the old table, and with growing excitement, shook off the gathered dust of times past.
It wasn't heavy, but we were almost afraid to open it.
Jack looked at me and sighed. I said, 'Go on.'
He pushed back the cloth to reveal paper. A huge amount of shredded paper.
Jack let some of it run through his fingers. A disgusting smell arose. Mice or rats!
Although I hadn't any desire to touch it, gingerly I gathered up a few pieces and quickly let them fall.
We stood looking down at what we had found, then we turned and looked at each other. The desire was there to either laugh or cry with disappointment.
'The treasure?' I whispered.
Jack nodded.
On the table all that remained of a king's ransom - thirty thousand pounds - in promissory notes once signed by the English Treasury and stolen from Lord Tweeddale.
'A king's ransom, right enough,' said Jack. 'A fortune today but in those days ...' He scattered a few fragments with his hands. In those chewed-up papers there was barely one recognisable word.
Jack shook his head. 'Mrs Lawers' legacy - this is what it was all about, a treasure beyond man's wildest dreams.'
And I thought of the cost as he went on, 'This little pile of rubbish is responsible for at least three murders, that we know about. And there might be even more, a lot more, in the last one hundred and fifty years. Who knows?'
He paused, adding reluctantly, 'A king's ransom, all chewed into fragments, expensive bedding for countless generations of industrious mice.'
'Terrified mice,' I added. 'Scared up here to a safe retreat by Hedley Marsh's monstrous army of cats.'
We went downstairs again, threw the shreds on the fire. It burnt briskly and we watched thirty thousand pounds of Hanoverian money go up the kitchen chimney. Perhaps we even thought but did not brood upon what it could have bought, how it could have changed lives in the year 1901.
We had only the satisfaction of having solved the identity of the refugee who briefly stayed in the secret room in 1745.
Simon Reslaw had vanished, never to return and collect his stolen fortune. That task he had bequeathed to his ancestors. They too had failed. We had succeeded, but we still didn't know who had murdered Mrs Lawers and her maid, or the identity of a dead man by the shores of the loch.
Neither of us slept well that night.
A letter came from a prospective client requiring my services on a domestic matter of an indelicate nature, but such matters, the sources of my income and livelihood as a private investigator, were out of my province at the moment.
Jack needed me; there were murders to solve, as well as Meg's future with the Blakers. However, I replied immediately saying that I was heavily involved at present, which was true, but hoped that my services would be at her disposal the following week and suggested a date when I would call upon her. I awaited her reply, etc etc.
This was the evening of the Jacobite play at the Pleasance Theatre, according to newspapers and an abundance of posters in the area, their annual re-enactment of Bonnie Prince Charlie's local sojourn in Duddingston, including the Battle of Prestonpans and the Siege of Edinburgh.
It sounded like being an entertaining evening, and I was particularly keen to see Adrian Dyce on stage and whether he lived up to Beth's expectations and the high reputation she had built for him.
Relieved to see Jack home in time for a leisurely supper - for once - we both prepared to leave for the theatre. Jack was looking particularly good in his best suit and bowler hat, while I took out my best, and I must confess only, dress suitable for the occasion - turquoise satin, trimmed with lace, lacking only the tightly corseted fashionable hourglass shape which I resolutely refused to consider, regarding it as not only uncomfortable but utterly unsuitable for my bicycling activities.
For once unruly curls were persuaded into a velvet band with a sparkling diamante clip. White satin shoes completed the outfit to my satisfaction. And Jack's too. He was very complimentary and said that I should dress up more often.
The hiring gig he had ordered dropped us off at the theatre, where already the audience were being ushered to their seats. There is a never-failing excitement for me about waiting for that moment when the curtain rises and I had little time to study the programme, except to notice that Steven Sawler was playing Lord Cope, in charge of the Hanoverian army.
The backdrop had been carefully executed by clever artists and I settled back, prepared to be carried back to the autumn of 1745 and the story of Prince Charlie's triumph, depicted through the mouths of the actors as a battleground would have been beyond them on this relatively small stage. The audience had to imagine the scene of battle from the dialogue and a series of entrances and exits from one or two wounded soldiers, with bandaged heads or injured limbs.
Adrian made a handsome prince. He spoke with believable authority and I fancied he portrayed a far better commander than the real one. Watching his performance, which outshone his fellow actors, I was inclined to agree with Beth that he deserved better than a local repertory, with a magnificent voice well suited to the most difficult and varied of Shakespeare's heroic leads.
I was not alone in my opinion as the curtain fell, with tumultuous applause, on the first act and the audience gathered in the foyer for the interval.
There were familiar faces, some surprising, like Gray. I had not expected him to be a playgoer. He still had that sharp-eyed look and I suddenly wondered if he had completely abandoned his search for clues. Wright was there too, talking to Mrs Gray, and Jack whispered, 'Poor Con, in the wrong profession. Longing to tread the boards.'
I said, 'Thank you, Jack.' He looked puzzled but before I could explain, Beth emerged, radiant in a violet silk gown on the arm of a tall distinguished-looking man who at first glimpse could well have been mistaken for her father before she introduced him as Frederick.
So this was the noble Frederick, the man her family wanted her to marry. Introductions were exchanged and Jack listened politely to her exuberant comments on the performance before excusing himself to speak to an elderly fellow who looked suspiciously like a retired policeman. There is something about them, even out of uniform. Perhaps it was that ever-vigilant look they shared with Gray and never lost.
Beth murmured excuses to Frederick, took my arm and hustled me in the direction of the Ladies, where several other females were making use of the facilities.
Taking me aside, she whispered, 'It is just an excuse - I had to see you alone.'
As she seized a vacant mirror and attended to her hair, I thanked her once again for the tickets, and said how I was enjoying the play, particularly seeing Adrian giving such a splendid performance.
She looked at me eagerly. 'What do you think of Frederick?'
'Charming and very good-looking.'
She was pleased and gave a happy giggle. 'And so gracious. He would not consider my coming without an escort. Frederick is a keen playgoer, he attends all the most popular shows in London.'
'Adrian wasn't jealous?' I asked, wondering how her lover regarded her escort.
She shook her head. 'Adrian didn't mind in the least. He is so sweet, you know, and understanding. And between you and me I think he is hoping that Frederick will use his influence in the London theatre. He is on speaking terms with the most famous actors and managers,' she added excitedly, 'so Adrian particularly wanted him to see tonight's performance.'
She frowned. 'You have no idea how difficult it has been. Peter has done so well as Cope.'
I was wondering who Peter was when she said, 'Steven is down as Cope, one of the main roles, and there was no time to change the programme. I believe the manager was to have made an announcement but he forgot - or didn't intend to.'
I said consolingly that Peter was excellent and she nodded, then sighed, 'Poor Adrian. It is too bad. Steven's still in London, but no letter, of course.'
I asked after Lillie. She smiled. 'She is very well, thriving. And she has a companion at the moment. My Adrian has such a good heart, always willing to help, and how people use him! An actress who used to be in the company is in Scotland for a family wedding and wanted someone to look after her little girl for a few days. So now Nanny has the two of them.'
At that the bell rang, and as we returned to our seats I spotted Amy with a small group and I was glad I hadn't wasted the ticket. Hustled into our seats by the returning audience, she was several rows distant, saw me, waved and mimed 'meet later'.
The final act did not dwell on the disaster of Culloden, its climax providing the audience with the well-known story of Prince Charlie's flight, pursued by the Hanoverian army, and his meeting with his saviour, the brave Flora MacDonald. It was short and indicated a passionate tragic love affair, something of a liberty with historical fact, but making a satisfying romantic conclusion for the ladies in the audience.
The actress playing Flora was considering how best to persuade her prince to escape, reluctant as he was to leave her. He would have nothing of her suggestion that he disguise as her maid. She insisted and comedy was intended as he struggled with gown and petticoat, a bonnet and spectacles.
But for me this was no comedy.
This was a horrifying moment of truth.
We were in the front row and as the curtain fell, rose again, more applause, and as the actors took their bow, I was looking into the face of Adrian and knew that I had met the bogus Miss Hinton at last.
I wanted to tell Jack, longing to get him alone.
He took my arm. 'Gray has invited us to share their carriage. Wait here till I find them.'
I saw Amy at the entrance, looking round anxiously, obviously waiting for her friends. She saw me, waved and pushed her way towards me.
'Thank God, Rose. I've been trying to talk to you. It's been awful.'
I murmured politely that I was sorry she hadn't enjoyed the performance.
'No, Rose. Not this. I've been trying to tell you, ever since we had tea at your house.' She stopped, gulped, shook her head. 'That actor, Prince Charlie - the young girl Beth's fiance ...'
She paused dramatically. 'Rose, he's the man who was bullying poor Mary before ... before ...' She gulped, trying to stay calm. 'The man I saw outside her house. I tell you, it's the same man, that actor. And what's worse, Jane found some of Mary's photographs and although I never said a word to her, I'm certain sure that he's the ne'er-do-well nephew. He must have been trying to get money and the house from poor Mary. I was utterly shocked when we met him at your house that day with that lovely young girl. Someone should warn her - he's a villain.'