The Sign of the Black Dagger (2 page)

After lunch, their mother went to work, having given them instructions to do some schoolwork and not waste the entire afternoon. But they found it hard to settle down. They became edgy with each other. Lucy put on a CD; Will said it was too loud. It was not long before they had a proper spat. Lucy knocked over her half-f mug of hot chocolate which trickled as far as Will’s history jotter.

“Look what you’ve done, idiot!”

“I couldn’t help it.”

“Yes, you could. You just don’t look.”

“And you’re so wonderful, aren’t you? What about last week when you dropped the egg box?”

Will grunted and opened the jotter, which now had brown edges to its pages, and picked up his pen, though he didn’t begin to write. He said, “I’m worried about Dad.”

“Do you think I’m not?”

Lucy got up and wandered about. She stopped by the wall, near the fireplace, and fingered the rough stone. These walls had stood for centuries and sheltered all their ancestors. What if the house had to be sold to pay Mr Smith?

“Ouch!” she exclaimed suddenly and put her index finger in her mouth. It was bleeding a little.

“What have you done now?”

“Lot of sympathy I get from you. There’s a sharp edge there on the stone. It’s sticking out a bit.” She bent her head to look more closely. Tentatively she touched it again. “I think there’s a loose stone.”

“Wouldn’t be surprising, I suppose, after all these years.
Watch you don’t cut yourself again.”

Lucy paid no attention. She was concentrating on trying to move the stone.

“What are you doing taking the place apart?”

If their mother were to walk in now she’d have a fit. She’d ask Lucy if she couldn’t leave anything alone. From the moment she could crawl Lucy had always stuck her nose into everything.

“It’s coming out,” she said excitedly.

Will got up and went to join her. He put his hands underneath the stone alongside hers and together they began to lever it out from the wall. No daylight could be seen in the vacuum; there was another stone behind this one.

“I think we should put it back,” said Will, “in case the wall starts to collapse.”

“No, I can see something!”

They lowered the stone to the floor and Lucy thrust her arm into the opening. “There’s something here!”

She brought out a dusty parcel wrapped in oilcloth. They sneezed. The dust of centuries must be coated on it. Their hands collided as they feverishly unwrapped the package. Lying in the middle of the dirty oilcloth was a cloth-bound book. It might once have been blue or green but was now almost colourless.

“Goodness!” cried Lucy, lifting it up.

“Be careful. It might fall to pieces.”

They opened it gingerly. Facing them, on the front page, was a black-ink drawing of a dagger.

“Let’s see what’s inside,” said Lucy.

“A dagger!” cried Will. He pulled the piece of paper his dad had doodled on from his pocket. “Don’t they look like daggers to you?”

“I suppose they might.” Lucy considered the drawings, her head cocked to one side. “But I’m not sure. You might just think that because of the dagger here. I mean, why would Dad draw
daggers
?”

“I don’t know.” Will shrugged. “Let’s see what’s in the book.”

The pages were yellowed with age and spotted with brown stains but the handwriting was still clearly visible. It was well formed, elegant handwriting with curves and loops; not like the scrawls they tended to do. They read the title page.

“William and Louisa!” exclaimed Lucy. “The same names as ours.” They had always known that they’d been given family names, though they had shortened theirs. “Isn’t that strange? I wonder if they could be twins?” Like themselves.

They read on.

“Ranald Cunningham!” exclaimed Will.

Lucy turned over the page.

Louisa

We were so disturbed by the events of today, Wednesday, January the sixth, 1796, that we have decided to begin this journal. My twin brother William says it may be a way to help us understand our confused thoughts about our father and what has befallen him.

The day began well, even though the morning was cold and grey, with a bitter wind blowing off the sea. We had gone early down to the port of Leith with our parents to watch the arrival of Charles-Philippe, the Comte d’Artois. We went early since large crowds were expected. The count is the brother of the French King Louis XVI, who was so cruelly executed in Paris three years ago. His head was chopped off at the guillotine while the crowd watched. It was said they cheered when it fell and some old women sat knitting throughout. We were sad when we heard the news, our mother especially, for she is French herself. Some months afterwards, his queen Marie Antoinette suffered the same fate. So now France is a republic and the royals have all been banished or fled. That is why the Comte d’Artois has come to Scotland.

“Stay close beside us,” warned our father. Some in the crowd were pushing and shoving. One woman had stepped right in the middle of my foot and paid no attention when I cried out. Everyone was anxious to get a glimpse of the count’s
court. Our father pointed out Lord Adam Gordon who was waiting on the pier with his coach ready to convey the count up to Edinburgh. Unfortunately, with Lord Adam being in mourning due to the death of his wife, the coach had been painted black. It did not look very cheerful, with the four long-tailed sable horses waiting to draw it.

“I hope it will not bring bad luck.” Our mother shivered, then added, “Put your coat collars up,
mes enfants
.” She is always anxious about draughts and cold winds. She finds Edinburgh’s east wind very chilly. She lived in the south of France as a girl where the wind was warm and smelled of lavender. Whereas here, she says, our streets smell like sewers.

At two o’clock, His Majesty’s frigate,
Jason
, came sailing into the port, with the guns of the Leith Battery firing off a twenty-one gun salute. The noise was deafening. I had to put my fingers in my ears. When it had finished and the smell of gunpowder hung in the air the crowd cheered, us amongst them.

Since we were near the front we had a good view of the count and his friends. He smiled and raised his cocked hat in response to the people’s welcome. He looked very fine in his frock coat with epaulettes on the shoulders, and his tight knee breeches. His boots, too, were tight-fitting, and one could tell that the leather would be soft and supple. As he came down the gangway on to the pier we saw that he sported a large eight-pointed star on his left chest. It was the star of Saint Esprit, our mother told us.

“He is known as
le beau Artois
. The handsome Artois.”

She had not needed to translate for we can speak French passably, William and I. Our mother speaks English with a strong French accent, sometimes making wild mistakes. Until the Revolution and the overthrow of the French monarchy she
was longing to return to France. She no longer does; not that she would be in danger herself for we are not aristocrats. Our father is a scholar and he does not earn a great deal of money, which was one of the reasons that our troubles were about to begin.

The count was followed off the ship by a long train of friends and supporters, men and women,
emigrés
like himself, dukes and duchesses amongst them. The ladies were richly dressed, in silk, satin and velvet. They had to hold on to their plumed hats when the frisky Leith wind tried to lift them from their heads. They took it well, however. They laughed. The chatter of French voices reached us and made our mother smile. She looks radiant when she smiles. It is as if the sun has come out.

“Look at that red velvet frock, Ranald,” she said, pointing to a very elegant-looking lady. “And are their wigs not fine? I should so love a velvet dress of that colour. It would make me feel warm to wear it.”

“Then you shall have one as soon as I can afford it, Anne-Marie,” our father responded, touching her arm affectionately. He would give her the moon if he could find a ladder long enough to climb up and reach it.

“And when will that be?” She pouted a little. She loves beautiful clothes.

“As soon as my book is published.”

“And do you think a publisher is going to pay you very much for that?”

“I am hoping so.”

“You are such an
optimiste
, Ranald!”

That is one of the things we like about our father. He always looks on the bright side. We know, of course, that he is impractical, and that often makes life difficult for our mother. And, as we were soon to find out, for us too.

The new arrivals climbed into the carriages waiting on the dockside and set off up the hill towards the palace. We turned our footsteps there too, though we must go on foot. It is a long walk, some three miles or so, but our father believes in fresh air and long walks. He says it will make us grow up healthy and strong. Certainly William is strong and, at thirteen, as tall as many men. He is much taller than me, of course, even though we are the same age.

As we moved away our father greeted a man who had also been watching the royal departure.

“
Bonjour
, Monsieur Goriot,” said our father, raising his hat.

“
Bonjour
, Monsieur Cunningham.” He pronounced our surname in the way a Frenchman with poor English might.

He went ahead of us.

It was strange but I had not cared for the man’s face, even from that brief glimpse. It was pockmarked, which he could not help, of course, but there had been something sly in his look and I was surprised that Papa knew such a man. Our father, though, is a very friendly person and will talk to anyone. William says I make up my mind too quickly about people and perhaps that is true but I often find that I am right once I get to know them. He agrees with me, however, that our father is not a great judge of character.

“A Frenchman?” said our mother, taking hold of our father’s arm as we set off up the hill. She’d been complaining that her shoes cramped her feet and that she needed new ones. These had been cheap and not very comfortable from the start.

“An
emigré
,” said our father. “I’ve occasionally passed the time of day with him when we’ve met in a tavern.”

“As long as you have not lent him any monies!” Our mother was only half joking. Our father is not good when it comes to managing his finances. He has his head in the clouds half the
time; I cannot think of any better way to describe it.

“Only the odd crown,” he replied.

“
Only?
”

“Don’t worry, my love. He will pay me back.”

To change the conversation and avoid a row, William asked our father why the count had come to live in the Palace of Holyroodhouse.

“To seek Sanctuary.”

We knew that debtors sought Sanctuary in the palace’s abbey and its grounds, under an ancient privilege asserted by the abbots. There, they cannot be arrested and, from midnight Saturday until midnight Sunday, they are free to leave and go where they wish. But if they are caught outside even one minute late they can be arrested by the messenger-at-arms and put in jail. We have often seen debtors fleeing down the High Street on a Sunday night with the messenger after them brandishing his ebony wand with its silver tip. It is called a Wand of Peace – a strange name, is it not, for a wand that brings misery? He must tap the debtor on the shoulder with it before he can arrest him. It is a bit like the game of tag, only more serious.

“Surely the messenger man would not be permitted to
touch
the Comte d’Artois with that black stick of his!” Our mother was scandalised at the very thought.

“He would, I’m afraid, my dear.”

“Does he owe very much?”

“I heard more than two million francs.”

“There must be mistake. I do not believe he is criminal.” Our mother speaks English in her own fashion.

“No one has said he is, my dear. He has just been unfortunate.”

“Or not very good at looking after money,” said William.

As we were nearing the top of Leith Walk, Papa suggested
taking a detour round by the abbey. Normally our mother would have protested at the idea of lengthening our walk but she was as eager as we were to see what we could of the French royal party. We took a low road, which brought us out almost to the gates of Holyrood.

The whole area was abuzz. It was as if there was a fair going on. Carriages and coaches stood in the roadway and the courtyard. Children pranced about, trying to touch the horses, and even dive underneath them, and were being shouted at by the drivers. “Ye’ll git yersel’s’ kilt!” Hawkers were offering their wares. Bootlaces, pretty ribbons, combs for one’s hair. We saw Monsieur Goriot again but he did not see us. And all the while servants were running in and out of the houses clustered around the abbey and the palace. Our father told us that the owners often take in debtors as lodgers who are then known as ‘abbey lairds’. That is something of a joke as a laird is normally a man of means.

Beyond the abbey lies Holyrood Park, in the middle of which stands the hill that we call Arthur’s Seat. I was thinking that debtors who cannot pay for lodging may have to lodge out in the open park. The thought made me shiver.

We stopped at the Abbey Strand so that our father could point out the three brass letters SSS spaced across the roadway. They mark the boundary of the abbey precincts and of the sanctuary.

“So the count will have to get his feet over this line before midnight on Sundays. Otherwise he might be pursued by his creditors down the High Street until the last second, hoping that he might trip and fall!”

We thought it amusing, then.

We crossed the road, skirted the Girth Cross, and were in the burgh of Canongate, which adjoins the High Street, where we live, opposite St Giles Cathedral, in Advocate’s Close. I had
to stop to tighten the laces of my right boot. I gave William my muff to hold while I did so. As I was putting one hand against the wall to steady myself I felt some deep cuts in the stone. When I had finished with my boot I examined the wall.

“What is it?” asked William.

“Someone’s been cutting something into the stone.” I bent to examine it more closely. “It looks like a symbol. It looks rather like a dagger.”

William shrugged and we carried on up the Canongate, which boasts several fine mansions. William and I went ahead, for our mother’s steps were slowing and it was beginning to spit with rain. I kept my hands tucked deep into my fur muff now. It was a Christmas present from Papa and I loved the warmth of it.

Once we left the Canongate behind and were in the High Street, which is lined with high stone tenements, there were more people to be seen. Ragged, barefoot children were scuttling around in spite of the cold. Rich and poor live cheek-by-jowl here, as our father puts it; the poor living, as would be expected, in lesser dwellings, often no more than hovels. Many houses are divided into smaller parts. We are fortunate ourselves to live in a whole one since our father inherited it from his father, who inherited it from his father.

One tiny girl came running up to us, cupping her mottled, purple hands and holding them out to us, beseeching us with the look in her eyes, for she did not speak. Green snot ran from her nostrils. I desperately wished that I could lend her my muff, even for a few minutes, so that she could warm those hands, but I only had one and there was a number of children. Once I had given my scarf to a girl and started a riot. In the end the scarf was tugged to pieces so Papa said it would not be advisable to do that again. He and our mother were kind to the children, though. They did not give them money for they said
that the children’s parents would take it and spend it on gin, but they always told Bessie to give them hot soup or a bannock whenever they came to the door.

We hoped Bessie would have the kettle boiling now, with scones still warm from the griddle. My mouth began to water at the thought of them. The long walk had made us ravenous.

The girl was keeping pace with us. I searched in my pocket and found a sweet, a clove ball. I put it into her hand, and also my lace-edged handkerchief, one of a number sent to me by my grandmother in France. She put the clove ball into her mouth quickly before another child could snatch it. The sweet bulged in the side of her cheek. But she did not wipe her nose. She ran off with the handkerchief, waving it over her head like a trophy.

We turned into our close and stopped dead at the top of the steps. The alley drops steeply downward. The tenements on either side are tall with jutting timber projections, which means that the light is poor, especially on a winter day. We were just able to discern two men outside our door. The way they were standing there suggested trouble. As we went slowly down the steps to meet them we saw that one of them was dressed in greenish-black clothes, while the other wore livery bearing the royal coat of arms.

“This your house?” asked the one in black. He had an oily voice that matched his greasy clothes.

“It is,” said William.

“We are looking for Mr Ranald Cunningham.”

We saw then that the messenger-at-arms was holding an ebony wand with a silver tip.

At that same moment, our parents arrived at the close-head.

“Run, Papa, run!” shouted William.

Our father ran.