Araminta squints. The imprint is tiny. She took it as a hallmark. ‘Thank you, Brodie,’ she says. ‘I’ll need my coat.’
The bank is three blocks along; opposite the castle. Edinburgh is busy. Smartly dressed people bustle along the flagstones. Araminta passes a group of gentlemen speaking Italian. Hesitating at the entrance, she decides that as well as the Cairngorm, she will procure samples of the volcanic rock upon which the castle is built for Johnathan’s collection. And perhaps, she thinks, she won’t tell him that she has come to a place of business on her own, the day after Aunt Eilidh died, out of nothing more than curiosity. She suddenly feels the thrill of a new kind of freedom, for her husband need never know. Her neighbours will not have the opportunity to judge. Not in Richmond, in any case. It’s been a long time since she’s had anything to see to other than soft furnishings and decisions about what to serve for dinner. Now perhaps for the first time in her life, she’s completely free to follow her own inclination. It feels good.
Inside, the banking hall smells of fresh paint. Looking up, she’s impressed by the high ceiling with its ornate cornicing, and looking down, by evenly spaced fireplaces, efficiently stoked. This place has the bustle of a well-run kitchen. Several clerks are busy behind the counter. A customer in a chocolate-brown suit laughs too loudly at a joke that the bank employee serving him doesn’t share. Araminta approaches a thin, dark-eyed young man at a desk earnestly organising gold sovereigns into a leather holder. ‘I wonder if you might be able to help me?’ She withdraws the key from her reticule.
The clerk nods and Araminta feels a shard of excitement. ‘I need to fetch a manager,’ he says and disappears.
Presently, he returns in the company of an older, plumper fellow in a dapper black suit who looks her up and down in an unsubtle fashion, taking in her mourning dress and makingjudgement upon its quality. ‘Yes, madam?’ he says, his voice so plummy that she wonders if he’s playacting. ‘I’m Mr Stoddart, the floor manager.’
Araminta extends her gloved hand. ‘My name is Mrs Moore of Richmond,’ she announces. ‘I’m the great niece of Miss Eilidh McKenzie who I believe was a customer here. I’m the heir, in fact, to her townhouse on Glenfinlas Street. My great aunt’s solicitor, Mr Drummond, gave me this key.’
Mr Stoddart regards the key. ‘Would you like to open the box?’ he asks, as if annoyed by Araminta’s lengthy explanation.
‘Box?’
‘Yes, Mrs Moore. The key is for a deposit box. I know your great aunt. A most august lady. Do I take it that you have been sadly bereaved? That Miss McKenzie has left us?’
Araminta nods.
‘My deepest condolences, madam.’ Mr Stoddart bows in a flowery fashion. ‘Please follow me.’
Araminta has never visited a bank. Johnathan sees to their finances, bringing home purses of cash to furnish her quarterly allowance. When she goes shopping and does not have immediate funds, she simply asks for a bill to be sent to her husband. Here, she finds the gentle drumming of papers being stamped surprisingly soothing. Mr Stoddart withdraws a ring of keys from his waistcoat and opens a door into an octagonal hallway with a stair leading off it, at the top of which a watchman sits on a sturdy leather-bound chair. The man springs to his feet.
‘Sir,’ he says.
Stoddart does not respond, only continues downstairs, unlocking another door at the bottom. Inside, the room is light for what must be a basement, though the windows are barred. ‘Please, Mrs Moore.’ Stoddart indicates a mahogany chair at a well-burnished table. As she sits, he disappears from the room and then returns with a metal strongbox. He holds out his handand Araminta gives him the key, which he turns in the lock without opening the lid.
‘I shall afford you privacy, madam.’
‘And this box is my aunt’s?’
‘The box is the property of the Royal Bank of Scotland,’ Stoddart replies tartly. ‘Your aunt and, indeed, now you, may keep whatever you wish in it, upon payment of the annual fee.’
He closes the door behind him and Araminta pauses before opening the lid. She’s not sure what she expects to find inside. A personal note or a diamond tiara. She takes a deep breath. In the event, there is only a small curl of cloth folded at the bottom; blue and green tartan. The edges are frayed and the shape uneven. She shakes it in case she’s missed something wrapped for safe-keeping. But there’s nothing. Just this tattered old rag, slightly larger than a handkerchief. Peering, she realises there are two small dots embroidered on it. Perhaps, she thinks, moths necessitated a repair. She checks the empty box again, wondering how much the annual fee comes to. A wave of frustration is followed by a wave of anger. What on earth was Great Aunt Eilidh playing at? One might have expected a cache of diamonds after the drama of the velvet-lined box and the secret key. The old woman’s mind must have been failing, she thinks, as she folds the uneven scrap into the pocket of her mourning dress and goes to the door. Mr Stoddart is waiting in the hallway.
‘I shan’t require to keep the box,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’
‘The Royal Bank is happy to be of service,’ Stoddart replies, leading her back upstairs.
Outside, rain has started to spit, and it builds to a torrent that drums wildly on the flagstones as she makes her way home. Brodie fetches her across the pavement holding up a red Hanway with an ebony handle. It must have belonged to Aunt Eilidh, like everything else.
‘I’ll lie down,’ she says, as he takes her sodden things.
She climbs the stairs to find Eleanor in the bedroom.
‘Are you all right, madam?’ Eleanor asks, offering a cotton cloth to dry her mistress’s face.
‘I feel tired is all,’ Araminta replies. ‘Leave your work. I need quiet.’
‘Can I help?’
‘Just go.’
Eleanor disappears as if she’s evaporated and Araminta turns down the coverlet and kicks off her shoes, slipping out of her wide, hooped petticoats but leaving her dress on for the covered buttons are too fiddly. She decides not to examine the tartan cloth further. Perhaps if she sleeps, something will occur to her. She pulls the curtains and shifts the woollen pillow at the head of the bed. Then, in the papery yellow light, on the thick linen bedsheet she sees a folded piece of paper. There’s something of the love note about it. It wasn’t there last night when she went to bed, nor this morning when Eleanor came to wake her. Araminta glances over her shoulder, then unfolds it.Mrs Moore,it says, the words written with clear penmanship.If you will come alone to the crypt of St Andrew’s Church on the Cowgate this evening at six of the clock you will learn something to your advantage. Tell nobody. Make sure you are not followed for there is always danger.It’s signedA supporter of the McKenzie women.
Araminta sinks onto the edge of the mattress and reads the note three times. Everything in Edinburgh seems so dramatic. Why didn’t Aunt Eilidh simply leave a list of whatever she wanted Araminta to see to? Why doesn’t this person call to the house and explain whatever’s on their mind? She sighs, realising that she’s now too intrigued to sleep. She slips on her shoes again and creeps down to the drawing room, the hem of her dress trailing down the stairs. There’s a large collection of maps on the shelves, from an atlas of the world to a plan ofEdinburgh’s New Town. Unable to find the Cowgate upon the latter, she moves to a map of the Old Town. She recalls this is an area Colonel Fraser warned her against in one of his many diatribes on the ship. The site of pickpocketing Highlanders, he said. Methodically, she searches the nest of lanes around the High Street and quickly finds the Cowgate and St Andrew’s Church. She’s certain that it’s inadvisable for a lady to venture further south than Princes Street, never mind in the hours of darkness and certainly not alone. She drops into one of the yellow armchairs. Why the McKenzie women, she wonders. What of the McKenzie men?
In the hallway she hears footsteps, and a flash of pale apricot passes the doorway.
