There was a jewellery box. I cant really remember what was in it, but it lived on her dressing table. I dont think Dad made her lock that away, but she never wore anything out of it as far as I remember. Thats not up there. She gave a miserable little wail. Oh, Finlay! If he has taken anything Ill never know.
Well sort it, Ruthie, dont you fret.
They packed up all the most sentimentally precious things and locked them in the boot of his car, then he helped her search her fathers desk for his chequebook and bank cards, things that it had not even occurred to her to look for, and which were conspicuous by their absence. He stood by while she rang the bank and reported their theft, then he took her out to lunch.
When he finally drove away that evening he tried to persuade her to go with him, but she refused.
He didnt argue. OK. Good for you. Stick to your guns and stay safe and call me at any time of day or night if you need me.
She watched him drive away then closed the door and bolted it before wandering back towards the kitchen.
The house was dark and very quiet now that he had gone. As she reached for the light switches by the kitchen door she stopped suddenly in her tracks. She had heard a noise from the kitchen, she was sure of it. She held her breath, listening. Had Timothy managed to find a way in round the back? The silence stretched out and then she heard it again. It was another second before she realised with a flood of relief that it was the sound of the tap dripping slowly into the sink. She took a deep breath and brought her hand down heavily on the switches, lighting every corner of the kitchen. There was no one there.
Of course there was no one there.
For several seconds she stood still as slowly her heartbeat returned to normal then she walked over to the back door and checked the locks. No one could have come in that way. Picking up her laptop, she tucked it under her arm. The wave of loneliness and despair that swept over her was overwhelming.
In the end she turned off the lights and climbed wearily to her bedroom, wishing she had taken up Fins invitation and gone home with him. Below, in the darkness, the house was very empty. Clutching her teddy bear in her arms she climbed into bed and lay there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling.
7
Timothys sister, April, was waiting for him in the White Hart, a glass of shandy before her on the table, a bottle of lager for him. She looked up as he walked in. Did you get in?
Nope! Shes changed the locks.
I told you she would. You should have taken everything while you had the chance.
He sat down opposite her and reached for the bottle, twisting off the cap. Taking a large gulp, he wiped the foam from his lip with his sleeve. Weve got most of the valuable stuff anyway. Do you want to get me another one?
Not particularly. She was very like him to look at; the same skin, the same colour of hair, but while his eyes were brown hers were hazel. She studied his face closely. You look rattled.
There was someone else there. A big bloke. Some kind of minder.
She scowled. Never mind. You dont need to go there again. We got what we came for: the old mans cash, jewellery, silver. Now you can sit back and wait for the house to fall into your lap. She took a sip from her glass.
He noticed the packet of crisps at her elbow and reached across for it. But shes obviously gone to the solicitor.
Of course she has. He will have contacted her the moment he received the new will.
Doesnt it worry you?
No. Its your word against hers. She hasnt seen her father for years.
What about the DNA?
She gave a grim smile. You got it, didnt you? The swab from the old mans mouth.
Timothy grimaced. Disgusting.
Proof! She smiled at him. Just dont lose it.
She reached into her pocket. Ive been going through some of the stuff you brought back. She brought out a small cotton bag and tipped half a dozen rings into the palm of her hand.
Dont! Timothy let out a cry of alarm. For Gods sake, April. Someone will see.
Shut up, you numpty. Youre just drawing attention to us. She rattled her two hands together then opened them with a smile of triumph as if she had produced the rings out of thin air. These are nice. Gold, rubies, diamonds. Victorian, I should say. Not worth a lot these days, but better than a slap in the face. Eighteen carat. Theyll melt down well if nothing else.
They both looked down at her hands. She reached for one of the rings and slid it onto her little finger. It wouldnt go over her knuckle. They must have had tiny hands in those days, she said critically. She shivered suddenly and plucked the ring off. It doesnt feel right. Been on a dead person, I reckon. Thats why I hate second-hand stuff. She tipped the rings back in the bag and pulled the cord round its neck to tighten it. Best move these on as soon as.
Timothy frowned. We cant risk it. Not yet. Ruth might be able to identify it. Just sit on it for a bit. All of it. He helped himself to a handful of crisps. What is it? Whats wrong? She was staring down at her hand, lying on the bag.
She shuddered visibly. I told you. Someone walked on my grave.
He laughed. Stupid mare. I tell you, if you want something spooky, its that house. It gave me the creeps, there on my own with that old boy. He talked to people I couldnt see. He thought his wife was there with him. He told me she didnt like me. He told me to go away. Then he thought there was someone else there. Her grandfather or someone. He was scared of him. Terrified. He kept saying he was sorry. What? He realised April was staring at him, her eyes wide with horror.
Im not handling these. She pushed the bag of rings away from her. Theres something bad going on with these. I reckon we should bail. Go somewhere else. I do not want to be landed with a haunted house.
Stupid! Timothy glared at her witheringly. Not after all the trouble Ive been to. Weve done the hard bit now. As you say, weve just got to wait. He reached out for the bag and stuffed it into his pocket. I need a proper drink. He climbed to his feet and went over to the bar. Two large gins, he said to the girl behind the till, and two hot pies when youre ready.
Ruth stood looking up at the great crown steeple of St Giles cathedral. It had been so vivid in her dream, the silhouette against the stormy evening sky, the small boy alone in the crowded street. She shivered. It had been uncannily real.
Number 26 was claustrophobic now, and lonely without her father there. Or Fin or Hattie. She hadnt been able to stand it this morning when she woke. A walk had seemed a good idea, especially now the locks had been changed and she wasnt afraid Timothy would sneak in behind her. She hadnt planned to come here to the Royal Mile, but that was where she ended up, standing staring at the place where Thomas had seen a murder. And a ghost. And it was her Thomas, her five-times great-grandfather, she was sure of that now. The names fitted, the names she had heard shouted out in her other dream, the dream of three excited, happy boys on holiday.
She looked round. This iconic street, stretching along Edinburghs spine, from the castle to Holyrood Palace, was similar to her fleeting memory, but the booths had gone now of course; the images in her dream were like old photographic negatives, the buildings taller, more crowded, the people wearing darker clothes, the women in long skirts and shawls, carts, horses. The parliament building, and the Old Tolbooth near it, shadowy backdrops to the drama in the street.
Slowly she walked on. Thomas had lived at the top of a lofty tenement in somewhere called South Grays Close. She glanced at the address on the piece of paper in her hand. She had looked it up on the Internet that morning. It was next to the Museum of Childhood. The actual building in which he had lived had long ago disappeared, it seemed, but there had been a plaque there once, marking the place where Tom and his brother Henry had been born. She came to a halt outside the entrance to the close. There was the rounded archway. Did she remember that from her dream? She thought so, but more than that, she wasnt sure. Everything had been dark then, save for the warm rooms briefly lit by the setting sun before the black rain clouds had swept in. There was graffiti now where, presumably, the plaque had once been. The memory of Thomas and his family in Grays Close had vanished with her dream.
On her return to Number 26 Ruth went back to her slim file of notes and the Internet. She moved the cursor across to the portrait of Thomas and studied it carefully. He had short wavy dark hair and deep-set piercing eyes. The reproduction was poor; it was dark and hard to make out the detail. She clicked on it. The picture had been painted by Thomas Lawrence in 1802, when Thomas was fifty-two years old.
Sitting back in her chair she thought for a moment, then she rummaged in the zipped pocket of her bag for the portrait miniature. Was it him? The face staring out at her was very different to the arrogant, powerful, quite modern face on the screen. For a start the man in the miniature was wearing an old-fashioned white powdered wig; he was half smiling and he appeared to be very young. She narrowed her eyes, holding it under the light. The glass reflected badly and the picture was, she realised now, very crude in its execution. She dipped back into her bag to bring out the locket. The lock of hair could have belonged to anyone. A woman? Someone from another family altogether? She ran her finger across the glass. She badly wanted to touch the hair. The small oval of glass which held it in place felt loose. She squinted at it, angling it this way and that under the light. Could she prise it off? And if she did, would the hair reveal in some mysterious way the identity of its owner?
She picked up the miniature again, wondering why she assumed everything she had found was to do with that one man, as if he was the only ancestor her mother had. But that was her fathers fault, she realised. He was the one with the obsession. It was as if the name, the title, had got under his skin as a personal insult.
Whoever the lock of hair and the miniature had belonged to they had been very precious. With a shiver she dropped them on the table. The thought that the touch of that hair might directly link her to the person from whose head it had been taken felt suddenly like witchcraft.
Thomas
It was the sennachie who first told me I was special. He had come to teach my eldest brother, David. The sennachie is the holder of the family story, the keeper of the genealogy, the remembrancer of all that makes a clan or a family great. We, the Erskines, he said, are both a Highland family and a Lowland clan. That is strange and special and he told us that our name comes from the skein, the little knife that appears on the family crest.
I was there, listening, only about five years old at the time, as the old man talked to my brother of traditions and legends of the earls of Buchan and of their forefathers the earls of Mar, going back to time before time.
There was another boy watching and listening there with us. Not Harry; he had gone out with Mama, and I asked the boy who he was. He said his name was David and he was my brother, the eldest, and he was six.
The sennachie frowned when I mentioned the boy and my big brother told me to be quiet as he could see no one there. The old man reprimanded him and said this other boy, who had joined us so silently and so suddenly, was the eldest brother to both of us, another David, who had died as a wee boy of six and who had come to hear the story of his ancestors.
The sennachie said I had the gift of second sight.
Later Mama told me we had indeed had a brother who had died; as the oldest son he had been named for Papa, but after he had died Papa had given David, our David, who had been their second son, his name and his title as the eldest son of Lord Cardross; before that David had been called Steuart after Mamas family. I was confused. I didnt understand any of this and my brothers were angry with me. They had both known the first David when they were all little together and missed him after he died and David was cross because he felt his name was not his own.
Mama said I must not tell anyone that I could talk to those who had died.
8
James Reid showed Ruth into his office and pulled out the chair for her. I have news for you, he said as he sat down opposite her. I am pretty sure your Mr Bradford is a fake. He smiled triumphantly. I called the firm who appeared to have drawn up your fathers new will. Cautiously, you understand. Theres a certain procedure to be followed here. The name at the bottom of the will is that of a genuine solicitor and I asked to speak to her. It turns out shes away on maternity leave. She wasnt working when the will was drawn up and when contacted she had never heard of Timothy Bradford or your father, and neither, incidentally, had the young man who is filling in for her.
Oh, thank goodness! Ruth couldnt hold back her exclamation of relief. James Reids phone call that morning had filled her with foreboding.
He took off his spectacles and rubbed them thoughtfully with a handkerchief. That would seem to be the end of your problem, but it leaves one or two unanswered questions. Firstly, is it possible that Bradford actually is your fathers son? And secondly, whether he is or not, if he has stolen property from your fathers house you would want it back. He put his glasses back on. In the case of the first problem, you would probably be quite happy if he disappeared and was never seen again, thereby proving he is a liar. In the second, Im sure you would prefer to retrieve your mothers possessions if its at all possible before he disappears forever. Either way, he is almost certainly a thief and you are entitled to call in the police.
Ruth slumped back in her chair. How would we find him?
Theres an address on the will. I doubt if its real, but it must provide some way of contacting him about his supposed inheritance. He looked down at the papers in front of him. Its my belief that were dealing here with a man of fairly limited intelligence. He must have realised that we would find out the will was a fake almost at once.