The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

by Shona MacLean

  ‘But Jaffray has always been a madman in matters of the child-bed. It is as if by saving one woman or child he will one day expiate the sufferings of his wife.’ The provost spoke only as one who knew and who had endured what Jaffray had endured, could speak. I had seldom glimpsed the private man that lay beneath the veneer, but I thought I glimpsed him now. Cardno and Buchan, however, looked up sharply at this. Such talk, in their ears, lay somewhere in the morass of sin that led from Popery to witchcraft, and I doubted whether it would be long before the provost’s name was raised at the session in the same breath as one or the other of these manifestations of evil.

  Gilbert Grant hastened to turn the conversation again to the matter in hand. ‘I would say the boy had been dead a good while before he was found. And,’ and he breathed deeply here, ‘and I believe he died in that schoolroom.’

  Arbuthnott nodded. ‘Aye, for the dead do not vomit.’ He looked at me directly. ‘If the lad was found in the state that I have heard it, he died at your desk.’ Of course, it could not have been otherwise. But I would have given much to have been able to believe that Patrick Davidson had not died his filthy and abandoned death at my desk as I slept only thirty-seven steps above him.

  ‘Was Davidson at home last night?’ The question was addressed to Arbuthnott. It was understood that the ‘home’ the baillie spoke of referred to the apothecary’s house rather than the provost’s. An apprentice lived in his master’s home, over his master’s workshop, regardless of who or where his own family was.

  ‘For a while.’ Arbuthnott was running the previous evening through his mind. ‘He took his dinner with us, but ate little. My wife chided him for it. I left them at around seven – I had work in hand in the workshop. The lad would often help me in the evenings, but I had no need of him last night. He did not seem in his usual good humour – for in general he was as pleasant as Charles Thom was gloomy – his company was often a tonic for my wife and daughter on the dark nights while I worked.’ The baillie’s eyes narrowed on Edward Arbuthnott, and again the session clerk’s face registered his malicious satisfaction. The apothecary was not to be cowed. ‘Let the sin be in your mind, James Cardno – for there is no blemish on my daughter’s name.’

  ‘Have a care that there is not.’

  The provost had no interest in such fencing. ‘This is hardly the matter in hand, James Cardno. Keep your imaginings for the session. Go on, Arbuthnott. Did you see the lad go out?’

  ‘No, I did not. I was in my workshop till after nine. And heard nothing of the comings and goings in the house. I heard nothing but howling wind and the crash of the sea.’

  The baillie looked at him with some suspicion. ‘Surely you would have seen anyone pass out into the street?’ Arbuthnott’s workroom gave directly onto his shop and thence onto the market place.

  ‘The household knows not to disturb me at my work at night. Anyone going out would have gone by the outer stair, into the back yard.’

  The session clerk’s voice was alive with anticipation. ‘And what night work have you on hand that must be carried out in such secrecy, apothecary?’

  Arbuthnott did not disguise his disdain. ‘Calm yourself, Cardno. You know nothing of my trade. It is quiet I work in, not secrecy. You will have to look elsewhere for the black arts you crave.’

  The session clerk’s breathing grew agitated, but he could not master his tongue to respond before the provost intervened once more. ‘What of your wife and daughter? What do they say of his movements?’

  ‘My wife and daughter?’ The apothecary’s voice dropped. ‘There is such a mourning in my house this day, sir, that I have had not a word that can be understood from either of them since my neighbour woke us with this terrible news.’

  There was a moment of silence and then the session clerk spoke. ‘And where is Charles Thom?’ The suddenness of Cardno’s question struck me like a cold knife. All of last night’s conversation with Charles and the doctor came back to me. And through it all James Cardno had listened.

  Arbuthnott was hesitant now, answering slowly. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘What do you mean, man?’

  ‘I mean what I say. I do not know where he is. I have not seen him since we sat at table last night. He was morose, as has been the case with him for some time now. I supposed he had taken early to his bed.’ At this the session clerk snorted, but Arbuthnott paid him no heed. ‘My neighbour arrived with this news at about our normal time of rising. Charles is often tardy in the mornings and I did not think it strange not to see him then.’ I smiled to myself as I thought of the regular sight of my friend flying past my window to the song school long after my own scholars were well settled. ‘I wonder that he has not joined us yet, though. Perhaps he is comforting the women …’ But his voice trailed off, and even I, who was probably Charles Thom’s greatest defender in that room, did not believe it.

  Cardno murmured something in the baillie’s ear, and Buchan nodded. I had no doubt that the baillie had already been well apprised of Charles Thom’s conversation and demeanour in the inn the night before, and of the time at which he had left it. Buchan turned to the two town serjeants who had been waiting all this time at the doorway. ‘Find Charles Thom and bring him here. Look first at the apothecary’s, and if you do not find him go to the song school, though I doubt he will be there. There were urchins enough on the road as we came here.’ He turned accusing eyes on me. ‘There will be much wickedness in the streets of Banff this day with neither song nor grammar school at its work.’

  I looked at the body of Patrick Davidson, still lying on the provost’s great hall table where it had been laid. ‘There has been much wickedness on the streets of Banff already,’ I said quietly. Even at a time such as this, when a young man of good family and great promise lay murdered by some unknown hand, the authorities of the burgh thought of nothing before they thought of public order.

  When the serjeants had left, the provost sat down wearily on a settle near the fire. He called for a servant and asked for the fire to be lit and for refreshments to be brought. I noticed for the first time how tired he was. Dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of many a disturbed night, and the effort of standing up to the news of the last hour had taken the strength almost entirely from him. His usual demeanour was one of great strength and assured purpose. The son of a successful merchant burgess of Banff, he was not of humble origins, but it was clear, and no one doubted of it, that he intended to end life at a higher rank than he had begun. He was the first of his family to attain to the position of provost, the foremost citizen of the town. And indeed, he was the first provost in several generations not to have sprung from the Ogilvies, lairds of Banff and of many surrounding strongholds and estates besides. Walter Watt was the coming man, and those of sense could see it. Forthright, and with little warmth or humour, he was not a man to my own tastes, and I doubted whether, regardless of my own disgrace, we would ever have been friends.

  Above the great stone hearth by which he sat was the portrait by George Jamesone which I had heard of before, but never seen. I knew little about painting, and suspected the provost knew scarcely more, but I understood the portrait of Walter Watt and his first wife, Helen, to be a signal of intent. It had been painted not long before Helen’s death, and well before her husband had attained to the heights of the provostship. Walter Watt would be somebody. No portrait of Walter Watt and his present wife, or their four children, the seedlings of his dynasty, adorned the walls. He loved Geleis Guild well enough, that was clear. Perhaps, though, no matter how many strong and healthy sons she bore him, she could never take the place of the pale young woman who stood silent by his side above us, in her hand a bunch of delicate flowers, of which several had already fallen to the floor.

  The baillie took up his stance in front of the provost and with his back to me. The provost indicated a seat and, to my surprise, the baillie took it. It was his custom, when on public duties – and I had never seen him employed on any other – to stand
towering over those with whom he had to deal. Spare of build – his very frame declaring the asceticism of his life – William Buchan was nonetheless a tall man, and he used his height to give force to his words. That he and the provost, constrained though they were to have daily dealings with one another on the business of the burgh, had little enough to say to one another at other times, was well known. It was not an antipathy such as existed between Buchan and Robert Guild, the minister, where one would gladly have seen the other ousted from his position; it was rather a discreet avoidance. Whatever he might think of the provost’s life, Baillie Buchan well knew he could never oust him – I doubted indeed whether he would even want to. For his part, the provost well knew he would never be usurped by William Buchan. Yet there existed between the two men a palpable and mutually understood dislike. It was as if the understanding of this was the very basis upon which they could continue to function together. Having made himself as comfortable as his principles would allow him to be, the baillie continued with his investigation.

  ‘When did you last see the boy?’

  The provost considered a moment. ‘It was on Sunday night, after the evening service. He was here a little after six – he was to dine with myself and Jaffray. The doctor is ever anxious for news of the continent, and the war.’

  At this Gilbert Grant nodded, having said little since our arrival at the provost’s house. ‘Aye, poor Jaffray. I sometimes think he only took part of his heart home with him when he returned to Banff. He is here with us, yet I believe in his mind, somewhere, he is still in Helmstedt, or Basel or Montpellier, with those dear friends of his youth, now so far dispersed.’ I knew what Gilbert Grant said to be true. Jaffray’s greatest recreation was to read and re-read the letters of those companions of his student days. Some of course had pre-deceased him, but only a few. Now, though, he hardly knew who lived still and who was dead. The ravages of this infernal war, tearing the Empire to shreds these last eight years, had distorted the old lines of communication to the extent that many no longer existed.

  The baillie had no interest in this diversion. ‘You say “was to dine”. Did he not wait on his dinner?’

  ‘No. Patrick drank a little wine with me but would not stay to eat. He said he had business at Arbuthnott’s – I took it to mean the preparation of medicines or some such work. He left after perhaps half an hour, before Jaffray arrived. The doctor was greatly disappointed.’

  Arbuthnott, who had thought his part over, looked up. ‘He had no work to do in my workshop at that hour. Whatever his appointment, it was not with me.’

  ‘Perhaps, then,’ suggested the session clerk, by whom no opportunity for malevolence was allowed to pass, ‘he had business with another of your household “at that hour”.’

  It was I who eventually pulled the apothecary from the throat of the session clerk. Gilbert Grant was too old and too disgusted, the provost too lost in his own concerns, and the baillie … he watched as a vagabond boy will watch a cat play with a mouse – with a morbid curiosity to see what will happen.

  Safe at a distance of about five yards from the apothecary, Cardno continued with his tack. ‘You cannot deny that your daughter has been much in company with Mr Davidson since his return to this burgh. It is known and remarked upon throughout the town.’

  The apothecary mastered his anger and I loosened my grip. ‘The town might remark what it likes. She is my daughter and he my apprentice. He lived under my roof and dined at my table. How should they have been anything but in one another’s company? You might as well suspect my wife.’

  I exchanged a covert smile with Gilbert Grant. The charms of the apothecary’s wife were considered limited to say the least.

  ‘The point remains: Marion has been much in Davidson’s company outwith your house and shop. They have been seen together at the Greenbanks, on the Hill of Doune and at the Elf Kirk. It is not fitting that a young unmarried woman should keep company out of doors, in such places, with any man. You should look to your daughter, Arbuthnott. It is not fitting.’ This from the baillie, who in truth was more moderate on the matter than I would have expected him to be.

  Despite his earlier fury, the apothecary acknowledged the point. ‘Aye. You are right. But I thought no harm would come of it. No more did her mother. She said Marion would be able to tell him where he might find the best plants, seeds, herbs and other things I needed in my work, for the girl knows these things almost as well as I do myself. And … well.’ He hesitated.

  ‘Well?’ insisted the baillie.

  ‘I thought Marion and Charles Thom, the music master …’

  The baillie nodded slowly and Cardno could not contain his pleasure. ‘Another young man lodging under your roof, Arbuthnott, who finds his diversion not far from home.’

  ‘There is no dishonour in what Charles feels for that girl. If there is any shame on that score, it is in your own thoughts, James Cardno.’ The session clerk’s astonishment at my words can scarcely have been greater than my own, but I felt the first stirrings of a long-forgotten freedom as I uttered them.

  Baillie Buchan responded before his henchman recovered himself. ‘It is not of feelings, but deeds we treat here, Mr Seaton. And as for shame and honour – those are not matters for one such as you to judge.’

  At this Gilbert Grant rose heavily to his feet. ‘If there be a blemish on Mr Seaton’s name you will name it now, William Buchan. He has paid his penalties. He has endured nine months of such dark rumblings. He will endure them no longer. Mark me, it will not go on.’

  The baillie bowed his head and, his tone conciliatory, said, ‘I merely meant that it was for the session, not any individual, to judge of such matters.’

  The provost rose to his feet and turned on the baillie. ‘Might I remind you, William Buchan, this is not the kirk session. I am provost of this burgh, you a baillie of this burgh. Be about your duties. It is of my nephew I would know, not the petty doings of the schoolmaster here.’ Turning to the apothecary he continued. ‘Arbuthnott, how stood things between my nephew and the music master? Was there an enmity between them over your daughter?’

  The apothecary considered. ‘I cannot say I marked it if there was. Charles was perhaps a little gloomier than his wont – but he has never been a young man of high spirits. They were friendly enough together, but each was much taken up with his own work. I would not think them natural companions, but neither were they enemies. As for my daughter, you will find no scandal, look as you might.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Her heart, I think, is broken.’

  Baillie Buchan had heard as much as he needed to regarding the music master. Any further questioning on that matter could wait. His interest now was in Patrick Davidson himself.

  ‘Tell me, provost,’ he said, ‘and with all due respect to yourself, Arbuthnott, and to your calling – God given and honourable in that – how was it that a young man of your nephew’s family and education came to apprentice himself to an apothecary?’

  The provost, even more it appeared than the apothecary, was discomfited by this question. But it was a good question. After graduating from St Andrews University Patrick Davidson had, not unusually, set forth across the sea to the Low Countries and then travelled to the great centres of learning of France and Switzerland. I had had this all from Jaffray, though I had paid him little heed at the time. Patrick Davidson’s was an academic journey that should have ended with a higher degree, in medicine perhaps, rather than an apprenticeship in an apothecary’s shop in a small northern Scottish burgh.

  Walter Watt shifted a little in his chair, but could not get himself comfortable and eventually stood with his back to us, leaning against the mantel of the now lit fire. For a man whose life was an endless pursuit for self-betterment, his nephew’s career choice, and its realisation in this burgh, can have given him little pleasure. ‘Who is to say what fancies take a young man’s mind? He was, as Mr Grant there will doubtless tell you, a lad of great promise. His mind was quick and agile, able. From his younge
st boyhood my late wife had him marked out for a lawyer, although his mother would have had him a minister.’ This last he said rather contemptuously, no doubt for the benefit of the Reverend Mr Guild, who had somehow found his way back into the room.

  ‘The year of his graduation from St Andrews, he came to visit me here in Banff, and here met Geleis for the first time. It is a memory that I have treasured – that I will treasure. I had not seen him since the year of Helen’s death, and I was proud of the fine young man he had become. His intention was to make for Leiden and prosecute his legal studies there. I myself arranged for his passage on a boat from Aberdeen, in whose cargo I had some trading interest. He did not tarry long at Leiden however – he found the lectures dull and his tutor duller. The place was awash with medics and he fell in with some medical students from Edinburgh, headed for Basel and Montpellier. He had heard much of these places at this very hearth, from the mouth of Doctor Cargill himself.’

  James Cargill’s name was well known to me, although I had never met him. He had been an Aberdeen physician who had gone as a poor student to Basel to study medicine. There he had become fascinated by botany, and on his return to Aberdeen he had maintained an active correspondence with the foremost minds of the day on the subject. He was one of Jaffray’s most dearly missed companions, and his nephew, William, had been one of the closest friends of my own student days. The provost paused in silent reminiscence before bringing himself back to the matter in hand. ‘Anyhow, Patrick made for Basel with those fellows, and though he matriculated in medicine, he had nothing in his mind but botany. From his letters it became ever more evident to me that he would never graduate. As the situation in the Empire became more grave, I wrote more than once beseeching him to return to Scotland and pursue his interests here. I promised to find him a place with Arbuthnott, for I knew he loved the country hereabouts, and that he would find plenty material for his studies. He turned around and gestured towards the bier. ‘And look what has come of it now!’