Gillespie and I (37 page)

‘I'll probably be out at Merlinsfield for the next few weeks,' I told him, as we said our farewells, on the landing. ‘So, if you want to come out, on the spur of the moment—you remember how to get there, don't you?'

‘I think I remember.'

‘It's on the Balmore Road, about halfway along, towards Bardowie, on the left-hand side. You'll see some gates—but the cab driver will know where to come if you tell him you're going to stay at Merlinsfield.'

‘Well, let's hope I'm able,' said Ned.

At that moment, I had a thought, and held out the birdcage to him.

‘Here,' I said. ‘Why don't you keep it, for now? It will be something pretty to look at, if ever you need to cheer yourself up.'

He stared glumly at the cage, and then shook his head.

‘No,' he said. ‘It's too beautiful for here. You take it.'

‘Are you sure?'

He nodded.

‘Very well, then,' I told him. ‘I'll put it in the studio in Merlinsfield, and you shall have to come and see how it looks.'

‘That's probably for the best,' he said, and then, for a moment, his eyes grew very lustrous, and I wondered whether he might be about to weep, but then he said, brusquely: ‘Well, if you'll excuse me, Harriet…'

As I made my way downstairs, I glanced back over my shoulder. The last I saw of Ned, he was closing the outer door of the apartment, his gaze fixed upon the ground, a preoccupied look upon his face. Poor, dear Ned: so many troubles! Given all that had happened recently, I was fast becoming a believer in the inexorability of Fate. None of the recent catastrophes could have been foretold but, by the same token, it seemed to me that none of them could have been avoided. Try as we might, we cannot escape the inescapable; we are all of us doomed to live out our destinies, like the servant in the fable, who hopes to elude Death by fleeing to Samarkand, only to find, upon his arrival in the town, that Death is there, waiting for him, after all.

After leaving Stanley Street, I called at my lodgings, briefly, to see if there was any mail for me. A little later that afternoon, I returned to Bardowie with the birdcage and my other purchases. Perhaps, given his circumstances, the time was not quite right for Ned to come to Merlinsfield. However, I did hope that he would take up my offer, in a day or two. A new project, such as our book, was just the thing to divert him. Above all, I was convinced that he ought to spend some time away from that gloomy apartment.

On Saturday and Sunday, Agnes Deuchars, the housekeeper, helped me to finish off some curtains, and on Monday, I began to re-upholster two old chairs that I had discovered in the attic. I also wrote a letter to my stepfather. He had extended his stay in Switzerland but, according to his factor, he was due to return before Christmas. I myself had written to Ramsay a few times, but had not heard from him.

Occasionally, while I worked, I found myself standing at the window of the morning room, looking out towards the road. From time to time, I climbed the stairs to the tower studio. I had placed the birdcage on a table next to the newly enlarged casement, where it looked very well, and where it could stay for the moment, until I had bought my finches.

In fact, I was rather looking forward to having a pair of birds to look after and, eager to visit the bird market, I had decided to go back into Glasgow, on Tuesday. The thought had crossed my mind that I might call at Stanley Street first, to see if Ned would accompany me. He was in need of distraction, and such a trip might help to take his mind off his troubles. There was a chance that I might even stay in town for a while. With Annie gone, it seemed to me that Ned would, perhaps, be in need of company. Having decided to surprise him, my only worry was that he might take it into his head to come out to Bardowie on the very day that I had gone into town. In fact, that night, I had a dream in which he appeared, wandering up the drive of Merlinsfield, having ignored the Clarence at the station and walked along the road (which would have been typical of him). In the dream, I was looking down at him from the window of the studio as he trudged towards the house, gazing up at me, his eyes shining bright blue, reflecting the light of the sky.

The following morning, I was awoken by the sound of hoofs on gravel, and the jingle of harness. Rousing myself, I went to peer, bleary-eyed, out of the bedroom window. In the late autumn and early winter months, I sometimes find it difficult to estimate the time of day, since the skies are often gloomy long after the sun has risen. Looking out, I could see that dawn had broken, but it was a cloudy morning and the light was still leaden. From the bedroom, I had only a partial view of the carriage drive, but I could just see the back wheels of an old Clarence, standing at the front door. Very few callers came to Merlinsfield, and the first thought that came into my head was that Ned had accepted my invitation and come to pay me a visit. No sooner had this thought occurred, than I heard a great clamour at the front of the house, as someone began pounding the brass knocker. Agnes did not usually come up from the cottage until eight o'clock and, not knowing whether she was present, or available to answer the door, I threw a shawl over my nightdress, and hurried downstairs, almost tripping in my haste, spurred on by the insistent pounding at the knocker. In bare feet, I rushed across the flagstones of the hall, crying out, in excitement.

‘Just a moment! I'm coming!'

I rammed back the bolts; opened the door. There on the threshold stood—not Ned—but a stranger, a man of middle years, dressed in an overcoat and bowler hat. He was perhaps rather shorter than the average height, a little stout; a plain, ordinary-looking fellow, with a dark, well-groomed moustache.

‘Good morning,' he said, looking me up and down.

For a moment, I was speechless. My heart hammered in my chest, perhaps because I had run downstairs so soon after waking. Just behind the stranger, stood three other men, two of whom were dressed in police uniform and, in the background, I could see the surly cab driver, leaning against his vehicle. All of them were gazing at me, with frank curiosity. I recognized one of the uniformed men as John Black: the peppermint-sucking constable who had interviewed me, all those months ago. The stranger glanced over his shoulder, as though for confirmation of something, and when Black nodded, the man turned to face me, once again.

‘Miss Baxter?'

‘Yes,' I replied, recovering myself. ‘Good morning, gentlemen.'

‘Miss Harriet Baxter?'

‘Yes, indeed. And who, might I ask, are you?'

‘Detective Sub-Inspector Stirling, ma'am.'

‘Oh! Oh my goodness! Is something the matter? Is it Ned? Is he well?'

The detective fixed me with a stare like a gun. ‘He's as well as can be expected, Miss Baxter. But I'm afraid Mr Gillespie is not who we're concerned with today. It's my duty to inform you—' He paused, and then went on: ‘—that I have here a warrant for your arrest.'

I am afraid to say that, after he mentioned the warrant, I hardly heard a word that he uttered. Instead, I became vividly aware of the other men, who were watching the proceedings with great interest, the smoke of their breath rising into the morning air. The flagstones felt like icy metal beneath my feet. I saw Agnes hurrying up the drive, puffing and panting, pulling on her apron, no doubt alerted by the commotion of the cab's arrival.

‘Miss Baxter!' she cried, in alarm, and attempted to approach the house, perhaps to come to my aid, but the uniformed constables stepped in front of her, and the other man (who was not in uniform, and who, I now realised, was another detective), led her to one side and began speaking to her in low tones. Agnes listened to him for a moment and then gazed at me, open-mouthed.

Stirling was still talking, his face very close to mine. I remember noticing how densely his moustache grew. Although it was composed, presumably, of thousands of individual hairs, the whole construction moved up and down as one, while he spoke. I wondered how often he must trim the edges. ‘Is not the human mind peculiar?' I thought to myself. ‘Here I am, being arrested, and all I can think of is moustaches.'

Such was my bewilderment at this turn of events that I did not utter a word or sound until we were inside the Clarence, bound for the city at a steady, but not hair-raising pace. As we lurched along the Balmore Road, heading south, the policemen were silent. Black plucked at his ginger sideburns, while Stirling folded his arms and studied me, with undisguised interest. The other men were, apparently, from the police office in Milngavie, and had remained behind at Merlinsfield, in order to search the house and garden. I stared out across the wintry meadows, struck by the enormous absurdity of this turn of events. Surely they would realise, very quickly—perhaps within a few hours—that they had made a colossal mistake?

I was trying to remain calm, but could not help but feel anxious, and this combination of incredulity and nerves prompted me, of a sudden, to utter a short laugh. I was disconcerted to observe Stirling exchange a glance with Black, who then produced his greasy little notebook, in which he wrote a few remarks with a sharp, three-inch pencil. Sure enough, this nervous laugh of mine was soon to come back and haunt me.

Friday, 25—Tuesday, 29 August 1933
LONDON

Friday, 25th August. Without wishing to seem too melodramatic, I must record here that I have had a terrible shock. I have been unable to work, either on these notes, or on my memoir, since yesterday morning. This is the first time that I have picked up a pen. Even now, I can hardly think.

For the most part, I have been lying here on the bed, staring into space. There is a burning pain, just below my ribs. The heat is oppressive. Sometimes, I stand at the window, although there is no breeze. Out there, in the world, life continues as usual. From time to time, Daimlers are driven into the courtyard below, and parked. The cars bake beneath the sun, heat rising from their bonnets, rippling the air. Sometimes, young men emerge from the hire garage, rolling up their sleeves. They wash the vehicles and lark about, throwing sponges and water at one another.

Occasionally, I cross my room and hearken at the door, for any sounds from the rest of the apartment. Maj and Layla twitter away, as ever, in the dining room.

Last night, after dark, when I heard the girl retiring to bed, I did consider creeping across the road to book a room in the hotel, but something stopped me, possibly some very rational part of myself, which refuses to believe in my own worst fears. Too nervous to surrender myself to oblivion, I forewent my usual miracle pills. As a result, I lay here, sleepless, all night long, eventually drifting off towards the dawn, for an hour or two, until the gunning of an engine down below awoke me. Before I had even opened my eyes, the terrible thoughts of yesterday crept back into my head, duller after sleep, but only a little less disturbing.

Perhaps I should describe what happened. Perhaps setting it down in writing will help me to put matters in perspective.

Of late, I have been in the habit of taking a bath at least once a day, not through any obsession with cleanliness, but because I find that it clears my head. Our weather has been so terribly hot this summer, with one scorching spell following the next. The heatwaves often last for days on end, to the extent that I find myself becoming quite nauseous and light-headed. This mansion block is terribly stuffy, and submerging oneself in cool water is often the only way to maintain one's composure. More often than not, I lock myself away in the bathroom for up to an hour, both morning and afternoon, in order to reduce my own temperature. It has crossed my mind that, whilst I am thus occupied, and unlikely to emerge, Sarah could use the opportunity to snoop around. Although nothing has ever gone missing, and I have never remarked upon any item that has been disturbed, or caught her in the act, I do believe that, once or twice, upon returning to my rooms, I have smelt traces of her cigarette smoke. Until now, my suspicions have been more of an intuition, rather than anything that I have been able to verify.

Yesterday morning, however, all that changed.

The first event of note was that, amongst the early post, I received a reply from Miss Clay of Greenstead, Essex. She had written her return address in plain view, on the back of the envelope but, fortunately, I had been on the lookout for the postman, and managed to retrieve the mail from the doormat before Sarah had even emerged from the kitchen. In the privacy of my bedroom, I tore open the envelope from Essex, and read its contents. Apparently, Miss Clay has absolutely no complaints about her former employee. According to her, Sarah is a kind and conscientious companion, who left her employ only because she wished to find work in the city, rather than in a sleepy country village.

At first glance, the letter did seem credible. However, the more I examined it, the more I was left in doubt. I could not help but wonder whether—with its lilac ink, spidery hand, and dignified tone—it resembled, almost too perfectly, something written by a genteel spinster from the shires.