James had taken the rest of the day off, so after lunch he surprised me with an outing to Georgian House, a quaint historic home not far from the Princes Street Gardens. I knew of Georgian House, but had mentioned to James at one time that I had never had a chance to visit.
Georgian House was located on Charlotte Square, which had originally been designed by a young architect who won a contest focused on building a residential area outside Old Town in the 1760s. Conditions in the city had become so overcrowded and dirty that affluent citizens naturally moved to the new open square. First owned in the late 1700s by John Lamont, eighteenth Chief of the Clan Lamont, Georgian House had seen many owners over the years, including a judge, a minister, a wealthy widow, and a Marquis.
The inside, lovingly restored over a period of years, was breathtaking. The period furnishings, textiles, silver, and china were an art history professor’s dream. I don’t know if James had intended to spend four hours at Georgian House, but that’s what we did. Every room held a special beauty and luxurious utility that would have been the height of fashionable decor in the eighteenth century. I could barely tear myself away from the dining room clock, which dated from the 1600s and still kept time. The artwork was gorgeous, too, and perfect for the setting. I gazed at the paintings on the wall and was reminded of something, something about the McTaggart, but it was beyond my grasp and disappeared as a wisp of fog.
We continued our tour below stairs, which was as interesting as the floors above. The rooms where the servants worked in Georgian House had also been restored and featured a Murphy bed, lovely utilitarian furniture, and items that the servants would have used on a daily basis.
I couldn’t bring myself to leave until we were gently but firmly told the house was closed for the day.
Georgian House was exactly what I needed to occupy my mind and remind me of the beauty and grace of Edinburgh. Lately I had seen some of the city’s ugliness, and James had known exactly what to do to keep me grounded for an afternoon. I checked my phone only a handful of times to make sure I hadn’t missed a call from the police.
We were walking about Charlotte Square when the phone finally rang. Yanking it out of my pocket, I checked the caller ID and answered, breathless.
“Hello? This is Greer.”
“This is Officer Dunbar. I have some news for you. Could you come to the station?”
“Yes, of course.” My words came out in a rush. I covered the mouthpiece and looked at James. “Can you come to the police station with me?”
“Of course.”
I spoke into the phone again. “We’ll be there as quickly as we can.”
James grabbed my hand, and we made our way to the police station, dodging pedestrians who were obviously not in a hurry and darting across streets where it probably would have been smarter to wait for traffic. We arrived at the police station in record time, though, and rushed headlong into the vestibule.
My heavy breathing clearly alarmed the officer at the desk. “What’s wrong?” he asked, reaching for the phone. “Is there trouble?”
“No, no,” I assured him, holding up my hand to get him to stop talking for a moment. He looked at me, waiting for me to speak.
James must have had stronger lungs because he was able to talk calmly to the officer while I was still catching my breath. “This is Dr. Greer Dobbins. She received a call on her mobile phone from Officer Dunbar asking her to come to the station to receive some information. We’ve been running,” he added.
The officer reached for the phone again and dialed some numbers. He spoke in a low voice into the receiver and hung up in just a moment. “Officer Dunbar will be right out to fetch you.”
We waited in the vestibule until I saw Officer Dunbar coming toward us, and I rushed forward. “What have you found?” I asked.
“Come back to my office where we can talk,” she answered.
We followed her back through the warren of cubicles and offices until we reached hers. She motioned for us to sit in the two chairs opposite her desk.
“We got a warrant to check out the Gramercys’ house and the officers were very interested in some evidence they found in the soundproof third-floor bedroom you told us about.”
“Yes?” I could barely contain myself.
“It looks like someone has been in there. Staying in there. The bed was unmade and there were books on the floor. Children’s books.”
The tears started almost before she had gotten out the last words. I blinked rapidly to stop the flow so I could concentrate on what she was saying. James reached for my hand and held it in his.
“There was a pair of jeans in the closet and a sweatshirt.”
“What did the jeans look like?”
“I’ve got photos here,” she said, turning her computer toward us and hitting the arrow key. She landed on a picture of the jeans. Blue denim, green Xs on the back pockets.
I began to cry again, harder this time. “Those are Ellie’s jeans,” I told her, trying to choke back my sobs. “They were the only jeans missing from our house.”
Officer Dunbar picked up a phone and dialed. She murmured a few words to the person on the other end and hung up. She hit the other arrow key several times. “I’m going to take you back through these photos to see if there’s anything else you recognize.”
When the officers searched the third-floor bedroom at Janet and Alistair’s house, they were thorough. They had pulled out drawers, taken the bedding off the bed, and looked under the thin carpet. Photos showed the process of their search. Officer Dunbar paged through them one by one. The bed, bedding, floor, carpet, fireplace, chamber pot, Ellie’s jeans, books on the floor. The last photo made me cry again—her favorite pajamas, the missing ones. She had tried to fold them just like I did at home.
“I recognize those,” I told Officer Dunbar, wiping my eyes. “They’re Ellie’s. Ellie wasn’t there, though?”
“She wasn’t. But your former in-laws are at the police station near their home now, answering questions about what’s been going on in their home and where they think Ellie and Neill may be.”
“They must know something,” I sniffed. “She was there. They have to know where she went.”
“Hopefully we’ll come up with something, but we have to wait until the police get back to us. I just wanted you to have the information. We’re getting closer. I’ll call you the minute I hear anything.”
James and I stood up, and I shook the officer’s hand, thanking her over and over. We left the police station and James put his arm around me. “See? They’ll find her in no time, I’m sure of it. We just have to have a little patience. What do you say I walk you home and hope Seamus has made something wonderful for dinner?”
I settled into the hollow of his shoulder as we walked back to my flat in the drizzle. Soft yellow light from the streetlamps reflected off the wet cobbles, lending a romantic air to the cold evening. Leaves swept across the streets, and lights came on in flats that lined the sidewalks as people came home from work. People going about their own business, oblivious to the heartaches around them. It was like being inside a painting—a warm, dark impressionist painting. I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t been so worried about Ellie.
Seamus had, indeed, made a delicious dinner. I wish I could have enjoyed it a bit more, but my stomach was too tightly wound to eat very much. The salmon had a sweet, mild flavor that paired well with a spicy yogurt sauce. Creamy mashed turnips and buttered leeks completed the meal. I couldn’t even think about dessert, which was shortbread. James and Sylvie pronounced it flaky with just a hint of sweetness. I did manage a cup of tea after dinner while we sat around the table in the warm kitchen.
I wanted desperately to tell Sylvie and Seamus of the search warrant and what the police had found, but I knew such excitement and worry wouldn’t be good for Sylvie. I tried to stay quiet and calm while we all chatted quietly. I had to sit on my hands to keep from biting my nails.
When Sylvie went to her room to lie down, James and I told Seamus all about our visit to the police station. He gave me a broad smile, his beard lifting right off his chest. He put his burly arm around my shoulder. “See? We knew this would happen. They’re getting close now. You’ll have your bairn back with you before you know it.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said, reaching for my napkin. My eyes were starting to tear again,
“None of that, now,” Seamus cautioned. “It’s happy news. Let’s celebrate with a dram.”
He poured three short glasses of the golden whisky he kept on a bar cart in the kitchen and brought them to the table. I couldn’t bring myself to drink it, but he and James clinked their glasses together and offered a traditional Gaelic toast:
“Beannachd Dia dhuit!”
“Greer,” Seamus said in his lilting voice, “I expect you to join us when Ellie’s back with you!”
“I will,” I promised, then laughed. “Seamus, I’d stopped crying and now you’re making me start again!”
He joined in with hearty laughter, and James beamed at us. “I’ve got to get to work early tomorrow morning, so I’m going to head home. Still have some work to do before I can turn in.” He took my face in his hands, and Seamus made his exit. “You’ve had a long day. I want you to get a good night’s sleep so you’re ready for whatever tomorrow brings. Maybe it won’t bring anything, but maybe it will. We’re close, Greer. I know we are. Just keep your chin up.” He kissed me, making my stomach flutter. Feeling the flutters was better than feeling the twisting nerves. He finally pulled away from me and touched my nose. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I fell asleep quickly that night, feeling warm and hopeful.
* * *
Sylvie was up when I went into the kitchen the next morning. She looked unfocused and confused.
“Sylvie? What’s wrong?”
She turned and looked at me like she didn’t know who I was. Keeping my eyes on her, I went to the kitchen door and called softly for Seamus. He came out of the bedroom, toweling his hair.
“What’s the matter?”
“Sylvie’s acting funny,” I whispered. He set down the towel and went into the kitchen, where Sylvie was standing by the sink, staring out the window.
“How are you feeling, love?” he asked.
She turned to him, her eyes devoid of expression. “My head hurts.”
He took her hand and led her into the living room. “Sit down. Greer, can you get her a cup of tea? I’ll stay in here with her.”
I put on the kettle and stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Seamus and Sylvie. She said nothing, just stared straight ahead. Seamus was stroking the back of her hand. She appeared calm, but without warning she cried out and a look of horror crossed her face.
“Sylvie, what is it?” I asked, reaching her side in a few steps. Seamus tightened his hold on her hand.
She shook her head several times, as if to rid herself of an ugly thought. “Don’t do that, Sylvie,” Seamus said. “You’ll make the concussion worse.”
Her breathing became fast, erratic. I glanced at Seamus, who was staring at her. “Lie down, Sylvie,” I told her. Seamus guided her shoulders onto the sofa.
“I see him! He’s behind the door!” she cried.
I looked up. There was no one in the room other than the three of us. “There’s no one here, Sylvie. It’s just us.”
“No, he’s there!”
I looked again. I was spooked, and I think Seamus was, too.
“Sylvie, close your eyes and try to rest. Getting upset isn’t good for you. Seamus and I will protect you. No one will hurt you. I promise.”
“You couldn’t protect me before,” she moaned.
Her words hit me like a fist. She was right. Seamus must have seen my distress, because he responded for me. “Sylvie, she couldn’t protect you because she wasn’t here. But now she’s here, and I am too, and we’re going to make sure you don’t get hurt again.”
I had a thought. “Sylvie, what did the man look like?”
She shook her head. “Brown hair, I think. A beard. I can’t see his face.”
Seamus motioned for me to take his place on the sofa. He went into the bathroom and brought back the bottle of pills Sylvie had received from hospital. He shook two into his big hand.
“Take these.” He tipped them into her hand and gave her a glass of water from the coffee table. She swallowed them and lay back on the pillow, closing her eyes. Seamus and I sat watching her. It didn’t take her long to fall asleep. We tiptoed back into the kitchen.
“She’s remembering something,” he said.
“It doesn’t sound like there’s much to remember,” I noted, “if she didn’t see the man’s face. Lots of men have brown hair and beards.”
“Maybe she’ll think of something that will help.”
Seamus stayed with Sylvie that afternoon, and I returned to Georgian House. I wanted to tour it a second time, this time focusing on the artwork. I still had a restless feeling that something wasn’t right. I took a brisk walk to Charlotte Square in the sharp afternoon brightness. The trees waved in the wind and the passersby barely looked up, bundled against the cold.
I took my time meandering through Georgian House, even more so than I had the previous day. I took notes on my tablet, preparing for a series of lectures I hoped to give next semester about the artistry of furnishings and textiles. I was in the elegant dining room, examining the paintings up close, when I heard someone sneeze in the next room.
That’s when it hit me.