‘Winifred,’ she shouts. ‘Thank God.’
She races towards it, waving, and then remembers her great aunt’s broken rib and the impossibility of this conveyance bearing the old woman. One nun looks much like another from a distance. She glances behind but they haven’t caught up yet. There are four exits to the Grassmarket. They’ll have to figure out which one she’s taken. Ahead, the cart stops. A nun climbs down, wearing different robes to the woman driving – pale blue with a prayer rope tied to a leather belt and a wimple that’s fitted incorrectly. She looks rather young. Araminta peers. The nun starts running towards her. ‘Madam!’ she shouts.
Before she knows it, Araminta is crying. She’s shaking. She’s flung her arms round the girl. ‘He took me, Eleanor,’ she babbles. ‘But I got away. He’s behind. He’s following.’
The nun driving the cart tethers the reins to the brake pole efficiently and dismounts. Neither she nor Eleanor ask questions. ‘Come on,’ Eleanor says urgently, as they hoist Araminta onto the back. Araminta cannot stop talking as she clambers up. ‘I didn’t understand how terrifying he was. I didn’t look after you properly when he hurt you. I sent you back. You must have been so brave.’ Her nose is streaming. Her eyes are pink. Her hand touches Eleanor’s cheek. ‘He’s the worst kind of person. I’m sorry. I didn’t understand.’
‘It’s all right, ma’am,’ Eleanor says. ‘It’s my fault he’s after you at all.’
Araminta shakes her head vehemently. ‘It’s my fault you were pulled into it. If he hadn’t sent you, he’d have engaged another.’
‘Did he get the clue?’ Eleanor asks, ever pragmatic.
Araminta lets out a stifled laugh. She’s more than one clue further on from when Eleanor left. ‘He did not. He has that old box, though. The gold one.’
Sister Cecilia does not enquire about this odd conversation. She clambers into the driving seat and looks to Eleanor for instruction. ‘We must still go to the address on the paper,’Eleanor says decisively, climbing into place behind her mistress. ‘Quickly.’
Sister Cecilia gees the horse. Araminta cannot take her eyes off the opening beyond the tenements where she emerged. As they trot smartly down the road, she makes out one of the policemen emerging onto the wasteground. He looks around, foxed. The cart is far ahead now and the man is looking, she realises, for a woman alone. A woman running. Still, she ducks down. Thom will not be far behind.
‘I can see where he struck you, ma’am,’ Eleanor says. ‘The devil. We shall fix that with a little witch hazel.’
‘He’s coming,’ is all Araminta can get out.
‘He’s on foot, though, isn’t he? Too slow,’ Eleanor says with a smile.
Araminta clasps the girl’s hand. This is not a matter of a few stray ribbons or some missing change. No household management book could cover this situation. Mrs Rundell be damned.
‘Did the nuns look after you?’ She squeezes Eleanor’s fingers.
‘Yes, madam,’ Eleanor says. ‘Though it was a little too quiet for my liking.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cillian Brodie checks at St Giles’ when Winifred commissions him to do so. But he finds nothing, for his visit takes place more than two hours before Araminta McKenzie Moore escapes from her prison. Having made enquiries to no avail at the church, he asks at the police office, where Mr Neill’s instructions have already been received. Davey turned up nothing at Mr McGhie’s where the shop boy explained that the gentlemen had quarrelled. ‘I doubt Mr Thom will be back. It was a humdinger,’ he confided. Now, Brodie decides to walk back down the Mound to consult once more with Mr Neill.
The McKenzie coach is not distinctive. It’s more than ten years old and painted black, though with fancy brass fittings, admittedly. Still, now Brodie comes to think on it, it may be that finding the coach will be easier than finding the mistress and doing so might provide a clue as to where she’s been taken. He wants to check that Neill and his men haven’t neglected this matter.
At Heriot Row he rings the bell and is admitted to the magistrate’s office. It’s late afternoon now and Neill is at his desk, halfway through a bottle of port.
‘News?’ he enquires brusquely.
Brodie shakes his head. ‘I wondered, sir, about the coach?’
‘I’m a good deal more concerned about the lady, Mr Brodie,’ Neill says drily.
Brodie explains his thinking and the magistrate considers this, sipping his Douro. He notes Brodie’s description of the conveyance and the horses, which are, again, not unusual. Two chestnut mares. Eilidh McKenzie did not hold with stallions fordrawing a coach about the town, though some gentlemen prefer them. ‘Giving the coachmen a harder task,’ she termed it.
‘I’ll pass this on to Mr McLevy, the detective in charge. Good thinking, Mr Brodie,’ Neill allows.
‘McLevy has men searching then?’ Brodie checks.
‘Everywhere we can think of. Several have been dispatched to Holyroodhouse. Folk will have seen the fellow leave and might have noted which direction he took. He may well be holding Mrs Moore nearby. All about the district, there are yards where a coach could easily be concealed. Mr McLevy is a good man in a crisis, never fear. Now, if that’s all, sir, I’ve correspondence to attend.’ Neill gestures at the scatter of papers across his desk.
Back outside, in the chill on Heriot Row, Brodie finds himself walking eastwards under the frozen branches which overhang the pavement. It’s getting dark and the temperature is dropping. At Dublin Street he stares in the direction of the building where Sister Winifred is residing. He doesn’t want to go back to her without news, but still, he climbs the steep hill and cuts back along Queen Street. Instead of knocking at the main door, however, he rounds the corner, where the Campbells’ basement opens onto the lane. He raps briskly, and the side door is opened by a kitchen maid even smaller than Bella. Brodie asks for Cook and the girl lets him inside. In the kitchen, Cook is making potted haugh and the air is tinged with marrowbone and bay leaves. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows as she piles the meat onto a walnut chopping board.
‘That’ll be on account of my mistress, I expect.’ Brodie gives a little bow. ‘You’re taking good care of her.’ Cook takes in the handsome butler and smiles. ‘Sister Winifred,’ Brodie adds and introduces himself. ‘I expect the magistrate’s officers have been here.’
Cook shakes her head. ‘Nobody’s been, Mr Brodie. Nobody like that. This is a respectable kitchen.’
