Chapter Thirteen

Marianne

Edinburgh— Wednesday 8th August 1877

T hose vile memories of the asylum had caught me unawares as I sat in Princes Street Gardens earlier that day. Usually I never allow them to creep up on me in the daylight. Was there a reason for that particular memory to have forced itself upon me? A reminder to trust no one? Or more specifically, not to trust Rory?

Rory was not Francis, the comparison was repellent, but I forced myself to compare them all the same. I had to, for the sake—literally—of my own sanity. Francis was the first and only man I had ever trusted, and that had proved a catastrophic decision. My judgement, my intuition, the tried-and-tested ability that I had relied upon my whole life had failed me.

I had trusted him with my heart and my body. I was on the brink of trusting him with the rest of my life when I finally saw through him. He betrayed me, yes, he did, but he could not have done so had I not failed myself. I had confided in him, I revealed my true self to him, and he turned it all against me.

Was I making the same mistake again, in thinking I could trust Rory? From the first, I felt I could trust him. With Francis—oh, I could not remember. Did I even ask myself that question? I was a different person then, singularly lacking any experience of being loved and embarrassingly ready, on reflection, to fall head over heels. Francis had desired me. He wanted to marry me. I sensed both those things so fiercely, and yet I must have been mistaken. He had kept his true, vindictive nature hidden from me until I refused to marry him and he revealed his true colours.

No, Rory wasn't like that. I felt none of that desperate need there had been from Francis, nor did I feel that I was being carried along by the force of his feelings. It was the force of my own feelings for Rory that confused me. He was an attractive man, why shouldn't I be attracted to him? But it was more than that. He listened to me—another thing that Francis had never done. He was interested in what I had to say—too interested, sometimes. He unsettled me, but not in a threatening way.

And then there was this persistent conviction I had, that I was meant to know him. I could trust him, but that didn't mean I would confide in him. I could acknowledge my attraction to him, but that certainly didn't mean I would give in to it, and I most certainly would never, ever fall in love with him or any man for that matter. So why should I not do what I believed I was meant to do, and indulge this compulsion I had for his company? My release from my duties with Mrs Oliphant for two weeks was fortuitous timing.

Having decided to surrender to my destiny, I was not in the least surprised to see Rory loitering near St Giles. I spotted him from the other side of the Lawnmarket, at the same time as he spotted me. ‘I was hoping to bump into you,' he said, when I crossed the High Street to join him.

‘I was hoping the same thing, though I'm not sure I wish to hold another whispered conversation inside the Kirk.'

‘Nor I. It's a pleasant evening. I know somewhere close at hand where we won't be disturbed.'

He led the way down Victoria Street, and then at the head of the Grassmarket, turned left on to Candlemaker's Row and through the gate which brought us into the lower reaches of the graveyard attached to Greyfriars Kirk. Behind the walls, the noise and bustle of the city disappeared, leaving us alone in the peace of the old burial ground.

‘I used to like coming here for a break when I found myself in the vicinity back in the day,' he said, leading the way along a path that led to the right. There's a spot up by the old Flodden Wall that I particularly liked. There's an odd little crypt, simply built like a stone outhouse. Trotter of Mortonhall, it says. I've often wondered who or what the family were.'

We reached the place a few moments later, and stopped to perch beside each other on one of the many overturned tombstones. Behind the walls of the cemetery some of the older tenements loomed, but inside the walls it was silent save for the birds and the rustle of the leaves in the few trees. I was angled towards him, my skirts brushing his leg. He had pulled off his hat and gloves, setting them down behind him, and was frowning down at his hands. His nails were neatly trimmed, his hands were very clean, but the knuckles were rough and scarred. ‘Is life as a private detective as violent as it was as a policeman?' I asked him.

He shook his head. ‘These are all old,' he said, indicating his hands. ‘The people who can afford to employ me are very different from the types I was once employed to capture.'

‘What sort of cases do you solve?'

‘A multitude of different things, but in the end, it nearly always comes down to money. Money stolen. Money contested. Money made. Money lost. Though it's not nearly as boring as it sounds,' he added with a twisted smile. ‘Usually there's a puzzle to be solved, and that's what I like. As well as putting things to rights, of course. I've an orderly mind.'

‘Does your current case involve putting things to rights?'

I thought at first he wouldn't answer me, but after a moment he sighed heavily. ‘I sincerely hope so.'

‘Are you making good progress?'

He gave me a look I could not interpret. I had the feeling that he was on the verge of saying something, but then changed his mind. The man who solved puzzles for a living was a puzzle for me, and that, I confess, made me more determined than ever to try to understand him. ‘It's been put on hold for a couple of weeks as a matter of fact,' he told me. ‘There's a piece of the puzzle that needs clarifying. Until it is, the man who is paying me wants me to hold fire.'

‘You find that—frustrating?' It was more of a guess than a supposition.

‘A wee bit, because I don't like it when I'm having to wait on someone else doing something, but it's more—ach, I don't really like being told what to do, I suppose it's that,' he said, smiling ruefully. ‘Though in this case, it makes sense.'

‘But you are troubled, all the same?' I ventured, feeling on more certain ground.

‘It matters. I want to get this one right. I mean, I want to get every case right, but this one—it matters more than it should.'

‘Are you worried that you will fail?'

He gave me another of those strange looks. ‘I'm determined not to.'

‘Is there a chance—?'

‘I've said more than enough,' he interrupted, his tone making it very clear that the subject was closed. ‘I don't fail. I never fail. That's why I'm in such demand.'

‘You make a good living, then?' I asked, accepting the change of subject.

‘More than I know what to do with, considering there's only me.'

‘That might not always be the case,' I said, surprised to discover that I wasn't very keen on the idea I had mooted.

No more was he, for he shook his head vehemently. ‘I'm not the marrying kind, if that's what you mean. I'm already married to my work, there's no room in my life for anyone else.'

‘But what about family? You must have some?'

‘None that I'm in touch with. I was an only child, and so too were my ma and my da.'

‘M'aither?' I ventured.

‘Not a bad attempt, but it's softer, and the "r" rolls. M'aither .'

I repeated the word, but with no greater success. ‘Have you ever been to the Highlands?'

‘Once, when I was wee, I went for a few weeks to stay on Harris with my— m'aither's cousins. I remember the beach, the sand like silver and the sea the colour of turquoise, with a mountain range on the horizon that was the mainland. I couldn't get my head around that, that I was looking down on Scotland. The sun shone the whole time we were there—or that's what I remember, any road. My da told me that was almost unheard of up there.'

His face had taken on a distant look. His smile had softened. Happiness warmed him, as if he was basking in the sunshine of the Highlands again. I wanted to step into that world with him. I wanted to feel the warmth of happiness make my skin glow. ‘It sounds wonderful,' I said.

‘There was a wee gang of us weans that played together every day. We built a fire on the beach, and cooked the biggest crabs you've ever seen in your life in an old pot filled with sea water. I hadnae a clue how to go about eating it, and they all laughed at me for trying to bite through the shell. Have you ever tasted crab? It's not a bit like fish. Sweet as a nut, it is. And mussels too, so soft, like a burst of the sea in your mouth, have you ever tried them?'

‘You're making me want to.'

‘Then there was the fish we caught from the end of the harbour wall. You could swim in the harbour too, the water was much warmer there, that's where I learned, but you had to be careful not to get caught out when the tide turned. That's one of the many things all the other weans knew but I didn't. I didn't know how to light a peat fire, or how to stack the stuff, or how to shear a sheep, or even the right bait for the fish, depending on what we wanted to catch. They made me feel a right eejit, a peely-wally wee runt from the city, but I learned fast. Not that I've had occasion to practise any of it since, mind.'

‘It sounds idyllic, even though you were a—a peely-wally...'

‘It means pale. I was wind-burned and sun-tanned by the end of the holiday, so I stood out just as much, when I went home.'

‘Why have you never gone back? You clearly loved your visit.'

His smile faded. ‘School. Then work. Life got in the way. When my ma died, my da always said that we should pay another visit, but I never found the time.'

‘You wish you had,' I said, though once again I didn't mean to say so aloud.

‘But I didn't,' he said bitterly, ‘and I try not to waste my time on what might have been. Look, Marianne, I don't know how we came to be talking about my childhood...'

Marianne. The way he said my name warmed me, though he didn't seem to have noticed the slip. Was it because I occupied his thoughts? Did he dream of me as I had of him—no! I could not allow myself to go down that path. ‘I asked,' I said. ‘I am interested.'

‘I never talk about myself like that.'

The admission reassured me, for he loosened the guard I usually had on my own tongue. ‘What did you wish to talk to me about then? You were waiting for me at St Giles. Couldn't it wait until the morning, when you take your coffee in the Grassmarket?'

To my surprise, he scowled. ‘I won't be taking my coffee there in future. I've been spotted,' he added, in answer to my unasked question. ‘Your Flora, whose name is actually Katy, reported me to a former acquaintance.'

‘What!' Instinctively, I grabbed his arm. ‘She told the police you are here? But how did she know who you are?'

‘Not the police. She didn't know anything about me, save that I was a stranger and had become a regular at the tavern. She told a man called Billy Sinclair. He had his finger in a good many criminal pies during my time here, but essentially he was a thug. He's moved up in the criminal world since I left Edinburgh, though. These days, I reckon he pays others to do that aspect of his business.'

That Flora, who was actually Katy, was some sort of informer, I put to one side for later consideration. ‘Did he threaten you, this man?'

‘No, he had come to give me a bit of friendly advice, for old times' sake. To get out of Edinburgh, before someone else found out I was here, in other words.'

My fingers tightened around his arm. ‘Mr Sutherland...'

He took my hand from his arm and enveloped it in his. ‘Won't you call me Rory? I've already called you Marianne.'

So he had noticed! ‘Rory.' Our eyes met, and I forgot what I was going to say. Through my skirts, I could feel his knee pressing against my leg. His head bent towards mine. My heart began to pound.

‘Marianne.' With his other hand, he touched my cheek. The lightest of touches, tracing a path down to my jaw. ‘I've been thinking.'

‘Yes?' I leaned closer, the better to hear what he was going to say.

‘What is it about you?' His fingers fluttered down my neck, settling on my nape, at the gap between my gown and my hair. ‘You make me say things—tell you things—talk to you.'

I could feel his breath on my cheek. ‘I've been thinking about that too.' My body was urging me closer, an irresistible force was tugging at me, so that when I spoke our mouths were almost touching. ‘This is going to sound odd, but I feel we were meant to meet for some reason.'

‘It doesn't sound odd.' His lids were heavy. His breath was like mine, rapid, shallow. ‘I mean it does sound odd, but it doesn't feel odd.'

I gave in to the temptation to place my free hand on his cheek, smoothing the palm of my glove over his skin, my heart beating faster as my touch made him shudder. ‘I have two weeks' holiday, as of today.'

He groaned softly. ‘I wish you hadn't told me that.'

‘Don't you want me to...?'

‘Oh, there's lots of things I would like you to do, Marianne.'

He said my name so softly. He leaned into me, closing the last tiny little gap between us. I felt the warmth of his lips on mine, the merest brush, and then he took my hand and leaned back. I was crushingly disappointed, but he didn't let go, unbuttoning my glove, peeling it back, finger by finger, and I forgot everything save the anticipation of what he would do next.

When he lifted my hand to his mouth, I almost cried out my pleasure at the softness of his lips on my palm, the gentlest of kisses, my fingers drawn into his mouth, relishing the heat that shimmered from his touch, making my stomach clench. I could see my wanting reflected in his eyes. I could feel my own yearning reflected back from him. What on earth was I doing? I asked myself, but I didn't really care.

Save that he had obviously asked himself the same question. He let me go reluctantly, but he let me go. ‘We simply can't be doing this!' he said firmly.