Beggars Banquet

‘We’ll talk to Urquhart,’ I said. ‘At this hour he’ll be in his chambers. Follow me.’

Gisborne followed me out of the howff and across the street directly into another. There, in a booth, papers before him and a bottle of wine beside them, sat Urquhart.

‘I’m pleased to see you,’ the lawyer a

‘Sir,’ I began, ‘do you recall leaving the company last night?’

‘Of course. I’m only sorry I’d to leave so early. An assignation, you understand.’ We shared a smile at this. ‘Tell me, Gisborne, to which house of ill fame did the gang repair?’

‘I don’t recollect,’ Gisborne admitted.

Urquhart enjoyed this. ‘Then tell me, did you awake in a bed or the gutter?’

‘In neither, Mr Urquhart. I awoke on the kitchen floor of a house I did not know.’

While Urquhart relished this, I asked if he’d taken a chair from the tavern last night.

‘Of course. A friend of yours was front-ru

‘Mr Mack?’ Urquhart nodded. ‘You didn’t happen to see a grotesque, sir?’ I described the messenger to him. Urquhart shook his head.

‘I heard a caddie was murdered last night,’ Urquhart said. ‘We all know the Town Rats can’t be expected to bring anyone to justice.’ He leaned towards me confidentially. ‘Are you looking for justice, Cully?’

‘I don’t know what I’m looking for, sir.’

Which was a lie. For now, I was looking for Mr Mack.

I left Gisborne with Urquhart, and found Mack at The Cross.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I saw that fellow going in. A big fat-lipped sort with eyebrows that met in the middle.’

‘Had you seen him before?’

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 ca

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.