imperial crown. The prison windows were small and clad with iron bars, and over the main door, on the south side, was built a small rectangular portico on a level with the first floor of the prison, the stairs from which led directly down onto the street.
Phoebe arrived at the Tolbooth, glad of heart both to be back in the familiar cheery bustle of Glasgow and at the prospect of seeing her father. She hurried along the street and was just about to climb the stone steps to the portico and the main door when a man appeared by her side.
‘Miss Allardyce?’
She stopped and glanced round at him.
He pulled the cloth cap from his head, revealing thick fair hair beneath. He was of medium height with nothing to mark him as noticeable. His clothes were neither shabby nor well-tailored, grey trousers and matching jacket, smart enough, but not those of a gentleman. Something of his manner made her think that he was in service. He blended well with the background in all features except his voice.
‘Miss Phoebe Allardyce?’ he said again and she heard the cockney twang to his accent, so different to the lilt of the Scottish voices all around.
‘Who are you, sir?’ She looked at him with suspicion. He was certainly no one that she knew.
‘I’m the Messenger.’
His eyes were a washed-out grey and so narrow that they lent him a shifty air. She made to walk on, but his next words stopped her.
‘If you’ve a care for your father, you’ll listen.’
She narrowed her own eyes slightly, feeling an instant dislike for the man. ‘What do you want?’
‘To deliver a message to you.’ He was slim but there was a wiry strength to his frame.
‘I am listening,’ she said.
‘Your father’s locked up in there for the rest of his days. Old man like him, his health not too good. And the conditions being what they are in the Tolbooth. Must worry you that.’
‘My father’s welfare and my feelings on the matter are none of your concern, sir.’ She made to walk on.
‘They are if I can spring him, Miss Allardyce, or, should I say, give you the means to do so. Fifteen hundred pounds to pay his debt, plus another five hundred to set the pair of you up in a decent enough lifestyle.’
A cold feeling spread over her. She stared at him in shock. ‘How do you know the details of my father’s debt?’
The man gave a leering smile and she noticed that his teeth were straight and white. ‘Oh, we know all about you and your pa. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. Just think on the money. Two grand in the hand, Miss Allardyce, and old pop is out of the Tolbooth.’
‘You are offering me two thousand pounds?’ She stared at him in disbelief.
He threw her a purse. ‘A hundred up front.’ She peeped inside and felt her heart turn over as she saw the roll of white notes. ‘The rest when you deliver your end of the bargain.’
‘Which is?’
‘The smallest of favours.’ She waited.
‘As Mrs Hunter’s companion you have access to the whole of Blackloch Hall.’
Her scalp prickled with the extent of his knowledge.
‘There is a certain object currently within the possession of the lady’s son, a trifling little thing that he wouldn’t even miss.’
‘You are asking me to steal from Mr Hunter?’
‘We’re asking you to retrieve an item for its rightful owner.’
The man was trouble, as was all that he asked. She shook her head and gave a cynical smile as she thrust the purse back into his hands. ‘Good day to you, sir.’ And she started to climb the steps. She climbed all of four steps before his voice sounded again. He had not moved, but still stood where he was in the street.
‘If you won’t do it for the money, Miss Allardyce, you best have a thought for your pa locked up in there. Dangerous place is the Tolbooth. All sorts of unsavoury characters, the sort your pa ain’t got a chance against. Who knows who he’ll be sharing a cell with next? You have a think about that, Miss Allardyce.’
The man’s words made her blood run cold, but she did not look back, just ran up the remaining steps and through the porch to the front door of the gaol.
‘Everything all right, miss?’ the door guard enquired.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said as she slipped inside to the large square hallway. ‘If I could just have a moment to gather myself?’
The guard nodded.
Her hands were trembling as she stood aside a little to let the other visitors pass. She took several deep breaths, leaned her back against one of the great stone columns and calmed her thoughts. It was an idle threat, that was all. The villain could not truly hurt her father within the security of a prison as tough and rigorous as the Tolbooth. The man was a villain, a thief, trying to frighten her into stealing for him. And Phoebe had no intention of being blackmailed. She tucked some stray strands of hair beneath her bonnet, and smoothed a hand over the top of her skirts. And only when she was sure that her papa would not notice anything amiss did she make her way through the doorway that led to the prison cells. Once through that door she passed the guard her basket for checking.
He removed the cover and gave the contents a quick glance. ‘Raspberries this week, is it?’ With her weekly visits over the last six months Phoebe was on friendly terms with most of the guards and turnkeys.
‘They are my papa’s favourite.’
‘Sir Henry’ll fair enjoy them.’
‘I hope so.’ She smiled and followed him up the narrow staircase all the way up to the debtors’ cells on the third floor in which her father was held.
But the smile fled her face and the raspberries were forgotten the moment she entered the cell.
‘Papa!’ She placed the basket down on the small wooden table and ran to him. ‘Oh, my word! What ever has happened to you?’ She guided him to stand in the narrow shaft of sunlight that shone down into the cell through the bars of the small high window. And there in the light she could see that the skin around Sir Henry’s left eye was dark with bruising and so swollen as to partially conceal the bloodshot eye beneath. The bruising extended over the whole left side of his face, from his temple to his chin, and even on that side of his mouth his lower lip was swollen and cut.
‘Now, child, do not fuss so. It is nothing but the result of my own foolish clumsiness.’
But the man’s words were ringing in her head again. Dangerous place is the Tolbooth. All sorts of unsavoury characters, the sort your pa ain’t got a chance against.
‘Who did this to you?’ she demanded; she did not realise her grip had tightened and her knuckles shone white with the strain of it. ‘Who?’ Her eyes roved over his poor battered face.
‘I tripped and fell, Phoebe.
