When Francis opened his mouth to tease her, Lindsay cut across him. “She told me that MacCormaic’s on his way to Paris, and I’ve to go to Scotland to do something for her—but I’ve still to find out what that is.”
“Iwasjust getting to that,” Marguerite said. She paused then turned her gaze to Lindsay. “I want you to acquire some papers for me. Witch trial records held by a man called Hector Cruikshank.” She paused for a moment then added, “They’re from around the time Alys disappeared.”
Marguerite was still searching for Alys, two centuries after her disappearance.
“Was Alys at these witch trials?” Lindsay asked.
“I don’t know,” Marguerite admitted. “She was in England the year before, and I know she reached as far as Newcastle. The Scottish border country is very close to there, and if she’d heard of the trials, there’s a good chance she would have gone there.”
Francis nodded his agreement. “Alys would have run into the heart of the fire. Wherever there was persecution, she would go.”
“The records are known as the Naismith papers,” Marguerite added. “Thomas Naismith was a printer who hit upon the idea of following a witchfinder called George Cargill all over the country and writing salacious accounts of the witch trials he conducted—I gather they sold rather well. These records are his private notes though.”
“And you think there may be information in them about Alys?”
Marguerite looked suddenly hopeless and for an instant Lindsay saw the true depths of her anguish but she soon had herself under control and when she spoke again, her voice was calm. “It’s possible,” she said. “Though I try not to hope too much. There are so few records of the time—this is the first new source I’ve heard of for some years.”
Lindsay understood her reluctance. He knew what it felt like to hope for too long and beyond all reason. Decades in a dungeon had taught him too well that hope could be the very worst torment of all.
“Do you know the contents of any of the papers?”
“All I know is that they contain detailed accounts of the trials. Some of the information found its way into the tracts Naismith sold to the public, but much of it was never published, particularly the sections dealing with the more mundane aspects of the witchfinder’s work.”
“And what do we know of this Hector Cruikshank?”
“Francis met him when he was in Edinburgh last,” Marguerite said, glancing Francis’s way.
“I did, and he’s loathsome,” Francis replied.
Lindsay raised his brows. It was unlike gentle Francis to criticise anyone. “How so?”
Francis’s expression was troubled. “He’s a ghoul. Collects all manner of morbid horrors and loves showing off his hoard. He’s astute, though, and learned, and he’s made a fortune procuring unusual items and treasures and selling them on.”
“Well, this fellow might be unpleasant,” Lindsay mused, “but compared to some of the things you’ve asked of me in the past, this doesn’t sound too taxing.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Marguerite said drily. “I’d hate to inconvenience you.”
Lindsay grinned. “You know I’d do anything for you, my love. But I must admit, it will make a pleasant change for me to not have to commit a robbery or fight off a gang of thugs. I’ll treat it as a holiday. Just one old man to charm.”
“If you can charm Hector Cruikshank, I will give you a medal,” Francis said.
“My love, I can beverycharming.”
“Oh, I know,” Francis assured him. “But I also know that the only thing capable of getting round that old miser is the glint of gold. Don’t waste time trying to get him like you. The only question you need to concern yourself with is how much money he wants.”
Lindsay looked at Marguerite, raising his brows in enquiry. “How much will you give me?” He was only half-teasing.
“I have papers for you to present to our bankers in Edinburgh for whatever sums you may need,” Marguerite said. “But don’t get carried away. Certainly not without at least getting a look at the papers first. At this point, we don’t even know if there’s anything of use in there. Having said that, these papers are the first new source I’ve heard of for many years.” She sighed. “And I do want them.”
“So,” Lindsay said. “Money is no object?”
Her gaze snapped up to meet his. “Certainly not. I expect you to negotiate hard.”
“My dearest love,” Lindsay said smoothly. “You are speaking to a Scotsman, you know. I would not so much as give away a thick penny for a thin one.”
Her lips twitched. “Plainly, you have not seen your tailor’s bill.”
Lindsay sent her reproachful look. “Oh, come now. We’ve discussed this before. My wardrobe is an investment. One does not stint with such things. You may, however, rest assured that so far as these papers are concerned, I will be the very soul of thrift.”
