‘That won’t last, child,’ Sister Winifred dismisses the idea. ‘There are a dozen lads coming and going – you think a lass biding in the hayloft won’t be noticed? I’d give you a day.’
Eleanor looks sheepish.
The old nun gets to her feet.
‘Come along,’ she says. ‘Araminta, you must manage your coachman. Have him pass more false leads to Thom. It’s a tried and tested way of dealing with these men. Send him to the Pentlands. To Trinity. As far as Leith. Meanwhile, Eleanor and I shall take the tenth clue in hand tomorrow and meet you after, at the usual time. I’ll send note to say where.’
Araminta nods. Neither she nor Winifred consults Eleanor further and the maid obediently follows the women to the door. Outside, Winifred locks the church with the large, iron key.
‘I must write to my husband again,’ Araminta says absentmindedly. ‘And start packing Great Aunt Eilidh’s things.’
‘You watch out,’ Winifred says. ‘That’s what you need to do.’ And with that they bid each other good night.
Eleanor stares as her mistress’s figure recedes across Princes Street, walking smartly back towards Charlotte Square in her cape, like a dark princess in a fairytale. Winifred watches too. She always liked that green velvet. She stitched it herself. Eilidh helped with the hood.
‘My horse is this way,’ she tells the girl, pulling herself back to the here and now. ‘You might ride behind. It’s not more than twenty minutes.’
Eleanor gulps. She’s ridden before. She was brought up a farm girl but it’s been a while. ‘Will I serve as your maid, ma’am?’
Winifred chortles. ‘You must call me sister,’ she says. ‘We’ve no maids at the nunnery. You’ll be our guest, child.’
On Princes Street, Eleanor thinks that the old nun’s horse is the biggest she’s ever seen. ‘She’s old, but strong,’ Winifred says cheerfully as she unties the Clydesdale from the post. ‘This breed comes from the west. She’s a carthorse, really, but she’ll get us there.’ She pulls a carrot out of her pocket and feeds it to the chestnut nag, before mounting more nimbly than Eleanor expected. Eleanor climbs up behind. This horse must be eighteen hands, she thinks. She wonders if her father might like such a beast on his smallholding. As they set off, she smiles at the sound of hooves on the setts and the animal’s pale fetlocks streaking below as they head into the black night, past the looming grey outline of the castle just visible above the tenement roofs on Lothian Road, on and on through the city until there are open fields. With the clear sky tonight the temperature has plummeted. A tiny vortex of snow swirls through the dark air. ‘I’ll be a guest,’ Eleanor repeats, low, under her breath. Then she feels the old nun’s body ripple with laughter.
‘You’ll have chores, mind,’ Winifred says. ‘But there will also be singing.’
*
At Glenfinlas Street Araminta sneaks upstairs. She pulls her notebook from the desk drawer and reads back what she’s written.
Aunt Eilidh left me a tartan kerchief.
Clue 8 led to the castle.
Clue 9 from the castle to Heriot’s: a third point on the triangle.
Clue 10The triangle led to a house on the High Street.
Raising the pencil she scores out Clue 10 and amends it toThe third point was a plague pit.Then she shudders and rings for Brodie. The old butler appears in the drawing room immediately. If Araminta were less distracted she might notice his cheeks are still pink from the cold.
‘We ought to notify the constables about Eleanor’s disappearance,’ she says.
Brodie nods, his grave expression not shifting an inch. ‘As you wish, madam,’ he replies. Since they last spoke he’s checked everywhere he can think of and even alerted Mrs Hamilton to spread the word along the Water of Leith. However, he’s now appraised of the mistress’s nighttime jaunts to see her great aunt and has just watched the girl mount behind Sister Winifred. The mistress knows Eleanor is safe and so does he, but like the first-class butler he is, he says nothing and retreats to his sitting room in the basement. Here he peers out towards the mews and decides that to get any further, he’ll have to speak to Davey. Tomorrow.
Chapter Nineteen
Mr Thom orders lamb chops and tipsy pudding to his rooms, after spending his afternoon writing a full account of what has occurred so far in Edinburgh and sending it to the Grand Master in London. Setting out Eleanor Thrale’s deceit, the details given by Davey of Mrs Moore’s movements, and his success in uncovering Araminta visiting the honours focusses his mind. After eating, he settles by the ashy fire in his sitting room to consider his situation. McGhie is little help in anything except his knowledge of the city, but, Thom concludes, the other man has provided little so far that might not be got from a map. Thom can’t imagine he’d have tracked Eilidh McKenzie for years, as the spirit merchant has, and made so little progress. McGhie is too hands-off, he concludes. That afternoon the men had bickered after Eleanor fled, the argument, in fact, running to the effect that McGhie is merely a voyeur.
‘Eilidh McKenzie was circumspect in her dealings.’ McGhie tried to excuse his failure. ‘I kept an eye on her, but she never betrayed her actions. There’s a line beyond which it’s difficult to intrude upon a lady. I was hands-on, as soon as I was able, with that girl,’ he smirks, relishing the memory of Eleanor’s eyes flashing in terror.
‘I fear you must have seen little all the time you watched. The hag must have done something of interest, McGhie,’ Thom snapped back. ‘These women... they’re slippery. One can’t stand still as if one is fishing. One must hunt.’
‘The old quine never went to the castle,’ McGhie said. ‘This one, Mrs Moore, is more active. Perhaps if we continue to follow her, we’ll find out what they’re up to.’
Thom has been considering this exchange ever since. He won’t let down the memory of his father or the trust placed in him by the Grand Master. He takes out the letter he drafted earlier to London and adds a postscript about his brother’s lack of commitment. Then, sealing it, he decides that where McGhie is weak, Thom will take action. He jumps up from his chair, pulls on his coat and hat and takes a brisk walk along George Street and up the Mound in the darkness. He turns right at the Lawnmarket where fiddle music is leaking onto the frozen, muddy setts and a thin, barefoot woman with, admittedly, haunting violet eyes, offers herself for sixpence, down the close. ‘Any business, sir?’ Thom ignores her and continues onwards to the Esplanade. At the picket fence that blocks the castle entrance, two soldiers of the Royal Scots Guard stand to attention.
‘I’d like to speak to the chap in charge,’ Thom says with all the confidence of an Englishman abroad.
One of the soldiers falls at ease. ‘The governor, sir?’
