Page 55 of Walk on the Wildsyde

Chapter 15

Mrs M,

I fink something is wrong. Plese come.

― signed Jimmy.

24th June 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

Hamilton pushed open the front door of his property to discover Malcolm Stewart still shouting up at the bedroom windows, calling Clara’s name. The reverend had finally roused himself to action and was red in the face, shaking his fist at Malcolm and demanding he stop his slanderous comments. All to no avail. Hamilton’s tactic was rather more brutal and certainly more effective. He walked up to Malcolm, grabbed him by his coat lapel, and punched him in the face.

Malcolm sprawled on the ground, the flaming torch knocked from his hand as blood flowed from his nose. He grinned up at Hamilton as his mouth filled with blood, giving him the look of a man who was not quite sane. Hamilton suspected he wasn’t in that moment, for the drink was upon him and he’d seen reasonable men do and say terrible things when in their cups. Not for the first time, he wondered if perhaps the reverend had a point, and if perhaps he had been standing on the wrong side of the argument. Whilst he would never agree with banning whisky—the idea was a horrifying one—he could not deny it caused a good deal of desperation in the town.

“Mr Anderson!” Reverend Halliday exclaimed, staring down at Malcolm sprawled in the gutter.

“Aye, I ken it was nae very Christian of me,” Hamilton said gruffly, very aware that he would need to ask this man for Clara’s hand the next day. “But I cannae have the fellow slandering an innocent girl, for Clara is nae with me,” he added, raising his voice for the benefit of the crowd.

“No, indeed!” the reverend said. “I meant only to thank you for doing what I could not.”

Hamilton glanced around in surprise and nodded as he saw the reverend’s gratitude writ large upon his face. “I’m afraid Mrs Cameron has the right of it,” he told the reverend. “Malcolm Stewart is sly, sneaking blackguard and always has been. He’s out to make trouble and doesnae believe in yer cause any more than he believes in anything but his own pleasure. He’s also off his heid with the drink.”

“I feared as much this evening, but I confess I did not wish to believe it when he has been such a lively addition to our numbers,” the reverend said mournfully. “But the poor young man needs our help, then,” he added, turning to where Malcolm had been lying and frowning to discover him gone.

Hamilton turned too, just in time to see Malcolm pick up the torch he had dropped and throw it through the downstairs window of the inn. Hamilton did not know if he had planned to do it or had simply taken leave of his senses, but if he really intended to set a blaze, he could not have aimed better. The decorators had been working downstairs, and all their paints were stacked neatly in the middle of the room with their brushes and cleaning cloths and ropes for hauling paint tins. The paints were oil based, and highly flammable. In the time it took for Hamilton to run for the door and snatch it open, an inferno had erupted inside, blocking his path to the stairs.

Clara smothered her mouth with her hand as she watched Hamilton punch Malcolm Stewart in the nose. Though she despised violence, she could not deny a brief surge of satisfaction at the horrid man getting his comeuppance. It was the least he deserved.

“Clara!”

Clara turned in surprise as she saw Jimmy at the bedroom door.

“Jimmy! What on earth are you doing here?”

“When I got home and ye weren’t here, I had a bad feeling in me belly,” he said grimly. “I didn’t know why, but I heard that rat Malcolm at the church hall, egging yer da on to come here, with lit torches and… I just knew he were gonna cause trouble. I sent Tommy Brodie with a note for Mrs Macready, but then I thought to come and warn Hamilton, but when Malcolm started calling yer name, I just knew.”

“Oh, Jimmy,” Clara said, blushing and feeling quite appalled that he should have guessed where she was.

“Aye, well. Me and Hamilton will be havin’ words,” he said darkly, which might have been funny coming from such a young boy if he had not been so entirely sincere.

“There’s no need, Jimmy. He’s going to speak to my father,” Clara said, going to him and resting her hand on his shoulder.

“Said so, did he?” Jimmy asked sceptically. “And you believed him?”

“Yes!” Clara said, smiling at him. “He did, and I do. He’s an honourable man, a good man, and I trust him.”

“You’ve changed your tune,” he observed, still looking unconvinced.

“I love him,” she said simply.

Jimmy looked faintly disgusted by this admission and shook his head. “Well, I suppose if he marries you, it’s all right, but he’d best pull his finger out and ask the rev. I’ll not have him dragging his feet and—”

The sound of breaking glass, screaming, and a loud whoosh of sound that made Clara’s heart skip with fear interrupted his indignant speech.

Jimmy clutched at her hand, his eyes wide, suddenly very much a little boy when he had seemed so grown up just moments before. “What was that?”

Clara shook her head and hurried to the door. She snatched it open, ran to the stairs and peered down, only to see smoke billowing up towards her.

“Oh, my!” she exclaimed, pulling Jimmy back.