The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

I snorted. ‘If it were known that I had shown it even to you I would be rotting in irons in Banff by morning.’

‘Aye, but in truth, Alexander, when you were at Jamesone’s today, you told him nothing of this?’

I could not comprehend the direction of his anxiety. ‘Nothing. Nothing of any connection with it. But why Jamesone?’

He swallowed a draught of his wine and poured himself and me some more. ‘What do you know of George Jamesone?’

I shrugged. ‘About as much as I do of any painter – no, that is not right; I know a little more of him from today. I had been aware that he painted many of our foremost countrymen hereabouts. Many of the nobility and some of the more middling sort. I would not wager against him painting yourself and Elizabeth and your brood one day.’

‘May God grant that it might be.’ He waited then for me to say more.

‘I know also that he is married to Isabel Tosh, whom I am astonished to find grown up and out of the habit of hurling missiles at young men of good quality, and that she has borne him a son. He lives in a fine house and is an interesting companion and a student of the nature of men.’

William pushed the platter away from him and leant forward, his elbows on the table. ‘You know that he studied mainly in Edinburgh, but spent some time also at Antwerp?’

‘Yes, but many of our countrymen continue to travel and study in the Spanish Netherlands. Is it to be imputed to them all as a crime?’

‘Of course not. But while at Antwerp he studied at the studio of Pieter Paul Rubens. You have heard of Rubens?’

‘Art is not much talked of in Banff, but yes, in my days here, even I heard of Rubens.’

‘But you will not know – indeed why would you? – of Rubens’ diplomatic activities. When I am in Edinburgh on business, I am often in company at the dinner tables of the advocates with the wealthy merchants of Leith. They have a better knowledge of the doings of folk in the Low Countries and the Baltic than they do of ours here. Rubens is well known as an agent of Madrid – nothing passes in Antwerp but he posts his own account of it to his masters. It is no secret. But more also, he is in the pay of the Medicis – the dowager of France. Little intrigue passes between the exalted heads of Romism that Rubens does not know of; little occurs in the Netherlands that he is not able to inform his Spanish masters of.’

Less than a week ago I would have thought my friend lost to the puffed-up gossips of our capital and its sea port. What relevance could such nonsense have for the burgesses of Banff, for Charles Thom, for myself? But the death of Patrick Davidson and the discovery of his practice of cartography had changed that. ‘Is Jamesone suspected for a Spanish spy?’

William shook his head. ‘No, he is not – at least I have never heard rumour of such a thing and,’ here he smiled, a little shamefaced, ‘there are few rumours that pass me by.’

‘But do you think it is possible?’

‘I think many things are possible, and that most men have their price. Jamesone moves freely in the circles of the great and the powerful. But as he is a painter, he provokes little jealousy or suspicion. In fact, I would be hard put to think of an occupation better fitted to the business of espionage. But no, on balance, I do not think it likely he is a traitor.’ He rang the bell for the girl to come and take the carcass of crab away, and bring us our meat. I could see he was still troubled. After the girl had gone he did not immediately touch the food, but returned to our conversation. ‘But what were you doing there, Alexander? What business did you have with him?’

I felt my mouth go a little dry. ‘I had a letter to deliver to him from the provost of Banff.’

‘Did you see the contents of the letter?’

I shook my head. ‘He, Jamesone, told me what the gist of it was, but no, I did not read it myself. It was – he said – to do with a commission to paint the provost’s family. I have in my room in your house the artist’s reply.’

I thought I saw my friend flinch, but only for a moment. ‘You have not read this letter?’

‘It is sealed.’

He pushed his fingers to his temples in thought. ‘Then you must deliver it. You must go to Straloch as soon as you are able and fulfil your commission there, and then you must return to Banff, deliver this letter and hope to keep yourself from the provost’s further notice.’ At that moment I felt I would gladly never have seen the provost, or the town of Banff again. But duties and promises called me back there, and there I would go. We resolved that I would leave Aberdeen a day early, as soon as the Sunday sermon was over. The laird of Straloch would forgive my Sabbath intrusion when he learnt the purport of my business.

We talked late, and when we finally left Bella Watson’s house it was with little greater ambition than to lie down and rest our heads as soon as we might. As we walked we kept our voices low and kept ourselves to the main arteries of the town – all manner of creatures might wait in the darkness of vennels and winding lanes for unsuspecting night travellers. The near-full moon carved out the houses looming over the Castlegate, but gave us less guidance on the narrower, more winding streets, whose tenements tottered three storeys above us. Shadows lurked under forestairs and beyond pends. A snarling dog drew its owner to a window and was silenced with a curse as we passed. We kept as far as we could to the middle of the street to avoid the muck and ordure in the gutters. As we turned onto the Flourmill Lane, some movement at an upper storey caught William’s eye and he put his hand on my arm to stay me. I followed the direction of his gaze and saw a flicker of light at the top of the backland stairway of a house I knew well – Maisie Johnston’s, forever in my mind as the place where Archie and I had had that last evening together. A crook in the wall obscured us from view, and we were able to watch the dumb-show at the top of the stairs. It was Maisie herself, and although her face was obscured by a shawl, the other was certainly a young woman. Maisie was casting her eye about her, and speaking to the younger woman in low but urgent tones. William whispered to me, ‘This is not like Maisie. She takes a great care not to draw attention to her establishment, and to avoid the wrath of the session.’