Chapter 30
London looked surprisingly attractive as the train crossed the bridge over the Thames.
The clear, bright day with puffy white clouds highlighted the Houses of Parliament, and even the Battersea Power Station looked imposing.
I needed this, she thought. I needed something to look forward to.
And now I have it. A chance to write the book of my lifetime, to establish a name for myself. And to see Tony again, she added.
When she entered the flat it felt as if she had been away for ages, although it was only one night.
Jilly’s clothes lay strewn over the back of the sofa.
There was a piece of toast with one bite taken out of it on the coffee table.
The scent of Jilly’s latest perfume experiment lingered—too sickly and floral for Emma’s taste.
She unpacked, then studied her wardrobe, wondering what to take to Scotland.
It would be cold and probably wet, according to Melrose.
She washed her big wool jumper and laid it to dry on the ledge outside their window.
The wool slacks would go with her, and the new pantsuit.
She supposed she should wear the mack, but would it be warm enough?
She looked down at that pouch of money. And there was the letter of credit if she needed it.
Would it be too extravagant to go and buy herself a warm coat or jacket?
Not Burberry or Lillywhites, of course, but perhaps Marks and Sparks had something.
She went shopping and made some modest purchases, conscious that she was spending Iris’s money.
She had also found three Inspector Melrose paperbacks at W.
H. Smith and shoved them into her tote bag in case she wanted to read on the train.
She hoped Iris wouldn’t be cross with her, but it seemed that money was no object to Iris, and as she said, she had nobody to leave it to.
The thought of a holiday ahead where she could eat and drink what she chose was rather heady and exciting.
That evening, when the other two came home, they listened eagerly to Emma’s description.
“My oath,” Jilly said. “You’ve fallen on your feet, haven’t you? Driving all over Scotland with a car and a berth on the sleeper train?”
“I know. It feels a bit like Cinderella.”
“I hope it doesn’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight,” Robyn said. “So you’re really going to write her book for her?”
“Not write it. Finish it. She’s set up the whole story on the Isle of Skye. I just have to figure out who the killer was and finish it for her.”
“She doesn’t know who the killer was? What writer starts a mystery book without knowing who committed the murder?” Robyn asked.
“Iris Blackburn, apparently. She says that Melrose usually figures it out as he goes along. She talks of him as if he’s a real person. It’s rather weird.”
“She’s a bit bonkers then?” Jilly asked.
“Not really. She forgets things from time to time, but then she seems really sharp again. It’s just that she’s spent so long with her inspector that he has become real to her. I can understand that.”
“And you think you can do it? Write the book in her style?”
Emma shook her head. “I couldn’t do it in her normal style, the one we’re all used to in her Inspector Melrose series. But this one is softer, gentler, more like her first Miss Faversham books. Remember them?”
“With the cat? Oh yes. I liked those when I was a nipper,” Robyn said.
“More to the point,” Jilly said, “have you got the right sort of clothes for Scotland?”
“Probably not,” Emma replied. “I’ve washed my big jumper and I’ll wear my wool slacks, but I went to Marks and Spencer and bought a lambswool cardi and a couple of wool vests today, oh and a waterproof jacket with a fleecy lining from the sporting goods shop.”
She went to retrieve it from her bed.
“Not exactly the height of elegance,” Jilly exclaimed.
“How can you be elegant in pouring rain?” Emma asked. “It rains a lot, so I gather.”
“But if you’ve been given all this money why not buy yourself a kilt while you’re there. You’re Scottish by ancestry, aren’t you? You can wear the family tartan.”
“There’s a Callander tartan?” Emma laughed.
“Bound to be. Every Scottish family belongs to a clan.”
Emma gave a nervous shrug. “I wouldn’t like to spend Iris’s money on something for me,” she said.
“Stone the crows, Em, you’re doing her a favour, and she’s rolling in it, isn’t she?”
“I suppose so,” Emma agreed hesitantly. “But what if I can’t finish the book to her satisfaction? She’ll have put out money for nothing.”
“You need a dose of self-confidence, my love,” Jilly said. “Look in the mirror and tell yourself she’s lucky to have found you.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite believe that.”
“At very worst you’re going to see a place you’ve never seen and have a jolly good time there,” Robyn said.
“Oh, and I should leave you with the rent money for next month, just in case I’m not back,” Emma said.
“You think you’ll be in Scotland that long?”
“Probably not, but then I’ll have to go down to Iris’s house and start working with her. She’ll want me to be under her nose, in the guest cottage again.”
“What’s it like, this guest cottage?” Jilly asked. “Pretty swanky?”
“I suppose it could be quite nice but Iris’s companion doesn’t want me there at all. She made that very clear. She was supposed to do things like turn on the hot water and she didn’t.”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” Jilly gave Robyn a knowing grin. “We’re just good friends, nudge nudge.”
“I don’t think so.” Emma frowned. “But what do I know? They’ve been together for years.”
“Don’t drink the cocoa she makes for you then,” Robyn said, laughing. “That’s how they get rid of people in all those mystery novels.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Emma laughed, too. “I don’t know why she sees me as a threat, but she does.”
A pleasant weekend passed. Emma treated the other two to a Chinese meal with her newfound wealth, and on Sunday night she took the Circle line to Euston.
The sleeper train was already waiting on its platform, looking rather splendid.
As she stood at the barrier, fumbling for her ticket, she heard her name being called.
She turned around and there was Tony, running towards her.
“I’m glad I caught you,” he said. “There was a holdup on the Tube, and I was afraid I’d miss you.”
“What on earth are you doing here?” Emma stammered out the words.
“Iris insisted I come to see you off. To make sure you get on the right train.”
“That was totally unnecessary, Tony,” Emma said. “You didn’t have to come all this way up to London just to see me get on a train.”
She hesitated, waiting for him to say that he wanted to see her again, too, but instead he gave a nervous chuckle. “Don’t worry. It gave me an excuse to come up to London for the evening. I hardly ever get the chance these days.”
“Well, it’s very kind of you, and I’m glad you’re here,” she said.
“Let me take your bag and we’ll find your berth,” Tony said, picking up her suitcase. “Are you packed properly for plenty of wind and rain?”
“I hope so,” she said. “I bought a big waterproof jacket.”
“Iris was all for sending one of her fur coats with me so you weren’t cold,” he said. “But I said I couldn’t picture you going around Scotland in mink.”
“Too right,” Emma laughed. “I’d look ridiculous.”
“I’m sure you’d look very elegant,” Tony replied, “but you’d hardly blend in with the natives.”
They walked along the platform until they came to the correct carriage.
“This is it.” Tony hefted her suitcase up the steps. “Goodbye then. I hope you have a lovely time. A great adventure. And come back with brilliant ideas for the book.”
“I hope so,” she said.
“And whisky,” he added, making her laugh. “Ring me if you need anything, all right?”
“I will. Thank you again.”
“Safe trip.” He leaned forward, went to shake her hand but then gave her an awkward little kiss on the cheek.
She hurried up the steps, not wanting him to see how flustered this made her.
A steward was waiting to escort her to her berth.
It wasn’t exactly glamorous—a narrow bunk-style bed with clean white sheets and a washbasin—but it was private.
The steward took a look at her suitcase and what she was wearing and immediately judged her to be someone’s young relative, not good for a big tip.
Nevertheless he spoke kindly to her, showed her the toilets at the end of the corridor and informed her that he’d deliver coffee or tea to her as they reached Glasgow.
With the door closed she half undressed and settled down for the night.
As the train pulled out of the station she lay on her bunk and put her hand up to her cheek where he had kissed it.
It had been a friendly gesture, nothing more, she told herself.
He had come to London because Iris had ordered him to.
He was a nice, decent bloke who was doing his job, and she was being stupid to hope for anything more.
She didn’t exactly sleep well, with the rocking of the train and the bumping every time they went over points.
There were several stops: Birmingham. Manchester.
Carlisle. She woke and peered out at each of them, seeing platforms eerily deserted.
Then at first light the steward appeared with the tray of tea and biscuits.
Emma washed, dressed in her good pantsuit and watched out the window as the train pulled into Glasgow Central Station.
First impressions, exiting into morning rush hour beneath a grey sky heavy with the promise of rain, were not favourable.
It came across as a dirty, smoky city of colourless, tired-looking people.
No wonder Melrose was enchanted when he saw Skye.
She checked into the impressive Central Hotel, glad she had changed into the pantsuit and was not wearing her mack as she saw herself scrutinized.
Her room was spacious, with old-fashioned furniture.
The window looked out on other buildings at the side of the hotel.
She tidied her hair, then she went down to the restaurant for a good breakfast before setting out to explore.
She passed museums and civic buildings that had an air of faded grandeur, then came to the less impressive part of the city.
Row after row of drab little houses with no front gardens, one backing onto the other, made her shudder.
She pictured Melrose growing up there, playing football in the street with the other shabby boys.
And yet the way Iris wrote of him, he always seemed to have an air of culture and education about him, as if he had somehow transcended his environment.
“All right, Melrose,” she said. “Iris said you always spoke to her. Now you have to tell me what exactly happened on the Isle of Skye.” She felt ridiculous as she said it and walked on with an embarrassed grin.
As Emma explored, the weather turned to misty rain and a chill wind.
This was the final straw. She would spend one night in Glasgow and take the train and ferry to the island first thing in the morning.
Dinner at the hotel was as depressing as the city had been: a grey slice of beef with cabbage boiled to a pale grey slush.
It was followed by a hefty currant pudding and custard.
As she lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the city, the clank of trams on their tracks, the whistle of a policeman at a crossing, drunken shouts and singing from a pub that had been turned out at eleven, she found herself wondering what she was doing here.
What could possibly be achieved by going to Skye, seeing Melrose’s sights for herself?
Iris had described all of them well enough.
All Emma had to do was decide who killed Chisholm, sabotaged the sailing boat and wanted Lucy and Stewart dead.
There was only one person that pointed to and that was Flora, the Wild Girl.
But that would be a pretty lame ending. Flora would be chased, leap off a cliff to her death, and Melrose would go back to Glasgow, with or without the governess.
Book finished. But surely Iris wouldn’t be satisfied with that. Neither would Emma.