‘Now then,’ Richard countered, quickly on his feet, ‘you are very loyal, are you not, to your employer Christian Hall? Some might say, devoted.’
‘Our chapel is a close one,’ Phillip said defensively.
‘Aye, as I say, you are close. Now, you stated, did you not, that only the compositor has access to the case?’
‘Aye, in general, that is true.’
‘And only the compositor would know the layout of the case, and where to find the letters and the blocks. Is it conceivable, do you think, that a messenger, or a week boy, or an author or – what was it now, an ink man, with a pocketful of letters pilfered from your tray,’ Richard went on mockingly, ‘might come into the shop, and go into that case, that you did guard so jealously, and remove the block, without your knowing it?’
‘No sir, not a stranger,’ agreed Phillip.
‘Not a stranger. Then if the block was removed from the drawer, the only person who could have removed it was someone who knew where it was; someone who had access to the case when you were not there in attendance; someone, in short, who came from the shop.’
‘I suppose it must be so.’
‘I suppose it must be so,’ Richard echoed crisply. ‘I thank you for your help. I have no further questions.’
Phillip stood helpless, the title page still in his hand. He had begun to sweat. His hands were dirty from the gaol. There was a sordid, hopeless shabbiness about him as he fumbled with the sheet. Hew was struck by the bitterness of irony; it was Matthew Cullan’s proof that he was holding in his hand, Matthew Cullan’s book that he was setting when they took him; Matthew Cullan’s manuscript that had fallen in the firth and was all but rubbed away when Phillip took such pains to resurrect it. The warmth of the courtroom began to close in, and Hew was aware he had lost.
‘May I have a cup of water?’ he asked suddenly. The palest flame of hope began to flicker through his mind.
‘It is not usual,’ said the judge, ‘yet may do no harm.’
The cup was brought, and as Hew accepted it he caught sight of Phillip Ramsay’s face, grey and unhappy in the fading light. He stood still in the box, for no one had advised him to stand down.
‘Take it to the witness,’ Hew told the clerk. The cup was set down beside Phillip, who looked at it as if he had not seen such a thing before.
‘Do you have a handkerchief?’ Hew asked him quietly.
‘A handkercher?’ This was so ridiculous that for a moment it allowed the briefest glimpse of Phillip’s scorn to filter through. ‘Sir, I have been in the castle gaol these past ten days. And even when I went, I did not have a handkercher.’
‘I suppose not. Then you must take mine.’ Hew removed it from his sleeve and handed it to Phillip at the witness stand.
‘Dip the end in water, and rub it on the printed tree upon that paper in your hand. Make it somewhat wet, but do not rub too hard. I wish to see what happens,’ he explained.
Phillip stared at him. ‘Nothing will happen, sir.’ His voice revealed hopelessness, too raw for pity.
‘Do it,’ Hew commanded.
Richard yawned. ‘More games.’
Phillip wet the cloth, and wiped the page. He held it up. ‘It is a little wet, sir, nothing more.’
Hew nodded. ‘Now do the same to the scandalous tract. Wet the cloth, and rub it in the same place, by the branches of the tree.’
Phillip did so, ‘Why, sir, that is strange. The ink is smudged.’
‘Hold the page aloft, for the court to see.’ Indeed, the ink had smudged. ‘What do you conclude from that?’
‘That it is not printers’ ink.’
‘And what do you conclude from that?’
‘That this was not made in any printer’s shop.’
‘Can you tell us, what sort of ink it might be?’
‘I know not … not iron gall, that is used in quills … but wait …’ Phillip wiped again with the cloth, cleaning off the black. ‘It is iron gall, here, underneath. But gall is too loose and thin for printing, so this has been mixed with something else … something that would give it weight and substance, and the right amount of blackness. Something that dissolves in water. I would say …’ he licked the corner of the handkerchief, ‘I would say carbon, or soot.’
‘Then this ink has been made to look like printers ink, from common writing ink, mixed with common household soot, for colour and consistency, for printing from the block.’
‘I should say so, sir. But the person who made this, understanding not the properties of ink, did not know how to make it permanent. When it gets wet, it separates.’
‘From which we should conclude?’ Hew prompted gently.
‘That the paper is a forgery.’
It was enough. The jury were convinced, by this magic fast and loose, and Christian was acquitted. To Hew’s relief, Richard took it with surprising grace. ‘Well played, indeed,’ he murmured. ‘Let me take you to Robert Fletcher’s and buy you a flagon of wine. You look as though you need it.’
But before they could depart, the court clerk informed them that the king required their company, in the council room. Richard grimaced ruefully. ‘And now for the reprisals. Alas, they will have to be endured.’ He ushered Hew before him. ‘Victor’s spoils,’ he teased, magnanimous.
James had grown a little since his visit to St Andrews. In essence though, he had not changed. He was walking round the council room, restless and alert as ever, in the company of several watchful lords. As soon as they had made their bows, and the king had deigned to let them kiss his hand, James demanded bluntly, ‘How does it feel to be beaten, Richard Cunningham? And by a novice too!’
Richard bowed. If the barb had stuck, he did not show it. ‘Majestie, there are two occasions only when it does not shame a man to lose: when he’s beaten by his pupil, and when he’s beaten by his son. Master Cullan here has been my pupil at the bar these past few weeks, and in dearness, I confess, is almost like a son to me. There have been times, of late, that I despaired that he would ever make an advocate. Therefore, I protest this loss has made me proud.’
The king laughed. ‘A pretty speech. I almost could believe it, if I had not watched you play at tennis with your son. Believe me, Master Cullan, Richard does not like to lose. Do you play caich?’
‘Majestie, I like to, when I have the time,’ admitted Hew.
‘Then you shall play with me sometime. You and I have met before. Perhaps you don’t remember it?’
Hew suppressed a smile. ‘I could hardly have forgotten it, your grace.’
‘Indeed? But I was a boy then, and now I am grown,’ observed the king, with such an air of false humility that Hew hardly knew what to say. They had met the previous year, when James was still thirteen. The boy was playing games with him.
‘We met at St Andrews,’ James remarked to Richard Cunningham, ‘where Master Cullan here involved himself with mysteries, in putting on a play, that well did entertain us; and here he is again, amusing us once more, with all his tricks. I confess I am surprised to see him here, for like yourself I had my doubts that he would ever make an advocate. Yet here you are again, Master Cullan, aye, and once again, you court controversy, for I find you defending a charge, of slandering our name.’
‘Tis not the crime that I defended, sire, but the accused,’ Hew explained hurriedly.
‘What did it say, this scandalous tract?’ demanded James.
‘I beg your pardon, majestie?’
‘This slander that was written of our name. What did it say of us?’
‘I confess, I do not know. I was not allowed to see it.’
‘Truly? Master Cunningham, do you know what it was?’
Richard bowed again. ‘Your grace, when the trial concluded, the paper was destroyed. And with it we obliterate its memory.’
‘And yet the crime has not been solved. That paper was the evidence.’
‘Some things are best forgotten, sire.’
‘I do not think so. For there was
a crime,’ objected James.
‘Beyond a doubt,’ conceded Hew.
‘I don’t suppose you know who did commit this crime?’
‘I cannot say, as yet. But I wish to find that out.’
‘I too should like to find it out. So you may take it as your charge, to find it out,’ the king said seriously, ‘and when you do, to let me know.’
‘I shall make it my best endeavour,’ Hew promised.
‘Then you will succeed. For I know you excel in finding things out.’
‘Sire … I do not think that you have any cause to fear.’
It was the wrong word, for James started, fretfully. ‘Fear? What should I fear?’
‘I meant, I do not think this crime was aimed at you. It was a crime intended to implicate Christian Hall,’ Hew explained.
The king stared at him. ‘I think you will find that the charge was one of leasing-making, and against our proper person. If Christian Hall did not commit this crime, then we wish to know who did. And that is all.’
‘You cannot win against him,’ Richard said, taking Hew’s arm as the king left the room. ‘That much, even I have accepted. Dear Hew, you’re so very young!’
‘Am I forgiven, then?’
‘As to what I said this morning, I pray you think no more on it. Grace would be distraught if I sent you from the house. And if she is stout enough to forgive the hurt to Arabella, I can only follow her example. In truth, what I said to the king was no exaggeration. I was proud of you today. For you have shown that sharpness and detachment that were sadly lacking. Besides which, what you said was true. Christian Hall did not commit the crime. But there your case must end. It is not in your scope, to find out who did. Do not heed the king; he will forget this soon enough when Morton comes to trial.’
‘You are full of sound advice,’ reflected Hew.
‘And you are fresh and raw, and plumped up with success, that comes before a fall. I pray that you will listen and accept it,’ Richard smiled.
Calton Crags
Meg had taken William through the barley fields to collect the morning dew. They dropped it into potions, restorative for restless eyes, and into may butter, to strengthen and soothe. Meg gathered boughs of hawthorn blossom, crab apple and broom, and William picked posies of violets and primroses, clenched in his fat little fists. The tight yellow buds of the broom were pickled in verjuice, and the violets distilled into syrups to calm a fractious child. They built a bower of light pink blossoms, trailing over troughs of blackened lye. The printing house became a vale of flowers. Meg baked biscuit breads of aniseed and clove, and roasted capons on the fire to welcome Christian home. As Christian wept, her small son whispered shyly, ‘I picked flowers for you.’
The little chapel was restored, all except for Alison, whose name hung heavy in the air, unsaid. Hew brought wine to the party, yet he did not drink. He sat remote at the fireside, thoughtfully watching the crowd. Christian held William sheltered in her lap as Phillip found his fiddle and begin to play. Meg was baking oatcakes on a skillet. Hew saw the week boy snatch one from the pan. ‘A word, if you please,’ he said quietly. Michael sucked his fingers as he followed to the corner by the press.
‘If you dip your fingers in the fire then you will burn them,’ Hew observed.
Michael started guiltily.
‘There is something I must ask you,’ Hew continued. ‘And you must answer truthfully, though you are afraid. Can you do that, do you think?’
The boy considered. ‘Yes, sir,’ he agreed at last.
‘Good lad. You know that bad things have been happening. Alison was killed, and Christian went to gaol. And all of it began with the corbie messenger, for which I know that you were not responsible.’
‘I wasn’t sir,’ the boy insisted.
‘Therefore you must tell the truth,’ Hew answered kindly, ‘as you did to me before about the bird. You must tell it, even if to do so seems wrong, even if it appears to hurt Phillip. Do you understand?’
Michael nodded.
‘When Phillip was in court,’ Hew put to him, ‘he said that when he set the copy for my father’s title page, he gave you the broken letter and you took it to the foundry. Is that correct? Was he telling the truth?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Michael muttered. He did not look up at Hew.
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Phillip was not lying, sir,’ the boy blurted desperately, ‘when he said he gave it to me … only …’
‘Only …?’ prompted Hew.
‘Only that … I did not take it. I was going to …’
‘You were going to,’ Hew repeated softly. ‘What happened that prevented you?’
‘I gave the type to Alison,’ the boy admitted, ‘she was going to the hammerman, to buy a cooking pot. She promised she would take it on her way. It saved a journey,’ he put in defensively. ‘But does it matter, sir? You do not think that Alison was killed because I gave her broken type?’
Hew could not answer him, since that was what he thought. Instead he asked, ‘Do you think that Alison could have taken the device – I mean the printing block? Did she know where it was kept?’
‘I do not know, sir … Aye, she did,’ the boy reflected. ‘William pulled the drawers, and scattered all the blocks, and Alison helped Phillip pick them up. It put Phillip in a bad temper, for he hates us touching things.’
‘Aye, I remember that. Thank you,’ Hew said thoughtfully. ‘You have told me what I need to know.’
He returned to the fireside, where William sat still in Christian’s lap, far distant from the little boy who caused havoc through the shop. Hew ruffled William’s hair. ‘He is quiet still,’ he noticed. Christian smiled at him. ‘He is not quite himself. And yet he is much better now. Meg tells me he has nightmares, and relives his terrors in his dreams. It is a sign, the doctor thinks, that the horrors have worked loose, and that he may be rid of them in time. He does not speak of Alison. I hope he may forget her,’ she admitted sadly. ‘Hew, I have not thanked you properly for all that you have done.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Hew said absently.
Christian looked down to hide her tears. ‘It’s everything, to me,’ she assured him. William gave a whimper, and she forced a brighter smile. ‘Have you said thank you to Hew, for sending you the apples?’ she asked the little boy.
‘Apples?’ queried Hew.
‘Aye, that was kind of you. Meg said they came this morning, by the fruitman’s boy.’
‘I had forgotten,’ Hew said, frowning. ‘May I see them?’
‘They are on the board beside the flowers.’
Giles stood at the table, with a pie from Bessie Brewster he was setting in a dish. ‘A pastry to add substance to the feast.’ As Meg approached, he cleared his throat and frowned. ‘Apples, Hew! I really can’t approve your gift to William. The child is of a windy disposition, and you know my thoughts on fruit.’
‘I did not send them,’ murmured Hew.
Meg exclaimed, ‘We felt certain it was you! The fruitman said a gentleman had bought them for the little boy, who had lost his mother and his nurse.’
‘Is it likely that I would say that?’ Hew demanded grimly. ‘This is a threat,’ he confided to Giles.
The music had stopped. Christian stood, wild-eyed, with William in her arms and Phillip by her side. ‘Then it is not over? It begins again!’ She shuddered, clutching close her child.
‘Someone meant it for a kindness,’ Phillip reassured her. ‘Do not fret.’
‘It is not kindness,’ Christian cried. ‘Do you not see? Davie gave him apples. It is like the corbie messenger. Someone wants to harm us. And it does not end.’
‘You are overwrought,’ Meg soothed. But Hew said gravely. ‘Christian is right. It does not end.’ He took Giles aside. ‘They cannot stay here. It is no longer safe.’
‘There is Doctor Dow’s house on the Cowgate,’ Giles suggested.
‘That is not far enough. I know a better place. I will need your he
lp, and that of Doctor Dow.’
Hew explained his plan.
‘It is too dangerous,’ objected Giles.
‘If you play your part, and Doctor Dow’s good wife agrees to hers, it will prove safe enough,’ Hew assured him. ‘Can you take them safely there, tomorrow at first light?’
‘Aye. That is the simple part,’ Giles agreed reluctantly.
‘Write to me a letter, when the thing is done. I will do the rest. On Sunday, I will come to Doctor Dow’s. Meanwhile, I must speak with Walter Balcanquall. I counsel you, tell no one where they’ve gone.’
As the little group dispersed, the flowers began to wilt.
On Saturday, Eleanor prepared a supper once the children were in bed. ‘Sir David Preston has sent two fat cunings from his estate,’ she explained to Hew, ‘and I thought that we should celebrate the closing of your case. I have not liked to see you so at odds.’
‘In truth, we were never opposed,’ Richard said genially, ‘except in the courtroom. Which is no more a quarrel, than a game of caich, when all is said and done. And yet there is real cause to celebrate. For I have spoken to the justice general, who agrees that Hew is ready to be entered for the bar. I have been thinking it is time you were admitted to the faculty,’ he turned to Hew. ‘For certain, you have proved yourself, and your probation is complete.’
‘I thank you, sir,’ Hew answered miserably.
Richard looked amused. ‘You do not seem very pleased about it. I may tell you, it takes most of us a year or more to achieve what you have done in several weeks. Now that you have leave to prosecute, I promise you, our battles will begin in earnest.’
Before Hew could frame a reply, they heard a knocking at the door, and Eleanor frowned. ‘Who can that be at this hour?’ Presently the servant appeared with a letter for Hew.
‘A little late for correspondence,’ noted Richard.
Hew read his letter carefully, and told the servant, ‘No reply,’ as he placed it in his pocket. There followed an awkward silence, eventually broken by Eleanor.
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