The Sign of the Black Dagger

  For Rosa, Aedan, Shona and Amy

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Lucy didn’t like the look of the man the moment she opened the door. The light in the alley was dim and she couldn’t see his face properly but the set of his shoulders and the angle of his head in some way intimidated her. She took a step back.

  “I’m looking for Ranald Cunningham.” He had a smooth voice but she didn’t like it either.

  “He’s not in,” she said.

  “When will he be back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about your mum?”

  “She’s at the library.”

  “Borrowing books?”

  “No, she works there.”

  “When does she get back?”

  “Just after eight. She works up on George IV Bridge.” Why had she told him that? Why was she telling him anything?

  “And what about your dad? When does he usually get back?”

  “Six. Half past, maybe. Not sure.”

  “It’s gone six now. Can I come in and wait?”

  Before she knew it he was inside. Her mother would be furious that she’d let a stranger come into the house. When Will asked her afterwards why she hadn’t stopped him she said she hadn’t known how to. He was that kind of man.

  He followed her into the living room on the ground floor. Their house was a tall building on three floors, with not many rooms on each. Her school books were spread across the round table in the centre. She’d been doing her homework when the bell rang.

  “Pretty old close this, eh? Did it not say fifteen something on the wall out there?”

  “Fifteen ninety.”

  It also said: BLISSIT BE GOD ALMIGHTY OF AL HIS GIFTS. But she did not point that out.

  “Walls must be all of three feet thick.”

  She was relieved when she heard Will’s feet on the stairs. He pushed open the door and looked in.

  “Will, this is someone for Dad.”

  “Cuthbert Smith, representing MacAtee, MacPherson and Trimble.” He produced a card from his top jacket pocket and presented it to Will. “Bert for short. No time for the Cuth bit.” He seemed to think he’d made a joke.

  Lucy looked at him stonily. She could see his face plainly now under the central ceiling light. It was very smooth and round and his shiny black hair was receding from the sides. He was a burly man, with wide shoulders and thick round the middle. He looked as if he had been poured into his clothes as he stood there with his feet planted wide apart.

  Will was frowning as he studied the card. “MacAtee, MacPherson and Trimble, Financial Services,” he read aloud. He looked up. “Is there a problem?”

  “Can’t talk business with you, son. Wouldn’t be right. It’s between me and your dad.” He picked up a vase from the deep-set window sill and turned it upside down to examine the markings. “Pretty old too, from the look of it. Could be worth something, I imagine.”

  “Be careful!” cried Lucy as he made as if to drop it.

  He smiled. “Gave you a fright, eh? Family heirloom?” He replaced it. “Your dad got a job?”

  “Yes,” said Lucy.

  “He’s self-employed,” added Will.

  “Doing what?”

  “He’s a consultant.”

  “What does he consult?”

  “He advises people who want to set up businesses,” said Will.

  Mr Smith appeared to smirk. “A good businessman, is he?”

  “We’ll give him your card and tell him you called.”

  “I can wait for him.” Mr Smith looked around for a chair but the cat was sleeping on an armchair on one side of the fireplace and Lucy had thrown her bag on the other.

  “Can’t be easy keeping this place warm,” he remarked.

  “I think you’d better come back another time.” Will could be firm, and was now.

  “Thing is, we’ve written him a few letters but he’s never replied. What would you make of that?” He held out his hands, pudgy palms upward. “That’s why I’ve been forced to make a house call. Would prefer not to have to, you understand. It’s a perishing night to be out. There’s a wind getting up.”

  They could hear it howling in the chimney. Lucy thought she had heard another noise, like that made by the front door opening. She turned her head. Perhaps it was their father arriving home. She couldn’t be sure, though, with the moan of the wind masking noises outside the room.

  “Don’t know why people have to make things more difficult for themselves than they need,” Mr Smith went on, pulling back the cuff of his jacket to look at his watch. He sighed.

  Lucy heard the door again, and this time she was sure that she had. It had closed with a click, but neither Will nor the man seemed to have registered it. She took a quick look into the hall. There was nobody there.

  “Maybe I will come back later. What time did you say your mum gets in? Eight? I’ll go and get myself a pint in the meantime. One thing about living on the Royal Mile, you’re never far from a pub. Your dad visit the pubs, does he?”

  “Sometimes,” said Will.

  “Got a favourite, has he?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  And if we did we wouldn’t tell you, thought Lucy.

  Will showed the man out.

  “See you later,” he called back over his shoulder before he disappeared into the shadows of the narrow alleyway.

  Will came back into the room.

  “I’ve a feeling Dad must owe money,” he said uneasily.

  “I think he came back a few minutes ago.”

  “Who, Dad?” Will was startled.

  Lucy nodded. “But then the door went again. Maybe he’s been waiting outside till the man would leave.”

  Will couldn’t imagine his father doing that but they went out to look anyway. They walked as far as the end of the close to where steps dropped down on to the street below. There was no sign of anyone lurking in the gloomy light.

  The wind was strengthening and tugging at their clothes and whipping Lucy’s long dark hair across her face. She shivered. “It’s freezing out here. Let’s go in, Will. He’ll come back soon, I’m sure he will.”

  Their mother had left a note on the table in the morning with instructions about supper. At the appointed time they turned on the oven and twenty minutes later they put in the lasagne. Lucy cleared the table and Will set it with four places, as usual. They didn’t talk any more about their father or the visitor.

  At a quarter past eight their mother came in with her hair tossed and her cheeks glowing. “What a wind! I got you that book you wanted for your history project, Lucy.”

  “Thanks, Mum.”

  “Your father not back yet? He didn’t say anything this morning about being late. Oh well, something must have come up. He hasn’t phoned?”

  “I’ll try him on his mobile, shall I?” Lucy jumped up and went to the phone. She dialled, and waited. “It’s ringing.”

  Will frowned. “I think I can hear it ringing up the stairs.” He
dashed up and came down with the mobile in his hands.

  Their mother shook her head. “That probably explains it!”

  Will clicked the mobile off and put it on the dresser. He then lifted Cuthbert Smith’s card and laid it on the table in front of his mother. “This man was looking for Dad.”

  Their mother put on her glasses to read the card. “Never heard of them. Probably trying to talk your father into a loan. These sharks are everywhere, on the telly, on the phone! Trying to tempt people to borrow more than they can afford. It’s a scandal.”

  As she spoke the phone rang. Lucy leapt on it. “Hello,” she said, “this is the Cunningham house.” Her voiced tailed away and then she said, “I’m sorry, we’re not interested,” which was what her parents had told her to say when someone was either trying to sell something or bringing the glad tidings that they had won a prize. She replaced the receiver. “Double glazing.”

  “As if we could double-glaze these windows!” said their mother cheerfully. She remained cheerful throughout the meal though Lucy and Will found it difficult to be. Their eyes kept going to their father’s empty place.

  “He wasn’t a very nice man, Mr Smith,” said Lucy.

  “I’m sure he wasn’t. I don’t know what possessed you to let him in in the first place.”

  They finished their meal and Lucy cleared up, it being her turn. They had a dishwasher so there was not a great deal to do. By half past nine, the time they normally went to bed on school nights, their mother was beginning to sound a little worried.

  “I’m surprised he hasn’t phoned by now. He could surely have found a telephone box somewhere.”

  Just then, the doorbell rang.

  “That might be our man back again,” said Will, springing up.

  “I’ll go,” said their mother.

  Will followed her into the hall and stood behind her while she opened the door to reveal Cuthbert Smith standing on the step. Will tried to make himself look bigger as the man began to talk in a menacing manner to his mother.

  “I’m very sorry, Mr Smith,” she said politely, cutting him off, “but my husband is not at home and I am unable to help you. I suggest you phone him at his office.”

  “I’ve tried all that, writing, phoning. Answer machine’s always on.”

  “I’m afraid I am unable to help you. Goodnight, Mr Smith.” He had his foot over the step. She stared down at it until he removed it.

  “Tell him he’ll not get away with it!” he shouted as the door was closed in front of him.

  “I see what you mean,” said their mother. “He isn’t a very nice man.”

  By now she was looking troubled and when the phone rang she answered it herself.

  “Oh hello, Mum,” she said, her voice flat. “No, no, I’m fine. I’m just tired.” Their gran was always fussing about their mother’s health. “No, we’re all fine. There’s nothing wrong.” They chatted for a few minutes, during which their mother fiddled with the phone cord and glanced at her watch. Eventually she said, “Hope to see you soon,” and replaced the receiver.

  At ten o’clock, she said firmly, “It’s time you were away to bed.”

  “I want to wait till Dad comes in,” said Lucy.

  “He’s probably met someone.” Their mother did not sound convinced.

  At eleven o’clock, she was trying to take refuge in annoyance. “Really, this is too bad of Ranald! Go to bed, Lucy! Will! You’ll never get up in the morning.”

  They made no move.

  “Mum,” said Will, “don’t you think Dad’s been acting a bit funny recently?”

  “What do you mean funny?”

  “Well, not himself. As if he’s far away half the time. Sometimes when you speak to him he doesn’t seem to hear.”

  Their mother sighed. “You’re right, I’ve thought so myself. But you know what he’s like – if you ask him if there’s anything wrong he says he’s fine.”

  “Just like you, Mum,” said Lucy.

  Her mother gave her a black look.

  At midnight, Will said, “Do you not think we should phone the police?”

  “The police? It’s not come to that. I’m sure he’ll be back by morning.”

  Will was first up. There was no sign of his father. He went to the phone and stood staring at it, willing it to ring. It didn’t. Alongside lay the message pad. His father had been doodling again. He always doodled while he talked on the phone. Will bent his head to take a closer look. The page was scrawled all over with drawings in black pen. He had hoped he might find a clue but he couldn’t make much sense of any of it. The same motif occurred over and over again: an upright with a shorter stroke across it, near the top. He tore the page off and turned as Lucy came in yawning, her hair tousled.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Just Dad doodling again.” He showed her.

  She shrugged and went to fill the kettle. The first thing their mum wanted in the morning was a cup of tea. She always said she didn’t feel human until she had one.

  When she appeared they saw from the blue shadows under her eyes that she had scarcely slept at all. Not that they had done too much sleeping themselves. Lucy couldn’t stop yawning. She announced that she was not going to school.

  “You have to,” her mother replied listlessly, staring over the rim of her cup into space.

  “I’m not, not until I know Dad’s all right.”

  “He could have had an accident,” said Will. “Or been taken ill.”

  “But surely somebody would have phoned us,” said their mother.

  “Unless he’s unconscious and not able to tell them our address.”

  “He’d have his wallet on him, with his cards in it.”

  “Somebody could have mugged him,” put in Lucy, “and stolen his wallet.”

  They were not very inclined to believe any of these propositions. Nevertheless, their mother decided to phone the Accident and Emergency departments at the two major hospitals and ask if anyone resembling her husband had been brought in. No one had, which did not surprise them.

  By this time it was too late for the children to go to school. At half past nine, their mother phoned his office; not that they really thought he would be there when he hadn’t been home. But his secretary Pauline should be, and she might have some idea.

  The answering machine was on. “Hi,” said their father’s voice, full of life, “this is Ranald Cunningham here. Sorry, can’t speak to you right now, but please leave a message.”

  They didn’t leave one.

  “Funny Pauline’s not there,” said Will.

  “He wouldn’t have run off—” began Lucy and then stopped. She had been going to say that her father wouldn’t have run off with Pauline, would he? The father of one of her friends had run off with his secretary.

  “Don’t be stupid,” snapped Will.

  The phone rang and Lucy beat him to it.

  “Good morning,” said the smooth voice, “this is Bert Smith. Remember I paid you a little call yesterday evening regarding a bit of business with your father? I wonder if he would be at home now?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “You’re afraid not? He’s not in his office, either. Have you seen him since last night?” When Lucy did not answer he said, “Done a bunk, has he?”

  “Give me the phone, Lucy.” Her mother took the receiver from her. “I’m sorry, Mr Smith but, as I told you yesterday, I cannot be of any help.” She put down the phone and turned to them. “If he’s not back by the time I come home from work tonight I’ll phone the police.”

  Lucy felt uneasy about that. “What if he’s in trouble? What if he’s done something wrong? He wouldn’t, would he, Mum?”

  “I don’t know, dear. I hope not. But I just don’t know. You think you know someone –” She stopped.

  After lunch, their mother went to work, having given them instructions to do some schoolwork and not waste the entire afternoon. But they found it hard to settle down. They became e
dgy with each other. Lucy put on a CD; Will said it was too loud. It was not long before they had a proper spat. Lucy knocked over her half-full mug of hot chocolate which trickled as far as Will’s history jotter.

  “Look what you’ve done, idiot!”

  “I couldn’t help it.”

  “Yes, you could. You just don’t look.”

  “And you’re so wonderful, aren’t you? What about last week when you dropped the egg box?”

  Will grunted and opened the jotter, which now had brown edges to its pages, and picked up his pen, though he didn’t begin to write. He said, “I’m worried about Dad.”

  “Do you think I’m not?”

  Lucy got up and wandered about. She stopped by the wall, near the fireplace, and fingered the rough stone. These walls had stood for centuries and sheltered all their ancestors. What if the house had to be sold to pay Mr Smith?

  “Ouch!” she exclaimed suddenly and put her index finger in her mouth. It was bleeding a little.

  “What have you done now?”

  “Lot of sympathy I get from you. There’s a sharp edge there on the stone. It’s sticking out a bit.” She bent her head to look more closely. Tentatively she touched it again. “I think there’s a loose stone.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprising, I suppose, after all these years. Watch you don’t cut yourself again.”

  Lucy paid no attention. She was concentrating on trying to move the stone.

  “What are you doing taking the place apart?”

  If their mother were to walk in now she’d have a fit. She’d ask Lucy if she couldn’t leave anything alone. From the moment she could crawl Lucy had always stuck her nose into everything.

  “It’s coming out,” she said excitedly.

  Will got up and went to join her. He put his hands underneath the stone alongside hers and together they began to lever it out from the wall. No daylight could be seen in the vacuum; there was another stone behind this one.

  “I think we should put it back,” said Will, “in case the wall starts to collapse.”

  “No, I can see something!”

  They lowered the stone to the floor and Lucy thrust her arm into the opening. “There’s something here!”

  She brought out a dusty parcel wrapped in oilcloth. They sneezed. The dust of centuries must be coated on it. Their hands collided as they feverishly unwrapped the package. Lying in the middle of the dirty oilcloth was a cloth-bound book. It might once have been blue or green but was now almost colourless.