Shona MacLEAN - The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

‘I wish I had your facility with words, doctor, for that is just exactly what would have happened.’ And who then in Banff would be safe? I could have written there and then the names of twenty papists who did not flaunt their faith but did not hide it sufficiently. If Patrick Davidson was indeed shown to have been a papist spy, God alone knew what would happen in our town. Jaffray’s mind was clearly working along the same lines.

‘Did they question the provost as to his nephew’s time abroad, whether he fell in with papists there – was he in the region of Douai, or Paris even?’

‘You think he might have been to one of the Scots seminaries there?’

‘Well, when did ever you hear of a new-trained priest, returned from France to declare himself as such? They all come by clandestine roads, disguised as students, teachers, doctors, even.’

‘I do not think he was a priest. The subject was not raised in that way. No mention was made of Douai, or indeed of Paris. And yet …’

‘And yet?’ prompted the doctor.

‘When I spoke to Charles, he told me of Davidson’s love of the music, the masses, the great cathedrals he saw on his travels. I think he may well have had papist leanings.’ If this had been the case, he could have made common cause with many – prominent Gordons among them – within easy reach of Banff.

‘If Davidson was in clandestine meetings with papists, they must have taken place, as must his map-drawing, on his gathering expeditions.’

‘With Marion,’ I said.

‘Yes, we are back once more to Marion, and I would be more than astonished if the baillie had not come to the same reasoning. He will question her closely on it if he suspects she has any knowledge at all that might be useful to him. She may have held out against him so far, but I doubt she has the strength of will to do so indefinitely.’

I thought about the girl as I had seen her the day before, peering into the depths and then looking through me when I hailed her at the Elf Kirk. I was not as sure as Jaffray that even Baillie Buchan could reach to what she knew. The doctor, however, was not to be reassured.

‘It is necessary that we should know what she hides if we are to help Charles.’ He closed his eyes, the better to concentrate on the problem. ‘I will see her, tomorrow.’ He called for Ishbel and handed her a hastily scribbled note, addressed to Arbuthnott. ‘Have the boy take that to the apothecary’s. Tell him he must give it only into the hand of Arbuthnott and that he must see to it that he reads it immediately. He is to lose no time.’ Ishbel, who had been given many stranger commissions before, went immediately without question. I looked to my friend for an explanation. ‘I have told him that Buchan will come looking for his daughter tonight and that he is to give the girl a sleeping draught and see to it that she takes it. I have told him that I will come and see to her in the morning, and that no one else is to be admitted to see her until I have done so.’

‘Will he do it?’

‘He will do it. The man is in a state of near terror – a murder and now perhaps treason – all emanating from his house. If Baillie Buchan comes looking for his daughter, Arbuthnott will know it is for no good purpose to Marion or her family. He must know as well as you and I do that the girl is implicated up to her neck.’

It was, in the circumstances, a chilling assessment of Marion Arbuthnott’s situation. Her graceful neck might yet be circled round with the executioner’s rope, she not being high born enough to lay it beneath his axe. The knowledge that Charles’s fate rested in hers added to my already mounting sense of apprehension. In the alleyways and vennels, the backlands and the courtyards of Banff, evil was waiting. Watching. And it would not watch for ever. It was only ten days now till the sheriff returned to hold the assize. Ten days perhaps, to save our friend.

‘Will she talk to you, doctor?’

‘Aye, she will. I have known her since she drew her first breath. She will know her friends from those she cannot trust, or those who cannot help her.’

‘With Davidson dead, and Charles in the tolbooth, what friends are left to her?’

‘You and I, Alexander. You and I, and she must know that soon. I am certain that whatever the nature of her burden, she cannot carry it alone much longer.’

And then a thought struck me, and I wondered that it had not done him also. ‘The minister’s sister, though. Geleis Guild.’ The provost’s wife. ‘They are friends, are they not, she and Marion? And Marion helps with the children. Might she not unburden herself to her?’

Jaffray reflected. ‘I had not thought of that. Aye, she might, when she comes to herself a bit. But those would be women’s things. We can do nothing for a murdered heart, but perhaps we can help dispel her more immediate fears. I will talk to her, tomorrow,’ Jaffray repeated, and I did not see the need for further questions on the matter.

The candles on the mantelpiece were burning low. The church bell had struck seven, but it was still light outside the window. The usual caw of the gulls trying their luck at the shore and the town middens was joined now by the twilight songs of the spring birds. At last, as April approached, we were hauling ourselves out of the last dregs of winter and towards the light and freedom of the spring and summer. It was as if the storm of two nights ago had blown the darkness further back across the northern seas. The doctor went over to his desk and picked up a sheet of paper, which he handed to me.

‘These are the findings of my examination of the corpse of Patrick Davidson.’ I waited. ‘He was poisoned.’ A matter-of-fact statement; a piece of common knowledge. He took the paper back out of my hand, crumpled it, and threw it in the fire. ‘Patrick Davidson was one of the healthiest specimens it has ever been my duty to examine. And yet he is dead. Dead because someone took the root of a small and beautiful flower and fed it to him. So lethal was it that it started to kill him before it ever reached his stomach, for there was little trace of it there. He was lost to this world from the moment he swallowed it.’

I did not understand. ‘A flower? But … if there was no trace, how do you know–’

‘I know because we found it in the vomit, Arbuthnott and I, before we ever had the barber help us open him up. We found elements of the root, pieces and two whole slices, in the vomit congealed on his hair and his clothes. Mistress Youngson is a woman of experience and wisdom – she knows what to clean away and what to leave. It was the apothecary who spotted it. The man has an eagle’s eye, and a knowledge of botany far in advance of my own. And yet, when he pointed it out and voiced his supposition, I knew him to be right.’

‘What is it?’

‘Colchicum mortis – the colchicum of death.’

A flower. ‘James and the flowers.’ The words of Janet Dawson, whispered so urgently only yesterday, came back to me now. But Jaffray was warming to his theme, and did not notice my abstraction.

‘You will not have heard of it. Indeed, why would you have? I have never come across a case myself before. Other varieties of colchicum , of course, are of use in medicine and cooking.’

‘In cooking?’ I knew that poisons were often used in the preparation of medicines, but that they were put into food was something new to me. ‘Is that not dangerous?’

Jaffray laughed. ‘Saffron, Alexander, saffron. Many women will use it for its colour and its flavouring. It is obtained from the stamen of the colchicum and Arbuthnott stocks it openly on his shelves. I have often myself prescribed it for the treatment of gout and arthritis. However, a high dose can be dangerous, giving rise to palsies and fits. Arbuthnott, like any good apothecary, will measure his doses carefully.’