The doorman looks pleased with himself. ‘A solicitor’s no good,’ he says. ‘You need an advocate.’
Araminta keeps a tight hold on her temper, which is fraying. ‘Do you think I might speak to the librarian?’
‘Here, ma’am?’
‘Might he be prepared to come out?’
This is clearly highly irregular, but the doorman disappears inside and emerges a minute later with a young man wearing spectacles who introduces himself as Mr Winter. He’s wearing an old-fashioned greatcoat without a hat, which, Araminta thinks, might mean he’s not one to stand on ceremony. This might work to her advantage. She shakes his hand and gives her name. She tells him that Drummond is her family solicitor and that she’s looking for information related to the burial of Marie Maitland.
Mr Winter sucks his teeth. ‘I know of her. She was her father’s secretary. Sir Richard Maitland of Lethington.’
‘I understand she resided nearby.’
‘She did. After her father’s death. I’m making a study of the surrounding area – so much has changed, you see, and I thought it prudent to keep a record for the library. Marie Maitland owned a house on the opposite block. It was ceded to her in her marriage contract.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘For a married woman? Maybe. Scottish law is distinct from English. Property rights and such. And her family was venerable.’
Araminta doesn’t want to tumble down a rabbit hole of Mr Winter’s personal interests.
‘Do you know where she’s buried?’
Winter shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘But her body may have been moved in any case, as I understand from the minister at St Giles’. The graves here were resited.’
Winter shifts from foot to foot.
‘Was she not moved, sir?’
‘I’m afraid our forebears . . . that is to say . . . it was a shoddy job.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The gravestones were moved. Much of the monumental masonry went to Greyfriars Kirkyard although it was piled in a haphazard fashion and a great deal was broken. The town council at the time didn’t deem it necessary to remove the remains. It caused quite a stir, in fact, when the foundations of the new building went in.’
‘You mean...’ Araminta lets this information drop into her understanding.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Winter confirms. ‘The bodies are still down there. We’ve been banned from storing anything in the lower basement. Quite a jumble, as I understand it. Centuries of cadavers, buried on top of each other. Thousands. Some quite notable.’
‘Knox?’
‘One of the last to go in.’
‘So if Marie Maitland was buried here . . .’
‘She’d still be down there. Reverend Knox wouldn’t like that, I expect.’ Winter smiles weakly at this attempt at humour.
‘Good Lord.’ Araminta shifts her weight, now she knows the dead are beneath her feet. ‘The minister said the law library holds the parish records,’ she pushes.
‘Indeed we do. Back to the day when they were written on velum.’
‘That seems odd. Why would the church not keep them?’
Mr Winter sucks his teeth again. ‘There’s a close association between the institutions. In fact, St Giles’ originally housed rooms used by officers of the law. Gown and crown operated together.’ He lowers his voice before confiding, ‘Especially during the era of the witch trials.’
‘What do you mean, crown?’
