Chapter Nineteen
Mr Thom orders lamb chops and tipsy pudding to his rooms, after spending his afternoon writing a full account of what has occurred so far in Edinburgh and sending it to the Grand Master in London.
Setting out Eleanor Thrale’s deceit, the details given by Davey of Mrs Moore’s movements, and his success in uncovering Araminta visiting the honours focusses his mind.
After eating, he settles by the ashy fire in his sitting room to consider his situation.
McGhie is little help in anything except his knowledge of the city, but, Thom concludes, the other man has provided little so far that might not be got from a map.
Thom can’t imagine he’d have tracked Eilidh McKenzie for years, as the spirit merchant has, and made so little progress.
McGhie is too hands-off, he concludes. That afternoon the men had bickered after Eleanor fled, the argument, in fact, running to the effect that McGhie is merely a voyeur.
‘Eilidh McKenzie was circumspect in her dealings.’ McGhie tried to excuse his failure.
‘I kept an eye on her, but she never betrayed her actions. There’s a line beyond which it’s difficult to intrude upon a lady.
I was hands-on, as soon as I was able, with that girl,’ he smirks, relishing the memory of Eleanor’s eyes flashing in terror.
‘I fear you must have seen little all the time you watched. The hag must have done something of interest, McGhie,’ Thom snapped back. ‘These women . . . they’re slippery. One can’t stand still as if one is fishing. One must hunt.’
‘The old quine never went to the castle,’ McGhie said. ‘This one, Mrs Moore, is more active. Perhaps if we continue to follow her, we’ll find out what they’re up to.’
Thom has been considering this exchange ever since.
He won’t let down the memory of his father or the trust placed in him by the Grand Master.
He takes out the letter he drafted earlier to London and adds a postscript about his brother’s lack of commitment.
Then, sealing it, he decides that where McGhie is weak, Thom will take action.
He jumps up from his chair, pulls on his coat and hat and takes a brisk walk along George Street and up the Mound in the darkness.
He turns right at the Lawnmarket where fiddle music is leaking onto the frozen, muddy setts and a thin, barefoot woman with, admittedly, haunting violet eyes, offers herself for sixpence, down the close.
‘Any business, sir?’ Thom ignores her and continues onwards to the Esplanade.
At the picket fence that blocks the castle entrance, two soldiers of the Royal Scots Guard stand to attention.
‘I’d like to speak to the chap in charge,’ Thom says with all the confidence of an Englishman abroad.
One of the soldiers falls at ease. ‘The governor, sir?’
Thom considers. ‘Who’s in charge of you?’
‘Colonel Fraser, sir.’
‘Him,’ Thom says, as if he’s picking a new cravat from a box of silks at the tailor’s. ‘He had a visit the other day from a friend of mine. You might tell him I’m here on account of Mrs Moore. My name is Mr Thom.’
The soldier nods sharply. ‘It’ll take a moment, sir,’ he says and disappears through the gate.
Thom’s breath clouds the black air. To left and right the gas lamps of Edinburgh twinkle beneath the Esplanade in the darkness.
It’s so clear tonight Thom can pick out the Firth of Forth; a wedge of absolute darkness beyond Leith and then over the sound, tiny pinpricks of light round the East Neuk.
‘It’s a pretty city, isn’t it?’ he comments, not expecting an answer.
The soldier returns and leads Mr Thom through the internal gates and up the slope towards the officers’ mess.
The horses are stabled at this time of night in the carthouses to the right of the governor’s residence.
Thom hears them shifting; a whiff of manure on the freezing air.
The battlements are impressive. The castle is well sited.
Inside, the man takes his coat and hat and leads him upstairs to a room where two officers are smoking.
A burst of laughter echoes from further inside as a beefy blond fellow in immaculate uniform gets to his feet.
‘Colonel Archie Fraser,’ he introduces himself. ‘Mrs Moore sent you, did she?’
‘Not at all.’ Thom holds out his hand, which Fraser clasps firmly.
‘I’m Harry Thom. I’m here on important business.
’ He isn’t sure, as he does it, that what he has in mind will work, but he shifts his thumb and his pinkie slightly, and Fraser responds with the same subtle gesture.
The colonel can’t be much of a card player for his face lights up at seeing the mason’s hold.
Not the sign of Harry Thom’s order, for the Hermits have other ways of recognising each other.
This is the sign of the Grand Lodge. Thom suspected as much.
‘We should talk in camera,’ Fraser says. ‘Do you mind, Hodge?’ He tosses the words to the other man.
‘Not at all, sir,’ Hodge responds and disappears into the other room, in the direction of the laughter.
Fraser pours a measure and motions to Thom to sit. ‘Well, brother,’ he says, ‘it’s nice to meet you. I knew there was a lodge in Edinburgh but—’
‘I’m from London,’ Thom cuts in. ‘I arrived shortly after Mrs Moore, sent by the Grand Master himself.’
‘I sailed up with her. We met on the boat,’ Fraser admits. ‘Interesting lady . . .’
Thom lifts his glass. ‘I’d not thought to ask for help,’ he says. ‘There’s nobody in Scotland of the adequate rank. But I’m sure the Grand Master will forgive me for talking to you. I’m on a mission of the utmost secrecy.’
Fraser pulls his chair closer. ‘To do with Mrs Moore?’
‘I can’t tell you everything, Colonel. But yes. Mrs Moore has come to Scotland to uncover a treasure that belongs to the Lodge. A treasure that was stolen more than two centuries ago and has been hidden all this time by . . . Scottish women,’ he gets out with a good degree of venom.
Fraser blinks. Mrs Moore is the most English lady he’s ever come across. ‘What?’
‘I know,’ Thom says. ‘She seems perfectly harmless. But her family aren’t. They stole what we seek. These women are infamous across the generations. Mrs Moore’s great grandmother was a notorious Jacobite who was executed in this castle, in fact. For treason.’
Fraser’s eyes widen.
‘Her grandmother was said to be a courtesan, or as good as,’ Thom adds for good measure.
Fraser’s mouth opens. ‘Good Lord,’ he says.
‘I understand you visited Mrs Moore at home, Colonel, and that you attended her great aunt’s funeral.’
‘I’d no idea of any of this,’ Fraser protests. ‘I simply met her on the ship.’
Thom relishes having the colonel on the back foot.
‘Don’t worry,’ he assures his new friend.
‘Your actions may prove useful. Firstly, I need to know what you saw in number four Glenfinlas Street. The smallest detail might reveal her. And secondly, I want you to recount the details of her visit here the other day. I have it on authority that she took an interest in the church.’
Fraser scarcely hesitates and certainly does not question where Thom might have got this information.
‘The house,’ he says. ‘Right. I was received in the drawing room which was furnished mostly with books. She had a map on her desk. In fact, she showed me it. It was an old thing – mid-eighteenth century. The garrison chapel was marked. Mrs Moore was insistent about seeing it.’ His mind is now running over his several encounters with Araminta McKenzie Moore, as if he’s picking up porcelain to examine the maker’s marks.
‘But she was less interested in the chapel when we got there. She went rootling about the ordnance store.’
Thom sits forward. ‘A storeroom? That’s interesting. Can we look at it now? Just the two of us?’
Fraser nods.
Outside, the men climb the wide carriageway in the dark.
Fraser holds high a lamp from the mess. The colonel is hard-eyed.
He knew when he joined the masonic lodge that he was swearing to something beyond his vows to king and country, but this has never conflicted with his military duty.
He likes the feel of Harry Thom – a gentleman who knows his business.
There’s something glamorous about him – his purpose, perhaps.
At the old tower, Fraser swings the lamp to indicate the garrison chapel and the store above it.
‘We can go straight into the store from the steps through the ordnance yard,’ he says.
‘No,’ Thom insists. ‘We must go as Mrs Moore did. I want to see what she saw.’
Inside the chapel, he inspects the pews and the pile of bibles. ‘And from here?’
Fraser indicates the steps to the storeroom.
Thom takes the lamp, leaving the colonel in a patch of moonlight through the thin window at the altar.
He recalls Eleanor saying something about her mistress looking through the windows.
The storeroom windows are mere slits and the view can only be of the old royal hall on the other side of the pathway.
Still, he feels he ought to check. He hoists the lamp above each sill in turn until he comes to the ancient graffiti, scratched into the stone.
‘Ha!’ he lets out. It’s incomprehensible, of course, but it reeks of the McKenzies. Pearls. Crowns. Jewellers.
He emerges back into the garrison chapel. ‘She left the castle after this, did she?’
Fraser shifts. He feels foolish. ‘I took her to the treasury,’ he confesses sheepishly. ‘I had them show her the honours.’
Thom is pragmatic. ‘Did she show much interest in that?’
Fraser considers. It didn’t occur to him at the time. ‘No,’ he gets out, the word slipping across his lips, unexpectedly. ‘Actually, not at all.’
‘Thought not. Good work, Colonel.’
Fraser nods. Thom hands him back the lamp. ‘If she gets in touch again, let me know immediately. I’ve taken rooms on North St David Street.’
Fraser leads the way back into the freezing night air.
This kind of intrigue is what he’d hoped of Scotland.
Though as he comes to think on it, he’d rather be in Thom’s shoes than his own.
He’s never been given a private mission.
He wonders how one might seek such a commission.
He walks his guest down the Lang Stairs to the main gate.
‘Anything I can do, brother, you need only let me know. Faith, hope and charity,’ he says, adding the maxim that refers to faith in the Great Architect who binds all masons in brotherhood.
Thom nods. ‘Indeed,’ he says, though he despises the cosy adage.
The Hermits don’t pander to childish indulgence.
Their meetings are altogether more Spartan affairs.
Fraser, however, seems satisfied. He raises his hand and watches Mr Thom stride across the Esplanade.
Back down the Lawnmarket, Harry Thom can’t conceal his glee.
He’s found a clue. It’s the first time a Hermit has done so – tangible evidence that the women are up to something.
He doesn’t know what it might lead to, but that isn’t the point.
He’s finding them out. He stops at the violet-eyed girl still loitering at the head of the close, and hands her a sixpenny bit.
It’s more than the little bitch is worth as he judges it but he’s feeling generous.
‘In the doorway,’ he snaps. ‘Quickly. Down on your knees.’