The Observations (47 page)

It seems that she must have been careful to avoid being noticed by those who knew her, for nobody of her acquaintance recalls seeing her at the ceremony. That is, except the Reverend Pollock. He was now standing alone next to the platform, beaming upon the populace as they drank from the fountain with a fond indulgent smile on his face, almost as if (as one person commented) he had passed the water himself.

According to his own account, the Reverend did not at first recognise Mrs. Reid. Bear in mind, she had grown even thinner since his last visit and she was wearing shabby outer garments that he would not have associated with her. Moreover he was not expecting to see her that day, having been told (along with everyone else) that she was suffering from a headache and would not be in attendance. Her appearance, therefore, took him by surprise. He claims that she spoke to him “quiet as a mouse in cheese‘ so that he had to lean towards her to hear what she said. He gathered, after a moment, that she wanted to show him something and requested that he follow her. Somewhat bemused but unsuspecting, the Reverend complied, thinking that perhaps she wished to give him a peek at some secret present she had bought for her husband as a way of marking this important day.

To his surprise, missus led him into the alley at the side of AP Hendersons shop. There they were seen by a Mrs. Annie Bell, a miners wife, who was at her first floor window. This window overlooked not only the alley but also the Cross and it was from here that Mrs. Bell, recently moved to the area from Leadhills, had chose to watch the unveiling of the fountain, because it was cold and she had a dose of “the snuffles. She said that the woman in the bonnet led the minister to the grocery yard just below her window and there they stopped, apparently to converse. The yard was rather more cluttered than usual, having been used as a temporary storage place by workmen involved in the installation of the fountain and it was stacked with lengths of pipe, stone slabs, tools and other such materials.

Heretofore, according to the Reverend, missus had been quite charming, almost solicitous. However, once in the yard, out of public view, she became irate and began interrogating him about some woman he had never heard of. When asked later, he could not remember the womans name, but thought it might have been something like Whelan, Finnegan or Gilligan. Missus began to berate him as a liar and charlatan and even accused him of
masquerading
as a man of the cloth! It quickly became clear to the Reverend that her wits were disordered. He decided to extricate himself from her company and alert her poor husband to the problem. Informing her that his presence would be required over at the fountain, he turned to leave, with the intention of hurrying back to the Cross.

At this point, Mrs. Bell lost interest. She had been watching the scene below with mild curiosity, since there was evidently some kind of argument going on, but it now seemed that the pair were about to quit the yard. However, as she turned from the window she heard the sound of a loud blow. Looking out, she seen that the Reverend was kneeling on the ground with blood coming from his head. The woman was standing over him with a spade in her hands, which she must have grabbed from the tools that had been left against the wall. Mrs. Bell remembered that the blood was a very bright red colour against the ministers skin.

So shocked was she, that she froze momentarily. Thus she witnessed what happened in the next few seconds. The woman lifted the spade and continued to rain down further blows on the Reverends head and shoulders. He dropped forwards onto his hands and knees and tried to crawl away, calling out for help, but in a small voice that did not carry. The woman followed him, beating him with the spade, shouting things and calling him terrible names (about which Mrs. Bell would not be specific except to say that they involved the letter “F‘).

The Reverend Mr. Pollock, for his part, does not remember much after being hit on the head. He has a dim memory of further blows to his person as he crawled across the gravel, but cannot remember anything that was said to him.

Luckily, within moments, Annie Bell came to her senses and was able to scream for help. As her cries rang out, the woman in the bonnet turned abruptly with the spade in her hands and stared up at the window. For the first time, her features were revealed. Mrs. Bell, being new to the area, did not recognise her. But she would never forget the look that the woman gave her. It was, she said, “a look of cold death”. Fearing for her own self, she screamed again. The woman seemed to scrutinise her, as though to determine who she was. And then, apparently, she lost interest. She dropped the spade to the ground and set off across the yard, away from the alley.

By this time, Mrs. Bells screams had attracted attention and several people were hurrying over from the gathering at the fountain. At the sound of their footsteps in the alleyway, the woman picked up her skirts and ran off. When help arrived in the yard, Mrs. Bell pointed out the direction in which she had gone and a number of men and boys gave chase. But they returned not long afterwards. It seemed that the woman who had attacked the Reverend had disappeared into the mist—or at least into the woods that began behind the Free Gardeners Lodge.

The minister was carried to the fountain, where his head was washed and where the doctor examined and bound his wounds. At this stage, Reverend Pollock was not capable of speech. He was badly shaken and could only open and shut his mouth like a fish, making a gulping sound in the back of his throat. Because of this, he was unable to identify his attacker and although he kept pointing at master James, nobody was able to understand what he meant since master James had been in full view of everyone all afternoon and it could not possibly have been his fault.

The miners wife, Mrs. Bell, was brought down to the Cross. She described what she had seen from her window but at that stage nobody gave much credibility to her story. She was a newcomer, after all. And it was hard to believe that such violence could have been carried out by a woman. Certainly, nobody connected her tale of a shabbily dressed woman in a bonnet with Mrs. Arabella Reid (not even master James, who was at that time fairly sure that his wife was locked up safely in her chamber at Castle Haivers).

Talk was rife amongst the crowd, who could have done this thing and why? In public everyone expressed shock that such an assau could have happened. However, the Reverend (whilst
seeming
to be genial sort of fellow), had in fact managed to get up many noses over the years and there was more than one person would have liked to give him a good kicking. Privately, there were those who were surprised— not so much that someone had
attacked
him—but that nobody had done so years ago and many times over.

Meanwhile, where was Bridget (or Mrs. Kirk, as Janet Murray thought of her)? Janet had tellt Arabella that Mrs. Kirk had gone along with everybody else to have a look at the unveiling of the fountain. And indeed, she had been present for the start of proceedings, but was one of those for whom the opening speech proved too much. While master James was droning on and the sweepstake was getting underway, a few folk in Bridgets vicinity consulted quietly amongst themselves and decided to retire in advance to the taproom of the Swan. The seats would need warming up, they said. The ale should be tested! Bridget invited herself along and it was there, in seclusion with her newfound friends (mostly rapscallions), that she spent the rest of the afternoon. She had already settled her bill with Janet Murray and craftily avoided a further trip out into the cold by paying a boy tuppence to fetch her bag from The Gushet.

AP Henderson was in and out the taproom all afternoon but his attention was focused on preparations in the kitchen and in the dining room upstairs. He did notice the group of folk sitting in the corner and the Irish woman who was with them, but did not connect her with the woman that he’d been asked about earlier in the day.

At about two o’clock, the company in the taproom were startled when a ferret-faced local man burst in, demanding a pot of brandy for medicinal purposes and saying that Reverend Pollocks head had been split open by a gang of Taigs. (This was the current best theory, since nobody wanted to believe Mrs. Bell and a culprit was yet to be apprehended.)

The patrons of the Swan hurried outside. Some folk—possibly Catholics—disappeared into the mist, fearing retribution. Others accompanied the wee weaver, to see what all the fuss was about. Bridget (no doubt keeping her trap shut about her own lapsed faith) went with them. The throng at the Cross had swelled, since word had spread and a violent assault is infinitely more appealing than a few snobs giving speeches. People at the back had to strain to see what was going on and Bridget was soon lost among the crowd.

In the centre of it all, a group of gentlemen (including Duncan Pollock, McGregor-Robertson, Mr. Flemyng and master James) stood over the minister, keeping the masses at bay. The Reverend had been propped up against the base of the fountain. He looked frail and defenceless. His head was wrapped in a temporary bandage. Someone had covered him with a blanket. The brandy was passed to the doctor, who crouched down and held the pot to the ministers lips.

After a few slugs, Reverend Pollock spluttered and coughed. “Whoof! Sheesh!” he says, the first almost coherent sounds he had made.

McGregor-Robertson leaned closer. “Who did this, Archie? Who was it?”

The Reverend raised his eyes slowly. He gazed beyond the doctor and seemed with a sense of wonderment to take in the crowd and then the other gentlemen. As soon as he clapped eyes on master James, he gave a start then let out a shuddering breath. Some folk said he looked bewildered and frightened. Others that he looked stunned. Whilst a few others thought that, despite his injuries, he seemed to be making a meal of it, and taking some pleasure at being the centre of an unfolding drama.

“Dearie me,” he says. “I—I—don’t know—oh!”

He was staring at master James all the while. Then he closed his eyes and let out another great shuddering sigh, as if it was all too much to bear. Ah-haaah!“ he goes. ”Oh-ho!“

The doctor put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“You’re going to be all right, Archie,” he says. “You are hurt but it will heal. Now tell us, who did this to you? What did they look like?

The ministers eyes snapped open and once again his gaze fixed on master James, who was beginning to look a little uncomfortable. Reverend Pollock gulped and swallowed. His mouth worked. Then he licked his lips and whispered. “It was—it was—”

The crowd strained forwards to hear. He raised his arm and pointed at the group of gentlemen. His finger wavered dramatically to and fro before it became apparent that he was indicating master James. And then he spoke out in precise, ringing tones. Indeed, if he had been in a theatre, his voice would have reached the back of the stalls.

“I was attacked—by Arabella Reid!”

22

An Unexpected Loss

Like I says, the most of this I learned about or put together much later. That day, on the landing, all we had from Hector was the bare minimum of information, a few words on the subject rolled together in a sentence along with something else that was on his mind.

“Missus Reid hit the Refferent Pollock on the head wit a shoffel and ran afwhay fwhould you be fwhanting to go for a walk wit me Bessy, hon your day hoff?”

“Eh?” says Muriel. “A shovel?”

But before I had time to take in the first part of what Hector had said, master James re-emerged from his room and came skyting past us, the coat-tails on him all a-flurry.

“Come along, Hector,” he says. It seemed that a few moments alone were all that he needed to recover. Hector trotted off in his wake. I stood there in a dwam a second and then I hared after them.

“Sir, sir! Are you going to look for missus?”

“Of course!” he says crossly, without glancing back.

I took a deep breath. “Could I come with you, sir? Could I help?”

He paused at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, and looked at me. I noticed that he had torn off his stiff collar and changed his shiny shoes for old boots. He gave me a mocking smile.

A very gracious offer,“ he says. ”But I was assuming you’d be going back to bed to continue your nap.“

“No sir,” I says. “I want to help.”

He stuck out his chin. “Somebody will need to stay here,” he says sternly. “In case she returns. And I will be wanting to speak to you later.”

A voice came from behind me. “I’ll stay here, sir.”

I glanced round to see that Muriel had stepped forward. For dear sake! She wouldn’t catch my eye, but went on, Ah don’t mind waiting, sir, if Bessy wants tae go.“

Master James sighed. “Very well,” he says, and continued down the stairs, he had more important things on his mind than the doings of maids so he did.

Well I turned to thank Muriel but she was having none of it, she brushed past me saying, “Don’t!” Most likely she would never thank me for getting her out of trouble but she had returned my favour swiftly and that was, in her opinion, an end to it.

Master James and Hector were already heading out the front door. I flew downstairs, overtaking Muriel, and ran into the kitchen, to the back door. It was then I discovered my coat was missing. I must have cried out in frustration, for Muriel came in and asked me what was the go. When I tellt her, she didn’t say a word, just lifted her own coat off the peg and dropped it in my arms. Then (I suspect taken aback by her own generosity), she headed out towards the dunegan, a “whatever-next‘ expression on her phiz, with her gob tucked up at one corner, as though somebody had put a stitch in her cheek.

Hector and Master James had gone in the direction of the stables, so I struck out on my own down the lane. If I stirred my stumps I might even get to Snatter before they did. The ground was rutted and froze, so I could not run too fast for fear of going tip over arse. But I trotted along quick as I could, my breath exploding as smoke in front of my face then whipping off to mingle with the mist in my wake.