Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Barbara Erskine 2018
Jacket design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photograph © Peter Paterson/Arcangel Images, all other images Shutterstock.com
Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008195816
Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008195830
Version: 2019-02-20
Dedication
for
Thomas Owen and Alexander James Erskine
and
Imogen Frances
the new generation
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Erskine Tree
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Epilogue
Authors Note
Keep Reading Barbara Erskines Novels
About the Author
Also by Barbara Erskine
About the Publisher
Prologue
Thomas
It is ordained that when we die and travel forward on our journey, we forget our previous lives. But sometimes they linger at the fringe of consciousness and sometimes we are forced to remember by the curiosity of others. No man is an island, the poet said, and it is axiomatic that what some prefer to keep hidden, others wish to expose.
And so one life in particular I recall now, a life like all lives filled with joy and sadness in equal measure, a life of ambition and fame but also of concern and care for the rights and miseries of my fellow men and women, and a life blighted in part by my own foolishness, a life whose danger I bequeathed unknowing to those who came after me.
We were a large family and an affectionate one, a family imbued with the Christian principles of generations, but there is still much to explore for the diligent burrower after secrets and there is danger there, not of my making, but instilled by the intentions of others for good also for evil.
My forefathers came to me with warnings; I heard them but I did not always heed. I now realise how great must have been their anguish as they battered upon my consciousness and I raced on without pausing to listen. I learned but it was hard and it was dangerous.
It is not within my power to do more than warn those who meddle with what is past; I can only speak to those who listen.
I am watching over you, child of my children, but if you fail to hear my warnings, or choose not to heed them, I can do nothing to save you
1
1760
Scampering down the steep, echoing spiral stair, the small boy dragged open the heavy door and peered out into the close. In his familys airy flat on the top floor of the tenement it was still daylight, the south-facing windows lit by the last rays of the setting sun. Down here, where the tall grey buildings closed in to shut out the light, it was almost dark. He closed the door behind him, careful to lower the latch silently so the clunk of metal on metal did not echo up the stone stairway, then he skipped across the yard to the archway that led out into the High Street.
He knew he was forbidden to come out by himself. He knew the crowded streets were full of potential danger for a ten-year-old boy on his own. He didnt care. He was bored. His mother thought he was studying his books, his father was closeted in his study and his brothers and sisters, all older by far than himself, were busy about their own business. Out here on the streets of Edinburgh it was noisy, busy and exciting. He looked this way and that, hesitating for only a moment, then he ran out into the crowds where the din was overwhelming. Music spilled out from a tavern nearby; people were shouting, the sound of hooves echoed back and forth from the walls as did the rattle of wheels on the rough cobbles that paved the narrow street.
He headed up the hill towards St Giles kirk and the tempting range of shops and booths nestling against its northern walls, and was gazing longingly into the bowed window of a pie shop when a fight broke out only feet from him, the two men shouting at each other quickly surrounded by crowds, yelling at them, cheering them on. The quarrel grew more heated, blows were exchanged, then one of the men drew a dirk. Thomas barely saw what happened next but he heard the gasp of the crowd as the blade found its mark, saw both men hesitate, seemingly equally appalled, as the ribald comments from the onlookers died away and fell silent and the shorter of the men slumped slowly to his knees and then forward onto his face. Thomas saw the scarlet stain spreading down the mans jacket and onto the cobbles as he fell, his face contorted with pain as he gave a final spasm and then lay still.
The crowd scattered, leaving Thomas staring at the slumped figure. Seeing the little boy standing there alone, a woman turned and grabbed his arm, dragging him away. After a moments hesitation he followed her, too shocked to protest, turning to look over his shoulder at the body lying motionless on the ground as the rain began to fall. Someone had summoned the Town Guard. He heard a whistle and angry shouts. It was too late. The killer had vanished into the network of alleyways beyond the kirk.
As he watched, the boy saw the shadow of the dead man rise up and stand looking down at his own body. He held out his hands in a pathetic, futile gesture of protest, then he looked up. Thomas thought he saw the mans eyes seeking his own, pleading, before he faded slowly away.
He stood watching for one horrified second, then he turned and ran, ducking out of reach of the womans motherly grasp, dodging through the crowds back down the street towards the safety of Grays Close. He reached the familiar shadows of the entry, hurtling in, away from the horrors of the scene behind him, crossing the rain-slippery cobbles, desperate to get home. Fumbling with the latch he pushed the heavy door open, pausing in the impenetrable darkness at the foot of the stairwell, trying to get his breath, tears pouring down his face, before heading up the long steep spiral stairs. On, he went, his small feet pounding up the worn stone steps, on and on, up and up
Ruth Dunbar woke with a start, staring into the blackness of the bedroom in her fathers Edinburgh house, grasping for the dream, still feeling the little boys terror as he ran, still seeing the drama unfold, raising her eyes in her dream from the body lying in the dark street to the shadowed grey walls, the crowds, illuminated so dramatically by the flaming torch held in the raised hand of a bystander, her gaze travelling on up to the great crown steeple of St Giles, starkly unmistakable halfway down Edinburghs spine, silhouetted against the last crimson streaks of the stormy sunset.
She hugged her pillow to her, her breath steadying slowly as her eyes closed again.
In the morning she would remember nothing of the dream. Only much later would it surface to haunt her.
2
The Present Day
Presumably youre going to sell the house? Harriet Jervase sat back on the sofa and studied her friend Ruths face.
There was an almost tangible silence in the room and then, clearly audible, footsteps moving softly through the hallway outside and up the stairs.
Ruth put her finger to her lips and stood up. Tiptoeing to the door, she pulled it open. The hall was empty, crepuscular beneath the high ceiling of the staircase well. She reached for the light switch. The austere hanging lamp with its faded shade threw an awkward cold light which left shadows over the turns in the staircase. Upstairs she heard the sound of a door closing.
She went back into the living room. That man gives me the creeps, she said, throwing herself down in her chair again. He was listening at the door, Im sure he was.
Why dont you tell him to go? Harriet was Ruths oldest friend. The two women had been at school together and had remained in touch over the years since. To Ruth, the only child of comparatively elderly parents, Harriet had been the nearest thing to a sibling. It was a given that she would have come up to Edinburgh for Ruths fathers funeral.
I cant just throw him out. He was so kind to Dad.
The presence of Timothy Bradford in the house had been an unwelcome surprise when she arrived. He appeared to have been staying there for some time, very much at home.
Have you asked him what his plans are?