1.2 Mrs Sinclair and the Feather Haa

In which Mrs Sinclair discovers a mystery.

When she had finished examining the ledger, Mrs Sinclair felt disturbed. Yet her position was secure. The estate would continue to produce sufficient income to keep herself and her daughters in moderate comfort. She could exercise careful management and had some improvements in mind to discuss with the crofters, and with the new Shetland Society she had heard Gilbert mention. She might begin to modernise the fishing rights, and encourage a more scientific approach in the estate’s agricultural practices.

Her small jointure was intact, and her daughters also had their own money. Mr Sinclair had made settlements for his daughters, for their future husbands’ use, at each of their births. He had known what was due to their station in life, although he had grumbled at the arrival of Anne.

‘Another lass! Well, so be it.’ He had only called for claret that night, rather than port, so she had supposed that Anne was not a cause for celebration.

The accounts were clear, and well-kept. Her own father could not have arranged them better. Nonetheless, Mrs Sinclair was puzzled by a certain annual payment. A sum had been outlaid yearly to ends that were still obscure. Two shillings a year had not been much, when it began in the year after her marriage. But in the last three years Mr Sinclair had been paying out a guinea each year to an unknown ‘TT’, usually at the beginning of the Martinmas term.

Oliphant had no information to give her, and she was at a loss as to how to find out who ‘TT’ might be, or where he might be found. She turned back the stiff pages to find the most recent entries.

‘The next payment is due in four weeks, Oliphant, as you see here. He had noted it.’

‘Yes, Mem,’ Oliphant agreed, looking uncomfortable.

‘Yes, but where – or to whom – were these payments made? And how can I continue paying them without knowing if the purpose for which they were due has also died? It is a mystery. I will have to consider.’ She paused, tapping her finger on the arm of the chair. ‘I can do no more here. I would be obliged if you would return the ledger to its shelf.’

He took the book back, closing it and heaving it up into his arms.

‘If I might suggest, Mem –’

‘Yes?’ She had risen but felt unaccountably dizzy. She was glad to be able to pause, one hand resting on the desk, to wait for his remark. She should have eaten something this morning, after all.

Oliphant she knew, was not a talkative man. Mr Sinclair had shouted that out of him. But he was reliable and experienced, and now he would be essential for the proper management of the estate. Her estate. She noted his cautious expression and his forthright stance, standing correctly by the door with his worn riding boots now firmly planted on the parquet floor. He knew his place and his duty, and she knew his value.

‘The master would not admit questions on this matter, Mem. I did not handle these payments. The bank at Lerwick would give some information. If Mem wishes to enquire­?’

She considered this without moving, more to allow the dizziness to leave her head than because she doubted his advice.

‘It is a good suggestion, thank you. I will write a note for you to take to Mr Borthwick.’

He bowed, and opened the door for her to leave.

Jessie had finished packing away Mr Sinclair’s clothes and his boots and shoes. Her expression showed more than a housekeeper’s satisfaction in clearing out a room. Mrs Sinclair knew well that Jessie had not liked Mr Sinclair. She had long harboured a suspicion that before his marriage Jessie had had to warm his bed, whether she liked it or no. The housekeeper seemed to be glad to be done with him. Now she was looking at her mistress with a challenging air.

‘Whit will we do with thae boxes, Mem?’

Mrs Sinclair remembered again to keep a sad expression on her face. She looked at the strapped travelling chests, the hatboxes and the two old-fashioned wig-boxes – his father’s, she recollected – and wondered how to get them out of the house. She did not look at the narrow bed. Its linen had already been stripped, and his pillows – thin threadbare things as unyielding as a wadded coat – were neatly stacked at its head. She had used one of those to press against his flaccid, drugged face in the early morning. It had suffocated him quickly. She did not know which one she had used, and she did not look at them.

‘Jessie, I think I will ask Mr Haraldsen to take charge of these,’ she gestured at the baggage, ‘and beg him to distribute the garments to the scholars and the crofters. Please send a message to him saying that the clothes will be conveyed to him by the estate cart in the morning.’

‘Aye Mem. But –’ Jessie was looking dubiously at the mound of baggage. ‘The schoolmaster’s croft is mighty small.’

‘Perhaps they should go to the school instead. The cart will bring the empty chests back, and then they can go in the attics.’

‘Yes Mem. Will you write the message, or will you ask Miss Warner?’

Mrs Sinclair had been so preoccupied with the problem of the mysterious payments, and with maintaining the sombre demeanour of a widow, that she was forgetting facts she had known throughout her marriage. Jessie could cast accounts, but she could not write.

‘Of course, forgive me, Jessie. I am utterly distracted. I will write it now.’

Episode 2.3 will follow.

Mrs Sinclair and the Feather Haa © Kate Macdonald 2024.

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