Ayrshire Murders

by E R Dillon

  He cleared his throat, his brow furrowed in concentration. “The recent cold weather contributed greatly to her preservation,” he said, “but from what I can tell, she’s been dead no more than three days. The purple staining on her back, her buttocks, and under her thighs shows where the blood has settled. That means she lay on her back for some time after she died. There is no discoloration of the tongue, so she wasn’t poisoned.”

  He turned the girl’s body to expose the dried blood in the tangle of hair at the back of her head. “These cuts on her scalp suggest she was pushed or thrown backward hard onto stony ground. The impact was forceful enough to stun her, but not sufficient to kill her.”

  He gently returned her body to supine position. He leaned forward to cup his left hand over her mouth, clamping his thumb under her lower jaw. In doing so, the fleshy part of his outer palm pressed against her nose. “Her assailant put his hand, like so, to keep her from crying out. See how my fingers line up with the bruises here. The bluish tinge around her lips indicates she died from suffocation.”

  He then lifted the girl’s left hand to display her fingers. “I found scrapings under three of her nails that look like skin. Since there are no marks on her own body, it appears she scratched someone shortly before she died, likely the person who attacked her.”

  He restored her hand to its place alongside her thigh. “I cannot say for certain that she was violated, as Brodie claims, but her assailant may well have done so, while she lay helpless in his grasp. The fact that he tried to keep her quiet suggests what he was doing was shameful and that he feared discovery.” For a long moment, he gazed down in silence at her ashen face, as though trying to make up his mind about something.

  Kyle mulled over John’s findings thus far without the slightest doubt as to the truth of every word. He was well acquainted with the depths of depravity to which a man could sink, although not from personal experience, thank God. He hired out his sword in a foreign land in order to leave behind him reminders of his past life. It was no surprise to learn that others did the same, although many for darker reasons than his own. The mercenary service seemed to attract the unsavory element of society: footpads, debtors, murderers, thieves, and others fleeing from the law. The worst of the lot, in his opinion, were the rapists, who preyed on women and who bragged about their exploits round the campfires at night.

  “There’s more,” John said with gravity.

  The simple statement brought Kyle back to the present. He watched with keen interest as John held his open hand over the girl’s belly without touching her skin. The distension there, although negligible, looked out of place on her slender form.

  “She appears to be with child,” John said.

  Father Ian’s face registered his surprise, but he quickly recovered his composure.

  “Are you sure?” Kyle said.

  “As sure as I can be without cutting her open,” John said. He glanced from Kyle to Father Ian and back again. “I will do so, if I must.”

  Kyle pondered whether the girl’s pregnancy was integral to her murder. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said after a moment.

  John looked relieved to hear it, and so did Father Ian.

  “How far along was she?” Kyle said.

  “I would guess about four months,” John said.

  “And you are certain she was smothered?” Kyle said.

  “I am,” John said. “It might have happened by mistake, but it could have been done on purpose.”

  “So,” Kyle said, “we’re looking for a man with scratches somewhere on his body.”

  “My guess would be the upper body, like the face or neck, or even the chest or forearms.”

  “Is there anything further?”

  “Not that I can see. My examination is complete, with both ye and Father Ian to bear witness. The women may now prepare the body for burial.”

  “When the village women see that girl’s belly,” Kyle said, “they will know her condition. There is no need to add shame to the Brodie family’s sadness and loss. I would suggest that only the girl’s mother be allowed to wash and dress her body.”

  “Her mother died some years ago,” Father Ian said. “There is an elder sister who can render that service, though.”

  “Will you see to it that no one but she tends to those final duties, then?” Kyle said to Father Ian.

  “I will,” Father Ian said. He stepped up to the bier to cover the girl’s body with the black cloth, after which he led them back into the chapel.

  Brodie was still on his knees before the altar. There was a woman kneeling beside him, with a thin shawl on her head. The two of them climbed to their feet when they saw Kyle, John, and Father Ian approaching.

  The woman looked about seventeen years of age. Her brown hair was bound in a single braid pulled forward over her shoulder and tied at the end with a black ribbon. The raw edge of her homespun woolen tunic reached only to her calves, which made her look taller than she was. Grief clouded her plain features, which bore a remarkable resemblance to Brodie’s. She was lanky and big-boned like him, but in a softer, more feminine way.

  “I am Esa,” she said in response to Kyle’s questioning gaze. “Abigail is, or rather was, my sister.”

  “What did ye find out?” Brodie said, looking from John to Kyle and back again, anticipation on his bearded face.

  Esa laced her fingers together in the classic pose of waiting. She hardly seemed the patient type, though, with her bold stare and the hint of challenge in her lively brown eyes.

  Esa’s hands, like her father’s, were large and capable, well suited to hard work as a farmer’s daughter, and, Kyle noticed, of a size to fit the pattern of bruises on Abigail’s face. Then again, so were her father’s and possibly that of every other man in the shire. He ceased his idle ruminations to relate to them an abbreviated version of John’s findings. “I’m sorry,” he said when he finished.

  The news of his daughter’s pregnancy brought a look of stunned disbelief to Brodie’s face. Except for clenching his fists, he stood motionless, frozen with shock, as though unable to take it in. “It cannot be so,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Ye must be mistaken.”

  “Father Ian can bear witness to the truth of it,” John said.

  After a moment, Brodie’s countenance began to darken. Anger and frustration became evident in his frowning brow and the tightening around his eyes.

  Throughout Kyle’s narrative, Esa’s expression remained unchanged. Her plain features showed neither dismay nor surprise, only sadness.

  Kyle fixed his eyes on her for several heartbeats, peering closely at her. She gave no outward sign of distress under his scrutiny other than the tightening of her laced fingers, noticeable only because of the sudden whitening of her knuckles. It was enough to persuade him that she knew something about her sister’s demise, and he was determined to find out what it was. In his experience, the direct approach was the most effective, if not always the most well received.

  “How long have you known about Abigail’s condition?” he said. He spoke to her quietly, as he would to a wild creature ready to bolt at any instant.

  A fleeting shadow of anguish and despair passed over Esa’s face. “What makes ye think I were privy to her secrets?” she said, her manner defensive.

  “Tell me about her,” Kyle said, changing his approach. “What was she like?”

  “There’s not much to say, really,” Esa said. “She were pretty, and all of the lads around here were keen on her.”

  “Did she favor one above the other?” Kyle said.

  “Not really,” Esa said. “She liked them all.”

  “Can you think of anyone who wished to do her an injury?”

  “Nay, I cannot,” she said, averting her eyes.

  “What about the English soldier who came to see her?”

  Esa shot an uneasy glance at her father before she answered. “She thought he were handsome. She liked his attentions.”

 
“A little too much, it seems,” Brodie said with suppressed anger.

  “If you think of anything that might be helpful,” Kyle said to Esa, “send word to me at Ayr Garrison. You should know that Father Ian will see to it that only you are to wash and dress your sister for burial.”

  “Thank ye for that, at least,” Esa said.

  Kyle was about to turn away when he thought of something else. “Who are those lads you say were keen on her?”

  “Tullick and the two louts who hang about with him,” Esa said, her disapproval obvious in the tightness around her mouth. “Ye can find them working in the field, unless they found a way to get out of it.”

  “Where is the field?” Kyle said.

  “I can take ye there,” Brodie said before Esa could respond.

  “I’d like that,” Kyle said, “but first, it is important that I see where your daughter’s body was found. Can you fetch the lad who brought you out there?”

  “I know the way,” Brodie said.

  “I want to talk to him about it,” Kyle said.

  “I’ll see if I can find him, then,” Brodie said. He turned on his heel and hurried toward the arched front door, as though eager to be gone from the chapel and the sorrow it held for him.

  Kyle followed Brodie outside, leaving John and Father Ian in the chapel with Esa. He walked around to the graveyard and picked his way through the maze of tombstones.

  He went over to a neglected corner on the far side of the burial grounds. The late morning sun behind him cast his shadow across a pair of graves set close together, one of average size and the other smaller, both overgrown with weeds. The stone marker at the head of each plot was made of brown granite streaked with beige and red, with the occupant’s name and date of death chiseled into it.

  He stood there in silence, letting the years slide backward over his head. Forgotten memories rushed at him from the recesses of his mind. With a sigh of resignation, he lowered himself to one knee and began to pull out the weeds. No matter how far he went or how long he stayed away, the guilt and shame of past sins always seemed to find him. When he finished clearing both plots, he bowed his head, his eyes on the larger grave.

  “I still miss ye, Ada Munro,” he said, unaware of lapsing into the accent of his youth. His gaze shifted to the smaller grave. “Rest in peace, Jamie boy. Forgive me, the both of ye.”

  He climbed to his feet and was swatting the dirt from his leggings when Father Ian walked up to stand beside him.

  “It’s a sad business,” Father Ian said, shaking his head. “Very sad, indeed.”

  “What is?” Kyle said, giving him a sharp glance.

  “Brodie’s daughter,” Father Ian said. “Do ye think the Southrons did it, like Brodie claims?”

  “It’s early days yet,” Kyle said, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  The old priest fingered the frayed end of the hemp rope binding his spare waist, his eyes on the newly weeded gravesites. “Why did ye come back now, of all times?”

  “Sheriff Crawford asked me to come,” Kyle said. “I didn’t know he was ailing until after I got here.”

  “The shire is ailing worse than Sheriff Crawford. Things go on that folks can only whisper about in private and with care as to who they whisper them.”

  The piercing gaze the old priest leveled at him brought a smile to Kyle’s lips. “I’m no spy for the English, if that’s what you think.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind for an instant,” Father Ian said with a snort of derision. “Otherwise, I would not speak to ye of such things.”

  They started walking back to the chapel to await Brodie’s return.

  “Whatever happened to old man Mackenzie?” Kyle said, adjusting his stride to match the old priest’s shorter step. “I didn’t see him or his sister in the village. Come to think of it, I didn’t see anybody I knew from when I used to live around here.”

  “Mackenzie quit the shire years ago, like so many others,” Father Ian said. “Between the raids and the taxes, he lost everything. When his sister died, he gave her a decent burial before he moved on alone to look for a safer place to start over. He won’t find it in this country, not as long as Edward of England keeps his boot on our neck.” He shook his head, his thin lips pressed together in disgust. “I hoped things would improve when Sir Percy came to Ayr Garrison last year. It turns out he’s no better than the others.”

  “Why so?” Kyle said, glancing over at the old priest.

  “Not a month ago, young Gib from this village saw four soldiers from the garrison hang a shepherd without cause. It was done under the cover of darkness, so I took it to be an act of spite. I brought the matter to Sir Percy’s attention, even naming the Southrons who did the deed. When Sir Percy learned that the eyewitness was an underage boy of Scots descent, he dropped the charges and dismissed the case. He refused, so he said, to dignify such blatant prejudice against the English with a hearing.”

  “Did you complain to the justiciar?”

  “Of course not,” Father Ian said, bristling with righteous indignation. “He’s a Southron, just like Sir Percy. Rather than wasting good parchment, I took up a collection for the shepherd’s widow. She needed that more than the empty promise of a fair hearing she would never get.”

  “I still would have informed the justiciar about it,” Kyle said. “He has the ear of the English king, as you know.”

  “And the heart of a snake,” Father Ian said. He spat on the ground, taking care to miss the burial plot beside him. “William de Ormesby may be justiciar of Scotland, but that devil’s spawn has no interest in justice. Scotsmen of rank and position have already been made to swear the oath of fealty to Edward of England. Ormesby wants men of lesser status to do the same, to bring them to heel since there are a greater number of them. God help the wretch who shows the slightest bit of reluctance to comply with his demands. The shire is crawling with bands of Southrons with leave to coerce and bully as they please. If that fails to work, then there are fines and sequestering. Some have even been outlawed and hanged.” He laced his fingers together in a semblance of prayer as he walked. “Our plight may sound hopeless, but rest assured we do have friends in high places.”

  “Amen to that,” Kyle said, assuming the old priest was referring to God and the saints in heaven. “For one so isolated, you are well informed as to the goings-on in the shire.”

  “That I am,” Father Ian said, “thanks to the holy brothers who bring news whenever they pass this way. They call themselves black friars for the color of their robes.”

  Kyle thought no more about it, since it was not unusual for members of the clergy to make the rounds of out-of-the-way chapels to atone for serious sins in their past before taking the cowl.

  Kyle and Father Ian rounded the front corner of the chapel to find Brodie standing by the arched door talking with two boys. On the ground beside them lay a brown and white dog, a mongrel with the long nose and floppy ears of a kennet hound and the square shape and wiry hair of a terrier.

  The boys appeared to be related, for they shared the same ruddy complexion and wide blue eyes. Their bodies were thin but sturdy under their woolen tunics. The dark smudge of peach fuzz on the shorter youth’s upper lip put him at twelve or thirteen years of age, whereas the other boy, though slightly taller, looked no older than ten.

  “This here is Ewan,” Brodie said, indicating the shorter, older boy. “He’s the one who fetched me after he found my girl in the wood.” He pointed at the other boy. “That is his brother, Gib.”

  “I want to find out who hurt Abigail,” Kyle said to the boys. “I need your help to do that. Can I count on you?”

  The boys exchanged a glance before nodding their heads in agreement.

  “Let us away, then.” Kyle took the reins from Upton and mounted the gelding.

  Upton and Turnbull climbed into their saddles.

  “You carry Ewan,” Kyle said to Upton. “Turnbull can take Gib. That way, we’ll make better
time getting there and back.”

  Upton leaned down to offer a hand to Ewan, who grasped his wrist and scrambled up behind him. Turnbull helped Gib onto the back of his mount.

  Both boys clung to the soldiers like burrs, and the grins on their youthful faces suggested that their dislike of the English took second place to their first chance to ride a full-sized horse, as opposed to the smaller ponies indigenous to Scotland. A valid excuse for shirking a day’s work only added to their joy.

  At a word from Ewan, Upton started for the trees on the eastward side of the village. Turnbull followed after him, with the mongrel dog trotting close behind the horses.

  Kyle waited for Brodie and John to mount up before the three of them set out after the others.

  About half a mile along the trail, Brodie urged his pony to overtake Upton, who rode at the head of the group. “Be sure to keep to the deer track up ahead. I’d hate to tell Ewan’s mam her son’s not coming back.” He waved a hand at the rotted grass and muck on either side of them. “We call that a quagmire. Hungry for flesh, it is. Watch yer step, or it’ll suck ye down.”

  Upton slowed his horse to let Brodie pass him on the cramped path, apparently now content to follow at a more cautious pace. He kept his face forward to avoid Turnbull’s grinning countenance.

  They rode through the heavily wooded forest, keeping to threadlike paths in tangled underbrush that barely stood aside to let them pass. The footing was slippery from moss and decayed forest detritus. They skirted standing pools of murky water in search of more solid footing on higher ground.

  After a while, they left the cool shadows of the dense woodland behind to enter a secluded glade near the river. Sunlight filtered through the sparse branches overhead. Patches of clover grew up through the dried brown grass on open ground that sloped gently down to the water’s edge. It was a peaceful haven, serene and bright, except for the dark oblong of raw earth that scarred the verdant spring growth.