The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

‘There is nothing I can do, Alexander.’ He took my hand. ‘I must rely on my friends, and on the mercy of God.’

How the wheel had turned with us – I who had been abandoned by faith at the first real testing, and he who had had no faith until the troubles of others’ lives had crashed in on him. At length I stood up, exasperated at his obstinacy and my own inadequacy. ‘But you cannot stay in this place,’ I said. ‘It is scarcely fit for beasts. Jaffray and I will do everything in our power to have you out of this place. And more,’ I paused and breathed deep, aware that the promise I was about to give would involve me in things I had no knowledge of: ‘I will do all I can to discover who did kill Patrick Davidson, for I know you did not.’

He closed his eyes tight and opened them again, pushing his head back against the wall. ‘No, I did not kill him. I thought Marion was all the world to me, but she made her choice. In life or death I know that he was her choice. To kill him would have availed me nothing. And anyway,’ he looked up with a rare twinkle in his eye, ‘if I were the murdering kind, there are a good few in Banff whose names would be on my list before that of Patrick Davidson.’

As I descended the steps of the tolbooth I could hear the clear and plaintive strains of some highland air. I had never tried to master the Gaelic tongue as Charles had done, but the words that penetrated to my very core spoke of loss, some irredeemable loss, whose pain it was beyond the power of our Scots tongue to render.

Once out again into the damp light of the afternoon I had no inclination to return to the schoolhouse. I decided instead to seek out the truth behind Jaffray’s call out to Findlater. The large as well as the smaller ferry boat had been tied up last night, for fear of loss in the tempestuous sea, but a stranger might have entered Banff at some landward port. I set out on a tour of all the gateways to the burgh, starting at Sandyhill and making my way via the Gallowhill and Boyndie Street to Caldhame and the Seatoun, but my enquiries availed me nothing. There had been no report of any stranger – or burgess indeed – attempting to enter the burgh from the outside last night, and only Jaffray and his manservant were known to have left it. I had not been the first to ask these questions, for the baillie had been there before me. And now he would be assured, as I was myself, that Patrick Davidson’s killer had not been a stranger to Banff, but an inhabitant of the town itself.

I returned to town the long way, by way of the Gallowhill. And there I came upon the hanging tree. I stood beneath the gibbet and determined that Charles would not swing from it. If I accomplished nothing else in my now Godless existence, I would accomplish that. I spent a moment looking down over the town and out to the sea beyond, asking myself whether the truth was to be found there, or whether it had already been washed away. Washed away like the river Deveron endlessly running out to the sea. I recalled to myself the lines of Alexander Craig, the poet, who had built his house on the Rose Craig, looking imperiously out over the town. Charles Thom, Marion Arbuthnott, perhaps even Patrick Davidson himself had played out their last tragic act together beneath his walls last night. His words took on for me a meaning that I doubt he had meant to give them.