Mother shrugs. ‘I’ve no idea, Your Grace. However, the McKenzies are an ancient family. Like my own forebears, they attended the Stuart kings and’, she adds, ‘the Stuart queens. I can’t help but think our next monarch will be a queen, as it stands. It’s always been rumoured that the McKenzies have a queenly duty. A relic of some kind. I don’t know what that might be. In any case, these men are bullies and one of their number is terrorising women in your parish.’
The bishop takes this in. ‘And you say one of these Hermits has done real harm?’
‘He strong-armed a maid and attacked one of my sisters, who was a McKenzie in her day. She has broken ribs and severe bruising. The same man appears to have kidnapped my sister’s great niece, who’s the only remaining McKenzie woman in secular society, as I understand it.’
‘In Edinburgh?’ The bishop is incredulous.
‘Indeed. I’m at a loss as to why but I fear there may be a connection to the throne – past or present. Such a man cannot have the right of it anyway.’
‘Thrones’, the bishop ponders, ‘are both past and present at once. And this violence – shocking! Have they not informed the magistrate?’
‘He’s been told about the kidnap though the woman’s now free. The magistrate’s men haven’t succeeded in apprehending the villain. It’s the Church’s responsibility, I believe, to step in if we can. The order started here. In Edinburgh. With us, or rather, our forebears. It has returned to this parish now.’
Walker takes in this explanation. ‘Knox was a disgrace,’ he says. ‘His views on many things. Women included.’ It’s not that the bishop has two daughters or indeed two sisters that makes him speak as he now does. He’s a fair-minded fellow, aware of the trials of the fairer sex. Like Knox, he listens to his congregation but unlike Knox he does not believe that a woman’s only value is in her role as wife and mother. Part of his joy in the bishopric, in fact, has been meeting Edinburgh’s lady poets and painters. He’s personally acquainted with several of the capital’s extraordinary bluestockings, including the lately departed Lady Henrietta Liston, a skilled botanist, as he made a point of saying when he delivered her eulogy. ‘This will not do,’ he agrees with Mother, who feels the knot in her stomach relax once more. ‘These people are not directly under my jurisdiction, but the late Bishop of Aberdeen appeared to know them, you say?’
Mother nods. ‘He attended a meeting in London. I was hoping you might exert your influence, Your Grace. To call them off, perhaps. If you can.’
The bishop considers. He nods. ‘I’ll make enquiries. This behaviour is craven, Mother, and unbefitting of the Church or anyone who, through historical connection, might be associated with it. The McKenzies are our congregants, one way or another. I’ll pass on your concerns in these matters as high as I need to. Thank you for making me aware.’
As Mother leaves and mounts the cart driven by Sister Cecilia, who’s been waiting with the carthorse in the roadway, she sees the Bishop reach for his ink, pen and paper. ‘As high as I need to,’ she thinks and understands that he’s taken in her worry about the young woman who’ll inherit the throne. She hopes she’s wrong. Outside, the lamps are lit along Stafford Street. She’s near the McKenzie house, she realises, as she glances east. ‘Let’s take a turn round Charlotte Square,’ she directs Cecilia. Now she’s in town, she might deliver this news to Araminta McKenzie Moore and enquire after Sister Winifred’s recovery.
*
Number four Glenfinlas Street is in uproar. The first Araminta knows of it is a gentleman’s top hat, cane and greatcoat abandoned in the hallway when she returns, helping Mr Brodie through the front door, while Eleanor sees to Davey, who was knocked out in the copse and required dousing with water from the canal before he’d waken. Douglas has fled.
‘Hello!’ Araminta shouts up the stairs. She hopes the gentleman whose items have been unceremoniously dumped on the hall table might be Dr Anderson visiting her aunt. Then it comes into her mind that the coat was tailored in Jermyn Street, if she’s not mistaken. It’s somehow familiar. ‘Johnathan,’ she lets out with a smile, and as if by magic her husband appears on the landing.
‘Darling!’ he says and trips elegantly down.
She feels an urge to fling herself into his arms but she’s holding up the butler. ‘You came!’ she gets out.
‘The magistrate wrote when you were kidnapped,’ he says. ‘Naturally I got on the first packet north.’ He stares at Brodie, who, having lost a good deal of blood, is flagging. ‘What’s happened to this fellow?’
‘This is Brodie, our butler. He’s sustained an injury,’ she explains.
‘Araminta, what on earth is going on?’
‘I must speak to my great aunt,’ she gets out. ‘Help me get Brodie upstairs. He needs a doctor. I can send Eleanor when she gets back.’
‘The doctor’s just been,’ Johnathan says. ‘I found your great aunt when I arrived. The second one. The nun.’ His eyes make it clear that he is taken aback that his wife did not inform him about Sister Winifred, never mind her person being taken in broad daylight in an incident that has necessitated the involvement of James McLevy. ‘Mr Neill told me everything,’ he adds. ‘I’ve read the letter several times. It still makes no sense. Why didn’t you tell me? Then, when I got here your aunt had been assaulted. She and one of the maids. They call Edinburgh the Athens of the North but I rather think it’s bandit country.’
Araminta has no time to argue. She motions to her husband to help and Johnathan puts Brodie’s other arm across his shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ she says, as he takes most of the butler’s weight. ‘That’s much easier.’
On the first floor, Araminta guides them into the drawing room, where there are splashes of blood on the carpet.
‘That’s not Winifred’s,’ Johnathan says. ‘If that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Where is she?’ Araminta asks.
‘I carried her up to bed. Dr Anderson gave her a sleeping draught. The maid was out cold in the hallway when I arrived. I had the doctor look at her as well – bed rest, he said. I surmise that there was an intruder though it seems nothing was taken. I’ve sent a note to Mr Neill, of course. Why on earth didn’t you tell me about all this?’
Araminta is about to attempt an explanation, when Brodie lets out a moan. Together, the Moores manoeuvre the butler onto the sopha and as he folds back, it’s apparent that his uniform is soaked in blood. Johnathan pulls out his handkerchief and makes to staunch the wound. As Eleanor arrives, Araminta dispatches the girl to fetch Dr Anderson again. Once she’s gone, Araminta turns to her husband. She’s grateful he’s come; always reliable, the McKenzie way. ‘I must speak to Winifred, my dear,’ she says. ‘Will you stay here with Brodie?’
Johnathan’s jaw hardens. ‘I think I’m due an explanation.’
Araminta crouches next to him. She kisses his cheek. ‘You are, my love. I’m sorry I couldn’t write to you about it directly. I’ll tell you everything but I must speak to Winifred first.’
