‘Can someone drop us further along the bank?’
The man asks no questions. ‘Yes, Sister,’ he says obediently and Winifred makes the sign of the cross. In moments of extremis, she’s noticed that people gravitate towards the insignia. ‘Bless you,’ she says. ‘You’ll go to heaven for this.’
*
Back on the Links after a wild goose chase that takes almost an hour, Harry Thom dismounts his hired chestnut horse and sets it to the water trough. He’s been round the park, along to the nunnery and up and down the hill to the canal twice, but there’s no sign. The rag and bone man tried to get him to pay for the cart that the women stole, and, his temper at its height, Thom struck the man, who’s now retreated inside the inn. The horse drinks noisily as he stands on the grass feeling tearful. He knows there’s no point in digging the raised sod the women left. They’ve gone; the clue with them. He remembers his father feeling the same frustration, the same rush of fury, and also his advice. ‘The McKenzie women are a scourge. The worst kind of black-hearted, evil bitches. Too clever by far.’ Harry’s mother,the daughter of a Tory peer, never learned to read and that, his father said, was the reason their marriage was happy. He was in the habit of quoting Hippolytus who, it’s said, wouldn’t let clever women enter his house. ‘The McKenzies won’t prevail. We’ll win the long game, son,’ he promised. ‘We’ll whip them.’ This, Harry Thom divines, is the long game his father spoke about. McGhie has been pussy-footing for far too long. Look at the progress he’s made since he took matters into his own hands. He’s found two clues in the last twelve hours and solved them both. He just has to keep going. For a moment he contemplates what to do, then he mounts his horse and turns back towards Edinburgh.
Chapter Twenty-One
Davey isn’t worried when Eleanor doesn’t return to the mews. In fact, it’s a relief. He’s never shared the stable with anyone else, let alone a plump, pleasing, green-eyed girl who smells of woodsmoke and cherries. He saw her off up Queensferry Street last night and he has faith she knows what she’s doing. Davey’s a lad who lets folk be. That night, he sleeps in the hayloft and is woken by Hester, bringing his tin of buttered porridge a little later than usual.
‘The mistress was out again last night,’ Hester confides. ‘We don’t know where she goes.’
Davey doesn’t say that he has some idea, not now he is inducted to the mistress’s benefit and has his second shilling.
Hester drops her voice to a dramatic whisper. ‘Do you think it’s an affair?’
‘She’s only just got here,’ Davey argues, warming his hands on the porridge tin. ‘What does Cook say?’
‘A lady’s consent to what happens in her petticoats is nobody’s business but her own,’ Hester recites.
‘Well then. I’m sure Mrs Moore is only exploring the district.’
‘Her maid has run. Me and Agnes was surprised. She didn’t seem the type.’ This last was delivered with especial gossipy confidence. Davey wonders momentarily what kind of girl Hester thinks would run off. ‘The mistress wants the carriage at eleven, mind,’ the girl adds. ‘Something about buying rocks.’ She shrugs at this inexplicable occupation and disappears through the garden gate.
Davey eats his porridge outside, sitting on an old barrel. Then he readies the horses. He’s alerted to the fact that the Blackmaid, Malvina Wells, has been sent to the next-door stable by the sound of whooping from some of the other carriage men. The girl has been dispatched to order the McLean carriage for her mistress who’s planning an outing to Kennington and Jenner later this morning with her sister. Several of the coachmen emerge onto the setts and one of them shouts, ‘You look strange, Blackie!’ The girl’s gaze drops to her feet. The McLean coachman looks embarrassed and holds his tongue. Davey tethers the mare and steps up.
‘Miss Wells,’ he says, ‘let me fetch you safely from the mews.’
The other boys whoop, this time in derision but Davey doesn’t care. He doesn’t need Cook to tell him what’s right or Hester to decide which maid is worthwhile, and he doesn’t care what the other lads think. He escorts Malvina to the corner of Queensferry Street.
‘Thank you,’ she says.
Davey gives a little bow. ‘You needn’t mind them. I’m sure they’ll get used to you.’
He’s about to turn back along Charlotte Place when he notices Mr Thom approaching at a smart trot down Queensferry Street. He puts his hands in his pocket to check his shillings, then raises his palm in greeting as Thom dismounts. ‘Fine horse, sir,’ Davey comments.
Thom has no interest in the carriage man’s opinion of his hired nag. ‘Your mistress has been out this morning, boy?’ he says, half-question, half-statement.
‘She’s ordered the carriage for eleven,’ Davey confirms. ‘I’m readying the horses.’
‘She’s been out before this though?’
‘Not with me, sir.’
Thom grimaces. ‘She went to the south of the city,’ he says, as if this will loosen the boy’s lips.
‘That’s a long way to walk,’ Davey says. ‘I’m sure the maid who brings the mistress’s orders would’ve told me.’
‘Have you ever taken her there? To a convent?’
Davey shakes his head.
‘And your mistress before. The old McKenzie dame?’
Davey shakes his head again.
‘How about a tavern on the Links? Have either of them visited such a place?’
