Murder Lies Waiting Page 3

  ‘Safe enough …’ The train’s wheels whispered. Those words were to haunt me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  At the end of an uneventful, dull journey for a train-lover who yearned for splendid landscapes, we arrived in Glasgow, left the station and walked across the square in the direction of the court. With no idea how long my presence would be required and the delay that might be involved to our onward journey, I had warned Sadie that I might have to meet her in Rothesay, but thankfully all went smoothly and with a modicum of preliminaries and a few statements to witness and sign, my part in the proceedings was ended in a couple of hours and I was free to leave.

  Free. I caught up with Sadie as arranged in the nearby railway hotel and she grinned cheerfully. She had done some shopping for things that might be scarce in Bute. She added that you never knew with ferries: a spot of bad weather, wild seas and we could be stranded, our return journey delayed. I sincerely hoped not, with the vision of Jack’s parents in Solomon’s Tower and no Sadie – an imposing presence as our housekeeper – there to greet them.

  With her usual efficiency she had been busy, consulting timetables and brochures. ‘There’s one in thirty minutes and we leave at the terminus, Wemyss Bay station, and catch the steamer across to Rothesay.’ She seized my hand and laughed. And as everyone seemed anxious to assure me: ‘You’ll love it.’

  We learnt that we were too late for the last train to Wemyss Bay that would connect with the ferry. ‘Might as well take it, anyway. Better than spending the night here in Glasgow.’ She looked around at the lounge and frowned. ‘Staying here will be costly. Unless you know anywhere?’

  I had to confess that I didn’t know Glasgow well and the only hotel accommodation provided by the court for judges and visiting lawyers or witnesses was, I suspected, even costlier than this railway hotel.

  My negative response didn’t worry her and I learnt something else about Sadie. Her efficiency included being very knowledgeable about Wemyss Bay and where we could get cheap lodging for the night.

  ‘Don’t worry. Leave that to me. I know it well, had my first job there. When I was fourteen, some people I got to know in Rothesay had rich friends with a holiday home there. They got me a job as assistant lady’s maid. Maid of all sorts would have been nearer the truth.’ She added that she had seen little of her employers, and spent most of the time doing endless piles of washing and ironing and keeping a kind of peace between eight unruly children between the ages of two and fourteen.

  I was increasingly thoughtful. Greater even than my excitement about trains was a growing apprehension regarding the ferry crossing tomorrow morning. The weather had not improved and as well as rain there was now a high wind. With my tendency to seasickness I prayed for a good day with a smooth sea, grateful that Sadie kept my full attention and fears at bay with her knowledgeable information as we waited on the platform and at last took our seats on the Wemyss Bay train.

  The railway line had been opened some forty years ago in 1865, advertised as being superior to other local lines, such as Greenock. And Wemyss had one attractive difference to recommend. All the carriages contained proper seats. Before the advent of railways, steamboats had been the fastest means of transport, five hours from Largs to Glasgow at 7/6d cabin fare, single. Wemyss reduced the journey to an hour and a half and an all-in fare of 2/7d. An hour to Glasgow. I was aware that railway travel had revolutionised public transport, enabling people from all levels of society to travel about the country, but I must have looked surprised at Sadie having all these details at hand.

  She smiled. ‘Fares may have gone up but I remember it well. The family I worked for that summer went back and forth to Glasgow, the father to keep an eye on his business and the women to spend money on gadding about. They had inherited their fortune from forbears in the slave trade, although he pretended it was sugar.’ She laughed. ‘Sugar, for heaven’s sake! Well, money was no object and he didn’t mind spending it, taking the whole family, servants as well, practically everything but the kitchen stove went with them on holiday.’

  The outskirts of Glasgow had given way to Paisley and rural areas around the Clyde – there was even a glimpse of a loch. A pretty journey for a hopefully sunny day tomorrow as at last we steamed into Wemyss Bay. Gathering our cases, we stepped off the train and Sadie said: ‘Lovely, isn’t it? Well, twenty years ago, there were two platforms and two steamer berths, and to complement the large private homes being built in the area around the station – what the newspapers called mini-Balmorals – it was vitally important that the station did not lower the tone.’

  Outside the station, she pointed triumphantly across the road to the treelined hill. ‘There it is, still there. That’s the house.’

  It was huge. I gasped. And she laughed. ‘Yes, a big mansion, and this was just a second home. Oh yes, these holiday homes were for rich folk and industrialists from Glasgow and others who could afford to pack off their wives and hordes of bairns for the summer. Not too far away, near enough so the lord and master could travel back and forth with ease.’ She grinned and shook her head. ‘And I would be prepared to bet there were more than business deals in the offing, a chance to sow some more of those wild oats while the wife was safely offstage.’

  She looked thoughtful for a moment, remembering. ‘Things were different on Bute, though. Rothesay was for the poorer folks, crowds of a new breed of workers and their families escaping the grime and toil of industrial Glasgow to breathe some fresh sea air into their lungs for a change.’

  We walked across the road on the lookout for a suitable place to spend the night. Sadie pointed. ‘That one looks promising. They are advertising vacancies.’ It didn’t look prepossessing, but I was tired after the day’s travelling.

  ‘Let’s try it.’

  Our night’s lodging was modestly priced and despite the somewhat shabby exterior, it proved to be welcoming and comfortable, the beds clean with fresh white linen, fleecy pillows, and towels provided. We were apparently the only guests that night and the proprietor, a plain, balding man of mid sixties, had a deferential manner immediately reminiscent of a retired butler who had seen better days with a wealthy employer. If we had stayed longer I was sure we would have found much about him that my powers of observation and deduction had failed to detect. Was he widowed or perhaps just lonely, I asked Sadie later when at last we made our escape after he had seized us as a unique opportunity to wax lyrical over Wemyss, and the station complex.

  ‘You’d never credit it now, but the original station building and a much-improved pier were made from ground redeemed from the sea, with twice the platforms and steamer berths and without any interruptions to the passenger services,’ he added proudly. ‘Mind you, the better ferry service was greatly appreciated, a great relief to passengers trying to get from train to boat. Aye, that had led to frustration and angry words with families with bairns frequently losing connections and having to face all the physical discomforts of travelling, particularly in rainy weather.’

  He paused to regard us solemnly. ‘That was when my predecessor opened this guest house. He knew he was on to a good thing and it was greatly appreciated.’

  Sadie was already halfway up the stairs as he bid us goodnight.

  I slept well to awaken to a sunny morning. A hasty look out of the window: my prayers had been answered. The water across to Rothesay was smooth as silk. After a handsome breakfast served by our talkative proprietor, we settled the modest sum and he seemed reluctant to let us continue our journey, singing the praises of his lodging.

  ‘Couldn’t be better. You can watch the ferry standing at the window here, see it coming from Rothesay and take your time,’ he added proudly. ‘Just a few steps across the road to the station, ladies, knowing you’ll have ample time for another cup of tea with still enough left to comfortably buy your tickets.’

  We politely declined his offer and as he solemnly shook hands with us at the door he bowed and I had that butler image again as he said: �
�It has been a pleasure having you to stay. Any time you are in the area, ladies.’

  As he spoke and in all his conversation with us, although his gaze politely included us both, it had lingered on Sadie and I wondered, perhaps wrongly, had she been the reason for our extra-friendly reception?

  He was just an ordinary-looking elderly man, rather stout, and I looked again at Sadie. There was nothing exceptional about her appearance either, she had made no witty asides to his long, drawn-out commentary last night. But she had made an impression and as I turned at the gate he was watching her, his wave I was certain included a sigh, his expression sad to see her leave.

  As we hurried across to the station again, Sadie said it had been redesigned and upgraded a few years ago. ‘Another tribute to our new king, with all physical comfort in mind and of utmost significance,’ she added as we walked swiftly down the short walk between platform and pier. Above our heads, the large circular, glass-fronted interior with its vast array of plants in hanging baskets also provided protection from bad weather.

  Watching the ferry arrive and the passengers disembark, we boarded the slightly swaying though stationary vessel and I insisted that we took outside seats, which seemed to surprise Sadie, but was always advisable if one has a tendency to mal de mer. I soon discovered that my fears were groundless and I sat back, enjoying a cool breeze, blessed with a lovely day and the delight of a half-hour crossing on a smooth sea. Over our heads, the ferry was accompanied by an escort of seabirds – not the raucous greedy variety haunting the harbours in Leith and Granton, but with muted calls reminiscent of distant mocking laughter, as if they were happy creatures.

  At last, as land grew closer, we were almost at our destination, too soon for me as I would have enjoyed remaining aboard and cruising endlessly around the island. The soothing motion of the ferry, its gentle engine sound had a soporific and pleasing effect, like drifting into sleep.

  But here was Rothesay and its approach struck a bell and awoke the timeless feeling of yearning that belonged to and had always linked my life to Orkney. If I closed my eyes I would not have been surprised to find myself transported to Kirkwall or Stromness, the harbour and ferry landing and engine smells were the same and linked to an excited expectancy that welled back from childhood days, a feeling of homecoming that I recognised and understood.

  It was as if those vast undulations and mounds, mere grassy, boulder-strewn lumps in the ground visible from the ferry, covered earlier pre-civilisations when a new evolution had taken place. Where creatures walking upright were just learning what was to be their lot surviving as humans, that race of almost-men who lived, built and died centuries before the Vikings sailed their dragon-headed ships across the seas. They had vanished into their burial chambers under the mounds of earth carrying their secrets, their dark rituals with them, gods worshipped and long lost, leaving behind no recorded history, only a few standing stones for future civilised men to interpret as they wished. And over the succeeding centuries, in the passage of time their interpretations led them to draw their own lofty and possibly inaccurate conclusions.

  Sometimes I wondered if it was a natural part of my Orkney inheritance, this burning desire to solve puzzles that had turned me into a crime investigator and also formed a link and extended to unrecorded history. Each time I saw a chambered cairn or a standing stone or carved emblem of some mysterious past, I was intrigued and closing my eyes longed for an interpreter, someone from another time, with the magic to summon up dark and no doubt gory glimpses into that other lost world. Were these earliest of dwellers perhaps strange beings who had taken refuge on our planet when their own collapsed and died?

  At my side, Sadie said: ‘You’re very thoughtful. Care to share it?’

  ‘Just cairns and old tombs.’ I tried in vain to find the right words to convey what all this meant to me.

  Sadie merely laughed. ‘Not for me. I like the present. And wait until you see the hotel – that will chase all your hobgoblins away.’ With a sigh, she stretched her arms above her head. ‘Oh, for a nice cup of tea, that’s all we need.’

  Leaving the ferry, she had remembered the shortcut as we headed towards The Heights, a tall, imposing hotel whose presence commanded a panoramic view of the surrounding area as well as across the bay.

  Bute had few crimes according to Jack and Rothesay was a peaceful, uneventful holiday resort. A tragic family accident that had become notorious as murder two decades ago was still a talking point amongst the older members of the community and remained of considerable interest across the whole of Bute.

  And hardly had we set foot ashore, walked across to the hotel and climbed the handsome staircase to our rooms with windows overlooking the bay, than I was to discover that instead of the promised week of happy relaxation away from the minor trials and tribulations of my Edinburgh life, I was to find myself on the receiving end of solving a twenty-year-old mystery.

  Safe enough, Jack had called this holiday. But that was only the beginning, there was worse, much worse to come. And had I known a mere fragment of what lay in store that day, I would have been on the next ferry heading back home alone to my safe haven, at Solomon’s Tower.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At my side, Sadie looked up at the hotel’s vast structure and giggled. ‘Isn’t it magnificent?’ And another surprise. ‘I was a servant here once. I heard from the fellow whose uncle owns it – that the last owners had sold it at a great profit. Wait a moment.’

  As we walked up the flight of steps, she paused and rummaged in her luggage to withdraw a somewhat shapeless navy-blue hat and settled it on her head without any apparent need of a mirror. In moments, with the matching tailored costume, she had become a uniformed and very correct lady’s maid.

  ‘Good, isn’t it, ma’am?’ She grinned, walking a few steps behind me.

  I stared at her wide-eyed, astonished since I could not imagine any earthly reason for this sudden transformation. It certainly did her no favours, although I should have known but did not realise at that moment that just looking ordinary was the perfect disguise. I was to remember Pa and Jack saying they were the most difficult criminals to catch. The ones who had no outstanding features, the ones who wouldn’t merit a second glance and would blend invisibly into a crowd.

  Those are the ones we cannot watch, they said, the dangerous ones who if they were caught, their lack of any memorable appearance would render the word of any likely witness doubtful or be completely useless in an identity parade. Yes, such criminals would remember that just looking ordinary was a better disguise, a camouflage devised by nature and beyond the most accomplished actors.

  As we reached the grand entrance she whispered, ‘If I hadn’t been with you’ – she grinned, squeezed my arm and added mockingly – ‘my lady, in the old days it would have been me for the servants’ entrance.’

  The door was opened by a splendidly uniformed footman. Frowning at our lack of impressive luggage or transport, which suggested that we were not wealthy customers, and although madam had her personal maid, he did not see the necessity of calling a porter. A discreet line had to be drawn somewhere.

  He indicated the reception desk and a well-dressed, good-looking boy appeared out of a nearby door, bowed politely to me and recognising Sadie under the hat, rushed forward, and gave her a dazzling smile and a smacking kiss on both cheeks. Who was he? The schoolboy son of the owner with rather exaggerated manners for welcoming guests?

  ‘Welcome, Sadie. So good to see you again. A good journey?’ He looked as if he would like to keep holding her hand but was suddenly aware of me. ‘Harry Godwin, Mrs Macmerry. Welcome to The Heights.’ Another tender look at Sadie and a formal bow in my direction. ‘If you will follow me. I can summon the lift’ – he pointed – ‘if madam would prefer.’ I shook my head indignantly. Surely I didn’t look that old and frail?

  ‘Not at all,’ I said shortly.

  He bowed and nodding towards the staircase seized our two pieces of luggage. Followin
g him, I wondered who on earth this sixteen-year-old could be. Getting in some holiday training and pocket money as a fledgling porter, perhaps?

  He turned and smiled. ‘You’ll meet Gerald later.’ He grinned. ‘He keeps me in order.’

  As he led the way, Sadie whispered: ‘I thought I told you. Harry is the manager.’

  That was a surprise. Who was this Gerald who kept him in order, then? Certainly, he looked far too young for the job of managing a great hotel. I am not very good at judging anyone’s age, but I considered that a schoolboy would be a fairly accurate speculation. As he led the way up the richly carpeted steps of the handsome oak staircase, I decided this could not possibly be the same fellow, the acquaintance Sadie claimed she had met in Duddingston.

  The staircase was lined with impressive portraits that I learnt later were of earlier owners, the empty spaces filled with a selection of seascapes. Pausing at the first-floor landing of a handsome twisting staircase with an oak banister overlooking the marble tiled ground floor far below and the reception entrance, I complimented him on the splendour around and he laughed proudly.

  ‘Indeed. We even have electric light, which is more than the rest of the island can claim in their houses – and for that matter, it is well ahead of general domestic use across the length and breadth of the country. Homes everywhere are still feeling lucky in most rural areas to have gaslight instead of candles.’

  That was still true of big cities, and living on the remote southside outskirts of Edinburgh, we were having a long, hard fight to be connected with the electric grid.

  Harry smiled again at Sadie and turning to me, said: ‘You ladies are very fortunate travelling today.’ He shook his head. ‘Things were very different twenty years ago.’ As he spoke, a door alongside us opened and the bearded face of an old man peered out, frowning, obviously disturbed by Harry’s voice.