"No connections to clan Beaton, have ye?" he asked. I remembered Mrs. FitzGibbons asking at our first meeting, Are ye a charmer, then? A Beaton?
"None. What have the clan Beaton to do with medical treatment?"
Colum eyed me in surprise. "You've not heard of them? The healers of clan Beaton are famous through the Highlands. Traveling healers, many of them. We had one here for a time, in fact."
"Had one? What happened to him?" I asked.
"He died," Colum responded matter-of-factly. "Caught a fever and it carried him off within a week. We've not had a healer since, save Mrs. Fitz."
"She seems very competent," I said, thinking of her efficient treatment of the young man Jamie's injuries. Thinking of that made me think of what had caused them, and I felt a wave of resentment toward Colum. Resentment, and caution as well. This man, I reminded myself, was law, jury, and judge to the people in his domain—and clearly accustomed to having things his own way.
He nodded, still intent on the birds. He scattered the rest of the seed, favoring a late-coming grey-blue warbler with the last handful.
"Oh, aye. She's quite a hand with such matters, but she's more than enough to take care of already, running the whole castle and everyone in it—including me," he said, with a sudden charming grin.
"I was wondering," he said, taking swift advantage of my answering smile, "seeing as how you've not a great deal to occupy your time at present, you might think of having a look at the things Davie Beaton left behind him. You might know the uses of a few of his medicines and such."
"Well… I suppose so. Why not?" In fact, I was becoming slightly bored with the round between garden, stillroom, and kitchen. I was curious to see what the late Mr. Beaton had considered useful in the way of paraphernalia.
"Angus or I could show the lady down, sir," the attendant suggested respectfully.
"Don't trouble yourself, John," Colum said, gesturing; the man politely away. "I'll show Mistress Beauchamp myself."
His progress down the stair was slow and obviously painful. Just as obviously, he didn't wish for help, and I offered none.
The surgery of the late Beaton proved to be in a remote corner of the castle, tucked out of sight behind the kitchens. It was in close proximity to nothing save the graveyard, in which its late proprietor now rested. In the outer wall of the castle, the narrow, dark room boasted only one of the tiny slit windows, set high in the wall so that a flat plane of sunlight knifed through the air, separating the darkness of the high, vaulted ceiling from the deeper gloom of the floor below.
Peering past Colum into the dim recesses of the room, I made out a tall cabinet, equipped with dozens of tiny drawers, each with a label in curlicue script. Jars, boxes, and vials of all shapes and sizes were neatly stacked on the shelves above a counter where the late Beaton evidently had been in the habit of mixing medicines, judging from the residue of stains and a crusted mortar that rested there.
Colum went ahead of me into the room. Shimmering motes disturbed by his entry swirled upward into the bar of sunlight like dust raised from the breaking of a tomb. He stood for a moment, letting his eyes grow used to the dimness, then walked forward slowly, looking from side to side. I thought perhaps it was the first time he had ever been in this room.
Watching his halting progress as he traversed the narrowroom, I said, "You know, massage can help a bit. With the pain, I mean." I caught a flash from the grey eyes, and wished for a moment that I hadn't spoken, but the spark disappeared almost at once, replaced by his usual expression of courteous attention.
"It needs to be done forcefully," I said, "at the base of the spine, especially."
"I know," he said. "Angus Mhor does it for me, at night." He paused, fingering one of the vials. "It would seem you do know a bit about healing, then."
"A bit." I was cautious, hoping he didn't mean to test me by asking what the assorted medicaments were used for. The label on the vial he was holding said PURLES OVIS. Anyone's guess what that was. Luckily, he put the vial back, and drew a finger gingerly through the dust on a large chest near the wall.
"Been some time since anyone's been here," he said. "I'll have Mrs. Fitz send some of her wee lassies along to clean up a bit, shall I?"
I opened a cupboard door and coughed at the resulting cloud of dust. "Perhaps you'd better," I agreed. There was a book on the lower shelf of the cupboard, a fat volume bound in blue leather. Lifting it, I discovered a smaller book beneath, this one bound cheaply in black cloth, much worn along the edges.