I caught the glimpse of some dark whiskers and that was all. He was in such a hurry once he saw the carriage approach

Sue Lawrence is a popular novelist as well as a cookery book author. The Night He Left is published by Freight. Down to the Sea, her first historical mystery, was published by Contraband in 2019. Sue’s latest book, The Unreliable Death of Lady Grange, was published in March by Saraband.

Ann let the curtain go and looked inside her bag for the note she had received from Willie Robertson, stationmaster at Leuchars. He had said he would be at Dundee’s train station for a meeting at two o’clock then would have half an hour before he went for his ferry across the Tay. She was to ask for him at the ticket office.

She adjusted the ribbons in her bonnet, a splendid black hat with a broad dark grey satin ribbon.

She had removed the blue-and-copper peacock feather before departing, for fear of appearing less than respectful of those in mourning.

She herself still did not feel as if she was in mourning. According to the Baxters, everyone in the town was shedding tears; where were hers?

She heard a “whoah!” from the driver and felt the carriage slow. She pulled back the curtain to reveal Dundee station.

The carriage driver helped her descend and she looked up at the large clock over the entrance.

“Wait here for me. I should be no longer than 20 minutes.” He lifted a finger to his hat then plunged his hand into his pocket and retrieved a morsel to feed the horse.

Summer outing

She went down the steps, thinking that this was the third time she had done so in less than a week.

Usually she only went to the station once a year for the family’s summer outing to the beach at Monifieth.

“Good afternoon, I am here to see Mr William Robertson from Leuchars.”

The man at the ticket office pointed towards the platforms. “Second-class waiting room.” “Thank you.”

She knocked on the door and it was opened by a small man with a large moustache. He carried his hat in his hand.

“Ah, Mrs Craig,” he said, gesturing for her to enter. “I find I only have 10 minutes until I must leave for my ferry.

“My apologies, but the timings are all muddled up today, even though this is the first day of the regular timetable. Please take a seat.”

Ann sat down and angled her head up. She knew he was looking at her face; she was used to men giving her admiring glances. She brought her fingers to the jet brooch at her neck and smiled.

“So, Mr Robertson, what can you tell me about Sunday night and the first class passenger who alighted at your station?”

“Well, Alec here told me it might have been your husband, so I know how keen you are for more information.

“But I have to be honest with you and say that I have no idea who he was.”

“Do you not have a record of passengers’ names? In first class surely?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s all just a question of collecting tickets, we’ve no record of their names.”

“So could you see him at all? How would you describe his figure?”

“It was so terribly stormy, as you know, and the wind was howling so much we both kept our heads firmly down, me holding on to my work cap, him onto his top hat.”

“How was the hat?”

“I couldn’t say, it was pitch black, the only lights were from inside the train itself and the one light inside the station waiting room.

“The two that usually hang at each end of the platform were blown away in the gale.”

“His face. Did you see that?”

“Again, I only caught the glimpse of some dark whiskers and that was all. He was in such a hurry once he saw the carriage approach.”

“What did his bag look like?”

Small valise

“He didn’t have much with him, that I can tell you. That’s what made me think he had perhaps been away for a day and not overnight.

“I believe the bag was more a small valise; it certainly was not a large trunk, I’d have remembered that.”

He glanced up at the clock by the window. “And there is nothing else you can recall that might help me to know whether this gentleman was indeed my husband? His voice?”

Willie Robertson shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs Craig. I heard nothing in that gale. Mr Smith has invited you here under false pretences.

“All that’s certain is that a gentleman got out of first class at Leuchars. No one knows who he was. “But we must pray it was indeed your husband.” Ann glowered at him. “Surely there is something else. Was he, for example, tall, short, lean, fat?”

“I recall he looked tall, but that was perhaps the appearance from his hat. We were both bent double against the wind.”

Ann nodded, recalling how she and Baxter were also bowed over, heads down, as they struggled against the wind whipping across the green on Sunday night.

“I am so sorry but I must leave now for the ferry. I told my wife I would be home for tea. She’s been in such a state all week, worrying.”

Ann got to her feet and stretched out her hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr Robertson.

“If there should be any other fact you recall, please let me know.”

She strode along the platform and headed up the steps. Near the top she sniffed and detected a familiar smell.

Pipe tobacco. She had always loved the smell, it reminded her of home.

She walked out the entrance and saw her driver beside the carriage. From her right drifted the strong smell of pipe smoke.

She turned and saw a beggar place her pipe on the ground and pick up her melodeon.

She began to play and as she pulled the instrument out and in, Ann stopped and stared.

Familiar

The tune was so familiar, the strains of the music evoked vivid memories in her, memories she did not want to surface.

She stepped forward to see the player better. The woman was middle aged and wore ragged clothes. Her boots were scuffed and her grey plaid shawl threadbare.

As Ann stared at her, the woman turned to face her; her eyes were empty, glazed.

It was then Ann realised who she was and turned away towards the carriage.

As she stepped inside, she risked another look back towards the melodeon player.

“That’s Blind Mattie,” said the driver. “She’s not usually this side of town, she’s normally in Lochee.

“Someone must’ve took her down here for the afternoon. Grand song she’s playing. What’s it called again?”

Ann opened her mouth to reply then pressed her lips firmly together.

“Oh, I ken now,” he said, smiling. “It’s To the Weaver’s Gin Ye Go. Fine song, one from the mills.”

“If you say so. Now drive on, please. Home to Magdalen Yard Road.”

More tomorrow.