I sealed my letters and stowed them away at the bottom of my sea chest. I did not know if they would ever reach their destination. Perhaps it would be better if they did not.
14
April looked at her watch. There was no sign of Timothy and it had long ago grown dark. Presumably he had followed the Daimler for miles, then in his usual clueless way he had got himself lost. She felt a disproportionate wave of hatred for Finlay sweep over her. Everything about him, his complacency, his posh car, his celebrity status which obviously brought money as well as fame added to her fury at his decision to get involved and try to thwart her plans.
Sitters they had called themselves. The name had pleased them hugely. Squat. Infiltrate. Take. Hence the acronym. They would look for an empty house to use as a base surprisingly easy even in this day and age. Then theyd move in, their story of distant relatives ready should anyone ask who they were, and begin to leaflet the area. They offered cleaning services, odd jobs, help with shopping, no job too small and targeted elderly people who seemed to be living on their own. They then befriended them. Hence the sitting; not babysitting, but sitting with the elderly. Timothy at least had convinced himself they were doing the old folk a favour. They were lonely, abandoned by the world. It pleased them to have a friend. They entrusted their money, their credit cards, their PIN numbers, in order to get the shopping done, and she and Timothy had done that shopping, keeping meticulous records in case anyone ever asked. Until the money ran out. Which it inevitably did. That was the point. Sometimes they found the pension was enough to make it worthwhile sticking around, but not usually. Someone might notice. Time to move on. This was business. Their last target had been in Leeds. Before that in Birmingham.
The squats had varied. Some were in empty houses and they had made do with basic second-hand tat to furnish them. Some were already furnished, as this one had been. They knew who had lived here from sorting through the post that still cascaded through the door. Where the old woman had gone they did not know, but she had had good taste. April liked this house. She would be sad when it was time to go. Edinburgh had been trickier than anywhere else had been so far. She had found it harder to make contacts, to know where to go. But this new enterprise was the best so far; a potential gold mine.
They had tried the inheritance scam once before, in Exeter; it had worked like a dream. No one had questioned them, no one had cared. Her only sorrow had been that they hadnt chosen a more ambitious target. Start small, Timothy had said, and she had listened. But now at last they were about to hit the big time. She had looked up the house prices around Number 26 and they were astronomic. Once they had pocketed the deeds to that place and sold it on, she had calculated they wouldnt have to work again. And now it was all being threatened by this bloody greedy daughter who had never cared for the old boy anyway and by Finlay Macdermott, of all people. She could hardly contain her rage.
With a sigh she turned out the lights in the kitchen and stamped up the stairs to the small back bedroom. Drawing the curtains before reaching for the light switch, she hauled a heavy suitcase out from under the bed.
Opening the lid of the case she looked down at the newspaper-wrapped contents. There were candlesticks, spoons and forks, small dishes. She pulled out a large square parcel and unwrapped it. She knew what this was. She had seen it on an antiques programme on the telly. A standish. A sort of pen and ink holder. The glass bottles for the ink had hall-marked silver lids. There werent any pens with it any more. She ran her finger over the intricate designs carved onto it. Victorian, she supposed. It was sad that it would have to be melted down; the swirls and curls on the silver appealed to her. The other stuff was more austere. Georgian probably. She had made good use of her study of daytime TV. The value of silver had dropped, but it was still all worth a lot of money by their standards.
She couldnt see how Tims claim to that old boys inheritance could fail. She had thought of everything, even the DNA. It had been a shock when they discovered he had a daughter, but that almost certainly didnt matter. Donald Dunbar hadnt mentioned her to Timothy in all those months; it would be clear to the solicitor that he had intended to disinherit her. She shivered. It had only been chance that Timothy had spotted the letter on the mat from the solicitors to Ruth that day; otherwise they wouldnt have known what was going on.
She replaced the standish in the suitcase and shoved the case back under the bed. Standing up, she turned away and caught sight of the pictures with their gilded frames stacked behind the door. She wasnt sure he should have bothered to remove them; they would have come anyway with the whole inheritance. But if anyone asked, he could always say it was to keep them safe in case the house was burgled. She gave a wintry smile. Shuddering, she studied the picture facing her. Ghastly woman in a lace-trimmed bonnet. Hideous face! But an oil painting nevertheless and who knows, it might be by someone famous. Or of someone famous. The jewellery she had locked in a drawer, all except the small bag of rings that Timothy had pocketed and she had demanded back as soon as they got home. There was other stuff too, which Timothy had removed little by little over the last few months. He was fairly certain he had taken everything of value. Poor old Donald had been oblivious, pathetically grateful for the attention that had been given him, clinging to her hand when she had gone to visit. She did not allow herself to remember the time when, with tears in his eyes, he had called her Ruth.
She moved over to the table by the door. There was a cardboard box she hadnt even bothered to unpack; odds and ends Timothy had taken from the cupboards upstairs in Donald Dunbars house. Reaching in, she pulled out a small painted wooden box. She shook it experimentally then wrenched off the lid. There was a bundle of old sticks and rags inside. She stared down at it, puzzled, not making any sense of what she saw. Was it some kind of a primitive doll? Whatever it was, it was a dusty mess which smelled revolting and gave off an icy breath as though it was alive. She slammed the lid back on and rammed the box into the cardboard container. Why in Gods name had the idiot brought that here? She shuddered and reached towards the box with the intention of taking the object, whatever it was, downstairs and binning it, but she couldnt bring herself to put her hand anywhere near it again. It emanated evil. She backed away from the table, aware that her whole body was trembling. Reaching the door, she groped for the handle, not taking her eyes off the box, dragged the door open and dived through it before slamming it shut behind her.
Standing on the landing she could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She grasped the newel post and hung on desperately, afraid she was going to pass out; her mouth flooded with bitter saliva and she realised suddenly she was going to vomit. She just made it to the bathroom, throwing herself down in front of the toilet, drenched with sweat as she retched again and again.
It was a long time before she managed to drag herself downstairs to the kitchen. She put the kettle on with shaking hands. It must have been the takeaway she and Timothy had had the night before, she decided vaguely. Prawn curry. Always a mistake. Perhaps that was why Timothy hadnt come home. He had been smitten too. She glanced at the clock on the wall above the bread bin.
Carrying her mug of tea, she went through into the lounge, turned on the light, sat down at the table and reached for her mobile. Tim? Where the hell are you? It was a moment before she realised it had gone to voicemail. The bozo had turned it off. She slammed it down on the table and swore again under her breath.
Upstairs, in the back bedroom, a frosty rime was slowly spreading across the floor.
If Id known helping you with research was going to be as much fun as this, I would have cleared my schedule the moment I met you!
It was a sunny morning and Finlay had volunteered to drive Ruth over the Queensferry Bridge across the Forth and on to St Andrews to have lunch, naturally, and to look for Lady Buchans Cave.
They were standing at the top of the cliff, looking down at the rocks below, between the cathedral and the castle, the stark stone of the ruins warmed by a sun already low in the west. This was a dramatic coastline, scarred by history and the unrelenting onslaught of the sea, the rocky ribs and sandy coves washed constantly by the force of the waves. They had toured the cathedral and castle and been met with puzzled shakes of the head when they asked about the cave. No one had heard of it. Then at last they had been directed to a local historian. Im afraid the sea took it, he said mournfully. No one had ever asked him this question before, he said, and he obviously felt he had failed them by having to tell them it had gone. The cave had succumbed to the constant erosion of the cliffs sometime in the nineteenth century.
But it must have been down there somewhere, Ruth said sadly, and on those beaches below it, Thomas played with the drowned boy.
Finlay shuddered. Im not sure Im so keen on that idea. Or chasing up your ghost monks at Inchmahome. Can we leave those as read? What about a quick trip to the Caribbean instead? and his booming laugh echoed off the walls of the castle tower.
15
By the time the Tartar sighted Barbados on 13 May, Tom had settled into the routine of shipboard life as if he had been aboard one of His Majestys ships for years. He was a good pupil and full of energy. He learned fast and made friends easily amongst the men and the officers; the gunners wife who was charged with overseeing the welfare of the boys on the ship kept a quiet eye on him, as always trying to avoid favourites and knowing that any signs of preference for one boy over another would lead to jealousies and petty cruelties out of sight down on the orlop deck. One boy had already been badly hurt when the fixings of his hammock had been loosened and he had fallen awkwardly onto the boards beneath.
Jamie and Tom had whispered together that night; they knew who had done it and why. At eight years old, Robbie was the youngest and smallest boy aboard the ship. He still cried at the end of his watches, thinking his tears were inaudible, and when the gunners wife went to comfort him he clung to her and begged to get off the ship, seemingly unable to comprehend that they were at sea, far from any port. She did her best to reassure him whilst drying his tears and robustly trying to instil what she called backbone. It was of little help. The boy was fading before their eyes, his misery compounded by the vicious bullying of the lad who hung his hammock beside him.
No, Tom, dont get involved! Jamie caught his arm and pulled him away as Tom clenched his fists that evening, watching as the little boys mess tin was grabbed and ostentatiously emptied onto his neighbours already over-full portion.
Finished so soon, youngster? the cocky voice crowed as Robbie stared down, bewildered, into his empty bowl.
Give it back! Tom shouted across the table. He was unaware of the sudden authority in his voice. Jamie cowed back out of sight beside him. You great bully! What has this poor lad ever done to you?
He annoys me, thats what! Andrew Farquhar stood up, ducking his head away from the lantern swinging from the low beam above their heads. With his snivelling and his whining. So? The face, now turned in Toms direction, was set with dislike. What are you going to do about it?
Tom flinched back, but he forced himself to stand up. He was a good head shorter than his opponent. Im not going to do anything. You are going to give him back his food, he said as firmly as he could. He narrowed his eyes as he saw Andrew grab his tin and, anticipating the next move, shouted, And you are not going to throw it on the floor. You are going to put it back on his plate.
Oh, his plate! Farquhars voice had risen into a singsong mockery of Toms Scots accent. We ordinary folk, we eat out of tins. But your lordship has a plate. Where is it then? In your box, is it? All painted with gold and silver, is it? He launched a kick at Toms sea chest. Jamie had been sitting on it beside Tom and as he ducked sideways to avoid the vicious attack he slipped awkwardly to the floor.
I am not a lord, Tom said through gritted teeth. In spite of his blind fury he was surprised to feel himself becoming calmer as his opponent blustered more and more loudly. I am a fair man who hates to see a great blooter like you bully someone small and helpless, and Im sure our friends feel the same. He did not dare look at the others round the crowded mess table. The silence after the chatter and laughter was intense.
Im sure they do not, Andrew said, so softly his voice was all but inaudible above the creak of the timbers round them.
Tom became aware that Jamie was scrambling to his feet beside him. He reached over for Jamies shoulder and pushed him, trying to stop him standing up, but Jamie shrugged him off. They do, he announced staunchly.
One or two of the others nodded, the others remained stock-still, their eyes moving shiftily between Tom and his protagonist.
Andrew dropped the tin on the trestle, splashing the gravy over the scrubbed wood. Take it then, if you are so hungry. Eat mine as well. Why dont you. He turned and pushed his way out of the entrance into the cockpit beyond. They heard his feet on the ladder, and it was only then that Tom became aware of the greater silence from the seamen who had moments before been shouting and laughing beyond the wooden partition which separated the midshipmen from the rest. With a sinking heart, he realised the altercation had been clearly audible to the whole watch below.
Mastering his trepidation, he gave Robbie a smile as he pushed the mess tin towards him. Go on, Rob. Take your chance. Eat up.
The boy seized his spoon and stuck it into the mess of stew but after two mouthfuls he dropped the spoon and stood up, ducking away from the table. Only seconds later they heard him retching into a bucket.
One by one their companions resumed their meal. No one spoke. Tom glanced at Jamie, who grimaced and put his finger to his lips. Robbie huddled against the ships side in the shadows. He said nothing either.
It was later, as the watch slept, that Tom woke suddenly and saw, in the last flickering light of the candle stub, a figure standing over Robbies hammock, fiddling with its fixings. Hey! he called, but it was too late. As the burly shadow melted back into the darkness Robbie let out a scream and there was a crash, followed by two great throaty sobs, then silence. Somewhere someone grabbed a flint and lit the lantern. The boys body was lying awkwardly across the corner of his sea chest and he seemed to be unconscious. The loosened end of the hammock was trapped beneath his body.