“You can’t expect me to reveal all my clients’ secrets.”
“You weren’t able to keep your collection secure before?”
“No,” Cruikshank replied without looking round. The nut-brown wig had listed a little to one side, covering the top of his left ear, though Cruikshank didn’t seem to notice. It made him look comical, like a performing monkey with his too-big, antique coat. “My bankers kept most of it for me, till now.”
A little further down the corridor, Cruikshank stopped and began fishing around at his waist, till finally he pulled out a heavy key ring with half a dozen or so keys of different shapes and weights. As he fingered through the keys, Lindsay realised that the stout and studded door they had stopped in front of had not one, but three locks. Cruikshank tackled them patiently, one by one. Judging by the effort he had to put in to turning them, the locks were stiff and new.
When all three locks had finally been opened, Cruikshank glanced at Lindsay. “I’ll be interested to hear what ye think,” he said, then he pushed open the heavy door and gestured for Lindsay to precede him.
The first thing that struck Lindsay was the sudden way the scents of the room—books and paper and leather and wood—hit him. As though the thick door had muffled them from him before. The second thing, which happened as soon as Lindsay stepped forward, crossing the threshold, was that the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and an immediate sense of almost overwhelming panic rose up in him. He wheeled around to face Cruikshank again, the candle flame nearly going out from the swiftness of his turn.
“Is something wrong?” Cruikshank asked. His eyes gleamed strangely.
“It feels like—”
Like a dungeon.
He didn’t want to say the betraying words. Recovering his composure with some effort, he said, instead, “It feels rather closed-in.”
Cruikshank nodded, and pointed into the room. “Ye’ll see that there’s no window. The rear wall is an interior wall and there’s another wee corridor behind it. The window to the exterior wall of the house is on that corridor. A window is weak point, ye see, and ye cannae have that in a strongroom.”
Lindsay looked where Cruikshank was pointing, but still couldn’t bring himself to step inside—his wolf was determinedly shying from the prospect. Playing for a little more time, he gave his attention to the door, saying, “I see this is very stout—are the walls also reinforced?”
“Now ye’re askin’,” Cruikshank said, wagging a finger at Lindsay in mock admonishment, but he seemed pleased by the question, and brushed past Lindsay, shuffling into the room with a stiff sort of geriatric alacrity that spoke of his eagerness. Lindsay followed him cautiously, holding up the candle to light his host’s way.
“It’s all about the walls with a strongroom,” Cruikshank said turning back to face Lindsay. He patted the wall nearest him. “Underneath the pretty wallpaper and plasterwork, these walls are not mere brick and timber, Mr. Somerville, but stone and iron. As solid as ye’ll get anywhere.”
Now that he knew, Lindsay could account for his strange reaction, and for his sudden conviction that this was like a dungeon. He remembered all too well the heavy clamour of imprisoning stone and iron all around him from those long-ago days in Duncan’s keep. No wonder his wolf was so distressed.
“How very fascinating,” he said, forcing himself to follow Cruikshank further into the room. He was calming now, his instinctive reaction to the cell-like chamber gradually receding as Cruikshank continued with his explanation of how the strongroom had been constructed. Even so, a lingering sense of unease troubled him.
“Let me light a few more candles,” Cruikshank said. “Or ye’ll no’ be able to see a thing.” He borrowed a flame from Lindsay’s candle with a taper and used it to light a branch of candles on his desk and another pair in a wall sconce above.
The desk was the same one he’d seen in Cruikshank’s old rooms—the chairs too—all dark, uncomfortable wood, unrelieved by so much as a single cushion. The rest of the room was entirely taken up by Cruikshank’s “collection.” Three of the room’s four walls were shelved, practically from top to and bottom, and every inch of every shelf was crammed with a bewildering array of objects.
There had to be twenty times the number of things in here than there had been in Cruikshank’s old study. Books and boxes and jars and porcelain and packets of papers, all crowded in, higgledy-piggledy fashion, as though fighting for a space of their own.
You’d have thought Cruikshank would’ve taken a bit more care to display his favourite things, Lindsay thought, given the evident pride he took in them, and in the room he’d had specially built for them. But no, they were stuffed onto the shelves quite as carelessly as in the old study, as though Cruikshank was not particularly concerned with what anyone else thought of his collection.
Looking around the strongroom, Lindsay felt sure that was it—Cruikshank didn’t care, because this was for him alone. Not a connoisseur’s collection to be admired by all, but a miser’s hoard to be enjoyed in private.
Which rather made him wonder, Why had Cruikshank seemed so keen for Lindsay to see the room?
“I’ll be interested to hear what ye think.”
Possibly, it had been no more than idle politeness, yet Lindsay had detected something in Cruikshank—some kind of interest in Lindsay’s reaction.
“Your collection is sizeable,” Lindsay said, eyeing Cruikshank as the old man slowly lowered himself into the hard chair behind his desk. In a moment, Cruikshank would invite Lindsay to sit too and he didn’t want to. His beast urged him to stay close to the door, which he’d been sure to leave ajar. He strolled to the nearest shelf, pretending an interest in the spines of a row of books on the shelf closest to him, which, much like everything else in the room, appeared to have no particular logic to their arrangement.
Gerardo, the Unfortunate Spaniard
Miscellaneous Tracts, Historical, Chronological, Moral, &c.
Letters, Containing an Account of Travelling through Switzerland and Italy.
“I have many interesting items, Mr. Somerville,” Cruikshank called from behind his desk, “but ye’re here to look at one in particular, are ye not? So, do ye have that fifty guineas we agreed upon?”
Lindsay turned back to his host. “I do,” he confirmed, moving reluctantly towards the desk. Reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, he withdrew the banker’s draft he’d brought and set it on the polished wood. Cruikshank’s eyes gleamed as he unfolded the heavy paper and read it.
“And you have the papers to show me?” Lindsay prompted.
“I do,” Cruikshank confirmed, folding the draft back up. “The first packet o’ them, as we agreed.”
“Excellent.”
Cruikshank drew out his key ring again, using a small key to open a drawer in his desk from which he withdrew a slim packet of yellowed papers. Placing the bank draft inside the drawer, he locked it again before setting the packet on the desk.
“These papers are quite fragile, so please be careful, Mr. Somerville.”
Finally, and somewhat reluctantly, settling into the uncomfortable chair opposite Cruikshank, Lindsay reached for the papers. They were held together with faded black ribbon.
“They have never been bound?”
“No,” Cruikshank said, “nor even much opened since they were written, by the look o’ them. That’s a blessing, of course, seeing as they’ve no’ been very well-kept. They could still be bound into book form by a skilled man, if that was wanted. I know someone who would do a good job o’ it.”
Carefully, Lindsay undid the knots in the ribbon holding the packet together and set the fraying strands aside. The whole packet contained perhaps twenty or so folded sheets. Cautiously, he opened out the topmost one. The paper was thick and yellow, though somewhat brittle, the script close-written in faded brown ink. The penmanship was not good, a scrawl of words that looked to have poured out of the author at a swift rate.
Lindsay peered
at the words, trying to discern them in the candlelight.
At the top of the first page was written:
Kirkallenwater, fifth day of March in the Year of our Lord fifteen hundred and ninety-one.
Lindsay read on.
It is four days since we came to this quiet border town and I can scarcely believe what has happened within such a short period, even after half a year in George Cargill’s company, witnessing sights I could never have imagined I would see.
When first we arrived, it seemed a good, respectable place with a civil populace, but Cargill was summoned here by a gentleman who had said all was not as it seemed, and that there was darkness beneath the peaceful appearance.
Cargill did not speak to me of the particulars mentioned in that summons—he never does—but on the way here, he read to me a passage from the work of the great John Knox regarding the influence of Women. The passage stated in the strongest of terms that women should not pretend superiority above men. It seems I am becoming used to Mr. Cargill’s ways as I discerned from this that he believed there to be women in this town who exercised an influence unbefitting to their status—and so it has proved to be.
On the day of our arrival, Cargill met with the town dignitaries, including the sheriff himself, and on the Sunday, went to the church where the minister invited him to speak to the congregation. He delivered there a sermon regarding God’s Sentence upon Women, beginning with the passage from Genesis, in which God pronounced that the will of woman would always be subject to that of man who would ever bear dominion over her.
At the end of his sermon, Cargill said to the congregation, “If you know a woman who defies this judgment of the Lord, who seeks power and influence, who dares to speak over men who are her acknowledged superiors, then hear this: This woman is a witch.” And he urged the people to come forward and report their suspicions to him.
The next day, they came. A dozen or more, every one of them reporting Mistress Geddes, a widow who had run the town’s inn since the death of her husband two decades before.
A shiver ran up Lindsay’s spine, as he read on, his finger tracing the faded, antique letters. Naismith told of Mistress Geddes’s arrest, and then the swift arrest of her daughter and son-in-law, and two more of the townswomen, each of whom had made the mistake of speaking up for her.
Cruikshank said nothing as Lindsay set down the first paper and picked up the next in the bundle. This one was concerned with the examination of Mistress Geddes, the first of the group to be interrogated by George Cargill. As he read the long passages describing in salacious detail the torments and degrading acts inflicted on the poor woman, horror yawned in his gut, making him feel physically sick. One of the pieces of “evidence” used in her trial was Cargill’s report that bodkins had been pressed into her flesh but had left no mark. Lindsay thought of the witchprickers on Cruikshank’s shelf with their retracting needles and he and burned with outrage on this long-dead woman’s behalf, even as he hid his feelings from Cruikshank behind a blank expression.
He read for another half hour or more, perusing several more papers in detail before skimming the contents of the rest of the bundle in search of a mention of anyone who might be Alys. He found no one who obviously fitted her description, but this, after all, was only the first of the packets.
Finally, he set the last paper down and glanced back at Cruikshank who said, his voice sly, “So, what do ye think, Mr. Somerville? The papers make a fascinating read, do they not? I daresay ye’re itching to read the lot properly, but I must get back to my guests...” He spread his hands in apology.
Lindsay forced a smile. “That’s a shame, but I believe I’ve seen enough to know that I do wish to acquire these papers.” The letters themselves appeared genuine enough to Lindsay’s untutored eye, and even if there was no explicit mention of Alys within them, they might conceivably contain an important detail that would mean something to Marguerite. He was not, however, convinced they were worth anything like five hundred guineas.
Cruikshank smiled his lipless smile. “Very well—what is yer offer?”
Lindsay considered for several moments, then said softly, “Two hundred and fifty guineas.”
Cruikshank’s smile vanished. For a long time, he said nothing. Then he leaned forward and reached for the papers Lindsay had read, carefully folding them back up and binding the packet back up.
“As I told ye before, Mr. Somerville, I already have a client who wants these papers. It will take a great deal more than two hundred and fifty guineas to disappoint him.”
Lindsay laughed softly. “Come, Mr. Cruikshank. Five hundred guineas is daylight robbery for those papers and you know it. Be reasonable. At least make me a counteroffer.”
Cruikshank glared at him. “My client is no’ a reasonable man. If I break my agreement wi’ him, I need to be able to compensate him accordingly.”
“But he’s not paying you anywhere near two hundred and fifty hundred guineas, is he?” Lindsay replied. “I’d wager he’s not even paying half that. Am I right?”
Cruikshank’s glare darkened and he pressed his lips together stubbornly, but it was perfectly clear to Lindsay that he was right—two hundred and fifty hundred guineas was considerably more than Cruikshank would get from his other client. Knowing that, Lindsay couldn’t bring himself to offer such an exorbitant sum as Cruikshank had first mentioned. Not with the papers looking as though they may not even mention Alys.
“Two hundred and fifty guineas is a handsome sum,” Lindsay said, then couldn’t resist adding, “You’d be able to pay your debt to Mr. Nicol and still have plenty left over.”
Cruikshank flushed angrily at that, clearly not liking being reminded of the scene with Nicol. Briefly, Lindsay wondered if he’d gone too far, but when the man finally spoke, his voice was icily calm.
“My client is no’ coming to Edinburgh to collect the papers for another fortnight,” Cruikshank said. “In view of that, ye have a week to change yer mind, if ye wish to do so. If not...” He shrugged, as though unconcerned by that possibility. “And now, I will wish ye goodnight. I must to return to my other guests. I have neglected them too long.”
“Very well, Mr. Cruikshank,” Lindsay said smoothly, concealing his frustration. “I’ll give the matter my consideration.”
LINDSAY WAS SCOWLING when he left the house a few minutes later.
He was annoyed at the outcome of his discussion with Hector Cruikshank. The man had not even been willing to discuss matters. The only way to make progress would be to return, cap in hand, with an increase to his already too generous offer.
Marguerite would not be impressed with his bargaining skills.
Still, he thought, as he set off walking up the empty New Town street, he had a little time on his side. Cruikshank would have the letters in his possession for the next two weeks. Lindsay could give some thought to his next move.
As for tonight, it was early still and he found himself wondering whether Drew Nicol had returned home after storming out of Cruikshank’s house, or if he’d gone somewhere else, perhaps to a tavern—though he didn’t strike Lindsay as a particularly sociable fellow.
He should leave Nicol well alone, but somehow he found himself lifting his nose and searching the air for Nicol’s flinty scent.
Nothing. Not a trace.
Hardly surprising given that Nicol had left Cruikshank’s house two hours before. Idly, Lindsay considered his next move. If he shifted now, his wolf would easily find and track Nicol’s scent. Lindsay discarded the thought almost immediately. He was not about to leave a heap of distinctive evening clothes lying around at this hour. Besides, there was a very good chance Nicol would simply be in the most obvious place—at home.
Not that Lindsay had any intention of visiting him there. No, he was going straight back to his rooms.
He walked briskly back to town, but when he reached the High Street, instead of turning left towards the Canongate, he turned right and began making his way up to the
Lawnmarket and Brodie’s Close.
He was merely curious, he told himself. That was all. He wanted to check whether Nicol had indeed gone straight home. Once his curiosity had been satisfied, he would go back to Locke Court.
By the time, he was within fifty yards of Brodie’s Close, he had the thread of Nicol’s scent, and when he turned down the narrow alleyway and made his way up to the front door of the tenement building Nicol had entered the previous night, the man’s scent was strong enough that Lindsay knew he had passed this spot recently.
Excitement roiled within him. And desire, and need. And a strange, wild joy.
Christ.
Lindsay stepped back from the door, retreating several paces. He should go. He really should. But he stood there, looking at the tenement. It was tall and thin with small, shuttered windows. It looked like the sort of building with reasonably well-to-do tenants. They’d be assiduous in locking up securely at night. Stepping forward again, he tried the door—just to check—and confirmed it was firmly locked.
He counted the windows. The shutters, he saw, were all quite stoutly made of heavy oak with iron fixings. Difficult to force—though not for a wolf. Not that he intended to do any such thing. It was only that Nicol’s scent was teasing at him, stirring him again. Agitating him. It made him want to tear down every obstacle between them.
He wanted, desired, needed to see Nicol, and as much as that need dismayed him, it excited him too, filling him with a clamouring aliveness that invigorated his aimless soul. It was not easy to live so many years, to have no sense of when one would cease to exist. As the decades of his life had passed, Lindsay had discovered that the passions that sustained an ordinary human life were not enough for a wolf. From time to time, he would descend into a state Marguerite called l’ennui—an emptiness, entirely without appetite. Tempting to call it boredom, except that word did no justice to the weary despair that overcame him when he was in its grip.
Gentleman Wolf (Capital Wolves duet Book 1) Page 12