by Mike Ashley
The man I sought sat slouched against one of the curving walls, hands on his knees. He could sit like that for hours, brooding. He was a giant, and there were stories to equal his size. It was said he’d been a seditionary, a rabble-rouser, both pirate and smuggler. He had most certainly killed men, but these days he lay low. His name was Ormond.
He watched me sit opposite him, his gaze unblinking.
“You’re in trouble,” he said at last.
“Would I be here otherwise? I need somewhere to sleep for tonight.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s all any of us needs. You’ll be safe here, Cullender.”
And I was.
But next morning I was roused early by Ormond shaking me.
“Men outside,” he hissed. “Looking for you.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Is there another exit?”
Ormond shook his head. “If you went any deeper into this maze, you could lose yourself forever. These burrows run as far as the Canongate.”
“How many men?” I was standing up now, fully awake.
“Four.”
I held out my hand. “Give me a dagger; I’ll deal with them.” I meant it too. I was aching and irritable and tired of running. But Ormond shook his head.
“I’ve a better plan,” he said.
He led me back through the tunnel towards its entrance. The tunnel grew more populous as we neared the outside world. I could hear my pursuers ahead, examining faces, snarling as each one proved false. Then Ormond filled his lungs.
“The price of corn’s to be raised!” he bellowed. “New taxes! New laws! Everyone to The Cross!”
Voices were raised in anger, and people clambered to their feet. Ormond was raising a mob. The Edinburgh mob was a wondrous thing. It could run riot through the streets and then melt back into the shadows. There’d been the Porteous riots, anti-Catholic riots, price-rise riots, and pro-revolution riots. Each time, the vast majority escaped arrest. A mob could be raised in a minute and could disperse in another. Even Braxfield feared the mob.
Ormond was bellowing in front of me. As for me, I was merely another of the wretches. I passed the men who’d been seeking me. They stood dumbfounded in the midst of the spectacle. As soon as the crowd reached the Lawnmarket, I peeled off with a wave of thanks to Ormond, slipped into an alley, and was alone again.
But not for long. Down past the Luckenbooths I saw the servant again, and this time he would not evade me. Down towards Princes Street he went, down Geordie Boyd’s footpath, a footpath that would soon be wide enough for carriages. He crossed Princes Street and headed up to George Street. There at last I saw him descend some steps and enter a house by its servants’ door. I stopped a sedan chair. Both chairmen knew me through Mr Mack.
“That house there?” one of them said in answer to my question. “It used to belong to Lord Thorpe before he left for London. A bookseller bought it from him.”
“A Mr Whitewood?” I asked blithely. The chairmen nodded. “I admit I don’t know that gentleman well. Is he married?”
“Married, aye, but you wouldn’t know it. She’s seldom seen, is she, Donald?”
“Rarely, very rarely,” the second chairman agreed.
“Why’s that? Has she the pox or something?”
They laughed at the imputation. “How would we know a thing like that?”
I laughed too, and bid them thanks and farewell. Then I approached the front door of the house and knocked a good solid knock.
The servant, when he opened the door, was liveried. He looked at me in astonishment.
“Tell your mistress I wish to speak with her,” I said sharply.
He appeared in two minds at least, but I sidestepped him and found myself in a fine entrance hall.
“Wait in here,” the servant growled, closing the front door and opening another. “I’ll ask my Lady if she’ll deign to see you.”
I toured the drawing room. It was like walking around an exhibition, though in truth the only exhibition I’d ever toured was of Bedlam on a Sunday afternoon, and then only to look for a friend of mine.
The door opened and the Lady of the house swept in. She had powdered her cheeks heavily to disguise the redness there – either embarrassment or anger. Her eyes avoided mine, which gave me opportunity to study her. She was in her mid twenties, not short, and with a pleasing figure. Her lips were full and red, her eyes hard but to my mind seductive. She was a catch. But when she spoke her voice was rough-hewn, and I wondered at her history.
“What do you want?”
“What do you think I want?”
She picked up a pretty statuette. “Are we acquainted?”
“I believe so. We met outside the Tolbooth.”
She attempted a disbelieving laugh. “Indeed? It’s a place I’ve never been.”
“You would not care to see its innards, Lady, yet you may if you continue in this manner.”
No amount of powder could have hidden her colouring. “How dare you come here!”
“My life is in danger, Lady.”
This quieted her. “Why? What have you done?”
“Nothing save what you asked of me.”
“Have you found the book?”
“Not yet, and I’ve a mind to hand you back your money.”
She saw what I was getting at, and looked aghast. “But if you’re in danger . . . I swear it cannot be to do with me!”
“No? A man has died already.”
“Mr Cullender, it’s only a book! It’s nothing anyone would kill for.”
I almost believed her. “Why do you want it?”
She turned away. “That is not your concern.”
“My chief concern is my neck, Lady. I’ll save it at any cost.”
“I repeat, you are in no danger from seeking that book. If you think your life in peril, there must needs be some other cause.” She stared at me as she spoke, and the damnation of it was that I believed her. I believed that Dryden’s death, Braxfield’s threat, the men chasing me, that none of it had anything to do with her. She saw the change in me and smiled a radiant smile, a smile that took me with it.
“Now get out,” she said. And with that she left the room and began to climb the stairs. Her servant was waiting for me by the front door, holding it open in readiness.
My head was full of puzzles. All I knew with certainty was that I was sick of hiding. I headed back to the old town with a plan in my mind as half-baked as the scrapings the baker tossed out to the homeless.
I toured the town gossips, starting with the fishwives. Then I headed to The Cross and whispered in the ears of selected caddies and chairmen. Then it was into the howffs and dining establishments, and I was glad to wash my hard work down with a glass or two of wine.
My story broadcast, I repaired to my lodgings and lay on the straw mattress. There were no men waiting for me on the stairwell. I believe I even slept a little. It was dark when I next looked out of the skylight. The story I’d spread was that I knew who’d killed Dryden and was merely biding my time before alerting the Town Rats. Would anyone fall for the ploy? I wasn’t sure. I fell to a doze again but opened my eyes on hearing noises on the stair.
The steps to my attic were rotten and had to be managed adroitly. My visitor – a lone man, I surmised – was doing his best. I sat up on the mattress and watched the door begin to open. In deep shadow, a figure entered my room, closing the door after it with some finality.
“Good evening, Cully.”
I swallowed drily. “So the stories were true then, Deacon Brodie?”
“True enough,” he said, coming closer. His face was almost unrecognisable, much older, more careworn, and he wore no wig, no marks of a gentleman. He carried a slender dagger in his right hand.
“I cheated the gibbet, Cully,” he said with his old pride.
“But I was there, I saw you drop.”
“And you saw my men cut me down and haul me away.” He grinned with what teeth were left in his head. “A wooden collar save
d my throat, Cully. I devised it myself.”
I recalled the red silk he’d worn ostentatiously around his throat. A scarf from a female admirer, the story went. It would have hidden just such a device.
“You’ve been in hiding a long time,” I said. The dagger was inches from me.
“I fled Edinburgh, Cully. I’ve been away these past five and a half years.”
“What brought you back?” I couldn’t take my eyes off the dagger.
“Aye,” Brodie said, seeing what was in my mind. “The doctor who pronounced me dead and the coffin maker who was supposed to have buried me. I couldn’t have witnesses alive . . . not now.”
“And the others, Dryden and the wretch Howison?”
“Both recognised me, curse them. Then you started to snoop around and couldn’t be found.”
“But why? Why are you back?”
The dagger was touching my throat now. I’d backed myself into a corner of the bed. There was nowhere to go. “I was tempted back, Cully. A temptation I could not resist. The crown jewels.”
“What?”
His voice was a feverish whisper. “The chest in the crown room. I will have its contents, my last and greatest theft.”
“Alone? Impossible.”
“But I’m not alone. I have powerful allies.” He smiled. “Braxfield, for one. He believes the theft of the jewels will spark a Scots revolution. But you know this already, Cully. You were seen watching Braxfield. You were seen in Whitewood’s shop.”
“Whitewood’s part of it, too?”
“You know he is, romantic fool that he is.” The point of the dagger broke my skin. I could feel blood trickle down my throat. If I spoke again, they would be my last words. I felt like laughing. Brodie was so wrong in his surmisings. Everything was wrong. A sudden noise on the stair turned Brodie’s head. My own dagger was hidden beneath my thigh. I grabbed it with one hand, my other hand wrestling with Brodie’s blade.
When Gisborne opened the door, what he saw sobered him immediately.
Brodie freed himself and turned to confront the young Englishman, dagger ready, but not ready enough. Gisborne had no hesitation in running him through. Brodie stood there frozen, then keeled over, his head hitting the boards with a dull dead sound.
Gisborne was the statue now. He stared at the spreading blood.
I got to my feet quickly. “Where did you get the blade?” I asked, amazed.
Gisborne swallowed. “I bought it new today, heeding your advice.”
“You saved my life, young Master.” I stared down at Brodie’s corpse. “But why are you here?”
Gisborne came to his senses. “I heard you were looking for a book.”
“I was. What of it?” We were both staring at Brodie.
“Only to tell you that I am in possession of it. Or I was. The lawyer Urquhart gave it to me. He said I would doubtless find it useful . . . Who was this man?”
I ignored the question and glared at him. “You have the book?”
He shook his head. “I daren’t keep it in my room for fear my landlady might find it.”
I blinked. “That parcel?” Gisborne nodded. I felt a fool, a dumb fool. But there was Brodie’s corpse to dispose of. I could see little advantage in reporting this, his second demise, to the authorities. Questions would be asked of Master Gisborne, and a young Englishman might not always receive a fair hearing, especially with Braxfield at the bench. God no, the body must be disposed of quietly.
And I knew just the spot.
Mr Mack helped us lug the guts down to the new town, propping Brodie in the sedan chair. The slumped corpse resembled nothing so much as a sleeping drunk.
In Charlotte Square we found some fresh foundations and buried the remains of Deacon Brodie within. We were all three in a sweat by the time we’d finished. I sat myself down on a large stone and wiped my brow.
“Well, friends,” I said, “it is only right and proper.”
“What is?” Gisborne asked, breathing heavily.
“The old town has its serpent, and now the new town does too.” I watched Gisborne put his jacket back on. It was the blue coat with silver buttons. There was blood on it, and dirt besides.
“I know a tailor,” I began, “might make something fresh for an excellent price . . .”
Next morning, washed and crisply dressed, I returned to my Lady’s house. I waved the parcel under the servant’s nose and he hurried upstairs.
My Lady was down promptly, but gave me no heed. She had eyes only for the book. Book? It was little more than a ragged pamphlet; its pages were thumbed, scribbled marginalia commenting on this or that entry or adding a fresh one. I handed her the tome.
“The entry you seek is towards the back,” I told her. She looked startled. “You are, I suppose, the Masked Lady referred to therein? A lady for daylight assignations only, and always masked, speaking in a whisper?”
Her cheeks were crimson as she tore at the book, scattering its shreddings.
“Better have the floor swept,” I told her. “You wouldn’t want Mr Whitewood to find any trace. That was your reason all along, was it not? He is a known philanderer. It was only a matter of time before he got to read of the Masked Lady and became intrigued to meet her.”
Her head was held high, as if she were examining the room’s cornices.
“I’m not ashamed,” she said.
“Nor should you be.”
She saw I was not mocking her. “I am a prisoner here, with no more life than a doll.”
“So you take revenge in your own particular manner? I understand, Lady, but you must understand this. Two men died because of you. Not directly, but that matters not to them. Only one deserved to die. For the other . . .” I jangled the bag of money she’d given me that first night. “These coins will buy him a burial.”
Then I bid her good day and left the whole shining new town behind me, with its noises of construction and busyness. Let them build all the mighty edifices they would; they could not erase the stain. They could not erase the real town, the old town, the town I knew so intimately. I returned to the howff where Gisborne and Mack awaited me.
“I’ve decided,” the young master said, “to study law rather than medicine, Cully.” He poured me a drink. “Edinburgh needs another lawyer, don’t you think?”
The image of Braxfield came unmasked into my mind. “Like it needs another plague, Master.”
But I raised my glass to him anyway.
Botanist at Bay
Edward Marston
The time span of the last five stories, from Emery’s to this one, is just under fifty years, yet they have covered a remarkable range of events and circumstances. This one takes us to Britain’s penal colony in Australia, the renowned Botany Bay, and explores honour, or the lack of it, amongst thieves.
Edward Marston is perhaps the best known alias of author Keith Miles who, over the last sixteen years, has established a strong reputation for the diversity and authenticity of his historical mysteries. They range from the Nicholas Bracewell series, set in the world of the Elizabethan theatre, through the Domesday series, set after the Norman Conquest, to the Merlin Richards series (written under his own name) set in the architectural world of Frank Lloyd Wright in the 1920s.
“How long are ye lagged for?”
“Only seven years.”
“Where is one-eyed Luke of St Giles?”
“Oh, he’s aboard for a seven yearser.”
“Did you see Ned Paget in Newgate?”
“He stood his patter last assizes and got a bellowser.”
I tried to bury my own crime deep in the past. Like most of the others on the convict ships to Botany Bay, I was charged with minor theft and transported for seven years. At the time, it seemed like an eternity but at least I escaped a bellowser, a dreaded life sentence. Ned Paget, who sailed on the Charlotte with me, had stolen enough silver to warrant the noose and he was duly given an appointment with Jack Ketch, only to have his death sentence commuted
at the last moment. He could never decide if his reprieve was a stroke of good fortune or yet another instance of the bad luck that had always dogged him.
Compared to Ned’s crime, my own was ridiculously petty. I’d just finished serving my apprenticeship as a cabinetmaker and wanted to celebrate with a proposal of marriage to my beloved Hannah. Since I also had a small additional income as an auctioneer’s clerk, I felt that I’d soon be in a position to support a wife and who better to fill that role than Hannah Richardson? To increase my chances of acceptance, I decided to accompany the proposal with the gift of some flowers but – having no ready money on me and flushed with youthful exuberance – I borrowed some roses from a garden that I passed on my way to Hannah’s house.
Nobody told me that the garden in question belonged to a judge of the King’s Bench, or that his dog could bite so hard, or that his servant could run like the wind. I was gnawed, chased and apprehended. What began as a romantic gesture ended up as the height of folly. I never set eyes on Hannah Richardson again. After spending four months in a rotting prison hulk, I joined the First Fleet and set off on a nautical nightmare that lasted thirty-six excruciating weeks. When you pass most of the voyage below deck, surrounded by the dregs of humanity, you lose all sense of refinement. You become one of them.
I suppose that I did better than most. Some of the convicts died on the way, others were flogged into oblivion, and others again, like Ned Paget, spent the whole time in fetters that weighed 28 pounds. Every time he moved in that foul, crowded, rat-infested hold, the iron clanked like a death knell. I even enjoyed a few privileges. Because I taught him to read and write, one-eyed Luke Fillimore gave me a portion of his meagre rations. Because I passed on the food to Davy Warren, he paid me with coin that he’d somehow smuggled aboard. With that money, I was able to lose my virginity to Annie Creed, one of the thirty or so women convicts who travelled on our ship. In her ragged clothes and with her noisome smell, Annie was nothing at all like the fragrant Hannah Richardson but, for the two minutes that it lasted, I pretended that she was.
Imagination is truly a blessing.
Annie Creed, a buxom farm girl, got seven years for feloniously stealing a live hen to the value of 2d and a dead hen worth the same amount. One-eyed Luke Fillimore was found guilty of making off with a wooden box that, to his chagrin, contained nothing apart from a piece of linen and five books, the last thing an illiterate criminal needed. It was that experience which had given him the burning desire to learn to read that I was able to satisfy on the Charlotte. Davy Warren was a fencing cull, a receiver of stolen goods and a dabbler in the art of forgery. Such were my companions on this journey into the unknown.
