Beggars Banquet

  Mack nodded. ‘But not here, over the loch.’

  ‘The new town?’ Mack nodded. ‘Then show me where.’ Mack and his fellow chairman carried me down the steep slope towards the building site. Yes, building site, for though Princes Street and George Street were finished, yet more streets were being artfully constructed. Just now, the builders were busy on what would be called Charlotte Square. We took the simpler route, down past Trinity Hospital and the College Kirk, then along Princes Street itself. There were plans to turn the Nor’ Loch into either a canal or formal gardens, but for the moment it was a dumping ground. I avoided looking at it, and tried not to think of poor Dryden. Joining the loch to the old town sat The Mound, an apt name for a treacherous heap of new town rubble.

  ‘All change, eh, Cully?’ Mr Mack called to me. ‘Soon there’ll be no business in the old town for the likes of you and me.’

  He had a point. The nobility had already deserted the old town. Their grand lands now housed wheelwrights and hosiers and schoolmasters. They all lived in the new town now, at a general distance from the milling rabble. So here the foundations were being laid, not for the new town alone, but for the death of the old.

  We passed into George Street and the sedan chair was brought to rest. ‘It was here I saw him,’ Mr Mack said. ‘He was marching up the street like he owned the place.’

  I got out of the chair and rubbed my bruised posterior. Mr Mack’s companions had already spotted another likely fare. I waved them off. I must needs talk to my mistress, and that meant finding her servant. So I sat on a step and watched the workcarts grinding past overloaded with rocks and rubble. The day passed pleasantly enough.

  Perhaps two hours had gone by when I saw him. I couldn’t be sure which house he emerged from; he was some way along the street. I tucked myself behind some railings and watched him head down towards Princes Street. I followed at a canny distance.

  He was clumsy, his gait gangling, and I followed him with ease. He climbed back up to the old town and made for the Luckenbooths. Here he entered a bookshop, causing me to pause.

  The shop belonged to a Mr Whitewood, who fancied himself not only bookseller, but poet and author also. I entered the premises quietly, and could hear Whitewood’s raised voice. He was towards the back of his shop, reciting to a fawning audience of other soi-distant writers and people to whom books were mere fashion.

  The servant was pushing his way to the front of the small gathering. Whitewood stood on a low unsteady podium, and read with a white handkerchief in one hand, which he waved for dramatic effect. He needed all the help he could get. I dealt daily with the ‘improvers’, the self-termed ‘literati’. I’ll tell you now what an improver is, he’s an imp who roves. I’d seen them dragging their carcasses through the gutter, and waylaying hoors, and scrapping with the tourists.

  The servant had reached the podium, and the bookseller had seen him. Without pausing mid-stanza, Whitewood passed the wretch a note. It was done in an instant, and the servant turned back towards the door. I slipped outside and hid myself, watching the servant head as if towards the courts.

  I followed him into the courthouse. I followed him into one particular court . . . and there was brought up short.

  Lord Braxfield, the Hanging Judge, was deciding a case. He sat in his wig at his muckle bench and dipped oatcakes into his claret, sucking loudly on the biscuits as he glared at the accused. There were three of them, and I knew they were charged with sedition, being leaders of a popular convention for parliamentary reform. At this time, only thirty or so people in Edinburgh had the right to vote for the Member of Parliament. These three sad creatures had wanted to change that, and a lot more besides.

  I glanced at the jury - doubtless hand-picked by Braxfield himself. The accused would be whipped and sent to Botany Bay. The public gallery was restless. There were guards between the populace and the bench. The servant was nodded through by one of the guards and handed Whitewood’s note to Braxfield. Then he turned quickly and left by another door. I was set to follow when the Hanging Judge noticed me.

  ‘Cullender, approach the bench!’

  I bit my lip, but knew better than to defy Braxfield, even if it meant losing my quarry. The guards let me through. I forbore to look at the accused as I passed them.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  Braxfield nibbled another of his infernal biscuits. He looked like he’d drunk well, too. ‘Cullender,’ he said, ‘you’re one of the least honest and civil men in this town, am I correct?’

  ‘I have competitors, my lord.’

  He guffawed, spitting crumbs from his wet lips. ‘But tell me this, would you have a man live who committed treason?’

  I swallowed, aware of three pairs of eyes behind me. ‘I might ask myself about his motives, my lord.’

  Braxfield leaned over the bench. He was unquestionably ugly, eyes black as night. In his seventies, he grew increasingly eccentric. He was what passed for the law in this city. ‘Then it’s as well I’m wearing this wig and not you!’ he screeched. He wagged a finger, the nail of which was sore in need of a trim. ‘You’ll see Australia one day, my friend if you’re not careful. Now be gone, I’ve some justice to dispense.’

  It had been a long time since Braxfield and ‘justice’ had been even loosely acquainted.

  Outside, the servant was long gone. Cursing my luck and the law courts both, I headed down to the Canongate.

  I engaged Mr Mack’s services regarding my lady’s book, warning him to be extra vigilant and telling him of Dryden’s demise. He suggested going to the authorities, then realised what he was saying. The law was as effectual as a scented handkerchief against the pox, and we both knew it.I sat in a howff and ate a dish of oysters. Having been to look at the university, Master Gisborne joined me.

  ‘It’ll be fine when it’s finished,’ was his opinion.

  I supped the last of the juice and put down the platter. ‘Remember I told you about the serpent, master?’

  His eyes were red-rimmed, face puffy with excess. He nodded.

  ‘Well,’ I continued thoughtfully, ‘perhaps it’s not so far beneath the surface as I thought. You need only scratch and you’ll see it. Remember that, even in your cups.’

  He looked puzzled, but nodded again. Then he seemed to remember something and reached into his leather bag. He handed me a wrapped parcel.

  ‘Cully, can you keep this somewhere safe?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just hold it for me a day or so. Will you do that?’

  I nodded and placed the parcel at my feet. Gisborne looked mightily relieved. Then the howff door swung inwards and Urquhart and others appeared, taking Gisborne off with them. I finished my wine and made my way back to my room.

  Halfway there, I met the tailor whose family lived two floors below me.

  ‘Cully,’ he said, ‘men are looking for you.’

  ‘What sort of men?’

  ‘The sort you wouldn’t have find you. They’re standing guard on the stairwell and won’t shift.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning.’

  He held my arm. ‘Cully, business is slow. If you could persuade some of your clients of the quality of my cloth . . . ?’

  ‘Depend on it.’ I went back up the brae to The Cross and found Mr Mack.

  ‘Here,’ I said, handing him the parcel. ‘Keep this for me.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think I may have stepped in something even less savoury than I thought. Any news of the List?’

  Mack shook his head. He looked worried when I left him; not for himself, but for me.

  I kept heading uphill, towards the Castle itself. Beneath Castle Hill lay the catacombs where the town’s denizens used to hide when the place was being sacked. And where the lowest of Edinburgh’s wretches still dwelt. I would be safe there, so I made my way into the tunnels and out of the light, averting my face where possible from each interested, unfriendly gaze.

  The man I sou
ght 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 almost 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 for ever. 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 Lawn-market, 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 chairman 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 saved my throat, Cully. I devised it myself.’

  I recalle
d 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.