Crucible

CRUCIBLE

CRUCIBLE

S.G. MacLean

To Rachel

First published in Great Britain as
Crucible of Secrets
in 2011

This edition published in 2012 by

Quercus
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW

Copyright © 2011 by S.G. MacLean

The moral right of S.G. MacLean to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library

eBook ISBN 978 1 84916 314 9
ISBN 978 1 84916 316 3

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk

Also by S.G. MacLean

The Redemption of Alexander Seaton
A Game of Sorrows

Prologue

Aberdeen, Midsummer’s eve, 1631

It could not be possible: but there it was, plain, clear, beyond dispute in front of him. Robert Sim, librarian of the Marischal College, lifted his eye glass and scanned the page again, but in truth, he knew that his eyes were as sharp as ever they had been, and he needed no glass to decipher the words. There could be no doubting it: the man with whom he had that very morning exchanged pleasantries, with whom he had been exchanging pleasantries for as long as he had lived in this town, was dead. What was more, he had been so for more than eight years.

ONE
The Library

Specks of dust danced in the beam of sunlight that fell across the smooth oak of the table in front of me. The smell of the wood took me back many summers, to the library of our rival college a mile away, and afternoons of accidental slumber of my own. At the other side of the room, I could see that only by dint of great effort could one of my scholars resist the urge to close his eyes and rest his head on the book whose swimming words had been eluding his grasp this last half-hour. In a few minutes more I would advise him to give up the fight and join his fellows in their games on the Links: few of them had been tempted to abandon the fresh air and sunshine for an afternoon in the musty silence of the college library. Certainly, the student who had scurried down the stairs as I had ascended them had been in some haste to escape its walls, not even taking the time to look at me as he’d thrown behind him some mumbled response to my greeting.

Robert Sim, the college librarian, was, as ever, bent over his work. He would have done well in the scriptorium of
one of the old monasteries: a life of silence and scholarly labour would have suited him better than the engagement with society demanded in these changed days, but he had been born a century too late, and the library afforded him as safe a retreat as was to be had in our town. By his feet were two wooden chests, the keys of which he had attached to a loop in his belt. Since I had come in an hour ago, he had been carefully lifting items from the larger of the two and checking them against a list on his desk. Once or twice I had felt his eyes upon me, but the subsequent glances he directed towards my scholar made it evident that whatever he wished to discuss with me was for no one’s ears but mine. Eventually, curiosity got the better of me, and I went over to the boy, whose head shot up in a sudden start of consciousness.

‘Adam …’

‘Mr Seaton! I was just resting a moment …’

I looked at the work he was labouring over. ‘Ah,
The Politics
. I see you have not yet progressed to the eighth book. Perhaps you recall from your dictats of my lecture on the subject …?’

The colour rose in his cheeks and he shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘I have not, I mean, I do not have …’

I decided to stop tormenting the boy. ‘No doubt you will find the place when you return to your room later. While he censures the excessive physical training of such as the Spartans, Aristotle does allow that play is a necessary form of rest from the toils of the intellectual life.
Perhaps you would profit more from some exercise of the body – a game of football, or some golf, down on the Links – with your companions, than by continued slumbers over his words in here this afternoon.’

The colour blanched from his face a moment, to be replaced by a broad smile when he understood he was not being chastised. He was on his feet, his gown thrown over his arm all in one movement.

‘Thank you, Mr Seaton,’ he said, as he bolted for the door.

‘Adam,’ I called after him.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘The book,’ I said, nodding towards the table where the great philosopher had been abandoned.

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Affording me a sheepish grin, he was back at the table in two bounds, closing the book and returning it to Robert Sim, who did his best to hide his amusement under a furrowed brow of disapproval.

‘You are kind to the boys, Alexander. They labour the more to please you because of it.’

‘There is little to be gained from treating them harshly. Resentment will not breed good citizens.’

‘You are at odds with Mr Jack on that point.’

‘And on more besides. Should there come a day that you find me in agreement with Matthew Jack, on any matter, I insist you haul me before the principal and urge him to throw me from the college gates.’

Robert grinned. ‘You may be assured that I would.’

I nodded towards his desk. ‘Tell me, what are you busy at today – new acquisitions? Do not tell me the council has loosened its purse strings at last?’

He shook his head. ‘A benefaction. Dr Gerald Duncan. He was an early graduate of our college and passed the last twenty years of his life in medical practice in the Low Countries – Friesland – at Groningen and, latterly, Franeker. He attained a considerable estate. His medical books he left to the University of Groningen, but the others he willed to us.’

‘Is there anything of interest?’ I said, beginning to scan the spines of the works on his desk.

‘It is mainly political history, and works relating to the natural world. But yes,’ he hesitated. ‘There is something, however I …’

He glanced anxiously around him, ascertaining that we were, in fact, alone. ‘I must talk to the principal first, but I would value your—’

At that moment we heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Sim looked towards the door, startled, and as William Cargill appeared in the doorway there was a drawing tight of the librarian’s lips and the merest shake of his head.

‘Tomorrow then,’ I said, ‘after the sermon.’

He nodded, composing his features in a greeting for my friend. ‘William, it is not often we see you in here nowadays.’

‘Not as often as I would like,’ said William, striding in to the room with a degree of familiarity. ‘My dull lawyer’s
work leaves me little time for the perusal of literature.’

‘It keeps the wolf from your door all the same.’

William grinned modestly. His calling had brought him far greater wealth than mine or Robert Sim’s ever would us. ‘I envy you these quiet hours, though. What have you been whiling away your time with today, Alexander?’

I indicated the work I had left open at my desk and he crossed the floor to look at it. ‘Kepler. Mathematics was never my strong point. And besides, he is a little too fanciful for me.’

‘You do not believe that God created a universe replete with secrets to be discovered, that the human mind might never be idle?’

‘Hmmph. I think there are enough secrets in our corrupt world, here, below the heavenly sphere, to keep a man busy enough. What say you, Robert?’

The librarian weighed his words before replying slowly, ‘I think you might be right.’

I looked at Sim for further explanation but he had turned away and begun to busy himself once more with the cataloguing of the books.

William closed the Kepler and brought the volume back to the librarian’s table.

‘I am not finished,’ I protested.

‘Oh, indeed you are. You must descend from your higher plane a while. Our wives and children have gone on ahead of me, and they will give short shrift to your philosophy. Baskets of food have been packed, rugs have been brought
and commissions issued. I am not to emerge back out on to the street unless I have you with me.’

I sighed, knowing there was little point in further protest.

‘Will you not come with us, Robert? You are under no obligation to open the library on a Saturday at all, you know.’

‘I know, but I must finish this cataloguing, and then there are some accounts I must work on before I return to my lodgings tonight. Better to burn the college’s candles than my own.’ Although he affected lightness, I could see he was ill at ease, and I had no wish to prolong his discomfort by pressing him.

‘We will not keep you from it any longer then, Robert. But we will talk tomorrow.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow. After the sermon.’

TWO
Aftermath

Sarah’s expression as William and I stumbled through the door of my house on Flourmill Lane a little before ten that night was a study in disbelief.

‘What in the name of God … ?’

William held up a hand to stay her. ‘Alexander will tell you. I’d better get down to Elizabeth before she hears all about it from someone else.’ He nodded towards my left eye. ‘I’ll send up a steak for the bruise.’

He was gone, and my wife had still been unable to finish her sentence. I lurched towards the chair she hastily pulled out from the table for me, and sat down, grateful at last to be home. Sarah knelt before me and lifted my face the better to examine it. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’ she said at last, and then, ‘Oh, no. Do not tell me you got into a fight with Andrew Carmichael?’

I shook my head and instantly regretted it, as a pain shot from my eye to the back of my skull. ‘No, I did not fight with Andrew Carmichael.’ Much though in my worse moments I might want to, but I could not tell her that.
‘We sat a long time, William, Andrew Carmichael, John Innes and I, after you and Elizabeth left with the children. Somehow the wine William had packed took on something of the quality of that of the wedding of Cana and it seemed foolish to put it away before it was finished.’

She smiled a little indulgently. ‘I guessed as much. And Matthew Jack?’

She had mentioned a colleague of mine, a fellow regent at the Marischal College, universally feared and universally despised, whose arrival amongst us on the dunes at the Links earlier in the day had brought an end to the charm of our picnic. It had been my fault: thinking to spare the scholars down on the strand, whom he was charged with overseeing, the burden of his company for half an hour, I had invited him to join us a while. His reply had been as graceless as I should have expected.