‘Thank you.’
He notes that the lady doesn’t ask where the men found her property. That, he thinks, is unusual. ‘The man who took you’, he continues, ‘has thus far eluded us. I hope you might know something that will help us bring him to justice.’
‘Me?’ Araminta says. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘A description perhaps.’
Araminta can hardly deny the detective that. ‘He’s older than I am. Perhaps a little over thirty. A dark-haired gentleman. Tall and well-dressed.’
‘Mr Harry Thom,’ McLevy chimes for he’s found the name during the course of his enquiries. Thom never tried to hide it.
‘Yes,’ she admits.
‘Do you know what he meant to do, madam? What he wanted with you?’ McLevy’s gaze becomes suddenly sharper. He’s well aware how some gentlemen treat women, though generally not ladies, unless they are married to them.
Araminta finds the shift unsettling. ‘No,’ she lies. She cannot tell him – why would she? ‘I was acquainted with Mr Thom in London,’ she admits. ‘Only in passing. He’s the cousin of an old school friend.’
McLevy lets a silence come to rest. ‘I see,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t aware you knew the scoundrel. Was there ever anything between you of a romantic nature?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘It’s important you tell me everything, ma’am.’
‘As I said, I only met Mr Thom in passing.’
McLevy nods, workmanlike. ‘Did he take anything from you? Did he... hurt you in any way, other than the mark on your cheek?’
Araminta understands what McLevy is referring to. ‘He hit me. That’s all.’
McLevy shifts. Women usually want his help. People recount crimes over and over. They find the repetition healing. Not this lady.
‘Your maid went missing the other day,’ he tries. He heard that too, though nobody thought to call him in, it seems, on that occasion.
‘A misunderstanding,’ Araminta explains. ‘The girl was attending an old aunt of mine.’
McLevy sniffs. He casts his eyes round the bright, well-furnished room, his gaze falling to the painting of Clementina. ‘Ah,’ he lets out warmly, ‘I’ve seen this kind of thing before. A Jacobite relic.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Araminta lies again.
‘Why have you taken it down?’
‘Lately, I’ve inherited my great aunt’s estate. This house.’ Araminta gestures. ‘The painting is of my great grandmother, Clementina McKenzie. I’ll be taking it to London.’
‘It’s a curiosity, then?’
‘An heirloom.’
‘Are you returning to London soon, madam?’
‘I expect so. There’s a great deal to organise here in Edinburgh before I go.’ Not entirely a lie.
McLevy rises from his chair. ‘May I?’ He indicates the gilt mirror in which Araminta checked her reflection last night. Araminta motions to allow him to remove it from the wall. It is, she thinks, heavier than he expects and he stiffens as he places it beside the painting. Reflected, the grey lines in the backgroundform a fine-looking stone building behind a lake in the mirror. The dove disappears into them.
Araminta gets up and examines this magic trick. Interested, it would seem, for the first time.
‘My goodness.’ She smiles.
‘It’s a Jacobite relic, as I said,’ the detective observes. ‘Though I expected a picture of the Bonnie Prince in his armour. That’s usually what the reflection shows.’
