‘Nothing like that. I just don’t think I should leave him.’
She arrived twenty minutes later carrying a woven bag, with fine yarn and knitting needles sticking out of the top. He left her in the kitchen watching a period drama on the small television set there, the shawl she was working on spread over her lap.
In Voxter he found Grusche and George sitting in front of the same programme. There was no sign of Caroline or Lowrie, and Sandy was pleased about that. Having them there would have made things more complicated. The programme was coming to an end and he waited with them until it was finished; the grand house and the lord and lady with their servants reminded him of how Springfield House must once have been.
‘How are you, Sandy?’ George got slowly to his feet and rubbed his back. This time of year he’d be singling neeps on the croft and he’d be stiff and sore. ‘Will you take a dram?’
Sandy shook his head.
‘Tea then?’
‘Fine, that.’
Grusche got up too and moved the kettle on the range. ‘Look at that fog coming in from the sea. What a dreadful summer it’s been for fog! Lowrie and Caroline are supposed to be flying south tomorrow, but I’m not sure the planes will go.’
‘Where are they now?’ Sandy was wishing that Grusche would leave the room. He would feel more comfortable talking just to George.
‘Out with their friends from Sletts. It’s their last night. They’ve walked along the path to the boat club. There’s some sort of do going on there.’ She sounded disapproving. Perhaps she thought it was disrespectful for the younger folk to be out when two people had died. ‘I’ll leave you to make the tea, George. There’s some shortbread left in the tin. I have my spinning wheel set up in the other room and I’d like to get that fleece spun.’ She walked away.
They both drank tea and sat across the table from each other.
‘I’d been wondering about Elizabeth Geldard,’ Sandy said.
George looked up at him, but said nothing.
‘In those days it wouldn’t have been so likely for a couple to have a baby when they were in their forties.’
‘Not unheard of,’ George said.
‘I wondered if maybe they’d adopted her.’ The idea had been rattling around in his head since he’d been talking to Louisa.
George said nothing.
‘It was a long time ago.’ Sandy drank tea and reached into the blue biscuit tin for some shortbread. ‘We look at things differently now. No shame to having a child born out of wedlock.’
‘It depends who the father was.’
There was a moment of silence. ‘But the mother was Sarah? Your great-aunt and nursemaid at the big house?’
Another silence. ‘That’s the story in the family.’
Sandy thought that would make perfect sense. Sarah would have been hardly more than a child when she got pregnant. Fifteen at the most. Probably ignorant about sex, and taken advantage of. And the couple in the big house were desperate for a child, so it would seem the perfect solution to pass the baby off as their own. The Geldards would spend a lot of their time in the south anyway, so nobody would be surprised if they arrived in Unst with a new baby. No doubt Sarah would have been spirited away to relatives in a different part of Shetland, once the pregnancy started showing. And when she returned the Geldards employed her to take care of her own child. Who better to look after the little girl? And it would explain why she was so upset when Lizzie died, why she felt she had to run away from the islands. And why she’d named her second daughter Elizabeth.
‘Who was the father?’ Sandy wasn’t sure if any of this was important to the present case, but now he’d started he wanted the full story.
George was looking out of the window. ‘There’s no proof.’ He gave an awkward laugh. ‘No paternity tests in those days.’
‘But there would have been rumours. The girl would have known.’
Another silence. George seemed to be weighing up how much to say. ‘The story is that it was Gilbert Geldard himself. His taste was more for young things than for his middle-aged wife. Maybe that was why she never conceived a child.’
‘He raped a young girl to give his wife a baby?’ Even after all these years Sandy was shocked. He could see why the Malcolmsons hadn’t wanted to talk about it. ‘Or did Geldard pay for her services?’
George shrugged. ‘Raped, seduced, bought. In the end it all amounts to the same kind of thing. All wrong. All violent.’
‘Did Roberta ever know that her husband was the father of the child they’d adopted?’
Another shrug. ‘If you look at the picture of the girl in the museum in Lerwick and the picture of the man in Springfield House they look kind of similar. You’d think the woman would have wondered.’
Sandy was trying to imagine how Roberta would have felt if she’d found out that Gilbert was the father of her adopted daughter. It would be one thing to take on the child of a local lass as a kind of charity. Selfish, of course. You’d do it because you were desperate to take a baby into your arms. But you could persuade yourself at the same time that it was a good thing that you were doing – rescuing her from poverty, from life with a single mother. Saving Sarah Malcolmson from disgrace. But how would it be if later you found out that it was the result of your husband’s perversion? If the girl grew to look like the man you slept with at night. How would that make you feel? Would you still love the child? Or would you want rid of it?
George turned back into the room. ‘I don’t see why you want to dig all this up now. It has no relevance to the murder of two people from the south; they have nothing to do with our family.’
Sandy didn’t know how to answer that. He wanted to say that murder was important even if the victims didn’t belong to the islands. And that the murder of a ten-year-old child was important even if it happened years ago. Because he was starting to think that Peerie Lizzie had been murdered. Perhaps by her adoptive mother. And that both the Geldards had been happy to blame Sarah Malcolmson and see her move away. Then there would be nothing to remind them of the girl, and of the man’s sexual violence. They could continue to convince themselves that they were good people, and to hold their grand parties. Except that the child had come back to haunt them, even if she only appeared in their dreams, and eventually they’d had to move away too.
George was looking at Sandy and was expecting a response. The place was so quiet that they had been able to hear Grusche’s spinning wheel in the next room, the rhythm as soothing as a lullaby.
‘I just wanted to understand,’ Sandy said at last. ‘The story as we’d been told it just didn’t make sense.’ He paused. ‘Did Eleanor know the truth about Peerie Lizzie? Did Lowrie tell her the full background?’ Because why wouldn’t he? Lowrie was sophisticated and he lived in London. He wouldn’t understand why George would feel awkward about the true story of the dead child being made public. He would probably have lost the Shetland islanders’ habit of restraint and discretion. And it would make a great programme for Eleanor. A piece of detective work going back over time. Sandy could see that she would be excited.
‘I don’t think he would have told her about it,’
George said. ‘He’d grown up with thinking of it as something to keep in the family.’
But Lowrie might well have told his new wife. She was a family member too, an academic full of curiosity about unusual places and the people who lived in them. Perhaps Caroline had passed on the story to her friend. A gift. Something to cheer Eleanor up when she was depressed. Not realizing that it was any kind of secret.
The hum of the spinning had stopped. Sandy realized that if they had been able to hear the wheel, Grusche had probably heard every word of the conversation. She appeared now at the door, big and angular. She was wearing wide linen trousers and a loose fisherman’s smock. She ignored Sandy.