Scotch Rising (12 page)
A placid smile on her face, “Och, well, Beathan came down after the accident.” Freya glanced at the rope and made a studied effort not to look back again. “He went through tae search fur family or relatives, wrote tae the official in London.” Freya unconsciously wiped her hands on the apron around her ample waist. “Nae family, nothing.”
My hopes of finding anything on Mr Turner sank and I wanted to kick out the leg of the low table in the middle of the room. “Right, thank you for your help. I hoped to find something with his birthdate or parents’ anniversary, something with information concerning the man.”
Freya’s forehead wrinkled in thought, she smiled and I knew an idea struck her. “There is this wee book.” She went over the mantelpiece, and lifted a silver candlestick, underneath a worn black book rested and she carefully picked it up in one hand. “I cleaned even though he forbade me from coming in here. I found this once.”
She held out the book, the cover indicating the most popular form of reading material the world over. At least in the civilised parts, I took it carefully. The cover worn with age and gently opened it to reveal neat script from another time. “The illuminations are so tiny, yet beautiful. I have never seen such a beautiful bible.”
Frowning, Freya avoided my face and looked down at the pages as I turned them carefully over. Someone, a monk probably, had taken great pains to carefully write out all the Bible’s passages, even covering the edges in gold in some places, others with scenes of peasants and animals. “Maybe if he read it more often.” Freya let the sentence fade. “I hae looked through many times, nae sure what tae dae with it. I couldnae bear to have it sent tae the wrong direction.” Freya sighed. “I let it rest there, if you look on the back pages, ye will find many different dates.” She patted my arm and left me to look over the bible alone.
Scarcely aware of my surroundings, I sat back in my chair and studied the dates on the back cover. James Turner’s birth written in clear script the last entry, above him his parents’ wedding day and above this his father’s birth and death dates. His father predeceased him by several years. The death of is mother was written as a side note beside his father’s in the same year and month. Mr Turner’s parents must have passed while he attended classes at College. Searching for living relatives above his parents, I only found names and dates of deceased aunts, uncles and grandparents. He had been truly alone in the world.
I took up my travelling writing case. A fresh enthusiasm guided my hand as I wrote out the alphabet carefully once again. Underneath, I first used Mr Turner’s birthdate. I knew the letters and corresponding numbers must have a short cipher. His birthdate, his parents’ wedding anniversary, the dates of their deaths, after an afternoon of work, none appeared to be the cipher. I banged the small illuminated bible down with force and immediately regretted the action when the binding became loose.
“There is a nice coney stew on the fire.” Freya’s voice sounded from the hallway. She did not step into the drawing room, her face pinched. “I hae a pretty good idea where the wee beast came from, mind, and he should know better,” she nodded her head. “Hae a pleasant evening, Captain.”
I stood, not wanting to appear rude. I knew she watched me and made comparisons with my behaviour to Mr Turner’s. Perhaps she could see the same feverish light. I knew the answer to the mystery lay in these neatly scrawled numbers. “Please watch your step in the snow, Freya, and no need to hurry over tomorrow morning. I can manage.”
She snorted as she turned, disappearing from view. I frowned. I could take care of myself perfectly well. I had done so for numerous years, even in the army. I might be on campaign for weeks, not seeing any servants until I returned to Boston. I looked around the room. The answer to the puzzle lay here. I needed to put my mind to it and return to my uneventful life in the Highlands for the rest of the year. After which lay the freedom to choose any path I desired.
I looked up at the ceiling and closed my eyes. I tried to imagine myself as Mr Turner, ensconced in the familiar room. Musing over his day, writing his innermost thoughts in his diary. Information so private he could not bear to have anyone else read it. What could possibly act as the cipher? Barely registering the knock on the door. I thought of all the maths written around the place and the equations I transcribed for Mr Wick. The answer must lie in one of them. The amount of work involved in trying to find which one would be daunting. I ignored the noises coming from the hall. Freya must have forgotten some task or other. I needed to think, which of the equations held his interest for the longest? Was there another scholar’s work he admired?
“Captain, I hope I am nae intruding. I met Freya on the way from the village and she assured me you wouldnae mind a quick visitor.” Phil’s quiet voice from the doorway of the drawing room focused all my attention. I opened my eyes and found her hesitating on the threshold.
A sudden embarrassment infused my thoughts. I stood staring at Phil. No words came to mind. The drawing room would look a mess to anyone who lived in the impeccably clean castle and along with all the papers stuck to the walls, could only cause alarm.
“Please allow me to beg your pardon.” I scooped a number of stacked papers from the low couch and invited her to sit with a wave of my arm. “I did not expect visitors this afternoon.” Sighing I mentally checked myself, as she sat and arranged the folds of her tartan primly. “Even if I had been expecting you, the drawing room would still be unprepared for visitors.” I put a slightly maniacal smile on my face as she looked around frowning at the rope still attached to the beams in the ceiling. Her slender shoulders shuddered slightly and she closed her eyes. I could not explain clearly why I left it there and spying the teapot. “Shall I go out and boil some water for tea?”
Philomena caught my eye. Her determination in not looking away steadied my nerves. “The weather being what it is, perhaps something stronger might be called upon tae warm my toes. It is past the evening hour and perfectly acceptable for a lady tae indulge.” She gave a low, throaty laugh, appearing to have no notion of the effects the sound could have on a man.
Stamping down a blush, I was no green schoolboy, enchanted by the attentions of any female. Not one with a permanent ink stain on her fingers. I replaced the teapot on the tray and went to the sideboard where the Scotch bottle and glasses kept company.
I handed her one of the glasses, half full. “Miss Philomena, please enjoy.” I took my own seat. It did not feel as comfortable as it had before her arrival, sitting with my back straight. “I think you might recognise it as your own. Not as good as the Scotch we shared over supper, however.”
“Call me Phil.” She took a long sip of the liquid. Let it rest in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. I sat mesmerised by the play of emotions crossing her face as she enjoyed the Scotch. Here a true connoisseur sat. “Philomena is the name my mother insisted upon and every time I hear it, her disappointment in me grows.”
“Beathan told me she passed several years ago. I am sorry for your loss.” I added while Phil gave me a strange look. “I know what it is like to lose one’s family. My own parents died while I remained a lad.”
A wry smile played around Phil’s lips, she appeared amused, yet a hint of sadness creased her brow and she sighed. “I can only assume Beathan did nae mention the cause of her passing and I am impressed with the inhabitants of the village fur nae spreading gossip, they are more loyal than I can imagine. I am nae sure if Beathan mentioned my mother came from an auld and distinguished Scots family?” She placed her empty glass on the table and gathered her thoughts. “A poor yet noble family. Her father lived the life of a dissolute drunk and gambler. By the time she entered society everyone knew she possessed nae dowry.”
The situation was not uncommon. I felt uncomfortable as Phil made to continue with her mother’s story. She held up her hand to prevent me from speaking. “Please, Captain, let me continue. All will be revealed.” She smiled. “She did possess an incomparable beauty and wit, these two things would save her father from debtors’ prison. He made sure everyone in Edinburgh knew she could be bought fur the right price, tae gain entry intae his illustrious family as well as becoming the owner of such a lovely jewel.”
I tried to imagine Beathan and Phil’s mother as an incomparable beauty. Studying Phil’s face closely. Details of her mother’s face in the set of her eyes, her slim figure remained veiled by her father’s heavy features. Phil could never be a great beauty, yet she was certainly far from ordinary.
“My faither, Magnus, went tae Edinburgh the same year. The fortunes at Deoch greatly increased with the purchase of the Markinch holdings and after losing his parents. He realised the importance of keeping the Clunes tradition of Scotch-making in the family. He naively went tae find a bride amongst the elite.” Phil grimaced. “He possessed money and a few connections. He never thought tae aim so high as an Earl’s daughter. Yet he fell in love with Lady Lindsay at first sight, though she would hae naught tae do with him. In the end, he bought her from her faither and she never forgave him fur it.”
As a child I wished for a family. For my uncle to embrace me, as more than an heir to the title, yet he never did. “Your father seems to care for you and your brother very much. I wish my life contained such a man, my uncle only ever cared for improving the family’s connections.”
Smiling, Phil took up her Scotch glass again. “We are lucky tae hae such a man as Magnus in our lives. He says he never regretted marrying my mother, even though she spent most of her time in Edinburgh, carrying on with other men. The last one resulting in a pregnancy, both she and the child died. My faither picked up the pieces. He is a strong man.”
Standing, I walked over to the sideboard and fetched the bottle of Scotch, refilling Phil’s glass before she could refuse. I firmly believed a strong libation was required when discussing family. “My own childhood was marked by years of loneliness.” I waved a hand in the air. “I was surrounded by tutors and nannies, yet I only experienced a real companionship when I met my parents’ great friend, Mr Wick.”
Phil smiled curiously and reached into a bag at her feet. She pulled out a folded broadsheet and handed it over the table. “Nae the same Mr Wick of the Royal Society? My true purpose in visiting this afternoon nae tae share auld family gossip, I came tae give ye the Royal Society papers, the vacuum pumps are an interesting invention, however I have been conducting my own small experiments with them and the information is nae new.”
I took the papers from her and unfolded them. “One and the same.” I did not have much interest in the vacuum pumps either “You have been conducting your own experiments. Have you sent your findings to the Royal Society?”
A light pink infused her cheeks and she looked away, out the window into a world growing dark. “I dinnae think the Society would be interested in the results of experiments conducted by a woman, an unmarried bluestocking. As my brother would hae everyone know.”
“You might be correct.” I scratched my chin. “There is much debate over women’s involvement in scientific matters and whether they have the constitution to carry out the rigorous work involved in proving or disproving theories.” Phil perked up in her seat, looking as if she might have an argument on the matter. “However, this is the age of science and if we can make a spark-producing machine, surely women can further science?”
“Hear, hear,” Phil responded cheerfully and raised her glass. “Perhaps I could write up some of my findings and send them in. I do find the Society repeats many of their auld experiments with nae further innovations gained from it and some of the time I think they try things only in order tae spectate the absurd.”
Laughing at some of the experiments I witnessed in my time with the Royal Society before I left for Boston. “I must agree with you. I think the older, wealthier members use it as an escape from their wives and the boring social rounds they are obliged to do. Especially when Parliament is in session.” My eyes strayed to Mr Turner’s diary, lying open on the travelling writing desk.
Phil spied the same volume, interest infused her features and she reached over to pick it up. A stray curl from the severe knot on the back of her head came loose. She used her free hand to gently wipe it out of her eyes as she studied the numbers. Flipping through the pages, her expression grew even more absorbed in the numbers. “This can nae be a mathematical question. Hae ye written yer diary in code?” She looked up smiling. “Ye are mysterious, Captain, how clever.”
A voice in my gut shouted for me to not disclose the true owner of the diary. I did not want to give up my rights to Mr Turner. I felt close to finding the cipher. Soon I would have the key to his innermost thoughts and they might lead me to a murderer. “Yes, a habit from childhood, one too many prying nurses. Having my thoughts reported on to my uncle could be an unpleasant experience.” I tried to artfully grab the book from her hands. She pulled it away and pointed to the failed cipher pages.
“And hae ye forgotten how tae decode yer own diary, Captain?” She leaned over to make a closer inspection of my efforts. Knowing I might be lying, which did not sit well. With her attention distracted, I liberated the volume from her slackened hand. She watched me curiously, a taint of mistrust in her face.
“Sometimes I am too clever for my own good.” I tried to laugh naturally, however it sounded hollow and perpetrated the idea I might be up to something. “You should probably be on your way, Phil, it is growing dark and I need to get back to work.”
