Chapter Twenty-Four

Rory

Glasgow— Tuesday 14th August 1877

M r and Mrs Soutar lived in one of the newer, larger tenements in Shawlands on the South Side of the River Clyde. Mr Soutar was employed as a senior clerk in the local Camphill Bakery, while his son, Oscar, was an office junior in the Bank of Scotland in Queen Street. It was a delicate situation, and though Marianne and I had discussed how we'd set about it, as we reached the entrance to the close, I was on edge.

‘After seven years, if we are right, we may be able to give this family some answers if not all,' she said to me, as I raised my hand to knock the door. ‘This is the reason we are here in Glasgow, we must give it our full attention.'

It was the first oblique reference she'd made to last night. Though I'd ordered a dinner to be sent up to her before I went out for a walk to try to sort out the mess my head was in, she hadn't eaten a thing by the time I returned. I hadn't seen her until this morning, when she'd emerged from her room carrying her bonnet and gloves, and determined to talk to me about this visit and nothing else.

I introduced Marianne as my female assistant, for she'd had none of it when I suggested she could pretend to be my wife, and the Soutars seemed to accept this, son Oscar chiming in that he'd been reading all about Mrs Paschal, in Revelations of a Lady Detective. It took me a moment to work out he was referring to a work of fiction.

It was a heart-wrenching hour that we spent with the Soutar family. We already knew from my da's friend that Ada Soutar, their eldest child, had been reported missing around the same time as Lillian's body was found. Mr Soutar told us how much Ada had loved her job at Copland and Lye, one of the posh department stores on Sauchiehall Street that specialised in ladies' apparel.

She was always well turned-out thanks to the staff discount she got, her mother said. She was vain, her father said, and spent too much on frippery, but we must not be getting ideas, his daughter was a respectable young woman. Then he got upset, poor man, though he tried to hold himself together, blowing his nose and coughing, and saying he'd caught a cold paddling in the Clyde at the West Bay lido in Dunoon, which, to be fair, was highly plausible.

Mrs Soutar insisted on making us tea. After she brought in the tray, her husband produced the photograph of Ada, taken on her twenty-first birthday. She was looking primly at the camera, as they all do in those photographs, but you could see she had been a bonny lassie. The same bonny lassie that we'd pulled from Leith Docks, cut off in her prime of life, bearing another life that would never see the light of day. I had to clench my fists to mask my anger. A glance at Marianne showed me she was feeling the same surge of emotion. The waste of it. The pity of it. The senseless loss.

Which made me forget what I was feeling and turn my attention back to the ones who had suffered far more. We sombrely told them, the Soutar family, of their loss, and it was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. The tea remained untouched on the tray. We sat with them as the shock gave way to grief. We told them only what we'd agreed, Marianne and I, almost exactly what I'd been told to think had happened all those years ago. Ada had died by accident. She'd tripped and fallen into the docks. She'd hit her head. She hadn't suffered. This last element wasn't true, but there was nothing to be gained by hurting them further. They didn't ask too many questions, the family, and for that I was grateful.

When we left them, Mrs Soutar and Oscar were crying unashamedly. Mr Soutar, with his eyes red-rimmed, took both my hands in the fiercest of grips. ‘Thanks, Son,' he said. ‘We'll be able to get her a headstone now.'

Both Marianne and I were silent on the journey back into town, and I knew that she was thinking, like me, of the bereaved family we'd left behind. In the waiting room at Dundas Street station, I ordered us both another cup of tea we didn't want, and buns I knew we wouldn't eat. We were both of us aware of the conversation we knew we had to have too, but neither of us had the appetite for that either.

I told myself it was because I wasn't sure of my state of mind, but it was the opposite of that, and I was equally sure that the last thing I should do was discuss it. As to Marianne, for once I hadn't a clue what she was thinking, and as she was clearly determined that I shouldn't, I knew her well enough not to push her.

‘Well, we've done what we had to do,' I said. ‘I'm glad you were with me. I reckon it made all the difference to Mrs Soutar.'

‘We did the right thing, didn't we, in telling them their daughter was dead?'

‘I had the proof the minute I saw the photograph.' I shivered, remembering the same woman lying prostrate on the side of Leith dock.

‘Don't dwell on that, Rory,' Marianne said. ‘Ada's family can grieve for her now. You heard her father. They will have a headstone erected for her in their church graveyard. She was much missed. She won't be forgotten. You have given them that much.'

‘ We have.'

‘I have contributed very little.'

‘That's nonsense. I wouldn't even have gone back to the case if it weren't for you.' I reached for her automatically, it had become a habit with me so quickly it was scary. Midway, I remembered, and I picked up my teacup instead.

She pretended not to notice. ‘What next though, Rory?'

‘I don't know. We know more about Ada, also thanks to you.'

‘The "fancy rich gentleman admirer" that her mother told me about when we were in the scullery together. They must have had somewhere where they met regularly, don't you think?'

‘It could be he had a flat, or rooms in the West End. Ada let fall to Oscar that she'd been taking walks in the Botanic Gardens. He couldn't understand why she'd go all the way from the South Side to the West End, when there was a big new park on her doorstep.'

‘And Mrs Soutar was convinced that he was a successful business man, something to do with property. She couldn't tell me how she arrived at that conclusion. It must have been something that Ada let drop, or that she overheard, and she put two and two together.'

‘A bit like you do yourself,' I said. ‘And you managed to get Mrs Soutar to admit she knew her daughter was expecting a baby. Neither the father nor the son had any idea about that.'

‘Mrs Soutar was very keen that they never do. She has kept that secret for so long, if her husband found out now, it would make matters between them unbearable.'

‘Soutar won't hear a bad word against his daughter,' I said. ‘Every time I tried to ask him if she was walking out with anyone he bristled. Too much, actually. I reckon he must have some idea, after all. Maybe he noticed more than his wife realised and like her, kept silent.'

‘Poor Mrs Soutar is heartbroken. The last thing Ada told her was that she was going to find the baby's father and force him to take care of her. She made her mother promise she'd keep the situation secret until she came home. But of course she never did come home.'

Marianne's eyes filled with tears. I wanted to comfort her, but she was already dabbing at her eyes, glaring at me as if to say, don't you dare. ‘Did Mrs Soutar rate her daughter's chances of success?'

‘The fact that Ada wouldn't tell her the man's name made her suspicious. I think that both she and Ada suspected it was not his real name.'

‘So he was likely married?'

Marianne nodded. ‘I'm afraid that makes horrible sense. It was Ada's words. She wanted him to "take care of her".'

‘Not marry her, do the decent thing? You're right, the words are telling.'

‘What do you think she did expect though, if not marriage?'

‘Money? Somewhere decent for herself and the bairn to live? I don't know, it could have been anything.'

‘But what she actually got—oh, Rory, she didn't deserve that.'

‘No. My sex never cover themselves in glory, where you are concerned, do they?'

She flinched, paled. ‘I don't blame you for last night, if that's what you mean. There is no need to inform me once again that you are sorry.'

‘I didn't mean—I was referring to the bigamy case you told me about. As for last night...'

She shook her head violently. ‘We are discussing Ada.'

We would need to discuss Marianne and Rory soon, but she was right. ‘So, we've got a man who's more than likely married, who might be a property developer, who did a bunk when he discovered that Ada was expecting his child.'

‘Does did a bunk mean he ran off?'

‘It does.'

‘But if he was well to do, why didn't he "take care of" Ada and the child before he left?'

‘It's a good question. Perhaps he didn't know about the child. What's clear to me now that we've met them is that the Soutar family are not likely to benefit from knowing that their daughter was murdered.'

Marianne had been turning her cup around in its saucer without drinking the contents. At this, she looked up. ‘Even if we discover who did it?'

‘It's not going to bring Ada back, is it? As things stand, no matter what they suspect, they can paint a picture for themselves and their family and friends too, if they want, that doesn't slander their wee lassie. Think about it, Marianne, they didn't ask us what she was doing in Leith, or even Edinburgh, for that matter. Mrs Soutar told you some of her thoughts, but Mr Soutar went out of his way not to ask. That's what been bothering me, now I come to think of it. It was his lack of questions.'

‘So he does know more than he admitted to?'

‘Like I said, he probably noticed Ada was pregnant, but he was sticking his head in the sand, hoping that someone else would deal with the situation.'

‘Which poor Ada was trying to do. But what about poor Rory?' Marianne asked with a sad smile. ‘You still want to know the truth, don't you? To know why your name was blackened? After all this time...'

‘After all this time,' I said slowly, ‘I'm beginning to think it doesn't really matter that much at all. We've given the family some peace of mind, so they can stop wondering. Right now, I'm thinking that might be enough for me too.'

There were other things on my mind. One in particular, sitting opposite me. Whatever we said at the time, what happened between us yesterday mattered a great deal more than it should have, and it had to be dealt with. I checked my watch and saw to my relief that our train was due. ‘It's time we went. Mind now, the platform will be busy.'

‘I am prepared for it this time, thank you.'

She marched off, making it clear that she too had been thinking about last night, and she wasn't' ready to talk about it either. I threw some coins down on the table, cursing under my breath for she was almost immediately enveloped in a cloud of smoke. I grabbed hold of her, just as she clutched at me. ‘Rory.' She sounded relieved but unsurprised. She tucked her hand into my arm.

We travelled First Class. It was a calculated risk, for there might be a fellow traveller that recognised me, but I hadn't slept a wink last night, and I doubted Marianne had either. The last thing we needed was two hours on a wooden bench exposed to the driving rain that was falling that typical summer's day. We had the carriage to ourselves.

Marianne pretended to be asleep. I passed the journey trying to decide what to do or not do about the tangle I'd got myself into, and in the end I opted to wait until I got back to my digs. If there was a telegram from the Marquess then that at least took one of the decisions out of my hands. It was procrastinating, but I told myself it wasn't, and turned my mind back to Ada Soutar's murder.

Money, as usual, was what it almost certainly came back to. Someone from Edinburgh with enough money to invest in building property in the West End of Glasgow. Someone who maybe had installed his lady friend in one of them. Someone who had completed his business in Glasgow, and scarpered back home, maybe in the knowledge that he was leaving his lady friend carrying his child and his empty promises behind, maybe oblivious to the situation. Someone wealthy and powerful enough to pay someone to make the problem go away. And to have me dealt with as well, when I looked like I might be getting too close—not that I had, but I would have if they'd let me, they had been right to worry.

Edinburgh was a big city and I'd been away seven years, but I doubted the cream at the top of society had changed much. By the time we reached Waverly, I had drawn up a list in my head of possible candidates. Would I do anything to pursue it? Seven years, I'd been waiting to get this close. Seven years, I'd been nursing a grudge, letting it gnaw away at me, and wondering why what had happened to me had happened. The list in my head was a short one, but what good would it do me? There was no evidence. What's more, after seven years I was scunnered thinking about it. I had other, more pressing matters on my mind.

Marianne wanted to make her own way home. Like me, she clearly wanted to be alone with her thoughts, so I didn't protest, much as I wanted to. I knew I had some life-changing decisions to make, and we'd reached a temporary impasse between us, but the moment she started to walk away, all I wanted was to have her by my side.

I didn't go straight back to my digs. I decided that after all I didn't want a telegram or lack of a telegram from the Marquess to decide my fate, I wanted it to be my own decision. So I took myself off, up Salisbury Craggs in the rain.

I reached the top in record time, head down, marching up, until I arrived out of breath and soaked to the skin. There was no view to speak of today, you could hardly see Duddingston, never mind Leith, so there was nothing to distract me, and not a soul about save for the gulls and the crows.

First things first. There was no denying it, no dancing around it, no more trying to kid myself on. I was in love with Marianne. Deeply, head over heels, desperately in love with Marianne for ever. How did I know, when I'd never been in love before? I just did, simple as that. What happened to all my, I'm too old to fall in love, I'm not the type to fall in love reasons? Easily answered. I'd never fallen in love before because I hadn't met the right person. If I hadn't met Marianne, I would still be the type that didn't fall in love. She was the only one for me. No one else would do. Like I said, simple.

Simple if only it wasn't such a bloody tangle. I was in love. The one straightforward thing I could say to her. I love you. God help me, I'd near enough said it yesterday when I was making love to her. And I'd been making love. That was the thing that hit me like a ton of bricks afterwards. I mean, really making love, to the woman I was in love with. I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the rain, and I let myself wallow in every perfect moment of it.

And it had been perfect, for her as well as me. That's not me bragging, that's just something else I knew in my heart, as if she'd told me herself. It had been perfect. Like nothing else before for either of us. It was it being so perfect that made those other times so irrelevant. I didn't want to think of her with another man any more than I wanted to think of myself with another woman, but it didn't matter. For me, she was the only one, as if there hadn't ever been anyone else before. And there wouldn't be anyone after.

Not even her?

Especially not her! I came out of my dwam to find it was tipping it down again, so I cowered under the crags for shelter. Time to come back down to earth. What the devil had I been playing at yesterday? Or with? Fire, that's what, and now I'd been well and truly and deservedly burned, for I'd paid no heed to the many warnings I'd issued to myself.

I'd known that it was a mistake to stay over in Glasgow, but I'd done it anyway. I'd known that I was lying to myself, when I agreed we were only ‘making the most of the situation'. How many times since we first met had I sworn to myself that I wouldn't kiss her again, then by some tortuous logic, allowed myself to carry on in her company until I couldn't resist her. Me, the detective who prided myself on being able to second-guess everyone's motives, I'd been blind when it came to myself.

But there's only so much self-lacerating you can do. It was done, and I'd done it to myself. Question was, what to do for the best. No, the first question was, what was Marianne thinking? How did she feel? She didn't love me. Did she? She certainly didn't want to love me. And even if she loved me now, at this moment, would she still love me after she found out the truth? Would she think I'd been pretending to fall in love with her when all the time I was actually in love with her inheritance?

No way! Bloody hell, surely she couldn't believe that of me. But if I asked her to marry me before I told her about the money—no, I couldn't do that. Then if I asked her to marry me after I told her about the money—no, I couldn't do that either. What's more, I was losing sight of something even more important. This was about Marianne, and who she was, and the shock she was going to get when she found out. When I told her. That was one decision made. Whatever the Marquess decreed, I was going to be the one who told her. I owed her that.

In the end, it actually was simple. There was no hope. Even if she would have considered marrying me right now, with none of these other things hanging over us, I doubted that she would consider it. She'd been crystal clear that she didn't want a husband, just as I had been crystal clear that I didn't want a wife. Unless it was Marianne.

I was going round and round in circles, and my head was aching as if I'd dunted it on the crags. And here's the thing—yet another thing. Marianne wasn't Marianne. She was Lady Mary Anne Westville. Heiress. Who, if all went well, would do wonderful things with her money, and who deserved to be free to do whatever she wanted, after all she'd suffered. Whatever her plans were, I would play no part in them.

Yesterday, I shouldn't have made love to her, but having done so, I shouldn't have said I was sorry afterwards. I wasn't sorry. It was wrong of me, and the memories would likely eat me up later, but I wasn't sorry. In my own way I'd demonstrated how I felt. I'd always have that.

There was a crack of thunder, followed quickly by a fork of lightning over Duddingston way and another long roll of thunder. We were in for a spectacular storm. The sensible thing now would be to sit it out, but I seemed to have turned into someone incapable of being sensible, lately. I pulled up the collar of my already sodden coat, and began to head back down the hill.