Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 41: By the way

By Alexander McCall Smith

Published 31st Mar 2025, 07:00 BST

Angus tried to smile, but found it difficult. She was one to accuse him of lurking: she was the one who lurked in the Gardens. How often had he seen the nun, in the characteristic tartan habit she had taken to wearing, skulking near, or even in, the rhododendron bushes?

“We weren’t lurking,” he protested. “We were waiting to see you – as arranged.”

Sister Maria-Fiore cast a glance in Domenica’s direction, as if to see whether she echoed this protestation of innocence.

“I hope you don’t mind my tagging along,” Domenica said. “Angus told me …”

She did not finish.

“I have no objection,” said Sister Maria-Fiore, with the air of one conferring a favour.

Really! Thought Domenica. This is too much. This woman is condescending to me in my own gardens. And in a tartan habit …

Sister Maria-Fiore, blissfully unaware of these uncharitable thoughts, continued, “Husband and wife are one in this life. Just like me and the Lord.”

Angus stared at her. What exactly was she claiming? Had the Trinity suddenly been expanded to include Sister Maria-Fiore as a fourth component? He opened his mouth to remark on this, but thought better of it, and simply smiled weakly, as if some amusing reference had been dropped into the conversation.

“Of course, discretion is required in this particular matter,” Sister Maria-Fiore continued. “Technically, I am in possession of stolen property, you’ll understand. And that’s –”

“Reset,” Angus interjected. “That’s what it’s called in the law of Scotland.”

Sister Maria-Fiore lowered her eyes. “I would never break the law,” she said. “One of our vows touches upon that, you know. When we join the order, we implicitly promise not to contravene any provisions of the Italian Penal Code – among other things.”

Angus nodded. He wondered about promises of poverty and humility. How could Sister Maria-Fiore square her vows with the lifestyle she had so enthusiastically embraced – with her membership of that golf club at Muirfield, for example, or the private dinners she held in the Long Room at the New Club, or the expensive-looking SUV in which he had seen her driving around with her friend Antonia Collie? Antonia had private means, he understood – most people whose sole occupation was researching the lives of obscure Scottish saints would need a private source of income. Their commodious flat in Drummond Place was not exactly a hardship posting, he imagined – they had bought it rather than taken a lease, and that would have been an expensive business. But this was not the time to speculate, and so he confined himself to asking her how she had come into possession of this fragment of the Stone of Scone.

“You’ll know the history?” Sister Maria-Fiore said.

Angus nodded. The story of the Stone of Scone was something he had learned as a boy. He remembered his primary school teacher showing the class a picture of the stone in its position under the throne in Westminster Abbey. “That, boys and girls,” she had announced in her arch Jean Brodie accent, “is the ancient Scottish stone on which the kings and queens of Scotland were crowned, until our neighbours …” And here she paused, assuming an expression of deep disapproval. “Until our neighbours, that is, the dear English, chose to remove it from Scotland and put it under their own throne in London many centuries ago. This was an act which the people of Scotland quite rightly regarded as unforgiveable. Great was the regret felt by the people when they saw their stone so treated. Great was their sorrow. Strong men wept. Little children lay awake in their beds at night, sleepless at the thought of their loss. One does not purloin the cultural symbols of those with whom one happens to share an island. It is not a friendly act, in any interpretation.”

Now Sister Maria-Fiore lowered her voice. “And you will be aware, of course, of the act of those great patriots who determined that they would no longer countenance this continuing insult to Scotland?”

Angus nodded, as did Domenica.

“They were young men and women,” Sister Maria-Fiore continued. “They were students the University of Glasgow – that courageous Iain Hamilton, bless him, and his fearless companions. So brave, so brave. And so successful too. They removed the stone from under the noses of the English and brought it all the way back to Scotland in their noble Austin A10 or whatever stout-hearted car it was.”

Angus nodded again. “It was quite a gesture,” he said.

Sister Maria-Fiore was enjoying herself. “The English, bless them, were furious. Such admirable people, of course, but slightly inclined to take themselves a bit too seriously when it comes to lumps of stone. There was a great manhunt – a bit like the pursuit of dear Prince Charlie – may his immortal soul rest in peace – all those years ago.”

Angus glanced at Domenica. She was a firm believer in rationality: this dreamy vision of Scottish history was a universe away from her idea of the past. Scottish history, she thought, was not about bagpipes and romps in the heather. It was not about symbolic lumps of stone placed under ancient chairs. It was about a struggle of ordinary men and women to make a decent life in the face of odds stacked against them. It was about dispossession – the theft of land. It was about people in shipyards and mines battling to get by on what little they had while the wealth of the country was controlled by distant others. Scottish history was about ordinary life in a cold country.

Domenica seemed to hesitate. Then she said, “Interesting, Sister Maria-Fiore. All very interesting.”

Sister Maria-Fiore flashed a smile. “I can just imagine those young people, can’t you? They struggled to lift this great stone as they brought it back to its home, and, unfortunately, they dropped it at one point and it broke. Iain Hamilton talks about that in that book of his.”

“I seem to remember that,” said Angus.

“But what is not generally known,” Sister Maria-Fiore continued, “is that there were three pieces – and one of these pieces was brought to Edinburgh by those courageous, if Glaswegian, students. They wanted to get it out of Glasgow, as the Scottish police were now circling and arrests were imminent. You’ll remember that eventually the poor students had no alternative but to hand the stone over, which they did.”

Angus remembered.

“Well,” Sister Maria-Fiore continued, “they decided to hold onto the third piece and hide it under the very noses of the Edinburgh establishment. And where would the best place for that be? In the Edinburgh New Town, of course. Right here in Drummond Place Gardens, by the way.”

Angus froze. It was not this disclosure of the fact that a piece of the Stone of Destiny was in Drummond Place Gardens that made him draw in his breath – it was the fact that Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna, this Italian nun from Tuscany – allegedly – had used a classic Glaswegian expression – by the way. They all said that, he thought – all the Weegies said that, all the time. It was almost a shibboleth, a sign of belonging – and she had said it.

“By the way,” he remarked, “did you just say by the way?” He paused, and decided to be direct. “You aren’t from Glasgow, by any chance?”

Sister Maria-Fiore seemed unfazed. “Never been there,” she replied, adding, “by the way.”