Seaton 01 - The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

by S. G. MacLean

  ‘I know that the wrong man is in jail. Charles Thom is no more capable of murder than I am, over a woman or anything else. And as to the crime – I speak for myself here, you understand, and not for those who sent me?’

  He acquiesced.

  ‘That there has been a crime is not in doubt; that there has been a murder, is not in doubt. The reason for the murder – that is in doubt. If once that can be established, the rest should follow. But in truth,’ and here I knew I was departing completely from the commission given to me, ‘I think those in whose place I have come – the provost, baillie, minister and notary public of Banff – have forgotten there ever was a murder, so aroused are their fears by the discovery of the document before you.’

  Straloch looked up and spoke slowly. ‘And are there others?’

  ‘There are,’ I said. ‘In sequence they cover the entire coastline from Troup Head to Cullen, and inland towards Rothiemay and Strathbogie. There are pointers southwards for Turriff, Oldmeldrum, and Aberdeen.’

  Straloch straightened and regarded me directly, no longer looking at the map. ‘And so the authorities of Banff fear their burgh is to be the first staging post for an invasion force, and you have been sent to ask me whether the Marquis of Huntly intends to head the invasion in person.’ A smile played upon his lips now, but his eyes were in deadly earnest.

  ‘They fear a Catholic invasion. That much it would be pointless to deny, but they mean no insult to you or to your noble patron, the marquis. It is in virtue of your learning and expertise in the matter of cartography that you are consulted. We,’ and now I revealed that I was of the inner counsel, ‘thought it might be possible that Patrick Davidson was acting on commission – a legitimate scholarly commission, and we could think of no one other than yourself who might be in any way placed to know about such things.’

  Straloch seemed to accept that there was some sense in this. But he knew also that I might well have worded it differently. I might have said, ‘The authorities in Banff do not trust you, and they trust your master less, but we have no choice other than to seek your advice.’ My host stood up and walked to a table on the other side of the room. It was covered in charts and sheaves of notes. ‘What you see here is the fruit – the bud, more rightly – of many years’ labour, my own and others. You have heard of Timothy Pont?’

  I confessed that I had not. My ignorance seemed to surprise him, but he continued. ‘Pont spent many years involved in the mapping of our country. On his death a few years ago, the task remained uncompleted. As you know, I have long had an interest in the subject, and it is an interest shared, I am glad to say, by my son James. Our researches go further than this work of your apothecary’s apprentice – we have a great interest in genealogy, in our local history and antiquities, but our cartography is not as fine as this. This is the work of a strategist, as is evident from the detail he chooses to include. One might well suspect that an invading army could put a document such as this to much use. I am certain that no legitimate commission was issued for the doing of this work – I would have been sure to hear of it. You must believe that it is experience, and not vanity, that make me confident in this.’

  ‘I would not have thought otherwise,’ I said.

  ‘I can assure you, in consequence, that I know of no project, other than that which I myself am engaged upon, to map this part of the country. I can also assure you, and you and your masters may believe this as you wish, that there is no plot that I know of for the invasion of our country from the coastline of the firth of Moray.’

  I was embarrassed to be the receiver of such an assurance from a man so learned and so worthy of respect as Robert Gordon of Straloch. My discomfort was all the greater in knowing that he knew my own history, and that I had proven myself unworthy of trust and undeserving of respect. He should never have had to make such a declaration to me. I was conscious now not only of the grandness of the room, of the hundreds of books that lined the shelves, but of the portrait of Robert Gordon himself that hung over the fireplace—Jamesone’s work, by the look of it – the smell of sandalwood, the painted mural on the far wall. This was a man of wealth, family and standing, and he had felt constrained to defend himself to me. I began to see now why I, rather than someone who mattered, had been sent here on the business of the burgh of Banff, and I did not like it. I assumed our interview was over and got up to leave, but he put out a hand to stay me. ‘Tarry a while, Mr Seaton. The hour is not yet late and I will not keep you long. I would know more of this bad business in Banff, if you are willing to tell me.’

  In my head I heard again the provost’s words of warning: ‘our business here is none of his,’ but again I reasoned that the provost was not here and I was, and, with William Cargill’s admonitions still fresh in my mind, I was no longer sure that I trusted Walter Watt or any others in Banff who had sent me on this mission. ‘There is little enough to tell—little that I can understand, at any rate. What is it you wish to know?’

  Straloch indicated the map. ‘Tell me about the murdered man. What was a man capable of such work as this doing apprenticed to an apothecary?’

  So again, for the laird of Straloch’s benefit, I rehearsed the tale of Patrick Davidson’s childhood, his years of study at home and abroad, his return to Banff under the roof of Edward Arbuthnott and the talk of his relationship with Arbuthnott’s daughter. The laird interjected once or twice in the course of the tale with ‘a good college’, ‘a wonderful city’, ‘a wise choice’, but said little more until I got to the end of it. Laughter and music were reaching us from the dining hall; it was at once comforting and yet incongruous as an accompaniment to our conversation. When I was finished the laird got up and raked at the fire.

  ‘It does not make sense, Mr Seaton. No, it does not make sense.’ He leant against the mantel in thought and then turned around to look at me. ‘Why did he come back to Banff? Why? When his love of botany had been strong enough to steer him away from the study of the law, and even medicine?’

  ‘He came to study the apothecary’s craft,’ I said, unsure what it was about this that so bothered the laird. It was plain enough to me that Patrick Davidson had returned to the town of his childhood because his connections of influence – his uncle – were able to secure him a place to train with a good master. But this did not satisfy Straloch.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘When one has a passion such as this – or a calling even – it overrides all other considerations. If advancement in the study of botany and the usage of plants was his guiding desire, he would not have come to Banff. He would have stayed on the continent of Europe, war or no, where he would have learnt much. What is there in the flora of our corner of Scotland that could engage the heart and the mind of one who already knew it from childhood? Nothing, I would wager, to what the Alps, the Pyrenees, the warm lands to the South have to offer, to say nothing of the exotic riches of the East or the undisturbed forests and swamps of the New World. No, one with a true passion for the understanding of plants would not cast all aside in order to play out his youth in the town of Banff.’

  I conceded that there was some sense in what the laird reasoned, but it seemed to me that he deliberately did not mention the maps; that he was drawing me to his point instead. I held the document up. ‘You think he came to do this?’ I asked.

  His voice was low and he spoke slowly, not looking at me. ‘I think he may have done,’ he said, ‘and that if he did, he was killed for it.’ His words hung in the air a moment, and then he changed his tack. ‘But tell me also, Mr Seaton; where was the body found?’

  I swallowed and looked at him directly. ‘The body was found in my schoolroom, sprawled across my desk.’

  He nodded, and seemed satisfied. It was as I had thought: I had been asked the question as a test of my honesty and trustworthiness. Robert Gordon had known exactly where the body of Patrick Davidson had been found. I wondered what else he knew. The singing and laughter from the dining hall was becoming louder. A voice called out ‘
Gray Steel’ and the sounds of clapping and the stamping of feet was followed by the dragging noise of furniture being cleared from the floor for dancing. Straloch crossed the room and shut tight the door, which until then had been left a little ajar. ‘How did he come to be there?’

  I swallowed. ‘He was brought there.’

  He was watching me closely now. ‘By whom?’

  I had no reason that I knew to distrust the laird of Straloch, but neither was I content to tell him all I knew. ‘For their own protection, I cannot tell you.’

  ‘The killer?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I am certain of that. Those who found him saw the state he was in and sought to help him. They had seen me entering the schoolhouse shortly before, and thought I would not yet have been abed, or at least asleep. They left him there. I knew nothing of it till morning. He was dead then.’

  ‘Why did they not call for you?’

  ‘They did not wish to be discovered themselves.’ I had given away too much already. Mary Dawson was out of the country, and safe now, but her sister Janet might not yet have gained a sanctuary. The laird, sensing my reluctance, did not press me further. He changed his line of questioning a little.

  ‘They tell me he was murdered on the night of the great storm. We were battered here for many hours, and lost some trees in the park there. On such a night there cannot have been many abroad. These Samaritans of yours, they saw no one else?’

  Since he would not leave it I would lie. ‘No.’

  ‘And there is nothing, in your past or his, nothing in these maps, that links you in some way to Patrick Davidson or his fate?’

  The sensation of fear began to creep through me, and I could feel a coldness under my skin. ‘I know of nothing.’

  Straloch was grave. ‘But he was laid in your schoolroom to die. And yet it is your friend, the music schoolmaster, who lies in the tolbooth of Banff, while you walk free.’ He looked at me in silence for a moment before proceeding. ‘I fear there is some great game of evil afoot in Banff, a game that will not end at the one death. You must take great care, Mr Seaton, great care.’ We had neither of us finished our wine. I sat and sipped the warm red liquid while the laird’s words resonated in my head.

  I drained my cup and stood up. ‘I must go to my bed now, I think.’

  Straloch came towards me and offered me his hand. ‘I myself have an early start. I ride out tomorrow at seven. I am bound for Edinburgh. I doubt if we will meet again before I leave. As you can see, I am much surrounded by young men and in their company often, but it is not so often that I find one whose conversation is of interest to me. I hope we may meet again some day.’ We shook hands and I gave him the letter from Jamesone that I had almost forgotten, and made for the door. I had my hand on the handle when he suddenly called me. ‘The map!’ How quickly it had been forgotten in the talk of its maker’s murder. ‘I will write a line for you to take back to the provost tomorrow. I can be of little help to allay his fears. It is the finest piece of cartography I have seen, and would serve any army well, if the others you spoke of are of anything like the quality. But I tell you again, I know of no intended invasion, and if there be any, the hand of the Marquis of Huntly is not in it.’

  I believed him; whether or not Baillie Buchan, the Reverend Guild and the rest would was another question. Assuring the laird I could find my way myself to my bedchamber, I took the candle he offered me and made my way back along through the west wing to the great central stairway. The sound of a raucous ballad and much laughter filled the whole ground floor of the house. How many times I had been party to such evenings, such gatherings of friends and kin, the storytelling, the music, the catches and rounds, that went on into the small hours of the night. I longed to go in, just to listen, to be one of them again, for a moment. The ballad came to an end as I stood at the foot of the stairs. And then, when the laughter and cheering had died down, a woman’s voice, clear and alone, rose in a lament. All around was silence. Isabella Irvine. I ascended the stairs.

  I had reached my small chamber at the very top of the house before I remembered the boots that a servant had taken in the afternoon to dry for me. Wearily I turned and began to make my way down again. I used my knowledge of such houses to guess where the kitchens might be. I turned to the right at the foot of the stairs and knew that something had gone wrong. I looked around the great entrance hall of the house and saw nothing or no one to give cause for alarm, and yet something was not as it should be. I stood still and listened. I heard nothing. And that was it: where before there had been music, and voices singing, and laughter, now no sound came from the dining hall. Yet, I had heard no one come up the stairs after me. I followed the corridor past the dining hall towards the kitchens, and was met by the steward coming the other way. He was carrying my clothing and riding boots. I thanked him and took them from him. As I did so, a bell was rung in the dining hall and he hastened to answer it. As he stood in the open doorway I could see beyond him into the room. Straloch stood with his back to the fireplace, talking in a low but authoritative voice to his older sons and two or three of the young men who had been at table earlier. Of the women I saw nothing. The steward closed the door behind him, and in the darkening silence of the house I climbed the stairway once again and made for my bed.

  Sleep was not long in coming, but it was not sound. At the top of the house though I was, I was conscious of much movement and low voices on the floors beneath me. Once, someone with a candle paused outside my door. The flicker of light seeped beneath the doorway for a moment and then withdrew. The footsteps were light and soon I could not hear them at all. And then somewhere, deep into the long night, I was brought to full wakefulness by the sounds of horses gathering in the yard below. Conscious of the patrol that had earlier passed my door, I crept from my bed and peered through a gap in the window shutters. Gradually, I prised them further open. In the light of a full moon I could see, far below me, five men on horseback: the young men to whom Straloch had been talking in the dining hall. He was not there now, but I could see Isabella Irvine, her nightclothes a startling, ghost-like white in the moonlight, bidding her cousins and their kinsmen farewell. Quietly, they set off away from the house, only picking up speed once they were far enough away not to disturb those sleeping within. Isabella watched after them until they disappeared from sight, before turning back to the house. As she did so she looked up, directly, at my window. I could not tell whether she saw me or not. I returned to my bed, the window shutters still open, and watched the night sky until the first shafts of sunlight appeared from the east.

  The laird had also departed by the time I appeared in the dining hall for my breakfast. The room was a noisy babble of the younger children of the house and their nurses. Bowls of porridge with warmed milk and scones spread with sweet confits were played with, spilt, dropped for the hounds or left, all to the indignation of the nurses. I took a good meal, as I had no plan to tarry long at any of my staging posts on the road home. Just after the chapel clock struck eight, I rose from the table and returned to my room to gather my few belongings. As I descended the stairs, relief that I would soon be leaving the strange house of night-time partings turned to apprehension: Isabella Irvine stood at the bottom, watching and clearly waiting for me. I held her gaze until, at the last step, she looked away.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said.

  She did not respond to the civility and for a moment seemed at a loss for how to proceed at all. In the end she held out a small package and a sealed letter. ‘My uncle asked that I should give you these. The letter is to be delivered to your provost; the packet is for yourself.’ I took them from her and thanked her. She merely nodded briskly and turned to walk away.

  ‘Wait,’ I said, touching her arm with my hand. She looked down upon it as if it were an object infected. I let it drop. ‘Please spare me a moment.’

  She faced me impassively, waiting.

  ‘Katharine Hay,’ I began.

  She sighed impatiently and
made to turn again.

  ‘No, please,’ I persisted. ‘I only wish to know how she really fares, how life is for her … so far from home.’

  Her eyes blazed at me. ‘How do you think it is for her?’ she asked. ‘He is a man of near sixty. You had as well drawn your sword and ended her misery.’

  My stomach lurched. In the early days and weeks after she had gone south, my imagination had filled with images of Katharine and her husband, images that I had fought, through drink, into some sort of oblivion, and now, here they were, being thrown in my face. And how could I tell this girl that there was nothing she could say to me, no words of condemnation, that I had not already said to myself? What could I say to make her understand that whatever the depths of her revulsion, I knew they were not deep enough? I swallowed hard. The words I wished for would not come: there was little point in continuing this interview. I turned away from Isabella Irvine and walked towards the door. Perhaps, though, I could somehow reach to Katharine all the same; perhaps this was one last chance I had not expected. At the entrance portal I turned to face her again. ‘One thing more.’

  Her head tilted upwards a little and her nostrils widened.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The next time you should see Katharine, will you tell her that I was wrong, and I am sorry; Alexander Seaton is sorry.’

  She regarded me coldly. ‘I will not. You made your choice, Mr Seaton, and you must live by it, as does she.’ She bade me no farewell and was gone, vanished into the darkness of the east wing.

  A light drizzle fell as I rode from Straloch. It was a house of much life, much happiness, but over which my very presence seemed to have cast a dank and dismal shadow. I might have been happy there, once, in former days, but I could not be now. I was not long in reaching the inn at New Machar, and was grateful to see there the familiar and welcoming face of William Cargill’s old manservant, Duncan, who was to travel with me as far as King Edward, to fetch Sarah Forbes. He must have left Aberdeen before dawn. He assured me he had breakfasted at the inn, and was as eager as myself to get on. In no time he had fetched from the stableyard the sturdy pony and cart William had sent him with and we were on our way.