Chapter Twenty-Three
The following morning is so bright it might almost be spring.
Araminta calls for the carriage to take her to the High Street.
After hours in Eilidh’s library last night, she could find nothing useful.
The shelves yielded several books and manuscripts that referred to Maitland men, who it seems were illustrious; poets as well as statesmen.
None of the books recounted the story of a Maitland woman, however.
Late, she fell asleep frustrated on the sopha, where she had a dream which she now cannot remember.
When she gets to the house on the High Street at the other end of the triangle on the map, she raps with confidence on the door, the gold box in her pocket. Today her knock isn’t answered by the barefoot child but by a tidily dressed, red-haired woman carrying a baby. She has ink on her fingers.
‘Mrs Lindsay,’ Araminta guesses.
Mrs Lindsay shifts. ‘I don’t know you, ma’am,’ she says, her tone stilted as if she’s smartening up her accent, like a pair of gloves that need to be stretched.
Araminta introduces herself. ‘My husband is a student of architecture,’ she lies. ‘He asked me to visit this building while I’m in Edinburgh.’
Mrs Lindsay looks doubtful.
‘History,’ Araminta adds by way of explanation. ‘Do you know anything about the old place? The Maitland family lived here, did they not?’
Mrs Lindsay hoists the child further up her hip. ‘The Maitlands resided outside town at Lethington. It was the daughter of the house who lived here.’
Araminta’s face betrays her surprise. ‘That seems unusual,’ she says. ‘Might I come in?’
She judges it best not to admit she’s already been inside the Lindsays’ rooms. Today the place is tidier with a pot of something simmering that smells of stewed leeks and pearl barley.
‘There’s a crest on the wall in the yard,’ Mrs Lindsay says.
‘Do you know anything about the woman. The Maitland woman, I mean?’
‘Her name was Marie, I think,’ Mrs Lindsay reveals. ‘She was old when she married. That’s when she had this house.’
‘This would have been her reception room?’
‘I suppose. Her bedroom must have been where we have ours. At the back.’
Araminta lingers at the painted wall above the stove. Its surface is roughly plastered, the image fresco al secco. The painting is indistinct but it’s certainly a woman. ‘Do you think this was Marie?’ she asks.
Mrs Lindsay shrugs. ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Or perhaps the other one.’
‘Other one?’
‘In the bedroom.’
‘May I?’
Araminta walks into the back of the house.
This room is smaller and on the same side as the other painting, another fresco, a different woman, paler than the image in the front room.
Better preserved too. Beside the strawberry-blonde figure, entwined with flowers, the words Nor Penelope, Nor Ruth, Nor Portia are inscribed.
‘What do you think it means?’ she asks.
‘My husband says they’re the virtues of good women.’
Araminta nods. ‘Of course. Self-control, gratitude and wisdom.’ She casts her mind back to her classroom classics. ‘But why is it negative? Not those women?’
‘Because the woman it describes is better,’ Mrs Lindsay says shyly. ‘Frank says she looks like me.’ Her colour heightens. ‘It’s from a poem, I think.’
There were love poems by Sir Richard Maitland, Marie’s father, in one of the books Araminta studied last night. She’d paid them little mind.
‘How nice. I’d like to pay my respects to Mistress Maitland. Is there a family tomb?’
‘I couldn’t say. The family seat might have a kirk. Perhaps there.’
‘But she lived here?’
‘Aye,’ Mrs Lindsay says. ‘As far as I know. She’d business in town, I guess. Society too in those days.’
‘I wonder the dates of her life.’
‘Mary Queen of Scots’ reign, I think, or thereabouts.’
Araminta takes in the dresses worn by the women in the frescoes.
Mrs Lindsay’s assessment seems likely. She remembers the story of the queen’s forced second marriage and her own ancestor’s part in it.
For a moment she feels the thrill of connection as if she might be tied through time in blood. ‘Thank you,’ she says.
Back on the street, Davey is smoking on the step of the carriage.
He stubs out the cheroot and jumps up. On the other side, a robed advocate makes his way up the hill to the High Court.
Araminta takes in the thoroughfare. The high kirk is close, fancy for a local parish church but if you lived here, that’s where you’d be bound to worship.
The church opposite does not seem old enough.
‘I’ll walk up to St Giles’,’ she says and falls in behind the lawyer.
The kirk looks different in daylight with the nearby court in session. Inside, it’s shady despite the bright winter sun. The first night she visited, there were no priests, but today two young men wearing black cassocks are sitting like bookends in the first pew. Araminta approaches.
‘Excuse me, does St Giles’ have a graveyard?’
One man looks at the other and it’s the second priest who answers. ‘We bury folk at Greyfriars Kirk, ma’am, or at the Calton. Both a short walk.’
‘I’m looking for the grave of a woman who was a parishioner some time ago. Marie Maitland. Do you know her?’
‘She’s notorious. She had a run in with Reverend Knox.’
‘Knox?’
The priest’s eyes betray his disbelief that Araminta doesn’t recognise the name. He turns to the other fellow. ‘That’s why we must have a statue, Jamie,’ he says.
‘You’re English are you, madam?’ Jamie checks.
Araminta nods. The second priest raises his eyes as if to say that explains it.
‘John Knox,’ he lays it out. ‘Scotland’s most famous preacher. He was minister here and stood up to Mary Queen of Scots. She was a Catholic monarch; Scotland’s last.’
‘Reverend Knox was one for an argument with a lady then,’ Araminta ventures.
Jamie laughs. ‘He wrote a good deal about that, madam. He was buried here.’
‘Here? Not Greyfriars or the Calton?’
‘St Giles’ had a graveyard in Knox’s day. He was among the last to be interred. The new court library is built over the site and the lawyers’ chambers and holding cells.’ The man gestures beyond the wall of the kirk, as if Araminta might not have noticed the fancy new buildings.
‘Might Marie Maitland be buried here too?’ she asks.
The priest considers this. ‘Perhaps. She was younger than Knox. In any case, the graves were moved long before the recent building. The advocates have had their chambers here for a long time.’
The second priest cuts in. ‘There’s been a church here since the twelfth century. There were a lot of gravestones.’
Araminta sighs. ‘Do you have parish records?’ she asks. ‘Might there be something recorded about Mistress Maitland and this run-in with Reverend Knox? Or her burial?’
‘The lawyers would have it,’ Jamie says. ‘It’s been written about of course. Not as much as Knox and the queen,’ he adds dismissively.
‘And the lawyers are across the square?’
He nods.
There’s a doorman beneath the portico outside and today he’s sitting on a tiny stool enjoying the winter sun. He springs to his feet as Araminta approaches.
‘The minister at St Giles’ said there are church records in this building.’
‘I don’t know about that, ma’am. It’s a law library,’ the doorman says, matter of fact.
‘Is there a librarian?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Good.’ She makes for the door but he steps into her path.
‘No women allowed.’
‘What if a lady has a case?’
The doorman looks flummoxed. ‘I expect if a lady had a case, she might be brought by her advocate.’ He regards her. ‘Do you have a case?’
‘Perhaps,’ she says slowly. ‘My solicitor is Mr Drummond.’
The doorman looks pleased with himself. ‘A solicitor’s no good,’ he says. ‘You need an advocate.’
Araminta keeps a tight hold on her temper, which is fraying. ‘Do you think I might speak to the librarian?’
‘Here, ma’am?’
‘Might he be prepared to come out?’
This is clearly highly irregular, but the doorman disappears inside and emerges a minute later with a young man wearing spectacles who introduces himself as Mr Winter.
He’s wearing an old-fashioned greatcoat without a hat, which, Araminta thinks, might mean he’s not one to stand on ceremony.
This might work to her advantage. She shakes his hand and gives her name.
She tells him that Drummond is her family solicitor and that she’s looking for information related to the burial of Marie Maitland.
Mr Winter sucks his teeth. ‘I know of her. She was her father’s secretary. Sir Richard Maitland of Lethington.’
‘I understand she resided nearby.’
‘She did. After her father’s death. I’m making a study of the surrounding area – so much has changed, you see, and I thought it prudent to keep a record for the library. Marie Maitland owned a house on the opposite block. It was ceded to her in her marriage contract.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘For a married woman? Maybe. Scottish law is distinct from English. Property rights and such. And her family was venerable.’
Araminta doesn’t want to tumble down a rabbit hole of Mr Winter’s personal interests.
‘Do you know where she’s buried?’
Winter shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘But her body may have been moved in any case, as I understand from the minister at St Giles’. The graves here were resited.’
Winter shifts from foot to foot.
‘Was she not moved, sir?’
‘I’m afraid our forebears . . . that is to say . . . it was a shoddy job.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The gravestones were moved. Much of the monumental masonry went to Greyfriars Kirkyard although it was piled in a haphazard fashion and a great deal was broken. The town council at the time didn’t deem it necessary to remove the remains.
It caused quite a stir, in fact, when the foundations of the new building went in. ’
‘You mean . . .’ Araminta lets this information drop into her understanding.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Winter confirms. ‘The bodies are still down there. We’ve been banned from storing anything in the lower basement. Quite a jumble, as I understand it. Centuries of cadavers, buried on top of each other. Thousands. Some quite notable.’
‘Knox?’
‘One of the last to go in.’
‘So if Marie Maitland was buried here . . .’
‘She’d still be down there. Reverend Knox wouldn’t like that, I expect.’ Winter smiles weakly at this attempt at humour.
‘Good Lord.’ Araminta shifts her weight, now she knows the dead are beneath her feet. ‘The minister said the law library holds the parish records,’ she pushes.
‘Indeed we do. Back to the day when they were written on velum.’
‘That seems odd. Why would the church not keep them?’
Mr Winter sucks his teeth again. ‘There’s a close association between the institutions. In fact, St Giles’ originally housed rooms used by officers of the law. Gown and crown operated together.’ He lowers his voice before confiding, ‘Especially during the era of the witch trials.’
‘What do you mean, crown?’
‘Our members are king’s counsels. The court is the king’s own.’
‘Might I see St Giles’s records from the time of Mistress Maitland?’
Mr Winter’s cheeks colour. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘They belong to our members. You’d need special permission. And even then . . . as a lady . . .’
Araminta sighs. Scottish law it would seem is not that different from English. She’s about to thank him and leave, when she has an idea.
‘Might you be able to look on my behalf, Mr Winter? It’s an academic interest. For my husband. Mr Moore isn’t with me but he asked me to check. I could certainly pay a generous fee.’
Winter considers this.
‘I’d be most grateful,’ Araminta adds.
‘How grateful?’ he ventures.
She tries to guess how much a librarian earns. Most likely as little as a clerk. ‘If you can get me details of her burial . . . Say ten shillings?’
Winter’s cheeks become suddenly rosy. ‘Most generous.’
‘Good. I reside at number four Glenfinlas Street. Please let me know as soon as you turn anything up.’
In the back of the carriage she’s glad she’s made progress.
She instructs Davey to take her to Greyfriars Kirkyard where, just as Mr Winter said, there are stones piled like sticklebacks, covered with moss.
Carved angels lie scattered on the grassy mounds like at some kind of heavenly picnic.
It would take a team of men to move all this, she thinks, and much of the engraving is badly weathered.
She can’t make out a single name. Araminta stares at the sunshine through the bare branches.
The solution to Berenice’s tenth clue will have to wait. Hopefully Mr Winter will uncover it.