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a window which gave enough light to reveal an ancient padded chair, its tapestry lost under generations of cobwebs, a small table and a palliasse on the floor, its bedding having provided nests for generations of mice. A uniform cape of the fashion worn in Jacobite times hung on a nail.
    I pointed to it. ‘Doesn’t look as if it has been worn recently.’
    ‘Aye, and the last owner must have left in a hurry,’ said Jack sweeping aside the cobwebs on the table. A map yellowed with age emerged. Holding the candle aloft we peered at it.
    Blowing away the dust, Jack said, ‘Looks like the drawing of a battle line-up. In fact, this is almost certainly the Battle of Prestonpans, where you will remember there was a battle in 1745. Prince Charlie and his troops were camped outside here on Arthur’s Seat and in Duddingston.’
    ‘Of course. There’s still a house where he stayed.’
    ‘And presumably a soldier, either one of his men or one of the Hanoverians, we’ll never know which, took shelter in this room.’
    He thought for a moment. ‘A slice of the past indeed. What shall we do – open it to the public?’
    I shivered. ‘Leave it to history.’
    Jack grinned. ‘Glad you think so. Gives me the creeps.’
    And so it was. I doubted if anyone had entered that room since its last occupant: that unknown soldier’s hasty exit without his cloak. I was certain Sir HedleyMarsh, who left the Tower to Vince, never knew of its existence, otherwise he would have filled it with his ever multiplying population of cats.
    We went outside. Looking upwards the room’s narrow window was completely invisible, just part of an ivy-covered wall. Just part of the unwritten history of the mystery of Solomon’s Tower.

CHAPTER FIVE
    The circus was indeed something to look forward to and this was to be even better than my last visit in the spring. Easter and Whitsun were popular, coinciding with workers’ holidays. One of my recent clients had promised to take her two small children but had unhappily succumbed to a severe chill, and as their nanny was unavailable that day (she was a guest at a family wedding), she asked me, as a special favour, if I would oblige. Even without the free ticket and the fee she insisted that I accept for my time, I would have been pleased to go to the circus, and the delight of those two small children would have been ample reward.
    However, with no wish to disappoint Elma, I had not mentioned that previous occasion and, considering the lady whose guest I was to be, I imagined and hoped for a slightly better seat than the scramble which had meant arriving early or being confined to the back rows, elevated but requiring a lot of neck stretching to get a good view. And that had had to go to thesmallest of my client’s children, perched on my knee.
    As Elma’s private carriage was admitted by a separate entrance beyond the main gate, where queues formed early for the best seats, I began to feel optimistic for one of those reserved nearer the ringside. These were available for Edinburgh’s upper income bracket and well beyond my means or, I imagined, those of the lady whose children I had previously escorted.
    I certainly did not expect to be escorted by a uniformed attendant onto the raised dais, with its velvet chairs, designated as the royal enclosure.
    The brass band made conversation quite impossible, so I sat back and prepared to enjoy this evening at the circus as the prelude to what promised to be a lasting friendship.
    Perhaps influenced by that Balmoral visit, there was a highly Scottish influence to Hengel’s Circus, with its curious newspaper advertisement: ‘Like a good Turkish carpet, it takes a lot of beating’.
    Tonight there was an abundance of tartan everywhere. Miss Bonnie Jean, attired in a diminutive Scottish costume, performed some heart-stopping acrobatics on an almost invisible high wire.
    ‘Note the absence of a safety net, see how this brave Highland lassie courts death at every