“Mim and I thought perhaps a sojourn in the Low Countries for a while? God knows we could do with looking in on our shipping and banking interests there and it’s a while since any of us have been.”
As much as he wanted to get away from any threat of Duncan MacCormaic finding him, Lindsay felt a strange stubborn reluctance to leave Edinburgh.
“I can’t go now,” he said. “Not with the Naismith papers still in Cruikshank’s hands.”
Francis frowned at him. “You have no choice, Lindsay. You can’t risk encountering Duncan. If he got you alone, you’d be in his thrall in moments and he’d have you away and locked up before you could so much as blink. You know that.”
He did know it. A word from Duncan would be enough.
Kneel, cur.
Beg.
Crawl.
If told to do so, he’d put the chains on himself. Turn the key in the lock of his own cell. He’d be a slave again—the one thing he’d sworn he’d never allow.
And yet...
“Butyou’rehere now,” Lindsay looked at Francis with more confidence than he felt. “Duncan can’t get past you.”
Francis’s expression didn’t shift, concern knotting his dark brows together. “Even if I stay by your side night and day, it’s a risk, Lindsay. You know how it goes with me. I can stop Duncan harming others if I’m there, but I can’t”—he broke off, frustration and agony both etched on his face—“I can’tharmhim. I know it’s weak of me, and I know it would probably be for the best if I just did whatever I needed to do to make him disappear, but the truth is, Icannot. And that—well, that makes it difficult to protect you as you need to be protected.”
“I know,” Lindsay said softly. And he did. In truth, Francis was incapable of harming anyone, and it tormented him to know that he was the creator of the monster that Duncan had become. A monster who harmed others but who Francis could not bring himself to destroy. Tormented him too to think of those, including Lindsay himself, who had already suffered at the hands of Duncan, his creation. Poor Francis carried an impossible burden of guilt, and he could not forgive himself.
“I’m sorry,” Francis said, and he sounded wretched. “But it really is best that you leave Edinburgh. If you can’t get the Naismith papers from Cruikshank over the next day or two, I can stay and finish dealing with that in your stead.”
Lindsay made himself nod. “All right,” he said. “Let’s see how things go today with Cruikshank. We can discuss what to do after that.”
Francis seemed relieved by Lindsay’s acquiescence. “Agreed,” he said, and they set off again in the direction of Cruikshank’s townhouse.
––––––––
CRUIKSHANK WASN’T SUREif he recognised Francis or not.
He squinted at him as Lindsay introduced them, scowling suspiciously. Cruikshank was in his faded banyan and slippers again today and the nut-brown wig was absent. Instead he wore an absurd velvet cap with a long gold tassel that made him look more like a little monkey than ever.
“Have we met?” he demanded.
Francis considered, tapping his finger on his lip, the very picture of urbane sophistication, cracked face powder notwithstanding.
“Iwasliving in Edinburgh some years ago,” he drawled. “So, it’s possible, I suppose. But I’m afraid I don’t recall you.” He shrugged in careless apology and Cruikshank’s scowl deepened.
Francis had explained that the last time he’d been in the city, Cruikshank had known him as a prickly and sometimes rude fellow with strong opinions, and that he would be required to act that part today.
“Mr. Neville is a collector like yourself,” Lindsay explained. “I greatly trust his professional judgment and would very much like him to examine the papers you allowed me to peruse the other evening. Just to get another opinion on their provenance, you understand.”
Cruikshank appeared irritated by the request, but at length, he said irritably. “Very well. If it will set yer doubts to rest. Follow me.” He turned from them creakily and made his way down the corridor towards the strongroom, moving at his usual painfully slow pace.
The laborious unlocking of the strongroom’s heavy door seemed to take him even longer than last time, but finally it was done and the old man waved them inside. Lindsay had warned Francis about the room and its unusual construction, and when they stepped inside, Francis glanced at him, his brows furrowing in acknowledgment that he too felt... something. That made Lindsay feel a little better about his own reaction which, as before, surged in him physically, a sense of wrongness that he had to suppress to make himself walk forward and enter the strongroom.
Cruikshank followed them, his shuffling steps in his threadbare slippers audible. “I have the papers in my desk,” he said. “Give me a moment to look them out.” He made his slow way to the desk and Lindsay followed, trying to ignore his growing unease as he walked further into the oppressive room.
Francis had stopped in the middle of the room. He slowly turned on the spot, taking in the contents of the overflowing shelves.
“This is an astonishing collection, Mr. Cruikshank,” he said. “Have you had it catalogued?”
Cruikshank was slowly lowering himself into the chair behind his desk, lips thinning with obvious pain. When he was finally sitting, he answered Francis’s question.
