When they arrived at last, Thomas hailed a hansom cab to take him and his luggage who knew where. Andrew watched him leave, feeling a strange sense of abandonment, then as the horse pulled out into the solid mass of churning wheels and shouting drivers he realised he could walk as fast as the cab could travel and he set off in pursuit, his sea chest on his shoulder. They did not go far. He paused, sheltered in a doorway to watch the young lieutenant climb down, pay the man and heave his belongings up the steps of an elegant townhouse where the door was opened by a footman in livery who stooped to lift his luggage inside before shutting the door, leaving Andrew outside in the cold. For a fraction of a second Thomas had paused on the doorstep and looked round.
Andrew found passable cheap lodgings in St Giles and for several days he did what every sailor does when newly ashore. He ate and drank and whored and slept, trying to get used to the strange hours of the landlubber when his whole body was used to a timetable of watches. His plan to re-enlist evaporated, and then he had his first bit of luck. As he walked down the street he happened to glance down and there in the mud of the gutter he saw what looked uncommonly like a purse. Within seconds he had stopped and picked it up, whisking it away into an inner pocket. He glanced round. No one had noticed. He slid towards the church and in the shadow of the wall he pulled out the purse and cut the thong that tied it shut. It contained four gold guineas, a few coppers and a small silver ring. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
The next day he strolled again past the house where Thomas was staying. It was something he found himself doing every day, rubbing salt into the wound of his bitter loneliness in this heaving lonely city. Enquiries of a loitering passer-by he had met on that first day revealed that the house belonged to a countess, no less. Who else. He spat on the ground as he walked away.
The door opened and Andrew saw Thomas in smart new clothes and shiny buckled shoes running down the front steps. He set off at a swift pace, threading his way through the busy streets, and Andrew fell in behind him, dodging through the crowds, keeping him in sight, falling back only when he saw him turning into a coffee house. It was when he saw Thomas hesitate in the doorway and glance behind him that he realised his quarry knew he was being followed.
He laughed out loud. The young man had looked worried. A cloud of uncertainty had crossed the sun of Thomas’s happiness. Andrew leaned against the wall and folded his arms. He would wait for him. He had no reason to go anywhere and the thought of causing even the smallest uncertainty in that young man’s world gave him intense pleasure.
Carefully he planned a secret war of attrition. It was imperative Thomas never saw him closely enough to identify him, that would spoil the fun. All he had to do was follow, with here a glimpse and there a trailing shadow as a linkboy guided him home from an evening engagement. Andrew’s only disguise was a selection of hats, tricorn, brown felt, old top hat, cap. People never seemed to look at the face beyond it.
Thomas was a skinflint, that was for sure, walking everywhere, never once wasting money on a hansom after that first day. It never occurred to Andrew that Thomas was, at least for the time being, probably poorer than he was. He himself was relatively rich. After his first find of treasure in the gutter he had kept his eyes open and several times had found coins of various denominations lying in the mud. You had to be quick to find them; there were boys out there who made a career of retrieving such things and they carried knives. He watched and learned. Within weeks he had taught himself to pick pockets, to lift purses from the reticules of ladies shopping in the arcades, to tip his hat to someone and offer to carry their bags, his thoughtful good manners blinding them to the thought that he might duck down a dark alley with their belongings and disappear before the hue and cry was raised.
His torment of Thomas had ended when Thomas appeared in the regimentals of the Royal Scots one day and Andrew’s perusal of the Gazette told him the regiment was to be posted north to Berwick. He knew Thomas’s next posting almost before Thomas did himself. Never mind. He could bide his time. He wasn’t going to give up on Thomas Erskine. Every man needed a hobby. If and when Thomas returned to London, he would be waiting.
In the meantime he had found an exciting and lucrative career of his own. He had discovered that he enjoyed the heady rush of excitement as he planned and executed each new theft; it was almost as gratifying as the counting of the money and treasures he took home to his lodgings. He was good at this. What he would eventually do to Thomas he wasn’t sure yet, except that it would be very satisfying to bring him to ruin. Or worse. It was only occasionally in the dead of night that he thought of his former home life, of his sweet gentle mother who died when he was a boy, and the kind old rector. Both would have been horrified if they could see him now. His father wouldn’t have cared; he would just have asked if he could have some cash to tide him over, then sent his son away.
29
‘How are you, sweetheart?’ It was Finlay. ‘Sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’ve been staying with this gorgeous woman who lives in a deep deep glen in the Cuillins with absolutely no Internet or phone coverage. I’m hoping to be back tomorrow or the next day, not sure yet, but we’ve done masses of filming. It has been fabulous. See you soon – all right, I’m coming!’ That last obviously addressed to someone else, then a click and silence.
‘Finlay?’ Ruth looked hopelessly at the phone in her hand and then pressed it back against her ear. ‘Finlay?’ But he had gone.
She wasn’t sure that she had said a single word to him, but it didn’t matter. He was coming home.
She had caught something of his energy. Her night had been restless and, if she were honest with herself, nervous. Each time she closed her eyes she would open them, and stare round the room in the semi-darkness thrown by the small lamp on the chest. She had fallen asleep at last, but then woken at first light.
Slipping her phone in her pocket she went through into the dining room, pulled back the curtains and opened the French doors. It was a clear sunny morning; the rain and cloud of the day before had gone and been replaced by a brisk skittish wind that was busy whirling Lachy’s neat piles of leaves across the lawn. As she turned to go inside, her phone rang. It was Harriet. ‘How are things? I feel so guilty leaving you there on your own after what happened.’
‘I’m fine. I had a nightmare and it scared me a bit. Lachy came and searched the house for me to make sure there was no one hiding anywhere; he’s such a nice man.’ Ruth headed into the kitchen. ‘He gave me the name of the next-door neighbour in case I want backup and he said I could ring him any time, and Fin is coming back, so I’m OK, I promise.’
‘Thank goodness. Talking of neighbours,’ Harriett sounded animated as she changed the subject. ‘I rang my neighbour in Glasto to ask her advice about séances.’ Ruth heard the chink of a spoon on china and realised Harriet was taking a coffee break. ‘She said don’t do it – I know, too late – and she also said the best thing we could do was to read Dion’s book from cover to cover, so I’ve ordered one for myself, and you’d better start reading yours now. And,’ she took a deep breath, ‘she knew a lot about Dion’s stuff. Not the war, but what she got up to in Glasto. According to her, it was all very genuine and powerful. I mentioned spirit guides and she said they were referred to as “ascended masters”. I said that you were interested in Lord E as he was your ancestor and she said it sounded as though you should consider him as your guide. You would have a different relationship to him from the one that Dion had. For her he was a spiritual force. He was a voice in her head, a teacher. For you it’s different. To you he is coming closer and in a form designed not to frighten you.’
Ruth reached into the cupboard for a mug. ‘Frighten me!’ she echoed. ‘So, you’re saying that when I imagine I see him, I’m seeing my spirit guide trying not to frighten me!’
‘So, you are imagining you see him?’ Harriet kept her voice carefully neutral.
‘Well, I’ve certainly dreamt about him.’ Ruth thought for a mo
ment. ‘And deliberately imagined him. And he did seem quite real, I must admit. He sat on the edge of the table and chatted about his life. Friendly. Nice-looking. Not particularly old.’
There was a short silence. Harriet exhaled loudly. ‘You are keeping a careful note of everything he says, aren’t you.’
‘I am, as it happens. But it can’t count as real, can it? It’s fiction. Or fantasy. My fantasy.’
‘You know, Ruthie, this is incredibly exciting.’ Harriet sounded almost wistful. ‘Isn’t it an irony? It’s you who has the psychic ability. I want to believe in it passionately, but can’t do it. You don’t believe it, whatever happens, but you seem to be able to summon him with ease.’
Ruth shivered. ‘No. I just have a really good imagination.’
Hattie laughed. ‘If you say so.’
‘And,’ Ruth added, ‘the story is incredibly compelling.’
‘We move today! Now.’ April’s face was strained and anxious.
‘Why?’ Timothy was eating handfuls of Rice Krispies straight from the packet. He crushed the inner waxed envelope, hurled it towards the bin and dusted his hands together. ‘I thought we agreed we’d wait.’
‘We can’t wait. There are police out there.’ She had been standing at the window. ‘They’ve been past twice this morning. Are you packed?’
‘No.’ He was indignant. ‘I didn’t think there was any hurry. You haven’t even told me where we’re going.’
‘I have. Craigmillar.’
She gave him five minutes while she stuffed her own belongings into the car boot. She didn’t care who saw them.
They managed to take everything they needed and she agreed that Timothy could come back if it seemed safe to collect a second load, but for now it was time to go.
Timothy hated the house on sight. He couldn’t believe April had chosen it. It was a ruinous bungalow, run-down, dirty, isolated, the kitchen window broken, and there were obviously mice; probably rats. There was a weed-grown concrete driveway down the side where they could pull the car out of sight of the road. Beyond it was a plot of derelict land full of nettles and brambles, almost beneath the legs of a huge pylon. At least there were no neighbours.
April surveyed her new domain with some satisfaction. ‘I admit it’s a bit more run-down than I thought, but no one will ever know we’re here.’
Timothy was aghast. ‘I hope you don’t expect me to be able to connect the electricity; no way I’m going to try plugging into that thing.’ He pointed at the pylon with a sarcastic laugh. ‘And the toilet hasn’t been flushed in years.’
‘It’ll be fine when you fix it.’ April seemed oblivious to the problems. ‘Make a shopping list. There are fireplaces. All you will need to do is clear the chimneys of birds’ nests; the roof looks fairly sound. The water’s off, and when we turn it on we might find a few burst pipes but you can sort that. We’ll get sleeping bags and camp beds. There is a trading estate up the road where we can find everything we need and there’s an old solid-fuel Rayburn in the kitchen. That’ll still work; they go on forever. We can use it for cooking and hot water and keeping us warm.’
Timothy shuddered. ‘Are you out of your mind? I’m not going to live here!’
‘Well, I am. I suppose you think it’s too far from Cramond!’ She gave him a malicious glance. It was about as far as one could get from Cramond without leaving the city confines. ‘Go if you want to. Find somewhere nearer Ruth.’
He ignored the remark.
‘Oh, and we’ll need a saw,’ she went on. ‘There are enough trees and things out there to keep us in logs for months. This’ll do nicely.’ She was using her patronising smug tone. It infuriated him. Who was going to do all this sawing and chimney clearing and plumbing and roofing? He was. And what for? A few weeks in this foul dump before they had to move on again.
He walked outside into the blustery wind to start unloading the car. How could this happen? He all but owned a lovely house in the city. He had been bequeathed it legitimately by that old man. Maybe the will wasn’t proved, but it still might be. They had never been caught yet. They had stayed under the radar all their lives. Until now. But the time had come; they needed to stop running. He was not going to live in some ruin on a dump under an electricity pylon. He wanted that house, Number 26. Only Ruth was standing in his way.
‘Timothy!’ April was impatient. ‘Come on. I’m cold. Let’s put on the kettle.’
Kettle. What kettle? Theirs was electric.
He unpacked the car and then they found the trading estate and stocked up on necessities. She didn’t want to bother with the camping stove, but he pointed out the Rayburn had a huge hole in the back. It was never going to work. The tap reluctantly spewed rusty water and he was sent out again as it grew dark to buy a six-pack of mineral water and two portions of fish and chips.
As they wriggled into their sleeping bags side by side on the floor and piled the duvets on top of themselves, April reached over to turn out the lantern. For the first time in ages, she felt safe.
Thomas
I ignored my instinct that trouble was stalking me in London. I was on leave with money in my pocket, or at least enough to make me feel a king of the world. I had a smart uniform and I was preoccupied with having fun. I was nineteen and in love. Or, at least, in love with the idea of love. I had discovered the joy of having girls hang on my arm, of having them gaze up into my eyes and listen to every word I uttered. I had also discovered that I might be the son of an earl but I was only the third son with no fortune, and the eagle-eyed mamas of these pretty girls had an extraordinary way of knowing one’s prospects to the last farthing and, while they might permit their daughters to flirt harmlessly on the arm of a handsome and gallant beau, they were in no way going to allow any relationship to develop.
Our leave over, the regiment was sent to St Helier on the island of Jersey some dozen miles from the coast of France. My duties were not onerous and I filled my time as was my habit with exploring the beauties of the island and, mindful of my lessons with Dr Butt, with drawing and painting its botanical specimens. I read extensively; following the sennachie’s advice, my choice of reading matter was expanded to include the works of Newton and Swedenborg and similar authors. I wrote, too. I continued to send letters to my brothers, David still based in London and much involved with Anne and her church activities, and to Mama and Harry in Edinburgh. By writing I was, I suppose, teaching myself the way of words. I wrote sermons and I wrote essays and short treatises on subjects that interested me. I was, I suspect, always more of an academic than a natural soldier, though I enjoyed the martial life. We were not at war, our postings were purely protective, showing the flag to anyone who might at the time have contemplated invasion. It was an ideal life.
The subject of one of my essays was Sir Thomas More. I had brought his book Utopia with me and I was fascinated by his career, his rise and his fall from favour, his horrific death after so faithfully serving his monarch. The other subject of my literary efforts was ladies. I liked them. Greatly. I set out to list the properties of the ideal wife. I wanted her to be fair, yet modest; I wanted her ‘to delight rather than dazzle, shine like the mild beams of the morning rather than the blaze of the noon and I wanted winning female softness both in person and in mind’. I was a bit of a prig.
The one thing I had not realised was that one of their number might make me fall hopelessly in love, at which point I would have no further say in my destiny.
30
James Reid leaned back in his chair and studied his hands, steepled before him on the desk. ‘My informants tell me that the Bradfords have left their former address, a place it turns out where they had been squatting. They had no legal right to be there. They have, if nothing else, an enormous amount of chutzpah, those two.’ He gave a wintry smile. ‘I am only sorry that all this nonsense is delaying the processing of your father’s will. I suspect you would like to be able to dispose of the property as soon as possible.’
R
uth nodded. ‘That house has a great many unhappy memories.’
‘Nevertheless, your father has left it to you, and we can be certain it was to you that he meant his bequests to go, a very nice inheritance. We have the valuation of the house now.’ He opened the leather folder on his desk, withdrew a piece of paper and pushed it towards her. ‘Obviously there will be tax to pay on that sum when the house is sold, but it will still leave you with a decent amount, and I think we can be certain that you will not be sharing it with Mr Bradford. He would find it very hard to prove a relationship with your father. He claims to have a DNA sample but he seems to be unaware of the fact that we would require the sample from him to be taken by our agent in front of witnesses. We have proved from handwriting experts and from the solicitor whose signature he forged that his copy of the will is not genuine. I think that you can be confident the inheritance is yours alone.’ He shut the folder again and smiled up at her.
‘And the things he stole?’
He shook his head regretfully. ‘There we are less hopeful. Unless you can give me details of what has been taken, there isn’t much we can do.’
Ruth had felt safe in that old-fashioned office, reassured by the calm friendly manner of the man sitting opposite her, but as soon as she was back outside in the street, surrounded by bustling pedestrians and traffic, it was a different matter. She had one more visit to make before going back to the Old Mill House. She needed to go to Number 26 to check everything there was as it should be. Even the thought of going there seemed to conjure up the malign presence of Timothy following her wherever she went. She glanced over her shoulder, but if there was anyone there she would find it impossible to spot them.