Beggars Banquet

‘Now get out,’ she said. And with that she left the room and began to climb the stairs. Her servant was waiting for me by the front door, holding it open in readiness.

My head was full of puzzles. All I knew with certainty was that I was sick of hiding. I headed back to the old town with a plan in my mind as half-baked as the scrapings the baker tossed out to the homeless.

I toured the town gossips, starting with the fishwives. Then I headed to The Cross and whispered in the ears of selected caddies and chairmen. Then it was into the howffs and dining establishments, and I was glad to wash my hard work down with a glass or two of wine.

My story broadcast, I repaired to my lodgings and lay on the straw mattress. There were no men waiting for me on the stairwell. I believe I even slept a little. It was dark when I next looked out of the skylight. The story I’d spread was that I knew who’d killed Dryden, and was merely biding my time before alerting the Town Rats. Would anyone fall for the ploy? I wasn’t sure. I fell to a doze again, but opened my eyes on hearing noises on the stair.

The steps to my attic were rotten and had to be managed adroitly. My visitor – a lone man, I surmised – was doing his best. I sat up on the mattress and watched the door begin to open. In deep shadow, a figure entered my room, closing the door after it with some finality.

‘Good evening, Cully.’

I swallowed drily. ‘So the stories were true then, Deacon Brodie?’

‘True enough,’ he said, coming closer. His face was almost unrecognisable, much older, more careworn, and he wore no wig, no marks of a gentleman. He carried a slender dagger in his right hand.

‘I cheated the gibbet, Cully,’ he said with his old pride.

‘But I was there, I saw you drop.’

‘And you saw my men cut me down and haul me away.’ He gri

I recalled the red silk he’d worn ostentatiously around his throat. A scarf from a female admirer, the story went. It would have hidden just such a device.

‘You’ve been in hiding a long time,’ I said. The dagger was inches from me.

‘I fled Edinburgh, Cully. I’ve been away these past five and a half years.’

‘What brought you back?’ I couldn’t take my eyes off the dagger.

‘Aye,’ Brodie said, seeing what was in my mind. ‘The doctor who pronounced me dead and the coffin-maker who was supposed to have buried me. I couldn’t have witnesses alive… not now.’

‘And the others, Dryden and the wretch Howison?’

‘Both recognised me, curse them. Then you started to snoop around, and couldn’t be found.’

‘But why? Why are you back?’

The dagger was touching my throat now. I’d backed myself into a corner of the bed. There was nowhere to go. ‘I was tempted back, Cully. A temptation I could not resist. The crown jewels.’

‘What?’

His voice was a feverish whisper. ‘The chest in the crown room. I will have its contents, my last and greatest theft.’

‘Alone? Impossible.’

‘But I’m not alone. I have powerful allies.’ He smiled. ‘Braxfield for one. He believes the theft of the jewels will spark a Scots revolution. But you know this already, Cully. You were seen watching Braxfield. You were seen in Whitewood’s shop.’

‘Whitewood’s part of it too?’

‘You know he is, romantic fool that he is.’ The point of the dagger broke my skin. I could feel blood trickle down my throat. If I spoke again, they would be my last words. I felt like laughing. Brodie was so wrong in his surmisings. Everything was wrong. A sudden noise on the stair turned Brodie’s head. My own dagger was hidden beneath my thigh. I grabbed it with one hand, my other hand wrestling with Brodie’s blade.

When Gisborne opened the door, what he saw sobered him immediately.

Brodie freed himself and turned to confront the young Englishman, dagger ready, but not ready enough. Gisborne had no hesitation in ru

Gisborne was the statue now. He stared at the spreading blood.

I got to my feet quickly. ‘Where did you get the blade?’ I asked, amazed.

Gisborne swallowed. ‘I bought it new today, heeding your advice.’

‘You saved my life, young master.’ I stared down at Brodie’s corpse. ‘But why are you here?’

Gisborne came to his senses. ‘I heard you were looking for a book.’

‘I was. What of it?’ We were both staring at Brodie.

‘Only to tell you that I am in possession of it. Or I was. The lawyer Urquhart gave it to me. He said I would doubtless find it useful… Who was this man?’

I ignored the question and glared at him. ‘ You have the book?’

He shook his head. ‘I daren’t keep it in my room for fear my landlady might find it.’

I blinked. ‘That parcel?’ Gisborne nodded. I felt a fool, a dumb fool. But there was Brodie’s corpse to dispose of. I could see little advantage in reporting this, his second demise, to the authorities. Questions would be asked of Master Gisborne, and a young Englishman might not always receive a fair hearing, especially with Braxfield at the bench. God no, the body must be disposed of quietly.

And I knew just the spot.

Mr Mack helped us lug the guts down to the new town, propping Brodie in the sedan chair. The slumped corpse resembled nothing so much as a sleeping drunk.

In Charlotte Square we found some fresh foundations and buried the remains of Deacon Brodie within. We were all three in a sweat by the time we’d finished. I sat myself down on a large stone and wiped my brow.

‘Well, friends,’ I said, ‘it is only right and proper.’

‘What is?’ Gisborne asked, breathing heavily.

‘The old town has its serpent, and now the new town does too.’ I watched Gisborne put his jacket back on. It was the blue coat with silver buttons. There was blood on it, and dirt besides.

‘I know a tailor,’ I began, ‘might make something fresh for an excellent price…’

Next morning, washed and crisply dressed, I returned to my lady’s house. I waved the parcel under the servant’s nose and he hurried upstairs.

My lady was down promptly, but gave me no heed. She had eyes only for the book. Book? It was little more than a ragged pamphlet, its pages well-thumbed, scribbled margin-alia commenting on this or that entry or adding a fresh one. I handed her the tome.

‘The entry you seek is towards the back,’ I told her. She looked startled. ‘You are, I suppose, the Masked Lady referred to therein? A lady for daylight assignations only, and always masked, speaking in a whisper?’

Her cheeks were crimson as she tore at the book, scattering its shreddings.

‘Better have the floor swept,’ I told her. ‘You wouldn’t want Mr Whitewood to find any trace. That was your reason all along, was it not? He is a known philanderer. It was only a matter of time before he got to read of the Masked Lady, and became intrigued to meet her.’

Her head was held high, like she was examining the room’s cornices.

‘I’m not ashamed,’ she said.

‘Nor should you be.’

She saw I was mocking her. ‘I am a prisoner here, with no more life than a doll.’

‘So you take revenge in your own particular ma

Then I bade her good day and left the whole shining new town behind me, with its noises of construction and busyness. Let them build all the mighty edifices they would; they could not erase the stain. They could not erase the real town, the old town, the town I knew so intimately. I returned to the howff where Gisborne and Mack awaited me.