“A cigarette? His coat was burned away from his body. It was as if the man was roasted alive.”
“It was a large cigarette. I saw it,” Kip insisted.
He had become a regular companion at the flat as well.
I taught him how to play checkers when Elizabeth provided the game board. He preferred the game of Monopoly that he acquired in a manner I did not want to know.
He simply showed up with it. I beat him two games out of three. But he was a very quick learner. It was good that we played for tokens not real money.
Munro called at the flat every day, but there was something different in his manner. He was quiet, as if there was a great deal going on behind that blue gaze every time I found him watching me.
He had not asked about that night, nor had I spoken of it.
The fourth day after, when he called once again at the flat, I announced that I had enough of checkers, Monopoly, and coddling. I was going out.
There was another reason as well. An important one.
Without a word, and no question regarding the expense, Munro had made arrangements for Dory to be buried in Greyfriars kirkyard. The small ceremony was to take place this day. I insisted on attending.
There was no argument, he simply made arrangements for a driver to take us there for the midday burial, in that same quiet manner of the past days.
I have often thought of cemeteries as gloomy, sad places, yet there was a moment when the sun broke through, a very brief moment, as the vicar said words over Dory even though he never knew her.
There was no judgment or criticism over the life that had been forced upon her. He simply repeated the words that were inscribed on the simple stone marker along with her name—Dear friend.
“Who had those words engraved?” I asked.
“It seemed appropriate,” Munro replied. “She was yer good friend, and I know the value of that.”
I paid my respects. Yes, I thought, the best good friend.
We rode in silence to Parliament Square, where I learned from Sir McQuarrie there would be no further inquiries regarding my part in Mr. Elias’s plunge from the roof of the tenement at Albany Street.
He also expressed his gratitude for the research I had done for his court case.
“Most admirable,” he said.
I waited for the rest of it. For a woman? I thought.
He didn’t say it, instead he offered me a position in his office.
“Mr. Sinclair has reminded me that he is often overburdened with the work I give him. If ye should chose to remain in Edinburgh, I would offer ye a position as an assistant. That is, providing Lady Montgomery would not object.”
I assured him that she would not.
It was a very generous offer. And the truth was, there was still the reason I had come to Edinburgh, to find my family. And now?
“I want to pay a visit to the Foundling Hospital where I lived for a short time,” I confided in Munro, even though Sir McQuarrie made inquiries and learned that it was now a hospital for wounded soldiers.
I insisted and Munro accompanied me.
It was a good distance from the central part of Edinburgh. Set apart years before, and now, so that it was not an unpleasant reminder for others?
I walked some of those same hallways and corridors that I had as a very young child, and that last time with Abby, who remained behind. I found a small stone in the adjacent graveyard where there were far too many small headstones of children who arrived but never left.
There were no longer any records at what was now called the Queensferry Hospital for the War Wounded. Those had all been removed and sent to nearby St. Mary’s Church, as had the nuns who worked at the hospital when I was there.
My search at Saint Mary’s was for another day. Once again, Munro accompanied me. He seemed to understand that it was important for me to unravel the secrets of my past. As he might have done as well? I wondered. He never spoke of it.
