Inside the chapel, he inspects the pews and the pile of bibles. ‘And from here?’
Fraser indicates the steps to the storeroom. Thom takes the lamp, leaving the colonel in a patch of moonlight through the thin window at the altar. He recalls Eleanor saying something about her mistress looking through the windows. The storeroom windows are mere slits and the view can only be of the old royal hall on the other side of the pathway. Still, he feels he ought to check. He hoists the lamp above each sill in turn until he comesto the ancient graffiti, scratched into the stone. ‘Ha!’ he lets out. It’s incomprehensible, of course, but it reeks of the McKenzies. Pearls. Crowns. Jewellers.
He emerges back into the garrison chapel. ‘She left the castle after this, did she?’
Fraser shifts. He feels foolish. ‘I took her to the treasury,’ he confesses sheepishly. ‘I had them show her the honours.’
Thom is pragmatic. ‘Did she show much interest in that?’
Fraser considers. It didn’t occur to him at the time. ‘No,’ he gets out, the word slipping across his lips, unexpectedly. ‘Actually, not at all.’
‘Thought not. Good work, Colonel.’
Fraser nods. Thom hands him back the lamp. ‘If she gets in touch again, let me know immediately. I’ve taken rooms on North St David Street.’
Fraser leads the way back into the freezing night air. This kind of intrigue is what he’d hoped of Scotland. Though as he comes to think on it, he’d rather be in Thom’s shoes than his own. He’s never been given a private mission. He wonders how one might seek such a commission. He walks his guest down the Lang Stairs to the main gate. ‘Anything I can do, brother, you need only let me know. Faith, hope and charity,’ he says, adding the maxim that refers to faith in the Great Architect who binds all masons in brotherhood. Thom nods. ‘Indeed,’ he says, though he despises the cosy adage. The Hermits don’t pander to childish indulgence. Their meetings are altogether more Spartan affairs. Fraser, however, seems satisfied. He raises his hand and watches Mr Thom stride across the Esplanade.
Back down the Lawnmarket, Harry Thom can’t conceal his glee. He’s found a clue. It’s the first time a Hermit has done so – tangible evidence that the women are up to something. He doesn’t know what it might lead to, but that isn’t the point. He’s finding them out. He stops at the violet-eyed girl still loiteringat the head of the close, and hands her a sixpenny bit. It’s more than the little bitch is worth as he judges it but he’s feeling generous. ‘In the doorway,’ he snaps. ‘Quickly. Down on your knees.’
Chapter Twenty
The convent has a set of sounds and smells with which Eleanor is unfamiliar and in addition a large network of corridors. The girl has never visited an institution larger than the local church; not a library nor a college nor even a bank. The day starts no earlier than in the Moore household, when the housemaids set fires and Cook bakes bread. Eleanor is given a plain robe to replace her apricot dress and, with her boots echoing along the high-ceilinged passage and the windows damp in the early morning air, she joins Sister Winifred in the chapel for the first service of the day. The old nun plays the organ. After this there’s warm bread and small beer in the refectory. It’s difficult to tell the nuns apart, all dressed the same with their hair covered. In fact, it’s impossible to estimate the women’s ages. The air smells of scrubbing soap and marzipan. The sisters chatter in a low hum. Eleanor feels safe.
After breakfast, a bell sounds and the nuns scatter, leaving only a few women to clear the tables. ‘It’s not far,’ Sister Winifred says, matter-of-fact. ‘A pleasant walk through Hope Park.’
In darkness last night, Eleanor had not taken in the mansions along the roadside. Now, just after dawn, as they come onto the highway, she eyes the double-fronted stone houses.
‘Is this still Edinburgh?’ she asks for this place looks different from the grand terraces of the New Town. Here each house is set in its own grounds and the highway is made of compacted mud.
The old nun chuckles. ‘We’re outside the city, dear. This is the old Borough Muir. Many families keep country places here. It’s popular, especially in summertime.’
‘Does your family have a house?’ Eleanor looks round nervously, as if a McKenzie residence in the vicinity would put them both in danger.
‘Och no,’ the old nun replies. ‘This isn’t really the country, if you’re a Highland lass.’
Eleanor has no idea what this means, but does not enquire further.
They tramp across open ground punctuated by a couple of ancient oak trees, then they cut into Hope Park which is bounded by railings. Inside are manicured paths and more trees; this time sycamores; younger ones. A footman throws a stick for a spaniel and a nanny pushes a perambulator. To the east, Arthur’s Seat rises majestically and Eleanor can just make out two tiny figures who’ve made it to the top. In the other direction, not as far as she’d like, she takes in the dark castle with a shudder, as if it’s a malevolent force observing their progress. Keeping her head down, they continue to more open, hilly ground. Sister Winifred tramps across the grass past a crescent of houses shielded by private planting. At the far western corner, she stops near a hostelry on the main thoroughfare, which Eleanor realises is the road they took to the convent last night. A faded wooden sign proclaims it the Golf Tavern, not that Eleanor can read, though there’s a picture of a golf club and some grass. Further down the hill there’s a Celtic cross, a memorial to the victims of the plague. Winifred removes a trowel from her pocket. ‘That’s the place,’ she says. ‘It’s as well there’s nobody around.’
Eleanor surveys the area, realising that the sister is right. There’s nobody going in or out of the tavern or the houses. The park and main road are quiet. At this time of day gentlemen and ladies are only just rising to their bowls of steaming washing water and trays of boiled eggs and toast.
‘Keep an eye out,’ Sister Winifred directs, and Eleanor is glad that she’s not being asked to break ground.
At the corner, in front of the cross, the old nun falls to her knees, marking out a patch of grass. The earth is frozen. It’ll be hard digging. She’s brought a pair of cotton gloves to protect her hands. Efficiently, she peels back the top layer of turf.
For a good while nothing passes on the road. Then a gentleman on a horse at a gallop, heading into town. In a field to the south, Eleanor can just make out a groom exercising two piebald ponies that have been put to grazing. Sister Winifred stands up and shakes her legs.
‘Would you like me to...’ Eleanor offers. It seems an easier job now it’s started and she isn’t accustomed to allowing her betters to do the lion’s share of the work.
Matter of fact, Winifred hands over the trowel and the gloves and Eleanor scrapes at the small, muddy pit the nun has opened. The digging gets easier as the hole deepens. When they’ve made it over a foot down, perhaps nearer two, Eleanor squeals. Winifred peers into the hole, where a thin, mud-streaked bone sticks through the wall of earth. She crosses herself and says something in Latin. ‘Poor soul,’ she adds. ‘An arm bone, I think.’ And she reaches again for the trowel.
‘You’re not going to continue.’ Eleanor can’t believe it.
‘What we’re looking for won’t be lower than the bodies,’ Winifred says with great pragmatism. ‘These folk were long-rotted when it went in.’ She starts to scrape the outer edge of the little pit, above the line of the gruesome discovery.
Eleanor’s breathing becomes shallow. This whole trip, day on day, has got more and more confusing. Richmond seems like a dream; her time spent darning and polishing boots, dressing her mistress and arranging flowers. Since they came to Scotland everything seems to be getting worse, until here she is, digging up a grave in the soft morning light, in hiding from a manwho’s assaulted her. She’s about to say something to object, when Winifred lets out a triumphant ‘Ha!’ and excavates a small golden box from the muddy wall. ‘We needn’t have dug so deep,’ she says. ‘We only missed it by an inch. It just goes to show you.’
The nun climbs out and kicks a pile of loose dirt into the hole. ‘Fill it, would you?’
