The Sign of the Black Dagger (8 page)

Lucy and Will had just finished reading the chapter of William and Louisa’s journal when the doorbell rang. Lucy slid the book into a carrier bag lying at her feet and pushed it behind a chair while Will sprang up to go and answer the door.

“The stone, Will!” cried Lucy.

He turned back and together they lifted it up. It took a minute or two to fix it firmly into the wall. The bell rang again.

“I’m coming,” shouted Will, though there was no chance anyone would be able to hear him through the thickness of these walls.

He opened the door to find one of their dad’s oldest friends standing outside.

“Dan!”

“Hi, Will, how’re you doing, man?”

“OK.”

“Dad in?”

“No, but come on in.”

Dan came in and said “Hi” to Lucy too, and then made for the radiator under the window, where he stood, warming his hands on it. “Cold out there.”

“Want a cup of hot chocolate?” asked Lucy. “We were just going to have one.”

“Love one. So your dad’s not in? I’ve just been round to his office but it was all locked up. What’s he playing at these days? Haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks and he hasn’t been
answering the phone.”

Lucy and Will looked at each other and nodded. They would have to let Dan know what was going on, whether their mother approved or not. She was very proud and wanted to go on pretending to the outside world that everything was normal. But it was not. Jane knew, and now Gran did. The latter was on the phone every two or three hours asking if there was any news and repeating her offer to sell her flat to pay off their debts.

“Dad’s kind of disappeared,” said Will.

“How do you mean
disappeared
?”

Will explained.

Dan sat down in the nearest chair. “I thought he was having problems recently, but when I asked him if there was anything bothering him – well, you know what he’s like.”

Will and Lucy nodded. They did. Their dad would prefer to make a joke rather than admit he had a problem.

Dan sat up straight suddenly. “Do you know, a funny thing happened to me last night. It’s partly why I’m here. I was coming up the Canongate, late-ish, gone ten, and I was pretty sure I saw your dad.”

“You did?” cried Louisa.

“It was dark and a bit foggy so I could easily have made a mistake. I called his name but when he didn’t stop I shouted, ‘Hey, pal, it’s me, Dan.’”

“What did he do then?” asked Will.

“He ran off. Down a close or whatever. As I said, it was dark and murky.”

“You don’t know which close?”

Dan shook his head. “I thought then I must have made a mistake. But now …”

“But to begin with, you really did think it was him?” pressed
Lucy.

“I did. I really did.”

“What was he wearing?” asked Will. “Could you tell?”

Dan frowned. “Not exactly. Darkish clothing. But he was definitely wearing trainers, that I did see.”

So it was certainly not the ghost of Ranald Cunningham, born in the eighteenth century! Trainers had not been invented then. They remembered that their father had come back for his trainers, amongst other things.

“Half the men in town wear trainers,” said Dan. “Though after what you’ve told me, I feel convinced that it was him.”

“He’s hiding from us,” declared Will.

“Why should he want to do that?” cried Lucy.

“Maybe because he feels ashamed.” Dan shrugged. “Feels he’s let you down.”

“We don’t think that,” said Lucy.

“No, but he might. I think he will.”

“If only we could find him! We could tell him we don’t mind.”

“He must be staying somewhere nearby,” said Will slowly.

But where?

They were pondering the question when their mother came home. She was as pleased to see Dan as they had been and accepted amicably the fact that they had told him about their dad. She seemed to have become resigned to the idea that the news would gradually spread. She asked Dan to stay to supper and he told her how he thought he’d seen Ranald the night before. She shook her head and said she didn’t know what to think. Her head ached from thinking.

“Why don’t we go out and see if there’s any sign of him now?” suggested Lucy.

“You can’t hang around in this weather,” objected her mother.
“Besides, I don’t like you down there after dark.”

Dan said he’d be willing to go with them. They could sit in his car and keep watch for a while. “You never know, Ranald might come out…”

Their mother was dubious. “But where on earth can he be staying?”

“What about a B&B?” suggested Lucy.

“I don’t think there are any at the foot of the High Street or the Canongate, though I suppose there could be.”

“A hotel?” said Dan, then he shook his head. “No, I can’t imagine it.”

“He wouldn’t be able to afford it. I suppose he wouldn’t be—”

Dan finished the sentence. “Sleeping rough? Hardly think so, Ailsa. Temperatures are dropping to below zero at night.”

“Mum, let’s give it a go, please,” pleaded Lucy. “We don’t know what else to do, do we?”

Their mother finally gave in. The inaction was getting to her as much as to them. She told them to make sure they had their mobiles with them, which meant she would phone if they were away too long. As they went out she reminded them that they had their homework to finish. What does homework matter, thought Lucy, when your dad’s missing? She couldn’t get a picture of him curled up in a doorway out of her head.

They chose a spot halfway down the Canongate, near where Dan had thought he’d seen their dad. Being evening, they could park on the yellow line. They settled down to wait, with Will in the front passenger seat beside Dan, and Lucy in the back, glued to the window.

“I suppose you could call this a kind of stakeout,” said Will. “Like you see on the telly.”

“Except that on the telly they’re usually watching a specific
building,” said Dan.

That was the trouble: they had nothing to focus on. Every time they saw a lone man on foot approaching they sat up straight, their senses alert. But all the men went by. Only one vaguely resembled their father in height and build but by the time Will was out the door and halfway across the pavement he realised the man was a stranger. He looked back at Will, pulled up his collar and broke into a jog-trot.

It began to sleet. Dan started the engine and put on the windscreen wipers both back and front. Sleet slid down the windows, blurring the glass, leaving clear patches only where the wipers were labouring.

Lucy’s mobile rang. She fished it out of her pocket but saw that the number coming up was Julie’s. “I can’t talk to you right now, Julie.”

“Where are you?”

“I can’t say.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with you? What are you up to these days? You’re acting awful funny.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Will’s mobile then rang and their mother said, “I presume you haven’t seen him? I think you should come home. Not even a dog would want to be out in this weather.”

Dan conceded that she was right. “We won’t find him in this.”

“What if he is sleeping out?” said Lucy. “He’ll freeze to death.”

“I’ll take a walk down later on and look into the closes,” Dan promised. “I’ll also go down to the Grassmarket Mission in Candlemaker Row.”

The mission helped the homeless. They supposed that was what their father must be considered now.

When they got home Lucy retrieved the carrier bag that she’d put behind the chair, relieved that her mother hadn’t noticed it. She went up to her room and took out the journal and called to Will to come through. She was dying to find out what happened next to William and Louisa’s father but if she were to read on without Will he’d be furious.

The door closed, they sat side by side on the bed and read the next part, which had been written by Louisa.

Louisa

When Papa came home last Sunday he seemed better in himself. Both William and I thought so. We presumed that waiting at table would be less exhausting than washing dishes and perhaps, too, he had found somewhere more comfortable to sleep than the scullery floor. We could not ask him.

“How long is it all to go on, Ranald?” asked our mother. “We cannot live in this way for ever more.”

We had been thinking that ourselves.

“I have one or two ideas,” he said vaguely.

We heard about one of them when we went down to Princes Street for a stroll in the afternoon. Our mother was not with us for she had a headache. The sun was shining and a number of people had come out to take the air. It is a fine street to walk along, being so broad and open, with a garden on one side where the Nor Loch used to be before it was drained. I looked up at the castle sitting on its rock and the tall backlands where we live spilling down the hill.

“Children,” said our father, drawing us in closer to him and taking us by the arm. “I have a number of things I would like you to sell for me.” He went on to give us a list: his fob watch, which had been his father’s before him, a snuff box inlaid with ivory, and cufflinks with ruby studs, a present from his mother when he came of age.

“But, Papa, you can’t!” I interrupted. “Not your watch! Not your cufflinks!”

“I have to,” he said quietly. They won’t pay off all my debts but it will be a start. And it will ease my conscience to know that some of the poor tradesmen will have their money.” He added a few more items to the list. “And you must promise not to tell your mother.”

“But—” I began again and, once more, he silenced me.

“She is
not
to know.”

We had to promise.

He recommended us to go to a shop in the Grassmarket where he thought we would get a fair deal. “He is an honest man, Mr Beattie, but you must press him for the best price.” We reminded Papa that we had once been to the shop with him. “Ah, so you have!” He then told us which of the outstanding bills he thought the money would pay. Unfortunately, there would not be enough to meet his biggest debt, the one that he was being pursued for by the messenger-at-arms with the Wand of Peace.

He sighed. “I have been very imprudent, children. You must learn a lesson from my foolish ways and not follow in my footsteps.”

We pressed his hand to let him know that we loved him in spite of everything.

That evening, we made sure he left the house in plenty of time to make it comfortably back into Sanctuary before midnight. We insisted on walking with him. The messenger-at-arms and his ally were after him again. They appeared to be pursuing another man also. I tossed my head at the men as we passed them by.

We reached the sanctuary boundary well before midnight and Papa joked, saying he could have had a few more
minutes at home with Maman. If we had not urged him on he would have done so. We were standing chatting when we heard shouting erupt behind us. Commotions were normal as midnight approached. The vultures gathered close to the boundary, poised to strike before the first stroke of twelve rang out. Turning, we saw a man in a brown coat go sprawling down in the roadway on the other side of the sanctuary line. At once his pursuers were on top of him. The Wand of Peace came down.

“Got you!” the men cried, their hands around his neck, half strangling him. “Got you!”

Their victorious cries made me shiver. I was thankful that we had managed to escort Papa over the line in time.

The next day, when our mother’s back was turned, William and I hastily gathered up the items Papa had specified to be sold and left the house saying we were going for a walk.

“Make sure you put your hood up, Louisa,” our mother called after us. “And you, William, your hat! You will get your death!”

“Yes, Maman.”

We passed Bessie, who was on her way to Fishmarket Close to see if there was anything cheap going.

“And whit are the twa of ye up tae the morn?” Bessie has a suspicious mind where we are concerned.

“Nothing, Bessie,” we reassured her and hurried on before she would press us further.

We went down to the Grassmarket where Mr Beattie’s shop was located, feeling pleased to have got this far without arousing suspicion.

Mr Beattie’s is a small, dark basement shop. Standing at the
counter, half hunched over it as if to conceal what he was doing, was Monsieur Goriot!

Hearing the door open behind him, he turned sharply and when he saw us he straightened up.

“I can undertake the commission for you at the price forementioned, Monsieur Goriot,” said Mr Beattie. “I know the very man who could do it for me. He is an excellent jeweller. Do you understand the terms?”

Monsieur Goriot seemed to be considering.

Mr Beattie looked round the Frenchman at us. “You are Ranald Cunningham’s bairns, are you no? I thought so! And your mother, lovely lady, is French? You must be able to speak the language yersel’s in that case. Perhaps you could help translate for this gentleman. I fear he doesne follow every word I have said to him.”

We doubted that Monsieur Goriot would want our help and we were right. As soon as he realised what was being proposed he scooped up whatever was lying on the counter and dropped it into a bag.

“I let you know,” he said in broken English and, with that, he left the shop abruptly, brushing past us without a glance.

“Strange gentleman, that,” observed Mr Beattie. “He’s been in before. Sometimes he’s got stuff to sell. Precious stuff.”

“But today he was not selling?” prompted William.

“He was wanting cufflinks made to order, with a special motif.”

“What kind of motif?” I put in quickly.

“A black dagger.”

William and I looked at each other and I only just restrained myself from crying out.

“Now what can I do for you?” asked Mr Beattie.

As we laid our father’s treasures out on the counter top I felt
my fingers shaking. I hated the thought of Papa having to part with some of the things he valued so greatly.

Mr Beattie examined each piece through his eyeglass. “Good quality,” he commented, which reassured us. At least he was not going to try to pretend that what we were offering was low grade.

He made an offer and William haggled a little with him and then we settled on a price.

“You’re good, lad.” Mr Beattie nodded. “You won’t let anyone get the better of you, I can see that.”

William’s face reddened but I could tell he was pleased. He can be very firm whereas I know I am inclined to waver at times.

From Mr Beattie’s we went to the various shops where our father owed money and it did give us pleasure to be able to pay off each debt. It pleased the shopkeepers too!

“He’s a gent, your father,” said Mr Anderson the tailor at the head of the Canongate. “No ill feeling. I ken fine that he’s just fallen on hard times. It kin happen to a’ of us.”

We saw Monsieur Goriot again, coming out of another shop. He seemed preoccupied and did not notice us. On impulse, and having completed our tasks, we decided to follow him. We had become quite intrigued by his doings. He led us along the Grassmarket towards the Cowgate until he came to a halt underneath an arch. It is a dark spot, especially when the weather is dull, which is how it was today. We pulled up short and moved back into the shadow of a doorway.

Monsieur Goriot was doing something under the arch but from our viewpoint we could not make out what it could be. After no more than two or three minutes he moved on. We waited and then when we judged the coast to be clear we left our shelter and went to investigate.

“Look!” cried William, pointing to a place high up on the wall where some kind of sign had been scrawled. “It’s a dagger!”

“Monsieur Goriot must have put it there. But why?”

William was standing on tiptoe scanning the stone. “Keep watch!” he urged.

I stood where I could look in both directions. The street was quiet.

“There’s something here; could be a small package,” said William.

“Somebody coming!” I cried. I had just seen a man and he was coming in our direction.

William pushed the package back into the slot. We swiftly vacated the place and crossed the road.

The man stopped under the archway.

“Don’t let him see that we’re watching him,” warned William.

I bent down and fiddled with my bootlaces and William pretended to be interested while keeping an eye on what was going on over the other side of the road.

“He’s removing the package,” whispered William.

When I glanced up I saw that the man had left the archway – and was coming across the road towards us!

Now that he had emerged into the light we had a clear view of him. He had a horrid red face and a bulbous nose, the kind that you see on some drunken men.

He stopped in front of us. “What’re the two of ye doin’ hangin’ aboot here?” He was obviously not French. He was standing so close that one could see the dirt standing out in the pores of his large nose and smell the heavy ale on his breath. I wondered why Monsieur Goriot, who was a bit of a dandy, would have dealings with a man like this. I took a step back
from him and hit my shoulder against the wall. “Ye’re mindin’ yer own business, I hope, Missie?” he went on, staring directly into my face.

“Come along, Louisa,” said William, taking my hand and pulling me past.

Once we’d left the man well behind I asked William why he thought Monsieur Goriot would associate with such a person.

“Perhaps he does some dirty work for him. Perhaps the package contained money. Payment for his services.”

I nodded. That idea seemed plausible.

There was no lack of other shady characters hanging about in the Cowgate. One or two approached us but William waved them away. One old woman, when we did not reward her with anything, cursed and spat a large gobbet of greenish phlegm right in front of us, hitting the toe of my shoe. The sight of it made me feel sick and want to cry. I know it was silly of me. Perhaps it was just that everything in our life seemed upside down, with Papa more or less imprisoned in the palace and having to sell his most precious belongings, with no way out of it all that we could see. Added to that was the feeling of menace around us. It was not surprising that we were forbidden to come into some parts of the town. Papa would not have been pleased had he been able to see us talking to a man like the one we had just met. As for Maman! We’d have had to fetch her smelling salts.

We were nearing the end of the street when we saw a woman wrapped in a dark green cloak coming out of a shop with three golden balls hanging over the doorway. The cloak looked familiar.

“Wait!” William pulled me back.

The woman crossed the road and turned up St Mary’s Street.

“I’m pretty sure that was Maman,” said William.

I was too.

She was not at home when we arrived there. I went immediately to clean my boot. I wished I could throw it away but that was out of the question. I knew, though, that I would never like those boots again.

We ate unusually well this evening. We had a mutton stew with fresh baked bread and a sweet cake to follow. Only that morning, Bessie had been lamenting the fact that she had scarcely a farthing left in the housekeeping.

“Ye’ll be lucky if ye eat the night,” She’d told us.

I noticed that our mother was not wearing the emerald brooch of which she is so fond. She kept putting her hand up to her throat as if she expected to find it there and I remembered how we’d seen her coming out of the pawnbroker’s. We had decided not to mention it unless she herself did. And she did not. Our world seems recently to have become infested with secrets.