Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘I keep no great house, maman, not like what papa gave you. But there shall be a chamber for you and Wilson, and the others can lodge by my own steward.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I admit I should like to see Gillespie and my man fight for control of the place.’

  ‘Now,’ smiled Alison, ‘your man has the right of it. Gillespie knows his place. Anyway, if you wish to take us all out of the burgh, then you might think about wiping the muck from your face, or else chance’s are you’ll be taken for a madman on the road and set upon. Off with you, son. Take your new suit of clothes downstairs and use the laver. Be mindful,’ she added with a sly smile, ‘of Mr McTavish’s furnishing. I’m jesting,’ she added with a wink, ‘get soot everywhere.’

  Martin did as he was bid, kissing his mother on the cheek as he left. She squirmed away, aiming a mock blow at him for dirtying her new dress. When he had gone, she swept over to Danforth, who had stood at her arrival.

  ‘Please, mistress, be seated. That stool is not so filthy as we have made our sheets.’ The ruffled mattress covers were liberally stained with black soot and flaked mud. She sat, spreading out her skirts and clasping her hands in her lap. ‘Now, my dear Mistress Geddes, tell me, are you quite content to be taken to Edinburgh by your son?’

  ‘Quite content, Mr Danforth. In truth, I can’t bear to tarry long in Stirling in want of the home I’ve known for years. I’ve dispatched Gillespie and Graeme back to … to my late husband’s house, that they might see if anything might be saved.’

  ‘Wise, mistress. The roof’s descent will likely have been stopped by the bedchambers. Your plate, at least, shall be retrieved, if the fellows have a care.’

  ‘That’s what I was hoping.’ Her voice was dispassionate, but her pale eyes were watery.

  ‘All is not lost.’

  ‘No, never that.’

  ‘Indeed, Mistress Geddes. Have faith.’

  ‘Mr Danforth,’ she sighed, ‘I’ve known death. A loving husband, a daughter and two little sons have passed out of this world before me. A house, however, can be reborn, whenever I choose it to be.’

  ‘You shall rebuild?’

  ‘Perhaps. In time. The house has just been a place to lie these past months, since Christian died. You know of Christian? I don’t know if my boy talks about her.’

  ‘Yes indeed, mistress.’

  ‘She was the last child left to me, the others having gone out into the world. I think Arnaud feared to return for so long, was scared to spend his last Yuletide with me, for the memories and the anger that it might stir in him, knowing that the doctor who hastened her death roams free.’

  Danforth stood silent, unsure of himself. It was pleasant knowing that the old woman could speak to him so freely; but he had little experience in providing comfort. ‘Mistress … I … you know that Arnaud has not relinquished hope of being revenged upon Doctor McKenzie?’

  ‘I fear he never shall, until the man’s dead by his hand or some other’s. I’d say something, if I thought he’d listen. But I raised my children to be like me, and like their father. With minds of their own.’

  ‘You do not wish the man punished for the death of your child?’ Danforth almost said ‘slaughter.’

  ‘Every day, Mr Danforth. Every day I want to see him hanging by the neck, or consumed by the flames. Yet I then ask myself what would be achieved. Would my daughter be restored to life? No, she would not. And the man would be gone from his torment, if he feels any torment for his actions. If he’s to die, then it is for God to choose when. I just hope God, in His wisdom, makes him suffer before sending him to Hell.’

  Danforth nodded slowly. Would he have the strength to turn his back on vengeance? Already he had begun to conceive passions of revenge and brutality against the killer of Madeleine Furay, against the person who had set fire to the Martin home. That the person hid his face and laughed at justice only exacerbated the desire to hunt and slay him. ‘That is well said, mistress.’ His voice came out in a croak, his throat still parched and painful.

  ‘Do you know what became of Doctor McKenzie?’ he asked.

  ‘I confess I have made enquiries, sir.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. I know he’s fallen from grace, that he keeps low company and suffers the torments of the fallen man.’

  ‘And this ought to please you.’

  ‘I’m pleased that he can hurt no one any longer. His trade has ceased.’

  The words struck Danforth, but he could not say why. ‘Then let this be a comfort to you.’

  ‘Shall you remain here, when Arnaud removes me and mine to Edinburgh?’

  ‘Aye, mistress.’

  ‘Still you shall investigate the death of my friend? I count her loss more important than the loss of my house.’

  ‘I shall continue in the matter.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad. Whatever the lady’s sins, she deserved pity, not death.’ Danforth eyed her curiously. ‘I suppose,’ she added, ‘that it’s in your mind and in that of my son that the same fellow as killed my little Madeleine also did this latest terrible business?’

  ‘I have thought on it. It is possible.’

  ‘Then I pray you to have a care, Simon – may I call you Simon?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, touched.

  ‘This is not a fellow who likes to be crossed, but one who fears his secret having the light of truth cast upon it. Yet there’s something more, sir. May I speak with you freely?’

  ‘Of course you may, my dear Mistress Geddes.’ He thought she had been speaking so already.

  ‘Alison, please. You did a good thing in saving Wilson last night. And you’ve guided my son well. He’s a good boy, for all he has his father’s looks and his father’s lightness. No, don’t say anything, I know he can be tiresome in his attempts at wit. Were it not for you, I suspect he may have found himself in trouble with John McKenzie, and he might not have come off the best for it.’

  ‘Thank you, mistress.’

  ‘It’s you I need to thank, Simon. I’ve watched you, these past days, and written Arnaud since he told me he had made a friend in the Cardinal’s service. You’re an Englishman, cast on our country.’ Danforth shifted uncomfortably. ‘And yet I never think on that. You’re a Godly man, and my son loves you. And I’m come to love you for the love and friendship he bears you. I wish you to know, Simon, that you were never in my home for the sake of Christian charity, but because you were loved. And you shall continue to be so as long as I have a household to embrace you.’

  Danforth reddened. Had his fears and insecurities been so obvious? It was a dreadful thing to know that one’s secret thoughts were not so secret, that they had been guessed at. He had always sought to cultivate the image of a wise, learned man, as his father had been – not a poor, lonely figure. Suddenly he felt that he might be viewed by the world as something other than he had believed, than he had hoped. ‘You’ve got a very open and honest face. It’s not a bad thing. But I didn’t want to leave the burgh without telling you this.’

  Alison stood up from the stool, Danforth giving her a hand. She pressed something heavy into it. At that moment Martin returned, his face clean and a suit of clothes, too big for him, hanging from his slender frame. ‘What is this, sir, you make free with my maman?’ He smiled at them. ‘Jesu, but I feel better for being free of that stink. I think we shall make no friends in this inn, all the same. I have made a fine mess. Look at me, maman, look at your pretty son. Mal habillé indeed!’ He patted the baggy doubled, its buttons hanging down limply.

  ‘Watch your mouth, my little imp,’ said Alison. ‘Well, shall we make ready our few things? We might make a few miles out of this place before night falls.’

  Danforth watched the Martin household ride off the Hiegait in the late afternoon, waving his donated cap. A crowd had turned out to see them go, pressing gifts upon them and bidding them return as soon as they might. To Danforth’s surprise and dismay, he found that the little package Alison had pressed upon him when
she stood to leave his chamber was a purse of coins, of high value. He had none of his own. He could not embarrass her by refusing them.

  Her parting words stayed with him. As he watched the little train turn off on the road that ran towards Linlithgow, he felt curiously barren, wondering if he should have accompanied them. No, he had wished time to think, to focus his mind on discovering Madeleine Furay’s killer. Someone had to stay behind and watch the burgh whilst Mistress Geddes was taken to safety.

  Danforth spent the afternoon in idle pursuits, growing accustomed once more to his own company. He had always been able to entertain himself, and now he had a job of work to occupy his mind. He would not be lonely; Alison had made sure of that. No man could be lonely if he was secure in the knowledge that he was not truly alone in the world.

  He bought a new shirt from the tailor on the market cross; the breeches and hose he had been donated were serviceable, if a little ostentatious. He also bought a new cloak. His old one had been burned, taking with it the book of lewd pictures and verses. The brass coin might have survived, but it would likely be irretrievable, at least until the house was taken apart by masons. Gillespie and Graeme had returned before Martin took his mother away and informed them all that it was safe to progress no further than the great hall. It was no matter. Danforth had fixed the image of the coin in his mind, and the book’s images and bawdy verses had burned themselves into it.

  As the evening wore on, Danforth went to stand inside the deserted Holy Rude. He prayed for peace, for safety, and for Madeleine Furay. Before long it would be Lent, sooner still St Valentine’s Day. He felt the Church calling him as it used to do and was given its comfort in return.

  Afterwards, he strolled the graveyard, looking for freshly turned earth. He found it and spent a while thinking. He then returned to the inn. There was no sign of McTavish. Instead Mistress Scott stood behind the bar, sipping at a mug of ale.

  ‘Good evening, sir. You’re well, after everything?’

  ‘Very well, mistress.’

  ‘Shall you be wanting supper?’

  ‘That would be most welcome.’

  ‘I shall bring it up for you.’

  ‘Yourself, mistress? Might I ask, where is your husband?’ Danforth had not seen the man nor heard his infernal humming for hours. The smile froze on Mistress Scott’s face, a tic twitching her cheek.

  ‘My husband is grievous ill. He lies abed. He does not keep well.’

  ‘Then I am very sorry therefore.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Some bread and cheese, and a jug of ale?’

  ‘Very good, mistress.’

  Danforth took the stairs up to his room. He had the luxury now of time to think, and to think on who he might question. Someone in the burgh knew something. It seemed to him now that a great deal many more people than he had thought might know something. Any man who had ever visited the vulgar little bawdy house off St Mary’s Wynd might have recognised Madeleine Furay. What manner of man consorted with prostitutes? It was tempting to think that only the lowliest of men might do so, only the weakest and most desperate.

  But it was not so, and Danforth knew it. That made every man suspect.

  His mind turned again to the dead woman, now rotting amongst the poor houses of the Back Raw. There had been something pathetic in her taking on the name of a dead queen, something sad. Before his mind could be assailed entirely by pity, Danforth himself was dead to the world.

  17

  Danforth wandered the churchyard in the morning, missing the sounds and sights of the mass. He had deliberately chosen not to be too troubled by it. To linger on the thought was to worry about the Cardinal, and to worry about the Cardinal was to worry about his own future. One thing had occurred to him: he had at last an answer to why he had neglected to bring his Book of Hours. Had he done so, it likely would have been lost in the fire, the last give of Alice gone up in flames. In His way, God had protected it by making Danforth forget it. That was a comfort: it meant, Danforth decided, that God was still watching. Still, he wouldn’t say that to Martin. Probably he would call it superstition.

  He made to return to the burgh proper, began to hum a tune, and then stifled it. He had no desire to become a compulsive hummer as his host was. Before he could reach the street, he felt a tugging at his elbow. ‘Sir, sir, how are you?’ Danforth turned to find the tiresome Mr Humble peering at him through his spectacles.

  ‘Good morrow, Mr Humble,’ he sighed. He had wished to speak with the old man at some point but had hoped to leave that particular pleasure for later. ‘Do forgive my rudeness yesterday morning.’ The old man gave him a crooked smile, lit up by the chance to have someone to chat with, and a man who worked for the great Cardinal at that.

  ‘It’s no matter, sir. You and yours had greater troubles.’

  ‘I trust you have had no further troubles with your horse?’

  ‘None, sir. Pray tell me, did you ever find yon old alchemist, McKenzie, the one you were hunting?’

  Danforth’s spine stiffened. ‘Alchemist, sir? McKenzie was a physician to trade.’

  ‘Aye, a physician, an alchemist. He promised all sorts of magical learning and delivered none. Did you find him in the wynd?’

  ‘Found, yes, but I have not spoken with him. Tell me, sir, do you know anything of the fellow?’

  ‘Only that he took the tools of his trade with him as he left.’

  Danforth thought back. ‘You stated, Mr Humble, that the man was a noisy creature. Hammering and banging proceeded from his shop, I believe you said.’

  ‘Aye, that be true. At all hours, too. Well, if he continues his trade at least he does it far from the eyes of the law. You find him and get him strung up. You shall get a fair crowd for that, I’ll be bound. Excuse the jest.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Humble. I believe I shall.’ He shook off the old man, eager to be alone again.

  Danforth stood on the Hiegait in late-winter sunlight. The snow was all but gone, only some ragged, half-frozen banks of it hiding in shade. Alchemy, he thought, the word itself conjuring up strange and wonderful images. It was a strange practice, one that only a few great men truly understood. To Danforth, it was as real as any other of the arts. Yet it was one populated with charlatans, false men who feigned knowledge they did not possess. James IV had employed true alchemists, who understood the properties of metals and how they might be altered. Yet all over Europe there were practitioners who made promises they could not keep, gulling the hopeful. They would put their inferior knowledge to more base practices. One such practice might be the making of shoddy metals. And shoddy metals, with a good polish, could be hammered into false coins.

  Something else had struck him too, and that less welcome. Both Alison and Mr Humble had now spoken of the cessation and the continuance of one’s trade. It was a difficult thing, as Danforth knew, to stop practising a trade. After all, here he was investigating a strange death. Despite his desire to leave such sorry work behind him, he was unable to let a murderer go undetected. Any man might find it hard to give up a trade that they were sure of. So might any woman.

  Danforth let the thought, so long barred to his mind, course through him. It must be faced. He spotted his quarry, unlocking the door of his house, and made for him.

  ‘Mr Furay,’ he called, hurrying towards the stairs. He paused at the bottom and called again before beginning his ascent.

  ‘You,’ said Furay, with a look of distaste. ‘Come again tae bother me.’

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re gonnae, no matter what I say.’

  Danforth followed Furay into his home, pushing the door shut behind him. The little hall still had a dejected air. ‘I see your little friend has flown?’

  ‘Mr Martin and his family are no longer in the burgh, it is true. Yet you need not worry that your late wife’s affair is at an end.’

  ‘You’ve discovered something then?’

  ‘I believe I have, though it gives me no pleasure.’ Fur
ay said nothing, crossing the room and sitting down. He folded his arms and raised his eyebrows at Danforth. ‘Mr Furay, are you familiar with the meretrix?’ Furay shook his head, his brow wrinkling. ‘Perhaps the hetaerae?’

  ‘No, sir. What’s this nonsense? Riddles?’ Danforth smiled, but there was no humour in it.

  ‘A meretrix, Mr Furay, was a licenced prostitute. An hetaera was likewise a prostitute in the old Greek world, yet a very curious one. The hetaerae, sir, were expensive women, who entertained gentlemen exclusively.’ A look of fear passed across Furay’s face, and with it a hint of shame.

  ‘Why d’you tell me of this … of these perversions, sir? You’ve got a vulgar tongue in your head.’

  ‘Don’t cross words with me, sir, or cloak your shame in feigned ignorance.’ Furay sucked in his cheeks. ‘It is a hard thing, I think, for any person to turn from their trade. You own that your late wife had, in her youth, acted as a common bawd. I suggest now that she may not have ceased that poor practice. I now find myself wondering whether you were ignorant of her activity, or whether you played Caligula, the wicked emperor who turned his palace into a great stew, forcing the wives of his senators to sell themselves.’ Still Furay said nothing, his face turning chalky. ‘Or perhaps you were Pericles to her Aspasia, she Thaïs to your Ptolemy. Sir, I think you a wretched thing. Did you force that woman to resume her trade?’

  ‘No! I’m no’ puttin’ up with such false accusations. I’ll have you taken up for slander, Mr Englishman.’

  ‘That would be a dangerous game, sir. Then the whole world should know of your shame.’

  ‘I’ve nothin’ to fear,’ said Furay, turning sly. ‘I’ve men would who protect me, and put paid to your prattlin’ tongue.’

  ‘And such men might turn to murder, sir?’ At that, confusion overcame Furay’s chippy demeanour. ‘Perhaps not,’ said Danforth softly. ‘Yet these men you speak of, would they be men who paid your wife?’