Chapter Thirty-Three
Mother cannot sit still. This is unusual, if not unheard of, for a nun of her experience and a woman who since childhood has practised decorum in all things.
Unlike Sister Winifred, Mother did not come to the convent as a reaction to a lost love nor did she have a terror of married life.
She was simply a devout young woman who, unlike Winifred, and indeed Grizel, forswore the gossip of old Edinburgh in favour of singing psalms. Her mother despaired of her – a child who looked forward to Sunday morning in church more than Sunday afternoon with her family, but the church has always felt like home to Mother.
Jesus called her long before she became a postulant at the age of sixteen, and she’s remained inspired by the poetry of the bible for more than seventy years.
Now she frets back and forth in her study and has opened the window for she feels suddenly unaccountably warm.
Sister Gloria waits, tired and still-eyed, in a chair beside Mother’s desk as the thick chill of February seeps across the room.
Mother has known all her life that men frequently disrespect women and often lay down rules to restrain them, but what Gloria has told her is an escalation.
Before she dispatched the younger nun, she imagined the worst. Now it seems she did not go far enough.
‘John Knox,’ she gets out, as if the ancient minister’s name is a curse.
Her eyes flick to Gloria, who, realising that this might be a question rather than an exclamation says, ‘Yes, Mother. There were numerous papers, but I believe it was Reverend Knox who started the sect. The Hermits. It seems likely he named the order for St Giles, the patron of his own kirk. Originally it appears there was an inner group of ministers who monitored the women in their congregations but during the time of the witch trials the sect became more secular. They’re led from London now and not allied to the church as far as I can see, apart from broadly being Christian.
Much of the symbolism they employ is masonic.
Their stated mission is defence of the realm. I can’t say what they mean by that.’
Mother clenches her fists though Gloria can’t see this, for the sleeves of Mother’s robe cover her hands.
She’s trying to reason why these Hermits are pursuing Sister Winifred, Winifred’s great niece and her maid.
In life, Knox concerned himself with matters of state quite as much as his congregants’ private lives, and the pursuit of the McKenzies, it seems to Mother, must have a larger significance than, say, an inheritance left by Eilidh McKenzie or Winifred taking orders.
Defence of the realm, she ponders. Mother’s forebears attended the Stuart court like the McKenzies did.
‘Knox hounded Mary Queen of Scots, did he not?’ she says, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes especially papery today.
‘Yes, Mother,’ Sister Gloria confirms. ‘He wrote a book objecting to her reign as a Catholic queen, but he wasn’t in favour of women ruling whatever their religion. Queen Elizabeth of England declined him a knighthood on account of his stance.’
‘The reverend didn’t believe in the divine right of kings, then?’
Gloria’s expression shifts. ‘Not in the matter of queens,’ she says.
It interests Mother that instead of Knox interpreting Mary’s reign as God testing his obedience, he interpreted it as God expecting him to sort out the crown’s succession.
She feels personally affronted by this, given her family’s close ties to the Stuarts.
She recalls rumours when she was a child that the McKenzies had tried to save the queen and that, as a result, they were entrusted with some kind of relic.
Something valuable. But that’s centuries ago.
Why would this blow up now? A smile twitches on her lips.
Then a sudden thought stills it. The old king is dying.
George’s brother, William, is childless.
It’s his niece who will take the throne.
Knox would be appalled. The girl is little more than a child.
She’ll be the first regnant queen in more than a century.
Mother’s face drains of all colour. ‘You can go,’ she tells Gloria. ‘Get some sleep,’ she adds.
She watches from the window as the younger nun crosses the garden to her quarters.
The sky is blue today, and a hawk is wheeling lazily back and forth.
Mother draws a deep lungful of freezing air and allows it to refresh her.
It seems odd that here, in the middle of the Scottish countryside, she, a simple nun, might come to the conclusion she has; that these men are a threat to the throne.
Mother never felt a grand calling. God’s voice has always been quiet.
She’s had little interest in matters of state over the years and cannot even recall the Hanoverian princess’s name, but she’s Lizzie MacDonald quite as much as Sister Winifred is Saoirse McKenzie.
And she’s worried for her friend, for her friend’s great niece, their maid and indeed the young heir to the throne.
Now she has some proof, at least, that the Order of the Hermit is a force for harm.
The modern Church does not venerate Knox.
Far from it. She glances at her desk but knows she cannot commit her suspicions to paper.
And whether she’s right about this or not, something is afoot.
She must go herself and she must go at once. To the bishop.
*
Harry Thom watches Winifred’s arrival at Glenfinlas Street from the garden of one of the houses on the north side of Charlotte Square.
He peers with increasing interest as the large items, swathed in cloths, are unloaded by Davey and the butler and brought inside.
Now he sees the carriage brought round again and the butler, footman and coachman climbing aboard, the footman with two spades and a garden fork and the butler with a large hammer and chisel.
Lastly, Araminta and Eleanor ascend into the box.
The McKenzies’ house has held a fascination for Thom for a long time, and as he calculates it, the only people inside now are the old nun and the below-stairs women.
He must find out where this motley party is going.
As Araminta’s carriage recedes, he steps out from his hiding place and strides to the front door.
He doesn’t ring the bell, but tries the handle.
Like every house in proximity to the square, it isn’t locked.
Who would dare break in, in broad daylight, in the New Town where many folk have upwards of seven or eight staff?
He smiles at their foolish confidence. Inside, the McKenzies’ house isn’t as grand as he’d imagined.
The hallway is not wide, a single marble statue making it feel crowded.
The furnishings are old-fashioned. A fancy mirror all the rage three decades ago on the pale green wall.
Pausing a second, he listens to the ticking of a clock.
He can hear no other movement. He checks the room to his right, which is a dining room, and behind it a morning room which appears unused.
Then he climbs the stairs, glancing out of the window on the landing at the mews where he interrogated Davey a few days earlier.
As he emerges into the first-floor hallway, a maid rises from her chair outside the drawing room.
‘Who are you, sir?’ the girl asks nervously.
Thom does not hesitate. He grabs her by the hair and bangs her head off the wall.
She doesn’t even have time to scream before passing out.
He lets her body drop to the floor without checking if she’s still breathing.
Then, twisting the brass handle, he opens the drawing room door and for a moment is almost confused by the riot of detail and colour; sunny yellow walls peppered with too many paintings and a library at the far end.
On the sopha Winifred is asleep. He notices the image of Clementina propped on the carpet next to the mirror. ‘Catholic nonsense,’ he mutters.
Winifred stirs. She opens her eyes. At first she doesn’t recognise him.
‘The fire,’ she directs, sleepily, assuming he must be bringing wood from a cart outside, dressed as he is in shabby, workaday clothes.
Then Thom smirks and she realises who he is. She sits up, gasping at the sharp pain in her side.
‘Good to see you again, Sister.’
‘Brodie! Help!’ Winifred calls, attempting to stand.
Thom chuckles. ‘They’re all away. Where have they gone, Sister?’
Winifred’s gaze jerks towards the picture of her mother.
‘Something to do with this woman, is it?’
The old nun searches for a weapon but there’s nothing within reach. ‘Help!’ she gets out again, and Thom laughs. Then he takes her by the throat. ‘What does this painting mean?’
Winifred gurgles. She tries to pull back but he’s too strong and she even weaker than usual. After only a few seconds, he tires of throttling her and pushes her onto the pillows. Then he crouches to examine the painting.
‘Jacobites,’ he sneers, realising the meaning of the background streaks. He lays a hand to the mirror to reveal the image of the palace. He doesn’t recognise it.
Winifred, meantime, has recovered enough to make for the desk. She scrabbles for Eilidh’s letter opener but can’t put her hand to it. However, in the drawer, she finds the tiny, silver knife that came with Johnathan’s gift of the notebook.
‘I knew I’d pick up the trail,’ Thom says nonchalantly. ‘Where is this old house?’
‘The police are looking for you,’ Winifred says.
Thom laughs again. New-fangled magistrate’s men are no more than hired hands, and he’s confident will hardly be up to the task of tracking him in this new guise.
‘Where is it?’ he repeats. Winifred doesn’t answer.
Instead, she walks unsteadily forwards. He waits for her to get close enough to strike, but she is swaying erratically, and when he lunges towards her, she slips past him.
Thom is wrong-footed, stumbling against the wall.
Winifred holds him in place with all her might and jabs with the tiny knife, which is sharp enough to pierce Thom’s skin, though not deeply.
‘What have you there? A darning needle? Where have they gone, Sister?’ He motions towards the painting as three small lines of blood trickle down his neck.
Then, becoming annoyed with her repeated jabbing, he grabs Winifred’s arm and bends it behind her back. Winifred drops the knife and stamps on his foot instead.
‘Your father wasn’t such a brute,’ she spits.
Thom smiles. ‘My father didn’t succeed, Sister. But I shall.’
Bored of using the walls of the McKenzie house as a weapon, or perhaps thinking it a more gentlemanly way to rid himself of Winifred, he punches her face hard, twice, with his free hand. Winifred blinks and falls to the ground. He steps over her.
The drawer of Eilidh’s old desk is open and he rifles it, pulling out the silver-backed notebook. He finds it difficult to focus on Araminta’s tidy script for his mind is racing. Blood rage, he’s heard it called. He breathes for a second so he can follow the words.
Aunt Eilidh left me a tartan kerchief.
Clue 8 led to the castle.
Yes, he was there.
Clue 9 from the castle to Heriot’s: a third point on the triangle.
Clue 10 The third point was a plague pit.
Indeed, he concurs. The nuns on the Links.
Clue 11 Inverted, the point led to the Maitland house. Which led to the insignia of St Giles’ roof on a grave.
Ah. That was what was on the gravestone in Holyrood Abbey. He merely followed Araminta to the roof. His mind brightens, for now he’s coming to a clue he hasn’t yet solved. It warms his heart that perhaps Araminta will do so for him.
Clue 12 Roses in a picture frame led to Clementina revealed in a mirror.
He glances at the painting and grins.
Clue 13 Linlithgow Palace and the crown.
Linlithgow. Only a few miles off. That’s where they’ve gone in the carriage.
He shoves the map into his pocket and strides out of the drawing room past Agnes, still prone on the carpet, leaves the front door open and makes for the mews.
One of the stableboys will lend him a horse if he offers enough coin.
He’ll promise to have the beast back by nightfall.