Page 30

Chapter Thirty

F or my first day I am at Mr Munroe’s office a quarter of an hour early, which means I must wait for him in a downpour of rain, and it soaks through my bonnet and lashes onto my skirts.

‘Oh, my dear Lord, I should give you a key,’ he mutters when he comes down from his apartment above the office to open the door. ‘Come inside and dry yourself by the fire.’

In this way, my first day as his assistant gets off to a slow start, as he spends more time assisting me than I do him. He helps me to dry off and fetches me tea, and sits me in a chair and asks, ‘How are you doing?’ and ‘Are you all right?’ and ‘Are you quite comfortable?’ over and over again, as though I am a visiting lady. When we have firmly established that I am very happy indeed and really most comfortable and pleasantly warm, he suggests that I might start by tidying the bookshelves, which are in quite a mess, with books strewn all over the room, so I do that and take my time over it.

Mr Munroe is a busy bee of a man, humming over his papers and occasionally shaking his head and saying in his deep gravelly voice, ‘That will never do’, but I quite enjoy the company of him, for he never goes into a mood or talks braggingly of what he is doing, even though he is in charge of all sorts of things, from the markets to the moorings.

As I tidy, I decide to take a duster and sweep the shelves as I go, and although I do not understand most of what is written on the covers of the books or maps, I have a few words, and it is not a bad task. And I think of Ma and Da and how they get by, dabbling in the smuggling trade, and whatever Spencer was up to with his perfumes. And all of these crimes are probably problems that occasionally land on Mr Munroe’s desk, causing him to puzzle at his cleanly shorn chin and say, ‘That will never do’; and I think that it is a life better lived if we do not have to turn our hand to crime.

‘Mistress Dickson, you are a blessing,’ he tells me as he watches me tidy the shelves. ‘You see, I can walk past those books time and time again and think, I must put them back, but I never seem to find the time to do it.’

‘Well, it’s a good job that you have me in your employ,’ I say.

He nods and busies himself again and gives a small sigh, and I wonder if he has a wife, but I have not seen one, and I would never ask. Mr Munroe is an interesting fellow, but I think the thing I like most about him is that he has never asked to look at my rope-bruise, or asked me questions about the afterlife, and I do believe there is something straightforward about him that means he never will.

At one of the clock he tells me he will be out at the Mussel Inn for his lunch. He pauses, walking cane in hand.

‘Should you like to join me?’ he asks. ‘I usually dine upstairs, with a fine view of the harbour.’ It comes out in a blurt, and despite the fact that his voice is usually deep and serious, it cracks a little and he blushes.

‘Oh,’ I reply, as a fear washes over me. A fear of that very upstairs room he is talking about. A fear of sitting in that room in the Mussel Inn with a handsome man, and how that might lead a girl into a nightmare. ‘Perhaps I might do that another time,’ I say. ‘For my ma has given me a slice of ham-and-egg pie today.’

‘Of course,’ he replies and bolts for the door.

Oh Lord, that was embarrassing. What was I thinking? Ham-and-egg pie! Urgh, of all the things I could have said.

But I believe I could have sat and talked to Mr Munroe about things and he would have listened, and I would have been interested to hear what he might say.

And that frightens me. It frightens me to let go of myself and allow a man to be nice to me. I might get very hurt again. Besides, am I not still married to Patrick Spencer?

The office is not quite spick and span yet, but it will get there, I am sure of it. There’s a big looking glass over the fireplace and I stand on my tiptoes and look into it. I think it is the biggest and brightest looking glass I have ever seen in my life, for it reflects the light from the window. I am a dark figure in the middle of it at first, until my eyes adjust.

I once had a fear of my own reflection, but I don’t feel fear now. I cannot help who I am. My hair falls in two neat plaits down to my breastbone. Mibbie I should curl it in papers. I used to brush it and put powder on it, but I seem to have forgotten to do that. Mibbie I’ll buy some powder at the market, although I will have to hide it from Joan.

My face is pale, but it looks better for a bit of Ma’s cooking and less of the gin. I wonder what happened to Mrs Rose’s rouge, for it got lost in the way of things. The rope-bruise has changed. In fact it is the most changed thing about me. It has faded, as a fire does at the end of an evening, so that it still glows, but with less heat. I touch it gently and feel no pain or tenderness at all.

I wonder what Mr Munroe thinks when he looks at me.

I am quite lost in contemplation of myself when there is a commotion and two men burst in, making the door slam open with a bang.

I spin on my heels, but before I do that, in order to face them, there is a moment – a split-second of time – when I know they have come for me. Neither of them is Dr McTavish, but I know he has sent them. One stands with a rope in his hand.

‘Mistress Dickson,’ he says, ‘now you shall come quietly with us in our carriage, or we shall hang you from the rafters of this very room. Those are our instructions from the doctor.’

I edge away from the men as much as I can. They do not move, but remain blocking my only way of escape.

‘There’s no point trying to run,’ the other observes. ‘We are paid for a job and we are doing the job.’

And that is when they grab me.

They make me sit on the floor of their carriage, with the rope around my arms and waist, trussed up like poultry. They put metal cuffs on my wrists.

I sit there, watching the world flash by at the carriage window for the whole hour into Edinburgh. The men say nothing. No small-talk or even anything to scare me. I wonder how long it will take before someone misses me. Tears prick at my eyes. When Mr Munroe comes back, when I am not home for supper, they will think I have run off once more.

Ma will think I could not face the fishwives’ questions again, and Mr Munroe will think I ran away at his invitation to lunch. They will think I preferred the anonymity of Edinburgh.

Then I think, This will be my last journey .

Dr McTavish will punish me and will enjoy it too.