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 you expect a reply?’
‘I dinna ken.’
Sir John snorted. ‘Well, well, if that is all, that is all. Knight may be furth of Scotland altogether, as you say.’
‘I could appoint agents in London, sir. Time would be a factor, but if ye were willin …’
Something in Wedderburn’s eyes brought Jamieson to a halt. There was a deep thought turning in there, an assessment. Then Wedderburn shook his head, as if ridding himself of the thought. Later, Jamieson would curse himself for not paying more attention, for not seeing it as a warning signal. He had seen the same head-shaking gesture earlier, when Knight’s wife had been mentioned. As if there were something in Wedderburn’s mind that he couldn’t get out.
Wedderburn said, ‘No. It’s not important.’
If it was not important, Jamieson thought, why had he been traipsing around the countryside for two months? Not that he was going to complain, since the fee was substantial, but in his experience even wealthy gentlemen – especially them – did not hire him for trivialities.
He ventured an opinion. ‘Tae reach further afield, sir, we could try a discreet advertisement in ane o the newspapers. “Information regarding the whereaboots of the following individual … a small reward offered” – that kind o thing. If he disna read the papers, somebody that kens him micht.’
‘Oh, he reads the papers, Mr Jamieson, be assured of that. He is a very thorough reader.’
‘Weel, then …’ Again, Jamieson saw that struggle in Wedderburn’s eyes. Hot, then cold. Anger? Guilt? Something old but still raw. And behind Wedderburn, above the fire, he saw something else: flanked by several smaller silhouettes, a large painting in which three men posed on a kind of wooden porch. Their clothes were old-fashioned – from forty or fifty years back, perhaps – and the painting was no masterpiece, but they were unmistakably Wedderburns. All three had Sir John’s high brow and long jaw. The porch was attached to a house, and was partly in shadow. Bright green, foreign-looking shrubs and an absurdly blue sky provided a crude contrast to