‘What duty is that?’ Araminta snaps. The old nun has provoked her temper.
Winifred’s eyes are likewise alight. ‘Don’t you know anything? Why, it’s preposterous...’
Araminta waits. But no more is forthcoming. ‘All this cloak and dagger...’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘It’s too much.’
Winifred reaches out. Her grasp locks round Araminta’s slender wrist.
‘I hoped Eilidh would have uncovered it by now and it wouldn’t be necessary for you to become involved. For me to come back...’
‘What are you talking about? I’ve come in good faith . . . But there are limits . . .’
Winifred lets go. Neither woman appears able to complete a sentence. Winifred, however, decides to try. She takes a deep breath.
‘The McKenzie women have had a duty these last two centuries. We have failed in it, though nobody knows.’ She puts her head to one side as if saying something so plainly has been a great shock. Her eyes narrow on her great niece as if she is assessing the state of her soul. ‘Nobody must ever know the shame of it. Perhaps you’re the one who can sort it out. Do you have daughters?’
Araminta shakes her head. Her stomach is churning. Winifred’s eyes move to the desk as if this will help her focus.
‘The men, of course, also failed in their task, but they made a virtue of it. Full of pomp and ceremony. Walter Scott and all his shenanigans. He’s dead now. Poor Charlotte before him.’
Araminta brushes her gloved palm down her skirt, as if trying to smooth out this knotty tale. The old nun is crazy. ‘I have to get back,’ she says, taking a step away.
As she does so, Winifred notices the flash of tartan in Araminta’s pocket and, suddenly nimble-fingered, pulls it out.
‘You can have that if you like,’ Araminta offers.
‘Clever. Very clever,’ Winifred says with delight. ‘My sister left you this?’
‘In a safety deposit box at the bank.’
The old woman’s fingers flex, then she smooths the tattered fabric on the desktop. ‘So you have the map then?’
‘It’s just an old piece of cloth.’
Winifred lets out a loud tutting sound. ‘It most certainly is not. This, my dear, is everything. It’s of the Carmichael thread. The tartan of the dress the Bonnie Prince wore when he escaped.’ She begins to sing, her voice wavering. ‘Speed bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing...’
‘It’s a map of Skye?’ Araminta squints, trying to make sense of the tartan grid. Skye was the site of the prince’s much-famed escape with Flora MacDonald, the fleeing, would-be monarch disguised as Flora’s maid. That and Sir Walter Scott’s depiction of the young prince inWaverleyis, she realises, the sum of her knowledge of the business.
‘Skye? I shouldn’t think so,’ Winifred exclaims. ‘This piece of tartan will correspond to a map drawn in 1746. The year of the Battle of Culloden, which Charles Edward Stuart lost directly before he wore this tartan in the form of a gown. It’s a clue, my dear. I hope you like puzzles for there will be more of them. This clout’, she says, lifting it, ‘is a message. Perhaps Eilidh did well after all. I wonder how far she got.’
Araminta lets out a sigh.
‘I can see you’re going to need help,’ Winifred continues. ‘Really, don’t you know anything? We told them to educate you.’
Araminta shakes her head dolefully.
The nun thrusts the piece of material back into her hand. ‘Find the map. It’ll be in Eilidh’s library. Whatever it depicts, it will have been drawn in 1746.’
‘But if Aunt Eilidh had it why didn’t she... ?’
‘I’ve no idea. She surely must have meant to but then, she died, didn’t she?’ Winifred sighs as if her sister’s demise was wilful. ‘I expect stowing this was an insurance of sorts. In case her death happened too soon.’
‘Aunt Winifred, why don’t you come with me? I’ve a carriage at St Giles’ to drive us home. I’ve a great many questions.’
Winifred stands. ‘I’ll never set foot in that house again. Find what I’ve told you to and I’ll help you get the hang of it. I left Eilidh behind, after all.’ She walks to the door and turns the handle. A snowy gust of evening air leaks into the church. ‘Go on,’ she adds. ‘And for heaven’s sake, be careful, child.’
Araminta leaves the church a different woman from the one who arrived. For years she’s been restrained by teachers, by her position, by other people’s expectations. Now, here, perhaps for the first time in her life she’s free to follow her own judgement. She recalls Johnathan’s words. An adventure, indeed. It’s clear that she comes from a family peopled by eccentric and interesting women. She smiles thinking of the old nun as she turns westwards along the cobbled highway in the dark. Then she smiles again, remembering how the pistol felt in her hand. The man retreating up the hill. There’s something satisfying about Edinburgh. She almost feels guilty.
Chapter Six
