The shock of Daphne's discoveries had hardly landed on the three young cousins, when their mobile phones began to trill and, apologising profusely to their favourite aunts they scrambled their things together and, phones clamped to their ears, left the sweet courtyard to return to their respective Party Headquarters and enter into the final, astringent, throes of the General Election Campaign, leaving Maude and Daphne to finish off the scones and pancakes and the last of the tea; Maude gazed fondly at her dearest cousin, friend, partner and soul-mate; she reached for and took Daphne's hand in hers, and wondered aloud what might be the ramifications of that bombshell, so recently dropped in this most peaceful of settings; “oh, that,” murmured Daphne, “ is hardly for us to contemplate – I dare say there will be some quarters where it will not matter a whit, for it's a scandal of the distant past, so why should it concern us now.....and there will be some who will strenuously dispute and deny my discoveries, who even as we speak may be filling the oubliette with concrete to obliterate all trace of Sister Evadne and her testimony.....while yet others may seek to widen the scope and discover whether the Presidents of Russia and the United States are also descendants of Sir Parlane MacFarlane – I can imagine some falling over themselves to claim kinship, for evil; has a strange fascination, particularly for a certain type of Man; but I only hope that our dear nieces will not find themselves harmed by association; they may well be able to fly off like birds when needs must, for they are certainly volitant (or as Dear Old Mrs Malaprop once said to Uncle Bertie, do you remember, she said 'those swifts can go hither and thither, just because they're vol-au-vents – but we, though, are made of stern stuff, we can handle brick-bats and cannonades with the best of them; haven't we had many a scandal to feel our way through – I suppose there is a Law for things which are consequent of previous matters – or sequela as Dear Old Doctor Cameron used to say – or as young Mr Bennett wrote in The History Boys, a definition of History as being – now what was it - oh yes – 'One Fucking Thing After Another!' how we hooted, didn't we dear- he'll go far, don't you think?"
Quickly changing into Afternoon Tea Wear, the friends made their way through the gardens and up to a select little tea-shop with a secluded secret courtyard, where they settled themselves with a degree of hauteur not particularly natural to them, but appropriate to their surroundings, to enjoy one of the most important of Edinburgh Rituals – High Tea; with the tinkle of cutlery on china and the gentle murmur of voices, mingling with the sweet chirrups of blue-tits and goldfinches, and Daphne began to explain what had happened, so very long ago: as they all knew, Sister Evadne Eglantine was a nun, in the order of The Poor Little Sisters of The Cross of the Wayfarer (claiming as its founder Mary Magdalene of the Gospels) and she spent much of her life in The Cowgate – then a principle thoroughfare running between The Grassmarket and Holy Rude, at the foot of Arthur's Seat; renowned as a healer among the poor and outcast, she was also sought out by the higher classes for they saw in her one who was both diligently earnest in assuaging sickness and injury, and also discreet, reserving her words for the Confessional (though, in truth, she could hardly have any sins to confess, other than that of Pride, for she took great pleasure in the efficacy of her salves and potions and their ability to cleanse and mend wounds and eruptions of the flesh; Sister Evadne 's name became known beyond the confines of the Old Town (there was at that time, of course, no New Town, the origins of which lay far in the future); but to the tale: among those who heard the name of Sister Evadne and her medical skills mentioned reverently was Griselda of Longformacus, who all will remember was eldest daughter of Muckle-Heid Menstrie, and betrothed to Angus MacAngus, the brave and dauntless son of Angus MacIan – Leigh raised a hand and asked if it was her daughter who became Queen Clotilda on her marriage into the Swabian Royal Family, which Daphne acknowledged as verifiable fact, and added that her other daughter was grandmother of Queen Margaret and that through these two daughters were descended people of great distinction and credit, right down to the present day; at which point Roxy raised her hand and asked if one of them was the present Monarch and her children and grandchildren, which Daphne acknowledged was also correct; and Ginger then asked if the first daughter was not a lineal ancestor of her Party's previous leader, her immediate predecessor, and Daphne once again acknowledged this; and then she paused (and as the pause lengthened, the eyes of the young cousins began to roam, from Daphne's face to that of Maude, and thence to each other, and still there was silence, until Maude coughed and suggested that perhaps Daphne should let them into the secret; three pairs of eyes fixed themselves on Daphne and she cleared her throat: “although my researches into Sister Evadne were prompted more from a personal interest in the genealogy of our own families – being rather later than my professional sphere – they did bring me into contact with certain other personages contemporaneous with her, and one of these was Sir Parlane MacFarlane; and when I put certain written evidences together (and written in the hand of Sister Evadne herself, in blood and urine on her wimple and scratched into the walls of her dungeon cell) in keeping with the guidance 'softly, softly, catchee monkey' I believe I can state two facts right here, right now – and these are that our present Monarch and her family, heirs to the Throne included, and Mr Hamish Saloman, erstwhile Leader of your Party, dear Ginger, are both direct descendants of the most foul-minded, debauched, villainous, treacherous, nefarious defenestrator of more than one innocent soul plunged from a topmost window of Edinburgh Castle to the depths of the Nor' Loch below and the most evil man whose long shadow spreads like blood over the history of Scotland, and that is Sir Parlane MacFarlane – there is no doubt, it is not interpretation, it is Fact!”
After Daphne and Maude – with interjections from Roxy – had quickly and concisely related to Ginger and Leigh the events which had befallen them that morning, they all felt like a secret cabal, a junto not conspiring to install a junta (which form of military dictatorship was anathema to this little group of committed democrats) Leigh asked – very pointedly and matter-of-factly, which was the style of this tireless woman, often portrayed in the capitalist press as a Stakhanovite Garden Gnome – how exactly the evidence of Sister Evadne Eglantine's torture and death at the hands of minions working for Sir Parlane MacFarlane hundreds of years ago had such a significant bearing on the present day (this particular present day, she elaborated, with a gathering gesture of her arms which encompassed the whole of Scotland and not just their particular Bench in Princes Street Gardens) and was answered by the BOOM of the One-o-Clock Gun high in the battlements of Edinburgh Castle looming over them; they all jumped, having forgotten the time and so failed to fulfil the fundamental requirement of true Edinburghers by anticipating the cannonade and therefore demonstrating their complete mastery of their features in defiance of the overhead explosion, and fell about laughing at themselves; “It will take more than one sentence to explain succinctly,” replied Daphne, reassuming mastery of her gravitas, for it's too complicated for an epigram and not wanting to cloak it in the shrouds of bafflegab, I must needs take a middle course and therefore, if, Dear Maude, and Delightful Nieces Three, we repair to an adjacent Tea-room, I shall tell you all – bearing in mind that you, Young Ladies, should be out on the Hustings, for if I am not very much mistaken, your Date With Destiny fast approaches, and I hear already the Clarions announcing the Countdown to Polling Day, so Hie We to Afternoon Tea and I will attempt to tell all!”
After Daphne and Maude – with interjections from Roxy – had quickly and concisely related to Ginger and Leigh the events which had befallen them that morning, they all felt like a secret cabal, a junto not conspiring to install a junta (which form of military dictatorship was anathema to this little group of committed democrats) Leigh asked – very pointedly and matter-of-factly, which was the style of this tireless woman, often portrayed in the capitalist press as a Stakhanovite Garden Gnome – how exactly the evidence of Sister Evadne Eglantine's torture and death at the hands of minions working for Sir Parlane MacFarlane hundreds of years ago had such a significant bearing on the present day (this particular present day, she elaborated, with a gathering gesture of her arms which encompassed the whole of Scotland and not just their particular Bench in Princes Street Gardens) and was answered by the BOOM of the One-o-Clock Gun high in the battlements of Edinburgh Castle looming over them; they all jumped, having forgotten the time and so failed to fulfil the fundamental requirement of true Edinburghers by anticipating the cannonade and therefore demonstrating their complete mastery of their features in defiance of the overhead explosion, and fell about laughing at themselves; “It will take more than one sentence to explain succinctly,” replied Daphne, reassuming mastery of her gravitas, £for it's too complicated for an epigram and not wanting to cloak it in the shrouds of bafflegab, I must needs take a middle course and therefore, if, Dear Maude, and \Delightful Nieces Three. We repair to an adjacent Tea-room, I shall tell you all – bearing in mind that you, Young Ladies, should be out on the Hustings, for if I am not very much mistaken, your Date With Destiny fast approaches, and I hear already the Clarions announcing the Countdown to Polling Day, so Hie We to Afternoon Tea and I will attempt to tell all!”
Just then, a wandering minstrel came sauntering along the path, picking out notes on a mandolin; the three ladies turned to look and each gave an involuntary gasp, for they all instantly recognised the scop for, despite her parti-coloured costume this was Ginger Goldfish, Leader of the Nationalist Party, Roxy's cousin and niece of both Daphne and Maude; she stopped playing and cried out “Hoots Mon” - standard greeting among her confrères - “wit're youse three daen here; ah didnae think ye's were really three Fishwives, sae far frae Newhaven Harbour, whit's afoot, sumpn fishy nae doot,” and plonked herself down between Daphne and Roxy, “can ah jine in?” which request met with immediate acclaim for, despite her effrontery there was a close bond which ran through the many-stranded Dumbiedykes/Lyttleton/Davidova/Goldfish families and their various branches; and it was no surprise in this diurnal company – it was still only a quarter to one in the afternoon, the sun shone down and the Castle Gun had yet to Boom above them - and it was easy for the younger members to cozen their way into the activities of their aunts and uncles, for all shared a common belief in Scotland and The Scots (even when they expressed this through many political shades and their individual interests in different epochs) so it was no great surprise to Daphne, Maude and Roxy when another figure suddenly appeared from the bushes behind their Bench: Leigh Waters, looking every bit the Ethical Gardener - for her environmental party was one in which its members lived and breathed their commitment to an ecological lifestyle all the way to their pre-owned gardening boots and recycled backpacks - climbed over the back of the Bench and squeezed herself between Roxy and Maude, gave a breezy chuckle and in a conspiratorial voice asked “what's the game?”
“Oh, Darling Girl,” cried Daphne, when Roxy, having finished her tale, sat back upon the bench between her and Maude and both ladies applauded her bravery and fortitude; “such bravery and fortitude,” her Aunt continued, “is clearly an example of instinctive forces from within coming to the fore, so that one acts without conscious thought, one's id taking over and the person simply becoming what one is and functioning as one does – a testament to your very treeness in which, Roxy, dear child, I do aver that every action which you performed this morning was predicated on your inner strength of character, your hereditary dedication to the common weal, your commitment to social justice and the rights of every human being to pursue truth, justice and happiness, to live without fear or favour and to the belief that free speech demonstrates the civility of a culture and a nation and its peoples, the which has always been so integral to your family for the better part of – at least – a thousand years,” and, when Daphne paused, Roxy quietly slipped in an aside about her weekly evening classes in Kick Boxing coming in handy, too.
“Oh, Lordy Lord,” cried Roxy, suddenly very animated and excited, “in all that's been happening I clean forgot to tell you about the 'incident'”; and before either Daphne or Maude could stop her, she jumped up from the bench and, pacing up and down, hither and thither, like a loose-limbed childish moppet, back and forth, almost like a person perpetually climbing and descending Penrose stairs as in one of M C Escher's black and white drawings, talking as much with her hands as her mouth, related the strange tale of what had transpired before the Leaders' Debate she had participated in that morning: all the Party Leaders had assembled in the Magnolia Room, adjacent to the Lecture Theatre of the Free Church of Scotland College at the top of The Mound; there was Roxy (of the Unionist Party); The O'Raeahilly (Workers Party); Ginger (Nationalist); Leigh (Ethical Gardeners); someone she didn't really know who might have been named Jim (from that minor party in the current coalition) and – unexpectedly (and unwontedly) an angry man called Knut Knonsens of the Scottish United Christian Kingdom Independence Together Un-european Party (SUCKITUP) who had already been informed that, because of certain racist remarks he had directed towards other Leaders and the viewing public, rude comments about the colour of Ginger's hair and Leigh's (in his eyes) lack of femininity, and Roxy's ever-so-slight tubbiness – which to her Freudian id was just as nature intended, for her id was very much on her side - that he would not be permitted to take part (the BBC had decided and, such is the power of the Media, that was that) – and this fairly got his dander up; he shouted and ranted, waved his arms and stamped his feet, rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue at each of the others; and suddenly pulled out a gun, pointed it at The O'Raeahily and ordered him to catch the first 'Banana Boat' back to 'Donegal', apparently under the impression that The O'Raeahilly was of Irish descent – there is no room for a full O'Raeahilly Family Tree, so let it suffice to state that there is not a drop of emerald blood in The O'Raeahilly's veins, his father being the son of a Jewish/Polish Doctor who had escaped from Warsaw before the German invasion in 1939, served in the Free Polish Air Force attached to the RAF during World War II, settled in Scotland after the war, changed his name by Deed Poll to a misspelling of one of the Irish Republican Heroes of 1916 he so admired, became a GP in Maryhill, in Glasgow and married a Jamaican nurse who worked in his Practice; but no-one had time to tell Knut Knonsens this; the three female Leaders rushed him, Ginger masterfully snatched the gun from his grasp and got him in a Head Lock, Leigh tied his legs in a knot as she had once seen done in a Laurel and Hardy film, and Roxy sat on his chest and squeezed all the breath from his lungs so that when the police - called by the slightly unobtrusive chap from that other party - arrived and arrested him, he had nothing that he was able to say and so went quietly with them – Women United Will Never Be Defeated, sang the victorious Triumvirate and then bounded into the Lecture Hall, followed by a visibly distressed O'Raeahilly and somewhat shamefaced Jim – or Tom, or Nigel.
“Do tell,” urged Roxy, and Maude, undisputed aficionado of all things Late-Early Mediaeval and Romance, asked her if she knew the story of how the Black Douglas carried King Robert's heart to the Holy Land and then brought it back for burial in Melrose Abbey, in accordance with King Robert's wishes - “of course I do,” snorted Roxy, her Freudian 'id' turning somersaults in her psyche at the implication of ignorance contained in Daphne's enquiry, “doesn't every Scottish schoolgirl, who walked five miles from Tomintoul Castle to Tomintoul Village School, carrying her books buckled to the ends of a tumpline, suspended from her head, know the tale, of Douglas's trials and tribulations,” to which Maude retorted that it was more complicated and included much devilment and underhand tactics by some leading figures of the time, though she did not mention that – as Godmother to Roxy and her twin-sister Trixie – she knew the girls had been taken to school in a dog-cart, with a liveried footman carrying their books; “but what's that to do with an Organ Grinder, a Mince-Meat Maker and a Mogul?” enquired Roxy, for she was truly mystified; and Daphne began to explain, but first asked Roxie how it had come to pass that she had encountered all of the people she had, that very morning – and Roxie replied that she had been attending a Leaders' Debate, along with Ginger Goldfish, barnstorming leader of the resurgent Nationalist Party; The O'Raeahilly, staid leader of the Scottish Branch of the Workers Party; someone she could not recall from the minor party in the current Coalition, who may have been called Jim; and Leigh Waters, rotating Chairman of the Ethical Gardeners Party who could rhapsodise ad infinitum on the benefits of abandoning all cities and living on the land, or, as he was wont to summarise – Going Back To Our Roots; and the names she had given Daphne were of persons present at that debate, in the Free Church College at the top of the Mound, “but what have they to do with King Robert's Heart? she repeated for the umpteenth time,' and Maude nodded sagely, intoning the words: “it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing!” to which Daphne concurred: “exactly,” she said.
“Oh, ye gods,” groaned Daphne, glancing down the list which Roxy had drawn from her capacious handbag, “this, this inventory of the people you met earlier in the vicinity of the High Street, has almost as many names as the Inverary and Inverurie Caber Tossing Classes I attended as a stripling - how we can possibly narrow it down, when it contains Doctors of Law from the Court of Session, Dustmen from Duddingston, Organ-grinders from Portobello, Ophthalmologists from Port Seton. Mince-meat makers from Easter Road and Moguls (or are they Oligarchs) from Cramond, I don't know," at which Maude interjected with a cry of “Piffle!” for she had spotted a unique contradiction in the nomenclatura mentioned by Daphne; “an Organ-grinder from Portobello, and a Mince-meat maker form Easter Road and a Mogul from Cramond; why, Daphne, you must see the connection - doesn't that remind you of The Black Douglas and The Heart of Robert The Bruce?”
It was Roxy who spoke next, suggesting that as there was clearly a danger to Daphne while the person unknown who had incarcerated her still roamed free, and it were better if the three Chums adopted disguise and found themselves a safe place,”nu?” she enquired, to which the others eagerly assented; Daphne knew of a commodious bench in Princes Street Gardens, to which they might repair; Maude had an extensive collection of Fancy Dress, which she and her own Chums made frequent use of for “games and entertainments,” as she put it; Daphne suggested that they should adopt a secret name for themselves and suggested “Anapest” as there were three of them, two whose names could be abbreviated to short single syllables: viz. Daph and Rox, and the third was the possessor of a gloriously long, drawled syllable already – Maude, which she pronounced with Oxford languor and tone; but Roxy interjected, believing that in The Gardens they would be highly visible, even disguised, and Daphne explained that hidden in plain sight, with all the cacophony of a General Election in full swing, with canvassers mingled among hawkers, sideshow barkers and evangelists, even MacBeth's Three Witches would go unnoticed at which Maude interjected, devout Bardolator that she was, that in his original stage directions Mr Shakespeare had these three characters identified as “Newhaven Fishwives, “but not a lot of people know that,“ she said with a mischievous grin – and so, to Princes Street Gardens, by way of Maude's rooms hard by The Castle, they made their way with discreet haste, each taking a different route.
“Oh, Gosh!” exclaimed Roxy Davidova, pausing for breath, and looking down at her suit, which was now covered with a fine, pinkish-whitish-bluish-greyish dust; “I say, what is all this stuff?” she asked, starting to brush it off with her hands, and Daphne laughed heartily, for she was genuinely entertained by Roxy's query, cried that it was original Edinburgh Rock, and swung her arms expansively, indicating the rock floor, walls and roof of the winding tunnel in which they had paused, adding that it's an aa, at which Roxy looked puzzled; “what's a naa?” she asked, scratching her scalp as Stan Laurel was wont to do; and Daphne grinned, and explained that it was not a naa, but an aa, because you see, she added, pointing, that it was rough lava dating back to Edinburgh's last period of volcanic activity, and that, she added, wasn't yesterday....but Roxy still looked perplexed; “no,” she said, “I'd have heard about it,” doggedly nodding her head to demonstrate how positive she was that she was absolutely up-to-date – and Daphne chuckled merrily; which was when Maude pointed to a shape which seemed at odds with it's surrounding, and asked, “what's that?”; at which Daphne strode forward, seized the object, which was a rather large Gladstone Bag and tossed it to Roxy, saying that it was a portmanteau, and asking if she could see any indication of it's owner; Roxy fumbled with the clasp, and managed to open the bag – she gasped and put one hand over her mouth! - Daphne took the bag from her and turned to Maude, twisting the bag inside out as she did so, which caused a photograph and a rosary to fall on the ground, asking Maude if they meant anything to her, at which Maude picked up the objects and studied them - when she too gasped, and looked at Roxy, “is this your mother,” she asked, showing Roxy and Daphne a photograph of the Dowager Duchess of Tomintoul, in her full regalia as one of the Queen's Ladies of the Besom and Broom – Roxy nodded, and pointed at the rosary, “and that was hers too, handed down from generation to generation, mother to daughter, for hundreds of years, together with the portmanteau – it belonged to Sister Evadne Eglantine,” and she started to croon an old nursery rhyme her mother had sung to her when she was very young; Daphne took command of the situation, saying (rather abruptly) “Don't get maudlin on us, Miss Davidova, but tell us when and where you last saw these things and who had them, for it may be that whoever that was is the very person who so cruelly tried to end my life back in yonder dark oubliette!”
Down, down and ever down, Maude Lyttleton drew Roxie Davidova into the bowels of Edinburgh; stairs gave way to rough stone steps; rough steps to even rougher passageways, and these then became a steeper descent through a kind of natural crevice, leading ever down – Maude's mouth was set with firm determination, Roxy's an O of wonderment, quite appropriate to the term 'os' which crossed Maude's mind as she glanced back, for she was sure that despite her confusion, Roxy was quite a savvy individual, capable of comprehending what was happening to her at any given moment – and then, of a sudden, a wail brought them to a halt, for it seemed to come from beneath their feet and Maude, dropping to her knees began to scrabble through the dust and grit and discarded bones of small rodents which littered the place; her eyes smarted, her breath was ragged, she feared for the worst, till “Stop!” cried Roxie, placing a hand on Maude's arm, “be still,” she admonished and Maude was still, gazing at Roxie's face, which seemed to glow, until “There!” she cried, this time pointing at a tiny gleam in the dust and excrescence, and flung herself down like some kind of divinely inspired vates, and quickly cleared enough to show a rude hatch, with two bolts securing it; she drew them back and the hatch swung downwards revealing total darkness, except for the red glow of a cigar, behind which they saw the faint impression of Daphne Dumbiedykes face, smeared with dirt and framed by tousled hair as she reached up, grasped the frame of the trapdoor and hauled herself out and embraced Maude, kissing her face and showering her with endearments: “I dropped my last match,” she said, “but you found me in the nick of time, my darling, you saved my bacon,” to which Maude responded with a touching demeanour, full of genuine veridicality, including Roxy in a warm embrace, and saying, “'’twas Roxy, she found the hatch, Bless her!” and all three, linking arms, joyfully began their journey to the surface.
“I wonder,” thought Maude Lyttleton, as she comforted the seemingly heartbroken, short, dumpy, and far from lissom, Roxie Davidova, clutching the forlorn Leader of Scotland's Unionist Party to her breast, and murmuring soothing words, “if all is not what it seems, perhaps, if Miss Davidova's attachment to the English Party led by the uncharismatic Duncan MacAroon, is but a simulacrum, an appearance adopted in defiance of her true self – for is she not by nature a rococo creature, full of surprises and contradictions, at one and the same time a gentle and loving woman, yet adopting a facade at odds with her own self, or” and here Maude felt it necessary to use an expression oft employed by her cousin Agatha who resided in one of what Maude still thought of as 'the American Colonies' “merely an inside baseball matter – of interest only to the cognoscenti,” at which moment she was startled by a faint cry from far below, deep, down, in the bowels of the earth and Maude suddenly recalled her reason for being where she was – her fear that some harm had befallen her dearest, darling, Daphne Dumbiedykes, and seizing Roxie Davidova by one of her small, plump hands, she pulled her down the stairs with the cry of “hold on Daphne, we're coming!”
Maude Lyttleton never hesitated in her ungainly descent of the stairs, but she saw from the corner of her left eye – the right, the wayward, unfocussed and so disconcerting to anyone unfamiliar with her acuity, still scanned the stairwell – the fast-approaching figure with hands upraised as if to fling her over the railing and her mind made a rapid calculation: less lissom than a gazelle, nor so lissome as the ballerinas of Les Ballet Trockadero she had seen at the Festival Theatre two years previously; wearing the black trouser-suit, white shirt and blue tie so favoured by politicians in this city, yet giving off an impression of someone at odds with their own outward appearance; this was no mere man, no man at all, but a person weel kent to the readership of the Scotsman, or the Sunday Post, and oft-discussed in the drawing-rooms of the Capital's culturati and so, when Maude spoke, softly, but with excellent diction: “Roxie Davidova, as I live and breathe, come to paint the town red I presume” her words stopped the leader of Scotland's tiny Unionist Party in her tracks, felt to her like a slap in the face with a wet haddock, and she flushed, her face redder than the Socialist Flag, disconcertingly so, and to Maude's temporary confusion she saw tears spring from Miss Davidova's eyes and stream down her cheeks, the sight of which brought a tenderness to her breast and she placed a comforting hand on the other's sobbing shoulder and “there, there, pet,” she murmured, her voice full of concern and compassion.
Now, agile and elegant though her mind is, by no stretch of the imagination could Maude Lyttleton be described as lissom, svelte, or graceful and, as she clumped and stumbled down the stairs and corridors that lead from Edinburgh's City Chambers into the depths containing "lost closes" and "forgotten cells" a watcher might have thought her but a tyro in the very earliest stages of walking - for even a toddler would have been more agile than she - but Maude never lost her composure, her sang-froid, for she had walked thus all her life, for her it was "normal" and she was used to it; but the watcher was ignorant of this and felt confident that Maude was no threat, and so it was not as a levant - what might colloquially be described as a "thief in the night" - that he pushed out of his hiding place and strode towards her, ready to cast her aside, or even to pitch her over the bannister and let her tumble into the darkness of the stair-well - but, though clumsy on her feet Maude may well be, she was certainly no pushover!
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