‘How clever!’ Araminta exclaims. ‘I wonder where that building is?’
She thinks that the structure does not look Scottish. It has the feel of a fortified medieval manor on a lake. The lines of Mr Tennyson’s famous poem, ‘The Lady of Shalott’, come to mind. Her eyes sparkle. She has unravelled the twelfth clue, or at least James McLevy has.
‘Perhaps this lady lived wherever it is,’ the detective says. ‘It’s more a castle, really, than a house.’
Araminta thinks it doesn’t look like a castle. Not a Scottish castle anyway. There are no turrets or stepped roofs. ‘Clementina was lively – much loved, I think. She came from the west,’ she gets out. ‘Dumbarton.’ It’s all she knows about her great grandmother.
‘I’m glad in any case to see your person has been recovered,’ McLevy smiles.
‘I was not recovered, sir. I escaped.’ Araminta can’t help saying it though she bites her tongue afterwards.
McLevy slides into this conversational opening, leaning the mirror against the wall. ‘I’d like to know. How did you do that?’
‘I unscrewed the hinges on the door,’ Araminta says after a moment’s silence. He must know already, or he’s no kind of detective at all.
‘Clever,’ McLevy judges. ‘You’ve no idea how many people have been kept in those holding rooms and not thought to do the same.’
Araminta gives a little shrug. ‘I used my wedding ring.’
His eyes fall to her hand. ‘And you escaped along the Cowgate. Why did you go that way instead of the more direct road, down the Mound? Why didn’t you ask for help? There are plenty of people on the High Street; respectable people at that time of day.’
Araminta’s jaw hardens. ‘Mr Thom lied in order to have me locked up, sir. He told people that I was mad and that he was my brother. I didn’t trust anybody. So I made off down the steps.’
‘The Cowgate’s a dangerous place for a lady.’
‘Safer than the High Street or the police cells,’ she parries. ‘He took me in broad daylight.’
McLevy concedes this point. ‘Do you not wish the fellow caught, madam? What if he were to come for you again? Or take another lady? Any help you can give me will forestall that possibility.’
‘I hope you catch him, Mr McLevy. But I’ve nothing more to say.’ Araminta makes for the bell to summon Brodie.
McLevy sighs. This woman’s response will not stop him searching. She’s lying or at least not being fully honest. When Brodie opens the door, McLevy turns.
‘We can’t have this kind of gentleman free about the town,’ he says. ‘Edinburgh won’t thole it. We value our womenfolk. I intend to have this fellow up in court.’ He bows and takes his leave.
Araminta waits. She lets out a long breath as she hears the front door close. Then she manoeuvres the mirror at ninety degrees to the painting once more to examine the building McLevy revealed. There’s nothing to indicate where it is. Berenice McKenzie clearly expected it to be recognised. This taskis, however, beyond her. She rings the bell for Brodie but he doesn’t know either.
‘Mr McLevy said we have the carriage back?’
Brodie nods. ‘Yes, ma’am. I believe so.’
Quickly, she instructs him to fetch dustsheets to swaddle the painting and the mirror, and call for Davey. The men load the items into the carriage and Araminta and Eleanor climb aboard. Brodie hovers on the doorstep. Araminta peers up the hill and across the square. Nobody’s watching, however, she’s mindful of Mr McLevy’s words about women requiring protection. ‘Mr Brodie,’ she says. ‘Would you join us?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Brodie jumps at the chance. ‘I’ll fetch my coat.’
They wait only a moment for him to do so. Then he climbs up next to Davey.
‘Where are we off to?’ he asks cheerfully.
‘Back to the old nun,’ Davey grins. ‘Do you know what they’re doing, sir?’
Brodie shakes his head. ‘Not a clue, son. But hold on,’ he says and jumps down, returning into the house to retrieve a polished chestnut cane with a mother-of-pearl handle inlaid with silver side panels. He knocks on the carriage door and hands it to Araminta.
‘What’s this?’ she asks.
‘It was Mistress McKenzie’s, ma’am. I thought you might find it useful.’
‘Perhaps my great aunt will. I’m not an invalid, Mr Brodie.’ She makes to hand it back.
