but we’ll jouk an let that jaw gang by. Mebbe there’s nuthin much wrang wi ye. Ye jist canna face the tedium o everyday life. Ye’re bored by it because everythin seems pointless and cruel. So yer mind switches aff and yer body follows. How am I daein?’
‘No bad. But it’s no so much like ma mind switches aff, mair like it switches on. It’s like the past isna past, it’s right there happenin in front o me. Tae me.’
‘The past? Yer ain past?’
‘Ither folk’s past. Frae way back, fuckin yonks. I’m supposed tae be playin Weir’s ghost but it feels mair solid than that. Real.’
‘Let’s talk aboot yer ain past.’
‘Na, let’s no. This is mair important.’
‘That’s a matter o opinion.’
‘It’s important that I’m seein aw these auld images. But they’re no mine.’
‘Ye’re tellin me ye’re dreamin stuff frae somebody else’s life?’
‘No dreamin exactly. I could unnerstaun that. I’ve been daein aw this readin so it wouldna surprise me if that was comin intae ma heid, when I was asleep ken. But this is different. It’s like I’ve got a front row seat at the pictures.’
‘So, if it’s botherin ye that much, ye ken whit tae dae. Naebody’s forcin ye tae stey. Staun up an walk oot the bluidy picture-hoose.’
‘Aye.’
‘Weill?’
‘I canna.’
Mr MacDonald beamed at him. ‘I have something for you,’ he said.
‘Guid,’ said Carlin. ‘Cause I feel like I need somethin. A way in. It’s like I’m no close enough.’
‘Do you really want to get close to Major Weir?’ said MacDonald.
‘It’s no a question o wantin. You ken whit I mean. Aw these ministers were gaun intae him in prison, tryin tae get him tae repent, but they werena gettin close at all. Was there naebody else? Was he totally friendless? Somebody must have gone tae see him.’
MacDonald was holding a manilla folder. They moved out of the way of the other readers and librarians.
‘You would think so,’ said MacDonald. ‘It’s not often you get the chance to view the incarnation of pure evil. But maybe that was the trouble. He was too dangerous. His former Covenanting comrades couldn’t put enough distance between him and them, once his crimes were made known. And the nature of the crimes – he was dangerous in a much deeper sense than just political. His sister was accused of witchcraft but claimed that the real sorcerer was him, not her. People took that very seriously in 1670 – they believed in the immortality of the soul, that life on earth was just a prelude, an overture to eternity. Major Weir was up to his oxters in stuff that would send you straight to Hell.
‘The only folk that wanted to visit him in prison were his enemies – Royalists going to gloat at the fallen Presbyterian, or Presbyterian ministers going to look on the face of Satan. And then, he was convicted on a Saturday and executed on the Monday. He was probably in the Tolbooth for less than a week before the trial, while they prepared the evidence against him, so there wasn’t a lot of time for sympathetic visitors.’
‘How do you ken aw this?’ Carlin said. ‘Is this a pet subject of yours or somethin?’
‘Your interest revived mine,’ said MacDonald. ‘I had the opportunity to turn over a few pages this morning. As I said before, when you’ve been here as long as I have, everything becomes familiar. The Weirs have a certain morbid appeal, but you have to see them in the context of the times. Religious terrorism, political repression, economic uncertainty … it’s not surprising some individuals went off the rails, is it?’
‘I was thinkin aboot this guy Mitchel,’ said Carlin. ‘The man that tried to shoot the archbishop. Him and Weir used tae ken each ither. Where was he when Weir was in trouble?’
‘In Holland probably,’ said MacDonald. ‘Although now that you mention it we don’t really know where he was in 1670. Wandering about trying not to get arrested, doubtless. No, I don’t see how he could have got near Weir. But I have somebody here for you who did.’
He handed Carlin the folder. ‘Sir John Lauder,’ he said. The folder was about an inch thick between stiff cardboard covers. It had a label on the front bearing a catalogue number, and down the spine another label which read ANE SECRET BOOK. It felt ponderous and dense.
‘He became Lord Fountainhall, a judge in the Court of Session,’ MacDonald explained. ‘When he wrote this – if he wrote it – he was just plain Maister John Lauder, an advocate. I told you yesterday that I thought there was more on Major Weir somewhere. I knew it was in an unusual source but I couldn’t remember where until I was up in the Edinburgh Room this morning and I overheard someone checking their council ward. They gave their address as Fountainhall Road and it suddenly clicked.’
Carlin flipped open the front cover. There was a typescript, a blue carbon copy on foolscap sheets:
Ane Secret Book of John Lauderlater Lord Fountainhallbeing his account of sundry matters of public interestmany not revealed in his Historical Observes and Historical Notices
transcribed and preserved by D. Crosbie and presented toEdinburgh Public Library 1912
‘Lauder kept records about everything,’ said MacDonald. ‘He kept journals and notes about both his private affairs and public life from the time he was admitted to the Faculty of Advocates – just a few weeks before Mitchel tried to kill Archbishop Sharp – right through to the Union and beyond. He didn’t approve of the Union. A lot of what he wrote was published in the nineteenth century by historical societies like the Bannatyne Club. He’s regarded as an important source for the whole period.
‘Now he mentions in one of the published journals that he did visit Weir in prison on the day he died, but he doesn’t say much about him – except that he was a monster of depravity and deserved all he got. Standard sort of response which wouldn’t really help you much, but the document you have in your hands, that’s another story. You see, many of Lauder’s manuscripts were lost. There’s a story that most of what was preserved was discovered in a tobacconist’s by a lawyer named Crosbie in the later eighteenth century. You’ll note the name D. Crosbie appears on the title-page of that document. One is tempted to presume it was a descendant. The earlier Crosbie is supposed to have been half the model for Sir Walter Scott’s lawyer Mr Pleydell in Guy Mannering by the way – I’m sorry, this is hardly relevant, is it?’
Carlin shook his head. ‘No, but it’s awright,’ he said. ‘Tell me aboot this thing I’m haudin.’
‘To be honest,’ said MacDonald, ‘I’m a wee bit embarrassed by it. I mean, it has no historical credentials, there is no proof of its authenticity at all. There’s a note at the front which says it was typed from a handwritten copy, made by this D. Crosbie person’s grandfather, of an original manuscript. The original was crumbling to dust and the copy was virtually illegible, so it’s claimed. But we have no idea who D. Crosbie was – no address, no autobiographical details – nothing. The library has no record of where the document
