‘McKenzie Moore?’ the woman repeats Araminta’s name. ‘What was your great grandmother called?’
‘Berenice McKenzie.’
‘No. That’s not it.’ The woman’s forehead creases as she tries to remember. ‘It was another woman,’ she continues. ‘I’m sure of it. A McKenzie though.’
‘Clementina?’ Araminta tries.
‘That’s it. The marriage never went ahead.’
‘Do you mean that Clementina was to marry here? Was it Baron Ross’s son?’
‘Clementina McKenzie,’ the woman repeats the name as if she is grasping a wisp on a breeze. ‘There were papers when we moved in. The marriage was called off. Her mother was a notorious...’ the woman’s eyes suddenly harden as she recalls the details. ‘Get out of my garden,’ she snarls. ‘Get out, you Jacobite hoor!’
‘Well, really,’ Araminta manages as her mind makes the many connections. The portrait of Clementina must have been made in advance of the girl’s marriage. It was a common practice. But in the wake of Culloden the engagement must have fallen apart so the portrait had no use, at least until Berenice had it altered. Perhaps it was put away, she posits; a shameful memory of what might have been. It must have been hung on the wall when the family moved to the New Town decades later – a sad reminder of a young woman’s marital hope, slain alongside her mother. The meaning lost, over time, till now.
From inside the dovecot, Davey exclaims, ‘There’s something here. A box, I think.’ Douglas gingerly goes in to help him lever it out and together the young men carry a small oak chest with a rusted catch onto the grass. It’s damaged beyond repair by the soil but not rotted through.
‘What’s that?’ the woman asks.
‘It’s what my great grandmother left,’ Araminta says. ‘We shan’t keep you any longer.’
‘Is it a treasure trove?’ the woman enquires, folding her arms.
Araminta shakes her head. ‘It’s family business. Look,’ she gets out, ‘I shall give you ten shillings for the inconvenience. And to get the door fixed.’ She reaches into her reticule and the woman takes the money like a wary dog being fed a treat.
‘Aye, well,’ she says. ‘You’d best be off.’
Brodie picks up the box and the younger men gather the tools. As they turn to go, a smile spreads across Araminta’s face and Eleanor squeezes her arm. ‘You found it, ma’am,’ she whispers. The party walk towards the canal away from the garden ground and Araminta checks that the woman has gone back into the house. When she’s sure they’re out of sight, she motions to Brodie to stop at a small copse of thickly planted hazel just beyond the basin. The sound of horses’ brasses clink in the distance as they haul barges heaped with coal. On the breeze someone’s whistling.
‘Let me see,’ Araminta directs the butler.
Brodie puts the box on the ground. With the chisel Araminta herself levers open the rusted catch and finds a well-made lead lining and an object wrapped in linen. It’s there! Her hands quiver as she lifts it out and peels back a tiny part of the cloth to reveal an ornate peak of gold, topped by emeralds surrounded by pearls.
‘The thirteenth,’ she says under her breath, but what comes into her mind is how happy Winifred will be. It’s only the two ofthem who can truly appreciate the century of searching that has culminated in this find. The crown looks fresh as the day it was buried. She wraps the linen round it and is about to return it to the box, when a voice barks from the fringe of the trees.
‘Stop!’
Araminta takes a moment to recognise Harry Thom, who looks as if he might be a mate on one of the barges. His colour is high. He’s made good time on the ride from town. She grasps her cane, her fingers on the silver mechanism.
‘I’ll take that,’ he says, stepping forward between the branches.
Araminta doesn’t hesitate. She shoves the crown at Eleanor and draws her blade, lashing in Thom’s direction. The Hermit deftly dodges her cut and thrust, smashing into one of the trees. Recovering, he laughs and pulls Araminta’s muff gun from his pocket. He cocks the trigger.
‘Put down the blade,’ he says coldly. ‘Or I’ll shoot you and as many of the others as I can.’
Araminta pauses. She can’t be sure he hasn’t procured bullets. She raises her free hand to indicate surrender, then sticks the blade into the damp earth. Thom moves forward to remove it.
In the split second that follows, two things happen. Mr Brodie fearlessly knocks the gun from Thom’s grasp and Araminta grabs back the crown from Eleanor and dodges through the trees with it in her arms, swaddled as if it’s an infant. When she glances back, Brodie is punching Thom around the head with an impressive upper cut as Douglas and Davey look on in open admiration. ‘You hurt my lady,’ she hears him snarl, and realises that he means not her but Sister Winifred. She stops running, since the threat has been contained, but Thom gets his hands on the blade she left sticking out of the soil. He steps back from Brodie’s deadly fists and swipes at him. Brodie dodges the first two attempts but then suddenly halts, mid-punch, as Thom thrusts the blade a third time, finding its mark in Brodie’sside. The butler falls. Eleanor screams. Davey and Douglas pile in, furiously, like poorly trained pups, wielding the tools they brought as weapons. Araminta makes off again, out of the copse and along the muddy towpath. Her heart is pounding. From here it’ll be difficult to get back to the carriage. She must disappear in the other direction. Some way along the water, she steps onto a moored canal boat and crouches along the far side, shielded from the towpath by the boat’s cargo, secured under a tarpaulin. She wonders if she should weight the crown and drop it into the water, but that seems too obvious. Surely she can’t lose it now. She hides, crouching, her fingers fluttering over the jewels, feeling their way. The golden base is lined with a band of soft leather to protect the queen’s brow. It’s loose, she realises, as she picks it open, the leather still supple. There’s something inside.
She’s distracted by the sound of Eleanor screaming and stops to peek over the top of the tarpaulin. The maid emerges from the trees, running. Araminta almost stands up to call the girl along the path but just as she’s about to do so, Thom bursts out of the copse in pursuit and, catching up easily, grabs Eleanor from behind. She screams again. Two boatmen appear. ‘What are you doing?’ one of them shouts. ‘Leave that girl alone.’
‘She’s my daughter,’ Thom barks. ‘This is none of your business. She stole my money.’
‘You’re no father of mine!’ Eleanor exclaims.
But the men are clearly cowed by Thom’s assertion and he realises he has the whip hand.
‘I’m within my rights,’ he shouts, seeing them off. ‘Go on!’
