Mathew's Tale (11 page)

Chapter Nineteen

B
EFORE HE COULD GO
anywhere, Mathew had one thing to do and that was to make sure that his business could function properly in his absence. When the two managers of his leather factories arrived for work the next day, they found him there before them.

He told them what had happened and that he would have to deal with it. In his absence, Alan Craig, the senior of the two men, would be in overall charge of both factories. If he was not back by the end of the week, a progress report should be sent to him through Gabriel Spence.

‘Write to Sir Graham Stockley on my behalf,’ he instructed his secretary. ‘Tell him that I will be in Edinburgh for a period; you need not say why. Sheriff Stirling has told me of a new hotel in Edinburgh, a grand place, and not far from the Calton Jail, to where Mr McGill was taken. That is where I will be until this matter is resolved.

‘You would scarcely credit this, Gabriel,’ he said, ‘but it is called “The Waterloo”, in a street called Waterloo Place. How that name has woven its way through my life!’

The journey to Scotland’s capital city was completed in a single day. Initially, Mathew had contemplated taking the stagecoach from Lanark, but had decided instead that Ewan Beattie should drive them, and stay with them in Edinburgh, to take care of young Matt, should he have business where the boy could not be present.

There would still be a man about the place at Waterloo House. Tam Jackson, the gardener, was a sturdy fellow and an ex-soldier like his employer, who had hired him as much for that military background as for his skill in growing the vegetables that kept them fed throughout the year.

Beattie, who had journeyed many times to Edinburgh in the employ of Sir George Cleland, chose to head for Carnwath, and then to take the Lang Whang road to Edinburgh. Most of it ran over grazing land, open desolate moorland with several ascents and no shade.

The day was unusually hot and so the coachman did not press the horses, although he was exposed himself to the full force of the summer sun. Even at that leisurely pace, they reached the Haymarket within six hours, and fifteen minutes later they emerged from Shandwick Place, into Princes Street. Mathew had seen many remarkable things in several countries, but had never been as impressed by anything as he was by the mighty castle on its great rock, that overlooked the New Town.

Eventually they drew up outside the Waterloo Hotel, at twenty minutes after five o’clock. Mathew jumped down from the coach and stepped into the entrance hall, where he found a man, in formal dress, seated at a desk.

When he introduced himself and asked for rooms, he discovered to his great surprise that his name was known. ‘Would that be Mr Mathew Fleming, of Stockley Fleming?’ the manager asked.

‘Yes, it would,’ he admitted.

‘Sir Graham Stockley is a frequent guest of the Waterloo, sir,’ the man explained. ‘He speaks of you often, and warmly too.’

‘Then I hope I will be a frequent guest myself in the future, Mr . . . ?’

‘Soutar, sir, Andrew Soutar. How many are in your party?’

He nodded in the direction of his two companions, who were waiting by the door. ‘We will be three; myself, my young charge, Matthew McGill, who is fifteen years old, and my coachman, Mr Ewan Beattie.’

Surprise verging on astonishment showed in Soutar’s eyes. ‘Your coachman will be lodging with us?’

‘Of course. Where else would I put him? He and young Matt will share a room, for I do not want the boy to be alone. Do you have a place for my coach and stabling for my horses?’

‘Indeed, sir. Our stable boy will take charge of them and our porter will take your baggage to your rooms. They will be adjacent, on the first floor, with a view of Princes Street rather than of the jail.’

‘The jail?’ Mathew repeated casually.

‘Yes, sir, at the top of the rise, facing Calton Hill itself. Of course we would rather it had been sited somewhere else, but at least it is more pleasing aesthetically than the awful old Tolbooth that it replaced.’

‘Does this mean that one might open the curtains to see some poor fellow on the scaffold?’

Soutar smiled. ‘Oh no, sir. Executions still take place at the Lawnmarket, happily.’

‘Not so happily for the man at the end of the rope.’

The manager winced.

‘Tell me if you can,’ Mathew continued, ‘how I can reach Hanover Street.’

‘Certainly sir. It’s only a short walk, along Princes Street.’

‘Good, I will go there tomorrow. Now, if you would be so good as to show us to our rooms. We will dine here later, but first there is a call I must pay upon a friend.’

‘Do you have his address?’

‘Oh yes. It is not far from here.’

Mathew had brought clothes that would see him comfortably through a week; he was pleased to discover that the hotel was properly furnished and that he would be able to hang his coats and store everything else in drawers. As soon as he had unpacked, he knocked on the door of the room adjacent.

‘I am going up the road a little way,’ he told Beattie when he opened it. ‘Keep the boy close, but do not tell him where I have gone, or he might come after me.’

‘We’ll wait here for your return, sir,’ the driver replied. ‘I can guess your destination.’

He stepped out into Waterloo Place, taking a proper lungful of city air. He sniffed, to catch the scent of Edinburgh, trying to match it to Barclay’s description, but detecting not the faintest waft of pisspots in the atmosphere. As for the stench of corruption, he knew that to be more subtle.

The roadway was cobbled, and paved on either side with flagstones. The metal segs that he always fitted to his boot heels clicked as he walked. As he approached the prison, he cast his eye to his left, looking up at Calton Hill, with its observatory, and beyond that the pillared National Monument, planned to celebrate the victory over Napoleon.

He knew the story, from newspaper accounts: the intention had been to build a replica of the Parthenon, in Athens, funded by public subscription, but interest in the scheme had waned, and it was likely that all that would be completed was the single line of columns that he could see on the hilltop.

However there had been no problem in finding the money to build the Calton Jail. Its outer walls were formidable, with a great wooden double gate set in the centre. Within that there was a doorway, a wicket gate, which Mathew struck with the side of his closed fist.

After a few moments a small hatch opened, and a moustachioed face peered at him. ‘You’re a fearsome one richt enough,’ its owner said. ‘Have ye come tae storm the jail?’

‘I hope that will not be necessary,’ Mathew replied. ‘No, I have come to visit one of your temporary inmates, Mr David McGill, who was brought here yesterday.’

‘This is no’ a lodging house,’ the warder laughed. ‘Ye cannae call here at will.’

‘I am well aware of that. Nonetheless, I wish to speak with my friend.’

‘Only the governor can allow that, sir.’

‘Then go at once, if you please, and tell him that Mr Mathew Fleming, a Deputy Lord Lieutenant of Lanarkshire, is being kept waiting at his gate.’

The gatekeeper’s smile turned to a frown, as he weighed up his options; finally he came down in the side of caution. ‘Wait here, please, sir,’ he said.

After ten minutes the wicket gate was opened, and he was invited to step inside, into a paved yard beyond which the tall grey prison stood. The bewhiskered warder whom he had seen through the hatch had been joined by a second man. He was not in uniform; instead he wore a black jacket and breeches, with a white, starched shirt, and a cravat.

‘My name is Henry Stevens, Governor,’ he announced. ‘Do you have proof that you are who you say you are, sir?’

Mathew smiled. ‘Do you?’ he retorted but reached into a pocket of his coat. He had expected such a question and had brought with him various documents, among them, in its envelope, the letter from the Lord Chamberlain, with its intimation of his appointment. ‘You may recognise the crest,’ he said.

Stevens read carefully, then handed it back. ‘Thank you, Mr Fleming,’ he murmured civilly. ‘I am told you have a friend incarcerated here. His name?’

‘David McGill, of Carluke, Lanarkshire. He was brought here yesterday, from Lanark Sheriff Court.’

The governor’s eyes narrowed as he glanced down for a second or two, then back at his visitor. ‘I know of him; the Crown Office alerted me to his arrival.’

‘Is that usual?’

‘It is not a common occurrence, but if the Lord Advocate has a special interest in a prisoner, I am sometimes informed. Why? I have no idea, for I treat them all the same, whether they be awaiting trial or convicted.’

‘Should that be the case?’ Mathew queried. ‘Is a man not innocent until proven otherwise?’

‘Oh he is, Mr Fleming, but if he’s here, he is in . . . let me just call it a situation.’

‘And in that situation where exactly is David at the moment?’

‘He is in a cell with various other inmates . . . all of them untried, before you ask me.’

‘Then may I see him, in private?’

‘Normally, my answer would be no,’ Stevens began. ‘You are not his lawyer and from what you say you are not his family.’

‘I am his employer.’

‘That would not make you an entitled visitor.’ He paused. ‘However, there is your rank, and while I am not bound to defer to that, I will. Come with me.’

The governor led Mathew towards the jail building; it might have struck him as grand, had he not known its purpose. It was long, built of grey stone, three storeys high, with three turrets, one at either end and one in the centre to which they were heading.

As they reached it, Stevens took a set of keys that were attached to his belt by a foot-long chain, and found one that fitted the lock in the main door. Inside, the building was gloomy, even though the evening was still bright outside.

They walked along a lamp-lit corridor; at the other end the governor unlocked a second door and the two men stepped out into a great, galleried hall, with three tiers, walkways around the upper levels, all looking into the centre. The area was lighter with a cupola above, but it was sweltering, and the smell of pisspots that had been absent on the outside was much in evidence. The only people in sight all wore warders’ dark, belted uniforms and peaked caps, and carried clubs and short cutlasses.

There was a slight buzz of conversation, but no more than that. Although Mathew knew that hundreds of men were contained on the levels above, the place was unnaturally silent. He commented on the fact.

‘Conversation is forbidden outside the cells; inside, when men are locked up together for weeks, months and years, they run out of things to say to each other.’

‘Where are they fed?’

‘In a mess hall beyond this area; they get three meals a day. They have porridge for breakfast, with milk that’s as fresh as we can keep it, soup and potatoes for lunch, with a little meat if we have it, and porridge in the evening, with milk again and biscuits. Three cups of water each, per day.’

‘How can men sustain themselves on such a diet?’ Mathew asked.

‘Poorly,’ Stevens admitted, ‘but they manage. I am given a budget to feed them and I do the best I can with it. Remember, Mr Fleming, they are not here to be nurtured; rather the opposite. The last thing I would want would be for this place to be filled with strong men. We keep them weak and we keep them cowed. That may sound brutal but it is the truth; any who rebel, or are insolent, are dealt with severely, with the lash or the birch if deserved, or by isolation in dark cells, down in the cellars in the rear walls. They are set on the rock of this hill. I am sorry if that offends you,’ he continued ‘but this is not a place of recreation.’

‘And men can be here for years?’

‘Yes. Not your friend, though; from what I was told of the charge against him, murdering a member of the gentry, the best he can possibly hope for is transportation for life, and then only if his judge is one of the softer hearts among the senators. Come, I will find you a private place and will have him brought to you.’

They walked across the hall, and into another corridor. There Stevens opened an unlocked door and ushered his guest into a small room. It was completely unfurnished, but had a window that looked out on to a yard and across to a strange circular building.

‘That is my house,’ he explained. ‘To an extent, I am a prisoner here myself. Wait and I’ll bring your man.’

Left alone with his thoughts, Mathew was shaken by what he had seen. He was, by upbringing and at heart, a countryman, and as such an innocent in many ways, even after his military service, which had been spent in foreign lands. One evening in the capital city had shattered his illusions, and he knew that having been introduced to the other, darker world he had avoided for his forty years, he could never put it out of his mind.

He was still gazing blindly through the window, when the door opened behind him. ‘Fifteen minutes, sir,’ the governor said, then closed it again.

He turned, came face to face with David McGill, and recoiled. His friend’s face was lopsided; his left eye was so swollen that only a slit could be seen, and his lower lip was cut.

‘Who did that?’ Mathew growled. ‘If it was the Sheriff’s officers, I’ll make sure they’re pilloried for it.’

‘No,’ McGill whispered, ‘not them.’ Amazingly he managed a crooked smile, revealing that one of his lower front teeth was chipped. ‘One of my cell companions decided that I was a dandy. As you can see, he does not like dandies.’

‘God, man, what sort of a place is this?’

‘It is not the place, Mathew, but the people; the men I am in with are thieves and ruffians, but they know nothing else. They are not all villains either. There are six of us, and when I was set upon, three of the others restrained my attacker. He has left me alone since.’

‘But I will not leave him alone,’ Mathew declared, his blood boiling.

‘Forget him,’ David said, ‘he is of no consequence. Is Lizzie safe? Are my children safe?’

‘They are,’ Mathew assured him. ‘Cleland has evicted them from the cottage, but they are under my roof. Jean is being looked after by Miss Liddell, and Lizzie is in my mother’s care.’