Chapter 23
R amsay offered two suggestions: the Writers’ Museum, on Lady Stair’s Close, and the author’s old home, on Heriot Row, seeing as they knew the book had been there at least once.
As Theo headed through the door to the street, it felt like, suddenly, the air outside had turned much, much colder. Ramsay sidled up quietly to Mirren.
‘You just want this book so your aunt can see it again, yes?’
Mirren nodded. ‘That’s all she wants.’
He glanced at Theo, who was stamping his feet outside and looking at his phone.
‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘the Pallisers have ... a reputation in my line of work.’
Mirren regarded him steadily. ‘So you think ... if I find it, I should bring it to you?’
Ramsay laughed. ‘Oh goodness, of course not. Although I’d certainly do you a good deal on it. No. I’m just saying, be careful.’
‘Theo isn’t like his uncle,’ said Mirren hotly.
‘Oh, I’m glad you know him so well. Right-oh.’
Mirren bit her lip, rather awkwardly.
‘I was just going to say ... just to you. There’s one more ...’
He pressed a piece of paper into her hand.
‘This isn’t the writer’s place ... it’s the artist’s. His country retreat. Worth asking. And maybe ... I mean, it’s up to you, but maybe go alone.’
Mirren pondered this as Theo cheerfully accompanied her to the Writers’ Museum, which was down the Royal Mile, a chilly but beautiful walk down the long cobbled street from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace, past little hidden closes, ancient tenement buildings in higgledy-piggledy order; streets peeling off to the side, down to the Cowgate, or back to the gardens. They stopped, of course, at every bookshop they saw. It was fascinating, following the footsteps of a thousand-year-old city. To their left was a tour to Mary King’s Close, an old plague street that had been closed up four hundred years ago, leaving the inhabitants to their miserable fates, then built over. Mirren shuddered. ‘That’s not very Christmassy,’ she said.
‘You’re right,’ said Theo. ‘They should put fairy lights on all the unmarked graves.’
Mirren tutted, but was thoughtful about what Ramsay had said. Mind you, she had known him for five minutes, whereas she and Theo had spent a lot of time together. Of course, she had flattered herself that that was because he enjoyed her company, although last night had rather put paid to that ... It was a conundrum. Regardless, she didn’t mention the paper Ramsay had given her right away.
The museum, on Lady Stair’s Close, was beautiful, an old building full of treasure from three of Scotland’s most famous writers, and included memorabilia from Stevenson’s travels, pictures and objects. It was fascinating, and the woman there was incredibly informative and helpful. But nothing about the book; she knew a lot about his travels and his life, rather less about details of specific editions. It was a bust.
The Stevenson house wasn’t much help either; although the couple who now ran it as a B everywhere, people were going to restaurants and bars and celebrating the run-up to Christmas in defiance of the cold dark starry night.
They had travelled a very long way, looked at miles of shelving, met a lot of people – but got no closer to their goal. As they stood there, Mirren still utterly freezing, her phone beeped. The RAC had made it to her vehicle and reckoned they’d fixed it. (She had left it open, upon reassuring herself that it was very unlikely that anyone would want to steal the spare swimming kit she kept in the boot in case she ever wanted to do some emergency exercise. It had never been used.)
‘Well,’ said Theo, crestfallen. He had felt sure that in this great city of books, surely, surely they would find the one they were looking for. ‘I’ve heard there’s an amazing shop over in Wigtown ...’
Mirren looked around. Getting the car fixed had absolutely cost the last of her money. She wasn’t going to ask her poor aunt for more; Nora sounded more and more pessimistic whenever Mirren texted. She couldn’t leave her car for much longer, it would get towed. And there would, after last night, obviously be no more sharing-a-room-with-Theo shenanigans. That had not worked out at all.
They had tried. It had been, in its way, an adventure. But here, on an ancient street in an ancient capital, revellers all around in party hats with streamers and crackers, lights swinging across the roads from the tops of buildings, Christmas tree lights glowing in the windows, it felt like it was coming to its end. It had been undeniably fun and interesting. Mirren realised as she looked around that, somehow, even the thought of Rob had ceased to sting. But her aunt was far away, getting weaker every day. If anyone would have known, she sensed, it was the old man with the missing finger in a huge cave full of books in the home town of Stevenson himself. And he did not. Edinburgh, beautiful as it was, was for her the end of the line.