The Night He Left: Episode 72

Dressed in her finery – a silk or taffeta gown, hat trimmed with feathers and dainty slippers – she was a contrast to Ann Craig in her tattered, grubby dress

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.

The three of them began to walk over the green towards the shore, the water shimmering in the fading light. Fiona’s phone rang.

“You guys carry on. Look, there’s Jamie trying to bowl, down by that bench.”

She tucked the bottle under her arm as she put her phone to her ear. She could hardly hear the voice at the other end.

“Sorry, can you speak up?” she shouted. “Who is this? Sam who?”

She turned round and bent down against the wind, trying to hear better.

“Sorry, what? What on earth are you talking about?”

Fiona jerked her head round to look over the green. In the dying light she could make out Dorothy, standing with her hands raised.

Martha was bolting over the grass towards the two figures down by the river.

There was Pete, slowly swinging the cricket bat high above his head as if he was about to hit something hard.

There was Jamie, standing beside him, turned the other way, pointing out a train on the bridge. Sam was right, Pete was...

She flung the Champagne to the ground and broke into a sprint.

“Jamie!” she howled into the wind.

June 9 1881

“Get up, Annie, she’s here, the Countess is on her way.” The jailer stood at her cell door and rattled his large ring of keys.

An elegant figure stopped at the door and waited as he pushed the key in.

“Lady Camperdown, can I get you anything?” “No, thank you, Wallace. I shall call when I am ready.”

Ann Craig rose from her bed, slowly, ensuring that the bundle nestling in her arm was not disturbed.

The dank room was lit by only one tiny window but today there was a beam of bright summer sun.

She looked over to her benefactor and, as usual, admired her choice of clothes.

“Good morning, Isabella.”

“Good morning, Ann, how are you today?”

The Countess of Camperdown sat down on the rickety wooden chair.

Every time she visited, as wife of the Prison Visiting Committee’s chairman, she looked incongruous.

Dressed in her finery – always a silk or taffeta gown, velvet hat trimmed with feathers or fur and dainty slippers or soft calf skin boots – she was a contrast to Ann Craig in her tattered, grubby dress and bare feet.

“Oh Ann, I gave you shoes the last visit, did they not fit?”

“They were perfect, thank you. But I gave them this morning to Betty in the next cell.

“She’s got another month or so before her time.” Isabella sighed and looked into Ann’s eyes. “Are you ready for this?”

“How will I ever be ready? Isabella, you are a mother, how can you possibly give up your child? Your baby?”

The Countess shook her head. “I have no concept, Ann, truly. I cannot begin to imagine.”

Ann clutched the sleeping child close to her. “Did they not permit a visit from James and Lizzie?” The Countess shook her head.

“The Earl tried to intercede on your behalf, but his fellow members on the committee, Sherriff Cheyne and those do-gooders, were adamant.

“They said it would be detrimental to the children. I am so sorry.”

“You tried. Thank you, Isabella.”

“Ann, I checked with Wallace and he says your time is this evening, at six.

“Is there anything else I can do for you before then? Apart from pray.”

“You are already doing the best thing with Archibald here.”

Ann looked around as if searching for something. “I have given you letters for James and Lizzie already?”

Beautiful

The Countess nodded. “They will now have the joy of their little brother being brought up with them in their own house.

“Lady Cruickshank is overseeing their care with the governess. They will want for nothing.”

Ann reached into her pocket and drew out a handkerchief.

“I have also something for the woman who plays the melodeon in the streets of Lochee.

“If one of your servants could find a way to give this to her, please? Her name is Blind Mattie, everyone knows her.”

She passed the handkerchief to the Countess.

“It is beautiful. There are some initials embroidered upon it. But it says A.R., not A.C.?” “That was my maiden name. She will remember.” “Very well, Ann. And now, it is time for me to take little Archibald.”

The Countess stood and stretched out her hands. Ann kissed the baby’s soft forehead and placed him in her arms.

“Thank you, Isabella, for arranging this. My little Archie will be fine growing up with his brother and sister in the house in which I had many happy memories.”

The Countess headed for the door and called out: “Wallace, it is time.”

At the sound of the jailer approaching with his keys, Ann’s face crumpled and she rushed to give her baby one last kiss.

She shut her eyes and inhaled his sweet innocent smell before turning back to her cold, bare bed.

“Thank you Isabella. You have been a friend for the past year.”

Deep breath

“God bless you, Ann,” said the Countess, as she took the sleeping baby out of the squalid prison cell.

Once they reached the street she paused to take a long, deep breath, happy to be in the fresh air once more.

“Magdalen Yard Road, number seventy-three,” she told her driver, stepping into the cool air of the carriage.

She peered into the baby’s face and, as the carriage began rattling over the cobbled streets of Dundee, he opened his eyes and gazed directly up at her.

She tickled his chin and smiled. “It’s all right, little one, you’re going home now.”