‘Sister,’ Winifred helps him.
‘Yes, Sister.’ Davey continues. ‘Oh. He asked me if I’d seen a nun.’ Araminta and Winifred lock eyes. ‘He told me to go to Mr McGhie’s tomorrow but, ma’am, I went today. I waited on the lane all afternoon, for you’d no need of me...’ His voice trails. He’s supposed to be at the mistress’s pleasure.
‘It’s fine,’ Araminta motions. ‘But why, Davey?’
‘I thought it was a taste of their own medicine,’ he ventures.
Araminta grins. She likes this carriage boy more and more. ‘Did you uncover anything?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Davey says. ‘The shop boy. I fell into conversation with him when he left. Name of Ewan Fergus. He’s the same age as I am and stays in the old tenements at the foot of Calton Hill. His family’s dead. I stood him a pint of beer at the hostelry past St James Square.’
Winifred smiles. ‘They’ve bribed our staff and you thought to do the same?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I told him I was in the employ of Mr Thom’s mother. I said she was anxious for her son.’
‘Did he tell you anything?’ Winifred enquires.
‘Sister,’ says Davey, ‘I could scarce shut him up. He said Mr Thom’s taken rooms on North St David Street and that the gentlemen squabble, especially in drink. That Mr Thom dislikes Mr McGhie, who spends a deal of time trying to impress him, despite that. That after Eleanor left the other day the men almost came to blows. They call themselves Hermits.’
‘What does that mean?’ Araminta asks.
‘I don’t know. Neither did Ewan. The Devils are gentlemen that drink on Advocate’s Close. Perhaps the Hermits are something the same.’ Davey’s eyes fall to his boots as if he’s plucking up the courage to add something.
‘What is it?’ Sister Winifred pushes.
‘I wonder what they’re after, Sister,’ Davey says. ‘Eleanor didn’t say.’
‘Eleanor doesn’t know,’ Winifred snaps. ‘There’s no need for you to know either.’
‘Yes, Sister.’ The boy sounds apologetic.
‘Thank you, Davey,’ Araminta chimes in. ‘You’ve done well.’
They send him back to the mews. ‘Search Eilidh’s library’, Winifred tells her niece – a parting shot – ‘for any mention of that building but also these Hermits.’
‘Tomorrow I’ll return to the Maitland house,’ Araminta says. She’ll amend the list in her notebook when she gets home.
Aunt Eilidh left me a tartan kerchief.
Clue 8 led to the castle.
Clue 9 from the castle to Heriot’s: a third point on the triangle.
Clue 10The third point was a plague pit.
Clue 11 Inverted, the point led to the Maitland house.
The women pause in the hall, the light of the moon through the fanlight falling onto the flagstones. Both are considering their progress. ‘Good luck,’ Winifred says and watches her great niece disappear up the street in anticipation of a long night at the old desk in the drawing room. Once Araminta is gone, Winifred gives a silent prayer of thanks that Edinburgh is small and she has a wide acquaintance in the town. She thought she might catch a few hours’ sleep in the library, but matters have taken a turn – one she did not elucidate to Araminta. She wants to shield the girl where she can. Thom is a menace but there’s a chance, she recognises, that she might get a handle to him. She checks the street’s clear, then slips out of the door and strides along Queen Street, turning south at the far end. North St David Street comprises a short run of townhouses, sited on a steep hill, much like Glenfinlas Street with a square at the top. Here, at the bottom, are three of the New Town’s oldest buildings; landlords’ apartments below with rooms to let on the upper floors. Winifred hasn’t been here in years. She trips up the stairs to number eleven as if she were a far younger woman, which, indeed, she was on the last occasion.
The windows are dark but she doesn’t hesitate to rap on the main door. After a minute it’s opened by a man in a linen nightgown with a navy lambswool dressing gown pulled loosely around his wide frame. ‘What do you want?’ He sounds short-tempered, eyeing her thick brown dress and workaday boots. He’d never speak to her that way if she was wearing her wimple. He peers past Winifred up the hill, as if there may be an explanation for this poor specimen of an old woman on his doorstep.
Winifred can’t help laughing. The last time she was here she had green silk stays and buttoned kidskin boots. ‘I’m sorry it’s late. I had a friend in this house. I’m here to speak to Grizel.’
The man steps backwards as if Winifred has uttered a secret password.
In the inner hallway a maid so small she looks as if she’s only a child loiters at the door to the kitchen stairs. At the doorway to the back room, a woman in a thick, creamy nightdress and lace-edged cap studies the visitor. A greying plait snakes down her back.
‘My God. Saoirse McKenzie,’ she says, her voice breaking.
