Joseph Knight. James Robertson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ a solicitor’s devil, a sniffer in middens and other dank places, howking out missing persons and persons one might wish to know about but not be known by. A ferret. Yes, his voice was the squeaking, bitter voice of a ferret.

      Sir John turned from the outside light. He was surprised by what he saw. Jamieson was a small, balding man in his forties, wearing ill-fitting black clothes that were so crumpled it was a fair wager he had slept in them. Then again, he had just travelled nine miles on horseback, and although the new turnpike between Dundee and Perth was a vast improvement on what had passed for a road before, this might have been cause enough for his dishevelment. He seemed rather portly and careworn, more like a mole than a ferret. Sir John noted that he was carrying nothing – no leather case, no sheaf of papers, no casket of evidence. This was not encouraging. But then, what had he expected him to bring?

      ‘Good morning, sir. Is it cold out?’

      ‘A wee thing chilly, Sir John. That east wind is aye blawin.’

      ‘Very well. There is the fire if you wish to warm yourself.’

      Jamieson hotched awkwardly near the door. Sir John kept up his sour face, but inwardly he smiled. Perhaps the man thought it would be impertinent to come between a laird and his hearth just to warm one’s backside. Perhaps he suspected that the laird was toying with him. Well, he was entitled to his suspicions. It was his job.

      When it became clear that Wedderburn was not going to speak, Jamieson coughed and filled the silence himself.

      ‘Aboot the, eh, maitter I was instructed tae inquire intae, Sir John. I received the commission at the end o January and I hae been workin awa diligently ever since. I hae sent oot numerous letters, checked parish records, questioned shipping agents, mill overseers, members o the criminal classes … I regret tae say that I am unable tae gie ye ony satisfactory report.’

      ‘Is that so? Why then are you here?’

      ‘It was intimated tae me that the maitter was of some … was tae be conducted wi the ootmaist discretion. I felt it only richt I should bring ye this disappointin news mysel.’

      Wedderburn sucked in his cheeks till it seemed his whole face was about to collapse. ‘It is disappointing, sir. Can you report nothing at all?’

      ‘Extensive inquiry has been made, and no jist in Dundee. I had hoped for information frae the agent in Perth that first worked on the person’s behalf, a Mr Davidson …’

      Wedderburn glowered. ‘Ah, yes, I mind that name.’

      ‘… but he has been very ill and unable tae see me. I hae been in Edinburgh, Kinross, Fife, Angus – but withoot ony success. In short, nae trace o the person has been uncovered.’

      ‘Let us not be shy, sir. His name is Knight. Joseph Knight.’

      ‘Aye, sir.’

      ‘He cannot simply have disappeared.’

      ‘Wi respect, Sir John, there’s ony number o things micht hae happened. He micht be deid.’

      ‘What makes you think that?’ Wedderburn said sharply.

      ‘I’m no sayin I dae. But it micht be possible. For aw that, he micht be in London. Or America. Africa even.’

      ‘I hardly think so.’ Now Wedderburn was beginning to suspect Jamieson of toying with him. ‘Mr Jamieson, I do not doubt that you cannot find the man, but no trace of him? Not a word? Nobody with a memory? A man like that surely does not just disappear.’

      ‘That’s whit he seems tae hae done, sir. Disappeared.’ Jamieson coughed. ‘And his wife wi him.’

      ‘You mean his wife as well?’

      ‘Aye, sir, of course. As we’ve no found either o them, we dinna ken if she’s yet wi him.’

      Sir John thought of the wife. The Thomson woman. She would long since have lost any charms she once had. He had a sudden, startling image of her, a twisted, witch-like hag, clinging to the back of Joseph Knight like a curse. He gave his head a shake, moved towards the fire.’ ‘It’s odd. It is not as if he is inconspicuous.’

      ‘Which is why I say,’ Jamieson said, following. ‘were he yet in Dundee, I would hae discovered it. A black man in Dundee is a kenspeckle body. But as soon as ye reach tae Edinburgh, or the west, it’s a different proposition.’

      ‘He’s still a black man. He must stand out.’

      ‘There’s mair o them in Scotland than ye micht imagine. Maistly in Glasgow and roond aboot. Wi the trade tae the Indies, ye ken. It’s no like Bristol or Liverpool, sir, whaur I’m tellt they are very numerous, but there’s mair here than ye’d think.’

      ‘Is that so?’ Sir John was irritated by the suggestion that this man knew more about Negroes than he.

      ‘In the west, aye. There’s a line or twa I pit oot in that airt that I’ve no reeled in yet. No that I’m ower hopeful, but …’

      Wedderburn tilted a furrowed brow at him: explain further what you mean.

      Jamieson coughed again. ‘Ye’ll be aware o the present revolutionary spirit that’s rife amang certain trades, sir? Weavers and spinners and the like. There’s a secret society brewin up discontent, ye’ll maybe hae heard o it? The United Scotsmen, as they cry themsels.’

      Wedderburn found himself getting annoyed. Jamieson seemed incapable of coming at a point directly. He always wheedled and sneaked his way up to it. ‘Why should they interest me? I am not a political man.’

      ‘Nor I, sir.’

      ‘But they interest you?’

      ‘It’s my work.’

      ‘You are a spy.’

      Jamieson blinked, mole-like. ‘Weel …’

      ‘You are a spy. You turn men’s coats. You buy men and their secrets. Am I right?’

      ‘It’s why ye employed me,’ Jamieson said flatly.

      ‘Mr Duncan employed you. Never mind. Go on with your United Scotsmen.’

      Jamieson paused, as if recollecting something he had memorised earlier. ‘In pursuin a certain line o inquiry intae the activities o this combination,’ he said, ‘on behalf o some gentlemen wi considerable interests in the linen manufactories in Dundee and Fife, I had occasion tae make contact wi some o the weavers o Paisley. There is a black man in that toun – no oor black man – a respectable and loyal subject – and as it appears there is a web o contacts no jist amang the weavers but amang the Negroes o the west, I thocht something micht come back by way o him. But there’s been naething thus far.’

      ‘This loyal Negro,’ Wedderburn said, stretching out the phrase as if to test if it would snap, ‘what is his name?’

      ‘Peter Burnet. A weaver.’

      ‘You met him?’

      ‘No. I wrote tae him.’

      ‘And СКАЧАТЬ