Crucible (20 page)

‘You did not go back to the library again, after you had passed me on the stairs? You did not return later to speak to Robert Sim one more time?’

His face was whiter than his brother’s and he shook his head. ‘I give you my oath, Mr Seaton: I did not go back; I wish that I had done.’

‘Why so?’

‘To say that I was sorry. Mr Sim was never anything less than kind to me, and my parting words had been ungrateful and harsh. I was angry that he wouldn’t even put down the old set of theses he was reading to listen to me properly. I pushed the volume from his hand and left. All I wanted was to get away from the college, away from the town. I gathered my belongings and was over the Den Burn by
three and back here at Crathes in time to have my supper with Patrick. And ruin his evening, too,’ he added almost inaudibly.

I raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the older brother, but he continued to stare stonily ahead of him. The boy went on, ‘He spent most of the evening trying to persuade me to go back and cast myself on the mercy of Dr Dun.’

‘But you did not return on Monday?’

He looked at me with a flash of the old defiance in his eyes. ‘I could not. By the evening of the Sabbath the news had reached here that Robert Sim had been found dead in the library close. I knew I would be suspected of the crime and I could not return.’

There was little more to be said – I believed him, and he had told me everything he could on the matter, which, I had to concede, on its own would hardly have merited the trip to Crathes. The laird sent him down to the kitchens to be fed, and Patrick Urquhart and I remained to take our dinner with Sir Thomas.

Most of our talk was on the condition of the country and the ceaseless feuding, the internecine slaughter between the landed families all around, the roots of which had been lost to memory and buried in time, to send up endless poisonous shoots of vengeance and retribution. Reprisals were swift and brutal, and grief inflicted that was beyond satisfaction by the law. Everywhere in the High Hall of Crathes we were surrounded by the trappings of civility: from fine delft tableware to the intricately carved chairs on
which we sat. And yet, in rooms like this, all over the north, men of wealth, education and good-breeding could barely restrain themselves in their schemes of slaughter and desire for revenge.

‘We know what it is, the world we should make, but our nature, it seems, revolts against it.’

‘Not our nature, sir, not our true nature. If we could but isolate its essence, we might be in accord with all that is good in God’s creation and the works He has enabled us to create.’

Patrick Urquhart’s words pulled me right back to Richard Middleton and his lodge, dabbling in some Rosicrucian fantasy. I looked at him stupidly, but the laird’s mind was quicker than mine. ‘Spoken like a true mathematician, Patrick, although you should take care your words do not tend too much towards the excesses of the alchemists. Mr Seaton and, to a lesser extent, myself, are men of learning, but after the dislike of the king’s late father for the subject, there are those who might choose to misunderstand what you say.’

Patick Urquhart swallowed and looked at the table. There was a slight tremor in the hand that returned his goblet to the tabletop.

‘In fact,’ said the laird, looking at me now as well as at Patrick, ‘the messenger who brought news from the town today bore with him a tale of accusations in that vein.’

The schoolmaster opened his mouth to speak but the laird had not yet finished. ‘Matthew Jack was dismissed by
Dr Dun from his regency in the Marischal College for brutality against the students, was he not, Mr Seaton?’

‘He was.’

‘And now you tell me that Matthew Jack is in the tolbooth, on suspicion of the murder of Bernard Cummins?’

I nodded.

‘Bernard Cummins whose body was found in a grave in a garden belonging to the the man whom Jack has been proclaiming to have been involved in secret societies, alchemy, the pursuit of – what should I call it? – dark magic.’

Patrick Urquhart groaned. ‘Oh, God.’

‘You neglected to tell me, Mr Seaton, that Rachel Middleton was the sister of the stonemason Hugh Wardlaw and that Bernard Cummins’s body was found at the door of the masons’ lodge.’

I looked across at Patrick Urquhart who now had his head in his hands, and I knew what I should have guessed sooner: the identity of the final member of Robert Sim’s fraternity.

Within an hour Thomas Burnett had been told more than I knew myself of the Rosicrucian fraternity that had gathered at the lodge in Aberdeen and who had begun trying to unravel the secrets of the masons who had occupied it before them. With greater coherence than either John Innes or Richard Middleton had been able to use, Patrick Urquhart had related for me the role of each of the four in pursuing
the ends of their brotherhood. He himself had instructed the others in the intricacies of mathematics, the functions and possibilities of geometry, the dangerous, tantalising assertions of an astronomy that with Kepler, Copernicus and Brahe challenged to the point of annihilation the old certainties of Ptolemy, Aristotle and others. As I knew already, Richard Middleton had pursued the ends of the Swiss physician Paracelsus, in progressing from new methods of diagnosis and treatment of the ill to a deeper study of the alchemy that was medicine; Urquhart confirmed that Middleton had not been greatly interested in travelling further down the road of many other alchemists in seeking that ultimate repository of knowledge, the Philosopher’s Stone. Robert Sim’s special interest had of course been in the books.

Urquhart had relaxed a little and was warming to his theme. ‘Robert tracked down the books. Occasionally, something of interest would come into the library’s possession through a benefaction, or with money at the college’s disposal, and Robert would bring it to our gatherings and see to it that no notice was taken of its absence from the library. He made it possible for us to purchase books ourselves occasionally – books that might have aroused suspicion had we bought them publicly, as individuals. Few booksellers would question the requests of the librarian of the Marischal College.’

‘Had he found anything of interest lately, mentioned anything he was expecting to arrive in the college?’ I wondered.

Urquhart shook his head. ‘Nothing. Although there was something Richard Middleton had asked him to try to find, but I am certain he had ordered that through Melville, the bookseller – it was not something he had in the library.’

‘Can you remember what it was?’

‘I wish I had paid more attention. But the book was not something to assist us in our studies; rather it was something Richard thought might help John, cool him a little.’

The laird interjected. ‘John Innes? Why should he need “cooling”?’

Urquhart shifted a little uncomfortably. ‘Because he had been taking things too far. His enthusiasms were becoming dangerous for us and for himself, and were in danger of drawing attention upon our studies.’

I chose my words carefully. ‘He took a special interest in the Cabbala, the guidance of angels, did he not?’

‘Yes, and who is to say there is not a place for that? For myself it holds no interest, but John wished to delve further and further into things esoteric. Where Richard, Robert and I sought knowledge, John sought secrets. He believed every word of the Rosicrucian myth, and was becoming more and more obsessed, unsettled, by his pursuit of their “secrets”. Richard had promised to show him that a myth was all it was; there was a work he knew of in the Czech language that he had been trying to obtain, to translate for John.’

I remembered John the last time I had seen him – distracted, rambling, terrified, mad – and I could feel a real
anger rising within me, for there had been no guiding angel in that shuttered rank room from which he’d pushed me, none with him but some handmaid of the Devil that these studies had called forth. I had to push down bile, the anger in my voice, before I could continue.

‘And you do not know that Robert had managed to obtain it, this book of which Richard Middleton spoke?’

‘I never heard that he did,’ said Urquhart. He was tired now, weary of talking, but the laird had not finished with him yet.

‘Tell me this, Patrick, how much of the knowledge, of the secrets of the masons did your brotherhood unravel from what you found in their lodge?’

‘Little, very little. We educated ourselves in the art of memory, but I am not interested in their secrets. What I would learn is their knowledge, what ancient knowledge they have of the geometry that frames our world. For that, I would give much.’

‘Perhaps Robert Sim did,’ I said.

‘Did what?’

‘Give much. Perhaps he gave all.’

SEVENTEEN
The Talk of the Town

I had lain, sleepless, thinking of Sarah through the few dark hours of the night at Crathes, filled with anxiety that what I had damaged between us could not be repaired. Being away from her could only make things worse, and I was up at first light and on the road back to Aberdeen before five.

It was another day of hazy heat, and I was a sorry sight of dust and sweat by the time I tramped in to the courtyard of my own house. I heard my daughter before I saw her, squealing as she chased a butterfly from honeysuckle to rose and failed to catch it. Seeing me, she stretched out her arms and as I bent to lift her I heard a sound that had been absent from our home too long – the sound of Sarah’s laughter. I held the baby to me. ‘Who is it, my pet? Who is in the house?’

‘Jaffy,’ she said, wriggling down after the butterfly once more.

She repeated the name and my heart lifted as I straightened myself to be greeted at the door of my home by my
oldest and dearest friend, Dr James Jaffray. In a moment he had me in his ursine embrace before holding me away from him to cast his eyes over me.

‘Tell me, Sarah, have you been feeding this fellow at all? He is a more scrawny sack of bones than many I have closed the eyes on. Though you are little better yourself. And tell me, does the sun never shine on this wretched town? I don’t know which of you is the more deathly of pallor. To think that I thought to make a holiday of this jaunt, and now I see I will spend the whole time tending to the sick and sickening.’

‘I had not thought to find you here, Doctor,’ I said when at length I managed to get in to the house. ‘The graduations are not until next week, and we had not looked for you until then.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, there’s a fine welcome to ease my weary bones. It is fortunate indeed that I am staying with William Cargill, where at least I will be made welcome.’

‘You are welcome here, James. You know that. Always.’

‘Aye, I know that, but William has the room for me, my boy, and you do not. And you are right: I had not planned to come to town for a week yet, but there has been an outbreak of good health in Banff and I thought I would get out of the place before it came to an end.’

‘Then I am glad to see you. When did you arrive?’

‘Late last night. I came round here early this morning,
hoping to find you at your breakfast, and Sarah has been kind enough to put up with me since then.’

‘There is no kindness in it, Doctor,’ she said. ‘We miss your company as no other’s. But I must go to Elizabeth’s now, to help her begin planning for Monday night.’

‘What is happening on Monday night?’ I asked.

Still she didn’t look at me. ‘William is giving a dinner to welcome the doctor back to the burgh. We are invited, and others too.’ She lifted a clean apron from the back of the door and went quickly past me to gather Deirdre from the yard.

The doctor was the first to break the silence. ‘And so, Alexander, are you going to tell me what is the matter here, or am I to go out after your wife and ask her in the street?’

‘The matter? It is nothing. It is …’ I saw that would not do it. ‘Och, just that I have been away too much on college business, and she does not like the nature of it. It will pass.’

I turned away from him to look for a clean shirt in the press by the door. When I turned back, he was still watching me. ‘Do you think to fool me with such nonsense? Do you think I have not known you since the day I first skelped your backside and handed you to your poor, exhausted mother? You could never carry off a lie, Alexander Seaton. Do not seek to do it now.’

I opened my mouth but he held up a finger to silence me. ‘I did not come fifty miles on the back of an old horse
to hear the first story to come into your head. I came because William Cargill wrote to me three days ago, saying that you had had a lapse into your old ways and would not be helped, and that Principal Dun himself had fears for your health.’ He laid a clenched fist on the mantelpiece. ‘I will not see you fall again as you did before. You will tell me what is the cause of this concern, and why your wife looks ill near to collapse.’

‘Sarah?’

‘Who else, man?’

‘But she is not ill.’

‘Not ill? Did you even look at her?’ His angry frustration became something else, and his voice which had been rising, became softer. ‘No, I know you did not, no more than she did at you. Alexander, what has happened between the pair of you? Is it something to do with the child?’

‘The child?’ I looked at him, surprised. ‘Do you mean Zander or Deirdre?’

‘I mean the one she is carrying just now,’ he said quietly, his eyes never leaving my face.

I looked at him, stupefied. And then it was a moment before the roar within my own head subsided enough that I could hear his words, for they had begun to enter my mind before they had left his mouth. I clattered against the table and knocked over a stool as I rushed for the door, just in time, to vomit in the yard. I retched until there was nothing, beyond nothing, left inside, and slumped down the wall, crushing the honeysuckle that grew there. In
time, I felt the strong, familiar hand on my shoulder and accepted the ladle of cool water the doctor held to my mouth.

‘You did not know,’ he said flatly.

I shook my head.

‘She is near enough four months gone, I would say.’

‘She told you?’