The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

I was astonished, and could think of no other response than to say yes. A very brief flicker of relief passed over the baillie’s face and he moved towards the small door to the left of the room, to the chamber I supposed he must sleep in, in those few hours when he consented to sleep. Before the door he stopped and turned. ‘Counsel your friend to pay heed to all that I have said to him, Mr Seaton. He can do nothing now for the dead, but for the living he must tell the truth; he must tell me what he knows.’ He took a well-worn Bible from the shelf by the door, and without further word he went to his chamber, leaving me with my prisoner.

So here we were, Charles and I, at William Buchan’s hearth. How often, how many nights, had we entertained ourselves with tales of the baillie, of his omnipresence and omniscience? How many times had we felt ourselves under the baillie’s disapproving eye on his nightly check of the inns and taverns of Banff that no apprentice or servant or infamous drunkard should be served with wine or ale? Yet here we were at his fireside while he washed, and prayed, and slept next door. It was Charles who broke the silence first, his eyes crinkling in the familiar smile. ‘We have surely come up in the world, Alexander, that we are guests in this house.’

I got up and took the seat opposite him, so lately vacated by the baillie. I leaned forward a little, my voice low. ‘Are we guests, do you think, Charles, or are we both prisoners? I think the baillie would be pleased to have me, also, where he can keep an eye on me.’

He laughed. ‘You might well be right. He was much agitated at your absence in Aberdeen. Not just myself, but Gilbert Grant also was plied for information about your plans there – what your business was, where you would lodge, who you were like to visit – I had all this from Jaffray.’

‘He told me he had been allowed in to see you.’

Charles looked down at the floor. ‘Aye, the once. But I would not have had it so; I would not have had him see me in that place. It was enough to know he thought of me – would have known that without all the baskets he sent up.’ There was a great sense of failure, of having disappointed, in his voice.

‘Charles, Jaffray has seen and suffered much in this life. He has few illusions about what fate can do to those who do not deserve it. You surely did not expect him to rest until he had seen you? He will not rest until he has seen you free and justice done.’ I hesitated, unsure how best to say what had to be said. ‘Whatever justice there can be done, now.’

Charles set down his empty bowl upon the hearth, and traced his finger a moment in the ashes. ‘What justice can be done? How can any justice be done in this life for Patrick Davidson or for Marion?’ He gave off his tracing and lay with his head back in the chair, his eyes tight shut. When they finally opened I could see they were filled with tears. I had nothing to comfort him and he was right: there was no justice; there could only be retribution. But Charles was not a man with a stomach for retribution, and he would only turn his back further on the ways of this barbaric world.

‘Do you think it is over, Charles?’

‘What is over?’

‘The killing,’ I said.

He pushed the hair back over his forehead in a gesture I knew well. ‘Killing or dying? I do not know. Patrick was murdered, no one doubts that, I know. But,’ he took a deep breath and swallowed hard, ‘Marion … they tell me she died by her own hand.’

I thought of the confusion of last night. Surely Jaffray had told someone, some authority other than just myself. I lowered my voice further still, conscious as I was of the baillie’s even breathing on the other side of the door. ‘Charles, has no one told you? Marion did not die by her own hand, Jaffray is adamant on that. He swears before God that she died by the same hand, and in the same manner, that killed Patrick Davidson.’

What colour there was drained from Charles’s face. ‘Then the killing has not stopped,’ he said.

I watched him intently, watched for any flicker, any sign that would tell me something. ‘Charles, is the baillie right? Do you know something?’

He bit his lower lip and shook his head slowly. ‘I know nothing, Alexander, nothing. I would to God that I did. Since Marion’s death, the baillie has been at me night and day, as he was at Marion before it. But I know not even what manner of knowledge he seeks. He is like a dog worrying at a burrow from which the hare has only one escape. He will not let up, and I can tell him nothing.’ He looked away at the slowly dying embers in the meagre fire. ‘It is as if he knows very well what it is that he seeks, but he must have another say it for him.’