Chapter Five

Rory

Edinburgh— Friday 3rd August 1877

W hat an eejit I'd been, sitting there on that bench skulking behind my newspaper without a plan. Back at my digs, once I'd calmed down a bit, I saw that the time had come to stop messing about and act. Mrs Crawford, she called herself when she registered with the employment agency here, three years ago. If she was married, it made things a hell of a lot simpler in one sense, but if Mrs Crawford was Marianne Little, she couldn't possibly be married. Crawford also happened to be the surname of the woman who had helped her gain her freedom. Having spoken to her now and re-examined the various photographs, I knew I'd found her, and I sent my employer a telegram telling him so.

The conversation that morning had added fuel to the fire of my wanting to know the woman better. It wasn't only the strength of character she must have to survive, I wanted to know what made her tick. She fascinated me. Aye, that was it, fascination, a good word, for it was more than physical attraction. That I could have ignored easily enough, until the case was done and dusted, and I could return to London. I'm not a saint, I enjoy the company of women, when I have the time and inclination for it. That sounds callous. It's not. I know my limitations, they were brought home to me by a woman in this very city. I'm a man who enjoys physical intimacy, but I'm not the domestic kind. I made the mistake of thinking I was, once. I make no promises these days, I keep company with women who don't require promises. Was that callous? I prefer to think it's being honest.

Any road, what I was feeling for Mrs Crawford wasn't like that. It was more a—I don't know, something more basic and at the same time, something more—more like a pull. I'm not going to say anything daft, like she was meant for me, because that would be bloody stupid, but I was right taken with her. She wasn't what I'd expected. Her wry sense of humour, for a start. After what she'd been through, I expected—well, someone more bleak, I suppose. Her experiences must have scarred her, but she hid the scars very well.

I knew some of what she'd been through, from the real Mrs Crawford, the woman that Marianne Little took her name from. It had taken me a couple of weeks to get to that point in my search. As usual when you're looking for someone or something, it's about knowing who to ask and what to look for. Was she dead, was she married, the woman I had been tasked with finding? Parish records are a slog to wade through, and back in the day, when I worked here in Edinburgh, it was a task that was always delegated to the newest and most junior member of the team—provided they could read, of course.

I never delegated. You can tell someone to check this name and see if they're on the burial list, or see if they're married, but that's all they'll do, and in my experience, it's just as often what you find that you're not looking for that's important.

In a way, that's what happened with Marianne Little. I was in the right parish, and I was looking at the right registers, but there wasn't a trace of her, alive or dead. My next call was the parish priest, a new appointment, but he put me on to his predecessor, and there was a man who liked to talk, especially if you had the foresight to bring a bottle of his preferred tipple. Which I did. It was he who remembered the scandal of the woman some branded a witch. It was he who pointed me in the direction of the York institution.

Dealing with the men in charge of those places requires a different approach. You can't come out and tell them what it was you want or they'll start harping on about confidentiality and patient privacy. Places like that, what they're always in need of was money. New inmates or new funding, and if you offer the possibility of both it gets you through the door. I can put on a posh accent. I can play the gentleman if required. And I'm very, very good at leading a conversation down a certain path.

That's the other thing about those professional men. They like the sound of their own voices. They like to expound their theories. And in doing that, they tell you about their cases. Marianne Little was one of their failures, though the man I spoke to didn't put it that way, needless to say. Incurable, he said of her, and not suited to their trusting environment. What he meant was, she'd escaped, and the man who paid to keep her locked up had caused a stooshie. That's when I got the proof I'd been looking for. The signature on the papers of the man who paid her bills was the man I'd suspected from the first. It was no surprise to discover that it was all about the money, but I can't tell you the blind fury that took hold of me, seeing that name.

I nearly gave myself away, but when I'd calmed down and rid myself of the very pleasant image I had of throttling him, I got things back in perspective. He was oblivious of the fact we were on to him, and like to remain so. Once I'd found his victim and got her safe, assuming she was still alive, then I'd find out how he managed to get her locked up. Then I'd have all I needed to get him locked up in return. But for now, that could wait.

Marianne Little had been transferred to somewhere distant and secure. That was my next port of call, and it was there that I discovered she'd managed to free herself. My heart soared at that news. I wanted to cheer. I struggled to keep the smile off my face as I listened to the man in charge of that much larger institution, who clearly bore a grudge against her. He had been hoping to publish a ground-breaking paper. He had been planning on making his name by curing her. She'd let him down badly by escaping. I could tell he knew nothing about how, and it was clear he didn't care what had happened to her either. I had to sit there for another half-hour listening to him going on about his next pet project, and fervently hoped that he or she would blight his ambition by escaping too.

I'd seen enough of the place by then to work out it would take some doing to get out of it, which meant the woman I was looking for must have had help. It was by trawling through the local press that set me on the right track this time. Another escape around about the time I reckoned Marianne Little disappeared.

A man, poor soul, he was once Queen Victoria's piper, and had convinced himself he was her husband. He was last seen on the banks of the River Nith and it was assumed he had been swallowed up by the quicksands. The search for him had involved nearly every member of staff at the institution, so it would have been the perfect diversion. I tracked down Mrs Crawford easily enough since she was in charge of the most secure female ward, but persuading her to talk was more difficult.

I knew better than to offer her money. If she'd risked her position to help an inmate escape, she must have had a very strong motive for doing so. She was prickly when I mentioned Marianne Little, and by that time I was prickly enough myself about what had happened to the poor woman and what she'd been put through. It was gie easy for me to let fall enough sense of the disgust I felt to set her off on the injustices of the case. Mrs Crawford was adamant that Marianne Little had been held unfairly and unnecessarily, and I counted her opinion considerably higher than any of those in charge of the institution, who were happy to bend the truth to fit their desire to keep banking the fees and donations. Besides, I knew what Mrs Crawford did not, the real reason why Marianne Little was being locked up.

Knowing when to take a risk with someone, when to trust them, was vital in my job. So I told Mrs Crawford the bare bones of why I wanted to find the woman she'd helped escape, and I let her see enough of the proof to assure her that Marianne Little's fortunes were going to change radically, if only I could find her. Thanks to Mrs Crawford, I then had a city, an employment agency, and a fairly accurate date. It wasn't long before I found the woman herself. Alive and looking very well indeed, to my immense relief and delight.

So there I sat, having my coffee that morning in Edinburgh's Grassmarket, mulling over what to do next. Against the odds, I'd found the woman I had been paid to find. Marianne Little had been judged and condemned without a trial, just like me. I hadn't suffered anything like what she had, but the fact we had that in common added to her appeal—I could see that. It was also a very big part of my determination to see justice done for her, make sure the bastard responsible for what he'd put her through paid the price for what he'd done.

Four years of suffering he'd inflicted on her. Four years of being held unjustly, treated in ways that would make your blood run cold. Once I'd done collecting the evidence against him, he'd be locked up for the rest of his wretched life. Meantime, he was carrying on oblivious of the clock counting down his remaining days of freedom, and what I had been instructed to do was think about what might be the best way of going about informing Marianne Little of her change in circumstances and pending good fortune.

Think about it, but don't do it, thank the stars. I wasn't much more than a complete stranger to her, and it was all going to be a huge shock. Did she know anything of her heritage? Very little, would be my guess, so what she was going to hear would pull the rug from under her. I had the proof of it, it wasn't a case of her not believing me, but would she listen? And if she did, what would it do to her? She seemed strong-willed, but it was clear to me, from the way she hid herself away from the world, from her wariness every time she left the sanctuary of her rooms in the Grassmarket, that she was still looking over her shoulder. She'd escaped, but she wasn't free. She was much more vulnerable and fragile than she appeared.

What's more, if she was going to lay claim to her real heritage, the press would be all over it, for it's not often a lost peeress was rediscovered. The sorry tale of her recent past was bound to come out too, especially if she was to give evidence against the man who had locked her up. I knew what it was like to find your name all over the press. Just thinking about how she might react to that gave me the heebie-jeebies, because all my instincts told me she'd run for the hills, and then I'd be back to where I started from.

It would need to be done sensitively, in a way that didn't make her take fright and bolt. I'd need to get her to talk to me, find out what she knew, what she didn't and fill in some of the gaps. And how was I going to do that, when she'd already turned down my suggestion of meeting up again? Though on reflection it seemed to me, she hadn't done so very convincingly, and that gave me hope. The obvious thing would be to sit in Queen Street Gardens again, but there were several reasons for not doing the obvious thing. I needed to speak to her on her own, without the children to distract her, and without putting her on her guard.

Then there was my most ardent desire to avoid becoming an object of interest to the locale's regular policeman. I doubted very much that any of the constables on their beats would know me, they'd all have retired, moved on or moved up, but if the man was worth his salt, he'd notice me. It was what a good policeman did, took note of strangers, kept an eye out for anything unusual, and the more conscientious among them—which was most, in my experience—took notes. Last, but certainly not least, was my desire to avoid the New Town when possible. Despite the passing years, the risk of sticking my head above the parapet was real, the potential consequences genuinely fatal.

And then there was the woman herself. She seemed to be quite content with the life she had made in this city. Just as I had done myself, she'd forged it from the ashes of another life, out of necessity. It was nothing short of a miracle that she'd done so. If any of the families who had entrusted her with their children's well-being got so much as a sniff of her recent past, there would be hell to pay—and she'd already been to hell and back. Mind you, if any of them discovered that they'd been employing a peeress as their governess, that would be a whole other story in the newspapers.

The more I thought about the situation, the more complicated it seemed to me. She'd escaped, she hadn't been released. Once the full story came to light and the wheels of justice were set in motion, there was no chance that the private institution she'd escaped from would want her back, but she'd be branded as an ex-inmate for ever. The press would have a field day with that one, and she—I swear, when I thought of what she would have to go through in front of a judge and jury, it made me sick to my stomach.

Was I making too much of it? At the end of the day, what she would hear from whoever told her in the end was life-changing—and I mean seriously life-changing. Provided the legalities could be ironed out, that was. I sighed, not for the first time wishing that at least one bit of the situation was simpler. Baby steps, I said to myself. That's what I'd take with her. Edge forward, but slowly. That was the only sensible approach.

I threw some coins down on the table and headed out into the Grassmarket, scanning the crowd first. Better safe than sorry. I'd stretch my legs and clear my head. There were so many parts of the city I'd be wise to avoid, but up on Salisbury Crags, I'd be unlikely to meet anyone I knew. And the view from Arthur's Seat over the city spread out below me in all its glory had always been one that did my heart good.

My walk blew away the cobwebs, and gave me an appetite, but the only plan I came up with was to try to bump into Marianne Crawford on her way home from work. For this, I chose the Lawnmarket. In the years I'd been away from Edinburgh, they'd finished the work on the High Kirk. St Giles certainly had a new majesty, along with a whole new look, though the famous crown steeple that was a landmark of the Old Town had been left untouched. The new stone was already blackening, and the kirk brooded over the square now that all the old buildings had been demolished, like a big black crow.

I positioned myself in the shadows of the main entrance in the early evening, eyeing the carved gargoyles that guarded the portico. Malevolent creatures, with their tongues sticking out, they were presumably intended to prevent evil spirits from entering the sacred edifice. The evil spirits, in my humble opinion, were those flapping about in their legal robes over at Parliament Square, but I'm willing to admit to a bit of bias there.

I was beginning to get concerned that somehow I had missed her, when I spotted her—at precisely the same time as she spotted me, and made her way across the Lawnmarket to join me.

‘Mr Sutherland. What a coincidence.' Her tone made it clear that she thought it was nothing of the sort. ‘What are you doing here, lurking in the shadow of St Giles?' she asked.

‘I like to take a walk before dinner, and this is a good place to watch the world go by.'

‘While keeping yourself out of sight?'

‘Evidently not, since you spotted me.'

‘I had a feeling we'd bump into each other again.'

‘And I rather hoped we would,' I admitted, relieved to be able to speak something close to the truth.

‘Why?'

She looked me straight in the eye when she asked the question.

‘You interest me,' I told her, which was honest enough.

‘In what way?'

She quirked her brow again, such an odd thing to find alluring, but there it was, and there I was, despite my previous resolutions not to be distracted, struggling not to be distracted by my body's reaction. ‘That's a very personal question, from someone who has not even disclosed her name.'

‘I am not one for small talk.'

‘Yet you made an effort yesterday, in Queen Street Gardens, when we met,' I retorted.

‘I felt obliged to fill the silence while you were watching the policeman.'

‘In fact, what you did was interrogate me about my interest in him. That was not small talk.'

‘And you did not answer my questions, Mr Sutherland.'

‘I've answered more of your questions than you have of mine. You have still not put me in possession of your name.'

She narrowed her eyes at me, and I thought for a moment that I had crossed an invisible line with her, but what she said was not the reprimand I anticipated. ‘I have the distinct impression that you know it already.'

What to say to this? The woman was a most astute observer, and I didn't want to lie, never mind have her catch me out. Truth was, I knew all three of her names, which was one more than she did herself. ‘Mrs Crawford,' I conceded. ‘That's what I heard the other nanny call you, though she did not mention a first name.'

‘It is Marianne, and she's a governess, not a nanny.'

‘I am never sure of the difference.'

‘They have much in common, for both are usually underpaid, over-used and under-valued. Oh, and always of the so-called weaker sex, of course.'

‘And which are you, Mrs Crawford, nanny or governess?'

‘Either or both, depending upon what is required. I am fortunately in sufficient demand to be able to quit any establishment which under-values, under-pays or over-uses me.'

‘You are good at your job?'

She gave me a crooked smile, taking her time, as I was now realising was her wont, before answering. ‘The women I work for know that they can trust me.'

‘And they can pay you well too. Queen Street is a very prestigious address.'

‘Edinburgh has a great many wealthy families, and the New Town is full of prestigious addresses.'

‘You must have come to Edinburgh armed with excellent references.'

‘Must I? You make a great deal of assumptions about me.'

‘And you deny none of them, so I reckon I've been pretty close to the mark.'

For the first time, she looked uncomfortable and failed to meet my eyes. She was difficult to pin down, this conversation was like a game of chess, but she wasn't a liar. I decided not to push her for the moment. The clouds had finally decided to drop some of their rain, and it fell lightly but persistently. ‘You'll catch a cold if you stand here in this,' I said to her. ‘May I escort you to wherever you were headed?'

‘No,' she replied, immediately on her guard. She had taken a small step back, but she had not turned to leave. ‘Why are you here, Mr Sutherland? In Edinburgh, I mean. It's a bit of a long story, you said, yesterday. I'd like to hear it.'

She had surprised me, and I surprised myself at how pleased I was. ‘Shall we go inside, out of the rain?'

‘Inside?' She glanced around at our surroundings, and then over at the church. ‘Do you mean the church?'

‘It will give us some shelter from the weather, and though it's Presbyterian now, it was originally built for the faith in which I was raised. I am fairly certain I'll not be smited for crossing the threshold.'

‘What about me? I have no faith, will I be safe inside, do you think?'

I glanced about me at the Lawnmarket and the High Street, where those who lived in the shadows of the Old Town were emerging as night fell, and the lights from the taverns in the wynds were beginning to flicker. ‘Safer inside than out here.'

‘On the lookout for the police again, Mr Sutherland?' She didn't wait for me to reply, but turned towards the church. ‘Come then, let us converse inside.'