Domenica glanced at Pat. It was a glance that was rich in moral warning.
Pat had heard that Scotland Street – the street itself – was built over a Victorian railway tunnel. Bruce had pointed out to her that the basements on either side of the street went appreciably lower than was normal for the New Town – that was because the street was supported by the roof of the tunnel.
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“I know quite a lot about these things,” he said. “Just ask me if there’s anything you want to know.”
Now, accompanied by Domenica and Angus Lordie, she stood outside a low door in the space outside the lowest basement floor of their block. Above them, arched like broad flying buttresses, were the stone steps that led to their front door and to the door of the upper basement. Cyril, who had been retrieved by Angus Lordie from his station at the railings, was eagerly sniffing at the door.
“I thought this was a coal cellar,” said Pat.
“Indeed it is,” said Domenica, pushing the door open with her foot. “But it is something over and above that – something which only I and one or two other long-term residents know about.”
She shone the beam of her flashlight into the dark space behind the door.
“It still smells of coal,” she said. “As you will notice. But that door at the back there gives access to the tunnel. And if you follow me, we can go inside and take a walk.”
Domenica stepped forward decisively. Angus Lordie indicated to Pat that she should follow her and that he and Cyril would bring up the rear. “Cyril is utterly without fear,” he said,
“which unfortunately suggests that he has little imagination.
The brave are usually somewhat unimaginative, don’t you find?”
There was no time to discuss this intriguing proposition, as Domenica was now inside the tunnel and the light from her torch was playing against the opposite wall. Crouching, as the cellar door was not high enough to walk through unbent, Pat made her way into the tunnel, feeling immediately the cooler air on her skin, smelling the slightly musty odour, not unlike the smell of a garden shed that has been left unopened for some time.
She looked up. Domenica was directing the torchlight towards the roof of the tunnel. There, growing from the blackened masonry, were clusters of small stalactites, white against the dark background, like colonies of fungi. The 264
tunnel was high – over twenty feet, Pat thought – and it was broad too, to allow for a footpath on either side of the track.
Domenica shone the torch up the tunnel, in the direction of Drummond Place. “We should start walking,” she said. “And watch your feet as you go. This is fairly steep. The gradient is actually one in twenty-seven. And the distance in this tunnel, by the way, is measured in chains.”
“You are immensely well-informed, as ever,” said Angus Lordie. “Where did you pick up this arcane knowledge?”
“From the organist at St Giles,” replied Domenica. “My friend, Peter Backhouse. He knows everything there is to be known about railways, and he knows all about the old lines of Edinburgh.
He can tell you all about Bach and Pachelbel and so on, but he also knows all about track gradients and signalling systems and the Edinburgh, Leith and Granton Railway Company.
Remarkable, isn’t it? I’m always impressed by people who know a lot about trains.”
“I’ve always thought that the Church of Scotland was a bit unsound on railways,” said Angus Lordie. “Did you ever hear Professor Torrance talk about trains when he was moderator?
You did not. And now that we have a female moderator, well, I’m afraid there’s likely to be little improvement. Women tend not to be interested in trains in quite the same way that men are.
Or at least some men. I have no interest in trains myself, of course.”
“That’s because there is a large part of the female in your psyche,” said Domenica. “You’re in touch with your feminine side. You’re a new man, Angus.”
For a few moments they walked on in silence. It did not seem to Pat that Angus Lordie was a new man at all; in fact, it seemed to her that he was quite the opposite. And Cyril was certainly not a new dog – not with his liking for beer, his reputed chasing after lady dogs, and his tendency to wink. None of these was the attribute of a new dog.
“Where does this tunnel lead?” asked Pat suddenly. She did not usually feel claustrophobic, but now she began to feel a slight
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unease as she realised that they were getting some distance from the cellar door which had admitted them. They only had one torch with them – what would happen if that torch failed?
Would they have to feel their way along the side of the tunnel until they found the opening? And what if there were places where the floor had collapsed, which they would not see in the darkness?
Domenica answered her question. “It goes all the way up to Waverley Station,” she said. “It ends opposite platforms 1 and 19. It’s bricked up there, I’m afraid, and so we shall have to come back by the same route.”
Pat reflected on this and then asked where the trains went.
“Down to Granton,” said Domenica. “Peter Backhouse showed me a map once which made it very clear. The trains set off from Canal Street Station in the centre of the city and went down the tunnel purely by the force of gravity. Coming up the other way, they were pulled by a rope system, which was powered by a stationary engine.
