I regard this intrusion into my affairs as impertinence, sir

Tam McAdam spoke up. “I have them, sir, the parties you seek.” It was the morning after his last meeting with Thomas McLean and both men stood in the shadows of St Giles surrounded by the crowds attracted to the Luckenbooth shops nearby. “Good.” McLean grunted, suspecting the guide had known their whereabouts all along but had wanted to earn himself a good fee. “Where are they?”

“Not two minutes from here, sir, in the West Bow. I can lead you there.” “Take care. I do not wish to be seen.” They made their way up the Lawnmarket and turned left into the West Bow. Halfway down the steep street, McAdam stopped and placed a hand on his companion’s arm.

“There, sir,” he said, pointing, “that entrance with the oaken door.” McLean took in the tall houses with their dovecot-like gables. “A fine-looking street,” he murmured. “A fitting place for a lady indeed.”

His eyes narrowed. “Who is that?” He pointed to a young woman who had stepped out of the house.

“The maidservant, sir, Jean Forbes. Comes out each day for a stroll. Likes a sup of ale. She patronises John Dowie’s tavern. Fond of the menfolk.”

“Is she now?” McLean reached into his pocket and placed two coins in the cadie’s outstretched hand. “Payment as agreed. And remember, not a word of this to anyone.”

For some time Thomas McLean stood, watching the house opposite. So this was where his acquaintances of old were living. Now he must think. And he had plenty of time to do so.

Paused

August was no cooler than July had been and the man who made his way to the Canongate Mission House mopped his brow and cursed the heavy, sombre garments he was wearing.

At the door he paused, then reached for the solid iron knocker. In response to its distinct raps, there came measured footsteps and the door was opened by Duncan McAllan.

“Good morning to you, sir,” the man announced. “Would I be addressing Mr McAllan?”

“Indeed you would,” Duncan replied, “but if you come as a worshipper I should advise you that the Mission service is not until this evening, though there will be bread and soup at midday.”

The man shook his head. “I come on other matters. My name is Josiah Davidson. May I offer you my card?” Curious, Duncan peered at it.

“A lawyer. What would bring a man such as yourself to see me? I take it you do not seek pastoral care?”

“Alas, no, Mr McAllan. The Lord and I are not exactly on good terms.”

“Sad words, sir. You need only hold out your hand and he’ll take it.”

Duncan ushered the man indoors, noticing he walked with a pronounced limp. He led the visitor to a room off the meeting hall and bade him be seated. “Before we start, may I offer you something cool to drink? Milk, perhaps, or water?”

“Thank you, but I am pressed for time. I come on a strange errand, at the instigation of a client who wishes to remain anonymous.” Steepling his fingers, Davidson coughed. “You are a widower, I believe?”

Duncan nodded. “Aye. My dear wife Elizabeth went to the Lord’s keeping many years ago.”

“My condolences, sir. And your daughter?” “Kirsty? What of her, Mr Davidson?”

“She is the lawful issue of your union?”

The old man rose to his feet, his face reddening. “I regard this intrusion into my affairs as impertinence, sir.”

“I am sorry, but I regard your reticence as strange, so humour me, Mr McAllan. Is she your daughter?”

Consented

Duncan licked his lips. “I think you already know the answer to that question.” The old man hung his head, his fingers resting on a large Bible on the desk. “No, Kirsty is not my own daughter, though I have always treated her as such.”

The lawyer nodded. “My late wife was a widow when I married her. Kirsty was born to her and her first husband.” Duncan turned his face to the window. “I loved my late wife in my youth, but her father would not countenance her marriage to a man intent on becoming a poor pastor. So she married another.

“Years later I learned of her widowhood and courted her anew. She consented, the more so because I assured her of my love for the babe, Kirsty. I promised to be a good father to her.”

Davidson inclined his head, smiling. “Who better than a man of God to be charged with a child’s wellbeing? You’ve brought the lass up well. She’s a delightful girl. Lovely voice, too.”

“You know her?” Duncan asked in surprise. “Oh, yes,” the reply came. “I’ve seen and heard her, too, Mr McAllan.” “Would that my wife had lived to see her as she is today,” Duncan murmured, then, intrigued, he probed. “Where?”

“It is of no importance.” Delving into an inside pocket, the lawyer produced a sheaf of papers. “Is the girl on the premises at present?”

“She is. But Kirsty is unaware of the situation, sir,” Duncan said, alarmed. “She believes I am her real parent. I have promised myself that one day I’ll acquaint her with the true position but –”

“Ah, how often I have heard of such promises, sir. The fact that they are seldom carried out results in much work for those of my profession.” Davidson gave a contented sigh. “May I see the girl alone? Rest assured I will mention nothing of our conversation, sir. All I require is her signature.”

“As you will.” Duncan left the room and returned a few minutes later with Kirsty. He introduced her to the lawyer, then took his leave, his mind troubled. What business had Davidson with her?

Document

He paced up and down the corridor, wringing his hands. At last, her face pale, Kirsty emerged. “My dear, has that man upset you?”

“No, Father,” Kirsty protested. “He was very kind. If I appear shaken it’s simply because –” Her voice faltered. “He asked me to read and sign a document.”

“What sort of document?” Duncan said, his fears rising again. If Davidson had betrayed his trust... But Kirsty’s next words soothed him.

“It was to the effect that I have an unknown benefactor who wishes me to have a token of his or her goodwill.”

“What form does this token take?”

“The sum of 500 pounds has been lodged in my name at the Bank of Scotland.”

“Five hundred pounds!” The old man gaped. The study door opened and the lawyer popped his head out. “I can see the pair of you are flummoxed,” he said. “I don’t suppose Mr Porteous is on the premises, by any chance?”

“No, sir.” Kirsty shook her head. “He’s at his shop in the Grassmarket.” “A pity. What of Miss Alison?”

“She’s here,” Duncan said. “Upstairs, though none too well, alas. She was complaining this morning that her head ached and she was slightly feverish. Indeed,” he continued, “I was about to ask someone to fetch the doctor as you arrived.”

More tomorrow.

Glens of Stone was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. There’s more great fiction in The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.

Artwork: Mandy Dixon