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.
I supped the last of the juice and put down the platter. ‘Remember I told you about the serpent, master?’
His eyes were red-rimmed, face puffy with excess. He nodded.
‘Well,’ I continued thoughtfully, ‘perhaps it’s not so far beneath the surface as I thought. You need only scratch and you’ll see it. Remember that, even in your cups.’
He looked puzzled, but nodded again. Then he seemed to remember something and reached into his leather bag. He handed me a wrapped parcel.
‘Cully, can you keep this somewhere safe?’
‘What is it?’
‘Just hold it for me a day or so. Will you do that?’
I nodded and placed the parcel at my feet. Gisborne looked mightily relieved. Then the howff door swung inwards and Urquhart and others appeared, taking Gisborne off with them. I finished my wine and made my way back to my room.
Halfway there, I met the tailor whose family lived two floors below me.
‘Cully,’ he said, ‘men are looking for you.’
‘What sort of men?’
‘The sort you wouldn’t have find you. They’re standing guard on the stairwell and won’t shift.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’
He held my arm. ‘Cully, business is slow. If you could persuade some of your clients of the quality of my cloth…?’
‘Depend on it.’ I went back up the brae to The Cross and found Mr Mack.
‘Here,’ I said, handing him the parcel. ‘Keep this for me.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m not sure. I think I may have stepped in something even less savoury than I thought. Any news of the List?’
Mack shook his head. He looked worried when I left him; not for himself, but for me.
I kept heading uphill, towards the Castle itself. Beneath Castle Hill lay the catacombs where the town’s denizens used to hide when the place was being sacked. And where the lowest of Edinburgh’s wretches still dwelt. I would be safe there, so I made my way into the tunnels and out of the light, averting my face where possible from each interested, unfriendly gaze.
The man I sought sat slouched against one of the curving walls, hands on his knees. He could sit like that for hours, brooding. He was a giant, and there were stories to equal his size. It was said he’d been a seditionary, a rabble-rouser, both pirate and smuggler. He had almost certainly killed men, but these days he lay low. His name was Ormond.
He watched me sit opposite him, his gaze unblinking.
‘You’re in trouble,’ he said at last.
‘Would I be here otherwise? I need somewhere to sleep for tonight.’
He nodded slowly. ‘That’s all any of us needs. You’ll be safe here, Cullender.’
And I was.
But next morning I was roused early by Ormond shaking me.
‘Men outside,’ he hissed. ‘Looking for you.’
I rubbed my eyes. ‘Is there another exit?’
Ormond shook his head. ‘If you went any deeper into this maze, you could lose yourself for ever. These burrows run as far as the Canongate.’
‘How many men?’ I was standing up now, fully awake.
‘Four.’
I held out my hand. ‘Give me a dagger, I’ll deal with them.’ I meant it too. I was aching and irritable and tired of running. But Ormond shook his head.
‘I’ve a better plan,’ he said.
He led me back through the tunnel towards its entrance. The tunnel grew more populous as we neared the outside world. I could hear my pursuers ahead, examining faces, snarling as each one proved false. Then Ormond filled his lungs.
‘The price of corn’s to be raised!’ he bellowed. ‘New taxes! New laws! Everyone to The Cross!’
Voices were raised in anger, and people clambered to their feet. Ormond was raising a mob. The Edinburgh mob was a wondrous thing. It could run riot through the streets, and then melt back into the shadows. There’d been the Porteous riots, anti-Catholic riots, price-rise riots, and pro-Revolution riots. Each time, the vast majority escaped arrest. A mob could be raised in a minute, and could disperse in another. Even Braxfield feared the mob.
Ormond was bellowing in front of me. As for me, I was merely another of the wretches. I passed the men who’d been seeking me. They stood dumbfounded in the midst of the spectacle. As soon as the crowd reached the Lawn-market, I peeled off with a wave of thanks to Ormond, slipped into an alley and was alone again.
But not for long. Down past the Luckenbooths I saw the servant again, and this time he would not evade me. Down towards Princes Street he went, down Geordie Boyd’s footpath, a footpath that would soon be wide enough for carriages. He crossed Princes Street and headed up to George Street. There at last I saw him descend some steps and enter a house by its servants’ door. I stopped a sedan chair. Both chairmen knew me through Mr Mack.
‘That house there?’ one of them said in answer to my question. ‘It used to belong to Lord Thorpe before he left for London. A bookseller bought it from him.’