The Redemption of Alexander Seaton (21 page)

I felt my mouth go a little dry. ‘I had a letter to deliver to him from the provost of Banff.’

‘Did you see the contents of the letter?’

I shook my head. ‘He, Jamesone, told me what the gist of it was, but no, I did not read it myself. It was — he said — to do with a commission to paint the provost’s family. I have in my room in your house the artist’s reply.’

I thought I saw my friend flinch, but only for a moment. ‘You have not read this letter?’

‘It is sealed.’

He pushed his fingers to his temples in thought. ‘Then you must deliver it. You must go to Straloch as soon as you are able and fulfil your commission there, and then you must return to Banff, deliver this letter and hope to keep yourself from the provost’s further notice.’ At that moment I felt I would gladly never have seen the provost, or the town of Banff again. But duties and promises called me back there, and there I would go. We resolved that I would leave Aberdeen a day early, as soon as the Sunday sermon was over. The laird of Straloch would forgive my Sabbath intrusion when he learnt the purport of my business.

We talked late, and when we finally left Bella Watson’s house it was with little greater ambition than to lie down and rest our heads as soon as we might. As we walked we kept our voices low and kept ourselves to the main arteries of the town — all manner of creatures might wait in the darkness of vennels and winding lanes for unsuspecting night travellers. The near-full moon carved out the houses looming over the Castlegate, but gave us less guidance on the narrower, more winding streets, whose tenements tottered three storeys above us. Shadows lurked under forestairs and beyond pends.
A snarling dog drew its owner to a window and was silenced with a curse as we passed. We kept as far as we could to the middle of the street to avoid the muck and ordure in the gutters. As we turned onto the Flourmill Lane, some movement at an upper storey caught William’s eye and he put his hand on my arm to stay me. I followed the direction of his gaze and saw a flicker of light at the top of the backland stairway of a house I knew well – Maisie Johnston’s, forever in my mind as the place where Archie and I had had that last evening together. A crook in the wall obscured us from view, and we were able to watch the dumb-show at the top of the stairs. It was Maisie herself, and although her face was obscured by a shawl, the other was certainly a young woman. Maisie was casting her eye about her, and speaking to the younger woman in low but urgent tones. William whispered to me, ‘This is not like Maisie. She takes a great care not to draw attention to her establishment, and to avoid the wrath of the session.’

‘But everyone knows what manner of house Maisie’s is.’

‘Everyone knows, but Maisie does not flaunt it. She does not give room to vagrants to ply their trade. Her girls are never to be found abroad at night, and that is the way Maisie and the council and the session like it.’

Maisie gave one final sweep of the street with her eyes, then handed the young woman a pouch before embracing her briefly and ushering her down the stair. As the young woman took her leave, her shawl slipped a little and I had to stop myself from calling out. The pend gate opened and I was face to face with Mary Dawson. ‘Mary,’ I began. The girl opened her mouth as if to reply, but her momentary recognition had been replaced by a look of sheer terror.
Almost losing her bundle, and with her shawl now trailing behind her, she pushed past me and ran. William had a hold of my arm and it was several seconds before I was able to shake him off.

‘Alexander, for the love of God — the woman is a whore. Is she known to you?’

I gasped a brief reply and then made after her, with William soon at my heels. I could not see initially where Mary had gone, but the sound of her running feet on the cobbles directed me to a vennel behind the lane and towards the kirkyard. Two or three times I almost stumbled, being less accustomed to this night running than was Mary, who had often had to take to her heels to avoid being caught in the performance of her nocturnal trade. William caught up with me as I reached the kirkyard. ‘I will explain later,’ I told him breathlessly, ‘but I must talk to this woman.’ I scanned the jutting slabs that gave memory to generations of indwellers past and long dead, and the mounds and humps of earth where the poor lay scarcely noted, but could see nothing of Mary Dawson. Bats swooped and whirled from the steeple of the church and amongst the trees in the kirkyard. An owl hooted and I imagined I could feel and hear every scuttling thing about my feet. She could have been hiding anywhere amongst the graves, for I was sure she could not have left without being seen. I gambled and started to make for the kirk itself. As I did so I caught sight of a swift movement out of the corner of my eye and then saw Mary Dawson running out towards the Netherkirkgate, as if all the creatures in Hell were after her. I checked my path and ran after her, William still with me, although comprehending no more than he had at the start of my pursuit. Mary was clearly no
stranger to Aberdeen, for she knew the lanes and vennels of the town better than I myself could remember. From the Netherkirkgate she headed down west of St Katharine’s Hill by Putachieside towards the Green. The smell of the tanners’ and the litsters’ work still hung in the night air, although they had long since gone to their weary beds. I almost lost her at the Green, a cat having darted out from behind a midden, nearly sending me into the Putachie Burn. As I righted myself I could see no sign of her, but a movement ahead had me starting off again in the direction of the ruined Carmelite friary. William, bent double with so much running after such a dinner, grabbed at my cloak, gasping.

‘No. She went this way.’ He was indicating the line of the burn as it went to meet the mouth of the Dee and, recovering, he pulled me after him in the direction of Shore Brae: she was headed for the harbour.

The harbour was never silent, never at rest – it was the heart and lungs of the burgh. Whereas before our running had sent noise ricocheting into the silent hum of the night-time town, our falling steps – and those of Mary Dawson ahead of us – fell into a rhythm already gently approaching from the sea. The putrid smell of the trades was now being lost, overwhelmed, by the sheer salt and seaweed smell of the quay head. There were lanterns lit along the quayside, and the shore porters were busy at their work. A huddle of merchants deep in conference with the ship’s master was animated by the lantern light. The group looked up at our approach.

‘It seems you have some tardy passengers, captain. They are all out winded to get here in time.’

Another merchant peered at us. ‘Is it not William Cargill?
What are you doing here at this hour of the night, Mr Cargill? Are you making ship for the Baltic, then? Will you not be needing my bill after all?’

William laughed and responded as casually as he could, ‘No, it is since my wife has been with child it is safer for me to walk abroad at night than to venture to my own bed. The humour that is on her brings tears the one minute and scolding the next.’

The men laughed. William went over to the captain and drew him aside a moment for some private speech. I envied him his facility of going through the world without causing offence. The merchants went to see to the loading of their goods and I remained in the shadows, watching for a sight of Mary Dawson. William came back over to me presently. ‘The captain takes six passengers as well as his cargo tonight, in less than an hour. They sail for Danzig. He has two students, two merchants, a master mason and a woman who calls herself a widow. He says she is no widow such as he has seen before and he is certain her testimonials are forged, but her money is not and he will let her aboard without over much questioning. He says she is a young woman, of medium height, shapely, with hair the colour of burnished copper, and eyes the same shade. Is this the woman you seek?’

I nodded slowly. ‘Her name is Mary Dawson. She and her sister are — were — whores of Banff. I would swear they were the last faces Patrick Davidson saw before he departed this world. Their occupation has been long known in Banff, but tolerated — they were discreet enough. Yet two days ago Janet Dawson was driven from the bounds at the end of the hangman’s scourge, not to return on pain of death. I saw it
with my own eyes. Before the town serjeant pulled her away, she repeated to me the words she said were the last spoken on this earth by Patrick Davidson: “James and the flowers”. I am certain it was the sisters who put Patrick Davidson in my schoolroom to die, and I can make very little of Janet’s report of his last words. I must talk with Mary Dawson before she leaves these shores. I cannot believe that this and her sister’s banishment from Banff do not have their cause in the murder of the apothecary’s apprentice.’

William took some coins from his pouch and bade me follow him. He walked to where the shore porters were and went to talk quietly to one of them, then another. It was the third man who finally showed some sign of knowing what he was being asked, and taking the coin from William motioned to us to follow him. Behind a large stack of English coals I found my quarry, cowering like a frightened dog. She tried to bolt again when she saw me, but this time I was too fast for her: I caught her by the arms and forced her back down.

‘Mary, you know me. Why do you run?’ Still she struggled, but I held her firm. ‘Mary, it is Alexander Seaton. You know me.’

At length, when she realised she could not release herself from my grip, she stopped struggling. She looked directly at me through defiant, and yet fearful eyes. ‘I know you, Mr Seaton, and I know you to have goodness in you, but you have not fallen far enough in this world for me to trust you. Let me go, for you will have nothing of me.’

‘A few words, Mary, that is all I ask, a few words.’

She looked suspiciously at William. ‘Who is he?’

‘A friend, no more.’

‘He has not been sent after me with you?’

I slowly loosened my grip on her arm. ‘What do you mean? Mary, I have not been sent after you. I never knew you were here until this night, not half an hour ago as you left Maisie Johnston’s house. You think I was sent here after you, to bring you back to Banff?’

She was rubbing her arm where I had gripped her, and let out a hollow laugh. ‘Back to Banff? I will never see Banff again all the days of this life, unless it is to hang from the gibbet or be drowned at the shore. You nor anyone else to come will ever be sent to bring me back, but I fear one might be sent to see to it that I do not.’

Now I understood her terror; it was some of that same creeping terror that had been coming over me these last hours, but in Mary Dawson it had taken such a hold that no one could reason with her, such was her certainty of some awful retribution. For what, I began to guess, but from whom I did not know. ‘Tell me what you know, Mary.’

She shook her head fiercely, like a madwoman lost in herself.

‘You have nothing to fear from me. I swear before God, I am not one of them.’ I had no earthly notion who this ‘them’ might be, but my oath seemed to calm her a little, although her lips remained tightly shut. I had to try another tack. ‘There is something your sister told me …’

Her eyes flashed up at me. ‘Janet? Where is she? Is she here in Aberdeen?’

I put my hand out to calm her, to let her down as gently as I might. ‘No. She is not here. I do not know where she is now. I last saw her three days ago. The hangman and the town serjeant were beating her from the bounds. They drove her out to the west, on the Cullen road.’

Mary’s eyes were still eager. ‘Then they do not have her? She is safe?’

‘As far as I can tell you, she is safe. I do not know where she is gone, but I know,’ I hesitated, but there was no good in keeping it from her, ‘I know she was bound never to return to Banff, on pain of death.’

These tidings did not seem to trouble Mary as I had expected them to. She was nodding slowly, smiling to herself. ‘Then she is safe. She will go to our cousin in Strathspey. She will be safe.’

‘Strathspey is a long journey, over hard terrain.’

Mary was not concerned. ‘She knows the country well. The last frosts are almost gone. She will make her way. She will be safe. May God keep her.’ I realised then that Mary Dawson had no expectation of ever seeing her sister again. She was silent in her thoughts and I let her be for a while, but I knew time was passing and that neither tide nor captain would wait, so neither could I.

‘What is it that drove you from Banff in such a way?’

She looked at me curiously. ‘You truly do not know?’

‘How could I know? I am not privy to the magistrates’ council.’

She almost snorted with contempt. ‘The magistrates’ council!’ And then, more softly, she said, ‘It was not the magistrates’ council, but the beggar chief that warned us to leave Banff. His warning is not to be taken lightly.’

‘The beggar chief? Lang Geordie? But why?’

She answered, and I knew I had guessed the thing right. ‘The apothecary’s apprentice – I never knew his name. We found him, Janet and I, at the bottom of Water Path. He was sick, near to death. It was us who set him at your desk.’
She looked up. ‘And they say you never saw him until he was gone?’

I sat down beside her and took off my hat. William watched at a distance. ‘I was not called until he had been found, long dead.’

She smiled a sad smile. ‘It was a chance we took. It was a slim hope, but a hope all the same. We knew he was dying — I have seen dying men before. We had seen you pass only a few moments before, and we doubted you would be yet sleeping. We hoped you might hear him and find him, find him in time to help him.’

‘I heard nothing.’ For the tenth, twentieth time I cast my mind back to that night and tried to listen again, tried to hear what I had not heard then. There was nothing, nothing but the noise of the storm, drowning out whatever else there might have been.

‘Neither you, nor Mistress Youngson?’

‘Not even she.’

She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. ‘Ah, well. It was not to be. It was his lot to die.’ Then she looked up sharply. ‘He was not drunk, though, Mr Seaton, whatever they might say. It was not a natural death.’