The Sign of the Black Dagger (4 page)

“I hope Dad’s not sleeping rough,” said Lucy, as she put the journal back in its hiding place. She was just in time, for a moment later they heard the front door opening and their mother call out, “It’s only me!”

“How’re you doing, Mum?” asked Will. She was looking fraught.

“I’m worried your dad might have had a nervous breakdown.”

“I can’t imagine it,” said Will. “Not Dad.”

“He’s always so cheerful,” said Lucy.

“It can happen to anyone when they’re under a lot of stress.”

Their dad must have been very stressed out, knowing that he owed all that money and had no way of repaying it. And that a man like Mr Smith was after him!

“He might have gone to see one of his friends up north,” said Lucy. He had one or two buddies with whom he went hillwalking.

Their mother was not inclined to think so. In her experience, men didn’t confide in each other the way women did. “Men keep things bottled up more. That’s right, isn’t it, Will?”

“Possibly.” He made a face.

Both Lucy and her mother knew that Will did. If he arrived home from school looking down in the dumps he wouldn’t tell them what was wrong, whereas Lucy would come bursting in with all her news, good and bad.

Their mother felt she had done enough phoning to people trying to pretend it was only a casual call and there was nothing wrong. She agreed to let Will phone one or two of the northern friends without telling them that Ranald had disappeared. He rang three or four numbers.

“We were just wondering if Dad might be up there?”

None of the friends had seen their father for a while.

“What about Dan?” suggested Lucy. He was one of their father’s best friends.

“I did try him, a couple of times,” said their mother. “But I couldn’t get hold of him.”

Will gave it another try and Dan answered. He said, “Ranald was supposed to call me last week and he didn’t. We were going to have a game of golf. Nothing wrong, is there?”

“No, no,” said Will, replacing the receiver, though he was thinking that soon, perhaps, they might have to let some people know what was going on.

“He wouldn’t go to France, would he?” said Lucy, for they had relatives in France. They were not close connections, but they kept in touch with them and their father had a second or third cousin called Louis, of whom he was particularly fond. They had never been sure how far back the connection went but now Lucy herself and Will knew. They were descended from Anne-Marie, the mother of William and Louisa!

Their mother said she doubted that their dad would have gone to France though she was coming to realise that they should rule nothing out. She went upstairs to see if his passport was missing and came back with it in her hand.

“His cheque book is there too. He’d have some money in his wallet, I imagine, and his credit cards.” She shook her head. “But they wouldn’t be any use, would they?” For a moment she had forgotten that they had all been cancelled by the credit
card companies.

The doorbell rang.

“It couldn’t be that man back again!” she said.

“It could,” said Lucy, squinting sideways out of the window. “I think he’s alone this time.”

Their mother went to the door with them following hard on her heels.

Mr Smith got his word in first. He held up his hand. “Don’t say anything until you hear what I’ve got to say. I’ve got a proposition for Mr Cunningham which you might pass on to him. A way to help him out of his difficulties. We aim where possible to help people in trouble. Perhaps it would be easier if I came inside?”

A small group of American tourists in long plastic raincoats had just entered the alley, embarked on a tour of the Old Town of Edinburgh. One man was wearing a tartan tammy. “It was in closes like this,” the leader was telling them, “that you might have come across the body-snatchers Burke and Hare …”

“Perhaps you’d better come in,” said their mother, taking a step back to allow Mr Smith to pass.

They all stood about in the living room. They did not invite Mr Smith to take a seat.

“I would imagine,” he began, “that we are not the only people to whom Mr Cunningham owes money?” When he received no reply he nodded and went on, “Now we could offer to consolidate all his debts into one—”

“What does that mean?” interrupted Lucy.

Her mother answered. “Put them all together so that your father would owe everything to Mr Smith’s company.”

“But he’d still owe the same amount,” objected Will.

“That is true,” agreed Mr Smith. “But we would arrange easier terms of payment than he’d get elsewhere.”

“But why would you do that?”

“Yes, why would you?” added their mother. “And how could you be sure that my husband would be able to pay you back?”

“No problem.” Mr Smith was wearing a broad smile now. He made Lucy think of a spider who’s fairly sure he’s about to get the flies trapped in his net. “We would be prepared to accept your house as collateral.”

“What’s that?” asked Lucy.

“He means that if we couldn’t pay they would take our house in exchange,” said her mother.

“But our house is worth more than fifty thousand pounds,” objected Will.

“Exactly! We’ll wish you good day, Mr Smith. We are not interested in your proposal.”

“You might have the place sold over your heads before you’re done. Forced sale. You might get peanuts for it.” On his way out, he turned back to face them. “Interest is mounting every day. Tick-tock, tick-tock.” He waggled his head. “Like the old grandfather clock. Tell Mr Cunningham that if you ever see him again!”

Will slammed the door behind him.

“What a horrible man!” cried Lucy. “We will see Dad again, won’t we, Mum?”

“Of course!” Their mother did not sound totally confident. Her eyes were troubled. She decided to go round and talk to her friend Jane who lived nearby and was a solicitor. “Jane’s usually got some sensible advice to offer.”

She came back half an hour later to say Jane thought that if their father had not returned by midday tomorrow, Sunday, they should report the matter to the police. “In case he’s had an accident, or a breakdown. Or something,” she finished.

They had never seen their mother look so limp and that
frightened them. She was usually practical and upbeat. They knew she was reluctant to go to the police for that would seem to make their father’s disappearance a fact. She was still hoping, as they were, that he might walk in the door at any moment. But with each hour that passed it was seeming less likely.

“I think I’ll go and lie down,” she said. “I’ve got a bit of a headache.”

Lie down? They had never heard her say that before, not in the daytime, at least.

“Let’s go for a walk, Will,” said Lucy.

“That’s a good idea,” said their mother.

Without discussing it, Lucy and Will turned their steps downhill once they reached the street. They glanced into the mouth of every close as they passed. The alleys no longer teemed with ragged, barefoot children, and hawkers were not to be seen or heard crying their wares, as in William and Louisa’s time. It was a raw day and the light was waning. There were not many people about, except for a few hardy tourists. Some came all year round but January tended to be a quiet month.

“It’s January,” said Lucy, struck suddenly by the coincidence. “Like it was in William and Louisa’s journal. I don’t suppose—”

“That would be too much of a coincidence,” said Will. “It would be kind of spooky. But—”

They said no more. They broke into a run as they passed the closed gates of the Palace of Holyroodhouse and entered the park, known nowadays as the Queen’s Park. Soon they were cutting across the grass and climbing up the slope towards St Anthony’s Chapel.

They could see even from a little way off that there was nobody there but they pressed on anyway, until they reached
the ruin.

“It would have been too much to expect,” said Will, disappointed nevertheless.

“It was worth a try.”

Lucy looked forlornly at the walls with their gaping holes where once there had been windows and a door. She crouched down. She had seen something interesting carved at the foot of the wall.

“Come and look, Will.”

He squatted beside her. “It looks like a dagger! Another one!”

“It does, doesn’t it? What’s it all about?”

Will shook his head. Then his eye caught sight of a scrap of paper that someone must have dropped. He reached over and picked it up. The paper was part of a wrapper from a chocolate bar, fairly sodden, but the brand was still recognisable. It was dark chocolate, containing seventy per cent cocoa, made by a well-known Swiss firm. Their father didn’t eat much chocolate. But he loved this kind. He often kept it in his pocket and when he felt his blood sugar dropping he would pop a bit into his mouth.

“He’s been here,” cried Lucy. “I
know
he has.”

Will was inclined to agree. “Dad must have read the journal! The other Ranald Cunningham came here. And so did Dad!”

“Why has he never told us about the book?”

“Who knows? If we read on we might find out.”

“I’m going to write him a note and leave it beside the wall. In case he comes back to sleep here tonight. After all, it does give some kind of shelter, doesn’t it?”

Lucy had a notebook in her pocket. She wanted to be a writer when she grew up and a writer visiting her class at school had suggested keeping a notebook and jotting down
ideas when they came to you.

She ripped out a page and squatting down on her hunkers she wrote their message, with Will crouching beside her.

Louisa

Yesterday, Saturday, at midnight, and William and I were standing at the head of the close listening to the Tron clock strike twelve. We were excited. For twenty-four hours, almost, our father would be at home again. He would sit with us at table and eat proper food freshly prepared by Bessie. He would sleep in his own bed between newly laundered sheets instead of lying wrapped in a blanket at the mercy of the month’s inclement weather.

We had wanted to go down to the Abbey Strand but our mother would not allow it. She said half the riff-raff of Edinburgh would be waiting there to welcome their criminal relatives.

“Papa is not a criminal!” William had been annoyed with her.

“I did not say that
he
was. But I am sure that some of the other debtors in Sanctuary are. Bessie tells me so. She says they are not suitable company for your dear papa. If he had any money they would rob him. My poor Ranald!” It is her constant cry these days.

“Perhaps it is as well he has no money, then,” William had responded, his tongue firmly lodged in his cheek.

Within minutes of the last stroke of midnight dying away, the carriages came rattling up the hill. The air was filled with
the rumble of carriage wheels, the clatter of horses’ hooves on cobbles, and the cries of the drivers as they cracked their whips and urged the beasts onward and upward. Steam gushed white from the horses’ nostrils into the cold night air. We could just dimly make out the noblemen who sat inside the coaches, released, like our father, from confinement for a day. They would be in a hurry to reach their destinations. Bessie, who gathered in all the news on her way up and down the street, said they would go home to sumptuous banquets awaiting them. When we asked how could they afford to have such meals she said they told the shopkeepers they would get their money later. Without a doubt, the Comte d’Artois would be taken to spend the night in one of their grand houses where he would be safe not only from debtors but from others who might wish him ill. The French monarchy has many enemies.

After the carriages came sedan chairs, and then the men on foot. Our father was to the fore of the last group. As soon as we saw him we dashed out to greet him. He hugged us both and kept his arms round our shoulders as we went down the alley to home.

Bessie was at the door. She took his hand and looked up into his face, stubbled around the chin and grown thinner even in a few days. “I’m richt pleased tae see ye, maister. Ye’ll be needin’ a good bath afore ye eat. I have the water bilin’ fer ye.” We had seen her hauling the bath of steaming water up the stairs to his bedroom. By now it would be tepid but he would not mind.

He laughed. “How right you are, Bessie!”

“And aifter that a guid hot meal.”

He sniffed the air. “I smell it, Bessie! I am sure you will have cooked me a meal made from heaven.”

We could do with some help from heaven to enable us to
buy food. Today we were to have a stew made from a small piece of neck of mutton with potatoes and neeps. Papa would be given the best pieces of meat. We had not eaten any all week. We’d been living off porridge and bannocks for the most part and each day were not sure where our next meal would come from. But today was to be a feast day, even if our table would not be covered with platters of pork and beef, partridges and pheasants, and legs of lamb, as in the houses of the nobles.

Papa went in to greet our mother. We stood back in the lobby, listening to them murmuring and laughing together. They had not seen each other since he had run down the hill into Sanctuary. William and I had gone every day to visit him in St Anthony’s Chapel but we understood that our mother did not want to go and see him there, living so wretchedly.

Bessie allowed our parents to have a little time together before she came rapping on the door saying that the water in the bath was cooling rapidly.

“Yes, you’d better go and clean yourself, Ranald.” Our mother laughed. It was good to hear her laughter for she has been quite miserable of late. “You do not smell too sweet.”

We had a happy meal and went late to bed, very late, for by then it was nearly morning.

We slept until midday and so missed the Sabbath morning service at St Giles. We were sad, though, that Papa had only twelve hours of freedom left.

“Twelve whole hours!” he declared. “That is a lot of time. Time has come to mean something different to me. I let each hour exist on its own and don’t think about the next one.”

“You might find that easy to do, Ranald,” said our mother, “but we don’t, do we, children?”

We would have to admit that since he has gone away the days have been dragging slowly by.

It was raining and since Papa spends much of his days in the park walking about to keep warm, he did not propose a walk now. We were pleased to stay inside with him. Bessie built the fire high in the drawing room. We played cards and then Papa and William had a game of chess while Maman did her embroidery and I played a few tunes on the pianoforte. When I turned on the stool and looked back into the room at the faces of my parents and brother looking so happy in the lamplight I could not believe that in a few more hours our peace would be shattered and Papa would be hurrying back down the hill again to his freezing ruin. But he would say not to think about that; think only about
now
.

We ate again, and the hands of the clock moved steadily round. My eyes kept straying to it. Ten o’clock. Eleven.

Bessie brought Papa some milk laced with hot brandy and a bannock and cheese.

“You’ll make me fat, Bessie!”

“That’d tak’ some doin’.”

He had already looked out several books that he intended to take with him and put them in a sack by the door. To the bag, Bessie had added a few victuals.

“I cannot bear to think you sleep outside like beggars, Ranald!” Our mother covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders were shaking.

He went to sit beside her on the
chaise longue
and comfort her. “It will be all right soon, Anne-Marie. I am trying to work something out. And, meanwhile, I shall not be sleeping outside after tonight. I was about to tell you. I have found employment in the palace.”

She removed her hands. “You have? Are you going to be a courtier to the
comte
, or his scribe?”

“No, I shall be doing something different.” Papa is good at sounding vague. Especially when he has something to conceal.

“In what way?”

“Helping, generally. They need help, with so many people lodging in the palace.”

“But you will work for the
comte
and his party?”

“I shall.”

“That’s wonderful,
chéri
! And you will be given a room to sleep in?”

“Indeed I shall. So I shall have a roof over my head by day and night.”

“Can we come and visit you then?”

“No, I don’t think that would be possible. They don’t encourage employees to have visitors. They have to be careful about security, with French spies in the country watching the count.”

“What do they want with him?”

“They’re watching in case he might try to raise an army. To help his brother Louis lay claim to the French throne.”

Our mother nodded. “I understand that. So, from tomorrow you have a bed in the palace?”

“Papa,” said William, “you must watch your time.”

The hands of the wall clock stood at twenty minutes before twelve. Our parents made their farewells and then William and I walked Papa up to the street. The carriages were back again, this time rolling in the opposite direction, downward.

“Can we come and see you tomorrow?” I asked.

“I shall try to come outside some time in the late afternoon but I cannot promise. My duties may prevent it. You might come after you finish your studies and see if I’m there. You must keep them up until my return.” Normally, he taught us. But these not being normal times, we would have to study by
ourselves.

Then I noticed the man. The messenger-at-arms with his ebony stick. He was waiting on the other side of the road.

“Look, Papa!” I cried.

“You’d better go!” urged William.

We quickly kissed him goodbye. As he moved off we saw that the messenger did too.

Papa was walking fast, going well ahead of his pursuer. With the going being downhill he should make it over the line, but with only a few minutes to spare. While we stood there another man with an ebony stick passed by in pursuit of his quarry.

“Do you think Papa really has a job in the palace?” asked William.

“Papa never lies.”

“That is true. So, in that case, he must have one.”

We resolved to go down to the palace the next day and look for him.

Maman was in a cheerful mood when we went back to her. “Is it not
merveilleuse
that your father is working for the Comte d’Artois? The
Comte
! Perhaps we shall now be able to buy some better meat.”

“Maman,” said William, “remember that the
comte
is living in the palace because he has no money. He owes millions of francs. I don’t know how much he’ll be able to pay Papa.”

“Ah, but Bessie tells me that the British government is to give him six thousand pounds a year for his living expenses.”

“Six thousand pounds,” we echoed.

“Why would our government give all that money to a citizen of
France
?” asked William.

“I do not like the tone of your voice, William. Let me remind you that I have come from France.”

“They don’t give you money.”

“They wouldn’t give any to Papa either, would they?” I put in. “And he pays taxes here.” Or he did, when he could.

“But, child, the
Comte
is a nobleman and brother of a former king of France, and possibly of the next king. He could not be allowed to starve.”

We let the subject drop because we know our mother is a great admirer of the French royal family. She’d been distraught when she’d heard of the execution of the king and queen; not that we were indifferent to it ourselves.

I am left thinking that if what Bessie says is true about the six thousand pounds then perhaps our father will earn enough money to pay off his debts. And then he would be able to come home.

I am about to go to bed, feeling more cheerful than I have since he entered Sanctuary.