He stood, in quiet contemplation. “Alexander Thomas Johnstone” was the name on the stone; a merchant from Newington, beloved husband and father and long since resting here in St Cuthbert’s for the last century and beyond. There would be stone, no depiction, to memorial and no marker of his existence, he resolved. His legacy was here and his time was now.
He would be remembered. He would mark his place in history and his name would be known far and wide. His actions would speak far louder than any words, any inscription on any tombstone and he would make sure before the night was over his plan was complete.
As he started his slow, purposeful walk towards the Grassmarket, he paused to look at the Moon as it would rise over the New Town. It was almost time. Soon, it would be over. Soon he would be over. But not before this thing was completed. He pulled his collar and replaced his hat, his hands in the long pockets of his dark overcoat.
He walked and when he crossed the cobbles and next paused for breath, this would be all over. His name…