The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

I was embarrassed to be the receiver of such an assurance from a man so learned and so worthy of respect as Robert Gordon of Straloch. My discomfort was all the greater in knowing that he knew my own history, and that I had proven myself unworthy of trust and undeserving of respect. He should never have had to make such a declaration to me. I was conscious now not only of the grandness of the room, of the hundreds of books that lined the shelves, but of the portrait of Robert Gordon himself that hung over the fireplace – Jamesone’s work, by the look of it – the smell of sandalwood, the painted mural on the far wall. This was a man of wealth, family and standing, and he had felt constrained to defend himself to me. I began to see now why I, rather than someone who mattered, had been sent here on the business of the burgh of Banff, and I did not like it. I assumed our interview was over and got up to leave, but he put out a hand to stay me. ‘Tarry a while, Mr Seaton. The hour is not yet late and I will not keep you long. I would know more of this bad business in Banff, if you are willing to tell me.’

In my head I heard again the provost’s words of warning: ‘our business here is none of his,’ but again I reasoned that the provost was not here and I was, and, with William Cargill’s admonitions still fresh in my mind, I was no longer sure that I trusted Walter Watt or any others in Banff who had sent me on this mission. ‘There is little enough to tell – little that I can understand, at any rate. What is it you wish to know?’

Straloch indicated the map. ‘Tell me about the murdered man. What was a man capable of such work as this doing apprenticed to an apothecary?’

So again, for the laird of Straloch’s benefit, I rehearsed the tale of Patrick Davidson’s childhood, his years of study at home and abroad, his return to Banff under the roof of Edward Arbuthnott and the talk of his relationship with Arbuthnott’s daughter. The laird interjected once or twice in the course of the tale with ‘a good college’, ‘a wonderful city’, ‘a wise choice’, but said little more until I got to the end of it. Laughter and music were reaching us from the dining hall; it was at once comforting and yet incongruous as an accompaniment to our conversation. When I was finished the laird got up and raked at the fire.

‘It does not make sense, Mr Seaton. No, it does not make sense.’ He leant against the mantel in thought and then turned around to look at me. ‘Why did he come back to Banff? Why? When his love of botany had been strong enough to steer him away from the study of the law, and even medicine?’

‘He came to study the apothecary’s craft,’ I said, unsure what it was about this that so bothered the laird. It was plain enough to me that Patrick Davidson had returned to the town of his childhood because his connections of influence – his uncle – were able to secure him a place to train with a good master. But this did not satisfy Straloch.

‘No,’ he said. ‘When one has a passion such as this – or a calling even – it overrides all other considerations. If advancement in the study of botany and the usage of plants was his guiding desire, he would not have come to Banff. He would have stayed on the continent of Europe, war or no, where he would have learnt much. What is there in the flora of our corner of Scotland that could engage the heart and the mind of one who already knew it from childhood? Nothing, I would wager, to what the Alps, the Pyrenees, the warm lands to the South have to offer, to say nothing of the exotic riches of the East or the undisturbed forests and swamps of the New World. No, one with a true passion for the understanding of plants would not cast all aside in order to play out his youth in the town of Banff.’

I conceded that there was some sense in what the laird reasoned, but it seemed to me that he deliberately did not mention the maps; that he was drawing me to his point instead. I held the document up. ‘You think he came to do this?’ I asked.

His voice was low and he spoke slowly, not looking at me. ‘I think he may have done,’ he said, ‘and that if he did, he was killed for it.’ His words hung in the air a moment, and then he changed his tack. ‘But tell me also, Mr Seaton; where was the body found?’

I swallowed and looked at him directly. ‘The body was found in my schoolroom, sprawled across my desk.’

He nodded, and seemed satisfied. It was as I had thought: I had been asked the question as a test of my honesty and trustworthiness. Robert Gordon had known exactly where the body of Patrick Davidson had been found. I wondered what else he knew. The singing and laughter from the dining hall was becoming louder. A voice called out ‘Gray Steel’ and the sounds of clapping and the stamping of feet was followed by the dragging noise of furniture being cleared from the floor for dancing. Straloch crossed the room and shut tight the door, which until then had been left a little ajar. ‘How did he come to be there?’