The Sign of the Black Dagger (5 page)

It was half past eleven on Sunday morning. They had been watching the clock since they’d got up. Only half an hour was left for their father to turn up before they went to report him missing. They wouldn’t have far to go; the police station was just down the road. Their mother had gone out to a café to have coffee with Jane.

“Pity we don’t have Sanctuary now,” said Lucy. “At least William and Louisa knew where their dad was.” As their mother kept saying, it was the not knowing that made it all so difficult. And William and Louisa had been able to spend Sundays with their dad. This was promising to be a very slow Sunday.

At midday their mother returned, with Jane.

“When you talk to the police don’t start straight in about your dad’s debts in case they jump to conclusions,” advised Jane. “After all, that might not be the reason he’s gone. It’s important to keep an open mind.”

But Will and Lucy, thinking of the other Ranald Cunningham, felt convinced that it was.

“Take a photograph with you,” added Jane.

They rummaged amongst the photos in the various shoeboxes which they kept meaning to sort out one day but somehow never got round to. They found a good clear likeness of their dad standing on the beach at North Berwick holding a ball above his head, ready to throw to someone. One of them.
They didn’t have a plain head-and-shoulders photograph, apart from his passport one, which made him look like a thug. That was the last thing they wanted to take along to the police station. On the beach he looked handsome, and he was smiling.

Jane walked with them as far as the police station entrance and then left them, after warning them not to expect too much. “I doubt if they’ll have any information to give you.”

After they’d told the sergeant on the desk why they’d come, a friendly policewoman took them into a small stuffy room and seated them round a table. Their mother passed over the photograph.

“Looks like he didn’t have a care in the world there,” observed the constable.

“That was last summer,” said Lucy, remembering the bright sunny day and the fun they’d had playing ball. Afterwards they’d gone up the street to the chipper to buy fish and chips and come back to walk on the sand and eat them.

After the constable had written down all the basic details – the missing person’s name, age, address, profession, height, build, colouring – she asked each of them when they had last seen him. When she heard it was only two days ago she appeared to take their case less seriously.

“He might have had a weekend out with the boys and not been able to make it home. It’s been known.”

“That wouldn’t be like him,” said their mother. “He goes to the pub for an hour or two occasionally but he’s not much of a drinker.”

The policewoman shrugged. “We can all act out of character at times.”

Their mother had to admit that was true. Wherever their father had gone, or whatever he’d done, it was not in his
character, as they knew it.

“What was he wearing on Thursday morning when you last saw him?”

“Light fawn trousers, pale blue shirt – yes, I’m sure that’s what he had on – and a dark blue jacket.”

“No tie?”

“No.”

“Any distinguishing marks?”

It was mention of the latter that made Lucy begin to feel sick. She realised that they needed to know about distinguishing marks in case they found a body.

“Not really,” said their mother. “He did have a small scar on his forehead from when he fell off a bike when he was a kid.” She broke off, looking at Lucy. “Are you feeling all right, love?”

“Why don’t you go out and get some air, dear?” suggested the policewoman.

Lucy went out into the street and threw up in the gutter.

Meanwhile, back in the airless room, the constable was asking Will and his mother if they had any idea why Mr Cunningham might leave home voluntarily. “I’m presuming you don’t think he’s been taken against his will?”

“Of course not,” answered his wife hurriedly.

“He didn’t ever deal in anything illegal?”

She means drugs, thought Will indignantly. Maybe she thinks he’s been involved in a drug war and been made to disappear. “He would never do that,” he said.

“What about any other attachments?”

“If you mean another woman in his life,” said Will’s mother, two red spots burning brightly high up on her cheeks, “the answer is no.”

“You can be absolutely sure of that?”

“Yes,” said Will sharply.

“Let your mother answer for herself, son.”

“I’m pretty certain.”

“Pretty certain,” the policewoman was writing down.

She doesn’t believe half we’re telling her, thought Will.

“Why are you pretty certain, Mrs Cunningham? Men don’t always tell us wives what they’re up to.”

“Because we know why he’s gone. At least we
think
we do.”

“You do? I see.” The constable sat back.

“He was in debt.”

“Ah … Heavily?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me everything you know?”

When they had told everything the policewoman said she’d heard this story only too often before.

“They start by running up a credit card or a store card until it’s blocked, then they open another and begin all over again. It’s the slippery slope. It only leads downward, into a nightmare.”

Will felt his heart take a downward slide. He felt as if they were in the bottom of a pit without footholds to climb up by. How could their father ever get the money together to pay off his debts? How could
they
?

“Does he have a car?”

“No. We sold it six months ago, to economise. We don’t really need one, living in the centre of Edinburgh.”

“That was wise, at any rate. Not much else that he did seemed to be. I bet he was buying lottery tickets?”

Will remembered his dad checking the numbers online one day and had been surprised. He used to be dead against the lottery, saying it was a fool’s way to lose money.

The policewoman said they’d check the hospitals but they’d had no reports of any unidentified men being brought in over
the weekend. They would put his details on file and keep an eye out for him, but they couldn’t promise much. People went missing by the thousand every year.

“Mostly because they want to. They scarper when there’s trouble and start up a different life elsewhere. Or try to.”

“Our father’s not like that,” said Will.

“That’s good then, son. And listen, don’t give up hope. It’s only been two days. My bet is that he’ll turn up before long. He sounds like a good guy, just no good with money.”

“He
is
a good guy!”

“Let us know if he does turn up.”

They went outside to find Lucy leaning against the wall. She didn’t see them for a moment and jumped when she did.

“Try not to worry too much, love,” said her mother.

“You’re worrying though, aren’t you?”

“The policewoman says he’ll probably just turn up.”

“What does she know?”

“Coming for a walk, Luce?” said Will.

“Here!” Their mother took some money from her purse and gave it to Will. “Go and have a Coke or a hot chocolate or something.” She normally wouldn’t give them money to buy Coke. She thought it was bad for them.

They parted and Will and Lucy went to a nearby café where they had hot chocolate. It was such a cold day they needed warming up.

“I hope Dad’s not wandering about in this weather,” said Lucy, cradling her mug with both hands. Temperatures had been right down to zero in the last few days. “Shall we go and see if he’s been back to the chapel?”

They finished their drinks and carried on down the hill, past the palace, round Horse Wynd and into the park. A jogger puffed by, his breathing harsh, his breath white in the chill
air. The grass was frozen. The stalks felt stiff under their feet.

The ruin of St Anthony’s Chapel was as abandoned as it had been on their previous visit. Lucy went at once to the place in the wall where she had left their note. It was still there.

“He can’t have been here.”

“Pick it up,” said Will. “Let’s have a look. In case he’s left us a message.”

But he had not. There were the words that Lucy had written, a little blurred by damp, but nothing more. The slender link that they’d hoped they might have had with their father had snapped.

William

As soon as we had finished lunch – a hunk of bread with gravy left from yesterday’s stew – Louisa and I rose from the table and went to fetch our coats. We had worked hard at Latin and mathematics in the morning so our mother had said we could go. I think, too, she was eager for us to find out what work our father was doing for the
comte
.

“I expect he has been given employment because he speak French. His accent is very good for a Scotchman. The
comte
will have realised that your father is a man of learning. Unlike some of our neighbours!”

She does not care in particular for Mrs Alexander who keeps the Rook Tavern. Maman says the inn brings undesirable people into the close. One cannot deny that drunk men can be a nuisance. They are noisy and they urinate on the steps. Previously lawyers used to reside here and in other closes nearby but they have been moving out to go and live down in the New Town, which has wide, open streets, and the houses are only three or four storeys high. This is where Maman herself would like to live. Our father says he was born in this house, and here he will die.

“There is less stink down in the New Town,” says our mother.

It is true that the streets in the Old Town smell badly,
especially in the late evening when people shout “Gardy loo!” and empty the contents of their chamber pots out of the window. One has to make haste to get out of the way. The ordure then lies in the gutters until seven in the morning when the scavengers come with their wheelbarrows to clean it up. It is jokingly known as “the flowers of Edinburgh”! Maman is not amused. She is indignant, also, that people cannot even pronounce “Gardy loo!” correctly. It is a French phrase and should be “
Gardez
l’eau!
” Mind the water!

Not everyone in the street throws their waste out of the window, though. We do not. Bessie carries ours up to the street late at night when most people are abed. When our mother complains about the procedure our father retaliates by saying that some French toilet habits are no more hygienic.

If the smells are very bad we burn sheets of brown paper to neutralize them. And when we go out Maman insists on giving us little bundles of French lavender wrapped in muslin to hold in front of our noses. Louisa uses hers. I certainly do not – I hold my nose if the stench is overpowering.

Maman gave us each a lavender pouch now. Louisa put on her cloak which has a hood attached. Bessie fussed over my uncovered head and insisted on winding a woollen scarf twice around my neck, which I would unwind as soon as I reached the street. I hate anything tight at my neck. There had been a light fall of snow in the night. We were glad to think that our father would sleep tonight within the shelter of the palace.

Bessie gave me a parcel of bread and cheese to take to him.

“He won’t need that now, Bessie,” said our mother. “He will be fed well in the palace.”

“Best tae mak’ sicher.”

Bessie always likes to make sure.

A few white flakes were drifting out of the heavy sky as
we made our way down the hill. The street was more slippery than usual so we went carefully. There is always so much refuse lying around that one’s clothes get soiled if one falls. And of course we have fallen from time to time when running or playing tag. We have to do that out of sight of our mother!

Barefooted children were still out playing in spite of the cold day, scooping up snow and trying to make it into balls, even though no more than a skim lay on the ground. A boy tried to throw one at us but it fell apart in mid-flight.

There were still traders about in the High Street, though the Abbey Strand was virtually deserted, apart from a couple of caddies hanging around outside the taverns hoping a ‘laird’ might appear and give them a message to deliver. The sootyman came into sight with his brushes and bag of soot on his back, leaving a little trail of black behind him in the white snow. He gave us a wave as he headed up the hill. He had cleaned our chimneys only the week before.

There was no sign of our father at the palace. There was nothing we could do but loiter around the side gate and hope he might come out at some point.

An old woman in a ragged shawl came to speak to us. She eyed my parcel.

“Have ye ony food? I’m stairvin’.”

“It’s for our father,” said Louisa.

The woman looked at our clothes. “He’ll nae be stairvin’. Thon’s fine coats ye’re wearin’.” She stretched out a hand and fingered the cloth of Louisa’s cape. “Braw. Ye can spare a bite fer a puir oul wuman, surely?”

I broke off a piece of bread in the bag and gave it to her. I thought that what our mother had said would make sense. If Papa were employed in the palace he would be fed. But was he? The doubt still lingered and made me feel guilty that I
should think my father capable of lying.

A carriage swirled past us and inside we made out a woman and a boy of perhaps eleven or twelve years old.

“Thon’s the count’s lady friend, Madame de Polastron,” said our companion. “And her son, Louis. They say he’s the count’s son!”

“How do you know?” asked Louisa.

“I hear a’ the gossip in the tavern.” She told us that the Polastrons were living in a whitewashed house on the left of the chapel, at the entrance of Croft-an-Righ.

For a while nothing else happened. The snow thickened and now I was glad of the scarf Bessie had pressed on me. The woman in the shawl left us and we watched her go into one of the taverns; to beg a drink from somebody, we presumed. Our feet felt like ice blocks even though we stamped them hard and walked up and down. We were beginning to think we would have to go home when we saw a man coming towards the gate from within the palace grounds. He was on foot, and not grandly dressed, so we thought we could accost him. He looked as if he might be employed in the palace himself.

“Excuse me, sir,” I began.

He stopped and asked if he could be of any help. He seemed a genial fellow.

“We’re waiting for our father,” said Louisa. “He’s employed in the palace.”

“What’s his name?”

We told him and he frowned. “Don’t know him but then there’s dozens workin’ about the place, especially since the Frenchies came.”

“He just started today,” I said.

“What kind of work will he be doin’?”

“We’re not sure. He didn’t say.”

“He’s a scholar,” put in Louisa. “And he can write in French.”

“He might be a clerk to the count then.”

“He said he’d try to come out to see us but we don’t know how long to wait.”

“If ye hang on a wee while ye can come back in wi’ me. But first I’ve got an errand to do.”

“Would it be all right for us to come in?” I asked.

“Nae bother. There’s so many folk living in the palace, what wi’ the Frenchies and our own noblemen and their wives and children and servants, that nobody would notice ye.”

He told us to call him Tam and we walked with him up to Halkerstoun’s Wynd. He had come to place an order at Mr Charles the candlemaker’s for several dozen candles. He said he would take a box with him now and perhaps we, too, could each carry one? We readily agreed, for that would make us feel less conspicuous going into the palace. The remaining candles were to be delivered.

“And when am I to get my money?” demanded Mr Charles.

Tam shrugged. “That’s nae up to me. Ye can send yer bill.”

“I’m already owed plenty.”

In spite of that, grumbling somewhat, he gave Tam the candles.

The door opened behind us and I glanced round briefly to see who had come in. It was Monsieur Goriot.

Mr Charles was looking at Louisa and myself and frowning. “Are you not Ranald Cunningham’s children?”

“We are,” said Louisa, lifting her chin. I was feeling uneasy.

“He owes me money and all. Half the folk in Edinburgh do.” I wondered if that would apply to Monsieur Goriot too. We were about to leave when Mr Charles said, “Wait a minute till I get you his bill. I’ve already sent him one but he has neglected to pay.”

“I’m sorry,” said Louisa.

I kept silent. I dreaded to think in how many shops around the town we might be similarly greeted.

The candlemaker searched in a drawer and produced the bill. He put it into my hand. “Tell him I would appreciate an early settlement.”

I hoped that we would have a good supply of candles in the house for we would not be able to come back here to order more. At that moment I felt annoyed with my father that he should have been so bad at looking after his affairs. After all, I thought, the candlemaker also has to eat, and feed his children. As we passed Monsieur Goriot I stared hard at him wondering how many crowns Papa had actually ‘lent’ him. He stared back at me. I knew there would be no chance of him offering to repay any of Papa’s money. I left the shop with a jumble of feelings turning inside me.

We trudged behind Tam in blinding snow back to the palace. I could see only the shape of his back through the whirl of white. His footprints faded as fast as he left them. I looked back at Louisa. The boxes were heavy and I was worried that it might be too much for her but she seemed to be managing even though her feet were slipping.

We went through the gates and entered the palace by a rear door. The guard nodded, recognising Tam, and paid no attention to us. I could not help thinking that spies from France or elsewhere would find it fairly easy to gain access.

It was obvious that we were in the servants’ quarters. The passage was dingy and cold. We passed several servants, both male and female, going about their business, some of the latter carrying mops and pails. I supposed it would take a huge number of people to look after a place as big as this.

Tam led us through a doorway into a storeroom where we
deposited the boxes of candles. Two men were working there, sorting out sacks and boxes. Tam asked if they had come across a Ranald Cunningham working in the palace. They shook their heads.

“I’m busy the now so just tak’ a wee dander round yersel’s,” said Tam. “Ye might run into him.”

We thanked him and a little apprehensively did as he had suggested. But there were so many people around that perhaps we would not be noticed. We thought that our father, if he were employed as a clerk, would not be in the servants’ quarters, but in the main part of the palace. We found a door which, when we pushed it open, led us into a hall. It looked rather scruffy but it had gilt-framed pictures on the walls. As we stood wondering what to do, two men wearing wigs and well-cut coats and knee breeches came along chatting to each other. In French.

“
Bonjour
,” said one, as they passed us.

“
Bonjour
,” we chorused in return.

It seemed like a safe password to use.

We proceeded along the corridor, lit by flares on the walls. We glanced into rooms where the doors stood open and saw that everything was in a somewhat run-down state. Hangings were tattered and faded, carpets had holes in them, and the brocade chairs with the gilt legs looked in need of a clean. How Bessie would love to get her hands on them! It did not seem a very grand place for a royal nobleman, brother of the former king of France. But better than a gaol.

We met several other men in varying kinds of dress, some elegant and bewigged, others more ordinary, marking them out as servants. When anyone gave us a curious look we said, “
Bonjour
”. After we had said it three times, Louisa giggled. “They’ll think we’re part of the
comte
’s family.”

There was still no sign of our father.

“He might be behind one of the closed doors,” said Louisa.

“We can’t open any of those.”

“We won’t find out unless we look.”

“But we don’t know who might be in there. Even the
comte
himself.”

“I shall just say, ‘
Pardon!
’ very politely.”

And with that, Louisa, who is impetuous, opened the door and put her head inside. Then she said, “
Pardon!
” and closed it hurriedly.

“A sitting room,” she whispered. “Lots of people.”

The door opened again and out came a butler carrying an empty silver tray. He was rather grandly dressed for a servant, with flounces and silver-buckled shoes. Perhaps he was the head butler. He gave us a superior look.

“
Bonjour
,” we said, but he responded in English.

“Whit do the twa of ye want snoopin’ aboot in here? Ye dinne belong here, do ye? I’ve no seen ye afore.”

“We’re looking for our father,” I said.

“He is employed by the count,” added Louisa, tossing her head, annoyed, I could see, by the man’s disdainful air.

“Is that so?”

“His name is Ranald Cunningham,” I said.

“Niver heard of him,” said the man and he began to hustle us along the corridor, whilst keeping the silver tray balanced aloft on the palm of one hand. I could not help wishing that he would trip and the tray go shooting off into space. “I suggest ye ask doon the stairs where the skivvies work.”

He stopped at the door we had entered the corridor by previously, pushed it open and held it there until we had passed through, then he let it swing shut behind us. It struck me on the back.

“I am glad Papa is not working for him!” declared Louisa.

We wandered back along the corridor and into another one. What the man had said about skivvies lay uneasily on my mind though I said nothing to Louisa. We were approaching the kitchens. We could smell cooking and hear the clatter of pots. The door of the first room we came to was ajar. We stopped and looked in.

The light was bleak but we could make out two men in long canvas aprons standing in front of two big stone sinks, washing pots and pans. One of them was our father.

We turned immediately and walked swiftly back along the corridor and out into the winter afternoon. We knew that our father would not have wished us to see him.

As we were passing Jenny Ha’s tavern the door opened and out came a man whom I recognised, even in that poor light. He was the man who had accompanied our messenger-at-arms. He had a slanty eye, which was unmistakable. He recognised us, too.