Gillespie and I (33 page)

Thus far, it had been a damp spring, but on that particular afternoon, the sun had managed to pierce the smoky haze that hung, in perpetuity, over the city. At the top of Stanley Street, I shaded my eyes, as I squinted down the road, on the lookout for journalists. This was something else that had become habitual: checking to see how many hellhounds might be skulking about the doorstep of number 11. One intrepid newspaperman from
The Evening Citizen
had even rented a boarding-house room, next door to Elspeth's apartment, which afforded him a direct view into Ned's and Annie's parlour and bedroom. This inkslinger—the young Bruce Kemp—was a sallow, reptilian creature, with scaly skin, and slanted eyes that were positioned on what seemed like either side of his narrow head, and his horrid visage had become a permanent fixture in the lodging-house window, as he lay in wait, watching for any sign of movement. Even in daylight hours, Ned and Annie were obliged to draw the curtains, for the sake of privacy.

Today, I could see that Kemp had thrown up the sash, and was brazenly leaning against the window frame as he leered out across the street. Thankfully, it was the luncheon hour, which meant that most of the other penny-a-liners had decamped, as was their habit, to one of the nearby public houses, leaving but two of their colleagues on the pavement, opposite number 11. I put my head down, in an attempt to hide my face, but as soon as the young men noticed my approach, they scurried across the road and fell into step beside me.

‘Afternoon, Miss Baxter.'

‘Off to see the Gillespies, are we, Miss Baxter?'

Refusing to acknowledge them, as ever, I hurried onward. Thankfully, I did not have to wait to be admitted to the building, for the main door was still propped open with a stone. As I ran up the front steps, one of the reporters fell back, but the other was more persistent, and tried to bar my way, asking: ‘How is Mrs Gillespie?' But I brushed past him, and entered the close and—since the occupants of number 11 had made it quite plain that no newspapermen would be tolerated inside the building—there ended the conversation.

Upstairs, I tapped on the Gillespies' front door, and waited. After a long interval, I detected the creak of a floorboard from within the apartment. I knocked again. There was a pause, and then I heard a querulous, childish voice.

‘Who is it?'

‘Hello, Sibyl, dear—it's me, Harriet.'

I had expected the door to open, but instead I heard only a few more creaks, and then silence. Another minute passed. I was about to knock once again, when heavier footsteps approached and then the door opened to reveal the gloomy hall, and Annie, barefoot, in a shift, her hair in disarray. She looked as though she might have just awoken from a deep sleep. The slight draught, caused by the opening of the door, carried upon it a musty, slightly sour scent, although whether this emanated from Annie herself or, perhaps, from her nightgown, was hard to tell.

‘Good afternoon, dear, I'm so sorry, I—'

She shook her head and, without a word, turned towards the kitchen, leaving the door open. I stepped into the hall. There was no sign of Sibyl. In the corner, was a crate, labelled ‘Pettigrew and Stephens', inside which, I knew, was the dinner service that I had bought for the family. In the confusion following Rose's disappearance, I kept forgetting to have it sent on to Merlinsfield. In any case, crockery was hardly a priority since the little food that the family consumed during that period was mostly donated by friends or neighbours, and was eaten on the hoof: a buttered roll, nibbled, before being discarded; a spoon dipped, once or twice, into a dish of cold stew; a piece of pastry, broken from the crust of a pie.

The kitchen had acquired the stale, dusty feel of a room that was seldom used, despite a few dirty dishes that were scattered, here and there. For once, however, Annie seemed to be preparing food, for when I entered, she was slicing some cold, boiled potatoes, and the air smelt of hot lard.

‘That dreadful man is out there, at the window,' I told her. She nodded, but said nothing. ‘How are you, dear?' I asked. ‘How's Ned? And Sibyl? Any news?'

She sighed. ‘Stirling was here. His boss has taken two men off the case.'

‘No! Why on earth?'

‘Because there are other cases to investigate.'

‘Oh, dear!'

Annie put the potatoes into the frying pan, and then turned to stare at me. In the light of the kitchen window, I saw that her eyes were red and swollen, as ever.

‘Listen, Harriet, somebody saw Rose, on a tram, on the Gallowgate.'

‘Really?'

‘Aye, Mrs Calthrop told me about it.'

‘Well, Calthrop—'

‘No, but it's true—somebody saw a wee girl, with fair hair. She was on a tram, near the cattle market, with a foreign couple, a man and his wife. The girl was about four years old. Her frock was brown but—well—she might have been given different clothes, by now.' She chewed at her cracked, dry lips, gazing intently at nothing, and then said, almost in a mutter: ‘I was thinking of going down there, myself, to have a look.'

‘To the East End?'

She nodded, staring into space. Of a sudden, her eyes had taken on a strange, feverish intensity that made me feel uneasy.

‘Is that wise?' I asked her. ‘What does Ned think? Where is he, by the bye?'

She turned away, with a shrug of her shoulders, and jiggled the frying pan.

‘Upstairs. He hasn't come down since Stirling was here.'

There was an edge to her voice that discouraged me from enquiring further, and so I changed the subject. ‘I saw Elspeth yesterday morning, briefly.'

‘Oh aye,' said Annie, her tone suddenly scathing. She flounced out of the room and returned, a moment later, holding a scrap of paper, which she gave to me. It was a telegram from Mabel, explaining in a few words that she had heard the terrible news and would return to Scotland, if required, as soon as possible.

This came as a surprise to me because, as far as I was aware, the Gillespies had decided against telling Mabel what had happened. When the expectation was that Rose would turn up safely, at any moment, nobody had wanted to worry her and Peden, unnecessarily. Soon enough, it was thought, all would be well, and we would be able to write to them and say: ‘You'll never guess what happened here—Rose got lost for a few days! But worry not, she's home now, safe and sound.' Then, as time went on, and the child failed to return, both of her parents were still reluctant to pass on the bad news. I can understand why: writing the words, in black and white, would have been an admission of something; a recognition that Rose might never be found. There had been an agreement between us all, that Ned and Annie would be the ones to decide as and when Mabel should be told. Or, so I had thought.

‘Elspeth sent her a telegram,' said Annie, jabbing the potatoes with a knife. ‘Old busybody!'

Never before had I heard her call her mother-in-law a name.

‘But can you be certain it was her?' I asked.

Annie nodded. ‘She admitted it, yesterday. First, she said she didn't think I'd mind. Can you believe it? Then she got all hot and bothered, and said Mabel ought to be told, because Rose is her niece. Did you know about this telegram?'

‘Not at all; I'm as surprised as you are.'

‘Well, I've had enough of her, interfering. I've sent a telegram to Tangier, telling Mabel that they mustn't come back. It's out of the question! We'll probably find Rose tomorrow, or the next day, and then they'll just have wasted the fare.'

Her face had a brittle look, as though it might fly apart at any moment. She seemed so agitated that I was quick to appease her.

‘Whatever you think is for the best, dear. Watch out for those potatoes—they're smoking. Can I be of any help?'

She shook her head, and took the pan off the flame. Then she went to the door and called to Sibyl. I gazed into the hearth, lost in thought, while Annie dished up the potatoes on a single small plate. Presently, Sibyl came in, so silently that she gave me quite a fright when she coughed, and I turned to see her, skulking, at the threshold. Like Annie, she was dressed as though for bed, in a thin, sleeveless shift. Her skin was an unhealthy looking grey-white, the colour of old milk. Her nervous cough was worse than ever and, lately, she had taken to hunching her shoulders, head bent, as though to avoid looking anybody in the eye. She had always been a slender child, but dressed as she was now, in just her shift, I was able to see how scrawny she had become. The hunched posture made her shoulder blades protrude, in a way that looked as though it ought to be painful. Her elbow joints seemed disproportionately large in comparison with her skinny arms, and her collarbones jutted out, far too prominently. She was staring, with what seemed like dread, at the fried potatoes, which her mother had just set on the table.

‘Sit down,' Annie told her. Sibyl remained in the doorway, gazing warily at the dish. ‘It's your favourite,' said Annie. ‘I made them especially.'

‘Can't I have them later?'

‘No, eat them now.'

The child's lip trembled. ‘Can't I take them upstairs? I will eat them!'

Annie sighed. ‘Only if you promise.'

‘Promise—I do. I promise!'

Sibyl darted forwards, to pick up the food, and then carried it out of the room. Through the open doorway, I watched her scurry across the hall and climb the stairs to the attic, holding out the dish with extended arms, as though it were a collection plate. When I turned back, I realised that Annie had also been watching the child. There were tears in her eyes. She spoke without looking at me.

‘They won't get eaten, you know. She's hardly eaten a scrap, since.'

Towards the end of my visit, I heard footsteps on the staircase, and turned to see Ned coming down from the attic. There he was: a dark shadow, crossing the hall, picking up his hat from the stand, approaching the front door—all without even a glance into the kitchen. Unable to catch his eye, I looked at Annie. She was making twists of paper for the fire, and although she must have heard his descent, she paid no heed. I turned back, just as Ned opened the front door and stepped outside. He must have seen us, as he passed, for the kitchen door was wide open and we were both visible from the hallway. But he had simply departed, without any acknowledgement, closing the front door firmly behind him. I heard his footsteps recede, as he ran away, down the close. For her part, Annie seemed intent upon ignoring his abrupt exit.

‘That was Ned,' I remarked, but Annie failed to reply.

The tap was dripping, and so I stood up and went over to turn it off. Looking through the window, I was just in time to see Ned dash across the washing green. Two reporters were leaning against the back wall in Stanley Lane, but Ned shot out of the gate so fast that he was almost gone before they had noticed him. They gave a shout, and set off in pursuit. Although I had only briefly glimpsed the artist's face—once as he had passed through the hall, and then when he glanced over his shoulder as he sped down the lane—I could tell that he was exhausted. I turned to Annie.

‘Is he sleeping, at all?' I asked.

‘I've no idea,' she said, lightly.

Not wishing to pry, I fell silent. Annie's back was turned, and I was unable to see her face. She twisted another length of newspaper, as though she wished that she could throttle it. Presently, she spoke.

‘If you must know, he sleeps in the studio, these days, on the chaise.'

I fiddled with the tap, which appeared to need a new washer. To be perfectly honest, I was at a loss for words. Annie seemed to feel the need to explain the situation, because she went on.

‘You see, neither of us can bear to be in our bedroom, even with the curtain shut, because that horrible man watches everything. So Ned sleeps in the studio, and I've been spending the nights in Rose's bed.'

‘Oh, well,' I said, awkwardly. ‘That must be—some comfort.'

All the while, I was wondering whether a marriage that had deteriorated so terribly much could ever be mended or saved.

By the end of May, after nearly four weeks of investigation, the police had failed to unearth a single trace of Rose and had more or less exhausted all possible routes of inquiry. No further ransom demand had been received. The poor child might as well have vanished into thin air. Every witness had been questioned, along with every neighbour of the Gillespies, and all of their friends, including myself. I had hoped that Detective Sub-Inspector Stirling would interview me, since, remarkably, our paths had never crossed, and I was interested to meet him and judge for myself what calibre of man he was. However, as it turned out, along with the Alexanders, I was entrusted to Constable Black, of the ginger moustache, who spoke to us, one after the other, in the morning room at Queen's Crescent. Black offered me a peppermint, asked a few questions about whether I had noticed anything unusual on the day that Rose had disappeared, made one or two notes in his jotter, and thanked me for my time. I gained the impression that I had not been of much help to the inquiry.

Although Detective Stirling had assured Ned that he and his men would not abandon the case, it was unclear how he meant to proceed, unless a fresh witness came forward, or some startling new piece of evidence presented itself. The question remained: what, exactly, had happened to Rose? According to Annie, Detective Stirling had no time for the notion that the child had simply wandered off. His firm belief was that she had been taken, by person or persons unknown; to what end, he could not, or would not say, and he had no explanation as to why there had been no further word from the abductor.

Needless to say, the hunt for the missing child, as daily reported in the newspapers, had brought forth the usual crop of rumours, and various irresponsible correspondents were eager to report that Rose had been spotted, all the way from Dan to Beersheba. There were sightings of a little girl answering her description first at Bridge Street Station, then in Auchenshuggle Woods, and then in Candleriggs. She was also reputedly seen in Kilmarnock, Pittenweem and Oban. Perhaps because of the suspicion that still hung over the denizens of Vinegarhill, most of the reported sightings were in the East End: she was ‘spotted' one evening, in ill-fitting clothes, holding hands with a fat Irish woman, on the London Road; the next day, a child drew the attention of passers-by in the High Street, screaming and crying whilst walking with a tall man in a tweed cap; then a lady on the Oatlands ferry, crossing to Glasgow Green, noticed a girl in a blue dress, accompanied by a woman who kept ignoring the child's questions: ‘Are we going to see Mama?' and ‘Where's Papa?'