Ayrshire Murders

by E R Dillon

  The sixth man tended the crock, stirring its contents with a long wooden ladle and feeding logs into the fire as needed to keep the temperature even.

  Kyle walked over to the crock to peer inside. A thick porridge of hulled oats bubbled within. Its surface was studded with yellow lumps that looked like pieces of cooked apple. It smelled fresh enough, but there was no telling how old it really was. Once the liquids in a crock came to a boil, it was common for cooks to continue adding ingredients to it for days.

  He looked over at the men kneading the barley dough. It might be an hour or more before the flatbreads were ready, so he settled for the porridge. He picked up a glazed clay bowl and held it out to the crock tender, who barely spared him a glance as he ladled a generous portion into the shallow receptacle.

  When Kyle returned to the office, Sheriff Crawford was already dressed, with a packed leather bag on the bench by the door. The lighted brazier in the corner tempered the chill in the front room. They sat at the table and split the porridge between them. While they ate, they polished up old memories, during which neither of them made any mention of James Shaw.

  When they finished eating, Kyle went to the stable to make arrangements for the groom to hitch up a wagon and bring it around to the sheriff’s office. He walked down the aisle to the gelding’s stall to check the water level in the bucket and to add fresh hay to the feed bin. He left the stable to go to the kitchen, where he took a couple of flatbreads, which were now ready and hot from the oven. He returned to the office and gave the flatbreads to the sheriff, who wrapped them in a scrap of cloth and put them in his bag to take on his journey.

  Kyle sat at the table to wait with the old man until it was time to go, listening to him talk about his grandchildren and the things he would do when he recovered from his illness.

  A knock on the door brought Kyle to his feet on the assumption that it was the groom with the wagon. He picked up the sheriff’s bag and opened the door.

  A leathery man of middle years stood just outside the office. He looked more like a farmer than a groom in his ragged-edged homespun tunic and coarse cloak. He appeared to be unarmed, except for the bulge in one of his home-tanned leather boots, where a sgian-dubh was concealed.

  “I come to see Sheriff Crawford,” the man said, his weathered face somber and intent.

  Kyle stepped aside to let him enter and closed the door behind him. He dropped the sheriff’s bag onto the bench and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, his arms folded across his chest.

  The man tramped into the front room, bringing with him cold air and the scent of horseflesh. He doffed his gray felt cap, ruffling his shaggy brown hair in the process.

  “Brodie’s the name,” he said to Sheriff Crawford. “There’s a matter I must speak to ye about.” His brown eyes shifted to Kyle before returning to the sheriff. “In private.”

  “I’m leaving for Kilmarnock within the hour,” Sheriff Crawford said. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, so while I’m away, Master Shaw will stand in my place as deputy sheriff. Ye must address yer complaint to him.”

  Brodie twisted his felt cap with his large chapped hands. “But he be a Southron,” he said, his disapproval evident in the downward turn of his mouth.

  “He’s no more English than ye are,” Sheriff Crawford said. “Now, take yer ease there on the bench, and state yer business.”

  Brodie took a seat as bidden, his back ramrod stiff. “It’s my Abigail,” he said, looking from the sheriff to Kyle and back again. “She were defiled and murdered, and it were a Southron what done it.”

  Chapter 3

  Kyle moved away from the door to sit at the table where he could see Brodie’s face. He searched for any sign of deceit to indicate that the man’s accusation against the English might be in retaliation for some past offense. All he saw was sorrow in the crumpled forehead and the deep vertical lines between the heavy eyebrows. “Is there a witness to the deed?”

  “Not exactly,” Brodie said. “He were seen creeping about the wood.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Maybe a couple of other Southrons was with him.”

  “Is Abigail your wife?” Kyle said.

  “My daughter,” Brodie said, his voice strained, as though from a constricted throat.

  “How old was she?”

  “Just turned sixteen. She never gave me a bit of trouble in all that time. Well, not much, anyhow. She were pretty, and the lads liked to hang around her.”

  “Who found her body?”

  “A couple of youngsters out hunting,” Brodie said. “They were tracking rabbit when the dog started worrying at a pile of logs. They hoped to find a warren under it, so they pulled it down to take a look.” He swallowed hard to gain control of his emotions. “The dog dug at the mud, and that’s when they found my Abigail. One stayed put while the other came to fetch me.”

  “Where did he take you?”

  “To a glade off the track. It were deep in the wood near a burn. I’ll never forget the place as long as I live. Neither will the two lads.”

  “Is your daughter’s body still out there?”

  “Nay,” Brodie said. “We carried her to the chapel. The priest there sent me get the sheriff before they laid her out proper. He said he’d want to see her as we found her.”

  “He’s right about that.” Kyle drummed his fingers on the table, contemplating whether to mention how it would have been more helpful if they had left the body where they found it at the actual scene of the crime, before they trampled all over the murderer’s footprints or befouled other vital evidence. Recrimination was useless, since the harm was already done. He heaved a sigh of exasperation and continued with his questioning.

  “When did you last see your daughter alive?” he said.

  “Early on Friday,” Brodie said. He made the sign of the cross on himself. “Unluckiest day of the week.”

  “I don’t hold with such nonsense,” Kyle said. “Friday is a day like any other.”

  “It were unlucky for my Abigail,” Brodie said, a haunted look on his bearded face.

  Kyle lowered his brows in thought. “That was three days ago. Didn’t you notice she was missing?”

  Brodie bowed his head to look down and away, a sign of shame.

  “Was she ever gone that long before?”

  Brodie lifted his head, his chin thrust out in anger. “Of course not. She were a good girl.”

  “Then why didn’t you go looking for her?”

  Brodie’s head sank again, his shoulders slumped. “I thought she run away with that Southron. She spoke of him when she thought I weren’t about.”

  “Did she ever mention his name?”

  “Nay,” Brodie said. He raised his head to meet Kyle’s pale blue gaze, his brown eyes cold and hard. “But I know him to look at.”

  Kyle turned to Sheriff Crawford. “I will need to see the girl’s body as soon as possible. “I’ll stay here until you leave, if you wish it.”

  “No need for that,” Sheriff Crawford said. “I’ll be fine. Why don’t ye take Master John along? He’s good at that sort of thing.”

  “John Logan?” Kyle said in surprise.

  “Aye,” Sheriff Crawford said.

  “I didn’t think he was still around,” Kyle said.

  “He is,” Sheriff Crawford said, “and still dodging lonely widows who chase after him.”

  Kyle smiled at the image the sheriff’s words conjured in his head. “Is his shop on the same street?”

  The sheriff nodded. “Ye can gather him up on the way out of town.”

  “Master Brodie,” Kyle said. “I want the apothecary to examine your daughter’s body. He may find something that will lead to her killer.”

  Brodie rose to his feet, his large fists clenched. “I already told ye who done it.”

  “You did,” Kyle said, rising from the table. “And I will keep that in mind. In the meantime, I want you to take us to where your daughter’s body lies. If you need a mo
unt, I can secure one for you.”

  Brodie shook his head. “I come here on Reggie.”

  Kyle laid a gentle hand on Sheriff Crawford’s forearm. The withered limb under his fingers felt as slender as a child’s arm. “God speed on the road. Mend well under your daughter’s care.”

  “Thanks,” Sheriff Crawford said. “If ye need me before I come back on my own, send for me. Kilmarnock is not that distant.”

  “I will,” Kyle said. The knowledge lay heavy on his heart that such a thing would never come to pass, for the old man would soon be gone far beyond anyone’s reach.

  He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, turning his mind to the business at hand. He put on his cloak and opened the door. When he stepped outside, he came face to face with Reggie, the homeliest creature he ever laid eyes on.

  Reggie was a shaggy brown hill pony with a swayed back and a Roman nose. The white blaze between its beady eyes only accentuated the convex curve of its long face. The pony greeted Kyle with laid-back ears and rolling eyes. When he tried to pass, the surly beast lunged at him with its neck stretched to the limit and its mouth open to bite. He leaped aside, though he needn’t have bothered, for the lead rope brought the pony’s head up short.

  Brodie stood in the doorway with a wide grin that transformed his sober face into one beaming with good humor. “Reggie means ye no harm.”

  “Is that what you’re riding?” Kyle said, appalled.

  Brodie nodded, still grinning.

  Kyle ran a skeptical eye over the shaggy brown pony before he hurried across the courtyard in search of the officer of the watch.

  He found the man in the barracks with several other English soldiers. He introduced himself to the officer, and as he related the news to him about Brodie’s murdered daughter, a couple of the soldiers present exchanged a furtive glance.

  “If Upton is free,” Kyle said, “I’d like to take him with me in case there’s trouble.”

  The officer of the watch was a stout Englishman with gray hair thinning at the crown and a ruddy complexion. “Upton’s not on duty this morning. Shall I send him over to the sheriff’s office?”

  “Aye,” Kyle said. “If you find him in the next few minutes, I’ll be in the stable.”

  He went there to saddle the gelding. He was cinching the girth strap when Upton walked up to the stall.

  “You summoned me?” Upton said, spreading his elbows on the half door. He appeared relaxed and at ease, unlike the last time they met.

  “A couple of villagers found a girl’s body at dawn this morning,” Kyle said. “I want you to go out there with me.” He dropped the stirrup in place and patted the gelding’s sleek neck. “I could use one more man besides you.”

  “I’ll find somebody and meet you at the sheriff’s office shortly,” Upton said before hastening away.

  Kyle led the gelding through the half door and climbed into the saddle. On the way up the aisle, he passed the stall with the pigeon’s nest in the opening under the roof. He looked inside, but the black horse was gone. He left the stable and rode over to the office as Sheriff Crawford was coming out the door.

  “With all this going on, I almost forgot to take my leave of Sir Percy,” the sheriff said. “It’s only a courtesy, but it’s the kind of thing he expects.” He started across the courtyard. After half a dozen steps, he began to wheeze.

  Kyle thought Sir Percy should be the one to seek out the sheriff in deference to the old man’s ill health and many years of faithful service. He kept his opinion to himself because, at that moment, Brodie walked out of the sheriff’s office.

  Reggie the pony stood still while Brodie clambered onto its back. The shaggy beast was short and stocky, while the man was tall and lanky. His long legs hung down on either side of the rounded belly, nearly touching the ground. He seemed completely oblivious to the absurdity of his appearance.

  A moment later, Upton rode up on a rawboned bay horse. “This is Turnbull,” he said, indicating the English soldier who came with him on a roan gelding. “He’s all I could find on such short notice.”

  Turnbull was an older man with craggy features, thin lips, and dark eyes that missed nothing. “You only found me because I didn’t see you coming,” he said dryly.

  Kyle smiled at the easy banter between the two men, who were apparently familiar enough with each other for such verbal sparring.

  It was close to midmorning when Kyle led Brodie and the two English soldiers across the courtyard and out the garrison gates. They rode through town to Tradesmen’s Row, turning down the crooked street to pass the cramped shops where the silversmith, the baker, the tailor, and other craftsmen plied their skills. Women carrying wicker baskets strolled from shop to shop, some buying, some merely browsing.

  Kyle halted before a small stone building that glared in the sunlight from a recent coat of whitewash. An alleyway wide enough for a wagon to pass separated it from the shop next door. He dismounted and handed the reins to Upton.

  He entered the front room of the apothecary shop, inhaling the fragrance of the aromatic spices inside. The heavy scent came from bunches of dried herbs dangling from the low rafters. Pots and jars of every size lined the shelves along the side walls. A brazier stood in the corner with an iron grill across the top.

  A handsome man in his early fifties stood at the table, mixing a greenish paste in a stone mortar with a stone pestle. He was of average height and build, with a full head of steel gray hair. When he looked up, his clean-shaven face broke into a grin. “Well, if it isn’t Kyle Shaw,” he said. He wiped his hands on a scrap of cloth and came around the table to greet him.

  At the back of the shop, a matronly woman in a long gray garment was rummaging through the jars and phials on the shelf in front of her. She glanced up as Kyle walked toward John. Her pleasant features exhibited only mild curiosity at their reunion before she turned away.

  “John Logan,” Kyle said. “You haven’t changed a bit since I saw you last.”

  A dimple flashed in John’s left cheek as he laughed. “I wish that were so. What are ye doing in town? Are ye passing through?”

  “Nay,” Kyle said. “Sheriff Crawford left the shire in my care as deputy until he feels up to coming back. He’s probably on the way to his daughter’s house in Kilmarnock as we speak.”

  “He told me he was leaving when he came by yesterday,” John said. “Yer name never came up, though.” The smile faded from his handsome face. “He should have gone away to rest long before now.”

  “How long has he been ill?”

  “He started getting low the summer past,” John said. “He’s been going down ever since. I tried various medicaments on him, but none of them seemed to work. He says the poppy juice helps him, but all it really does is put him to sleep.” He peered at Kyle intently for a moment. “Ye seem different somehow. Ye don’t look so”—he groped for the right word—“so angry as ye did before.”

  “Nothing has changed,” Kyle said, his expression grim. “Did you know my father was dead?”

  “I heard,” John said.

  “Nobody wrote to tell me,” Kyle said, with a note of reproach in his tone.

  “We were afraid ye would come back. The Southrons were causing much strife in the shire at the time. It was better ye stayed put where ye were across the sea.”

  “Better for whom?” Kyle said, with a harsh edge to his voice.

  “Better for those who suffer the most when there’s trouble, like women, children, and poor folk who stood to lose everything if the Southrons came down any harder on them. Besides, there was nothing ye or anybody else could do to bring yer father back from the dead.”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “I do not,” John said. “And before ye ask, neither do I know where he was laid to rest.” His green eyes narrowed in speculation. “But ye came here for a purpose, for there’s news in yer face. Spit it out, lad.”

  Kyle told him about the dead girl. “Brodie’s taking us out ther
e now.”

  “Can he prove the Southron did it?” John said.

  “Not really. He says English soldiers were seen nearby about the time the girl disappeared.”

  “That isn’t even enough to bring a charge, much less hope it sticks.”

  “That’s why I want you to check over the body. You might find something that will tell us who did the deed.”

  “Give me a minute to close up shop.”

  “Can’t your apprentice take over for you?” Kyle said, tilting his head toward the woman in the rear of the shop.

  “I have no apprentice,” John said. He picked up a small empty jar and began to put the greenish paste from the mortar into it. When it was full, he wiped the lip with a cloth and inserted a cork stopper. “Yer compound is ready, Mistress Campbell,” he said to the woman.

  Mistress Campbell put the phial in her hand back on the shelf and approached the table where John was waiting for her. Her pace was unhurried, and her brown eyes never left his handsome face. She took the jar from him, brushing his fingers with her own as she did so. “Thank ye, Master John.” She dug half a penny from her purse and pressed it into his palm.

  John walked with her to the front of the shop. After she stepped outside, he closed the door behind her and turned the key in the latch.

  “Is she your lady friend?” Kyle said.

  “She’s a paying customer,” John said, walking back to the table.

  “She fancies you.”

  “I’ve no time for that sort of thing,” John said. He dampened the cloth and covered the remainder of the greenish paste in the mortar with it. He led Kyle through the curtained doorway to his sleeping chamber, where he buckled a leather belt around the waist of his woolen tunic and slipped the long strap of a rawhide pouch over his head. He settled the bag against his hip, picked up his dark wool cloak, and headed for the back door.

  Kyle followed John outside into a lush garden rife with herbs and other flora. Pruned bushes stood in neat rows beside budding perennials. A dirt path through the center led to an open-sided shed with an old wagon on one side and a brown mule dozing on the other.