Again we sat in silence, but this time it was me who broke it, just as Mrs Dudgeon’s door opened.
‘Here comes the inspector,’ I said. ‘So if you have anything you want to say to him, now’s your chance.’ Mrs Dudgeon, seeing me, waved sadly before she shut the door.
‘No,’ said Alec. ‘But there is something I want to say to you. I have a few old clothes with me that I don’t really need any more. If I were to look them out…’ I could not speak; if I stopped biting down on my teeth I should sob.
‘I’ll get them in the morning,’ I said at last. The inspector was walking towards us and I hoped the darkness would cover the worst of my dishevelment. ‘I need to pop into the village to the bank,’ I said, ‘and then I thought I’d ask Mrs Murdoch for a picnic basket and come for a picnic in the woods.’ Inspector Cruickshank drew up beside us.
‘You’re not too scared to be in these woods now?’ he said, hearing me.
‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘In fact, I think I’d like to be alone tomorrow, Alec, if that’s all right with you.’
‘I think so too,’ Alec said.
‘What can I do for you?’ said the inspector. ‘You were waiting for me, I see.’
I was momentarily stumped, but Alec came to the rescue.
‘Thinking things over, Inspector,’ he said, ‘it occurred to us that you can close another case you’ve got open on your books. A double murder, four or so years back?’
The inspector scratched his head for a moment and then whistled, impressed.
‘By George, I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘It was exactly the same. I’ll get right on it, sir. First thing tomorrow.’ He reached across me to shake Alec’s hand and then took mine too. ‘See and enjoy your picnic, madam. Or is it more than a picnic?’ he went on, twinkling. Solving three murders in one night had put him in a tremendous good humour, it seemed. ‘Are you bringing an offering to all these spirits and demons and beasties we hear so much about? Don’t let the Turnbulls catch you at it.’
‘No, not an offering,’ I said. ‘Just a picnic lunch. After all, it’s the living we need to take care of, isn’t it Alec, not the dead.’
Facts and Fictions
Most of the places here are real places, although Brown’s Bar is fictitious, as is Cassilis Castle, which can be understood to lie somewhere between Scotstoun and Carlowrie. There was a short-lived shale mining enterprise on the spot where I imagine Dandy and Randall had their adventure, as well as the larger and longer-lasting Dalmeny Shale Oil Works, the entrance to which lay just behind the station.
Most of the minor characters in the book – the Turnbulls, the Lamonts, Father Cormack, The Rev. Dowd, The Rev. McAndrew, Inspector Cruickshank, Dr Rennick, Provost and Mrs Meiklejohn, and Pat Rearden – are entirely fictitious, as are all the principals: the de Cassilis family, the Dudgeons, and obviously the Browns. Folk like that could never belong in the Ferry.
Some of the others are real. The three families of Linlithgows, Roseberys and Stuart-Clarks did and still do live in three estates around Queensferry; I have stolen some land from the Dundas and Dalmeny estates to make way for Cadwallader’s acres. Also, in 1923, Mr Faichen was the undertaker, Mr Fairlie was the grocer, Mr Mawdsley was the harbour master, and there were Quigleys, Marshalls, Christies and McPhersons in Queensferry as there are today. It should be noted too that Dandy was right about wee Doreen Urquhart: she did grow up to be a beauty and she had a huge personality inside that tiny frame.
As far as I know, there never was a feud, a squabble, even a murmur, over the Burry Man or any other aspect of the Ferry Fair. Also, although Queensferry does have its fair share of ghostie stories and pubs, it is not quite as steeped in horrors as I have suggested here.
Finally, the Burry Man can still be seen walking the town on the second Friday in August. Hip, hip, hooray.
Acknowledgements
For invaluable help with historical detail I would like to thank: Jimmie Boner, Ranald Mackay, Sheena Mackay, Lyla Martin, Len Saunders, Jimmy Walker and the other members of the Queensferry History Group; Robin Chesters and Carol McDonald of the Almond Valley Heritage Centre; Nancy Balfour, Jim Hogg, Ann Morrison and the rest of the staff at the Edinburgh Room of the City Library; Jeff Balfour at Kirkliston Library; and Jim McPherson for patient recall of details of the old Ferry. Thanks too to Nancy Johnson for her Queensferry memories.
I would like to thank Lisa Moylett and Nathalie Sfakianos at the agency for wrapping up such professionalism in so much warmth and wit. I am greatly indebted to The Trinity: editor Krystyna Green, copy editor Imogen Olsen, and jacket designer Ken Leeder who remove howlers and add elegance. Thanks too to all the Constable staff, especially Bruce Connal and Haydn Jones.
Thanks again to Cathy Gilligan, ideal first reader.
I am grateful, as ever, to my parents Jim and Jean McPherson, and the rest of my family (here goes), Amy, Audrey, Callum, Claire, Fraser, Greig, Harris, Iain, Lewis, Mathew, Megan, Ross, Sheila, Tom and Wendy for many different kinds of enthusiasm from detailed critique to drooling on my shoulder.
Finally, to Neil McRoberts for financial backing, website management, editorial advice, advanced listening and ballroom dancing – endless thanks.
Catriona McPherson
CATRIONA McPHERSON was born near Edinburgh in 1965 and educated at Edinburgh University. Formerly a linguistics lecturer, now a full-time writer, she is married to a scientist and lives on a farm in a beautiful valley in Galloway. Find out more about Catriona and the series on dandygilver.co.uk.
