The Sign of the Black Dagger (6 page)

“Been to see yer da, have ye? We’ll get him yet. He’ll nae escape us. Tell him that fer me, will ye?”

In school, on Monday afternoon, the day after they had been to the police station to report their father missing, Lucy found it difficult to concentrate on French, which normally she enjoyed. They went most summers to France on holiday though it wasn’t likely they’d be going this year. Not unless a miracle happened. She couldn’t help thinking about her dad; the fact that he was MISSING. Sometimes you read about cases like that in the paper or saw it on TV, though usually a girl was involved if it was on the telly. Last seen … You never imagined it could happen to anyone in your family.

When she wasn’t thinking about her father she was thinking about William and Louisa’s. They might have been upset at seeing him washing dishes in the palace but that was better than not seeing him at all. She and Will didn’t have a clue where their father was or what he was doing. Not a single clue.

On her way out of the classroom at the end of the afternoon, the teacher stopped her and asked if there was anything wrong. “Something worrying you, Lucy?”

She shook her head. How could she possibly tell Miss Harper? She couldn’t even tell Julie, her best friend. Julie kept chattering all the way down the road, about a top she had seen in a shop and hoped her mum was going to buy for her, and she didn’t even seem to notice that Lucy was saying nothing. Sometimes Lucy got fed up hearing about Julie’s new clothes. Her own mum couldn’t afford to buy her as much. And with all
these debts round their ears She’d be able to afford even less in future, if anything.

When she and Julie came to the parting of their ways, they stopped on the corner to blether as they always did. Sometimes they’d stand for as long as half an hour, or even an hour.

Today Lucy said, “There’s Will.” She’d caught sight of him on the other side of the road. He was alone, not with his friend Mark, as he usually was. “I’ll chum him home.”

Julie looked surprised but only said, “OK then. See you tomorrow. I might ring you later.”

Lucy dashed across the road during a break in the traffic and as she did so she thought that her father would have been annoyed if he could have seen her. He always told them to cross at the lights. She just couldn’t get him out of her head, not even for a minute, it seemed.

Will didn’t notice she was coming until she was almost on top of him. He had been walking with his head down.

“Hi!”

That was all they said on the road home.

Their mother would still be at work, though she should be back at six tonight. Will opened the door and Lucy picked up the mail lying at the back of the door.

“Anything interesting?” Will peered over her shoulder.

“Bills,” she muttered. Bills, bills and more bills. And letters from credit card companies. Apart from those, there was some junk mail.

They went into the living room and flung their bags on the floor. When their mother came in she would give them a row.
How many times do I have to tell you …?

As Lucy put the mail down on the table she saw a postcard lying there. It was a picture of Holyrood Palace. She lifted it up. “Who’s this from?” She turned it over. “
Dad!
” She had to
sit down.

“Let me see!” Will took hold of the other edge of the card.

The writing was shaky and almost illegible.

“I wonder when he posted that?” said Lucy.

“But he didn’t post it, did he? There’s no postmark on it. And it was lying on the table.”

“How could it get here?”

“There’s only one way, isn’t there?”

“Dad’s been in?” said Lucy slowly.

“He must have been. He’ll have his key.”

“He couldn’t still
be
here, could he?”

They tore up the stairs and went through every room and cupboard but there was no sign of him.

“Now we know he’s alive,” said Lucy.

“Were you thinking he wasn’t?”

She shrugged.

They felt more cheerful now, though, and realised they were hungry. They went back downstairs and made grilled cheese on toast and hot chocolate. Neither had eaten much at lunchtime. Afterwards, Will went up to his room to do his homework and Lucy settled at the kitchen table to do hers.

She had only written one sentence when her mobile rang. She pounced on it.

“My mum got me the top,” said Julie. “She’d said she wasn’t going to, she says I have enough tops, but when she saw it she thought it was kind of cute.”

Julie rattled on and Lucy made a face at the wall. Eventually she said, “I must go and get on with my French.”

“Swot!” said Julie. “See you later!”

Lucy had just clicked her mobile off when the landline telephone rang. She seized the receiver. The recorded voice of a man came on. It was a very smooth voice.

“Congratulations! I am calling to tell you that you have been selected for today’s prize draw.” Lucy made another face at the wall and was about to put the phone down when she decided to listen. “You are guaranteed to have won one of the following prizes. One thousand pounds in cash. A five-thousand-pound holiday voucher. A BMW. There are no catches. The draw is valid only for today. You must phone the following number …” Lucy quickly seized a pen and scribbled the number on the back of her French jotter. The call terminated.

She sat back. The hand that had been gripping the receiver was sweating. The voice had said they were
guaranteed
to win one of the prizes. Any of those amounts of money would help, even the thousand. Even! They were desperate for any amount of money. And he’d said there were no catches. If there were only three prizes and you were guaranteed to win one then he must be ringing only three people. It wouldn’t make sense for him to ring more since if everyone took up the offer they wouldn’t have enough prizes to go round. It was worth a call, surely? Just to find out.

Her fingers still damp, she dialled the number. She got another recorded voice. She was listening intently to the next set of instructions when the door opened at her back and Will came in. She covered the receiver with her hand.

“Who are you talking to? Julie?”

“No. Nobody.”

“Must be talking to somebody. What are you up to?”

“None of your business.” Lucy put the receiver down and turned her jotter over so that he wouldn’t see the number. He turned it back and she grabbed it – but not before he’d seen
the first four digits.

“0906. Not talking to a call centre, are you? Calls to that number cost something like sixty pence a minute.”

“All right, nosyboots, I”ll tell you! We have just won a prize in a draw – no,
wait
! It is
guaranteed
.”

“Who says?”

“The man who rang. One of the prizes is a car. We could sell it. Pay off some of Dad’s debts.”

Will groaned. “Don’t tell me you fell for it.”

“What have we got to lose trying?”

“Sixty pence a minute on the phone line. And they’ll keep you on as long as possible giving you other numbers to call. That’s how they make their money. Thousands will phone in. And in the end there will be a catch. They’re not giving anything away for nothing. Why should they?”

“How do you know?”

Will was looking a bit sheepish. “I tried it myself one day. I was hoping to get a stereo for my room.”

Lucy burst out laughing and he joined in.

They were laughing when they heard their mother’s key in the lock. The first thing she saw opening the living-room door were the bags on the floor but as soon as she opened her mouth to say her usual piece, Lucy cut across her.

“Mum, Dad’s been in.”

“
What?
”

She, too, had to sit down to read the card. She spoke the words aloud in a slow, puzzled voice and said, “Poor Ranald. Look at his writing. He must be in a very disturbed state. He needs help, that’s obvious.” She shook her head. “I wish he’d stayed till we came in. Has he been in any of the other rooms, do you know?”

“Not that we could tell,” said Will.

Their mother went to look for herself. They followed her up the stairs into the bedroom. She opened the wardrobe door and trawled along the rail. “A pair of jeans are missing. His new ones. They were there this morning.”

She looked in all the cupboards and drawers. “I’m pretty sure he’s taken a sweatshirt – the blue and grey one – and his black sweater and some socks and underwear.” She opened another door. “And his trainers. And his sports bag isn’t here.” She sat back on her heels. “It looks like he was planning to go away somewhere.”

“He might have gone to Orkney,” suggested Lucy.

“Why would he?”

“He always says he feels away from it all when he’s there.”

“He might have gone anywhere,” said Will.

They went back downstairs.

The phone rang in the middle of their meal. It often did. This was the time of day when people knew they could catch you at home. Lucy, who was nearly always first at the receiver, answered it.

“Tell them we’re eating,” said her mother. “And if they’re selling anything don’t waste your breath.”

“It’s Gran.” Lucy held out the receiver.

Her mother took it. “We’re all fine, thanks, Mum. Yes, the children are well. I’ve been meaning to ring you. No, I know we’ve not seen you … Sunday? Yes, I think we’re free Sunday.” She glanced over at the children. They looked blank. “Come for lunch. See you then.”

“I’ll have to tell her,” she said, when she had sat down again.

“You never know,” said Lucy, “Dad might be home by Sunday.”

“Somehow,” said her mother, “I very much doubt it.”

Louisa

We have not managed to see Papa at all during the week even though we have gone down every day and hung around the Abbey Strand. We saw Tam on one occasion and he stopped to speak to us.

“Did ye find yer faither?”

William nodded.

“He’s working as a skivvy in the scullery washing dishes,” I burst out and William gave me a look. I knew he would not have told Tam but I could not help myself. I kept seeing the image of my father bent over the sink. He’d looked as if he had shrunk.

“It’s hard work, that,” said Tam.

“Where will he sleep, do you know?” I asked.

“I’m nae sure. He’ll likely just doss doon on the flair.”

“In the
scullery
?”

“Aye.”

“But the floor’s hard and cold!”

“So is the ground,” said William quietly and I subsided.

Tam wished us goodbye and went about his business.

We also came across the old woman in the shawl or, rather, she came across us. She latched on every time she saw us but she knew all the gossip and so we did not mind. It helped to pass the time while we waited. Her name was Peg.

“Ye’re wastin’ yer time,” she told us. “Yer faither’ll nae come oot in this cold, nae aifter he’s been workin’ a’ day. They’re only fit tae drop when they finish, they skivvies.”

Whenever any nobles went past she told us who they were. “There gaes the Duke of Buccleuch … He always looks right stuck up. And yon’s Lord Dalkeith…” People went in and out all day: visitors, servants, workmen. Peg said that they were fixing up the royal apartments, to make them fit for a king.

The names of the French courtiers were too difficult for her but she said she could tell when someone was a Frenchie. She said you knew by the way they swaggered. “See that one!” She pointed a filthy finger at a man who was standing on the other side of the road with his back to us. “He’s one of the count’s men but he’s up to nae guid, if ye ask me.”

He looked round as if he had heard her though I did not think that he could have done. Peg’s voice is hoarse from the smoking of a clay pipe and would scarcely carry that far. Also, there was much traffic about, with coachmen cracking their whips and carters shouting to each other.

We recognised the man. He had grown familiar to us.

“It’s Monsieur Goriot,” I said.

“Ye ken him then?”

“Only to see in the street. We have never spoken.”

He was coming across the road. As he went past Peg, his long nose lifted in a sneer. You often see nobles putting on that kind of face when they encounter what they call ‘the lower orders’. Our father says that no one has the right to look down on others. One’s rank in life depends so much on good fortune. He quotes our poet Robert Burns: “A man’sa man for a’ that.”

The Frenchman crossed the road and, after pausing to glance around, went through the main palace gates.

“So you think he’s up to no good?” I said, to prompt Peg. I
was prepared to believe that what she said was true.

She lowered her voice, unnecessarily now, and leaned in to us. She does smell very badly. She said, “He’s up tae somethin’. I saw him in the howff las’ night” – that’s what Peg calls a tavern –“and I overheard him talkin’ wi’ anither man.”

“But he’s French, isn’t he?”

“Nae doot.”

“So how could you understand what he was saying?” It was not possible that Peg could speak French!

“I didne need tae unnerstan’. I could tell by the way they spake. Secretive like. In whispers. Lookin’ aroun’ tae see if onybody was listenin’.”

“And you were, Peg!”

“They wudne bother aboot me. But there’s nae fleas on Oul’ Peg!”

I thought that there well might be so I moved back a bit. Our mother is furious when we bring in fleas. She tells us to keep away from the other children in the street but at times we do go and play tag with them, and William has been known to get into one of the bickers on a Saturday afternoon. He does not set out to fight but at times he gets drawn in. Maman does not know about the bickers, when boys coming from different parts of the town meet up. They start bickering and pelt each other with stones. Sometimes the Town Guard breaks it up but if they do the boys unite against them.

William got into a fight that day on the way back home. As we were coming past the Tron Kirk a couple of boys began to follow and taunt us about our father. We know them; they live near us. It is no secret that our father is in Sanctuary. How could it be? The boys shouted insults, calling Papa a crook and a thief.

“He is not!” I shouted back at them.

William, who is slow to boil up compared with me, eventually turned to confront them, unable to stand any more. “Take all that back!” he yelled.

“What are ye goin’ tae do aboot it?”

“Come on, William.” I tried to take hold of his arm but he shook me off.

He was on fire. He went forward to meet them, his fists up. He was broader and taller than they were but they lashed out with their feet and the bigger of the two had a stone in his hand. I saw his arm go up in an arc. I screamed but William had no time to dodge. The stone struck him a glancing blow on the cheek, enraging him further. He retaliated by swinging his fist and landing a powerful punch straight in the middle of the boy’s face. The boy went down, blood spouting from his nose. His friend hesitated, then turned and ran. William helped up the fallen boy who, after he’d run off a few yards, cried back, “We’ll get ye next time.”

With a posse of reinforcements, no doubt. The incident troubled me more than it might have done ordinarily. I felt as if half of Edinburgh was out to get us or our father.

When we reached home, William’s cheek was the first thing our mother noticed.

“Have you been in a fight, William?”

“Boys are aye fightin’,” put in Bessie.

“William is forbidden to. It is only the riff-raff who fight. Oh, how I wish we could move to the New Town.”

Little does Maman know that, sometimes, on a Saturday, a group of New Town boys come up to do battle with the boys of the Old Town, who then all join up together.

A row ensued, but William did not reveal why he had been in the fight and by the time our father came home on Saturday midnight the mark had all but faded.

Papa looked weary on this second visit, very weary. And he had a hacking cough. We saw a big change in him in that one week.

“They must be working you too hard,” said our mother. “I did not think the
comte
would be a slave-driver. Have you told him that you are married to one of his countrywomen?”

“I have not had the opportunity, Anne-Marie.”

“Then you must when you have it. And are you eating enough? You look thin. Is the palace food so poor?”

Our father coped well with all our mother’s questions and she gave them a rest for the remainder of the twenty-four hours. He went to bed and slept for fully twelve of them and even then had to be wakened.

Too soon, Sunday evening came round again.

Bessie had made up a parcel of food, as she had done the week before.

“He shouldn’t need that, Bessie,” said our mother, coming into the kitchen. I was there already and had been helping Bessie to put it together. “We’re short enough of food ourselves, heaven knows. They are bound to have good food in the palace. Didn’t you say that the fleshers and bakers were doing good trade with the French court?”

“I doot they’re gettin’ paid.”

“That’s beside the point. They’re supplying the food. And knowing my French compatriots, they will insist for it to be well cooked. The beef will not be scorched to death.”

“Let Papa have it, Maman,” I pleaded. “I feel sure he needs it.”

“I will ask him if he does.”

“He’ll say no,” I cried.

But she had already left the kitchen. She came back a few
minutes later to say that Papa insisted we keep all the food for ourselves. “He says you children grow all the time like shoots and need much food to make strong bones.”

When she had gone again I said, “Bessie, I
know
he needs it. I can’t tell you how we know – William and I – but you can take my word for it that we do. Look how thin he is!”

“Dinne fash yersel’. Ye’ll be walkin’ him oot tae the street? When ye go oot the door I’ll slip ye this parcel. Ye can put it under yer cloak and gie it tae him when he leaves the close.”

She added that maybe she should not be doing this behind my mother’s back but the health of the master was more important. She had known him since he was a boy and had worked for his mother and father in this same house.

And so we did as she had suggested. I held the package snugly under my cloak all the way up the close. At the top, our father turned to wave goodbye to our mother and Bessie, then we turned into the street.

Before I had the chance to pass over the parcel, I saw the messenger-at-arms with his slanty-eyed companion. He was standing across the street waiting for Papa. William and I placed ourselves on either side of him.

“Papa,” said William, “let us walk with you as far as the sanctuary tonight. No harm will come to us on the way home. The street is full of people and the Town Guard are about.”

“There is no need for you to do that. You should be in your beds.”

“Papa,” I said, “the messenger-at-arms is over there. He has the Wand of Peace with him.”

“
Papa
,” said William urgently, taking hold of his arm, “we
insist
.”

I took his other arm and we set off, our father still complaining, though only mildly. He had stopped once he saw that, indeed,
we were being followed. Like the weekend before, he had left his departure a little late, lingering over his farewells with our mother, so we had to walk fast. We kept to the middle of the street as much as possible since the gutters are even worse on a Sunday night, with the scaffies not working on the Sabbath. Every now and then, however, we had to duck into the side to allow carriages and sedan chairs to sail past. Not that the sedans sail so smoothly. They lurch considerably on the rough road and their occupants are tossed from side to side.

I glanced up at the Tron clock. Nine minutes to go.

I noticed that our follower and his friend had moved ahead, though they kept turning back to check on us. We passed the Netherbow and the Canongate church and could now see the bottom of the hill. Some people were running but I did not think our father was fit enough for that. I resolved that next Sunday we would force him to leave earlier.

“Hurry, Papa, hurry!” urged Will.

He was doing his best. Once he skidded and would have fallen had we not held on to him. “Five minutes,” said somebody behind us. We broke into a jogging-trot. By now we were in the middle of a large crowd. When we reached the foot of the Canongate we all surged across the road together, rounding the Girth Cross, making for the Abbey Strand, which lay but a few yards away, and for safety.

Waiting close to the sanctuary boundary was a number of people, amongst them our two enemies. They had their eyes fixed on us. I thought we should be able to get past them in time but with no more than a minute to spare.

And then, too late, I saw the warrant officer nod at a man in a grey coat standing on the opposite side of the street. At that instant we drew level and the man in grey stuck out his foot and, hooking it around William’s leg, brought him down. Our
father was thus tilted sideways. He staggered and fell right across the boundary line where he lay, winded, his head and shoulders in Sanctuary, the rest of him not.

Quickly William scrambled up and between us we seized our father by the shoulders and began to drag him. The men descended on us, shouting that it was midnight – we could hear the chimes – and our father was theirs! The messenger-at-arms was trying to strike our father with his ebony wand whilst the others endeavoured to push us out of the way, but we hung on. We managed to clear Papa’s feet from the boundary, but only just. We sat down on the road beside him, panting. He was looking dazed. I heard a cheer and looking up saw Peg waving to us. The men we’d outwitted were cursing us soundly.

After we had got our breath back we were able to rise and brush ourselves down a little. Bessie would have something to say about the state of our coats! We walked to the side gate of the palace, with Papa limping, whilst declaring that he was fine, absolutely fine.

“Don’t worry about me, children. Look after your mother. All this is hard on her. She is far from her family and she did not expect to lead such a life here.”

“She has us,” I said. “And Bessie.”

“I know.” Papa smiled and put up his hand to touch my cheek. He kissed us both and said he would see us next Sunday, if not before.

Watching him hobble towards the palace, we were filled with foreboding. How was he going to find the strength to carry on with that menial job? It was only after the door had closed behind him that I realised that I had not given him the parcel of food. I burst into tears.