December 24

Epilogue

„Have ye read this yet?“ a man in a work uniform asked his colleague. The latter tossed the shop assistant a coin and reached for his own copy of the daily newspaper. „I’ve ainlie just seen th‘ headline,“ he replied, „but ah ament surprised. They’re all crooks, these braw gentlemen.“ They walked away chatting, while other customers crowded around the little house with the front pages of the latest editions pasted in the windows. „Edinburgh’s Aristocracy Shaken“ was the headline in the Scottish edition of The Times, the editor-in-chief of The Scotsman had opted for „List of Shame Published: Lost Children Testify to High Society’s Dark Secret“ and Town Topics advertised in the usual style with the words „Stolen Innocence“.

A few streets away, Sir Colin Wentworth was rudely interrupted from his mid-morning breakfast. His butler had rushed into the parlour with flushed cheeks and told him in a whisper that some members of the police were at the door and requested that he accompany them to the station. They weren’t even asking him politely, they demanded him – him, loyal taxpayer and eighth baronet of a lineage stretching back to the 1600s. Let them come! Angrily, he decapitated a boiled egg with the sharp edge of his knife and flecks of yellow yolk splattered across the clean tablecloth. Just then the door to the dining room was pushed open with a sweep and several police officers in blue overcoats burst in. Some in the back rows were already holding their truncheons. What an affront! Wentworth stood up. „Gentlemen, what is this early morning riot about? I must ask you to follow protocol!“ The group parted and a man with a large moustache and bowler hat strode through the cleared passage towards him. „Good morning, Sir Colin,“ he said, and the directness of his address felt like a slap in the face – to the baronet. „I’m afraid I can’t allow you to continue your breakfast in peace. We have an important conversation to have at the police station.“ Wentworth choked and coughed, then downed his coffee, struggling for composure. „Whoever you are, you must believe you’re really doing something here!“ he then gasped. „I’m a Detective Officer with the First Police Department of the City of Edinburgh,“ the other returned, „and like the majority of my police colleagues, I’ve become less of a believer and more of a knower. I still have a few visits to make today – so if you would kindly follow me please?”

A woman stood in front of the castle-like building of Calton Prison. A light snowfall had set in and flakes soon covered the shoulders of her burgundy winter coat. She could see into the courtyard through the open gate and watched the arriving carriages attentively. A number of big names from Edinburgh’s high society arrived at the facility one after the other: politicians, civil servants, members of the lower nobility, entrepreneurs and wealthy private retirees. A smile flitted across the woman’s face as Sir Richard Douglas, a member of the influential Clan Douglas, was led through the yard in handcuffs. It was then that a man came to her side, dressed in a plum-coloured coat, blue striped plum trousers, a scarlet scarf and a matching velvet top hat. „Shocking how some noble men have their masks torn off their faces,“ he said.

She gave him a sharp look. „How nice it would be if that applied not just to some, but to all the noble men of the city.“ He laughed. „If you are referring to me, dear Genevieve – if that even is your real name – you are making the mistaken assumption that I am a noble man.“ „Indeed,“ she replied, „but I would be interested to know the fine detail of how you managed to stand here beside me, Sir Alastair, free and unsullied. After all, you were involved in the Concordia Club. To be precise, you were directly involved in the distribution of the orphan boys, by all accounts.“ Alastair Wallace shrugged his shoulders. „Well, the police could lock me up for that involvement, of course. However, they would lose a valuable key witness. Fortunately, I was one of the first people in our club to be sought out, which gave me a unique opportunity to offer myself as an informant.“ „For which you can certainly expect some mitigation,“ she returned sombrely. He laughed jovially. „Dear friend, it has been a pleasure to go part of the way with you. But now I must return to work. A city hopes and longs for a strong hand to guide it into the unknown of a new century. I want to be prepared for this.“ He tapped the brim of his hat with the index finger of his white-gloved hand. „Think of me at the next election!“ With that, he walked away.

Some days later, in the old pub The World’s End a man and a boy were having lunch. In front of them were meat pies and two glasses of lemonade. They looked up from their meals when an elegantly dressed woman joined them at the table. „Nice of you to come, Miss Fairchild,“ said Ewan Cunningham. „I’m here because I still owe you an apology,“ said Josephine. The reporter leaned back and crossed his arms in front of his chest. „Then let’s hear it.“ She glared at him. „It’s not for you. In the meantime, you’re welcome to go to the bar and get me a glass of wine.“ With that, she pressed a coin into his hand and remained silent until the man sighed – „Right, I’ll be right back“.

William gave her a look and said with his mouth full: „I’m sorry, but I’m so hungry.“ „I understand – and as I said, I’m the one who needs to apologise,“ Josephine returned. „You’ve always been a loyal helper to me and when you asked me to stop working at the Douglases, I didn’t listen to you. That wasn’t right of me.“ The boy wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve and took a sip of lemonade. „That’s all right, Miss Fairchild. But maybe you’ll give me a few simple jobs in the near future where I don’t get dragged away in broad daylight by some hoodlums in a carriage to be abducted.“ When she remained silent, he leaned forward. „What is wrong?“ Josephine’s gaze had wandered out of the window, a thoughtful crease dug between her eyebrows. „That’s the other reason I came,“ she then said. „I don’t know if I’ll even have any more jobs for you. The police and my contacts at the newspapers have learnt who I am.”

„Well, is it really that terrible?“ said the reporter, who sat back down with them and placed the requested wine in front of her. Josephine sighed and took a sip of wine before answering. „Yes, that’s really terrible, Mr Cunningham. My entire business is based on my anonymity. But now that I’ve stepped out of the shadows, I doubt I can continue to move as freely in high society as I have in the past.“ „I understood that,“ Ewan replied, „but I meant whether it would be so bad if you had to switch your business from scandals and exposés to something more honourable? As a neighbourhood secret club used to say: ‚Nothing happens without a reason‘.” Josephine started, fell silent and paused to think. Then her usual winning smile returned to her face: „Whatever I do, you’ll be the first to know.” William stood up. „Thank you so much for inviting me to lunch, Mr Cunningham,“ he said. “ Sorry I have to go, I have an appointment with Tommy. We’re off to see how they put up the Christmas tree outside St Giles. It was nice to see you, Miss Fairchild. Just let me know if you need me.”

„So we’ve actually cleared it up,“ Josephine said after William had left. „The boys are free, a lot of powerful men are in Calton Prison awaiting trial and one can read about the dealings of the Concordia Club on every newspaper stand in the city. This hidden society will have to invest heavily in its secrecy in order to regain its former strength.“ Ewan nodded. „I never thought I’d say this, but it wouldn’t have been possible without you.“ She sipped her wine and looked at him thoughtfully. „Are we going back to our well-practised antipathy now? Or do you still want to hear me justify the Malcolm Murray case first – that dog who cheated me out of several hundred pounds while I was actually paying him to keep my books?“ „No,“ Ewan said slowly, „it’s good to know, but in the last few days you’ve certainly proved that you do have a heart.“ Then he finished his lemonade and took her arm. „Drink up, Miss Fairchild – shall we see how this tree is put up?”

Josephine

Detective Officer Ruaridh MacKay stuffed his pipe, lit it and puffed little blue-grey clouds into the air. During this ritual, he kept his eyes on the two people sitting on the other side of his desk. Then he leaned forwards, took a deep drag and said in his sonorous voice: „With all due respect – are you two taking the piss?”

Josephine looked at the reporter sitting next to her. „I’m of the opinion that everyone’s time is too precious for that,“ she replied, „but of course we may as well leave if the honourable gentlemen of the police consider this a trifle.“ She adjusted her hat and stood up in an elegant gesture. „It’s not as if we’ve come empty-handed,“ Ewan Cunningham added quickly, touching her on the arm as if to persuade her to stay without saying a word. „It’s all right, sit back down, Madame,“ McKay grumbled, „you’ll have to excuse my harsh outburst. Not every day someone walks into our station and accuses a handful of the highest members of Edinburgh society of kidnapping, sabotage and a few other serious crimes.” Turning to Ewan, he said: „Then show me what you’ve got there, Mister Journalist. Unfortunately, no one has yet told me in what capacity I may address your companion.“ Josephine took her seat again and brushed a few imaginary specks of dust off the upholstery. „The function of ‚companion‘ is perfectly adequate and sufficient,“ she said, „but you are welcome to imagine our relationship as being more professional and collegial than romantic.“ The policeman laughed. „Don’t worry Madame – policemen have a rather limited imagination. I work purely on the basis of logic and reason.“ „How nice,“ smiled Josephine, „the same goes for me.”

Ewan had placed the black notebook on the table and pushed it over with his fingertips so that it came to rest in front of the older man. „We found it in a secret room in Sir Richard Douglas’s house. Together with the other clues and pieces of information we’ve gathered, it should give you the big picture.“ Ruaridh MacKay stuck his pipe in the corner of his mouth, opened the first page, read and puffed. During the minutes of silence in which he studied the pages attentively, his bushy eyebrows drew together more and more in the centre of his forehead. From time to time he would utter a mumbled „Ah!“ or „Well, look there“ as he read. When he had finished, he closed the notebook and gazed out of the window for a long, thoughtful moment.

Then he turned to his visitors. „Let me try to summarise what this -“ he stabbed the black cover with his index finger as if he wanted to pierce it – „reveals. There is a secret society in Edinburgh that has been operating in secret for decades and is primarily concerned with increasing its own wealth.“ „They call themselves the Concordia Club,“ Josephine added, „and Sir Richard Douglas is its chairman.“ MacKay nodded and continued: „In addition to side agreements, black deals and corruption, this organisation has recently taken to infiltrating young men into certain positions and using them to their advantage.“ „After they’ve kidnapped the boys, they find out where their strengths lie and train them further,“ Ewan interjected. „For example, if one of them is a good waiter, he’ll be deployed at hospitality events to eavesdrop on private conversations. If one is skilful at the machine, he spies on trade secrets at a competitor. The others are used as henchmen, thugs and thieves. The booklet lists all the businesses, economies and even several private households where the club has used its puppets.“ Ewan opened the book again and pointed to the lists: „And each entry states the purpose of the mission – that is, the target person or the task to be fulfilled.”

The detective nodded, then tapped the burnt contents of his pipe into the ashtray. „Very well, thank you for the information. I’ll now take whatever further steps are necessary and put competent officers on the case.“ Josephine looked at him indignantly. „What does that mean? A couple of helmet-wearing monkeys take over and we’re supposed to wait and enjoy a cup of tea?“ „Yes, that’s what it means,“ MacKay said and winked at her. „Nothing more to discuss for now.“ Anger rose in Josephine. “ I beg you pardon, but are the police even equipped to bring such an operation to a successful conclusion?“ she asked with a cutting undertone. „Aye!“ MacKay replied roughly. „If you’re convinced of that, there’s certainly one thing that will interest you,“ she replied. In a cat-like movement, she snatched the notebook from his hand and leafed through it, looking for a page. „Have you read this?“ She threw it open in front of him and looked at him challengingly.

Ruaridh MacKay leant forward and studied the writing closely. Suddenly his eyes widened. „This can’t be true! Tulloch has been with us for several months and has always been exemplary …“ He fell silent and looked into Josephine’s smug face. “ All right, Madame – another point for you. There’s a certain risk involved in cleaning out this Augean stable when we can’t even be sure that our opponents aren’t standing shoulder to shoulder with us.“ „That’s exactly what we were thinking,“ Ewan interjected, „hence we have an idea.“ MacKay sighed. „I never thought I’d say this to ordinary folk: so what’s our plan then?“

After the conversation at the police station, Josephine and Ewan set off in opposite directions. Each of them carried a list in their pockets that had to be completed today. It was particularly important to inform those who were still working on the evening editions last so that they didn’t get any funny ideas. Their aim was not to warn anyone. What they had in mind were the papers that would be on every newsstand, in every letterbox and on every breakfast table in the city tomorrow morning.

Ewan

A biting winter wind tore at his coat as he hurried through Princes Street Gardens and hurriedly climbed the steps to the Scott Monument. Ewan liked coming here – although preferably not in this weather and in the dark. The monument had been completed only a few decades ago, in memory of the great Scottish poet Sir Walter Scott. Even though he had devoured his works, when Ewan saw the pointed tower, he thought primarily of the stonemasons involved in its construction. Those who had worked on the numerous statues and decorations had died from the effect of the dangerous stone dust on their lungs several years after completion. The Scotsman ran the headline that the monument had cost the lives of twenty-three of Edinburgh’s best stonemasons. The statue of the writer himself also gave him food for thought during his regular visits. With a wistful expression, Scott sat enthroned on the pedestal with a manuscript on his lap and his faithful dog Maida by his side looking up at him.

He stopped at the statue and looked over to Old Town, where a sea of thousands of illuminated windows twinkled dimly through the darkness. Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from one of the pillars and approached him. It was a person in a black cloak, face and head covered by a black hood. These scoundrels probably thought they could trick him a third time – but today he came prepared. In one swift movement, Ewan whipped up the walking stick he had concealed behind his back when he arrived and gave the figure a fierce whack with the handle. To his astonishment, he heard no cry of pain, but a very familiar voice.

„Hell’s bells! Are you out of your mind?“ Josephine pulled the hood off her head and rubbed the spot on her shoulder where he had struck her. Completely perplexed, Ewan lowered the stick. „I … didn’t mean to … excuse me…“ he stammered, but by then the woman had already leaned forwards and smacked him firmly in the chest with her fist. „You enjoy that? I know you don’t like me, but you don’t have to get violent!“ Now it was Ewan who spoke with indignation. “ Now you’ve gone too far! Surely I won’t hit you on purpose – but how was I supposed to know that that letter was written by you if you didn’t sign it?“ „And exactly how was I supposed to sign it? With my real name? I prefer as few people as possible to know it.“ „Very well,“ Ewan returned, crossing his arms in front of his chest, „I’m sorry for smacking you. But perhaps you understand that after two assaults on my person, I’ve become cautious.”

Josephine made a gesture of refusal. “ All forgiven,“ she said, „but I don’t intend to hang about in this cold forever, so we’d better get straight to the point. I need your help.“ „Hmm, that phrase sounds familiar,“ Ewan replied a little spitefully, backing away as Josephine lashed out to smack him again. “ This is no time to hold a grudge!“ she snapped at him. “ They tied me up and would have done who knows what else if I hadn’t escaped. But now William has disappeared…“ „William?“ Ewan caught his breath. „Yes, a boy from an orphanage in the Grassmarket. I thought you were researching this orphan thing…“ „William’s disappeared?“ he shouted. „Tell me!“ „How do you know…?“ They both looked at each other, perplexed, and after a few seconds of silence, Ewan began to laugh. „Ah, trusty William! If anyone can be the servant of two masters, it’s you!”

A short time later, they both came clean. Ewan presented the piece of paper on which he had jotted down the words „Nihil Sine Causa“ and Josephine informed him of everything she knew about the Concordia Club. They both told each other about their encounters with unscrupulous henchmen, thugs and kidnappers. When Ewan told him about the attempt on his life, Josephine grabbed his arm, aghast. If the subject wasn’t so serious, he would have been quietly enjoying the indignation of this otherwise cold woman standing in front of him.

„We must have stirred up a can of worms – both in our own way,“ she said when he had finished. „I suppose I have no choice but to work with you. Hopefully I won’t regret it one day if you give in to your antipathy towards me.“ „Miss Fairchild,“ Ewan returned, „by now I’m far too immersed in this matter myself to let our previous differences be my guide. Let’s just keep the peace until we can shed some light on the matter.“ Josephine studied his face cautiously, then nodded and pulled a black notebook from an inside pocket of her coat. „Can you make any use of this?“ she asked, handing it to him. „I got it from the secret room at the club, but I don’t understand what it might be about. It’s full of tables with names and companies listed.”

It was hard to turn the thin pages of the notebook in the icy wind and with gloves on his hands. Ewan tucked his walking stick under his arm and leafed through the lists. Suddenly he looked at Josephine and realization shone from his eyes. „If there’s one key to this mystery,“ he said, „you’ve found it here.”

Josephine

Tearing open the door of the White Hart Inn, she rushed to the bar and demanded a double whiskey. When the innkeeper didn’t obey quickly enough, she angrily banged her fist on the wooden counter. The drink was placed in front of her, she drained it in one go and threw down the coins for another. Only after she had emptied a third glass did she stand up, swaying slightly. „Wifie, is everything a‘ richt?“ the man behind the counter asked her when he noticed her bewildered look. „Aye“ said Josephine, making a dismissive gesture. Right now, she didn’t want to talk to anyone. She leant on the bar and let her gaze wander around the smoke-filled room with its low, black-painted wooden ceiling. The voices of the other guests blurred into an inseparable murmur. A headache throbbed in her temples, but not just from the whiskey.

The memory of the morning forced its way painfully through the haze of alcohol. A thin winter light had shone through the flimsy curtains of the room where the orphanage director had told her that the boy had been gone for several days. „Have you been looking for him?“ she had asked, and when the woman shook her head and returned a dry „‚Cause how come on earth would I?“ anger had welled up in her stomach like an angry animal. On the way out, she stopped several children, but each confirmed that William had disappeared without notice. As she walked the path from the orphanage back to the Grassmarket, she paid no attention to slush, mud, horse droppings and muck. Beggars and other vagrants approached her, but after she had firmly pushed away the first one who had grabbed her by the sleeve, they left her alone until she reached the old pub.

Josephine left the pub and walked down the street to the east. The whiskey had eased her anger, but it had been followed by a much more unpleasant feeling: Shame. On an impulse she couldn’t explain, she entered St Giles‘. The hall of the church was gloomy and cold. Josephine sat down in the row where she had sat the last time and talked to William. She took a deep breath and looked up at the blue-painted vault that rested high above her on the ornate pillars. „Why do I feel like this?“ she pondered. William had never given her any reason to be unhappy, he was always loyal and kept her secrets as if they were his own. Without him, maybe I and my business wouldn’t exist at all, she thought and then shooed the thought away again – now things were getting melodramatic. That must have been the alcohol talking. „Honestly, I couldn’t care less,“ she scolded herself, but she knew that wasn’t true. The boy had been in the Douglases‘ house on her direct orders, he was scared and she had thought of nothing better than to take advantage of his desperate situation. „As a woman, I should actually know better how to handle power sensibly,“ she thought, a bitter line forming around her mouth.

Josephine let her gaze wander over the church windows, through which a slightly brighter light fell today than on her last visit. Above the depiction of the crucifixion of Jesus was a second row in which the coloured glass showed his ascent into heaven. In contrast to the scene below, it was not dark and hopeless here, but the sun burst forth in yellow glass stones and the disciples looked devoutly at their Lord, who turned his face upwards into the light. Josephine noticed another detail: While only a few around the cross had a halo adorning their heads, all those who stood at his feet during his ascent were illuminated. She remembered so much from Sunday School that not all those who had accompanied him on his last journey were loyal to him – those who remained so after his death were remembered all the more by the faithful. „Who do I want to be?“ a thought flashed through her mind.

She stood up with a jerk, her mind made up. She nodded towards the ascending man encased in stained glass and threw a shilling into the donation box on her way out. All the way through the Old Town, her mind was running at full speed. The city’s haze was particularly thick that afternoon, and the yellowish smoke from the chimneys mingled with a thin mist that made the church spires and rooftops seem distant. The streets were very busy. She had to dodge several stray carriages that rolled dangerously close to the pavement. There were people everywhere who approached her and offered her food, newspapers, political pamphlets or small wares, while war invalids, children and ragged women squatted between them, hoping that their benefactors would be more willing to help them before the holidays. Absent-mindedly, she pressed a coin into the hand of a boy who must have been no more than five years old. He stood in the snow in wooden clogs and shorts, his eyes shining as he held the coin in his small hands. Josephine had already moved on before he could thank her.

When she arrived at her destination, the skinny housemaid she had hoped for and was familiar with from a previous job opened the door. She asked for the master of the house, but he wasn’t there and wouldn’t be home for a few hours. So she left a note, sealed the envelope and made her friend promise not to give it to anyone else and to throw it in the fire in case things turned out any differently. Then she headed home.

An hour before the agreed time, Josephine put on her black coat with the wide hood. Even if you broke new ground, you had to stay true to yourself a little, she thought.

Ewan

Dusk had already begun to fall by the time Ewan hurried along the country road. Two villages he had already passed through and even though he could read their names on the weathered signs, they seemed completely unfamiliar. Whether he was actually heading towards the town or not was a mystery to him. He couldn’t see a soul far and wide that he could have asked. All he knew was that he had to keep heading east with the water behind him.

Besides the worry of being surprised by nightfall in the middle of the snowy solitude, his thoughts centred on what had happened a few hours ago. The orphans had refused to come with him and what Tommy told him continued to haunt his mind. The pieces of the puzzle wouldn’t fit together in his head. Philip Rowe – a man in extravagant clothes – the selection process – lessons – the „next phase“. Then there was the strange message that had been left for him after the break-in at the office. The whole thing was clearly getting out of hand. All of a sudden, Ewan felt terribly alone. After the robbery, his editor-in-chief had advised him to leave the story behind and take a few days off. Josephine Fairchild, who had been his last hope, had turned him down. Who else could he turn to?

Night slowly descended over the snow-covered fields around him. A dark blue streak crept up on the horizon, growing rapidly and blocking out the last of the daylight. Although he was walking in a rutted gully on the country road, he could already feel the first wet patches on the tips of his boots where the slush was seeping through the leather seams. Another village lay ahead of him and as he approached, he recognised the name on the sign. His heart jumped with joy. He had reached Crewe Toll, the junction between Crewe Road and Ferry Road, which bore the name of the former toll house. All that was left was the old smithy and the reason for Ewan’s euphoria: the Caledonian Railway stop that would take him back to the heart of the town. Ewan had almost reached the platform when he heard the steady sound of an approaching train in the distance. Then the steam locomotive rounded a bend, crowned by a column of smoke. Ewan was relieved to see that it was pulling carriages behind it, painted in crimson and white – the unmistakable sign that they were passenger carriages. He ran the last few metres and reached the train just in time.

Exhausted, he let himself fall into the dark blue velvet cushions. No man could be so lucky, he thought. Trains departed from Crewe Junction in all directions and this particular one would take him to Princes Street in Edinburgh’s New Town. From there it was only a stone’s throw to – well, where was he going anyway? To the office? Home? In his current state of mind, a visit to the pub might be the best option. But he didn’t have to make that decision for the time being; the journey would take at least another half an hour. All at once, Ewan realised how exhausted he was. Sitting opposite him was an elderly lady who had greeted him as he boarded and then returned to her crime novel. He politely asked her to wake him as soon as they reached Princes Street and she happily obliged. Completely drained, he leaned his head into the corner of the seat and as the wintry landscape outside drifted by, his eyes fell shut and the gentle cradle of the train rocked him into a deep sleep.

When he left the train at Princes Street, he felt scattered and the cold night air seemed even more unpleasant than before. There were no pubs on Princes Street, so he turned his steps towards Old Town. With the Royal Scottish Academy on his left and the dark gardens on his right, he soon reached the winding maze of Old Town streets. His hat had got lost in all the confusion, so he combed his hair over his face with his fingers and turned up the collar of his coat so that prying eyes wouldn’t recognise him at first glance. In Candlemaker Row, he headed for the old pub, which he knew still served good food late into the night. As he passed the drinking fountain with a bronze dog sitting on top, he absentmindedly stroked its head. „Bobby“ had guarded his master’s grave in the neighbouring Greyfriars Kirkyard for fourteen years until he himself passed away. Enchanted by the story, one of the richest women in the United Kingdom memorialised the little terrier.

The pub was noisy and crowded, but Ewan found a corner to retreat to with an ale and a large bowl of stew. The soup tasted marvellous and the strong beer gave him exactly the kind of pleasant buzz he had hoped for. His spirits were soon revived and he felt ready to make his way home. Fortunately, his little flat was not far away.

The next day, Ewan didn’t wake up until midday. When he finally got up, he felt a strange clarity. Well, should they all abandon him, beat him up, intimidate and kidnap him – he was a journalist, bloody hell! He would publish this story, whatever the cost. Britain had been the first nation to introduce freedom of the press in 1695 and no less was at stake today, Ewan thought bitterly. Once it had gone to press, he thought, he could contact the police and ask them to escort him in the following days – even if this request already seemed futile. Nevertheless, after a quick breakfast, he made his way to the editorial office with determination.

The acrid smell of smoke permeated the streets just two intersections before the Scotsman’s noble building. Several horse-drawn teams appeared in the distance, pulling fire engines behind them, while members of the Edinburgh Fire Brigade hurried to work in their black jackets, bright trousers and shiny helmets. A chain formed, buckets filled with water were passed from hand to hand to fight the inferno in the shattered windows. Thick smoke had engulfed the entire street and Ewan sought to speak to a policeman standing nearby. „Excuse me, Sir – I work at the Evening News.“ The policeman shrugged his shoulders and replied: „Aye, looks like that’s over for now.“ Undeterred by the laconic reply, Ewan continued, „Do you know how it happened yet?“ “Brigade thinks it was arson,“ said the policeman, „you’d hardly be daft enough to leave an open fire in a newsroom with all that paper around. And electricity hasn’t been installed there yet.”

Ewan thanked him and turned back to the burnt-out house. What had happened seemed like a direct warning to him after he had escaped: „You may have escaped our control, but we can hurt you wherever you are hiding.”

Josephine

She had been taken to the laundry room of the house and tied to a chair. Her protestations that she had only entered the secret room by mistake were ignored. „She’ll stay here until Sir Richard comes home,“ the young, uniformed man told the cook, „and rest assured – there will be repercussions for you afterwards.“ After they had left her alone, Josephine looked around. Perhaps she could find a way to free herself and escape. The room was narrow and lined with tall linen cupboards at the sides. There was a hand-cranked washtub, but in all likelihood it was only used to clean small items of laundry in an emergency. Like all well-off families, the Douglases used the services of a commercial wash house, of which there were many in the city. At the far end, Josephine recognised a door with glass panels allowing daylight to flood in. If she was lucky, there was an exit to the garden – the idea was not far-fetched, as it was necessary to get to the washing line with fresh laundry as quickly as possible.

But before she could turn her attention to the question of how to get rid of the ties, the door was pushed open and Richard Douglas entered, accompanied by another man. Josephine almost breathed a sigh of relief: it was Alastair Wallace walking alongside Sir Richard. It was good to know him as a silent ally in this situation. If she didn’t let on now and gained a moment alone with Alastair, he would surely set her free. But first Sir Richard addressed her. „Good afternoon, miss,“ he said in a tone as sharp as a judge’s sword. „I am always happy to have guests in my house – but I would like to be the one to show them round. You, on the other hand, have let yourself in and gained access to a room that even most of my servants don’t know exists.“ „I’m truly sorry, Sir,“ she said, putting all the feigned innocence she could muster into her voice, „but I was looking for my earring. I must have lost it at one of your recent evening parties here. I was just looking in the library when the shelf opened to reveal a corridor.“ She breathed heavily and then squeezed out a few fake tears – a skill that had often saved her from dicey situations. „You can judge me for my curiosity – but please, Sir: I don’t deserve such cruel treatment.”

Sir Richard narrowed his eyes and took a few steps towards her. „On the contrary,“ he then said, „I think we’ve been far too gentle with you up till now. What do you say is your good name?“ Josephine’s gaze flew to Alastair, then she made a decision. „Genevieve Stirling,“ she said. Richard Douglas laughed. „Ah, how interesting – and my cook swears you introduced yourself to her as Evelyn Saunders. Fortunately, I know the wife of our Councillor. Even though she rarely appears in public, I am quite certain that she bears no resemblance to you.“ „She must have been mistaken!“ said Josephine in feigned exasperation.

Then Alastair Wallace spoke up. „Well, Saunders and Stirling – the names do sound similar. My dear fellow, perhaps there has been a case of confusion.“ Sir Richard gave him a sideways glance, a frown on his face. „Well, I’ll go and ask the woman. Then I won’t have to be accused of judging people unjustifiably – even if they move about freely in my private chambers as if it were their own home.“ With that, he left the room. Josephine breathed a sigh of relief. „My dearest Alastair!“ she burst out, once she was sure that Douglas was out of earshot. „Please help me – look, I’ve been tied up! It was at the dinner party where we met that I lost my earring! I assure you, it’s all just a terrible misunderstanding.“ But Alastair made no move to untie her and began to walk up and down the room. Then he came to her, squatted on the floor in front of her and studied her face closely. „My dear,“ he said, „you must really think me a very simple-minded man.”

Josephine choked, but didn’t let on. „Excuse me? Not in any way, why would I…?“ He looked at her with pity. „Well, I don’t blame you. Many people only look at my superficial appearance and think of me as nothing more than a conceited dandy who, thanks to his family’s money, indulges in daydreams of times long past. Some people might be offended by this – but I quickly realised that it can be more profitable to be underestimated than overestimated. A mistake that you have obviously also made.“ Josephine slowly began to suspect that he was right. It was probably better if she kept quiet and let him speak until the other man returned. „When we first met, of course, I had no suspicions,“ Alastair continued, „but then you asked me about my goals and ambitions in the botanical gardens a little too calmly. A woman like you knows that men like to talk about such things. I didn’t buy your constant assurances that you were just a simple-minded socialite. I also noticed that while you wanted me to reveal more and more of my true self, you kept the wall around you in place.” Josephine’s heart beat faster, but Wallace didn’t give her time to think clearly. „Well, the final confirmation came this afternoon: what stone did you say you were looking for in an earring?“ „A sapphire,“ she whispered. He grinned. „You claim to have worn blue jewellery – with a green tartan dress? My dear, you can fool any other man with that, but you certainly can’t fool me.”

Now the only option was to move forwards. „Well, I lied,“ she hissed – „I wanted to have a look around this place.“ „For what purpose, my dear?“ She thought about it, then put all her cards on the table. „You told me about the secret club. In fact, I’ve heard about it in other societies and several clues led me to Sir Richard. As I said, it was pure curiosity.“ „Did you find anything in the room?“ „No,“ she said, putting in a hint of regret. „Nothing, I’m afraid. I was also caught a few minutes after I found the secret door.“ Alastair raised an eyebrow, but remained silent. „But Alastair,“ she continued, lowering her voice in case anyone overheard her, „didn’t you tell me you wanted to bring down the club? Perhaps we can work together. Please untie me – then I’ll become your ally in the shadows and once you’ve achieved your goals, we can work together…”

She fell silent as Richard Douglas entered the room. Alastair turned to him. „What did the interrogation reveal, Sir Richard?“ „Nothing we didn’t already know, dear Alastair. My cook swears she heard the name Saunders. What have you found out in the meantime?“ Alastair cleared his throat and Josephine clung to the seat of her chair. „This lady is a fraud,“ he then said. „Not only has she entered your private chambers without permission, she has done so for a purpose. Allow me, Sir Richard, to make a bold assumption: the person who is trying to bring down our Club is sitting in front of us.“ Sir Richard’s eyes widened. „This woman was involved with Murray, you say?“ Alastair nodded. „As you know, you appointed me Chairman of the Commission. I’m all the more pleased to be able to successfully roll this case out before you.”

Now she realised everything. This rotten bastard was trying to climb the career ladder over her dead body. But she still had one last trick up her sleeve that neither of them would expect. She had never done it before, but if there was a favourable moment, it was now. Josephine quickened her breathing, moaned and began to twitch violently. Then she tensed her arms in front of her chest, just as she had seen the man with falling sickness do in the street. The spectacle had the desired effect and from the corner of her eye she could see that both men were staring at her in horror. Josephine increased her convulsions and finally managed to topple the chair. „Staff!“ shouted Sir Richard, casting a disdainful glance at her and hurrying out. Meanwhile, Sir Alastair crouched down on the floor next to her and watched her with a scrutinising gaze. „You think you can catch me,“ Josephine thought, „then take a good look at this.“ She contorted her face into a hideous grimace and began to chatter her teeth so wildly that she foamed at the mouth. Disgusted, Alastair backed away and left the room.

Shortly afterwards, someone was with her and untied her. She struggled to keep twitching, even when they laid her on the floor and clamped a piece of wood between her teeth. „We need a doctor!“ she heard a woman’s voice shout. „No doctor,“ came Sir Richard’s reply from some distance away. „Leave her there until she’s cooled off. Then I’ll give further instructions. Until then, have the boy look after her.”

The boy? Josephine’s heart beat excitedly. Could she really be so lucky? When William entered the room a few moments later, she could have screamed with joy. Fortunately, he didn’t let on and sat down in the chair next to her head. „They’ve all gone,“ he said to her in a whisper a little later. She calmed down immediately, carefully sat up and took the wood out of her mouth. „William! I’ve never been so happy to see your face!“ He smiled. „Let’s get the hell out of here, Miss Fairchild.”

Ewan

When Ewan woke up, he was freezing. At first he thought it was night because he couldn’t see, but then he remembered. They had put a bag over his head, which still obscured his vision. His hands and feet had also been tied together, which made it considerably more difficult for him to stand up. At first, he could do nothing but lie there helplessly and concentrate on his remaining senses. A breeze and the soft lapping of waves told him that he was out in the open and near water. However, the echo of the sound reverberated briefly, which led him to conclude that some kind of building must be surrounding him. At first he could feel nothing but cold, but then his hands touched hard stone that sloped slightly under his body.

Suddenly he felt something wet on his shoulder. It must have been a wave, because after a short pause the water returned and wetted more of his body. Was he lying right on the edge of a river? He tried to roll away from it, which the steep ground beneath him made practically impossible. A few minutes later, his whole arm was already submerged in cold water. Horrified, a thought flashed through his mind: the tide! He must have been left in a place that was regularly flooded at high tide. In a blind panic, he tried to break his shackles by pushing and kicking, but they only cut more deeply into his skin. Something pressed uncomfortably against his ankle and made Ewan want to scream with happiness. He had completely forgotten about his little pocket knife, which he always kept hidden in his left boot for exactly such emergencies, but he had remembered it at exactly the right moment. It took some contortions to get to the knife and cut the restraints, but finally Ewan freed himself, sat up and pulled the bag off his head.

Now he realized where he was: He was lying on the ramp of a wooden boathouse with its doors open, overlooking a wintry stream. Ewan saw snow-covered trees standing on the riverside, a gentle mist hung over the water, but there was nothing to indicate what time of day it was. Not a soul was to be seen anywhere. Should he dare to call for help? He had obviously been deliberately left there, fully expecting the tide to do the job and drown him. If that was the case, those who had brought him here were not ruthless or brave enough to murder him themselves, he thought, as they had let the forces of nature handle the dirty work. Or perhaps they wanted to cover their tracks.

He struggled to get up, his muscles aching from the unnatural position he had obviously been lying in for several hours, helped by the cold floor. The first thing he did was walk to the gate of the shed, but of course it was locked from outside. He looked around helplessly. Surely there had to be something here that could help him! All the walls were lined with shelves containing tools and materials for care and maintenance, none of which were suitable for breaking down a solid wooden gate. Then Ewan noticed the boat which was moored in the entryway and was increasingly being washed by the incoming tide. He got an idea.

A few minutes later, he rowed out onto the still water. Now he could see that he was on a short channel to the sea, as the Firth of Forth opened up in the distance. The further he got from the boathouse, the better he could see his surroundings. In front of him was an expansive lawn that was part of a large landscaped park with woodland areas, tree-lined avenues and artificial ponds. On the horizon, he could make out the outline of a house, its pointed chimneys poking out of the mist. Ewan maneuvered his barge towards the shore and soon reached land with mostly dry feet. He was already halfway towards the house when reason knocked. What if the people who had overpowered him and left him for dead were right there? At the same time, this was also a golden opportunity to find out who was responsible, he thought. He approached the building cautiously and under the cover of a small wood.

Suddenly he heard the crunching of large wheels on gravel and saw a black carriage rolling out of the yard. Ewan’s heart beat faster. Whoever had been there had obviously just left. If ever there had been a good opportunity, it had just presented itself to him. When the carriage was out of sight, he crept around the house.

The sandstone building resembled a small castle with its stepped towers, artificial embrasures and battlements on the gable. Ewan found the entrance portal under a canopy. He held his breath for a moment – but the door was unlocked. He opened it just a narrow crack and silently entered the heart of the castle. The scent of old wood, musty carpets and faded linen surrounded him as he wandered through the rooms on the lower floor. In one of the rooms he discovered antique furniture and paintings, in another a kitchen with an open fireplace that smelled of cold food. However, he found no clues as to who lived here. After combing through all the halls on the first floor with no results, he found the staircase leading to the second floor. The steps creaked softly under his boots as he climbed them. Once in the upper corridor, he carefully opened a door. Behind it awaited him a dormitory that could have come straight out of a Dickens novel and whose bleak appearance in no way matched the rest of the venerable house. What was even more surprising was that the room was full of people.

About twenty boys of different ages were sitting on the beds. Some of them were reading, others were chatting quietly. When the strange man entered, they raised their heads and there was a look of fear in many eyes. Ewan was taken aback. Could this really be possible? His gaze flew over the faces and lingered on one he knew. „Tommy?“ he asked, puzzled. Thomas Murphy was equally perplexed: „Mr. Cunningham? What are you doing here?“ „I could ask you the same question. What are you doing here? What’s this place all about?“ The red-haired boy put down the book he had been reading and got up from the bed. „Sir, I think it would be better if you got out of here as quickly as possible.“ Ewan shook his head. „I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m leaving this place until you’ve told me what’s going on.“ Tommy looked around the room questioningly, but the other boys made no move to interrupt. Then he sighed. „Well, Sir, here’s the thing: we’ve all been brought here one by one.

„Fine, but you have to promise to leave afterwards.“ Ewan nodded. „Well, Sir, here’s the thing: we were all brought here one by one. A selection process was carried out shortly after we arrived.“ „What do you mean?“ Ewan interrupted agitatedly. „They wanted to know what we’re good at – who can talk well, who has a clue about technology, who has worked in a fine household before. Then we were sorted and have been receiving lessons in groups ever since.“ „Lessons?“

Tommy nodded. „They say it’s part of the preparation for what they call the ’next phase‘. Unfortunately, no one here knows what that is. Some of us keep getting there and being picked up. None of us have come back yet.“ Ewan couldn’t make sense of what he was hearing. „Tommy, can you tell me anything else? Describe one of the men who brought you here or who is teaching you?“ The boy thought about it. „No,“ he said, „they all look basically the same and we don’t know any of the men who teach us.“ Then one of the other children, a blond boy who must have been no more than ten years old, spoke up: „Tommy, what about the Rooster?“ Tommy nodded. „That’s right, the Rooster is different from the others.“ Ewan looked at him questioningly and he continued. „We call him like that because he always dresses like a rooster. So colorful and weird. He always wears a scarf in bright colors, but the funniest thing about him is his top hat, which he doesn’t take off his head even when he’s indoors.”

Josephine

„One way to New Town,“ she requested and the coachman nodded. He tossed the hoof scraper that he had just used to clean the animals‘ shoes into the snow and turned up the collar of his waxed coat. Then he opened the door for her to get in. „Feicfidh me ar ball thú!“ he called to his colleagues at the carriage stand, a „Slán leat“ resounded back. „It might prove worthwhile to learn Irish,“ Josephine thought as she took a seat on the cushions – given the number of immigrants who now lived in the city and no doubt uttered most of their secrets in this unpronounceable language. But she could always leave that for later – right now she had other things on her mind.

Her spider’s web had presented her with a new catch that morning. A housemaid had tipped her off that several high-ranking guests had been invited to tea at her employer’s house – perhaps she would like to join in as a waitress? She wasn’t interested in spending an afternoon wearing an apron and carrying a tray, but rather in the information that Sir Richard Douglas was among the invited guests. The opportunity was favourable: an empty house – she had to seize the moment for further research.

At the door of the Douglas mansion, she again introduced herself as Evelyn Saunders. The butler who had let her in last time was enjoying an afternoon off due to his master’s absence, so she had to explain her request to an elderly housemaid. She had apparently just come from the kitchen, as the sleeves of her blouse were rolled up and she was wearing a stained apron. She looked insecure and Josephine took advantage of this. „I apologise for disturbing you, Madame,“ she said, and the inappropriately polite form of address visibly flattered the cook. „Just recently I was at an evening party in this house and Sir Richard showed us round the ground floor. I must have lost one of my earrings, because I missed it on the way back. Did you happen to find any jewellery like that bearing a sapphire?“ She pointed to her ear, on which a lone earring with a magnificent blue stone was swinging. Of course, the answer was „No“, because the counterpart remained safely in a secret compartment of her handbag, waiting to be presented as a „lucky find“ at the right moment. The woman shook her head. „Is there anyone else from the staff around that I could ask?“ Another shake of the head. Very good – that meant they were indeed alone. „Would it be very presumptuous of me to go and see for myself? You know, the jewellery is a gift from my husband. He gets jealous easily and if he notices that I’m missing an earring, he might start to think…” She was let in and after a few brief words explaining which room was where, the cook disappeared back into her domicile.

Careful not to provoke any suspicion, Josephine first went into the large hall where the evening party had taken place. The chairs and tables had been pushed together to form a large, long banquet table, and table linen had already been laid out for a dinner with many guests. She inspected the room carefully, but as she had suspected, in such a busy place no one would risk a guest unintentionally pressing a wall panel to reveal a secret compartment. In the hallway, Josephine turned directly to the library after assuring herself of the busy clatter of pots in the kitchen.

The room with its high shelves lay deserted in front of her. Dust danced in the dull winter light that fell through the high windows and the whole library was filled with the scent of old books, that mixture of tanned leather and weathered paper. She had already inspected the club’s secret room, so the desk was her first priority. The papers and documents on it were irrelevant and there was nothing of value in the drawers either. Josephine’s heart skipped a beat when she discovered a secret compartment under the tabletop – but it only contained faded photographs of a woman she didn’t recognize. She carefully put everything back as she had found it and then turned towards the hidden door.

Before she entered the corridor, she pulled the false shelf closed behind her – in case the cook did come to look, it bought her some time. Now she had to hurry. Fully concentrated, Josephine headed for the areas of the room that she had not yet examined during her first stay here. She was particularly interested in the furniture. She quickly ruled out the cupboard where she had been hiding – there was nothing here. Her fingers glided over the cool surface of the sideboard where the servants had prepared the drinks at the last meeting. With a practiced hand, she searched the back and bottom for a mechanism that would open a hidden compartment.

Suddenly she felt a slight vibration under her fingertips. There it was – a slight dent in the wood! She pressed it carefully and a flap on the side of the sideboard popped open, which had previously been invisible due to the rich decorations. A tingling sensation ran through her whole body as she opened the small compartment and discovered a series of documents. Time was working against her, she knew. She hurriedly combed through the papers and decided on a thin, black notebook labeled with the date of the current year on the front. She tucked it away deep between her undergarment and corset. She was just about to leave the room when her heart skipped a beat.

Footsteps and voices could be heard outside in the library. „She was looking for her jewelry,“ she heard the cook say. She looked around in panic. Would the linen cupboard make a good hiding place again? Should she crawl under the table? Or hide behind the door, take those coming in by surprise and simply run away? But before she could make a decision, the door swung open and someone entered the room.

Ewan

That impertinent person! Furious, he kicked a crate that had made the mistake of taking up too much space on the pavement. It must have been filled to the brim and therefore didn’t move an inch. Instead of the satisfying splintering of wood, all he heard was a crack and a sharp pain shot through his foot. Cursing and limping, he continued on his way. If he had broken his toes because of Josephine Fairchild, he would first print her large portrait on the front page of the Evening News and then set her house on fire, he thought, beside himself with rage.

His foot was still in pain when he reached Philip Rowe’s dockside office, which only fuelled his miserable mood. So he shoved the door open a little harder than he intended, causing a storm among the bells that were supposed to announce the arrival of a new customer. The secretary looked at him, startled, and Ewan took a deep breath to calm himself as he walked towards the counter. „Excuse me,“ he said, suddenly realising his battered appearance. „My name is Abraham Smithers. I have an appointment with Mr Rowe.“ That wasn’t true, but it was a tactic he’d used successfully many times before. He had made up the alias because there was no way he could go by his real name here. The woman glanced at her records. „What was your name – Smithereen?“ „Smithers,“ Ewan corrected. „I’m afraid there’s nothing written down here,“ she said regretfully after leafing through several pages. „We met by chance yesterday and he asked me to come round at this time today,“ he explained, „perhaps he forgot to tell you.“ She nodded sympathetically and sighed: „Yes, unfortunately that happens more often. You shouldn’t speak ill of your employer, but why don’t you tell me how I’m supposed to run a reliable secretariat this way?“ „I think you’re doing an excellent job,“ he said with a winning smile and she showed him the way to Rowe’s office, beaming with pride.

Philip Rowe was sitting behind a massive oak desk, busy reading some paperwork, when Ewan knocked and entered a moment later. „Good afternoon, Mr Rowe,“ he greeted politely. The man looked at him in surprise, but then pointed to the vacant chair in front of his desk. „Good afternoon, Sir! What can I do for you?“ Ewan sat down and tried to push his bad mood aside. Though he needed to concentrate fully, his thoughts kept drifting back to the frustrating events of the morning. „I’ve come to you with a few questions in the hope that you can help me,“ he said. Rowe laughed in a jovial manner. „Well, fortunately, today I’m in the mood to help you,“ he said. „Fire away.“ „I’ve come on behalf of the city,“ Ewan lied. „They’ve assigned me the task of enquiring into the disappearance of several children.“ The other man’s expression instantly turned sour. „And what on earth did you come to me for? Because of that heinous newspaper article, isn’t that right? Well, let me tell you something: it’s the work of ruthless dilettantes who don’t have enough truth and have to fill their greasy pages with lies instead.“ He lit a cigar, but his torrent of words wasn’t over yet. „You’re from the council, you say? I suppose they employ people who read this rubbish?”

With all his might, Ewan tried to remain calm. He shrugged, „Well, it’s a lead I’ve been requested to follow up. Your name is mentioned and it’s implied that you were last seen with Thomas Murphy.“ Rowe slammed his fist on the table. „Do I look like a common creep who associates with orphans?“ he thundered, „What are you insinuating here?“ „I’m not insinuating anything,“ Ewan replied, „I’d just like some answers.“ Rowe angrily stubbed out his cigar and leant back in his chair. Then he let his gaze wander over his opponent’s face and lingered on the wounds. Suddenly Ewan noticed a change in his expression, which vanished as quickly as it had come. Instead of anger, a sly grin spread across the man’s face, dripping with satisfaction.

„Please excuse my outburst,“ said Rowe, reaching for another cigar. „These are very emotional days for me. You have to understand, you’re not the first person to come to me.“ „Oh really?“ asked Ewan. „By this careless mention in a paper that the whole town reads, I’m constantly harassed. The matter has a simple explanation, but I’m not going to reveal it to every random fool. You’re from the City, you say? What was your name again?“ „City Clerk Smithers,“ Ewan replied as if shot from a pistol. He had made that up, as there was no way he could go by his real name. „City Clerk Smithers!“ exclaimed Rowe, “ Well, my dear fellow, I can come clean with you. The fact is, I have a brother who is hardly ever spoken of. Yes, you can read about my sisters‘ escapades in Town Topics every week, but my brother’s existence is a well-kept family secret. We were brought into the world together, but apparently I made his life so difficult in the womb that his mental deficiency soon became apparent. He’s not so incompetent that he can’t go on the occasional outing on his own and we’ve long suspected that he gets on with simple folk. That he chooses children as playmates is not surprising; after all, he’s always remained a child himself in his mind.“ Ewan nodded hesitantly. He was sure Rowe was lying to him. „And as your twin brother, he’s probably the spitting image of you?“ „Like two peas in a pod,“ laughed Rowe. „So now you can clearly see the strings which bind me: I can’t defend myself without compromising my family’s honour.“ What honour, thought Ewan, you’re a nouveau riche upstart whose family is only of public relevance because they flaunt their obscene wealth and whose sisters fling themselves from one embarrassing liaison to another.

Out loud he said: „Ah, that explains a lot, of course. Would it be possible to have a chat with your brother? Of course, this information is reserved for a select group of administrative staff.“ The businessman hesitated, then nodded. „Do you know Jacob’s Ladder just east of the railway station? There’s an excellent view of the train traffic from there. Kenneth loves the sight of the lights at dusk. You should find him there. I’ll pass on the message to the staff that you deserve all the help you can get.”

As he climbed the steps from Jacob’s Ladder to the top of Calton Hill, panting, he was sure that Rowe was leading him around by the nose. His twin brother, was he pulling his leg? But what else could he do? The steep staircase that had been carved into the volcanic rock lay abandoned before him. So he followed the path up to the hilltop. At least as far as the view was concerned, the man hadn’t been lying. It was phenomenal. Ewan wondered why he came here so rarely – but answered the question to himself straight away. There were fewer people up here to talk to for good stories. But there was a marvellous view over the city, with the mighty Castle Hill towering over the streets. Dusk had fallen and Ewan shivered. Now, where was this ominous brother? At the foot of the Dugald Stewart Monument with its Corinthian columns, only a few stray couples were wandering around.

Suddenly someone approached him. „Pleasant forenicht, Sur!“ Ewan turned around to find a freckled young man in a worn uniform jacket standing in front of him. Without another word, the lad pointed to a path that wound itself around the hilltop. „To Ryle Terrace,“ he said, as if that explained anything, and added: „Now git it movin.“ The reporter followed the boy hesitantly. He regretted leaving his walking stick at home, which could have been useful for self-defence. They walked in silence towards the sloping road that ran alongside London Road Gardens. Contrary to its pompous name, which suggested the highest circles of the aristocracy, „Whiskey Row“, as it was popularly known, was mainly inhabited by merchants who had settled here for the unobstructed view of the harbour and the incoming ships – and these indeed earned their money quite often with high-proof spirits from the northern distilleries.

Just before they left the grounds of Calton Hill and stepped out onto the street, the boy turned round. „Mah apologies, pal“ he said – and a strong pair of hands grabbed Ewan, a sack was placed over his head and blackness enveloped him.

Josephine

She was just finishing her breakfast when there was a knock at the door. Her housekeeper went to check on her request and came back with a slender man in a tweed coat. Josephine sighed, rose and poured a second cup of coffee. „Good morning, Miss Fairchild,“ said Ewan Cunningham, „will you allow me to sit down?“ She noticed immediately that his tone was quite sober. She put the cup down in front of him and examined his face closely. „I didn’t realise that being a journalist was such a dangerous profession,“ she said, pointing to the chair opposite her. He took a seat and now she could see the fresh bruises on his forehead and the wounded, swollen cheek more clearly. „Did you end up in a pub brawl or under a coach?”

The reporter took a sip and then looked at her with a serious expression on his face. „I’m not in a joking mood today. In fact, I don’t want to be here at all. But I don’t know which way to turn.“ He leant forwards a little and hinted at his face. “ Currently I’m researching a story and I think I got too close to someone.“ „The orphan thing?“ She’d read it in the paper. Ewan nodded. Oh dear heavens, the next person to pester her about it! Josephine reached for an apple that had been left on the table from breakfast and bit into it so she wouldn’t have to speak. The man continued without a second thought: „Believe me, you’re the last person in the whole of the British Isles I’d ask for help. But I suspect there’s more to it than that and you can be accused of many things, but not that you don’t know the soft underbelly of Edinburgh society inside out. Here’s the thing: I was ambushed in my office and given a message. Please take a look at this“ – and he pulled a folded-up piece of paper out of his pocket.

But Josephine had risen to her feet. „Well,“ she said, „I don’t think I can help you in any way.“ Ewan looked at her irritated: „You haven’t even read what it says!“ She made a dismissive gesture. „I don’t need to. To be honest, I remember our last encounter all too well. What did you call me again? Inconsiderate and … smug?“ Now was the time to make him realise his audacity and she would savour this sweet moment of vengeance.

A few hours later, she stepped off the tram, wrapped in a navy blue winter cape. She had decided to take the Morningside line, which connected the east end of Princes Street with the southern edge of the city. On boarding, she had noticed one of the shabby placards opposing the announced switch from horse-drawn carriages to electricity. The Bobbies regularly removed such notes, which proclaimed that travelling on the tram would make you infertile, feeble-minded or hysterical. She was sure that those for whom the city council wanted to set up this cheap means of transport would prefer to continue walking.

It had taken her almost an hour to get here. When they had left the old town in the direction of Marchmont, the fort-like sandstone buildings with their playful turrets and battlements were gleaming in the fading evening light. In Greenhill, the multi-storey buildings gave way to smaller villas, with parks and gardens in between. Despite the gathering darkness, Josephine could recognise numerous building sites. This was where the town was merging with the wealthy villages that favoured country life, and mansions were springing up like mushrooms. Even Morningside, the destination of her journey, was still a row of thatched cottages, a blacksmith’s forge and a sparse group of trees a hundred years ago. If anyone from that time was still alive, they would not recognise their village. The large farms and estates that had formed here due to the favourable location on the trade route to the north soon saw a better business in no longer cultivating parts of their land, but instead selling it to wealthy townspeople. Now everyone who could afford it was eagerly building their slice of paradise – or rather having it built, as Josephine doubted that any of these fine gentlemen would ever take on a job that made them sweat.

It was only a few metres from the station to the place Alastair Wallace had told her to meet. In their last conversation, he had asked her to be at the crossroads in the centre half an hour before six o’clock. As she walked towards it, she could already see a black coach waiting for her. He had offered to pick her up at her home, but she had elegantly avoided his offer. Under no circumstances could he know who she was or where she lived. Only a few steps separated them from the vehicle when the door opened and a beaming Alastair got out. He was wearing a black tippet today, which made him look like an undertaker. Courteously, he asked her to get in and the carriage rattled off. „It’s not far,“ he explained and the journey was indeed over after a few minutes. In a pointless gesture, he wiped the snow off the step of the carriage with his handkerchief before she stepped onto it – Josephine suppressed an eye roll and instead thanked him with a sheepish smile.

Their carriage had stopped in front of a magnificent country house that stood in solitude between a small wood and a stream. It was built like a castle, with stylised battlements and miniature towers. A gentle snowfall had begun and covered the meadows in front of the property with a white blanket, on which the light from behind the windows painted long yellow streaks. „Welcome to the Hermitage of Braid,“ Alastair announced, taking her arm and leading her up the three steps to the red front door. A well-dressed butler opened it just a few seconds after knocking, as if he had already been waiting behind the door. After she had been helped out of her coat and turned to her companion, she saw his eyes light up. Today she had opted for a salmon-coloured dress that left her shoulders uncovered. It wasn’t quite the late 18th century, but the highlight was the pearl necklace with a little bow that made her look like an Elizabeth Bennet or Emma Woodhouse. The dress was also decorated with embroidery and pearls that would sparkle beautifully in the candlelight – apparently they already did and did not fail to achieve the intended effect.

The dinner party that followed proved to be dull as ditchwater. From the pretentious landlord, an heir to the Gordon family, to his gawky wife and ill-behaved children, the other guests in particular made her want to drown herself in the nearby stream just to escape their bloated faces and irrelevant conversations. Against the backdrop of this chamber of horrors, Alastair underwent a miraculous transformation into a genuinely attractive conversationalist. After dinner, when he suggested showing her the historic dovecote along the park’s illuminated paths, she agreed almost too readily.

On the arm of her companion, she walked along a shovelled trail through the back part of the garden, which was laid out in terraces. Here the snow was heavier than in front of the house and the outlines of flowerbeds, hedges and small bushes could be made out under its thick layer. Here and there, a small tree wrapped in a burlap sack poked out of the white. Before they reached the dovecote, Alastair pointed out the 18th-century ice house, which provided lavish parties with chilled drinks, ice cream and sorbet even in the height of summer. „This is very fine company, Alastair,“ Josephine remarked gently as they walked. „Will you be able to count on their support when you make your move?“ Alastair shrugged his shoulders. „We’ll see, dear Genevieve, who turns out to be a loyal friend and who turns out to be a Judas.“ Josephine ventured forward. „My dear friend – call me a simple-minded woman who knows nothing about politics. But a man of your character must surely be able to secure the support of the masses without the help of third parties, simply because he has the unconditional will to do good!”

„Dearest Genevieve, you flatter me,“ Alastair returned and she could see a mixture of satisfaction and condescension on his face, „but high society plays by its own rules.“ „Come on dear, explain to me how the world works,“ she thought to herself. „Really?“ she said aloud, „I’ve always believed that sustainable wealth can only thrive on honest soil.“ Alastair examined her, but was met with only a coquettishly naïve blink. „You have no idea,“ he then said, „what intrigues are forged in the finest parlours in the city. Would you have thought, for example, that there is an organisation that operates in secret and has more influence than most people can imagine?“ Josephine put on a stunned face. „How extraordinarily fascinating! Can you tell me more about it or is the association that secret?”

Alastair looked around to see that no one had followed them from the house and lowered his voice. „It’s a secret Gentlemen’s Club that has operated in the shadows for generations. The members impact political decisions, economic matters and more. No one knows about it, but their influence extends far and wide.“ She acted as if she had never heard of it. „That almost sounds like a story from a novel, Alastair. Do you really think they could have an effect on your political career?“ He nodded gravely. „Oh, yes. Their influence is greater than people realise. They are pulling the strings in the background, guiding decisions and orchestrating power shifts. I have reason to believe that my political future depends gravely on their support.”

Don’t make a mistake now, don’t venture too far. „That sounds very dangerous!“, she exclaimed. „However, if you do have their support, it sounds like you could really achieve quite something. Are you planning to join them?“ Alastair hesitated for a moment before answering. „That’s already happened. But I’ll let you in on a secret today, my faithful lady: I plan to use their power to achieve my goals. Once I am Lord Provost, I will turn things around so that her secrets come to light. The club will crumble and I will free the city from their invisible grip.“ Josephine grabbed his arm in a dramatic gesture: „A daring plan, Alastair – I’m worried about you! Do you have any confidants you can count on?“ The man gave her a smile. „Only you so far, my love. But I must assure myself of your absolute discretion. You know, the best plans are those that flourish in the dark.”

Ewan

„Have you read the Evening News today?“ Ewan slowed down. He would’ve loved to overhear this conversation. To avoid being noticed as an eavesdropper, he pretended to look at the display in a nearby shop window.

„Of course I did,“ replied the other man. Wrapped in thick, black fur coats, the two coachmen stood next to their vehicles. The one addressed smoked a cigarette and blew little clouds into the cold air: „What are you getting at?“ „What do you think I’m getting at, you git,“ grunted the other man. He was grooming one of his Belgian Draughts. „I’m talking about the lead story on the orphans. They’re disappearing at every turn. What kind of shenanigans could be behind that, I wonder?“ His dialogue partner threw his smoked cigarette into the snow. “ So who cares about a few orphans? Fewer mouths to feed and more money for honest labourers, that’s my thinking.“ The first man looked at him for a long time, then shook his head contemptuously. „Sometimes I wonder why I’m even talking to you – you’ve got absolutely nothing between your ears.“ He bent down to brush the clumps of snow from the horse’s legs and grumbled: „What’s he reading the paper for, what a complete waste…“ The other just laughed and lit another cigarette.

Apparently the conversation was over, so Ewan continued on his way without attracting attention. He was on his way to the newsroom and wanted to get something to eat before the late shift. On the World’s End blackboard, a Brown Windsor Soup was advertised as the dish of the day, which he found appealing and decided to have dinner here. As he left the pub, a cold wind caught him and tugged at his coat. Darkness had already fallen, although it wasn’t even five o’clock yet, and the gas lanterns bathed the street in a faint yellow light. Suddenly he felt uneasy. Without thinking about it, he grabbed the back of his neck as if to ward off a gaze that had been fixed on him. He turned to look, but the street behind him was empty.

A shadow flitted across the pavement in front of him and Ewan gasped in shock – and laughed at himself. It was just a cat. The alleyway lay silent and deserted before him again, only in the distance he could see a few figures hurrying through the twilight. There! Those were footsteps behind him! He had definitely heard the crunching of loose stones under the soles of someone’s shoes. Ewan quickened his pace, hurried, almost ran, until he reached the doorway of the editorial building. There he turned back, but again there was no one to be seen.

Later, as he sat at his desk with a pipe and a pot of coffee, he felt silly. Perhaps the ale he’d had for dinner had clouded his senses. Yes, it was possible, because he rarely drank, and if he did, it wasn’t strong alcohol. But the footsteps … he was so sure he had heard them clearly behind him. Ewan pushed the thought away with an effort. Instead of driving himself crazy over an imaginary pursuer, he’d better get to work. This paid the roof over his head and meal in his belly. He took on a particularly tricky piece of research he had done some time ago. Still, he hadn’t found a good starting point for the article. Soon his mind jumped at the challenge and when his colleague exclaimed „I’m off then“ and left the newsroom, he was up to his nose in his notes and barely noticed the man. There was darkness outside the office window and when he tried to look out, he only saw his own pale face in the reflection of the pane.

A little later – he couldn’t say how much – the sound of the front door caught his attention. „Sam, is that you?“ he called out to his colleague, who had apparently forgotten something he had come back for. Silence was the answer. Ewan looked up from his papers in astonishment – and received a heavy blow to the head.

When he woke up again, his vision was blurred. Three people were standing around him, he and his chair had been dragged away from his desk to the centre of the room. A fourth person was searching through the documents on the table. „There’s nothing here,“ he heard someone say dully. „Then let’s get out of here,“ said another, „he looks like he’s learnt his lesson.“ A stocky figure walked towards him and came close to him. Ewan tried to open his eyelids more, but they were thick and painful. Still, he saw with horror that the person now almost touching his face was a boy of less than twelve. „I think there’s more to it,“ the boy said, and a fist hit Ewan in the face, knocking him out of his senses.

Hours later, as it was getting light, Ewan was woken by someone shaking him by the shoulders. „Mr Cunningham! Mr Cunningham!“ It was one of the paperboys who came every morning to pick up last night’s paper for the early risers. „I … I can’t,“ Ewan moaned. The boy supported him as he sat up in his chair. „Mr Cunningham, sir … I’ll get a doctor right away,“ he then said and ran out. Ewan carefully felt his face and head. This could well be a painful and unsightly recovery. When his gaze fell on the desk, his breath caught in his throat. Not only was there an unholy mess of papers, exercise books and notes, but last night’s visitor had left him a note. Someone had smeared three words in large letters across the tabletop in black poster paint.

Ewan groaned and stood up to get a better look. It read: „nihil sine causa“.

Josephine

The rain had not stopped pouring down over the city since morning. A grey blanket of cloud hung over Edinburgh, making it seem as if the sun had not risen at all. Josephine looked out of the window and watched the water, running ceaselessly in rivulets along the pane and collecting in wide puddles on the streets. In some places it was already flooding the kerb. She watched with amusement as the fine gentlemen and ladies tried to reach the shops on the winding streets of the old town without getting their feet wet.

She, on the other hand, was sitting in the warmth and enjoying her afternoon tea. This little café was just the place to be on an overcast day like this. All in all, Josephine was very pleased with herself. She had spent the morning tending to her ’spider’s web‘, as she quietly called it. This consisted of around fifty maids, waiters, servants, shoeshine boys, barmaids and housekeepers from the various better-off households and districts of the city. Josephine had carefully selected every single person and had planned the contact well in advance. Some were easier to convince, others needed a little motivation. In some households, she first had to work for a few months herself to gain the trust of the other employees. With others, only a simple bribe would do – but she succeeded with all of them. Now her net stretched across the whole city and offered the opportunity to make promising catches even in the most private areas.

A waiter brought her a platter of appetisers, including small sandwiches with egg and anchovies, several slices of seed cake, some fruit and scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam. Josephine took a large sip of tea and immediately ordered another pot. Then she turned her attention to the food while her thoughts drifted back to the events of the morning.

A little past midday, after she had completed most of her social visits, she had set off for the agreed meeting point with William. The boy was to tell her how he had experienced his first few days at Sir Richard Douglas’s house and what he might have learnt already. They had agreed to meet at St Giles‘ Cathedral and, given the weather, Josephine was glad she hadn’t insisted on another location. She shivered as she entered the enormous church. The air was like a cold cellar, apparently no one felt obliged to heat the place. She stopped at the third row from the back and sat down in the pew. She was a little early and still had some time to study her surroundings. The coloured glass in the windows depicted various scenes from the Bible and as Josephine ran her eyes along the rows, her gaze lingered on a depiction of Jesus on the cross. On the other side of the pane, raindrops ran down, making it look as if tears were running down his cheeks. „How quaint,“ thought Josephine. She had never had much use for Christianity, she was more fond of the Greek gods. With their vanities and intrigues, they were a lot like humans after all.

William arrived on time, but had little news to report. He had not yet been accepted into the circle of servants who were allowed to tend to the Concordia Club. He could only give her the names of a few high-ranking politicians and wealthy businessmen who frequented Richard Douglas’s house late at night. But this was no concrete evidence, at least none that Josephine could turn into money. As she was about to end the conversation to avoid possible hypothermia in the freezing church, she realised that William was about to say something. „What else is there?“ she asked in a more harsh tone than she had intended. The boy hesitated. „Miss … I’d like to stop working for Sir Richard.“ She looked at him in astonishment. “ And why not? Have you got enough money already for a passage to America?“ Well, that was cruel, and she knew it. But she didn’t need this troublemaker behaviour right now. William shook his head. „I feel like I’m being stalked. Ever since I started working there … I’ve been followed on my way home.”

Josephine had frowned thoughtfully, then she nodded. „I see – so here’s the thing: there’s a commission that’s been set up to protect the activities around this house. They’ll probably have hired goons on the staff. So don’t worry – as long as you don’t come to me after work!“ she added. She didn’t seem to have convinced the boy. „Miss, one of my best friends has been missing for several days. I don’t want to end up like all those children from the orphanages…“ Josephine interrupted him by standing up abruptly. She was in too good a mood today to have to deal with such nonsense. „Look William – do your job like you always do and then nobody will bother you. Be alert and don’t get caught snooping. If you keep a low profile long enough, they’ll eventually realise they don’t need to be interested in you.“ She gave him a few shillings, which he quickly slipped into his jacket pocket without looking at the money. „That’s all right then,“ she said: „You don’t need to contact me – I’ll contact you.“ With that, she left the church.

Despite all her efforts, her mood had been dampened after this conversation. The only thing that could help now was a visit to a tea room with hot Earl Grey and excellent pastries. In Cockburn Street, she had found her usual shop busier than usual, but still managed to get a table near the floor-to-ceiling window. As she bit into a slice of deliciously flavoured caraway cake and took in the view of the rainy street outside, the clouds parted before her eyes and her path lay clear before her. Sir Alastair and William – although they were two men she would have to depend on, she would do it. With one, she would wait outside the doors of the club until the other pushed them wide open from the inside.

December 12

Ewan

The elegantly dressed man handed Thomas Murphy a banknote, then tapped the brim of his top hat. As he turned to leave, the clouds suddenly parted and a stray ray of sunlight cut through the twilight of the early evening. It fell into the courtyard of the old ruin and onto the face of the stranger. Ewan froze as he caught a glimpse of the features. His heart beat faster – he recognised him.

It was Philip Rowe, a wealthy businessman from the harbour district. He had made a lot of money with import business from the colonies. A few young, up-and-coming merchants were now competing with him, but he was still the top dog on Edinburgh’s docks. Ewan’s mind was racing: why was Rowe meeting a boy in a derelict church? What operation were they talking about? What would a man like him want to hire an orphan for?

After Rowe had disappeared, Thomas also prepared to leave. Ewan walked quickly and silently along the portico to make sure that the other man had indeed left – but it only took a glance out of the gate to see the businessman hurrying with long strides across the lawn towards the road, where a carriage was waiting for him. The sun was already low behind the clouds, colouring the winter sky in shades of orange and red. Ewan returned to the interior of the ruin, where Tommy ran into his arms. „Just a moment, young man,“ he said firmly, but in a friendly tone so as not to frighten the boy. „I saw that you’ve just been talking to Philip Rowe. Can you tell me what he wanted from you? That looked like a pretty serious conversation.”

Tommy looked at him in surprise, his eyes widening. „Who are you – sorry, I mean, who are you, sir?“ At least he hadn’t run away yet. „My name is Ewan Cunningham,“ he introduced himself. „I happened to be out and about here, watching your conversation, and I couldn’t help but notice that Rowe seems to have got you involved in something. Do you actually know who you’re talking to?“ The boy shook his head. „I don’t know anything, Sir, I don’t really know him. But it’s all right. Thank you for your concern and good evening!“ He performed a slight bow and turned towards the exit. “ Hold on,“ Ewan started and walked behind him. „Thomas, this is Philip Rowe, a powerful man in the harbour business. I’d suggest you be careful. Whatever he’s promised you, it could be dangerous. I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to it than that.”

Thomas‘ brow darkened. „Tell me right now how you know my name! Who are you? Are you following me?“ Ewan pulled the paper from his coat pocket that legitimised him as a reporter for the Edinburgh Evening News. „I’m a journalist,“ he said, then sighed, „And I know your friend William.“ The boy put his arms at his sides and cursed: „Bill, you deaf nut! Do you always have to stick your nose in everything!“ „I think your friend only has your best interests at heart. He asked me to look into the matter of the missing children,“ Ewan interjected, explaining. Thomas had now stopped. He looked round, then spoke hurriedly. „Sir, you’re getting me into a lot of trouble! I’m not allowed to talk to anyone about this. Please don’t push me, I’m sure…“ But Ewan interrupted him. „Boy, listen to reason – this isn’t a game! I’ve done some research, there may be three children missing from your home, but there are twenty or more in the rest of the town now! Do you want to be the next one to disappear?“ Tommy started to protest, but then his shoulders slumped. Suddenly he was no longer an adolescent, but just a little boy. „What do you want me to do, sir,“ he said meekly. „You’ve heard him. He’s giving me a chance to earn enough money to make it out of the orphanage. Where else am I going to get that?”

When Ewan made his way home later, he was relieved. It had taken all his persuasion, but in the end Thomas had agreed to meet him at the orphanage at the end of the week. But when he waited outside the large portal at the agreed time, the boy didn’t turn up. After hanging around in the cold for a good hour, he spoke to some passers-by, but they hadn’t seen Tommy for several days. On the way to the newsroom, Ewan was agitated. He didn’t notice the beggars at the Grassmarket, ignored the street vendors who stepped in his way and was almost hit by a bucket of sewage poured from a window. By the time he stepped through the door of the grandiose building that housed the Edinburgh Evening News and the Scotsman, he had made a decision.

Shortly before the editorial deadline, with darkness now descending on the windows, he placed a manuscript on the editor-in-chief’s desk. He took it and read it. Then he looked at Ewan, frowning. „Do you really want to involve Philip Rowe in this? What are you trying to achieve?“ he asked him. His employee nodded. „I want to get a few things moving.”

Josephine

Leaving the house unseen had taken great courage on her part. She had waited until the Concordia Club meeting was over, the servants had come to clear up and the lights had been switched off. Then she tiptoed into the library. At the door, she listened for silence in the corridor and hurried silently to the door. Outside, she ran straight down the street, stopping only when she had turned three corners and was safely out of sight of the villa. Somehow she managed to stop a carriage. Once home, she fell into bed fully dressed and took a full three days to recover.

By now, the thoughts that had been whirling through her head like fireworks until a few days ago had become organised. At least she could rely on her common sense. She had learnt a lot at the meeting yesterday, but even more remained unclear to her: What was the purpose of this club and who were its members – apart from Sir Richard, Alastair Wallace and a well-known landowner whose melodious voice she had also blindly recognised? She could tell from what had been discussed that it was all about dishonest dealings. Apparently the members of the club knew a lot about each other and when one made money, everyone else made a profit. But if she wanted to benefit from this knowledge – and it promised to be extremely beneficial – she needed more information. Now she was annoyed that she had rushed out of the room so head over heels. It would take a lot of effort to get in there again… unless? Suddenly an idea came to her.

William had been coy, but with the right amount of money, every orphan was putty in her hands. She had pulled out her purse and shown him the corner of a ten-pound note, which turned his eyes almost as big as saucers. When she was back in the carriage, she was furious that she had given up so quickly. The threat to have another boy deal with her request would certainly have worked just as well and would not have been so expensive. But at least he now did what she asked him to do without complaint and would soon be appearing at the house to help out with evening parties. She had written to the Douglases‘ butler to put in a good word for him – a poor orphan from her distant relations. The prompt reply had confirmed to her that Mrs Alderman Saunders could never be refused a request, as good staff were hard to find at the moment anyway.

She peered out of the window through the curtains of the carriage. It wouldn’t have been far, but as she travelled through the shabby streets of the western part of the old town, she was glad she didn’t have to walk. In the end, her shoes would have been filthy again, and surely Alastair Wallace would pay attention to such a detail. She would have given anything not to have to face that vain fop again, but on reflection she had come to the conclusion that he was now something of an adversary. Sir Richard had made him chairman of the commission of enquiry into the Murray case. „Now I have to keep at him,“ she thought. It was good to know what dangerous people knew, and no matter how silly she thought Alastair was, he could be dangerous to her and her business.

Fortunately, Sir Alastair remembered his lovely acquaintance in the green tartan very well and pitied her sincerely when she wrote to him to say that a „sudden woman’s ailment“ had interrupted her „marvellously entertaining“ conversation with him. „We must make up for it, my dearest,“ he had replied and invited her on a tour of the botanical gardens.

Arriving in Inverleith, Josephine got out of the carriage. Today was a chilly day, but not so cold that she couldn’t wear her favourite burgundy coat. Underneath, she wore a black silk dress with a lace collar in Empire style, which flattered her figure and certainly reminded Alastair of his beloved past times. She had also styled her hair in the style of the early 1800s, pinning the curls up and wrapping a silk ribbon around them. However, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to wear a horrible bonnet like the ones women wore back then – there were limits to good taste and they had to stop at headgear tied under the chin.

Like her, her appointment was on time: Alastair Wallace was standing there, leaning casually against the front gate, waiting for her. From head to toe, he looked like something straight out of a Jane Austen novel: High boots, cream-coloured breeches with white underpants, a royal blue tailcoat with a mustard-yellow cravat over it. Due to the weather, he had thrown on an overcoat made of brown cloth with several layers of capes sewn onto the back. The whole ensemble was topped off with a tall hat made of beaver felt. „What an enchanting sight!“ Wallace exclaimed as she approached. She smiled contentedly, her effort in dressing showing its effect. „You look very extraordinary too, Sir Alastair,“ she complimented him. Her choice of words made him swell with pride. „Do you really think so?“ „Oh yes,“ she lied, „many more people should be brave and take a fashion risk.”

He offered her his arm and together they strolled through the gate into the gardens. There was no longer any snow here, as it had become a little warmer and there was a light haze over the extensive green spaces. They passed the rock garden, which in her opinion looked no more barren at this time of year than in spring or summer. The part of the park that simulated a Scottish heath landscape was much better. Evergreen shrubs and large patches of pink and purple heather were more to her taste. She listened with half an ear to Alastair’s comments on fashion and kept interjecting „that’s how I see things too“ or „you’re absolutely right“ at the appropriate points.

Now they reached the tropical house, the actual destination of their visit. The rest of the Botanical Gardens were no feast for the eyes in December, but it was bearable in the glassed-in area. Alastair held the door open for her and warm, moist air rolled over her like a wave. It was so hot inside that she had to take off her coat and hang it over her arm. Alastair also took off his overcoat. Now he saw her empire dress and she realised from the look on his face that it had not failed to have an effect. „If I continue this relationship, I’ll have to invest in my wardrobe,“ she thought. „How do you feel about Sir Richard?“ she asked him, now with the necessary confidence that he could not leave this question unanswered. Alastair hesitated. „Let me think … Sir Richard is a friend of my father’s. A long time ago, they were business partners. Even though they no longer work together, the relationship is still very close.“ She nodded, as if he hadn’t deliberately left a large blank space in his answer, because she hadn’t asked about his father, but about him. Then she said abruptly: „Well, Sir Richard is undoubtedly an influential figure and it certainly can’t hurt to count him among your friends. I’m sure he uses his contacts and resources skilfully too. But what about you? To be honest, I see you as a man with ambitions of your own that go beyond those of the great Richard Douglas.”

The thick, humid air in the tropical house seemed to condense between them as Josephine waited for his answer. Alastair, somewhat surprised by her directness, looked at her in astonishment and, after a moment’s thought, replied: „Well, dearest Genevieve, I do have my own ambitions.“ A victory in a Lord Byron look-alike competition? An award for the ugliest headdress ever worn in all of Scotland? Fortunately, he couldn’t read her mind. „Edinburgh is my home,“ he continued, „and I think I could do more for this city. My love, please don’t mock me, but since you ask so directly, I’ll answer with a similar candour: I dream of bringing about change, raising prosperity levels and ushering in positive development.”

They were walking past tables on which medium-sized cacti and other tropical plants were hibernating. The path led them further into the greenhouse, where a small forest of banana trees, hibiscus bushes and palm trees welcomed them. Josephine gave her companion an encouraging smile. „That sounds like an admirable vision, dear Alastair. Then I wasn’t wrong about you: you are a visionary. I, on the other hand, am just a lady who likes to surround herself with people who have more interesting things to say than she does. But if you don’t mind me asking: How do you want to achieve your goals? Are you aiming for a certain position?”

A slight hesitation pervaded Alastair’s reply before he finally confessed, „Well, my love, indeed, I had considered getting involved in politics. And perhaps, when the time comes, to take up the position of Lord Provost of Edinburgh.“ She did her best to keep a surprised but equally impressed face, but inwardly she was bursting at the seams. If the man was telling her the truth, he had just shown her his Achilles heel. Now she knew on the one hand what he was after – and on the other that he was completely deluded.

Ewan

He raised the collar of his coat, but the icy wind from the bay was so strong that it crept into the firm tweed. The soft hat on his head had already made several attempts to get away from its wearer and blow into the harbour basin, but Ewan managed to hold it in place at the last moment each time. At least his headdress offered some warmth from above, and he didn’t want to risk it.

He walked along between offices and warehouses towards the new swing bridge. Recently, the Duke of Edinburgh, Prince Albert, had opened it along with the new Edinburgh Dock. Queen Victoria’s son had moved into the harbour with several ships and thousands of onlookers were gathering on the quayside to watch the spectacle. Ewan remembered seeing the Union Jack fluttering in the wind everywhere, but he also saw many versions of the flag with the St Andrew’s cross in the foreground instead of the red English one. Irish immigrants had brought the idea of the Home Rule movement to Scotland and so resistance to the Unionists was growing here too.

Yesterday, his errand boy William had visited him again in the editorial office. After Ewan had told him about the results of his initial research, the lad chattered away excitedly. He had noticed that one of his best friends, Thomas Murphy, was behaving strangely. „Our beds are right next to each other in the dorm. We usually talk late into the night, but he’s been acting weird lately,“ William had reported. „Then yesterday I asked him what was wrong. He was playing around for a long time. In the end, he told me that he’d been given a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get out of the orphanage, but he wasn’t allowed to say anything about it – he had to promise. He told me not to ask him any more questions and almost started crying, so I didn’t push him.“ After this report, Ewan and William decided that the reporter would secretly follow his friend. As a stranger, he would not arouse suspicion. With a detailed description of Tommy, they parted company.

On days off from school, Thomas Murphy worked in a ropemaker’s shop by the harbour and so it was that Ewan had made his way to Leith that morning. The whole district was dusty and filled with the fume and noise of the factories. There were numerous mills by the water, the Leith Leadworks producing lead pipes and roof sealants, and alongside Rose’s Lime Juice, several leather tanneries and the large sugar refinery in Breadalbane Street, the core business of a harbour was going on everywhere: trade. As Ewan crossed the swing bridge, he stopped for a moment and let his gaze wander over the bay. The sun was hidden behind a layer of milky white clouds, but it was a clear winter’s day and he could see as far out as Burntisland and Pettycur Beach. In the far distance, Ewan also recognised the Lomond Hills, which sat gently rolling on the horizon. „Wull ye shift, pal?“ A gruff voice jolted him out of his contemplation. Behind him stood a labourer pulling a heavily laden handcart behind him. Apparently he wanted to let it be known that Ewan was in his way. The reporter took the harsh request as an opportunity to continue his march to the ropery.

The day was already several hours old when Ewan finally broke free from being motionless. He had settled into a shabby pub, from whose smudged windows he could see the entrance to the rope factory. He had ordered one ginger beer after another, but the innkeeper was now looking at him so strangely that in his eyes he was probably an escaped prisoner who wanted to embark for London unrecognised. Ewan had just mourned for a moment the time he had lost, sitting here idly without a penny’s pay, but then the factory gate opened and numerous workers poured out. They wore long smock aprons, which they took off their hips as they walked and casually threw over their shoulders. Many were chatting and laughing and some were heading towards the pub where Ewan was sitting. The first group of men was followed by a small group of boys, but none of them matched William’s description of his friend. Ewan sighed and stood up. Apparently Tommy hadn’t gone to work today. A whole day for nothing.

Suddenly he widened his eyes. A boy had stepped out of the gate at a considerable distance from the other workers. His flaming red hair was clearly visible even through the haze of the window pane. Ewan hastily pulled on his coat and left the pub. He kept his distance on the street, but didn’t let Tommy out of his sight. He followed the boy through the harbour district, waiting briefly behind a pile of wooden crates while the other bought some fried fish wrapped in newspaper from a street seller. It was a good hour’s walk to the orphanage at the Grassmarket, and Ewan silently hoped that he would come across some clues before they had made it the whole way.

They continued on their way through the suburbs without anything noteworthy happening. But at Regent Road Park, the boy turned off in the direction of Holyrood Abbey. Now Ewan was wide awake again, lost in thought about how he could politely withdraw his further assistance from William. The hourly chime sounded from the tower of Meadowbank Church and Tommy quickened his pace. They were now in the grounds of the old abbey; the area was more open than in the city, so Ewan had to be careful. Holyrood Abbey had been in ruins since the 18th century but after a storm had brought down its stone roof in 1768, all efforts to rebuild it had failed. Now it was an atmospheric getaway for dreamy writers and couples in search of a romantic meeting place.

The boy had entered the collapsed nave, where the porticoes rose into the sky without a roof to support them. They provided an excellent hiding place for a pursuer. Thomas Murphy stopped and waited for a moment before a figure emerged from the shadows. An elegantly dressed man stepped out, his face in the shade of a large top hat so that Ewan could not recognise him. He quietly moved closer to them behind the pillars so that he could overhear their conversation.

„Thank you for coming, Thomas,“ the adult just said. „I assume you haven’t told anyone about this meeting? Otherwise the success of our operation could be at stake.“ Tommy nodded, then looked at the man questioningly: „Can you please tell me, Sir … it’s not a job you can go to prison for? I’ve been approached once by someone I was supposed to steal for, but I want to earn my money in an honest fashion.“ The other took him by the shoulders. „Tommy – I can assure you, you won’t do any work that an honest man wouldn’t do. Do you think I look like the leader of a band of thieves?“ The boy shook his head. „Good, then we can take you over to Stage Two soon. Get ready, in a couple of days some friends of mine will be visiting you. Then a new life will begin for you.”

Josephine

Finally, the evening brought an interesting development! She would never have thought it possible that this trip, which she would have expected to uncover a few new connections, affairs and hanky-panky, would take this turn. Admittedly, sitting in this stuffy cupboard for an hour and a half was not quite to her taste. On the other hand, it was also incredibly exciting.

There was a secret passage hidden behind the dummy shelf. She had tiptoed along it, towards the light coming from a nearby room. Through the gap in the door, she could see two servants in black uniforms, clearly distinguishable from the rest of the staff. The furniture and polished top of the large table were made of ebony, the chairs upholstered in dark velvet. From the heavy curtains to the tiled floor, everything in this room was black. The servants were arranging crystal glasses on the sideboard and chatting away. Those were the voices Josephine had heard. „They should be here in less than two hours,“ said one of them. „You can never say for sure,“ the other returned, „as soon as Sir Richard sees fit, this evening party is over immediately.“ „Are all the members of the club present?“ „I’ve only seen a handful – perhaps others have arrived in the meantime.“

As the waiters prepared to finish their work, Josephine snuck back into the library through the secret passage just ahead of them. Her heart was pounding with fear of being discovered, but at the same time her whole body was tingling with excitement. She hid behind a pillar to remain unseen. Once the coast was clear, she immediately set to work. Silently through the corridor, silently into the room. She could be caught at any moment, so she proceeded quickly and efficiently. There were no papers to be seen anywhere, no pictures, crests or any other clues as to which club was meeting here. Josephine scanned all four walls of the room and stopped at the fireplace. She examined the lintel, along which stone flowers and leaves were entwined. An inscription could be made out in the centre. She ran her fingers over it: „nihil sine causa“. She hadn’t been the best student of Latin, but she was proficient enough to understand that Cicero’s phrase „nothing happens without cause“ had been engraved here. Interesting, very interesting.

Well, the expedition around the secret room had been a while ago. She had been sitting in the cupboard next to the sideboard for an hour, its door didn’t close completely and through the gap you could still see the chair at the end of the table. Of course, she had thoroughly inspected the inside of her temporary dwelling beforehand so as not to be suddenly revealed to everyone because she had been stupid enough to hide amongst the bottles of wine. However, it had only contained table linen – all black in colour – which was obviously not going to be needed. Josephine had placed some of the tablecloths under her body so that she could stretch out her legs. The corset and crinoline made her almost immobile, so she wanted to be able to kick anyone if necessary. Unfortunately, the tablecloths were quite comfortable. Whether it was the darkness, the lack of oxygen or the excitement of the night, Josephine dozed off after being startled several times from a brief sleep that lasted only seconds.

Loud voices woke her up. At first she didn’t know where she was, then she was convinced that she had been exposed – but then the memory came back. She was still in the cupboard with the table linen and several men were gathering outside, or so it sounded. Who could that be? Holding her breath, she squinted through the gap. Unfortunately, she only saw the one person she knew would be here: Their host, Sir Richard Douglas, had taken a seat in the chair at the front of the table and was sipping a glass of red wine. He was a man of about sixty with black hair and a full beard, but Josephine knew that in reality he was already turning grey. Vanity was the reason why he continued to dye his hair a dark colour. The tabloids paid very good money for this information, which one of his maids had revealed to her. Today I could never come forward with such a trifle, Josephine thought grimly. No, these days it had to be at least adultery or worse.

„Gentleman,“ Sir Richard said suddenly. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like the crack of a whip. Those present instantly became silent. „Please, take a seat,“ he added gently and rose: „Let us begin.“ Josephine heard chairs being moved and finally a dead silence fell. Then she heard a small bell ring. Then Sir Richard began a solemn chant, to which the group responded like a choir.

Whispers in the shadows, secrets tightly bound,
Whispers in the Darkness, where unity is found.

With silent words, our oaths we swear,
In Concordia’s embrace, a bond beyond compare.

Let silence reign, our watch begun,
Nihil sine causa, all hearts beat as one.

„Thank you very much, my honourable friends,“ said Sir Richard when they had finished. „I am delighted to welcome you to this meeting of our esteemed Concordia Club. Let us get straight into the agenda – there is much to discuss. Yes, Mackenzie?“ A strange voice spoke up: „Mr Chairman, I would like to request that we discuss the death of member Murray.“ Josephine saw Sir Richard take a sip of wine in silence. He seemed to be completely absorbed in this simple activity, but she could see his alert gaze travelling along the faces of those present at lightning speed. A predator, it flashed through her mind and she shuddered at her own thoughts. Then it hit her like a blow – Murray! Where had she gotten herself into?

„A vote on the agenda should be appropriate,“ said Sir Richard. „The House seems divided. I ask for a show of hands.“ There was a pause, then he nodded. „All right, let’s talk about it. Fellow Mackenzie, why don’t you begin?“ The other voice sounded upset. „Honourable Chairman, I don’t want to bother the esteemed assembly with my worries for long. I’m just concerned that someone has enough knowledge to know about Fellow Murray’s activities. It wouldn’t have taken much…“ Unease spread through the room. Sir Richard tapped his hand on the table. „Will you allow me to speak, Mr Chairman?“ Josephine’s eyes widened in surprise. It was Alastair Wallace, with whom she had sat a few hours ago.

„Honourable Chairman, honourable Fellows“, Alastair began and Josephine couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. How could anyone speak so stilted! „I would like to make a suggestion to get to the bottom of this disturbing matter. Instead of getting lost in speculation, we should set up a discreet commission of enquiry. It could determine the source of this knowledge and take the necessary measures to protect our community.“ There was a murmur of agreement. Sir Richard looked thoughtfully round before speaking: „A sensible suggestion, Fellow Wallace. There is no doubt that the integrity of the Concordia Club is at stake.”

Ewan

The snow crunched under his boots. Last night had seen a good hand’s breadth of snow. A heavy frost arrived in the early hours of the morning, hardening the powdery surface and glazing the cobblestones with a deceptively beautiful layer of ice. At least one’s feet wouldn’t get wet. A dry pair of socks was essential for a successful workday, especially when you had to criss-cross the city. A few names were carefully noted on his notepad: James Gillespies‘ School in Old Town, the Craiglockhart Poorhouse and Dean Village School, which was right in the neighbourhood of another large orphanage.

It was half an hour’s walk to Dean and Craiglockhart, and he would take the coach there, that was certain. So he set off down the High Street until he stood in front of a long building with a cast-iron sign on the door telling him that this was the school that bore the name of its patron, the snuff merchant James Gillespie, for half a century already.

From a distance, St Giles struck twelve and Ewan Cunningham had a free afternoon ahead of him. He was still glad that his editor had given him the day off. He had bought the half-truth that Ewan was working on a particularly elaborate story. He had only enquired about the chances of success of his research and when Ewan replied rashly that he shouldn’t overestimate them, he sent him out with the comment that, after all, he wasn’t paying him to do the hopeless research on duty – he was welcome to do that in his free time. In the end, his superior would probably be right once again, Ewan thought as he climbed the steps to the school entrance. Experience had shown that hardly anyone wanted to talk to him in poorhouses and schools and the only new thing he would pick up here would be lice.

The headmaster’s room was quickly found. Fortunately, lessons were in progress, so the whitewashed corridors of the school building were deserted. Ewan heard noises from the classrooms that made him shudder. The squeaking of the chalk on the blackboard, the creaking of the desks and the muffled voices of the teachers reminded him of his own school days. Unpleasant memories came flooding back to him, but he pushed them aside because he had now arrived at the headmaster’s office. He entered after signalling his arrival with a soft knock.

The room was small, with dark wooden furniture in which numerous files were neatly lined up. A light patina of age lingered over everything. The warmth of a small coal stove filled the room, and the faint glow radiated cosiness. Prof Quincey Maguire sat behind his desk going through some papers. His white walrus beard completely covered his mouth, making it almost impossible to tell from his face what mood he was in. Ewan was slightly envious – he could hardly see himself ever growing such a magnificent moustache. „Sorry to disturb you, Mr Maguire. My name is Ewan Cunningham, I’m a journalist with the Edinburgh Evening News. I hope I’m not taking up too much of your precious time.“ Maguire nodded curtly and invited him to take a seat with a gesture of his head. „What can I do for you, Mr Cunningham?“ he asked, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands over the papers on his desk. „Allow me to get straight to the point without a long preamble: There are rumours circulating on the streets that orphans are disappearing. Do you have similar experiences here?”

After the conversation, which lasted a good half an hour, Ewan stepped out onto the street, bewildered. The headmaster had told him that several children had suddenly stopped coming to lessons over the past few months, but he hadn’t thought much of it. It was „normal“ for boys to hire out on farms or boats, emigrate to the Lowlands or straight to America. Ewan summoned a carriage and as it rolled over the pavement with him in the shed, he wondered how it could be that an institution concerned with the care of the poor gave so little to its pupils?

The Craiglockhart Poorhouse presented a similar, if not worse, picture. It was a large institution for cases where all hope was not yet in vain. The children were sent to the nearby school and worked a few hours a day on the side. Ewan was lost in thought as he walked back to the coach through a light snowfall that had started in the afternoon. Ten children had „gone missing“ here in the last six months, as the warden had told him after a long look at a large book. He was still shocked at how little the woman seemed to care. „But surely some of them have a father, mother or sibling here in this facility? Haven’t the families spoken out?“ he had asked. No, was the answer, some of the parents didn’t know yet, as adults and children were strictly separated by gender.

Dusk was slowly falling, even though it was still afternoon. The road into which the carriage now turned was not surfaced, and had the quality of a sodden farm track due to the trampled snow. As he disembarked in front of Dean Village School and the carriage door was closed behind him, Ewan looked around. The village of Dean was growing from visit to visit, he thought. The once sleepy milling village on the outskirts of the town had become an area full of Gothic-style boxes. Gas lanterns blinked through the fog and smoke could be seen rising from hundreds of chimneys in the distance.

The headmaster of Dean Village School received Ewan politely, but you could tell he was a little irritated by the reporter’s surprise visit. At least he handed him a list of the names, ages and last locations of the missing boys. On the way back – night had already pulled itself over the city like a velvet blue blanket – he did the maths in his head: Four in James Gillespie’s school, ten in Craiglockhart, six in Dean Village. Twenty boys of whom there was no trace and for whom no one would look.

Josephine

„Very good, thank you so much, Mrs Delaney!“ Josephine was very pleased with the work of her maid. She had put her hair in smooth waves with a curling iron, then tied it in an elegant knot and curled the fringe over her forehead into small curls. Her evening dress was already hanging from the wardrobe. It was made of dark green, luscious velvet that allowed a glimpse of the emerald green tartan underneath. Josephine squeezed into the corset and crinoline – the half hoop skirt flared over her backside, which would make sitting terribly uncomfortable – and Mrs Delaney carefully pulled the fabric of the overdress over it. Afterwards she helped her with the shoes, which the wearer herself could no longer reach with the button hook. A necklace of delicate silver, pearl earrings and she was ready to go.

On her way out, Josephine gave her mirror image a critical look. It had to be nothing less than perfect. The fur-trimmed cloak looked good on her, as did the matching muff and hat. Reassured, she threw herself a smile and descended the stairs to the street. The night air was chilly and tiny snowflakes floated down from the sky, but she barely felt the cold under her many layers. One of the coachmen on the main road was free and ready to take her to New Town. On the way, she checked her handbag. Handkerchiefs, pen, paper. A magnifying glass, tiny scissors and metal box for smaller pieces of evidence. They bumped over the cobblestones, while outside the window the houses became tidier, the gas lamps brighter and the people on the street more well dressed. When they passed the railway station, Josephine had to hold on tightly as they crossed the tracks, otherwise she would have slipped off the cushions. Oh, that annoying corset! Why couldn’t she be a man? Shirt, trousers, jacket – done! Life as a woman was one big inconvenience: what was there had to be constricted and what wasn’t there had to be enlarged with a hoop skirt. Not to mention the many rules that also restricted a woman mentally, dictating her behaviour like the tightly cut sleeves that only allowed certain movements.

They turned into Princes Street and Josephine took in the view over the spacious gardens, from which numerous gas lights twinkled through the haze of winter. There were only a few buildings on the south side of the street, so one could look across from the valley in which one found oneself into the old town, which towered like a mountain of interlocking boxes ahead. A sea of windows flickered across the darkness. Then they turned into Charlotte Square and after a few metres the coachman brought the vehicle to a halt. After he had opened the door for the lady, she placed his salary in his hand – and he bowed silently but in a polite manner. He had probably expected a tip from such a distinguished lady.

Josephine climbed the stairs to the building and a liveried butler was at the door once she had explained her request. As the servants helped her out of her coat, her words echoed in her mind. „Evelyn Saunders, my husband will be late. He’s going to be late.“ When asked whether Alderman Saunders had – bless his heart – already recovered from his illness, she had nodded and put on a face as if it was quite impertinent to question her husband’s health. In reality, the man had been bedridden for three weeks and had no plans to join high society that evening, as she knew from his maid. What had long legitimised him as a perfect cover, however, was his wife: she was so reluctant to appear in public that she was hardly ever seen, and if servants did see her at all, they quickly forgot her due to her ordinary appearance and reserved demeanour. Knowing which evenings he didn’t leave the house was a ticket to the city’s most prestigious salons.

The room was full, just as Josephine had hoped. Women sat together in clusters at small tables while the men remained standing, smoking and presumably discussing extremely important matters. In between, servants scurried around with trays, clearing tables, fetching dishes and drinks as requested. The furnishings were reminiscent of an Italian palazzo from the rococo period. Josephine marvelled at the patterned wallpaper, ornate mirrors and tapestries depicting hunting scenes of exotic animals. Figures of small cherubs frolicked on the golden stucco ceiling and chandeliers hung down that must have been the size of her upper body. They cast a light refracted a thousandfold by crystals onto the inlaid floor. For a brief moment, Josephine was annoyed that she hadn’t put on the blood-red silk dress. Her green chequered skirt might match her hair, but not the room. What a stupid mistake! Just as she was berating herself for her vanity, someone spoke to her. „What an exceptionally beautiful tartan!“ She turned round gracefully. In front of her stood a gentleman in a buttoned tailcoat. He was not yet old, she guessed he was about her age. He had a turquoise mulberry silk scarf knotted around his open collar, and he was wearing riding boots over his light-coloured, tight trousers; his overall appearance seemed to have fallen out of time. You’ve missed the point by a few decades, my dear, Josephine thought with disdain – this might have been the way people used to dress at the beginning of the century. Today, men wore dinner jackets, loose trousers and bow ties. So much money and yet no taste. But she smiled and purred: „How wonderful, spoken like a true connoisseur!”

The other took her comment as an invitation to touch her without being asked and began to feel the tartan. “ A wonderful material,“ he said. „Which clan, if you don’t mind my asking?“ he followed up and then interrupted her before she could answer: „Although, don’t say a word, please let me guess! Ah, I do know … House Ambercrombie of Fife?“ „No,“ she returned with a wink, „Royal Scots Fusiliers.“ He replied with a ringing laughter: „Well, you’re quite something!“ Then he performed an old-fashioned bow and kissed her hand. „Allow me to introduce myself: Alastair Wallace.“ She nodded graciously: „I’m Genevieve Stirling.“ She immediately noticed his searching glance for a wedding band and added: „Please call me Miss Stirling.“ „Miss Stirling, what an honour! Would you mind a drink?“ She joined him and together they walked to a free table. An attentive waiter brought them two glasses of champagne just a few seconds after they had taken their seats.

The conversation was exhausting and Josephine did her best to remain charming. Alastair Wallace turned out to be the first candidate in the line of succession of a family with a profitable coal mine, who had so far known nothing more useful to do with all his free time than emulate the Romantics of the late 18th century. He told Josephine about the trouble it had taken him to acquire a Percy Bysshe Shelley cravat at an auction and proudly showed off the ornate walking stick he didn’t need at his age but always carried with him to look like a character from a Jane Austen novel. She was terribly bored and had already come to the conclusion that this gentleman didn’t have an ounce of helpful information to offer. „Please, would you excuse me for a moment?“ she politely interjected during a brief pause in the conversation. „I need to apply some powder to my nose.“ „You’re already beautiful, my dearest Genevieve! But go ahead – I’ll wait for you for endless hours if I have to!“ She would have loved to grimace – this fellow couldn’t help but lay it on thick. Instead, she gave him a beaming smile, stood up and walked gracefully out of the room, knowing that he was watching her.

She looked around in the corridor. One of the housekeepers was closing the door to the parlour and went into an adjoining room without seeing her. She had to seize this opportunity. She gathered her skirts and tiptoed down the hallway until she came to a door. She slid in quietly. The books inside showed that she’d found the library. Spiral staircases led up to a gallery where the shelves reached up to the ceiling. The massive desk near the window was her destination; it was tidy, but even from a distance she could see that there were papers there. As she approached it, she froze. Behind the wall, voices could be heard. They couldn’t have come from the room with the dinner party, there was music playing and the soft tunes reached her ears from a completely different direction. She carefully moved past the shelves. The noises grew louder and then she saw the gap where light was seeping through. One of the cupboards was just a mock-up and had been left slightly open. Without thinking twice, she slipped inside.

Ewan

He had not been able to bring himself to publish the article. A whole day’s work on the research had been wasted. Ewan knew this even without his superior shouting at him for ten minutes that moral principles were something you had to be able to afford and that if he cared so much about the dignity of the individual, he should go to the New Worker. He endured the rant until they reached the point where the editor-in-chief slumped in exhaustion and furiously asked him if he had any idea how they should fill the gap in tomorrow’s paper. When Ewan presented him with a two-page manuscript about a shoplifting incident in West End, he seemed appeased and rushed into his office, slamming the glass door behind him.

Ewan went to his desk and sorted through the scattered papers to calm his mind. He had gone to bed with the firm intention of publishing the article and bringing Josephine Fairchild’s name into the picture. But then his gut instinct had kept him up all night. Not for her sake – in his eyes she was a heartless creature who would stop at nothing to enrich herself – but for the sake of the accountant. Something about his hastily scribbled farewell lines had struck him so hard that he was unable to broadcast Murray’s fate to the whole town. Whatever the case, the bloke had cooked the books and in the process the odd pound or two from his clients‘ records had ended up in his pocket. But was it really worth throwing your whole life away for the sake of money and a good reputation? And wouldn’t his article be directly responsible for Malcolm Murray being remembered as a fraud by the world despite his desperate suicide? Ewan dropped into his chair and stuffed his pipe. As the blue smoke floated through the room, he relaxed completely.

A loud knock came from behind him. As he turned to the high windows through which one could glimpse into the newsroom from the street, a well-known face of a child pressed against the pane. He made a sign and got up, throwing on his coat. Then he stepped out into the street, where the other one immediately approached him. „Good afternoon, Mr Cunningham, Sir,“ the red-haired boy began. „Greetings William – did we have an appointment that I missed?“ asked Ewan with some surprise. „No, no, Mr Cunningham, we didn’t have an appointment.“ He suddenly fell silent. A thought seemed to have taken hold of him, so Ewan waited with patience until he continued. „I … I must not have thought it through properly …“ „What do you mean?“ Now the journalist’s curiosity was piqued. „Surely you must have come here for a reason. Go on, I won’t eat you alive.“ William still seemed unsure whether the adult was telling the truth and pressed his lips together. Well then, he would do what he always did when he had to get unwilling people to talk. He gently took the boy by the arm and led him to the World’s End.

The pub was just a few steps away from the editorial office. Its cobalt blue painted façade stood out clearly against the brick walls of the building and its name was emblazoned in gilded letters above the entrance. „The End of the World“ was a reminder of the days when the town had ended with a mighty wall at the point where High Street flowed into Canongate. But those days were over. Shabby suburbs nestled up against the former city gates and grabbed hold of the old town, which itself was already bursting at the seams. Ewan held the door open for the boy and a rush of warm air rolled over them. Inside, the air was stuffy, but not unpleasant. It smelled of beer and baked bread, a big fire crackled in the hearth. There were only a few other guests in the parlour, most of them gentlemen who came here for lunch. Ewan liked coming here because the innkeeper wouldn’t tolerate anyone soiling the upholstery or drinking so much that they lost their temper. The World’s End, despite its name, which might suggest otherwise, was a pub that attracted a clientele with a certain self-respect.

He directed the boy to an alcove next to the fireplace, out of earshot of the other guests. Then he went to the bar and ordered two lemonades, bread with butter and a few slices of roast beef. As soon as he had placed them on the table, William twitched, but managed to control himself. „Help yourself,“ he urged him, „that’s the whole point of my order.“ Now there was no stopping it. After ten minutes, the plates were licked clean in front of him and the boy wiped his mouth with satisfaction. „Thank you, Mr Cunningham,“ he said, while Ewan looked at him expectantly. „So, are you going to believe me now that you can just tell me why you came to me?“ William nodded and downed the lemonade with the gesture of a man drinking himself brave. Ewan couldn’t help but grin slightly; the boy might not yet be an adult in terms of age, but inside he was no longer a child. William had been working for him for over a year and had never behaved inappropriately. Whatever had brought him to him, it had to be a serious matter.

„The thing is,“ the boy began, „I’ve come to ask you a favour.“ He immediately glanced at Ewan’s face examiningly and continued: „But you must refuse if you think I’m going too far! Promise me you won’t hold it against me, I don’t know what to do.“ Ewan smiled. „As a journalist, I can tell you: it doesn’t hurt to ask. Go on, then.“ „All right … so I need your help because I don’t know who else to turn to. I’ve already been to the police and they sent me away – they said kids run away all the time these days. Our warden doesn’t want to know anything about it. He’s just happy that there are fewer mouths to feed. But I can’t imagine Boyd, Fife-Fergus and Big Yin running away. I mean, they’re orphans, where would they go? They have nothing but the poorhouse. I know them, there’s no relatives, no family for them to go to. They …“ Now Ewan gently interrupted the boy’s flow of words. „Did I hear that right? Children are disappearing from the poorhouse?”

William nodded vehemently. „It’s always the same, I’ve seen it a few times. They stop talking to us, start behaving strangely and always want to go off on their own when we have time off. I tried with Fergus and confronted him. He called me names and ran off. Then I secretly followed him, but I lost him in one of the alleyways. That was the day he never came back.“ Unconsciously, Ewan had taken out his notepad and had started taking notes with the natural ease of a reporter. William looked at him expectantly. „I probably don’t have much more I can tell you,“ he then said desperately, „but please, will you help me anyway?“ Ewan reached into his coat pocket and placed the pince-nez on his nose. „You don’t need to convince me any further. Let’s start with the first child who disappeared.”

Josephine

Today was going to be a pretty good day, Josephine sensed. She had woken up in a cheerful mood and had lain in bed for half an hour. Her domestic help was already rattling the dishes in the kitchen, but she didn’t think about getting up, instead poking the tip of her nose out from under the covers and admiring the ice flowers on the window pane. At some point, however, she got bored and because the smell of freshly brewed coffee was already drifting through the rooms, she jumped out of bed.

After breakfast, she threw on her crimson woollen coat, said goodbye to Mrs Delaney and made her way down the narrow staircase. „On to the twelfth deed of Heracles,“ she thought as always. Whenever she left her small flat under the roof of the four-storey building, she felt like the Greek hero descending into the underworld. The conditions got worse from floor to floor. The neighbours directly below her were still the best off: the husband had a job in the harbour, while his wife looked after the children on her own, one of whom was more ill-mannered than the other. On the second floor, two families shared a flat and lived there in shifts. If you were unlucky enough to have to leave your apartment very early in the morning, you would stumble across an elderly lady on the way downstairs who had been moved onto the stairs by the family of seven from the first floor. My version of a Cerberus, Josephine thought mockingly, because after the first floor you could get to the front door, but the hell that opened up in the basement, the very bowels of the house, could be guessed at any time of day from the smell and the noise. She held her breath, took the last three steps at once, rushed past a figure huddled in the entrance and was finally out of the door.

The winter air washed her clean of the mustiness of the hallway with its unwashed clothes, cold fire and food scraps. She stepped out onto the street, which was pleasantly quiet this morning. The note she had written last night after the operetta crackled in her pocket. Time to make some money out of it. To do so, however, she would have to get closer to Edinburgh’s underworld than just the ground floor of her own house. She walked down the street and then turned into Warriston’s Close, where countless steps led up between two closely spaced buildings, then along the High Street past St Giles, whose church tower was obscured by thick clouds of smoke today, and across Victoria Street to the Grassmarket.

Josephine paid no attention to the people around her. There were only common folk here, and it was the wrong time of day to run into a stray parliamentarian or nobleman looking for amusement in the local establishments under the cover of darkness. As she entered the Grassmarket, she was almost run over by a carriage. „Watch out!“ she scolded the driver, who only yelled „Sorry wee lassie, didn‘ see ye thare!“ in the thickest of Scots. She took a step back and then paused to enjoy the view of Castle Hill. You had to ignore the houses in the foreground, crammed around the square like messy boxes stacked one inside the other, the criss-crossing washing lines, piles of hay and other rubbish littering the pavement. What a dreadful place in such a marvellous surrounding, she thought. The castle was mysteriously shrouded in mist, but its silhouette and the jagged rock below were clearly visible.

The rest of the square was an insult to the senses of sight, hearing and smell, which had to be left behind as quickly as possible. In front of the Last Drop – a pub whose name recalled the Grassmarket’s gruesome past as a place of execution – lay several figures, some leaning against the wall, others stretched out in the mud. Josephine knew that the living conditions here were the most appalling: a room the size of her bedchamber was usually occupied by up to twelve people, many had no bathrooms in their houses and, judging by the reek from the back yards, no toilets either. You had to have designated shoes to come here, she thought, and told herself to remember that the next time she went shopping in New Town. I could wear an old, well-worn pair here, but maybe I’ll buy a whole Grassmarket ensemble, she thought with some amusement. After all, that would have the benefit of not standing out so much in this place and therefore not being disturbed by beggars, drunks or other riffraff all the time.

Finally, she had reached the end of the square. In a nearby street she arrived at her destination: a large iron gate opened onto a spacious courtyard, in the centre of which was a two-winged building that made every effort to disguise its actual purpose. Here it was, one of the largest poorhouses in the city. At least this one didn’t have the aura of a prison about it like the lockers on Canongate, Josephine thought. Some of the paupers were allowed to spend some time in the courtyard, a few children were playing in the snow and she even saw a little snowman merrily stretching his arms out of thin branches up in the air. Arriving at the entrance, she looked up the façade at the grandiose portal, which was modelled after a 17th century building. A wealthy baronet had built it in the hope of saving many impoverished souls. „A bit cynical to have ‚vitam dirigat‘ – ‚He directs life‘ – engraved on the door frame,“ she thought, „Fortunately, most of the inhabitants don’t actually speak Latin, otherwise they would have to rack their brains every day about what they did to God to direct them here.”

The bells tolled from a nearby church tower and, as if on a silent command, a boy stepped out from behind a pillar. He was barely fifteen years old, his face full of freckles and tufts of red hair peeking out from under his cap. „A wonderful and happy day to you, Miss Fairchild,“ he trumpeted, giving a silly curtsey. „Stop that nonsense, William,“ she whispered and added: „And if you ever call me by my real name again, this will be the last time we meet.“ The boy laughed. „Oh yes – excuse me, Miss McLevy,“ he said and bowed once more, his hat falling into the snow. He fished it off the ground and patted it clean, then pulled it down crookedly onto his forehead and put on a rakish expression. „What order may I fulfil today to your most gracious satisfaction, dear lady?“ Josephine shook her head and pulled him aside so that they were out of earshot of other people. „I could hire a joker for less than having to come here through disgusting Grassmarket,“ she scolded him, „and if you don’t take our agreement seriously, I’ll pick one of the others. I’m sure they’ll be queuing up for half a pound a week.“ Of course she wouldn’t do without his services, he had everything she could wish for in an errand boy: He was punctual, reliable and didn’t constantly question her orders, at the same time he wouldn’t steal and hadn’t betrayed her for money so far, although it had been offered to him. Someone like that was hard to find.

But now it was William who looked around, looking frightened. „Miss, please – keep your voice down! If the others find out I’ve got half a pound …“ She interrupted him. „Good, I’m glad we understand each other. I need you to go to Town Topics for me and hand this over. Fifteen pounds is our demand, don’t settle for less than eleven. If necessary, threaten to go to Illustrated News if they try to play dumb with you. Be confident, the information is well worth it. You can keep a pound of it and take the rest straight to my new accountant in New Street on the way back.“ William looked at her in astonishment. „You don’t want me to go to Mr Murray in Blackfriars Street any more?“ She shook her head. „No, Mr Murray is no longer on the job.”

Ewan

He was still fuming the following day. The Pirates of Penzance had done little to change his miserable mood. His thoughts circled around his encounter with Josephine Fairchild. „The fact that you have to depend on individuals like that is the real tragedy,“ he muttered, kicking a rotten apple across the pavement that had been lying in his way. To get from the newsroom to Blackfriars Street, he had to cross the Old Town. Auld Reekie was in peak condition yet again today – „wherever Walter Scott was travelling when he called Canongate a path to the stars, it certainly couldn’t have been here,“ Ewan thought bitterly. Fortunately, he had already passed most of the breweries, whose sour fumes clung to the tall buildings. At least you could protect yourself against the stench by covering your nose – looking at the misery was another matter. Walking with your eyes closed was hard. Ewan made every effort to direct his attention to the few inches in front of his feet, but his gaze kept wandering to the crowd that populated the street or appeared behind the windows of the buildings.

Mostly women were to be seen, in more or less worn-out clothing. The men who were here at this time of day were usually without regular work and therefore most likely either invalids, drunkards or vagrants. A group of people had gathered at a waterspout and as they passed by, a loud argument broke out over who was allowed to draw first. Small children stumbled among the adults‘ legs. Some, Ewan realised with a shock, were barefoot. The closer he got to the city centre, the worse it got. In a back street, he was presented with a particularly sad scene. Numerous women and their families were sitting around on half-melted snow and asking passers-by if they could spare a pence for the coalman.

Most of the houses were packed to the very roof, even from the cellar vaults, some of which had open holes instead of windows, voices could be heard. A man was relieving himself against the wall of a nearby building, oblivious to any possible audience. Ewan grimaced and quickened his pace. He could already see the crown of St Giles‘ Cathedral in the distance, but fortunately he was spared the rest of High Street and was able to turn into Blackfriars Street before he reached Grassmarket. The pavement was slightly sloping and melted snow ran in rivulets through the cobbles, mixed with unspeakable things. Ewan found the counting house on the mezzanine floor of a crooked building. Above the entrance, the sign „Murray and Co. Accountancy“ hung slightly lopsided, flanked by two large wood-framed windows.

„Good afternoon, Sir,“ he greeted him in a fluster, „can I help you?“ „Indeed, you can,“ Ewan replied and introduced himself and his intentions. The clerk listened, then nodded and pushed the door open so that the visitor could enter. Inside, a busy scene awaited them. The room had a low wooden ceiling and all the walls were lined with filing cabinets. There were several desks at the sides, around each of which a group of employees had gathered, looking anxiously at heaps of books. They were discussing loudly on one side, calculating intently on the other while jotting things down. The accountant who had let Ewan in directed him to one of the desks, the untidiest of them all. „We’ve already gone through the most recent documents,“ he said, pointing to the scattered papers in an explanatory manner. „Have you found anything?“ The man shrugged his shoulders. „Try finding a needle in a haystack if you don’t even know where the bloody haystack is,“ he replied. „So the police just handed us his farewell letter, probably in the belief that it would contain something useful. On the contrary, that’s what got us into trouble in the first place. Now we’re searching through all the books to find out why someone might be blackmailing Mr Murray…”

At that moment, the door flew open and an elegantly dressed gentleman of considerable proportions made his way over the threshold. He was accompanied by another man who walked two steps behind him – Ewan immediately recognised master and servant. Archibald MacGregor came from a dynasty of oyster fishermen and was the first of them not to have to sail out into the Firth of Forth himself to earn his living. He must also have had his books held by Murray and Co – a fact he didn’t seem particularly happy about at the moment. „Where’s Sinclair?“ he shouted, banging his walking stick on one of the desks when the answer failed to come quickly enough. One of the accountants detached himself from the crowd and approached him in a placatory manner. „Good afternoon Sir, please take a seat first…“ he began, but was cut off. „I want to know immediately whether my books are clean!“ „Please, Sir,“ the clerk started again and pointed to the table where he had just been standing, „we are currently checking your books. So far, we haven’t been able to detect any anomalies. But please take a look for yourself.“ MacGregor snapped at his secretary to take care of the matter and then dropped into an armchair, panting and staring angrily at the ceiling.

Ewan turned back to the man he was talking to. „Can I have a look at the suicide note?“ he asked. The other one shrugged his shoulders. „Well, it can’t do any more harm anyway,“ he said and went to a side table. When he returned, he had the piece of paper in his hand from which MacKay had already revealed a few passages. „Just put it to the side when you’ve finished,“ he said and then excused himself, saying he urgently needed to get on with his work. Ewan skimmed the paper with the practised eye of a reporter. Indeed, the letter contained little that was helpful, but it confirmed his suspicion that Murray had been subjected to blackmail. The handwriting was choppy and a glance at the neat notes in the open books on his desk was enough to see that the scribbles were the work of someone in an upset state of mind. Suddenly, Ewan straightened up – „That’s it!“ he almost shouted, but just managed to hold himself back. There it was, in black and white: „There’s no reason for me to go on living if she knows.“ Presumably everyone else was thinking of Murray’s wife. But „knows“ – why hadn’t he written „knew“? Of course – he must not have meant his wife, but Josephine.

On the way back to the high street, Ewan Cunningham was lost in thought. As a respectable journalist, he would have to put a stop to her. He had been observing Miss Fairchild’s activities for quite some time and had benefited from them on one occasion or another, but now he was appalled. There were limits to one’s sense of morality and these had clearly been reached with Murray’s suicide.

Josephine

It was unbelievable what people were capable of! Josephine bent down and skilfully swept up a small pile of crumpled handkerchiefs. They were expensive fabrics with lace edges – but now they were smeared with lipstick and carelessly thrown away. Then she turned her attention to the large red wine stain on the velvet upholstery. What sort of animals had sat in this box! A seat in this balcony cost almost a fortune. Well, apparently money couldn’t buy manners. Fortunately, the cushions were coloured in a shade of burgundy, so the stain on the fabric was no longer visible. „Molly, are you coming?“ A thin, pointy-nosed woman poked her head through the thick curtains into the box. „I’ve already finished,“ said Josephine, packing up the cleaning utensils and straightening her apron. The hurry was justified, the concert was about to begin.

Just half an hour later, she was standing in a waitress’s uniform next to a table that was bending under the weight of the canapés on it. She was balancing a tray of champagne glasses with her right hand and fixing her pinned-up hair with her left. By now the room was full, full of high society people waiting to see the performance of Pirates of Penzance. Josephine put on a fixed smile and squeezed her way through the crowd with her tray. There they all stood, powdered, corsetted and awkwardly sipping their bubbly, waiting for a comic opera, pah! Rossini should be more like it! „Gimme another one, lass,“ said an elderly gentleman in a dinner jacket. The pointed ends of his old-fashioned collar poked into his red cheeks, as there was no neck in sight. How polite you are today, Councillor MacPherson, thought Josephine. She whistled the tune of „Pour, oh Pour the Pirate Sherry“ softly as she walked on. Bloody operetta, she now had this catchy tune stuck in her head.

A bell chimed and the room emptied. Josephine smiled stoically at the guests until they had left the room, then she relaxed her face. While she and the other staff were clearing the buffet, the second bell rang. „I’m going to get a new apron, mine is all sticky and ruining my dress,“ she said to her forewoman, who just nodded. As soon as she left the room, she threw the apron onto an armchair. „Ah, I suppose we’re waitresses today?“ came a voice behind her.

She spun around. Oh, that reporter again, how annoying. „You may not believe it, but I’ve been looking for you all evening in the parlours of this city,“ he continued, „who would have thought that I’d find you here among the staff.“ „You’re too late,“ she hissed back, „your operetta starts in a few minutes.“ „I suppose the pirates can pour the sherry without me,“ said Ewan Cunningham, „I need to speak to you urgently.“ Josephine looked round. „Not here,“ she replied, „come with me.“

She led him through a narrow corridor. There would definitely be no one in the costume storeroom tonight. Behind the wooden doors was the dark room, she switched on the lights, there was a click and with a flicker the gas light went on. „So, what do you want from me?“ she asked. The journalist pulled a newspaper out of his pocket, it was the latest edition of the Edinburgh Evening News. Hot off the press, if she interpreted the ink on his fingers correctly. He opened the paper and held it out to her. „Perplexing Circumstances Surround Tragic River Drowning: Mysterious Demise of Gentleman Remains Unsolved,“ she read. „Malcolm Murray,“ said Ewan Cunningham, „does that name ring a bell?“ „Should it?“ she returned more furiously than she intended and crossed her arms in front of her chest in defiance. He knew nothing, he was just poking about in the fog. Cunnigham took a step towards her. „Don’t play dumb, Miss Fairchild. I know your games by now, but this time you gambled away. The man has taken his own life.“ „That’s what I read,“ she replied, „but I don’t understand what his death has to do with me. Do you?”

Cunningham snorted and now signs of anger appeared on his otherwise even-tempered face. „You think this is all just a big joke, don’t you? I have truly met many kinds of people, both great and small, but you are by far the most inconsiderate, smug and …“ „Do I have to listen to these insults? I have to work,“ she interrupted. „Oh yes, you’re a waitress,“ he laughed stalely, „and where can I meet you tomorrow? At Prestonfield House where you’re working as a chambermaid?“ „You definitely won’t meet me anywhere, and neither will you soon. Have a good evening.“ With that, she left him, switching off the light as she went and slamming the door behind her. Let the guy fumble for the exit in the dark, at least he wouldn’t come after her so quickly.

A few minutes later, she had calmed down again. How foolish it is that I let a little man like that upset me, she thought. She walked through the corridor with her head held high, grabbed her apron as she passed and then headed for the cloakroom. „Come on Kitty, why don’t you get something from the buffet,“ she said to the girl standing there. „Hasn’t it been cleared yet?“ the girl asked, her eyes lighting up. „No, I’ve just come from there,“ she replied and pushed herself behind the counter. Without a moment’s hesitation, Kitty was gone. Good, now she had at least five minutes. Focus. She immediately recognised the light grey coat with silver fox fur. In it’s pocket she found a five-pound note – how tempting, but she didn’t want to compromise Kitty – and an elegant cigarette case. Josephine flipped it open and carefully ran her nail along the green velvet lining. The inlay came loose and there – a note appeared. She unfolded it and read it. How silly, how very silly. Anyone who had affairs should better cover their tracks. And above all, don’t sign your secret love letters with your full name. But nobody was surprised about that when it came to pompous town clerks. The fellow at Town Topics was going to pay a lot for this bit of knowledge.

Ewan

The fog hung in thick clouds over the river. The sun had only just risen, but morning was already half over. The housemaids had already rushed through the dim streets a few hours ago and as far as the factory and harbour workers were concerned, it was almost time for their first break. Only the horse carriages were still clattering over the cobbled street – and sitting in them were those who could afford to spend their time studying the newspaper over breakfast toast. At the very least they had to read the Scotsman, then the conservatives the Daily Telegraph or The Times of London and those who sympathised with women’s issues and the working class turned to Manchester Guardian. Accompanied by the news of the day, these fine gentlemen now headed for their offices, counting houses, banks and executive chairs, with a long day of pipe smoke and complicated decisions ahead of them.

„You’d have to be a banker,“ Ewan Cunningham thought grimly as he dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his tweed coat. They would never find themselves in the situation of trudging through the snow along the banks of the Water of Leith on a cold December morning. Half an hour ago, he had been roused from sleep by a loud knock, throwing on his morning coat and looking into a well-known face with frozen red cheeks. The boy was reliable, Ewan could be sure that he or one of his friends was watching the police station and would inform him as soon as the boys in blue moved out. It cost him a shilling a week, not a bad salary for an orphan who had no expenses apart from tobacco and the occasional packet of liquorice.

In the distance, the pointed towers of the city peaked out of the mist. Almost romantic, Ewan pondered, if it were a cotton-soft morning mist. Instead, it was mostly the smoke from the industrial stacks, mixed with nasty yellow fumes from thousands of chimneys where the less well-off burned who knew what. In the distance he saw a group of policemen – good, at least he was travelling in the right direction. Bobbies were standing in a small cluster around something lying on the ground. As he got closer, Ewan realised that someone was stretched out there, covered by a brown sheet. One of the policemen crouched down and lifted the cloth. Then they spoke to each other in muffled voices.

„A good morning, all you gentlemen,“ Ewan greeted them when he had gotten close enough. They were visibly freezing under their plain dark blue cloaks and the hard helmets probably offered as little warmth as a cast-iron cooking pot. The group turned to face him. „Oh, it’s you again, Cunningham,“ growled a man with a large moustache. He was dressed in a different manner than his uniformed counterparts, wearing a black woollen overcoat and a bowler hat. „You believe it’s murder, do you?“ Ewan asked him without hesitation, glancing at the sheet with two brown shoe tips sticking out at the end. „Murder? Well, let’s investigate before you start throwing around big words like that before lunch.“ „Would I be having this conversation with you if there wasn’t at least a suspicion, Detective Officer?“ Ruaridh MacKay grimaced, then winked. „Cunningham, you’re too exhausting for me on an empty stomach.“ „Well, sir, that’s part of my job,“ Ewan replied: „Come on, can’t you give me a little information about what happened here? Otherwise our readers will come up with their own theories.”

MacKay hesitated, then barked a few orders. „Pike, Tulloch – take the body to the Royal College! Paterson – you go with them and take care of the paperwork! The rest – tidy up!“ He then pointed with his walking stick up the path to the bridge, signalling Ewan to accompany him. „Thank you for your trust,“ he began when they were out of earshot, but the policeman interrupted him. „Button it, Cunningham – I’m mainly talking to you because I’m tired of having to fight disinformation on the streets as well as crime. You’ll find out the basic facts anyway. Besides, you’re one of the few scribblers who occasionally produces something readable.“ Ewan smiled, but remained silent. „So,“ MacKay continued, „the man’s name is Malcolm Murray. Runs a small counting house in Blackfriars Street. ‚Ran‘ would be the appropriate tense. To put it bluntly, I’m not assuming a crime, but a suicide.“ „Why not?“ Ewan dared to ask. MacKay pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket. „Because there’s a farewell letter,“ he returned, „the man jumped out of desperation.“ Ewan was almost a little disappointed. “ So what was the reason? Heartbreak?“ The detective shook his head. „No, he wrote something about ‚truth that would come out anyway‘ and a ‚price he can’t pay‘. To be honest, at first I thought it was a case of blackmail, even though I know from many a suicide note in my police career that those who kill themselves tend to be melodramatic.“ „Wouldn’t that be equal to death by a stranger’s hand? If someone forced him to commit suicide because he would otherwise have uncovered something?”

They had now arrived on the bridge. A group of police officers stood there waiting for their detective officer. He winked at Cunningham: „Well, my dear fellow – as I can only base this suspicion on a hunch and wild speculation, this is the rare case where my jurisdiction ends and yours begins. Have a pleasant day!“ With that, he turned to his subordinates and the conversation was over.

Ewan Cunningham was already halfway to the office when a thought popped into his head. If she was involved, she had gone too far here. Well, he would have to see her to make sure. But before the fine salons and clubs opened their doors, he wouldn’t bother trying.

Prologue

„My dear, this can’t be true!“

Octavia Winthrop was beside herself. A brown curl had come loose from her pinned-up hairstyle and was falling into her forehead, she was breathing heavily and cast an astonished glance over the rim of her teacup at her conversation partner. „Oh yes,“ Priscilla replied. The way her friend lost her temper disgusted her a little, but she didn’t let on. After all, she was a born Pembroke, nothing could upset her so quickly. Not even the nastiest gossip, which was, as usual, the centrepiece of this otherwise fine tea party.

Priscilla glanced briefly over her shoulder at her neighbours at the table, but they were absorbed in their needlework or were at least pretending to be. Then she leant forward and continued her story in a lowered voice. „You can take my word for it, Tavi – I read it in Town Topics this morning.“ Octavia shook her head in disbelief. „We were at the wedding last year, don’t you remember? How in love they were? And now she’s supposed to have not just one, but three lovers at the same time?“ Priscilla shrugged her shoulders. Yes, she remembered the wedding. The masses of white roses that had littered the steps of St Margaret Mary’s and had almost caused embarrassing – and dangerous! – falls among the bridal party. How could anyone be so careless, she thought to herself. Her wedding would be nowhere near as tacky and lavish, she had made sure of that. A simple white dress, a bouquet of hyacinths and when she stepped out of the church with Connor and the glorious blossom of the trees shone around them … her gaze slid to the window, which was tinged with the haze of the warm parlour, and outside, where the snow was piling thick on the streets. It was still too early to dream of spring. Christmas was just around the corner.

Her friend took no notice of her daydreams. She had calmed down in the meantime and popped a piece of lemon cake into her mouth. „Three lovers!“ she said, after dabbing her lips with a napkin. „Can you imagine that?“ „One man is quite enough for me,“ Priscilla replied dryly. „And you’re not even married yet!“ her friend laughed: „Just wait until you spend your evenings waiting by the fire while he drinks pint after pint in the pub. But something else – I’ve heard news about our MP who’s returned from London.“ Priscilla looked up curiously. Politics interested her more than silly gossip about affairs. „They found out that he made a lot of money from illegal horse betting,“ Octavia said – with a superior undertone, as she could now share this valuable knowledge with her friend. „He used to hang around the racecourse in Musselburgh regularly, rubbing shoulders with the seediest people there. A former member of the House of Commons, can you believe such a thing! Illegal betting really is a very ridiculous way to make money, don’t you think? – Priscilla?“

Priscilla had been looking absently at the edge of her saucer, but this time she wasn’t dreaming of white dresses and bouquets of hyacinths. She frowned thoughtfully. „I find it rather exciting that so many of these messages have been entertaining us recently,“ she said after a short pause. „Don’t you think we’ve run out of gossip? There’s always a new scandal, a new cause for outcry or ridicule. Someone must have a finger in the pie.“ Now it was Octavia who shook her head. „You clearly read too many spy novels, dear Prissa. Who would do something like that?“

At the same time, Malcolm Murray was sitting in his counting house. It was already dusk outside, the first day of December. Here comes the gloomy season, he thought. The gas lamps did their best to illuminate his room, which was crammed with paperwork. One of the large account books lay open on the table in front of him. He carefully entered the amounts he had previously noted down on a small piece of paper in the narrow column. A little here, a little there. Not too much, so as not to attract attention.

The door to his office was yanked open with a sudden jerk and a strong winter wind swept in. Murray’s quill slipped over the paper and he just managed to catch it, otherwise the whole page of the book would have been ruined. Grumbling, he threw the blotting paper onto the ink stain. Then he looked up because a strange figure had approached his desk.

A few hours later, Malcolm Murray stood trembling on Cannonmills Bridge. The Water of Leith rushed below him, cold and dark. He looked round, then climbed over the railing and jumped.

December 24

Epilogue

December 23

Josephine

December 22

Ewan

December 21

Josephine

December 20

Ewan

December 19

Josephine

December 18

Ewan

December 17

Josephine

December 16

Ewan

December 15

Josephine

December 14

Ewan

December 13

Josephine

December 12

Ewan

December 11

Josephine

December 10

Ewan

December 9

Josephine

December 8

Ewan

December 7

Josephine

December 6

Ewan

December 5

Josephine

December 4

Ewan

Third of December

Josephine

Second of December

Ewan

First of December

Prologue