‘Robert Burns?’ Araminta casts her mind back to the snow melting in the river.
Winifred laughs. ‘John Donne was more to her taste.’
‘I like Donne’s poems.’
‘Also love poetry in Gaelic,’ Winifred continues. ‘There’s a long tradition of women writing about love in our mother tongue.’ She almost blushes for the tradition is also for women to write poetry about their lust.
‘My mother spoke Gaelic, then?’
Winifred raises her eyebrows as if to say of course she did. ‘She was born in the Highlands,’ she says. ‘Gaelic is more suited to poetry than English. I’m sure your mother would have been proud of you. We’re at clue number ten, my dear. We mustn’t lose our advantage. We must turn ourselves to the riddle of the box and this matter of the Hermit to which your coachman alerted us. Thom had a coat of arms concealed behind a miniature of St Giles. I suspect it’s emblematic of a vow. He’s most interested in symbols.’ She taps the book beside her.‘I suspect Mr McGhie has made the same vow. They’re both Hermits, the boy said. It is... some kind of club,’ she continues, searching for the right word. ‘As we’re a sisterhood, they’re a brotherhood. Though this’ – she gesticulates towards his books – ‘doesn’t have the feel of the usual brotherhoods. University fellows. The Royal Society and so forth. Nor a religious order of the Christian kind.’
There’s a clatter from the direction of the fireplace as the maid overturns a brass warming pan propped against the mantle. Winifred peers past Araminta as the girl scrambles to right it.
‘Discretion, child. Do you understand?’
The maid nods. ‘It’s only, ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying...’
‘Go on,’ Winifred allows.
‘I think the gentleman may be one of them who meets in the lodge on Rose Street Lane.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Along from my cousin’s husband there’s a place. Masons they say but not the lads who cut stone. They’re too fancy for that.’
‘What makes you suspect Mr Thom is a member of a masonic lodge?’
The girl crosses to the trunk and opens a small drawer from which she removes a carefully folded purple sash.
‘I see,’ Winifred says, holding out her hand so she can examine it. She passes the satin to Araminta.
‘This embroidery shows a lamp,’ Araminta says. ‘What does that mean?’
Winifred shrugs. ‘A symbol of the order, I imagine. We have an evergreen wreath at Sciennes. It’s carved in stone over the main entrance and is on the order’s seal which Mother uses. The hermit is often shown with a lamp. St Giles, that is. Lighting the way. A symbol of enlightenment.’
Araminta’s eyes fall to her great aunt’s wound.
‘Masons. Monks. There have always been fighting orders, the Templars the most famous. Holy warriors – or at least that’s how they consider themselves.’
‘I hardly see Mr Thom as holy.’
‘Nor do I, but what we see, isn’t what he sees. Thank you,’ Winifred says to the maid. ‘I don’t recall your name.’
‘Bella,’ the girl provides. This is the first time a guest at the boarding house has ever asked.
‘We must seek to find out more,’ Winifred adds, turning back to Araminta. She shifts in the bed, wincing.
‘Did the doctor provide you with something to ease the pain?’ Araminta asks.
Winifred nods and Araminta notes a small bottle on the nightstand. ‘The poppy takes more than pain away,’ Winifred says. ‘I’d rather keep my senses. Leave this with me. I’ll send a friend to seek the information. I’ve never heard of these Hermits.’
‘And I?’
‘Araminta, you must solve the clue. We must split our forces.’
As if on cue there’s a knock at the door. ‘Come,’ Winifred calls.
Davey steps inside holding a note. ‘This was delivered at Glenfinlas Street, Mrs Moore. Mr Brodie sent the footman with it.’
