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I have decided that it is finally time for me to organise a permanent record of the startling events of my childhood, events in which I myself played a small part. The Solway Sleuth-Hounds – that determined band founded by my father – deserve to be remembered and now I am going to make sure that their work is not forgotten.
I was brought up on the Longcrags Estate near Dumfries in south west Scotland. Longcrags lies partly on the lower slopes of Crowfell – or, as it is sometimes called, Criffel – that hill which overlooks the western side of the Solway Firth.
My father, Gilbert Aitken, was a justice of the peace and the Laird of Longcrags. To help him in his duties he recruited his own company of investigators. He chose them carefully. All were people who could move about freely and make their enquiries where members of the rich and influential classes would only arouse suspicion and hostility. For this reason many of the Sleuth-Hounds were travelling people or tinklers who had access to their own sources of information and also had wide ranging connections.
The Sleuth-Hounds formed a pack and all the members worked together and supported each other. They all brought to the pack their individual strengths and each member made his or her special contribution.
This all began in the 1790s, a time when smugglers sailed across the Solway and landed their secret cargoes at dead of night, when Robert Burns, exciseman and poet, wrote Tam o' Shanter and searched for contraband. It was a time when many stared uneasily over the dark water to where the French Revolution cast its shadow over the whole of Europe.
And in the recent past was the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745. Yet, although it happened over fifty years ago, the Sleuth-Hounds still found themselves caught up in its aftermath.
My father soon found that his intrepid Sleuth-Hounds worked well as a pack. But then he began to wonder if they were perhaps not too efficient as they began to reveal the secrets of his own family, secrets which my parents would have preferred to remain forgotten.
Anyway, enough of this. Here are the first of the Sleuth-Hounds. More recruits joined them later, as you will learn.
GRETNA MARSHALL
Gretna Marshall was one of the Galloway tinklers and she was the first recruit. Her first case concerned an indiscretion committed by the noted poet Robert Burns, and her second involved my sister Charlotte, who was, in time, to become herself the most remarkable of the Sleuth-Hounds.
At first the arrangement seemed ideal for both Gretna and my father. Gretna's husband was in jail and she had been left alone, unprotected and vulnerable. But she now had a wealthy patron, and, as far as my father was concerned, Gretna could call upon the wide knowledge of the travelling people and go where a more conventional investigator would be unwelcome, if not actually in danger.
But things did not work out exactly as my father had planned. Gretna turned out to have a flair for her new work and she also uncovered some secrets about the Aitken family itself.
Also, she was not really a tinkler. She had run away from home and married at Gretna Green. Afterwards, to show that she was making a clean break with her old life, she changed her name to Gretna. But what was her real name and what was her story?
ALEXANDER McBEAN
Commonly called Sawney Bean, after the leader of the legendary clan of cannibals. How he hated that nickname! How he wished people would address him as Alexander!
Sawney – the name he had to settle for – was the second of the Sleuth-Hounds.
When it all started he was only fifteen, but he was small for his age and looked more like twelve. This was a great hardship for him as he had a mature mind trapped in the body of a little boy. He worked as a clerk in the Dumfries office of Mr Gordon, Writer to the Signet, my father's agent and legal advisor. Sawney was ambitious and did not intend to be a clerk all his life. He hoped to become a law apprentice and that my father would pay for him to study at Glasgow University. But my father would not do that until Sawney grew a bit. As he was, he was far too useful to the Sleuth-Hounds. Adults are expected to have grounds for their actions but it is generally accepted that boys do all sorts of strange things for no apparent reason at all. A boy could act in a way which would be questioned in someone older. Sawney's best disguise was himself.
But as time passed I found myself increasingly asking one question? Why was Sawney so sure that my father would pay for his legal studies?
MICHAEL MARSHALL
The leader of a band of travelling people and Gretna’s brother-in-law. I gradually found out that Michael had a long time understanding with my father.
ROOSKIE
Gretna's little dog. He used to belong to my mother but my father gave him to Gretna, and she changed his name to Rooskie because she wanted him to have a gypsy name. Rooskie is gypsy-tinkler cant for ‘basket’ and Gretna called him that because he was small enough to go into a tinkler's basket.
Rooskie may have been small and appealing but he turned out to be a true member of the Sleuth-Hounds in his own right.
ISABEL AITKEN
My mother. Outwardly calm and ladylike, but this demeanour masked an astute mind and a steely determination. My father thought that the idea of the Sleuth-Hounds came from him, but he was wrong. The idea came from my mother, but it suited her to let my father believe otherwise.
It was my mother who was the true leader of the pack.
Now that I have introduced the Sleuth-Hounds it is time for some of their work. Sawney – how like a lawyer – always has the most to say but, as the Sleuth-Hounds started with Gretna, then I shall let the lady have the first word.
I hope you enjoy these records of a remarkable group of people.
As I sit here at my desk I think how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful part of the country. Behind me Criffel stands clearly etched against the sky. Below me I can see the blue waters of the Solway where Charlotte and I still often gallop along the shore and where, out in the Firth, one can hear the waves beating against the Barnhourie Sandbank – or, as my sister would prefer it – the singing of the Barnhourie mermaid.
But now over to Gretna.
Struan Aitken,
Laird of Longcrags,
Dumfries. 1840
I looked at her carefully as she entered my cell. I had seen her type before – countless times. Quietly but expensively dressed in a dark green riding habit, a wealthy lady bringing comfort and solace to the unfortunate prisoners – or calling on the sinners to repent and praying with them.
Just another way in which the rich amuse themselves.
I was soon to find that I was quite wrong. Mrs Isabel Aitken, wife of Gilbert Aitken, Laird of Longcrags, had come, not to give help, but to ask for it.
I sat up on my bed of straw and gazed at her in amazement. She was the last person I would have expected to see in my cell.
The jailer saw what he thought was a good chance to impress an influential lady like Mrs Aitken. He was going to show her that he could control his prisoners. Suddenly I felt the toe of his boot against my ribs.
"On your feet, tink. Show some respect for this good lady here."
His kick did not hurt me. It was only a light tap. I suppose I should have been grateful for that small mercy, but I was not. It was almost as if he were saying that I was not even worth a proper kick, that he was not prepared to dirty his boots with me. No his boot did not hurt me but the venom and contempt with which he spat out the term of abuse, 'tink' really made me wince. But, cruel as his words had been, they at least lacked the coarseness, vulgarity and profanity of his usual language. Mindful of the presence of a lady the turnkey was making a determined attempt to ‘speak proper.’ And there are certain words a lady must never hear! While he was at it he also modified his broad Scots tongue. But his speech was all that was affected. There was no change in the hard, cruel way in which he treated his prisoners.
I made to get up but I was not quick enough for him.
"Do you hear me? Move. At once, you cur."
He turned to Mrs Aitken and said,
"You've got to be firm with her kind. I know she does not look it but this particular one can be a bit of a firebrand. But don't you worry. I can handle her. I'll see she does not give you any trouble."
I rose slowly to my feet. As I did so I glanced at Mrs Aitken and I noticed the quick look of anger and utter disgust which crossed her face. Then she got control of herself again and spoke sharply.
"Jailer, you do not need to worry about me. I well know how to get the respect which is due to me – whether from my own servants, the workers on my husband’s lairdship or any visiting tinklers. I would appreciate it if you would let me deal with Mrs Marshall in my own way."
I listened to all this with great interest. This sounded promising, very promising indeed.
The jailer realised he had misjudged Mrs Aitken and had made a big mistake. He hastened to make amends.
"Very sorry, I'm sure, Mrs Aitken. I should have realised that a lady like yourself would have no trouble controlling the lower classes."
I brushed the straw from my dress. Anything to give myself time to think; time to clear my mind. A few moments ago I had been feeling particularly despondent, but now, with Mrs Aitken, hope had entered my cell. To her the visit might just be a form of diversion which had the added virtue of making her feel good, but, nevertheless, I might be able to use her appearance to my advantage. So long as I watched my runaway tongue.
I was just newly turned eighteen and feeling alone and vulnerable. Two years ago, after a quarrel with my mother, I had run away from home and married one of the Galloway tinklers. I had been so determined to make a complete break with my old life that I had even changed my name – to Gretna after Gretna Green where I had been married. At first all had gone well and we were both blissfully happy. Then my Danny had been arrested and thrown into prison. He had always dealt with the business of all relevant licenses – pedlar, wagon etc. – but there was some discrepancy and, with him in jail, it was found that I was not covered. So I too was arrested and thrown into jail, charged with being a ‘vagabond.’ All that morning I had lain on my pile of straw trying to work out what I could do. Surely some of the other travelling people would come to my aid? Of course they had never really accepted me. Michael, Danny's oldest brother, had always made it plain that he disapproved of his brother marrying a gadgi or house-dweller. Danny should have married one of his own kind. But even if Michael disapproved of me he could not ignore the fact that I was now his sister-in-law. Why had he not come to see me in the Mid Steeple?
It was probably because of Michael that I had been put in the Mid Steeple of Dumfries in the first place. It is not a jail as such. It is a small building with a clock tower and spire. It was planned as a meeting place for the town council, a repository for the town records –– and a jail. All worked out as planned except that the town council decided to meet elsewhere and their place was taken by the justiciary court.
It was always too small for a jail and so the old one continued to be used. But the latter was in a dreadful condition and, what to the authorities was much worse, very insecure. I had probably been put in one of the few cells in the Mid Steeple because it was expected that my friends would help me to escape. But no one had come near me and I was beginning to wonder if I had any friends at all. I had been left alone with my all-too-vivid imagination for company. I knew only too well the treatment that was commonly meted out to tinklers. I could imagine the pain of a public flogging or the searing agony of a burning branding iron being pressed against my cheek. Only if I were lucky could I hope for banishment.
Of course there was one thing which I could do. Return to my own family. They would welcome back their wayward, errant daughter. But on their own terms. I would be exchanging one prison for another. No that was very much a last resort. I had chosen to marry my tinkler husband and I was proud of him, even if the rest of the world regarded him as a worthless wastrel. The thought of going back to my mother's condescending assumption that I had now realised my foolishness – that was unbearable.
But the knowledge that I did have that option would mean that I did not have to accept what Mrs Aitken had to offer me – whatever that was. Unknown to her I did have a lifeline.
I wondered why she was here, when my own family – or rather Danny's – had not come near me. Yet here she was standing in front of me, the wife of the Laird of Longcrags, a lady whom I had never even met. At that time it seemed strange to me but I have since learnt one of life's paradoxes. Very often the people who help you most are those you have least call on. But then, in my bare cell, such thoughts were far from my mind. All I wanted to know was the reason for her visit.
I had to wait for my curiosity to be satisfied.
It was evident that Mrs Aitken was not going to speak to me in front of the turnkey. She needed to get me alone. But the stupid man was too foolish to see that. He stayed and watched carefully as she glanced around the bare, stone-walled cell. A solitary creepie stool, an upturned box which acted as my table, no bed, only some straw on the floor, and one small window which did not open. She looked awkward. She was clearly jolted out of her usual comfortable existence.
The bareness of the room horrified her – and this was something which the shrewd, grasping jailer did not miss. He was obviously the kind who tried to extract every penny possible from the luckless prisoners and their friends. He cleared his throat and carefully started his campaign of extortion.
"As you see Madam, we can afford to provide only the bare necessities, but if, out of the goodness of your heart, you would like to provide some little comforts for the lass, then I am sure that can be arranged. And at a very reasonable cost." He hesitated and added, "A few blankets perhaps?"
He was trying to be respectful and deferential but without success. He sounded exactly what he was, greedy and sly. I saw that Mrs Aitken shared my opinion. We did not need to be told. We could both guess the turnkey's background –– a former prisoner who had gained his freedom in return in doing a job which most people would find exceedingly distasteful. There is the common saying –– a poacher turned gamekeeper. But a prisoner turned jailer is far more likely. I could see that Mrs Aitken was disgusted by the man's coarseness and obsequious manner.
But the turnkey was too dense to see this. He continued,
"She is the dainty one. Last night she was offered good wholesome beef collops and she refused to eat them. But if Madam wishes to provide something more suitable for her delicate taste then it can be organised. And at a very fair price."
Good wholesome collops he said. I thought back to the mess of fat and gristle covered in lukewarm grease. Why just looking at it had nearly made me feel sick let alone eating it.
I tried to adopt a suitably respectful attitude for Mrs Aitken's benefit. I stood with hands clasped and eyes cast down submissively. At the same time I fought back a desperate urge to scratch. The straw was rough and had irritated my skin. Moreover it was home to several nasty wee beasties who revelled in the taste of human flesh. But it was important for me to maintain my dignity and I suffered the dreadful itch.
The turnkey was still not finished.
"If Madam would like some tea I could have it sent in. And there would be only a small charge."
Mrs Aitken spoke with a quiet dignity, which made her anger all the more frightening.
"I do not like your attitude. I hope you are not trying to exploit your position and take advantage of the unfortunates who have been consigned to your care. I trust I do not need to inform you that my husband is a Justice of the Peace." She paused and then said very deliberately,
"Tea will certainly not be required. I am a busy woman and I want to speak to Mrs Marshall in private."
I looked up quickly. It seemed that I was to find out the reason for Mrs Aitken's visit at last. But I was sorry about the tea. Cold at night, the room was stuffy and airless during the day and dust from the straw hung in the air. I had not slept the night before and now my throat was dry and I had a slight tickle in my throat. I also had a slight headache. Tea would have helped but it was a small matter compared with my other problems. And I would certainly be glad to see the last of the jailer – horrible man.
But we had to wait a moment or two yet before we could get rid of the obnoxious man.
His manner changed and he became very deferential. The mention of a Justice of the Peace had obviously made him fear for his job.
"Of course, Madam. I did not realise I was keeping you. No offence meant Madam. I'll leave you to your business right now."
But Mrs Aitken was not prepared to let him off so lightly. He had tried to take advantage of her – and no one does that to Isabel Aitken. She had one last arrow of anxiety for him and she let it fly.
"One last point. I do not drink adulterated tea."
The jailer had been about to open the door but now he turned and said with deep emotion,
"Madam I am distraught and devastated that you could think such a thing of me. I can assure you that I deal only with true and honest merchants who would never dream of diluting their product with sand or any any other harmful substance. I have far too great a respect for … He would have continued but Mrs Aitken interrupted abruptly,
"I repeat. I am a busy woman and I wish to speak to Mrs Marshall in private."
At this the jailer removed himself quickly. Mrs Aitken shuddered as the cell door clashed shut, the key turned in the lock, and, for even greater security, a bolt was rammed home.
Obviously Mrs Aitken was not used to jails. So prison visiting was not one of her pastimes. She had really come specially to see me.
She may not have been used to jails but she still had her wits about her. There was a small grill in the middle of the door. Mrs Aitken went over to it and looked through. She was making sure that the turnkey did not have a chance to eavesdrop. Then she walked back to me.
Now for it. We were alone at last but she did not speak at once. There was an uneasy silence. She seemed to find it difficult to know what to say to me. When she finally managed to get the words out I was absolutely astounded.
"I believe you may be able to help me." A pause and then, "and my husband."
I raised my head and looked at her, puzzled. Then I dropped my gaze again and tried to give the kind of response which would be expected of me.
"How can a poor girl like me help a fine lady like you, Madam?"
I spoke quietly but I knew I still sounded remarkably well-spoken for one in my position.
Mrs Aitken tried to explain.
"Being one of the travelling people you have special gifts which could be very useful to us – and contacts. There are many who respect the name Marshall."
She may not have intended it, but something about the way she spoke rubbed me up the wrong way. She was being too polite. I felt as if she were talking down to me.
"Madam, I may bear the name of Marshall but I am no kin to Billy Marshall. And neither is my husband."
I did not really need to make that last statement. Everyone knew that Gretna Marshall was no relation to Billy Marshall and I had been told often enough that I did not need to deny it so vehemently. There had been plenty of times when it might have been to my advantage to tacitly let people think that I had some connection with Billy Marshall the legendary gypsy chief – some would say king –- who had died the previous year (1792).
Mrs Aitken struggled to continue.
"Nevertheless, you have contacts. Because of your calling you can travel freely about the country. You can go where we would not be welcome. You can ask questions and get answers."
I stiffened slightly. What did this mean? What was coming next? Was I being asked to become a spy?
I looked up quickly.
"I'll not betray my friends. Or my kin."
"I'm not asking you to," Mrs Aitken retorted at once.
"I think you can still help me without being disloyal to your friends. In return my husband can help you."
I was still looking wary. Mrs Aitken sighed to herself and finally came out with the reason for her visit.
Some articles had been stolen from her house. She wanted me to try to find them for her.
"And have the thief hanged or transported?" I flashed. "Probably someone who stole to feed their children. No. You cannot bribe me with your offers of help. I may be just a lowly tinkler but I do have some pride. And I do not betray my own kind."
Mrs Aitken ignored my outburst and spoke quietly.
"We are both more interested in getting the articles back. That is more important to us than having the thief punished."
There was silence for a moment. She must have seen the disbelief on my face because she forced herself to give a full explanation. There was one article in particular, a small, silver salver.
A few days ago the Laird had had some guests for a small dinner party. He had been very generous and over-hospitable with the wine and spirits and some of the gentlemen had drunk rather more than they should. One of the guests had a diamond stylus and had carved some verses on the silver salver. The verses were rather indiscreet and it would be inconvenient if the salver were to fall into the wrong hands. Mr Aitken was a prominent Justice of the Peace and it would not do for him to be associated with such ideas. He would not be able to deny that it was his salver because it had ‘Longcrags, Dumfriesshire,’ embossed on the back. If I could help to recover it, Mrs Aitken and her husband would not ask too many questions about the culprit.
Then something just came over me. I may have been living as a tinkler for over a year, but it did not alter the fact that I had been brought up as a member of a wealthier family than the Aitkens. In a sense my demure, submissive attitude before Mrs Aitken was something of an act.
I couldn't help it. I tried desperately to stifle a giggle but somehow a splutter got out. I shouldn't have done it but I said mischievously,
"Robin Burns. I thought it was usually windows he carved his verses on. So now he has graduated to silver."
Mrs Aitken spoke primly and severely.
"I did not mention any names."
"You did not need to, Madam. It can only have been Robin Burns."
Once started I found it hard to stop.
"Everyone knows about the Stirling window, Madam."
I proceeded to quote.
‘The injured Stewart line is gone,
A race outlandish fills their throne:
An idiot race, to honour lost –
Who know them best despise them most.
The quotation finished I added,
"Then there was a dreadful fuss. Why I don't know because it was quite true, what he wrote. But he went back and broke the window because he thought these verses might make it more difficult for him to enter the Excise."
I was about to ask her just what Robin Burns had carved on the salver but, just in time, I bit back the words. That would have been going too far. Instead I lowered my head again and tried to look submissive.
I knew that Mrs Aitken was not fooled. She realised that my dutiful meekness was just a performance, and one which I found difficult to keep up.
But I was not one of Mrs Aitken's servants. My own upbringing apart, my travelling connections now meant that I did not belong to her world. I belonged to a quite different society with its own morals, beliefs, and loyalties.
Then it suddenly dawned on Mrs Aitken that she was not going about things the right way if she wanted my help. She changed tactics. First she tried to frighten me.
"Gretna, we can both help you. I do not think you realise the seriousness of your position. Do you know anything at all about the penalties for vagrancy? Can you imagine what it would be like to have your ear nailed to the wall by the common executioner, and then cut off."
I closed my eyes tightly and winced. I had once seen a tinkler who had had an ear cut off –– and I could hardly bear to look at her.
Mrs Aitken spoke very quietly.
"I see that you do actually know what I am talking about."
She remained silent for a few moments to give me time to think over what she had just said before trying another form of persuasion. She had latched onto something which I had said earlier. I had been able to quote in full the Stirling window verse. She said quietly,
"Do you admire Robert Burns as a poet?"
I answered respectfully.
"Very much, Madam."
"Do you know that he was recently cautioned by his superiors in the Excise for being indiscreet? Any more follies and he could lose his job. Would you not like to help Robert Burns if not me?"
A long pause and then,
"Tell me how you think I can help, Madam."
Mrs Aitken explained. The thief was probably one of the servants. Mr Aitken would arrange for me to be released. He would allow me to camp in the grounds of his house. I could take my basket and go to the kitchen door. The cook and the housekeeper would be told beforehand to allow the servants to speak to me. If I kept on the alert I might learn something. There was more to it than that. My camp would be near the house. No doubt some of the servants would come to me there where they could speak to me more freely. Of course all this was more likely to apply to the female servants. The plan was not so likely to succeed if the thief was one of the male servants. Then again, there could be two or three working together.
Even so, it was worth a try.
"Well, Gretna" Mrs Aitken ended softly, "Will you help me?"
I was now looking thoughtful and undecided. Mrs Aitken knew exactly how to turn my indecision to certainty.
"If you help us, then my husband can help you. And also your own husband."
That did it. Hope sprang into my eyes.
"How Madam?"
"I am sure you realise that when his case comes to trial your husband will almost certainly be condemned to death. But my husband could speak for him and plead for him and instead of being hanged he would be transported to Australia. Better still, he could even avoid being brought before the court at all. He could petition for transportation and my husband would ensure that his petition would be accepted. Then there would be no court case."
She paused and then continued, trying frantically to get through to me.
Transportation to Australia was not such a bad fate. For a few years my husband would be in a prison colony. Then he could be granted his ticket of leave when he could work as a farm servant. Or – remembering who she was speaking to– or even a pedlar or hawker. But he would still be subject to certain restrictions. Finally, he could be granted a pardon and he would be a free man in Australia, although he would not be allowed to return to Britain until the full fourteen years were up. I could go out and join him if I wanted. Mr Aitken would help me with money and travel arrangements.
I listened intently. In one way this was the miracle I had been praying for. But it was all so unfair. And I could not help saying so.
"He's innocent, Madam."
"Can you prove it, Gretna? Would you want to risk his life in a court case? Or would you rather not accept what we have to offer?"
She had me there. No I could not prove it. Not with one of the wealthiest men in south west Scotland prepared to give evidence against him. I would have to accept Mrs Aitken's offer. But there was still one thing I was doubtful about. I asked cautiously,
"What happens, Madam, if I try to find the salver but fail? Even if I do my very best?"
She did not answer directly.
"Do what you can. I am sure it will be more than you think."
I did not like that evasion, but I decided to accept it. I was being offered life for Danny and the protection of a wealthy guardian for myself. I little knew then that the security I was being promised was deceptive and rather like a Solway beach – a wide expanse of sand deceptively safe at low tide but fraught with danger when the flow tide rushes in and traps the unwary on island sandbanks. So it was to be with me in the service of the Laird of Longcrags – periods of calm followed by ones of peril and hazards. But that was all in the unknown future. At that moment, facing Mrs Aitken in my prison cell, all I could think about was Danny. Suddenly a picture flashed before my eyes – a picture of Danny with his hands tied behind his back stumbling up the steps to the scaffold.
If helping the Aitkens meant saving Danny's life then I had no choice.
I succumbed to Mrs Aitken's powers of persuasion.
I became the first of the Solway Sleuth-Hounds.
I was soon to see what could be achieved by the power and influence of the gentry when combined with the forceful personality and gift for organisation of a woman like Isabel Aitken. Events now moved with a startling rapidity, with the speed of a Solway schooner scudding before the wind with the tide in her favour. Once I had made my decision Mrs Aitken did not give me a chance to change my mind. She strode over to the door and rapped loudly with her riding crop. She obviously expected the door to open at once like Aladdin's cave and when nothing happened she knocked once more. This time her crop positively thundered against the door. I heard the scurry of quick footsteps, the bolt being drawn back and the key in the lock. The door opened revealing a very flustered looking jailer. Now he was abject and silent. He had clearly learned his lesson – that Isabel Aitken was not to be trifled with.
As she was about to leave she looked back at me quickly,
"You will soon be hearing from me, Gretna."
So saying she swept through the door. Before it closed I heard her say to the jailer,
"Now, my man, I have some instructions for you –– and for your good wife."
I threw myself back down on the straw and thought about the new direction my life had just taken. I had found myself a wealthy protector, which was a great relief. There was a precedent and example for this –– the legendary gypsy king Billy Marshall who had enjoyed the patronage of the Earl of Selkirk.
But there were some undefined doubts gnawing at the back of my mind. I had tried to break free from my background and upbringing but it seemed that I was something of a failed rebel. The gentry still had me in their snare.
I did not have time to work out what was really bothering me because my thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the jailer and his wife with hot water and a tub.
The turnkey left at once and his wife – a much pleasanter character than her husband – told me to call her "Effie" and then added cheerfully,
"Mrs Aitken thought you might like to get washed, dear. And she gave me these clothes for you."
Here she indicated a bundle she was carrying.
I had a good wash. It was symbolic as well as practical. I felt I was washing away all the prison associations and, I sincerely hoped, memories.
Effie undid the bundle and shook out my new clothes. Mrs Aitken had provided me with a full set of practically everything. I examined the garments and was delighted. All were good quality working women's clothes, practical and comfortable. Also bright and colourful.
First there was a linen shift and leather stays. But it was the outerwear that really charmed me. There were two lindsey woolsey petticoats, one dark green and the other red, then a leaf green bedgown, also lindsey woolsey. Very suitable for the colder autumn days which were just about to come.
Effie helped me to dress. First the underclothes and then I put on the petticoats – the red one first and the dark green one on top. As I pulled on the bedgown I wondered, as I always did, why it was called a bedgown, a long loose jacket worn over petticoats. But it was never worn in bed so why was it called a bedgown? Why worry? It was my favourite colour anyway. I tied the blue apron round my waist and then it was time for the linen cap. Gretna Green marriage or not, I was still a legally married woman and my cap showed that.
I have always refused to go barefoot and I was pleased to see that Mrs Aitken had also provided a pair of soft cowhide shoes and a pair of knitted stockings to go with them.
There was one other thing she had given me –– a tartan screen. This was rather like a small plaid but it was worn either as a shawl or over the head. It was a good, warm, woollen one, which I would really appreciate in the winter days ahead. It came complete with a silver brooch to fasten it with. I did not recognise the tartan –– a striking red and green — and I looked at it curiously. Knowing Mrs Aitken the tartan would no doubt have a special significance. But I would have to wait to find out what it was.
When I was ready Effie handed me a small box.
"Mrs Aitken was most insistent that I should give you this."
I opened the box. It contained a pair of earrings. An act of consideration or a token to secure our agreement?
No, more than that. The earrings contained a very special message for me. Isabel Aitken was saying,
"Keep your pretty ears, my dear – both of them."
Her gift was a very subtle warning that, if I did not agree to serve the Aitkens, then I could be in danger of suffering the barbarous treatment often meted out to the travelling people.
I turned the earrings over in my hands. They were unusual. They were simple drop earrings, made of polished horn. I examined them more closely and saw some delicate and intricate carvings of birds in flight – symbols of freedom. She was saying,
"You will soon be free Gretna – free to do exactly what I tell you."
Effie took one look and exclaimed,
"They're beautiful. Let me help you to put them on."
As she did so I thought quickly. The earrings had probably been made specially. They were made of horn so they had probably been made by a tinkler as many tinklers – like Billy Marshall himself – were horners. It would have taken time for the craftsman to finish them so Isabel Aitken had had them made before her visit. She had been very sure that I would agree to her request. She had been proved correct and I felt a sudden pang of annoyance.
I was now ready and Effie stood back and admired me before bundling up my old clothes, which, she told me, I would need later. In my new life it seemed that there would be times when I had to look respectable and times when I had to look otherwise. Then she left me.
I walked round the little cell getting used to my new clothes. I was entranced with them. The petticoats were a perfect fit, just clearing my ankles. That is the way I like them. I do not like my skirts too short. Some might feel that mid calf is a more practical length, a length which is cleaner as it keeps the skirts well clear of any mud or dirt, a length which also means that the wearer is less likely to trip over them. Be that as it may, I prefer my skirts a little longer.
But there were several things which puzzled me. How had Mrs Aitken known how to get such an exact fit? Most people do not realise just how small I am and I would not have been surprised if she had given me clothes which were far too big.
There was more to it than just the fit. She had chosen green, my favourite colour. My mother always used to dress me in blue and when I protested she would say,
"It brings out the colour of your eyes, dear."
But I had always preferred green and now Mrs Aitken had provided me with garments of my favourite hue. Was it just a coincidence? I was certain that it was not. Not with Mrs Aitken. But how and where had she learned so much about me?
I fingered my significant earrings thoughtfully. I went over to the tartan screen which I had placed on top of my bundle and examined the silver brooch closely. I had a strange feeling about it. I had seen one exactly like it before. It had been made by a tinkler from stolen spoons which he had melted down. Michael had made a special visit to Danny and myself to warn us of that particular tinkler. "He's trouble," he said. As he left us he gave us strict instructions to avoid him as we would an adder which had just crawled out of the heather.
I examined the Celtic knots on the brooch trying to find some minute differences in the pattern fiercely telling myself that it was a common motif after all. But I failed to convince myself.
What was the connection between Mrs Aitken and the travelling people?
Here my thoughts were broken by the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside. Two sets of footsteps, the heavy tread of the jailer accompanied by a lighter footfall. The door opened and I struggled to suppress a look of surprise. The jailer had brought with him a young boy who seemed to be about twelve. He was neatly dressed in dark breeches and jacket and his hair was tidily tied back. I was wondering who he was when the jailer introduced him, in words which I found absolutely amazing.
"This young gentleman is Mr Alexander MacBean. He is a clerk to Mr Gordon, Writer of Dumfries and agent to the Laird of Longcrags. Mr MacBean has an important communication for you."
I was so surprised at this little boy being described in these terms that I hardly heard the door slam shut. But once we were alone I turned my attention to Alexander. I still could not think of him as ‘Mr MacBean.’
Alexander began to speak and I was in for another shock. He did not sound like a little boy. He spoke very precisely and used long words, obviously a lawyer of the future.
"I trust you are well, Mrs Marshall."
I realised that this was something of a formality but, under the circumstances, I thought it a rather silly thing to say.
"I often act as messenger for Mr Gordon and I have been asked to entrust to you these important documents. Kindly peruse them and let me know if you have any questions."
So saying he handed me a package. Mystified I opened it. To my delight I saw that it contained a wagon license and a pedlar's licence, both made out in my name. I cannot describe my relief. Now I could travel about the country freely without the worry of being arrested for vagrancy. I looked at the date and noticed that it had been signed two days ago – by Mrs Aitken’s husband. So she had been very sure that I would accept her offer.
Alexander was still speaking.
"You are soon to be released. I should advise you to make your preparations."
What on earth did he mean? What preparations? All I had to do was to pick up my bundle. I said simply,
"I'm ready now."
Alexander smiled quietly.
"Please be patient, Mrs Marshall. There are legal procedures to be observed, papers to be signed. And arrangements are being made to have your wagon and pony brought here. But rest assured, I shall return shortly."
He turned to the door and prepared to knock for the jailer. Suddenly I felt that I did not want this strange boy to leave. I had derived an unexpected comfort and reassurance from his visit. Also I was curious to know more about him. I had already deduced that he was much older than he looked. He must have been to be trusted with so much responsibility. And his neat appearance and slightly pompous speech were, no doubt, to try to make himself look and sound older.
Before he could knock I said quickly,
"You are a clerk to Mr Gordon?"
He dropped his hand and turned to me,
"Yes, for the present at any rate. But I do not intend to remain a clerk. I hope to become an apprentice and go to Glasgow University to study law."
Desperate to keep him talking I said,
"So you hope to become a Writer to the Signet yourself?"
Alexander raised his chin and said firmly,
"No, not a Writer. I am going to be an advocate. And one day I shall defend unfortunates in the High Court in front of Lord Braxfield himself."
He sounded so definite, so sure of himself. But did he need to practise for the High Court all the time? I said simply,
"I wish you every success."
Suddenly he smiled and there was an almost mischievous twinkle in his eyes. When he spoke again he sounded almost normal.
"It is surprising what determination and industry can achieve. And, since you are too polite to ask, yes I am older than I look. I am actually fifteen, but, since I look like a schoolboy, you may call me Alexander. And now I really must go but I assure you I shall soon be back. And while you are waiting I am sure Effie can arrange some refreshment for you."
He knocked for the jailer who came and took him away. I little realised then just how much I was to see of Alexander in the future and how closely we were to work together in the following years.
I was most unsure of Effie's ‘refreshment’ but when she brought it I had a very pleasant surprise. It was the first edible food I had seen in the three days since I had been locked in the Mid Steeple. Effie brought cheese, oatcakes and an apple together with a wooden dish of tea. Remembering Mrs Aitken's earlier accusations about adulterated tea I looked at the bowl dubiously before taking a cautious sip. I was soon reassured. It was good and pure and I drank gratefully glad to have something to soothe my aching throat.
Shortly after I had finished Alexander came back for me. He picked up my bundle and I threw my screen round my shoulders. The jailer saw us along the corridor to the main door, opened it and stepped aside for us to pass through. Scarcely able to contain my excitement I stepped out into the open air.
The main doorway of the Mid Steeple is at the first floor level and I found myself standing on a small landing at the top of an outside stairway. I paused and stood there, tightly gripping the wrought iron balustrade. There was a slight breeze and I revelled in it. It seemed an eon since I had last felt the wind in my face. I took a deep breath and looked over the plain stanes.
Then I noticed my wagon and my shaggy, black and white pony Lucy, my darling Lucy. I suddenly realised what she was doing and I smiled to myself. Near her was a large handcart piled high with an enormous load of hay. Lucy had edged nearer the handcart and was helping herself – unseen by the urchins in charge of it. My clever little Lucy. Then I had a sudden thought. What on earth was I doing here? I should be with her.
I was so near liberty. I wanted to race down the stairs but I could not. Alexander had decided to be a gentleman and was walking in front of me so that if I tripped he would break my fall. So I was forced to walk slowly and sedately to freedom.
Alexander reached the foot and turned to look back at me. Suddenly a young man rushed up shouting rudely,
"Sawney Bean. Out of my way. Some of us have work to do, Sawney Bean."
He pushed past Alexander who lost his balance and fell sprawling on the ground. I just escaped the same fate by taking a firm hold on the railing as the obnoxious young man ran past. I hurried to help Alexander who had now struggled to his feet.
"I am all right," he said calmly. He looked at me and decided I needed some kind of explanation. The young man turned out to be Walter Beattie, Mr Gordon's apprentice.
Alexander explained simply.
"He's jealous of me because Mr Gordon gives me more responsibility even although I am younger than him and I am just a clerk whereas he is an apprentice. So Wattie always tries to make life difficult for me."
"He called you Sawney Bean," I said uncertainly.
"My childish nickname," said Alexander patiently and resignedly. "He knows I hate it so he uses it at every opportunity. He can never say just Sawney which I don't mind. Well not really. But with Wattie it has always to be Sawney Bean."
"Work it out," he said as I still looked puzzled. And I did. Sawney was an old Scots diminutive of Alexander. And in Dumfries it would be just too tempting to drop the ‘Mac’ from ‘MacBean’ and get just Sawney Bean.
Sawney Bean was a figure from the folklore of the area. Long ago in the dimly remembered past a family of cannibals had lived in caves on the shores of south Ayrshire and had preyed on luckless travellers. They had been discovered at last, hunted down and taken to Edinburgh where they were all put to death with much savagery and barbarity. Small wonder that Alexander hated being called Sawney Bean. But at the same time I could not help thinking that Sawney suited him. Alexander was too grand for him.
I was struck by Sawney's calmness and by the fact that he just accepted Beattie's rough treatment. Was Sawney always so placid? Did he never lose his temper? It was a long time before I learned that some people are not in a position to to do this and that giving way to natural anger is a luxury many just cannot afford.
Sawney led me over to my wagon and introduced me to the man in charge of it, one of the Laird of Longcrags' estate workers who was to escort me to the lairdship of Longcrags or Longcrags Estate. Sawney rubbed Lucy's nose and I could see that he shared my love of animals. Then, in his formal manner, he said his farewells assuring me that he was certain that we would meet again. I little thought then just how soon and in what circumstances.
I climbed into the wagon and the estate worker, whose name was Jimmy, handed me the reins. He, himself, was to ride behind me.
Now, back in my own wagon and with Lucy in front of me, all I wanted was to get out of Dumfries as quickly as possible. At that very moment I felt it would always have frightful associations for me. By leaving Dumfries I would also be leaving behind the grim memories of my loathsome imprisonment. I tugged on the reins and persuaded Lucy to leave the hay and we were off down the High Street.
We had to cross the River Nith and the most direct way was to go down one of the lanes or vennels which led to the river. The nearest was the Wee Vennel, otherwise known as the Stinking Vennel. I guided Lucy round a pen containing pigs and we were in the lane. For once I did not mind the smells of rotting rubbish, the river of sewage and the occasional dungheap. No matter how pungent they were free smells and that was all I cared about. I turned my attention to my driving.
I drove slowly and carefully down the Vennel. It seemed an age but it was probably only about five minutes before we arrived at the end of it. Before turning into the Whitesands I looked up quickly at the second floor apartment where Robin Burns had lived with his family when he first came to Dumfries. It suddenly occurred to me that it was to Burns that I actually owed my present freedom. It was thanks to his indiscretion that Isabel Aitken had sought me out. I rounded the corner onto the Whitesands, that open ground beside the River Nith, then turned right, towards the Old Bridge. This was the busy part of the Whitesands – breweries and tanneries on the land and, on the river, timber rafts. I drove cautiously taking care not to knock anyone down. I certainly was not going to risk another spell of imprisonment. I reached the Bridge at last, the Old Bridge – that familiar landmark of Dumfries, that old, narrow, sandstone, arched bridge, my path path to freedom.
Then I found I could not cross immediately. There was a delay because a flock of sheep was being driven off. It was a large flock and so I had to sit and wait in an agony of frustration as they poured off the narrow bridge. I was desperate to get across. The bridge marked the end of the jurisdiction of the Dumfries magistrates and I would not feel properly free until I was on the western side of the Nith.
At last I thought the sheep were all over but it was only a gap and then a collie hustled several more on. In my impatience it almost seemed as if a whole new flock was coming through. Eventually the shepherd appeared with his other dog but I was still not able to guide Lucy onto the bridge. Behind the sheep was a long tailback of carts and wagons which had been forced to wait. The Old Bridge is too narrow for two wagons to pass safely. There are two passing places in the middle but it is better to avoid using them if possible. So I waited and fretted. I looked upstream to the half-built New Bridge and thought longingly if only it had been completed!
Eventually the last cart rolled off and I was able to drive onto the bridge. Once across we passed a few buildings and then we were on a road between fields. We had left Dumfries and its hateful memories behind us. We were now in the Stewarty of Kirkcudbright, and I really felt free at last. Now, with an open road in front of me, I urged Lucy into a trot. Behind me lay my imprisonment, in front of me liberty and a new life.
I was completely euphoric but then I thought of Lucy and slowed her down to a walk. But we still made good time. We passed through some woods and then the village of New Abbey with its corn mill and ruined Sweetheart Abbey with its romantic associations.
We were nearly there. A few miles past New Abbey we turned off the road onto a track on the right. Shortly afterwards we came to the gates of the lairdship – or estate – of Longcrags. My new life was about to begin.
We arrived late in the afternoon. Jimmy drove straight to the stable block. He pointed to a clump of trees nearby and told me I could station the wagon there. Lucy was free to use one of the paddocks. Then he left me.
I set about making myself comfortable. I unhitched Lucy and pushed the wagon into the position I wanted. That was quite easy. My wagon was not the kind of gypsy wagon seen in romantic pictures. It was just a plain, ordinary cart with a cover of waxed cloth. It was not a wooden cart either. It was made of wickerwork. Whatever anyone else may have thought this was ideal for me. The wickerwork meant it was very light, easy for Lucy to pull and for me to push into position. And if the wickerwork ever needed repairing then I could do it myself quite easily.
These were all important considerations now that I was a woman on my own. I had to be able to manage without the help of masculine muscles.
My wagon had another advantage. It was large enough for me to be able to sleep in it so I did not have to lie on the damp ground.
I checked and found that everything in my wagon was just as I had left it, but with some additions. Some food had been left for me, eggs, bread, oatmeal, cheese and some tea. I lit a fire and set about making a simple meal.
Later that evening the Laird came down to the stables. I was subsequently to find that that was his usual custom. His horses meant everything to him and he checked them every night. This was one reason why he had chosen this site for my camp. His evening visits to the stables were well known and afterwards it would be quite easy for him to come across to me and inquire about my progress without arousing any surprise or comment.
That first evening he strolled over to me and said courteously,
"I trust that you are comfortable and have everything you need."
He had spoken automatically without thinking, the way in which he would speak to a guest.
I answered him politely and thanked him for the food. He looked rather uncomfortable. Almost –– and this is really unbelievable –– ashamed.
"To-morrow, if you go round to the kitchen the cook will have something more for you. A pie perhaps, and some potatoes."
He then became more business-like. He told me what he had planned. Money had been stolen, money which the cook had for paying suppliers. This seemed to suggest that the thief was one of the servants. Apart from the silver salver, the only other articles missing were a pair of silver candlesticks.
If the thief was a servant then I was well placed. Giddy servant girls were always eager to see a tinkler. If I were to tell their fortunes I would find their tongues loosened and I might learn something.
"The telling of fortunes is against the law," I murmured nervously.
"So much the better. Then they will have to come to you in private. They will speak more freely then." The Laird paused and tried to sound reassuring.
"In this case, we will overlook any fortune telling."
Then back to practicalities. He told me the best time to go round to the kitchen would be mid-afternoon. His wife had quietly warned the cook to expect me. So saying he wished me good-night and turned to go. Then he had an afterthought. It was going to be a cold, frosty autumn night and stables are always warm. He came back and said,
"There are a couple of empty stalls in the stables. And plenty of straw. You can sleep there if you choose. And the pony too. It will be warmer than out here."
So saying he walked away quickly.
I watched him go thoughtfully. The Laird was a kind man. He was also very perceptive. I guessed that he realised that I was no ordinary tinkler. He himself was far more of a sleuth-hound than I would ever be. If anyone could pry out my secret it would be the Laird of Longcrags.
Not for the first time I regretted changing my name to Gretna after my marriage, my act of defiance showing that I was making a complete break with my old life. But that might turn out to be just the fillip the Laird needed to find out my real name. At the very least Gretna Green would provide a starting point for any enquiries.
Once the Laird had left I took him at his word. I did not want to take Lucy into the stables yet. Time enough for that when the winter really set in. The paddock would do her just now. But for myself I carried some blankets across to the stables and laid them on a bed of straw and prepared for a night of unexpected luxury. I was proud of the way in which I had coped with the hardship of the last year but I must admit that I really enjoyed the comfort of that night in the Laird's stables. Next morning I awoke really refreshed to a bright, autumn day. I went back to the wagon to prepare breakfast. But first I took time to look around. I looked across to the big house.
Longcrags stood on the lower slopes of Crowfell, or Criffel as it is sometimes called. The buildings were rather unusual. Instead of being behind the big house the stables were somewhat to the side of Longcrags. The driveway from the main gates swept up to the house and then continued in a huge curve to the stables so, from where I was, I had a good view of the steps leading up to the front door. Before the house was a wide expanse of well-sythed short grass.
I looked across this lawn to the house itself. Longcrags was really just a large farmhouse which looked rather untidy as various extensions had been added from time to time. But, in its own way, it was attractive. Red and white Longcrags. Built of dark red sandstone (no doubt from the Locharbriggs quarries just north of Dumfries) it had newly painted sparkling white doors and window frames. The estate was obviously well kept and well managed. The Laird could easily have afforded to build himself a new house, a much grander one. This was what many of his neighbours among the surrounding gentry had done, but why go to unnecessary expense? The haphazard additions made the house look rather strange but at the same time it also made it look comfortable, like a person who had just exchanged stiff formal clothes for homely old garments.
I suddenly realised that all this told me quite a bit about the Laird. Ostentation and appearances clearly meant very little to him. And, what was more surprising, probably to Mrs Aitken too.
Solid and well built the house stood proudly on the hillside, hurling defiance at the frequent Solway gales. But it was worth enduring the storms for the wonderful view across the Firth.
And on my first morning at Longcrags, I could really appreciate the scene before me. Then it would have been hard to imagine the icy blasts of winter, as it was a perfect autumn morning with only a gentle breeze. Looking down, I was able to see the blue waters of the Solway and even the sails of a schooner. I looked across to Cumberland to where Skiddaw and the Cumberland fells were sharply etched against the sky –– where my home had been, once, but no longer.
I stared pensively at Skiddaw for some time and then I shook myself into action.
After breakfast I sat in the wagon knitting. I wanted to build up my stock for my basket. But I had another reason for knitting. I find it relaxing. Also the rhythmic movement of the needles and the repetitive, almost automatic actions always clear my mind and help me to think, and I certainly had a lot to think about.
First of all I considered my own position. Why had I been singled out? Why me and not another traveller? Mrs Aitken must have had a reason. Of course Danny gave her a hold over me – Danny's life for my obedience. But somehow I did not believe that was the whole story. But what was? I thought back over our conversation. Mrs Aitken spoke the standard English of polite society but I had heard at once the slight Cumberland underlay. Was it possible? Did she have an inkling of my past identity?
I pondered over that question for some time and then left it. Be that as it may, my present task was to find the silver salver and I turned my thoughts to it.
What could Robin Burns have carved on it that was so dreadful? Something coarse and crude? Knowing Robin Burns that was perfectly possible. But that would not cause such consternation. It would be embarrassing for Mrs Aitken but the men would just laugh. And the Excise would not be bothered about bawdy verses. No. It must be something political or perhaps even treasonable. Something against the royal family? Or something in favour of the new republican government in France? If the verses were treasonable then Robin Burns could have far more to worry about than just losing his job. He could be arrested and imprisoned or even transported to Australia like Thomas Muir and Thomas Palmer. And what about the Laird? The verses had been carved in his house. Could this mean that he would be implicated too?
I forced myself to leave the question of the verses on the salver. That was none of my business. It was just idle curiosity on my part. My task was to find the salver itself, not discover what had been carved on it. I set about trying to puzzle out how to find it.
The Laird had made a rough plan. But so often our plans do not work out the way we intend. And so it was in this case. The Laird had brought me here in the hope that my travelling status would attract the servants as later turned out to be the case. But what he had overlooked was that I might also attract the attention of his own children. And that I myself, in turn, would be dragged into the affairs of his family.
The Laird had forgotten about Lucy. She was the kind of pony any horse lover would be drawn to. In particular children would be fascinated by her. And children often talk more freely than their elders.
I was just about to find this out.
It was the middle of the morning. Suddenly three children and a woman who looked like a governess came towards the stables. A small dog ran to and fro in front of them.
One of the children was a boy of about ten. He caught sight of Lucy in the paddock. He ran over and stood at the fence. Always curious Lucy trotted over. I went and joined them.
"Is this your pony?"
He did not wait for an answer but just prattled on.
"Can I give her an apple? I always bring apples for the horses. I'm Struan Aitken. Who are you?"
The other three had now joined us. Apart from the governess they consisted of a girl of about twelve and an older girl who might have been fifteen and who obviously considered that she was far too old for a governess.
Struan patted Lucy and then asked,
"What's her name?"
"Lucy. She is called Lucy because she was born on the shores of Luce Bay."
The younger girl took one look at Lucy and laughed.
"What a funny pony. It's too heavy and its coat is too long. My pony is clipped."
Her brother was scornful.
"This one can't be clipped. She has to live out, eejit."
It was obvious that Struan had picked up much of the speech of the grooms.
The girl was not to be silenced.
"It's such a stupid colour. Those silly black and white patches. My friends would laugh at me if they saw me on a pony like that."
Struan was about to retort when the governess silenced them.
"Stop this quarrelling at once. If you can't behave then you are all going back to the schoolroom. Now show Mrs Marshall you have some manners."
Amazing. The second time in two days that I had been treated like a human being. But the girl had to spoil it.
"You don't have to be polite to a tinkler."
The governess spoke sharply.
"That's enough, Charlotte. You have to be polite to everybody. Now back."
As the governess led her charges away the girl was still defiant.
"I'd just as soon go back to the schoolroom. Struan always spoils our walks. He always wants to come to the stables. It's boring."
Struan lingered.
"I'll be back," he hissed at me before taking to his heels and running after the others.
He was. Just after lunch. He did not come directly to me. First he had a riding lesson with the head groom in the paddock where I was able to watch him. I liked what I saw. Struan sat deep in the saddle and had good hands. He was very attentive to his instructor. When the lesson was over he went back with his pony to the stables. He was gone some time and I thought I would not see him again that afternoon but I was wrong. He suddenly came running up to me. He went to the fence, called Lucy and rubbed her nose while he babbled on.
"Did you see me ride?" he asked proudly.
"I love horses. I have been helping to groom Silver. That's my pony. Lottie, she's my sister, says that we employ grooms to do that, but Father says that if I learn all about horses now then when I am grown up I shall know whether my groom is doing his job properly or not."
He teased out Lucy's thick mane.
"My big brother, James, has a beautiful horse. I wish they would let me ride him. James was at the races last month. At Tinwald Downs. You know, just north of Dumfries. I wanted to go too but he would not take me. I'll have to go now. My tutor will be waiting for me. 'Bye."
It was nearly time for me to go round to the kitchen but first I had some hard thinking to do. The Laird was assuming that the thief was one of the servants but could it possibly be one of his own family? I would have thought Lottie capable of absolutely anything. More important was what I had just learned from Struan. He had an elder brother who had been to the September races at Tinwald Downs. Could he have placed a few bets and lost? Could he have debts to pay and was he afraid to tell his father?
It was a possibility, but how I was to follow it up I just did not know. I would have to think about it later. I shied away from the dreadful possibility that the thief may actually have been one of the Laird’s family. If it was, and if I discovered the truth how on earth would I tell him?
I pushed such frightful thoughts to the back of my mind. It was now time for me to go round to the kitchen.
My investigations had not started off in the way the Laird had planned. They had begun, not with the servants but with his own children. But now it really was time for me to turn my attention to the servants.
Lucy
I took my basket and walked round to the back entrance. The cook had been warned to expect me and she told the servants curtly,
"You can have ten minutes and then back to your duties."
I would have expected all the servants to have crowded round me but only two did so. A third girl remained at her work scouring a pot.
One girl picked up a lavender sachet and breathed in its scent while the other girl tried on a pair of mittens. She called to the girl at the pot.
"Come and look, Annie. She's got some lovely things."
Annie just ignored her.
The girl with the lavender sachet asked, "Can you spae my fortune?"
"We are not supposed to do that nowadays," I said softly.
"We'll come ower the nicht," whispered the girl.
The cook brought a basket of her own over to me.
"There's a pastry for you. And some potatoes, " she said, looking sternly at the girls who now realised that their little interlude was over.
After that all that I could do was to go back to my camp and wait. It was late in the evening before the two servant girls came over to me. The one who had bought the lavender sachet was Meg and the other was Janet.
"Can you spae?" asked Meg anxiously.
I answered carefully.
"Sometimes. I have some small skill but I do not have the gifts of others among my people."
That was true. I was not making it up. I do not have the usual talents of the travelling people but occasionally I will have a sudden flash of enlightenment or a premonition that something is going to happen.
Meg looked disappointed. That dreamy expression, her whole manner, Meg had wanted me to tell her about her young man.
I spoke cautiously.
"You do not need my help but there is one close to you who is much troubled."
The two girls looked at each other. Then Janet said,
"Annie, the scullery maid. She's fair fashed aboot something. She's aye muttering to herself."
Meg dismissed this carelessly.
"She's simple."
"She's got much waur these last few days. There's something wrang," said the more serious Janet.
Meg suddenly looked thoughtful.
"True. And she's taken to ganging oot early o' a morn." Janet stared at her and Meg explained. The other morning she had woken early. She had got up and crossed to the window and looked out. She had seen Annie hurrying towards the back gate.
"There's nae reason why she shouldna hae an early daunder," said Janet solemnly.
Meg gave a loud laugh.
"Annie, an early daunder. Ye ken how she likes a long lie."
"She does that a'richt," said Janet quietly.
Meg pondered for a bit and then tried to give a reason for Annie's unaccustomed behaviour.
"It all began efter she started seeing Granny Simpson. I'm siccar the auld witch has pit a spell oan her."
Janet was alarmed.
"Ye shouldna say sic things. If Mrs Robertson were tae hear ye..." (Mrs Robertson was the housekeeper).
"Why fur no? It's the truth. Granny Simpson is a witch an' I dinna care whit Mrs Robertson says. Granny Simpson has pit the evil eye on Annie. Admit it. You're feart o' the auld bissom yoursel'."
Janet denied it but sounded very unconvincing.
"I don't like Mrs Simpson, it's true. And I try to avoid her whenever I can. But it's havers to say she is a witch. And Mrs Robertson tells us it is wicked to think such things."
"Well I'm telling ye, the auld wifie gars me grue. That way she has o’ staring at you withoot blinkin.' And auld Will Scott always has to tak his dug by the scruff o' the neck and drag it past her gate. It will never walk by on its ain. And have you noticed, the sun never shines on her cottage."
She went on and on. Janet and I were both affected. Janet began to look more and more uncomfortable and even although I told myself not to be so stupid, I found myself becoming alarmed and even panicky.
I struggled to put an end to all this and asked them if they would like to see my pony. But this was one time that Lucy failed to work her usual charm. The girls admired her and stroked her but they were still quiet and despondent. I offered to walk back with them to the big house and they both agreed with disturbing eagerness.
I left the girls at the back door and walked slowly back to my camp, mulling over all they had told me. What had I learned? Had they given me any clues to the thief of the silver salver?
Meg was probably under the influence of a young man. Was he a good or a bad influence? Could she have stolen for him? It was possible but somehow I did not think so.
And what was I to make of all this talk of a witch? Of course I knew that there were no such creatures as witches, but it was only just over sixty years since the last witch was executed in Scotland and many superstitious country people still believed in them.
Moreover, if I were to be strictly honest, listening to Meg had made my own flesh creep.
I puzzled over the witch question and then decided that I had better concentrate on Annie and her early morning activities. I would try to follow her. That would at least make me feel I was doing something if nothing else.
Next morning, just before dawn, I crept round to the back of the house and hid myself among some bushes. I had a long wait. Gradually the sky lightened and the trees were black silhouettes before, in their turn, taking on something of their normal colour. Suddenly the kitchen door opened and Annie came out. I followed her cautiously.
Annie walked along a track behind the house. She reached a small plantation and rushed along a little path. I continued to shadow her, flitting from tree to tree and not making a sound.
Annie came to a clearing and got down on her hands and knees. As I stared in amazement she crawled round in a circle. She then rose up and stood for a moment with her arms outstretched. Finally she took a vial from a pocket under her petticoat and drank from it before turning and scuttling back the way she had come.
I returned to my wagon. I had plenty to think about. Remembering Lottie's harsh words about Lucy I decided to give her a good grooming. She badly needed it. She had been neglected while I was in jail. Moreover I would think better with a brush in my hand.
I was still brushing Lucy when the children and their governess came for their morning walk. There were only two of them. Charlotte was missing.
Struan came up to me.
"Lottie's in the schoolroom. She's in disgrace," he said gleefully.
I dropped the brush and picked up a hoof pick. This was interesting.
The little dog had followed Struan. He managed to get his tiny teeth round the hand strap of the brush and ran off with it. Struan did not chase him. He stood still and called,
"Patch. Fetch."
The dog turned, bounded back and dropped the brush at Struan's feet. Struan picked it up and gave it to me saying proudly,
"He always does what I tell him."
He then proceeded to tell me all about the dog. He was a comforter.
I looked at the little black and white dog carefully. It was just a pup and it did not have its full coat yet but I could visualise what it would look like in about a year's time. The coat was short but thick but I knew it would soon be long and luxuriant. The tail was curled tightly over the back with yet no sign of the long hair which would, in time, cascade down over the flanks. It was like a toy spaniel but smaller and lighter. It had a little face with sharp, pointed features and big, bright eyes.
A true comforter, except for one thing, instead of drooping spanielwise, the ears were pricked and erect, although that would not be so obvious once it had its fringes. Struan informed me that Lottie thought that Patch should be drowned. This brought him back to his sister again and he told me why she was in trouble.
It was her birthday and she had been very ungrateful when she had been given her presents. In particular she had been really disgusted with James's present. He had given her a book, a cheap book. Lottie had thrown it at him and said,
"I don't want it. Give it to the tinkler for her basket. That's all it's good for."
Struan suddenly realised what he had said. He stopped and looked awkward. To put him at his ease again I started to admire the little dog.
After Struan had left I sat and thought. James had given his sister a cheap birthday present and last month James had been to the races. There was no way out. I would have to mention my misgivings to the Laird.
That evening I told the Laird of Annie's strange behaviour. Then, plucking up my courage, I said tentatively,
"There's something else I should mention."
Nervously I told how James had been to the races. Could he have lost money betting? That morning he had given his sister a very cheap present.
It was all right. The Laird was not angry. It was true that James had lost money at the races but he had confessed to his father himself. The Laird had paid his debts and he was sure that his son had learnt his lesson. At least that was what he told me, although privately I still had a few doubts.
He was more interested in Annie. He frowned when I told him about Granny Simpson. There was nothing he could do at the present but he would have her watched.
Then he started to make plans. It was arranged that I should keep a special look out for her the next morning. The Laird and some of his most trusted servants would do the same.
Next morning I went directly to the clearing and hid myself there.
Eventually Annie arrived. This time she just stood and waited. After a while a woman appeared. Annie took something from beneath her skirts and offered it to the woman. Although they spoke quietly I could hear them quite easily.
"Whit's this?"
"A pair o' siller candlesticks. I couldna get ony mair siller."
"Candlesticks. Whit use are they to me? Tak them back. I asked you fur money."
Annie started to cry. At first she sobbed quietly and then she started to howl.
The woman looked around anxiously. She had to find some way of silencing her quickly before she brought some of the lairdship workers to the scene.
"Wheest. Wheest. A'richt then lass. Oot o’ the goodness o’ ma hert I will accept whit ye hae gied me and I shall say nae mair aboot whit ye owe me. Noo dry your een and gae in peace."
I waited until they had both gone and then made my way back. I found the Laird and told him everything.
I had done all I could. It was now up to him and he acted at once. He guessed that the woman would have been Granny Simpson. At once he wrote out a warrant for her arrest, signed it and sent for his constables. In an amazingly short time they were on their way to her cottage.
That was not all he did. He also sent a message to a neighbouring laird who was also a Justice of the Peace asking him to come over to Longcrags as soon as possible.
Then he sent for Annie and had her brought to the room he used as a kind of office. I was there too, along with Mrs Robertson, the housekeeper.
Once Annie, fidgeting nervously, was standing before him, the Laird confronted her with what she was supposed to have done and asked her if it was true. He did not expect such a violent reaction.
Wringing her hands Annie cast herself at his feet.
"Forgie me, Laird. Please forgie me," she gulped. "I had tae dae it. I didna want tae. But ma puir mither. She was deeing. An' auld Scott's dug howled a' nicht, an' ma puir mither was burning –– as she will in Hell."
At this Annie broke down completely and sobbed convulsively.
The Laird was dumbfounded. This was one thing he could not deal with – a distraught, howling, wailing female.
He was about to say something but he could not get the words out. The housekeeper, however, knew exactly what to do.
"I shall fetch herself," she said decisively and made a rapid escape.
Herself, in the form of Mrs Aitken, proved difficult to find and so the Laird had to suffer Annie's snivelling a little longer. But this wait made his relief all the greater when Mrs Robertson re-entered the office with his wife, who took charge at once.
"We need something to calm the girl," she said, practical as always.
"Some wine perhaps. No tea would be better. Tell them in the kitchen, Mrs Robertson, and then come back here yourself."
She did not ask Annie any questions but she did get her to sit down. Then she just left her alone and walked over and looked out of the window. Annie's frenzied sobs subsided somewhat and by the time the tea was brought in she was merely weeping quietly. Mrs Aitken made her drink some and then started to question her carefully. She spoke in a flat, expressionless voice.
"I have been told that you may have been responsible for the theft of a pair of my candlesticks. We have always treated you fairly and, if it is true, I am sure you must have had your reasons. Now, start at the beginning and tell me the whole story."
At this Annie gave a kind of shriek.
"Forgie me, Mistress. Forgie me. It was ma puir mither. She's gaeing tae gang tae Hell..."
To my surprise Mrs Aitken put her arm round Annie's shoulders.
"Nonsense. Your mother is going to do no such thing. Now who put such a wicked idea into your head?"
"It wis auld Granny Simpson. The witch. She telt me."
"From the beginning," Mrs Aitken said gently but firmly.
Gradually Mrs Aitken began to extract the whole story from Annie. It was a dreadful tale of deception, unscrupulous trickery, extortion and the vulnerability of the superstitious country people.
To be brief, Annie lived in the servants' quarters at Longcrags but she tried to visit her mother whenever possible –– which was not difficult as she lived quite near. Also, Mrs Aitken and Mrs Robertson were both sorry for the girl and made special allowances for her and gave her extra time off. Annie's widowed mother had a cottage and a small piece of land. Recently everything seemed to have gone wrong. First, the hens stopped laying and then the cow's milk dried up. After this the cat, a superb mouser, was found dead. Much worse was to follow. The bad luck did not end with the animals. It transferred itself to the family and Annie's brother broke his leg when a cart overturned.
It was at this point that Granny Simpson first visited Annie.
"Your faimly is accursed," she intoned solemnly.
"The evil eye has been pit upon ye. But I can help."
Annie refused to listen and sent her away but before she went Granny Simpson turned and said,
"There wull be waur. Ye should hae listened tae me."
A few days after this Annie's mother fell ill with a fever. Soon she was sinking fast. Now Granny Simpson became a regular visitor. Ostensibly she was trying to help by bringing nourishing broths and the like. But all the time she was working on poor Annie. She told her that that her mother was going to die, but she knew how to make sacrifices to the devil to make him do what she wanted. Annie refused to listen. Her mother's fever got worse and night after night Annie's sisters would sit by her bathing her burning brow. One night Granny Simpson came to Annie and said that her mother was experiencing some of the penalties she would soon be enduring in Hell. The fever was just a foretaste of the fires she was going to suffer for her sins. Here Annie broke off and stared at us wide-eyed.
"The cloth," she stammered. "The cloth which we used tae bathe ma mither's brow. It was steaming, as if ye had wiped the inside o' a hot oven wi' it. Ma mither was burning –– as she would later in Hell."
"The power of suggestion," the Laird muttered grimly.
Mrs Robertson just shook her head. She looked absolutely furious.
Annie was starting to howl again but Mrs Aitken took hold of both her hands and said firmly,
"Just tell us what happened next."
Annie made a special effort and managed to continue. Granny Simpson told her to think about what she had said and left. No sooner had she gone than Annie heard the howls of Will Scott's dog up the lane –– howls which went on and on. And, as Annie well knew, a dog howling at night was a sure portent of death. Then there was the smack of a switch three times against the shutters. Again Annie knew what this meant. Death could announce itself by a mysterious and supernatural noise. This was all too much for her and she decided to ask Granny Simpson's help after all. She rushed out of the house. When she came to the next part of the story she could hardly go on.
"The licht," she gasped. "The deid licht."
This time Mrs Aitken had quite a struggle to calm her but eventually she found out what Annie had seen. There had been a strange light above the house –– the ‘licht before death’ which signified that someone in the house was dying.
"An' it kept oan moving. An' naebody else saw it but me."
When she saw that Annie raced to Granny Simpson. The old hag told her she had left it rather late but she would see what she could do. After some weird rituals she told Annie it was all right and she could save her mother. Annie begged the old woman's aid and the witch came to her rescue with various magic liquids, ointments, powders, and burnt offerings. Miraculously, Annie's mother recovered.
Then the sorceress said that the devil had helped her and now he must be sent away again. She told the, by now, terrified Annie that she could send the devil away but Annie would have to pay her for what she needed.
Annie had stolen the money and the candlesticks but she insisted she had not stolen the salver.
It was obvious that she was telling the truth.
When she finished her story there was an astounded silence in the room. The Laird was standing gripping the edge of a chair, his knuckles positively white with tension. I had never seen anyone look so angry.
"Such wickedness. Such depravity," he muttered. "To take advantage of a poor, simple girl who has only half her wits."
Mrs Aitken maintained her serenity.
"Why, Annie, you should have come to me, or to Mrs Robertson. We would have helped. We both know about herbs and healing. Instead you let that wicked woman trick you."
Then she carefully took Annie back through the whole story and showed her how she had been deceived.
The hens not laying and the cow's milk drying up. These things do happen unfortunately. As for the cat dying. Well it had been very old, hardly surprising. And her brother's broken leg, again accidents do happen. It was unfortunate that her mother took ill so soon afterwards, but again it was no proof of nonsense like the evil eye.
Then the Laird managed to speak at last. In a gruff voice he gave a reason for the dog howling. There had been a fox around after chickens. One of the lairdship workers had shot it a few days ago.
"But the switch against the shutters, and the deid licht?" stammered Annie.
Mrs Aitken spread out her hands.
"You ask that with all the strong winds and gales we have been having recently? Probably a branch blown against the wall. It could have been practically anything."
"But the licht? The DEID licht?"
The Laird looked even grimmer.
"There are trees behind your mother's cottage. It would be quite easy for Granny Simpson to get her rogue of a son to climb up and rig up some contraption of a lantern on a stick."
Even Mrs Aitken could hardly credit this.
"But that is really wicked. Do you think that ..."
"Yes I do and I am going to see that she pays for it."
The Laird forgave poor, foolish Annie. But she was severely warned that if she was ever in trouble again she was to go straight to either Mrs Aitken or Mrs Robertson. Annie thanked them both profusely.
"Oh I will. I will. Honest to God I will. Thank you kindly. God bless you both."
The Laird nodded to Mrs Robertson who quietly led her down to the kitchen.
I expected to be dismissed and sent back to my wagon, but not so. I still had a further part to play.
The Laird was waiting for his men to bring Granny Simpson to him. He was expecting them any time. As he waited he discussed Annie's story with his wife. I was asked for the occasional contribution.
It had all been so easy for the pretend witch. The hens not laying and the cows milk drying up –– for centuries witchcraft had been believed to be the cause of these. And then the following run of bad luck of the family, coincidences which could be played upon quite simply by someone as fiendish as Granny Simpson. But what really angered the Laird was the really sinister part of the old woman's work, where she had convinced Annie that her poor mother was getting a foretaste of the fires of Hell.
That was a shameful thing to tell Annie, but it was eminently believable, especially in Galloway, where the legends of the death of Grierson of Lagg are still fearfully told and retold. Grierson of Lagg, one of the most hated men in Galloway because of his actions in savagely hunting down the Covenanters. Everyone in Galloway knows the stories about his death. Before he died he suffered greatly from gout. His servants used to bring buckets of cold water for him and it is claimed that when he plunged his feet into the water he would cry out that the water was boiling and people present confirmed that it seethed and bubbled.
With such stories firmly embedded in the folklore of the region, small wonder that Annie was convinced her mother was suffering the pains of Hell.
The Laird paced up and down. He just could not keep still. He passed the window and caught sight of something outside.
"Good," he said, "Now we can go ahead with the precognition."
I soon found out what he meant. His friend, the neighbouring Justice of the Peace, had dropped everything and come to Longcrags in response to the urgent message. Now the two Justices could hold the precognition. In other words they would question Granny Simpson and decide if she should be brought to trial. They would also question any possible witnesses. In that case that meant myself and also Mrs Aitken and Mrs Robertson as they had heard Annie's story.
The Laird's friend was brought in and told the whole story. Almost as soon as he had been supplied with all the facts one of the Laird's men came to say that Granny Simpson had been arrested and was waiting in the hall. He further informed the Laird that the constables had also found the candlesticks in Granny Simpson's cottage.
"Bring her in at once. We are ready for her now," said the Laird grimly.
I held myself ready nervously. That was something which I had overlooked –– that I could be called to give evidence.
Granny Simpson was brought in. She stood erect and spoke calmly and dispassionately. At first she tried to deny everything. Annie was a simple girl who had misunderstood her. She had just been trying to be a good neighbour and bring comfort and nourishment to Annie's mother.
Then I was called upon to give my evidence. I would never have believed it, but it turned out to be a proper ordeal.
Granny Simpson never tried to interrupt me, but all through my evidence she just stared at me steadily. Gradually this started to have an uncanny effect on me. There I was, in broad daylight, in the Laird's office, in the presence of two respected Justices, and yet I found myself actually afraid of the old woman. I found myself alternately shivering and then breaking out into a sweat. I even started to stammer. No wonder she had managed to terrorise Annie so easily.
Eventually I made an effort to be more sensible. I forced myself to look away from Granny Simpson and avoid her eyes. I looked out of the window instead. At long last my evidence was finished. I was thanked and dismissed.
Thankfully I left the room. All I wanted was to get back to the normality of the stables, my wagon and Lucy. But it was to be some time before I calmed down.
It was a bright autumn morning, with just a few clouds in the sky. As I left the house the sun suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, disappeared behind a dark cloud. At the same time two crows rose from a nearby bush and flew past me. It was as if Granny Simpson had a message for me –– or rather a warning.
I resisted an impulse to run. I reminded myself of what my mother had told me again and again. "You have far too vivid an imagination." I had never thought that I would ever find these words comforting but at that time I did. Granny Simpson had deliberately cultivated a sinister manner and I was letting it affect me. But I knew what to do about that.
I walked resolutely to the stables and surprised the head groom by telling him that I wanted to help. I seized a broom and proceeded to brush all my vague and undefined fears away. The stable staff watched me in amazement but then they were joined by one of the men who had been sent to fetch Granny Simpson. All work came to a sudden stop as they huddled round the newcomer who told his story in a hushed voice with many dramatic gestures. Awe-struck glances were cast at me.
Eventually the head groom chased them all back to their work. Then he brought me a pile of bridles to be cleaned.
"Here you are," he said sympathetically, "Rub all your worries away."
Before he left he did his best to sound reassuring,
"She canna hurt you. But you're a brave lass, nae doot. There's few aroond here whae wad dare cross Granny Simpson."
The other grooms were looking at me as if I was a heroine. Granny Simpson certainly had a fearful reputation.
Later when I went back to my wagon I found that one of the grooms had tied, into Lucy's thick mane, a length of red wool –– a well known protection against witchcraft. I really appreciated the little gesture. It made me feel that I had friends who would at least try to look after me.
That was the end of that particular episode –– for the time being at least. Then, a few months later there was the trial. In the courtroom Granny Simpson looked exactly what she was –– a nasty, conniving old woman with no special powers. I gave my evidence without difficulty. And so did Annie. The Laird had worried that she would be too afraid to speak up but Mrs Aitken assured him, "You just leave Annie to me. She'll be all right."
And she was. She gave her evidence in a quiet voice, a little more than a whisper, and she looked down at the floor all the time. But the Deputy Sheriff and jury were still able to hear her.
Granny Simpson was sentenced to a year in Kircudbright Jail with frequent appearances in the pillory.
But all that was in the future. The day after the pre-cognition I sat in the back of the wagon doing my knitting. My needles clicked mechanically. The progress of my work had no meaning for me. All I could think of was that I had failed. True, I had found the thief and recovered the candlesticks. But that did not matter. I had failed to find the salver and that was all that the Laird and Mrs Aitken cared about.
I had tried. I had done my best. Would that be enough to save my husband? Would the Laird still speak up for him?
I did not know and I was afraid to ask.
And then I had a stroke of luck.
Struan suddenly appeared with Patch in tow. He stood at the paddock railings. As was to be expected Lucy trotted up to him. I left my knitting and went over to them. Struan was giving Lucy an apple.
At the far side of the lawn a governess cart drove up to the door of the house. A groom got down and stood holding the horse.
"For the girls' dancing class, " Struan said carelessly. Then he added longingly,
"I wish they would let me drive the cart."
The girls came down the steps with their governess. Both were carrying small bags which, no doubt, held their dancing shoes.
Struan suddenly acted with all the impulsiveness of a ten-year-old. He slipped through the railings and into the paddock. He seized Lucy by the forelock and led her through the gate. For a boy as small as Struan Lucy stood quite high off the ground but Struan was very agile and somehow or other he managed to scramble onto her back. Before I fully realised what he was doing he had booted Lucy into a reluctant trot. By kicking Lucy's sides, and by slapping her neck, Struan still managed to guide her even although he had no saddle or bridle. He succeeded in turning Lucy onto the lawn in front of the house and was even able to urge her into a grudging canter.
I was annoyed with Struan. Lucy was my pony and he had no right to ride her without asking my permission first –– even if I was just a lowly tinkler. I followed quickly. Patch came too. He gambolled around and then bounded ahead.
Struan reached the front steps. Because he was riding bareback with no bridle he may not have had full control of Lucy, or perhaps he did not really care. Anyway Lucy cantered too close to the governess cart and she startled the horse between the shafts. The horse stepped backwards and gave a half rear. The groom soon had it under control but at that very moment Charlotte had been in the act of stepping into the cart. She lost her balance and fell to the ground, dropping her bag. She was not hurt. I saw the governess help her to her feet.
Meanwhile Patch thought that he might be missing something. He pranced around and then, puppy-like, his tiny teeth seized Charlotte's bag. It was too big for him to lift but he ran off, dragging it along the ground.
He soon abandoned it but then ran back to it, seized it again and dragged it towards me. He dropped it once more and raced round in circles. Then he approached it again. He had now decided it was some kind of dangerous animal. He crouched down before it, front paws flat on the ground, hindquarters high in the air, tongue hanging out and eyes alert. He darted forwards boldly, made another snatch and then retreated. Time for another raid. He walked up to it and this time he took a firm grip. He tried to lift it, but dropped it at once. Then he started to drag it again before deserting it and running off.
There was something gnawing at the back of my mind. Patch was telling me something –– but what was it? There was something about the way in which Patch had been dragging the bag. Desperately I forced myself to think. The bag should have been light. Charlotte's dancing slippers would not have weighed very much. But Patch was a very small dog. Would the bag have still been too heavy for Patch to lift? I tried to picture Patch hauling it along the ground. I was sure it looked heavier than it should have been. Patch should have been able to pull the bag and still run quite easily. Instead it looked as if he were being forced to make a real effort.
Suddenly it dawned on me. I now knew that the bag contained more than Charlotte's dancing shoes. I picked up my skirts and ran as I had never run before. I did not have much time. Charlotte was already making her way across the grass to retrieve her belongings. She saw what I was doing and increased her speed.
To make things easier for me Patch suddenly bounded back to the bag which he had now decided was his own very special toy. He took possession of it again and this time he started to drag it towards me. He reached me at the same time as Charlotte. He dropped the bag at my feet and stood there panting, his tongue hanging out, demanding praise for being a clever dog.
I picked up the bag. It was soft, made of fabric, embroidered and obviously made by Charlotte herself. I felt an oblong metal shape. Without opening it I knew exactly what was in the bag.
Charlotte stretched out her hand and said imperiously,
"My bag please, Mrs Marshall."
I ignored her completely, carried it to the governess and opened it. The governess glared at me but before she could speak I passed the open bag to her and said,
"I think this is what the Laird has been looking for."
Puzzled the governess looked in the bag. Slowly she drew out the silver salver. She turned to Charlotte and said tersely and coldly,
"An explanation, Charlotte. At once."
Charlotte scowled and said sulkily, "I did not mean any harm. I just wanted to show it to the girls at the dancing class."
The governess looked at the salver again and Charlotte took the opportunity to aim a savage kick at Patch. He dodged but still caught the toe of Charlotte's boot.
It was just a glancing blow with no power behind it and Patch was not hurt. Nevertheless, he let out a pitiful, heartrending little cry. The governess had seen what had happened out of the corner of her eye. She rounded on Charlotte.
"If you are in trouble it is because of your own misdeeds. How dare you try to blame your own wickedness on a poor, dumb animal. Go to your room at once."
I had been very lucky but I had actually solved my first case.
I returned to my wagon and waited apprehensively. In the evening the Laird came to see his horses. He took his time and then he came over to the wagon.
I stepped down and stood before him.
"You have done well," he said.
"You will speak for my husband?" I asked softly.
"Certainly. I always keep my word."
He looked at me thoughtfully and repeated what his wife had told me in the prison cell.
"If your husband is sent to Australia he will be all right. It will be a chance for him to make a new life for himself and later you can join him there if you wish. I could help you."
Oh yes, I thought to myself. But not for a few years yet. The Laird will hold onto his little Solway sleuth-hound for as long as possible.
"In the meantime, you are always welcome to camp here and whenever you need it you are sure of my protection."
That meant a lot. Tinklers were continually being hounded and harassed and the protection of a prominent Justice of the Peace was worth a great deal, and much sought after in travelling circles. Much of the success of the legendary Billy Marshall had been due to the fact that he had had the support of the family of the Earl of Selkirk. Now I myself had a powerful patron. Never again would I have to worry about being charged as a vagabond and never again would I have to worry about finding a place to camp at night.
Nevertheless I was still dubious. It sounded too good to be true. My first case had been easy, too easy. I could not expect such luck again.
The Laird had not finished.
"I trust that we will be able to work together again," he said.
This roused my suspicions once more.
"I'll not betray my kin. Or my friends."
"I should not expect you to."
He sounded as if he meant it. He had always known that I had my own constraints, my own loyalties. That any help I could give him would always be limited. Even so there was still plenty I could do for him and deep down I knew I could also trust him. I relaxed and smiled.
"I'll be glad to help you, Laird."
I had given him my trust. Now it was up to him to seal the bargain.
"You have your pedlar's license and your wagon license but if you ever go beyond the area of their jurisdiction, perhaps to Cumberland, then I can give you letters to friends of mine who will help you there."
My eyes lit up.
"Thank you, Laird," I said simply.
Even as I spoke I wondered at his shrewdness. He had known exactly what I wanted. He had probably seen the rather wistful way in which I sometimes gazed across the Solway to Skiddaw. He understood my natural wanderlust. I could just imagine him saying to himself,
Best not keep her on too tight a rein.
He smiled at my delight. In the meantime he had something else for me. He turned and called to a groom who came with Patch on a lead.
"Unfortunately, my younger daughter is of a rather wilful disposition. She blames this little dog for the trouble she is in. Struan fears she may harm it in a fit of temper and he wants you to have it. I agree with my son. I know you will take good care of it."
He picked Patch up and placed him gently in my arms. Then he added in his soft voice which contained just the slightest hint of a lilt,
"Apart from that, both my wife and I would have been reminded of what could have happened every time we looked at him."
He took his leave.
"I think that is everything. Good night to you."
I cuddled the little dog and a rough, warm, little tongue licked my fingers. I did not like the name ‘Patch.’ Such a pretty little dog deserved a better name. Besides it was starting a new life. It should have a new name, a gypsy name.
I looked at the tiny animal lying in my arms. Why it was small enough to go into my basket. There was its new name.
‘Rooskie.’ The Galloway Tinkler-Gypsies' word for ‘basket.’
"Rooskie," I said softly. "Would you like to be called Rooskie?"
A wag of the tail. "Yes."
I had a new friend and life seemed perfect.
I did, however, have one regret. It was that I would never know what Robin Burns had carved on the silver salver.
I had just solved my first case. All right, it may have been partly due to luck, but I had still solved it. Now I could relax for a while.
If only I had known! I was just about to be plunged into my second case, one which turned out to be far more difficult. And this time there was not only problem solving involved. There was also danger.
But, that evening, all that was ahead of me. Once more, with Rooskie snuggled up against me, I enjoyed another night of warmth and comfort.
I was awakened a