The Winter Ground

Postscript

I had stopped reading the letter halfway through and was staring out of the breakfast-room window at the faint haze of green softening the tracery against the eastern sky. The beech trees were beginning to grow their haloes again at last; the winter was over; the spring was here.

‘Good Lord!’ said Hugh, and The Times shook as he took a firmer hold.

I brought my gaze back from the view outside and waited to see if there would be more. Hugh had been Good Lording with regularity since the scandal of Robin Laurie hit the news-stands. Indeed, breakfasts during the trial had become so animated that I had given up trying to read my letters completely and the morning after he was acquitted we were still there over cold coffee and bacon rinds when the parlour maid came to clear.

Yes, Inspector Hutchinson’s gloom and Lord Robin’s optimism had each been borne out and the fifteen good men of Perth had dismissed the charges in less than an hour. After all, the jury foreman seemed to say, one only had to consider the accused, standing there in his dark suit, a loving brother, a gentleman and a good soldier to boot, and then look at the witnesses for the Crown – just look at them! Tiny, Bill, Andrew and the Cookes did not stand a chance. Even the police had called it an accident and no one saw it and the girl herself had been a nobody – no name, no family, no papers, nothing at all.

I had gone to Cullen and had slowly, very gently, explained everything to Lord Buckie, who immediately engaged me to find her, to search for ever and stop at nothing, money no object, no expense to be spared. But it was all the publicity of the trial which brought her story to light in the end, no doing of mine. In January, a letter had come from the free hospital in Carlisle. She had made it that far before the influenza got her: a young girl who gave her name as Amber Laurie and was already dying like so many others. The nurses had no time to spare and no one connected her to Lady Ambrosine from the north who was missing, not then. It was her though, no doubt about it, for the letter had said that she died calling someone’s name, calling out for someone who never came to her. The nurses, it said in the letter, thought it might have been her nanny, or her maid, maybe even a pet name for a lover: Blackie. Where she had left him when she finally dragged herself to the hospital and what happened to him we never knew.

‘Well, I never,’ said Hugh, folding the newspaper down to look at me, and so I asked him to tell me – for Well I Nevers were usually points of titillated interest where Good Lords could be anything at all.

‘Buckie,’ he said, with some relish, ‘is married.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I have a letter from him right here.’

‘In town,’ said Hugh. ‘To Gisella Cunningham.’

‘I know.’

‘Bobby and Arlene Cunningham’s girl,’ said Hugh. ‘Lucky if she’s thirty.’

‘Twenty-eight,’ I said. ‘And a very good thing, because he needs an heir.’

‘Mind you,’ said Hugh, ‘they’re lucky to get her off at all, never mind to a title, and… I don’t mean to be crude but… at least he’s sure of the heir because she’s already proved she has no trouble in that department.’

‘I should hate to hear you when you do mean to be crude then.’

Hugh frowned. ‘Why’s he writing to tell you?’

‘He’s not. He mentioned it in passing in the covering letter he sent with my fee.’ I picked up the banker’s cheque and waved it tantalisingly in front of Hugh. He tried to look as though he were uninterested in reading the figures written upon it. ‘I feel rather guilty accepting it, but he won’t brook a refusal, he assures me. I shall send your congratulations, shall I, when I write to say thanks? Perhaps we can stop in on our way to the Brodies at Easter?’

‘We certainly will not,’ said Hugh. ‘I’d like a line drawn under the whole affair if you don’t mind, Dandy. And I haven’t decided about Easter at Cairnbulg yet.’

‘The boys will be pleased to hear that,’ I said. ‘It’s a boring house for children and we’ll need to pull out quite a few stops to live up to their last trip home.’ This was enough to put Hugh back behind his newspaper again. I opened another letter and began to read.

‘Hah!’ said Hugh, after a while. ‘Benachally is up for sale. Hah!’

‘Really? They’ve really gone?’

‘Fella like that trying to run an estate!’ said Hugh. ‘With his draper’s daughter playing lady of the manor. I’m not surprised he didn’t stick it out.’

‘Her father was a don, not a draper,’ I said.

‘Perhaps that’s where his daughter got all the advanced ideas from,’ said Hugh. ‘She turned out to be a bad egg in the end, didn’t she, your friend?’

Poor Ina. Poor silly, spoiled Ina. It made me shiver whenever I thought of her now.

‘Well, let’s just hope for someone decent next time,’ said Hugh. ‘Miles of common boundary, you know, and it’s most inconvenient when the owner is a man one cannot meet on any terms. I do not have your taste for unusual company.’ He looked quite sickened as he said this. ‘People like ourselves are perfectly sufficient for me.’

I nodded in agreement and waved the letter I was reading, which was from a person just like ourselves. Hugh gave me an approving look, almost a smile. He would not have done if he had known any more.

‘Ma and Pa left for Chicago a week ago,’ Andrew Merryman had written. ‘But they left us the liberty horses and Lally Wolf is doing a grand job with them and has got little Tommy up on Harlequin too. (Thank you for sending him home in such good heart, Dandy. He was so bonny I wonder if all our horses should have a holiday every so often. If you decide to take up off-season livery in any organised way, do let me know!) Zoya and Kolya finally decided that they would stay, for which we are all very thankful, and Charlie, to my great surprise, has made enormous concessions to soothe their wounded pride. I know it must seem odd that we are all banded together under Charlie’s leadership after what happened and even he would say it was not his finest hour, but Cooke’s Circus has been Cooke’s Circus since 1750 and so it’s only fitting that there should be a Tam Cooke at the helm. (He’s Thos on the posters, but he’ll always be Charlie at home.) Tiny and I have worked up some good stuff now that we’re a double act and not a trio any more and Charlie is very happy just to manage the animals. Yes – animals! It’s a considerable financial gamble, but we shall see. The tigers arrived on Tuesday and are magnificent, but Zoya and Lally are in constant hysterics trying to keep the children away from them. I can’t see it myself, but Tiny reckons Akilina might have a feeling for them. Until she is big enough to see over their backs, however, we pick up a cat man – one of the Codonas and a distant relation, of course – in Glasgow on our way south to start the season. The elephants are coming into Glasgow too, up the Clyde by boat, and Charlie thinks we shall gather some good “press” when we go to collect them (perhaps even be filmed for the newsreel). Tiny and Topsy’s wedding is to be in Glasgow too. They did not want to wait, but neither did they want to be married anywhere near the place where we have all been so very far from happy. It would have been an ill omen for the start of their life together. Besides, boatloads of Turvys are coming over the sea from Dublin to be there. (Tiny has reminded me several times now that Topsy has four sisters. Again, we shall see. I am determined to move at a more stately pace if anything of that nature ever befalls me again.) It is to be a quiet wedding, Turvys excepted, but you would be welcomed with open arms if you were to come. I feel I should give you fair warning that you are unlikely to meet any of us again if you wait for us at home, for no one at Cooke’s Circus wants ever to get within a hundred miles of that winter ground again. You might feel the same, but if you could face it we should all like to think of there being flowers on her grave. The mason has finished the stone and erected it so you will have no trouble finding the spot. He was not best pleased with the inscription – a very conventional man – but she had no other name that we could ever discover and besides, I think it’s the truth about her. It’s who she was. We all have to decide in the end. So the stone reads “Anastasia, of the circus”. If you can bring yourself to visit her we will all be very grateful to you. Yours sincerely, Andrew Merryman (of the circus).’

Poor Benachally, I thought. How everyone hates it. And none of what happened there was the fault of the castle or the park and hills.

‘Why don’t we buy it?’ I said. Hugh looked up. His lip curled in preparation for a long rant about our penury, the government and the state of the nation, empire and world, but my expression stopped him. His eyes flicked to the cheque, lying by my bread plate, and then back to my face again. I gave him a beatific smile.

‘Buy it and add it on?’ he said.

‘Buy it and keep it separate,’ I corrected. ‘For Teddy. Two brothers with only one inheritance is rather brutal on both in the end.’

‘And how would we explain being able to?’ he said. ‘People will wonder. Even the boys will wonder.’

‘Tell the truth,’ I answered. ‘I am a detective, Hugh, quite a successful one.’

‘You,’ said Hugh in a voice I had never heard before, ‘are a wife and mother.’

I took time considering my reply to this.

‘I am,’ I agreed at last. ‘I am Mrs Hugh Gilver and I never forget it. But I am Dandy Gilver, Detective, too.’

Hugh took even longer than I had to answer.

‘It could be worse, I suppose,’ he said in the end.

‘But it’s not worse,’ I told him. ‘Wife, mother and detective, nothing more. Nothing more.’ I meant it as I spoke, Andrew Merryman’s words still clear in my mind. In the end, we all have to decide who we are.