Chapter Thirty-One
Araminta wakes around eight of the clock.
It takes her a moment to recall that she’s in the drawing room at Glenfinlas Street.
That she was kidnapped and escaped. That Eleanor is back in her service.
Her eyes fall to the picture of Clementina McKenzie propped against a side table, a slice of bright winter sunshine cutting across it like a knife.
The line falls above Clementina’s head, making the dove glow.
She rings for breakfast and takes a turn round the sopha, regarding the image of her great grandmother.
She peers at the odd pattern of shadows behind the woman as Brodie arrives with a tray.
‘Mr McLevy is waiting, ma’am,’ he says.
Araminta doesn’t look up. ‘I’m not receiving, Brodie.’
‘Mr McLevy is a police detective,’ the butler continues. ‘He’s on the trail of the man who abducted you.’ His tone makes it clear that Araminta has to admit the fellow.
‘Very well,’ she says, pouring a cup of tea from the pot and lifting a slim slice of toast. ‘If I must.’
James McLevy comes up. He’s unprepossessing, slightly rough, even, with a whiff of wash-house soap. Somewhere in his early forties, his eyes seem older, as if he’s witnessed a great deal. His gaze is steady.
‘Mrs Moore.’ He bows as he takes her in and straightens his waistcoat when he stands upright. Araminta changed her clothes last night, so the only visible sign of what happened is the bruise blooming on her cheek. ‘You’re hurt, madam,’ he observes. ‘I’m sorry.’
This is kind of him, but for obvious reasons, Araminta doesn’t trust the police. ‘I’m fine,’ she dismisses his concern. ‘Shall I ask Mr Brodie to bring you something, Mr McLevy?’
The detective waves off this suggestion as she gestures him to sit. ‘We’ve found your coach and the horses,’ he says. ‘My men are returning them to your stable as we speak.’
‘Thank you.’
He notes that the lady doesn’t ask where the men found her property. That, he thinks, is unusual. ‘The man who took you’, he continues, ‘has thus far eluded us. I hope you might know something that will help us bring him to justice.’
‘Me?’ Araminta says. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘A description perhaps.’
Araminta can hardly deny the detective that. ‘He’s older than I am. Perhaps a little over thirty. A dark-haired gentleman. Tall and well-dressed.’
‘Mr Harry Thom,’ McLevy chimes for he’s found the name during the course of his enquiries. Thom never tried to hide it.
‘Yes,’ she admits.
‘Do you know what he meant to do, madam? What he wanted with you?’ McLevy’s gaze becomes suddenly sharper. He’s well aware how some gentlemen treat women, though generally not ladies, unless they are married to them.
Araminta finds the shift unsettling. ‘No,’ she lies. She cannot tell him – why would she? ‘I was acquainted with Mr Thom in London,’ she admits. ‘Only in passing. He’s the cousin of an old school friend.’
McLevy lets a silence come to rest. ‘I see,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t aware you knew the scoundrel. Was there ever anything between you of a romantic nature?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘It’s important you tell me everything, ma’am.’
‘As I said, I only met Mr Thom in passing.’
McLevy nods, workmanlike. ‘Did he take anything from you? Did he . . . hurt you in any way, other than the mark on your cheek?’
Araminta understands what McLevy is referring to. ‘He hit me. That’s all.’
McLevy shifts. Women usually want his help. People recount crimes over and over. They find the repetition healing. Not this lady.
‘Your maid went missing the other day,’ he tries. He heard that too, though nobody thought to call him in, it seems, on that occasion.
‘A misunderstanding,’ Araminta explains. ‘The girl was attending an old aunt of mine.’
McLevy sniffs. He casts his eyes round the bright, well-furnished room, his gaze falling to the painting of Clementina. ‘Ah,’ he lets out warmly, ‘I’ve seen this kind of thing before. A Jacobite relic.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Araminta lies again.
‘Why have you taken it down?’
‘Lately, I’ve inherited my great aunt’s estate. This house.’ Araminta gestures. ‘The painting is of my great grandmother, Clementina McKenzie. I’ll be taking it to London.’
‘It’s a curiosity, then?’
‘An heirloom.’
‘Are you returning to London soon, madam?’
‘I expect so. There’s a great deal to organise here in Edinburgh before I go.’ Not entirely a lie.
McLevy rises from his chair. ‘May I?’ He indicates the gilt mirror in which Araminta checked her reflection last night.
Araminta motions to allow him to remove it from the wall.
It is, she thinks, heavier than he expects and he stiffens as he places it beside the painting.
Reflected, the grey lines in the background form a fine-looking stone building behind a lake in the mirror. The dove disappears into them.
Araminta gets up and examines this magic trick. Interested, it would seem, for the first time.
‘My goodness.’ She smiles.
‘It’s a Jacobite relic, as I said,’ the detective observes. ‘Though I expected a picture of the Bonnie Prince in his armour. That’s usually what the reflection shows.’
‘How clever!’ Araminta exclaims. ‘I wonder where that building is?’
She thinks that the structure does not look Scottish. It has the feel of a fortified medieval manor on a lake. The lines of Mr Tennyson’s famous poem, ‘The Lady of Shalott’, come to mind. Her eyes sparkle. She has unravelled the twelfth clue, or at least James McLevy has.
‘Perhaps this lady lived wherever it is,’ the detective says. ‘It’s more a castle, really, than a house.’
Araminta thinks it doesn’t look like a castle. Not a Scottish castle anyway. There are no turrets or stepped roofs. ‘Clementina was lively – much loved, I think. She came from the west,’ she gets out. ‘Dumbarton.’ It’s all she knows about her great grandmother.
‘I’m glad in any case to see your person has been recovered,’ McLevy smiles.
‘I was not recovered, sir. I escaped.’ Araminta can’t help saying it though she bites her tongue afterwards.
McLevy slides into this conversational opening, leaning the mirror against the wall. ‘I’d like to know. How did you do that?’
‘I unscrewed the hinges on the door,’ Araminta says after a moment’s silence. He must know already, or he’s no kind of detective at all.
‘Clever,’ McLevy judges. ‘You’ve no idea how many people have been kept in those holding rooms and not thought to do the same.’
Araminta gives a little shrug. ‘I used my wedding ring.’
His eyes fall to her hand. ‘And you escaped along the Cowgate. Why did you go that way instead of the more direct road, down the Mound? Why didn’t you ask for help? There are plenty of people on the High Street; respectable people at that time of day.’
Araminta’s jaw hardens. ‘Mr Thom lied in order to have me locked up, sir. He told people that I was mad and that he was my brother. I didn’t trust anybody. So I made off down the steps.’
‘The Cowgate’s a dangerous place for a lady.’
‘Safer than the High Street or the police cells,’ she parries. ‘He took me in broad daylight.’
McLevy concedes this point. ‘Do you not wish the fellow caught, madam? What if he were to come for you again? Or take another lady? Any help you can give me will forestall that possibility.’
‘I hope you catch him, Mr McLevy. But I’ve nothing more to say.’ Araminta makes for the bell to summon Brodie.
McLevy sighs. This woman’s response will not stop him searching. She’s lying or at least not being fully honest. When Brodie opens the door, McLevy turns.
‘We can’t have this kind of gentleman free about the town,’ he says. ‘Edinburgh won’t thole it. We value our womenfolk. I intend to have this fellow up in court.’ He bows and takes his leave.
Araminta waits. She lets out a long breath as she hears the front door close.
Then she manoeuvres the mirror at ninety degrees to the painting once more to examine the building McLevy revealed.
There’s nothing to indicate where it is.
Berenice McKenzie clearly expected it to be recognised.
This task is, however, beyond her. She rings the bell for Brodie but he doesn’t know either.
‘Mr McLevy said we have the carriage back?’
Brodie nods. ‘Yes, ma’am. I believe so.’
Quickly, she instructs him to fetch dustsheets to swaddle the painting and the mirror, and call for Davey.
The men load the items into the carriage and Araminta and Eleanor climb aboard.
Brodie hovers on the doorstep. Araminta peers up the hill and across the square.
Nobody’s watching, however, she’s mindful of Mr McLevy’s words about women requiring protection.
‘Mr Brodie,’ she says. ‘Would you join us?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Brodie jumps at the chance. ‘I’ll fetch my coat.’
They wait only a moment for him to do so. Then he climbs up next to Davey.
‘Where are we off to?’ he asks cheerfully.
‘Back to the old nun,’ Davey grins. ‘Do you know what they’re doing, sir?’
Brodie shakes his head. ‘Not a clue, son. But hold on,’ he says and jumps down, returning into the house to retrieve a polished chestnut cane with a mother-of-pearl handle inlaid with silver side panels. He knocks on the carriage door and hands it to Araminta.
‘What’s this?’ she asks.
‘It was Mistress McKenzie’s, ma’am. I thought you might find it useful.’
‘Perhaps my great aunt will. I’m not an invalid, Mr Brodie.’ She makes to hand it back.
‘Of course not, Mrs Moore.’ He grips the handle, squeezing the side panels to release a catch that clicks smartly, and frees a vicious, serrated blade, encased inside the walking stick. Their eyes meet. ‘Ah. Thank you,’ Araminta says. ‘How helpful.’