Chapter Twenty-Six
It’s raining again as the carriage pulls up at Parliament Square.
Beggars shelter in the doorway of St Giles’, none of them under the colonnade in front of the library.
Araminta surmises the doorman must be as efficient at keeping them away as he is at repelling the enquiries of women.
She sends Davey to ask for Mr Winter, who emerges, this time having donned his hat and a green knitted scarf.
The coachman holds the door and Winter climbs into the carriage.
The raindrops beat a steady grumble on the roof.
‘Good day, Mrs Moore.’ The librarian’s breath clouds even inside.
‘Did you find the lady’s grave?’ Araminta asks.
‘It’s interesting.’ Winter pauses. ‘Unusual,’ he adds.
‘Well?’
‘She died in 1596. I can’t find a birth date but she was in her fifth decade, I would guess a few years into her forties, for she had a run in with John Knox when she was barely twenty years old and he an old man.’
‘What did they fight about?’
‘A theological point about the nature of marriage. Mistress Maitland took marriage vows later in life. She would have been considered a spinster, then as now. It seems she wasn’t keen on the institution. Reverend Knox’s view was that it was a woman’s duty to wive. To have children.’
Araminta remembers, in a flash, her own failed attempts to fulfil this wifely duty. She puts her hand on her stomach. Winter doesn’t register her reaction. He’s a man who lives for words and keeps himself quite separate from the effects of them.
‘Knox died long before Mistress Maitland made her marriage vows, but it seems she took to the institution in the end.’
‘And you’ve found where she’s buried?’
‘That’s the interesting part. Her father was a high court judge, and her husband sheriff principal of the city, so she came from a well-connected family and married into one too.
Lauder, her husband, was younger. I doubt their union was a love match – he married again after her death.
It seems they scarcely lived together. He’s buried at the palace of Holyroodhouse, down the hill, in the Chapel Royal with his second wife. ’
Araminta becomes testy. ‘My enquiry is about Marie Maitland not her husband or anyone else.’
‘Indeed. Forgive me.’ Winter’s nose is pinking in the cold.
He takes a breath as if he’s about to unveil a work of art.
‘The thing is, the lady was interred with a different family. I can’t understand why her husband agreed to it, although he remarried so quickly, perhaps he simply didn’t care.
Her will doesn’t state the arrangement, but there may have been other papers, lost over time. ’
‘So where is she?’ Araminta’s tone is insistent.
Winter seems almost surprised to be brought back to the point. ‘She’s interred at the Chapel Royal at Holyrood Palace. Not with her husband. She was buried with the Gibsons.’
‘Who are they?’
Winter’s eyes widen. ‘I’d need another day or two to fully ascertain that.
I’ve never come across them before. Minor nobility, I should think.
Only one of the Gibsons died in Edinburgh, Isobel McKinnon.
She must have been similarly well connected to Mistress Maitland to be allowed space at the abbey.
The tomb is close to the Lauder family’s plot – that is, Mistress Maitland’s husband, but she was interred with the Gibson woman, no doubt about it. ’
Araminta recalls the second fresco. ‘Isobel McKinnon,’ she says. ‘So she was a Gibson by marriage, you think?’
‘It was a different time.’ Winter’s tone is dismissive. ‘Women then didn’t take their husband’s name.’
‘And the McKinnons?’
‘Highlanders, I should think. Gaels. Minor nobility.’
‘Like my family,’ Araminta notes.
Winter regards her as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Good heavens,’ he says. ‘I’d never have guessed. You seem so very English.’
Araminta doesn’t respond. She withdraws three crowns from her reticule and hands them over. Winter scrambles in his pockets, revealing a threadbare patch around the seam of his trousers. ‘It’s all right. You may keep the change, Mr Winter,’ she says. ‘Although I’ll impose a condition.’
‘Indeed?’ The librarian’s curiosity is roused.
‘You’ll not share this information with anybody else.’
Winter’s brow furrows. ‘Madam, these records are the property of the Crown. If an advocate requires them . . .’
Araminta is steady in what her thirty extra pennies must buy. ‘I understand. However, if it’s requested, especially over the coming few days, you must delay the information. Say, by a week. You’ve done an excellent job. It might have taken you longer, do you see?’
Winter considers this. ‘If there are further enquiries. Yes.’ He gives a perfunctory nod and leaves the carriage in possession of the extra money. As he enters the library he glances back, something of the fox about him, Araminta thinks, as she instructs Davey to the palace.
‘Are you sure, ma’am?’ he checks.
‘Of course.’
‘It’s only . . . Holyroodhouse is not what it was.’ He looks uncomfortable.
Araminta doesn’t enquire further. ‘There’s something I must see,’ she insists.
If the buildings from St Giles’ to the Tron Kirk are dilapidated, those below South Bridge have the feel of a rookery.
Handcarts are roped to rusting iron rings outside the arches leading to brewery yards.
Old washing lines hanging from the upper windows give the impression of greying, tattered flags running the length of the street.
As they pass the Canongate Kirk, Araminta sniffs the yeasty air and notes that this place of worship is architecturally more to her taste than the grand gothic cathedral of St Giles’; more like St Mary Magdalene.
A barefoot woman carrying a heavy basket crosses the road ahead of them as Davey pulls up at the bottom of the hill.
‘Holyrood Palace, ma’am,’ he announces.
Araminta surveys the scene. The palace is certainly imposing, but if anything, Davey understated its poor condition. He helps her down from the carriage.
‘What is . . . all this?’ she asks, motioning at the ramshackle stone buildings on either side of the gates.
‘It’s the debtors’ prison, ma’am.’
‘At a royal palace?’
‘It’s been a long time since nobility have stopped here. Perhaps one or two, down on their luck. It’s a sair fecht,’ he adds.
She does not ask what this means.
‘Where’s the Chapel Royal?’
Davey points along the curved road at the foot of the hill. ‘It was there.’
‘Was?’
‘Some of it’s still standing. The roof has gone.’
‘Come with me,’ she says and waits for him to tether the horses.
Together they make their way past the old garden lodge towards the chapel.
It’s a substantial building. Looming above, its nave open to the sky, Araminta wonders if it’s safe to walk inside.
There’s a scatter of gravestones and a tomb upon which the engravings might still be read.
No Lauder. No Maitland nor Gibson nor McKinnon.
‘I shall pass inside,’ she tells Davey.
He knows better than to try to stop her.
Through the gaping arch where a heavy door used to hang, Araminta passes into the nave.
The Chapel Royal may be a wreck but it’s still impressive with a wide aisle on either side containing more burials and substantial columns that used to hold up the roof.
Goosebumps freckle Araminta’s arms though she tells herself it’s only the cold.
Kings and queens worshipped here and her ancestors too, no doubt.
In Berenice McKenzie’s day this holy place might have still been in use.
To one side there’s a centuries-old statue commemorating a man wearing a crown but it’s so badly chipped that his face is indistinguishable.
She must be methodical, Araminta thinks, and starts on the north aisle, reading each of the plaques, several peppered with moss for the wind, she calculates, must come from the south-west. The stones are dedicated to noblemen, knights mostly, and one man a McKenzie though she doesn’t recognise his name from the family bible.
Still, she lays a gloved hand in memoriam on the ancient stone and squints to make out the carving – a broadsword.
This must be a McKenzie warrior. Slowly, she moves on to inspect what’s left of the apse.
On the south side there’s a royal vault with a stone for King David and two King Jameses, one buried with his wife.
These are the most ornate, some five or six centuries old, others raised a mere three hundred years ago.
On the south aisle there are fewer internments; a vault for the Roxburgh family.
Three noble children all named Marjorie.
Lady Jean Stewart. Then, just past the transept, a long stone in the floor, engraved to James Lauder and his wife – the second one.
It’s here, Araminta thinks. Her eyes dart.
Then she sees it halfway between the royal vault and a small door that must connect to the palace.
She doesn’t need to read the name to know that this plaque is different from the others, for it has a raised carving of a crown rather than a cross or statue. Below it, lines of poetry.
Pass this way in peace
All our pleasures praise
We wasted not our dawn
Praised heaven all our days.
The names are chipped but legible. McKinnon.
Maitland. Two dates in the 1590s. There are no forenames to reveal that this grave contains women.
Araminta flicks her fingers across the stone, removing dust and debris lodged in the carving.
‘Where’s the clue?’ she thinks, beginning to fret.
She steps backwards, examining it from different angles, but there’s nothing obvious.
She reads the inscription half a dozen times.
Momentarily, she feels sick, wondering if Berenice intended this grave to be dug up, like the edge of the plague pit, but that seems unlikely in what must have been a functioning church, in her day, with everything carved of stone.
This plaque must have been costly, she thinks.
The detail is intricate, the crown especially.
Araminta puts her head to one side, realising that the shape resembles the tower of St Giles’.
It’s a distinctive design with an ornate finial.
She steps closer. ‘It’s not a crown, it’s the lantern tower,’ she says under her breath and runs her fingers across it again.
All the stones in the abbey are pock-marked by the weather but there’s a hole here that looks different; drilled, not worn away.
She blows on the crown to remove the last of the dust. It’s only a pinprick but Berenice McKenzie must have stood exactly where she’s standing and drilled the stone to mark a spot on the roof of St Giles’.
‘Follow her to the grave,’ Araminta says and smiles.
‘Clever.’ The mark is on the inside of the base of one of the buttresses.
She feels elated and lays a hand on the stone for here there’s a direct connection to her great grandmother.
She wants to sense something on the air, but nothing comes.
Still, she has the clue. She’s about to turn back to her carriage when she hears shouting through the abbey’s open doorway.
It’s Davey. He’s speaking too loudly. She steps back, feeling in her pocket for the little muff gun.
‘Mr Thom,’ Davey shouts, ‘I’d not thought to meet you here.
’ He’s warning her. Her heart pounds. She can’t make out Thom’s reply.
The nearest exit is the door in the direction of the palace and she knows she should take it without delay, but if Thom’s outside, he must know what he’s looking for and she doesn’t want to leave him the clue.
Drawing the muff gun she takes careful aim and fires at the stone, smashing the corner of the crown.
Then she reloads and fires again. It’s still vaguely recognisable, though the clue, the tiny hole, is gone.
She’s taking aim for the third time when Thom bursts into the nave, making straight for her.
Davey isn’t far behind. She gets out another shot, satisfied for only a second that the carving is ruined before Thom huckles her against the stone column that fringes the aisle.
‘Unhand me!’ she shouts, turning the gun on him, but it’s out of bullets and there’s no time to reload. Quickly, he snatches the weapon and flings it to the ground.
‘Sir!’ Davey tries to pull Thom off his mistress, but he’s not as strong as the older man who unhands Araminta only a moment to punch the boy hard, jabbing left and right to put him down.
While Davey stumbles, dazed, Araminta makes for the closest door.
In her panic, she trips on the uneven stone floor and Thom has her again, pushing her against the abbey wall this time; a plaque along from the one she has just desecrated.
He shoves her closer to the Maitland McKinnon stone and reads the inscription.
‘What was here?’ he snarls, indicating the shattered crown. ‘What was it?’
‘You broke my great aunt’s rib,’ Araminta gets out.
‘Your great aunt is dead,’ Thom spits.
Araminta’s blood is up. ‘I’ve more than one great aunt,’ she snaps in anger.
This information sinks in. ‘Of course. A nunnery is a cesspit of female weakness,’ Thom spits. ‘She hid herself.’
Araminta tries to raise her knee but her boned underskirt makes it impossible to kick him hard enough to get him off. He laughs, tightening his grip.
‘I’ll do more than break your bones, Mrs Moore. What was here? Tell me.’
She squirms but he has hold of her too tightly. He takes a few seconds to memorise the verse. Then, realising she’s not going to tell him what she’s destroyed, he drags her outside like a petulant infant.
‘Help!’ Araminta shouts, but there’s nobody here.
Davey is still laid out on the floor of the abbey.
Two men from the debtors’ prison, wearing fine but worn damask jackets, stare from the far side of the palace courtyard.
They move off, perhaps to alert their jailers, for the debtors cannot leave the precincts.
Thom bundles her into the carriage, slamming the door.
He turns to tether his horse to the rear mudguard, but Araminta hasn’t given up.
She unlatches the door and makes to descend.
With a roar, Thom thrusts her back. ‘You’ll bend to my will,’ he snarls and hits her.
It’s in this moment that she realises that Mr Winter had already spoken to Harry Thom when she met him earlier; the careful way he made his promise about further enquiries.
The look on his face as he made off into the library with her money.
‘Snake,’ she gets out under her breath and curses that Agnes did not secure her hat with a pin today as Eleanor usually does.
She has nothing to use as a weapon and her fury is insufficient.
Then Thom hits her again and the world disappears.