My stomach lurched, and I pushed past William up the steps for air. He was up there soon after me. ‘Dear God, the stench.’
‘Perhaps, if they had done something to the horse …’
William shook his head, and said what I knew already to be true. ‘Whatever detritus was there came from no horse, and no spectre either. Someone has cowered here, and bled. John Leslie may not be as mad as we have thought him.’
The reluctant elders were brought to view what we had found. Rabbits, foxes, large wildcats, all were suggested, the latter beast thought most likely to have been that seen and heard by the deranged minister on the morning before. The question of why such an animal might have come from the mountains to the very edge of the sea did not much trouble these good men of Torry, now that they had an explanation for the deranged visions of their minister that left the Devil happily to his devices elsewhere.
It was agreed that John Leslie should not be allowed back in the kirk until after the matter had been brought fully before the presbytery. I volunteered to do that myself, determined that Leslie should face his brethren on charges of drunkenness and not witchcraft. In no way did I believe that the kirk of St Fittick’s had been the site of any demonic Sabbath such as its minister claimed to witness. Yet, as William and I readied ourselves to leave Nigg Bay for Torry and the ferry that would take us back to Aberdeen, I could not persuade myself that what the terrified minister had seen on that early Sabbath morning had been a wildcat, nor any other dumb animal.
‘One thing more,’ said William, as the session clerk shut the kirkyard gate behind us. ‘Has the horse been found?’
‘It was found wandering about over by Dounies. It’s a wonder the poor beast never went over the cliff. It took three men to get it by the bridle. It’s stabled now at Brown’s Inn, and if no one claims it within the week, it will be sold for the poor box.’
Back down in the village, we made our way to the inn, which was hardly worthy of the name. The innkeeper snorted.
‘Sell it, they think? no one will ever saddle that beast again. Boiling for glue’ll be the best they’ll make of it.’
He showed us round to the stable where the miserable creature whinnied and tried to rear back in its stall. It could only get up so far, as a rope tied its bridle tight to an iron pole.
‘I cannot think that rope will help calm the poor beast,’ said William, making soothing noises as he approached the horse.
‘It was on him when they found him, eight feet of it trailing behind him. We managed to cut away a length of it, but couldn’t get close enough to get the rest untied. You may try if you wish, but he’ll knock you senseless.’
‘Not I, but Davy Durno,’ murmured William.
‘What?’
‘This is Davy Durno in Woolmanhill’s horse. The one that he accused his neighbour of stealing. I’ve seen it trail a cart behind it up to the Stockethill often enough.’ He turned to the innkeeper. ‘Let no one else claim this horse. It is the property of Davy Durno in Aberdeen. He will be here before tomorrow night to collect it.’
‘And welcome he is to it,’ grumbled the innkeeper as he went back to his duties. ‘And mind you tell him to bring the money for its stabling.’
I was not sorry to get back on the ferry, away from Torry and the grim things we had found at the other side of Girdle Ness, yet had I known what awaited us when we set foot back in Aberdeen, I would have bid the ferryman tarry longer in his work.
14
A Killing Frost
We could tell there was something amiss before we even stepped off the ferry at Futty. Two of the burgh constables were at the landing shore, and there was nothing in their aspect that suggested they were passengers waiting to make the crossing. As the ferryman docked at the pier, the taller of the two constables called down that he should come up but that no one else should leave the boat until given permission.
‘What has happened?’ asked William Cargill.
‘We are searching after two people who might have tried to leave the burgh by night.’
‘Who?’
‘The French master’s sister, and George Jamesone’s gardener, who lodged with them. Neither has been seen since last night.’
The constable was able to tell us nothing more, and neither the ferryman, nor any of the other passengers, had any information of use to offer. ‘This is very bad,’ I said as we headed back in to town as quickly as we could.
‘Louis must be going out of his mind,’ said William. ‘But what is this about the gardener?’
Assuming it was Charpentier and not St Clair who was the man in question, I told him briefly what I knew of him, and of Christiane’s liking for him.
‘Surely you don’t think the girl would have gone away with him?’
‘No, I don’t,’ I said. ‘But the baillies obviously do. I should have listened to her, I should have paid her more heed.’
William stopped for a moment and turned to me. ‘Alexander, what on earth are you talking about?’
I told him then about Christiane’s fear of Seoras, her belief that he was watching her.
‘Surely,’ he said, ‘Seoras MacKay is dead.’
‘I wish I could be as certain. I am going to George’s. I think they must search that garden.’
We found at George’s house that searches were under way in every quarter in the town as well as at the entrance gates and the harbour and ferry landings. The artist himself had gone with Christiane’s distracted brother to question Jean St Clair on what he might know about the disappearance of the pair.
We found them in the workshed. George was pacing around the small floor space while Louis was hunched before the fire in front of a tight-lipped St Clair. George was greatly relieved to see us.
‘Alexander, William. Thank goodness you are here. I think we will go mad with this fellow. Louis can get practically nothing out of him.’
‘What have you been able to find out?’
‘Louis was out at Pitfodels last night. He goes every Monday evening to tutor Menzies’ daughters. Menzies himself was at home and invited Louis to stay for a hand of cards. It was after eleven before he got back to his own house. He could hear snoring from the schoolroom – where the Frenchmen sleep – and assumed they were both in there.’ Almost as an aside, George said, ‘Guillaume had been here with me, working on the planting schemes until well after seven. Then we had left together and said our goodnights on Schoolhill. He went his way towards Louis’ house and I turned into my own. Anyway, it also didn’t cross Louis’ mind that Christiane would not also be safely sleeping in her own chamber. He went straight to bed and did not wake until after eight this morning. Of course, at that hour there was nothing strange in St Clair and Charpentier being long gone to their work, but he was surprised that Christiane had let him sleep so long. When he went to look for her, he could not find her in the house. She had not been seen out in the street, or the marketplace either. That is when he began to worry. He went to Lumsden’s house, thinking Lady Rothiemay or Isabella might have sent for her for some reason – for she has been much in company there of late, despite her failure in the trials.’
‘And they had not,’ finished William.
‘No,’ said George wearily, ‘they had not. The baillie began to organise a search – on a small scale at first, and only because her Ladyship was almost as concerned as Louis – and Louis came to me, looking for Jean and Guillaume. I took him down to the maze, where they were to be working, and found Jean there alone. He said he had not seen Guillaume since last night. I sent word of this to Lumsden and that is when we took Jean up here, to try to get something sensible out of him.’
Louis stood up. He looked dreadful, despite the night’s sleep that appeared to have cost him so dear. His face was almost grey and his eyes set in dark hollows that had not been there the last time I had seen him. Apprehension was sketched deep in his face, and when he spoke he sounded hopeless.
‘I think she must have gone away with hi
m.’
‘Non.’ It was the first word I had ever heard Jean St Clair utter.
‘But what else can it be?’ Louis almost yelled in frustration, and in English. ‘After all you have told me, what else can it be?’
The Frenchman sat impassive once more.
‘Come and sit down,’ said William, pulling a stool out from beneath the workbench, ‘and tell us what it is he has told you.’
Louis was shivering, and George took down one of the gardeners’ capes from its nail behind the door and set it about his shoulders.
‘He says he returned to my house at around six last night, that Guillaume was to be labelling plants and seeds that he had already sorted and then was to work on the planting schemes with you.’ He looked at George, who nodded.
‘Christiane had already written the necessary translations. We managed well enough between us and finished sometime after seven.’
‘How did Charpentier seem to you?’ I asked George.
George considered. ‘Perhaps a little quieter than usual. We could never converse very much, but there was always a geniality about him that made our time together very pleasant. Last night though, when I think about it, he did seem to be a little more pensive than usual, and in a hurry to get away.’
This revelation did not cheer Louis. ‘Well might he have been. Jean St Clair says that sometime before seven, while he and Christiane were having their supper, a note was brought for Christiane. A town’s urchin. St Clair has no clue what it said, but at the stroke of eight by St Nicholas Kirk bell Christiane put on her outer clothing and went out, not telling him where she was going, but only that she would be back in an hour, and he was to tell me not to concern myself if she was still out when I arrived home.’
‘He had no clue where she was going, or who the note was from?’
‘None.’
‘And he did not try to dissuade her?’
Louis voice was tinged with disgust. ‘He said it was not his business to be my sister’s keeper. Dear God, I knew he took little enough interest in the lives of others, but to let her go out like that alone …’
He put his head in his hands and was wracked with sobs. George put an arm around him. ‘Come now, Louis. If she has indeed gone away with Guillaume, it is not the worst, for he is a good man, and would treat her kindly, you know that.’
The French master nodded and rallied himself to continue. ‘I know he would – if she is with him. He never went back to my house last night, and St Clair says as far as he can tell what Guillaume has of belongings are still there.’
‘And St Clair thought nothing strange that he did not come back? That he was not there in the morning?’
Louis shook his head. ‘He simply shrugs and says Guillaume goes his own way and he his. He has not seen or heard anything of either my sister or Charpentier since and he is completely unperturbed.’
‘And yet,’ said William, ‘he seems certain that they have not gone away together. Why is that?’
Louis shook his head hopelessly. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well let us find out,’ said William. With a look on his face usually reserved for appearances in court, he went across to St Clair and barked something at him in French – a language that it had never occurred to me he could speak. St Clair stood up instantly, like a man used to the voice of authority. William asked him a question slowly, and very clearly. Unlike George and Louis, I had no idea what he had just said, but it was clear from his tone that an answer would be given before either he or St Clair ever left this workshed. The Frenchman opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then laughed in derision as he made his reply.
‘What? What is it?’ I said.
Louis turned to me. ‘He said that if we truly think Guillaume Charpentier has the slightest interest in my sister, then we know nothing about him at all.’
Just then, we heard voices coming down the path towards the workshed and opened the door to be met by Baillie Lumsden and four men of his search party.
Louis was at them first. ‘Is there any news? Have they been found?’
‘No.’ said Lumsden. ‘George, we need to search this garden.’
‘Of course,’ said George. ‘Let me show you the plans.’ Within two minutes they had a plan and instructions set out for a thorough search of the gardens, beginning at the maze in one corner and the small wooded area between Jamesone’s back wall and the Blackfriars’ gate on the other. The parties were to work their way in opposite directions up and down the garden and meet again at the centre, where George’s summer pavilion was to be.
We wanted Louis to wait in the warmth but he would not, and so George, William and I took him out with us. We also made St Clair come with us. Nothing in what he had said had convinced the others that he did not know a lot more, or indeed that what he was telling us was anything near the truth. As for me, all I could think of were the fears Christiane had expressed to me about Seoras, and I believed every word the unsettling little man had said.
Our party went first to the area of George’s planned herb garden, where already stones of granite had been laid out in the form of a wheel. George tried to cheer Louis a little by talking of his sister as if she might just have slipped away on an errand. ‘This is Christiane’s favourite spot, you know. The planning has been nearly all hers. The centre-piece, Alexander and his blessed session permitting, is to be a small statue of the goddess Ceres, surrounded by lavender, to match your sister’s pretty eyes.’
Louis attempted a smile, but his mind was too distracted to give much attention to what George was saying. Mine too was distracted, by the mention of a statue. One of several statues George had planned for the ornamentation of the garden, but most were to be elsewhere. His nymphaeum.
‘They will not have met here,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Christiane and Charpentier. If they met, it would have not have been here,’ and I started to run across and down towards the north-west corner of the garden, and the pond.
Images flashed through my head as I ran. Memories of images. Isabella Irvine and some unknown man disappearing through the trees in the darkness. Isabella Irvine coming upon me as I sat, alone, on the stone bench on the far side of the frozen pond. Isabella Irvine and Guillaume Charpentier sitting, only a short while later, on that same bench.
The frost in the air burned my throat as I ran and hurt my lungs so that my chest felt it might split open, but despite the shouts of those behind me to wait for them, I could not stop until I got there. I knew well enough now the best way through the trees in the tangle surrounding the pond and hardly had to look down to avoid roots and boulders that had found me out before. But then, as I pushed my way between the last of the branches into the clearing around the frozen water, I did stop, as if a wall of glass had appeared between me and what was in front of me. For there, suspended in the air like a jewelled doll above the ice, her hair and lips frosted, her head limp and the skin on her arms and her bared neck blue, was Christiane Rolland, more dead than any other thing in this wintered place.
I forced myself to take control of my thoughts. And turned, arms outstretched, to stop whoever might be coming behind me, to stop Louis, from coming upon what I had just seen. I opened my mouth to shout at the others to stop him, but I was too slow, I was too late. The sound that filled the air was not my voice, but his. It was not a shout but a howl. I watched as William and then George tried to pull him back, but he wrestled them away. And then he was pushing past me, shouting her name.
I caught him just as he was about to go out on to the ice. He sank to his knees and I did also, putting my arms around him and turning slightly so that his head was pulled against my chest and his eyes averted from the dead form of his young sister.
William and George came to a halt behind us. ‘Oh, God. No.’ Our shouts had brought Lumsden’s search parties running in our direction and the baillie and two of his men were very soon with us.
‘Cut her down, for God’s sake,’
said Lumsden to the man next to him. Only then, when I looked up, did I see that standing a little behind him, her hand covering her mouth in horror, was Isabella Irvine.
*
Half an hour later, I was sitting opposite Isabella in the parlour of Baillie Lumsden’s house. George had sent for a physician to see to Louis Rolland and had gone back to the French master’s house to wait with him there. William had gone with Lumsden to his chambers off the Castlegate to further question Jean St Clair about the events of the previous night, and whether he knew of any relationship between Christiane Rolland and Guillaume Charpentier. I would have to officially report Christiane’s suicide to the kirk session, although the news must already have been in the mouths and ears of half the town. For now, though, all my interest was in the woman who sat, shivering and hunched in upon herself, three feet away from me. Neither of us had spoken a word on the way up from Jamesone’s garden.
My first words jolted her out of her distraction. ‘Did you never imagine she might take her own life?’
‘What?’ she said, as if I could not actually have asked what she thought I had just asked.
I was in no mood to further humour this woman, and repeated my question.
‘You and Charpentier. When he played on her affections and you betrayed her friendship. She was a fragile young girl, whose state of mind had already been thrown in to disarray by the disappearance of another man who had courted her. It never occurred to you that her cruel treatment by two whom she thought her friends might drive her beyond what she could withstand?’
Isabella looked confused, desperately seeking to understand what I was saying and to find an answer for it. She seemed to stumble over her words.
‘But he – Guillaume – he never played on her affections. He never encouraged her feelings. And there is nothing – nothing, you must believe me – between him and me.’
‘You would have me believe that you never betrayed her friendship?’
She did not answer me, but worked at her bottom lip. I had never before seen Isabella Irvine so vulnerable, but I was too horror-struck by what I had seen in the garden to be put off. ‘For one of your station, Madame, you have made yourself very familiar with a gardener.’
The Devil's Recruit (Alexander Seaton 4) Page 16