Ayrshire Murders

by E R Dillon

  “What did Count Jardine see on the scroll,” John said, “to make him trust Upton so readily?”

  “The scroll was completely blank,” Kyle said. “There was no time to write a word on it. Yet, that was the very thing, it seems, which convinced the count that Upton was there to aid him, not to arrest him.”

  “He’s a clever man, Count Jardine is,” John said.

  “Speaking of clever,” Macalister said, after which he related to John how Kyle used Fergus the dog to expose Tullick as Abigail’s murderer.

  “Have ye caught Tullick yet?” John said.

  “I didn’t have to,” Kyle said. “During his flight through the woods, the hapless fellow stepped into a bog.”

  “What about Sweeney and Archer?” John said. “Are ye any closer to solving the mystery of who killed them?”

  “The mystery is why Archer was killed at all,” Kyle said.

  “Perhaps he saw who murdered Sweeney,” John said. “He might have tried to extort payment for his silence, so the murderer killed him, too.”

  “You might be on to something,” Kyle said. “The two of them died by different means, yet the slashes on their throats after death point to a single murderer.”

  At that moment, Maize arrived with their food on a tray. She set the trenchers on the table, along with three cups of ale. She collected the money for the meal from each of them before she walked away.

  They all started in on the rabbit stew while it was hot.

  “The use of hemlock,” Kyle said between bites, “indicates that the murderer intended to kill Archer, for it had to be mixed with the mead ahead of time.”

  He paused to take a sip of ale. “If Archer meant to stop briefly at the hut,” he continued, “he would have tied his horse outside the door. Instead, he hobbled the horse to let it forage for food, which meant he intended to linger there for a while, perhaps spend the night. That is what leads me to believe the murderer of both men could be a woman.”

  John choked on his ale and had to wipe his chin with his sleeve. “Surely, ye are mistaken,” he said, aghast. “A woman could never do such a thing.”

  “Reason on this for a moment,” Kyle said. “Only a woman could have got close enough to Sweeney to slip a dagger into his heart. Only a woman could have lured Archer to his death in the shepherd’s hut. Only a woman would need to drug a man, since she does not possess the strength to overpower him.” He fell silent to let his words sink in.

  John frowned, evidently struggling with the concept of a woman committing murder. “Who do ye think would do something like that?”

  Kyle took another sip of ale and set the cup on the table. “There is Esa, Brodie’s elder daughter. If she truly believed Sweeney murdered her sister, she would have dealt with him herself. I don’t know about Archer, though, unless she suspected he, too, had been involved.”

  “I thought it was Tullick who killed Abigail,” John said.

  “It was,” Kyle said, “but Esa could have killed Sweeney and Archer prior to learning of Tullick’s guilt.”

  He paused to consume the last of his rabbit stew, after which he cleaned the bits of food from the blade of his dirk. “We cannot overlook Fenella, who is Mistress Hamilton’s daughter,” he said, returning the dirk to the sheath at his side. “She had cause to hate Sweeney because of his ill treatment of her mother. Archer was there when her mother was evicted, so she might have settled the score with both of them.”

  “I admit that Fenella harbors resentment toward the Southrons,” John said, “but I don’t think she would do anything as rash as that.”

  “There is also Mistress Joneta,” Kyle said. “She possesses a rare beauty that few men can resist. However, shortly before Sweeney and Archer were murdered, she was confined to a birthing bed. Her weakened condition would make it difficult, but not impossible, for her to deal with the pair of them.

  “Then, there is little Meg, Joneta’s niece by marriage and Gram’s granddaughter. She is young and pretty enough to turn a man’s head. According to Mistress Campbell, their next-door neighbor, Meg had reason to hate Archer for taking her husband away to be flogged or worse. She had more reason to hate Sweeney for his foul use of her when she went to plead for her husband later that same day.”

  As he spoke, something else Mistress Campbell had told him niggled at his memory. It seemed like an insignificant detail at the time she mentioned it, yet it now troubled him, like a tiny pebble in his boot.

  “There is another reason the finger of guilt points to Meg,” he said, giving voice to the troubling thought. “An aunt of hers, one whom she favored in both looks and temperament, was murdered here in town a few years ago. An English soldier was implicated, but there wasn’t enough to proof to charge him. Archer was stationed elsewhere at the time, so he had no part in it at all.”

  John shook his head, his lips compressed around a grimace. “It is hard to say whether guilt or praise should be imputed to this murderess whom ye seek. The loss of Sweeney and Archer is no loss at all, in my opinion.”

  “There are many who would agree with you,” Kyle remarked dryly. “However, there is more to tell,” he added, growing serious. “I saw a letter of recent date on Sir Percy’s desk with Fenwick’s name on it. There was no time to read it, but I am sure it was the same Fenwick involved with the rebel ambush in ’ninety-two.”

  He went on to relate how Fenwick’s report from five years ago conflicted with Mistress Campbell’s first-hand account of his father’s fate. Fenwick claimed James Shaw engaged in mortal combat with the rebels at Loudoun Hill and that his mutilated corpse was of necessity buried somewhere in the pass. On the other hand, Mistress Campbell said she retrieved Shaw’s body from the ambush site, at which time she found his weaponry sheathed and unused. Her examination of his body revealed damage only to the back of his skull consistent with the infliction of a single crushing blow from behind. Shortly after that, she oversaw the interment of his body on Campbell land and marked his grave for posterity.

  “Mistress Campbell has nothing to gain by fabricating such a tale,” he said. “The same cannot be said of Fenwick, who received commendation based on the events set out in his report. I choose to believe Mistress Campbell. My faith in her is not misplaced, for there are witnesses aplenty who can support her assertions.”

  John and Macalister exchanged a long and thoughtful look.

  “If you know aught of this matter,” Kyle said, gazing from John to Macalister and back again, “you must tell me of it.”

  “Mistress Campbell never divulged any of that me,” John said to Kyle. His tone reflected ambivalence over whether to be offended or relieved at being excluded from that amorous lady’s confidences. “She did approach me recently to inquire as to yer trustworthiness. I assured her that ye were a man of honor who was loyal to the Scottish throne.”

  Kyle acknowledged John’s endorsement with a nod of appreciation. Without it, he might never have learned the truth about his father’s death and burial.

  John glanced around to make sure none of the tavern’s patrons were close enough to overhear his next words. “As for Fenwick, it is known in certain quarters that he is soon to travel to Ayr Garrison on a mission for King Edward. There is much speculation as to the nature of that mission, but no one knows what it is for sure.”

  “Fenwick will never set foot on this side of Loudoun Hill,” Macalister interposed, his chin thrust out in determination. “When he rides through the pass there, we shall be waiting for him, just like he waited for our countrymen in ’ninety-two.”

  The notion that Fenwick would soon get his comeuppance filled Kyle with an immense, albeit perverse, satisfaction. He downed the last of his ale, reflecting on the logistics of planning such a deadly reception. Knowledge of what day and at which hour Fenwick would be passing through Loudoun Hill was crucial for the success of such an undertaking, as would the cooperation of those set to execute the attack. Yet Fenwick himself had managed to pull off a similar feat when
he waylaid that band of Scottish rebels without anyone the wiser, including James Shaw, until it was too late.

  An abrupt movement at the table nearby brought Kyle’s head around. Neyll was sitting bolt upright, dark eyes fixed on something that captured his interest. He followed the direction of the clerk’s gaze to the tavern door, inside of which stood the corpulent English marshal, his round head swiveling from side to side as though looking for someone.

  Neyll got to his feet and hastened over to greet the English marshal, who took him by the arm to hustle him out of the tavern.

  With Neyll out of the way, possibly for the rest of the night, Kyle felt free to remove from the pouch at his side the parchment roll with the names of those taxed during the prior year and the amounts collected. He laid it out on the table and placed beside it the list John had given him of the raided homesteads, with the dates of the raids noted beside the owners’ names. For the next few minutes, he and his companions perused the two lists.

  “It appears the raids were not random, after all,” John said. “Only those with assets worth taking were targeted.”

  “From the dates listed here, it looks like the raids took place after the taxes were collected,” Kyle said. “That makes sense. Otherwise, the owners would have no means to pay what was due.”

  “Armed with this information,” John said, “Sweeney could have planned those raids himself.”

  “Perhaps,” Kyle said.

  “But ye don’t think he did,” John said. It was more a statement than a question.

  “I do not,” Kyle said. “Sweeney was the kind of man who expected others to do the work while he took the credit of it.”

  “So, ye think someone supplied the information to him,” John said.

  “Aye,” Kyle said.

  “Sir Percy, maybe?” John said.

  “I thought so at first,” Kyle said. “However, he already owns vast land holdings in England and Scotland in return for his service to King Edward. It would be foolish for Sir Percy to risk all that to dabble in criminal activities prohibited even by English law.”

  “What about Inchcape?” John said. “I suspect he’s in it up to his eyebrows.”

  “That fellow has more brawn than brains,” Kyle said. “The subtle plotting and planning necessary to arrange a successful raid would be beyond him.”

  “Who, then?” John said.

  “Who hungers for recognition, power, and money?” Kyle said. “Who is in a position to hear all, see all, and tell all, if he was so inclined? Who compiles the tax rolls year after year and knows who owns what and where they live? Who knows practically everything that goes on in the shire?”

  “Neyll, of course,” John said. “I wonder if Sir Percy suspects his own clerk’s involvement in such goings-on.”

  “That’s not as important as making such a charge against Neyll stick,” Kyle said. “Any accusation brought against him will never hold up in court unless he can be held publicly accountable as to the source of his income. He maintains a large household, keeps a stable of fine horses, and wears expensive garments. Yet the clerk’s wage he earns would barely support one such endeavor, let alone all three.” He laid John’s list on the tax roll and folded them up together. “There must be some way,” he added as he stuffed the documents in his pouch, “to use Neyll’s prosperity against him.”

  “And if not?” John said.

  “Then there is another, more disagreeable, course available,” Kyle said. He had in mind his own sworn statement recently given to Bishop Wishart attesting to Neyll’s impious dalliance with the English marshal. That was to be implemented, however, as a last resort because of the damage it would surely cause to innocent parties, like Colina. He was grateful neither John nor Macalister questioned him further about the “more disagreeable course” on which he purposely failed to elaborate.

  “I fear Colina may suffer collapse on learning of her brother’s guilt,” John said.

  “She is made of sterner stuff than that,” Kyle said. “Besides, when Neyll is brought to heel, he will likely be more amenable to letting her marry whom she pleases, namely you.”

  “I am not sure she still wants me after all this time,” John said.

  “She does,” Kyle said with certainty, reflecting on Colina’s joyful countenance at the mere mention of John’s name.

  A slow smile of pleasure spread across John’s handsome face.

  Kyle glanced over at Macalister to ask what he thought of catching Neyll in his own web. At that moment, though, the burly blacksmith seemed preoccupied with watching a scruffy old soldier with one arm make his way to the tavern door through the clutter of tables.

  When the one-armed soldier reached the doorway, he turned to look directly at Macalister, after which he stepped outside.

  Macalister drained his cup and placed it on the table. “I must be off,” he said, rising to his feet. He started for the tavern door without haste, but it was obvious he meant to follow the old soldier outside.

  “What’s going on?” Kyle said, tilting his head at their departing companion.

  “Yer guess is as good as mine,” John said with a shrug. He pushed away his empty cup and stood up. “I reckon I ought to go, too. I have a busy day tomorrow.” Before withdrawing, he placed a hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “Ye might want to be quick about returning that tax roll, lest Neyll notice its absence.”

  “He already noticed,” Kyle said. “If I put it back now, he might alter it, in which case it will be of no use as evidence against him.”

  “Have a care, then. If Neyll sees ye as a threat, he may seek a way to harm ye.”

  “Rest assured,” Kyle said. “I shall be on my guard.”

  Chapter 17

  After John left the tavern, Kyle remained seated at the table against the side wall for a long while. He paid no attention to the raucous sounds around him. With his usual objective detachment, he mulled over the matters so recently discussed with his companions. Instead of answers, though, he came up with more questions. What was the best way to deal with Neyll? Would the murderer strike again? Who would be the next victim? Why had Edward of England ordered Fenwick’s return to Ayrshire?

  There was a brief scuffle among the young soldiers gaming at a table across the way. The comrades of each contender stepped in to break it up before the tavern keeper ejected the lot of them from the tavern.

  Kyle hardly noticed the start or finish of the minor altercation, preoccupied as he was with more pressing concerns. Soon the smoke from the oil lamps began to sting his eyes. He scrubbed at them with his knuckles. It had been a long day, and he was weary. Perhaps after a night’s sleep, he reasoned, the elusive answers would come to him. If not, he would be no worse off than he was now.

  He slid from the bench and headed for the tavern door. He stepped into the cool darkness outside, drawing in a breath of fresh air after the stifling atmosphere inside. Thousands of pinpricks of starlight filled the night sky, and the newly risen moon floated like an enormous yellow ball above the rooftops to the east.

  He called for the groom to bring the gelding out from the tavern stable, after which he rode from the courtyard and through the open gates. He was about to turn down Harbour Street toward the garrison when the dark form of a man stepped from the shadows into the moonlight.

  “A moment, Master Shaw,” the man said. His face was barely visible in the gloom, but his identity was discernible from the empty sleeve that hung from the shoulder of his garment.

  Kyle held the reins taut to steady the gelding while he waited for the old soldier to speak.

  “I bear a message from Macalister,” the man said. “He says there will be trouble at Ogilvy’s tonight.”

  “He mentioned nothing about that to me,” Kyle said.

  “He only just learned of it himself,” the man said. “He says if ye want to help, ye must meet him there as soon as possible.”

  Kyle dug a silver penny from his pouch and tossed it to the old soldier, who snatched
the coin deftly from the air with his remaining hand.

  “Bless ye,” the man said. He touched his forehead with his knuckle, after which he sank back into the darkness of the alley.

  Kyle nudged the gelding with his heels. As he rode down Harbour Street, he could not help but wonder why Macalister did not go back into the tavern to deliver the message himself. Was it a ruse, perhaps by Neyll, to send him on a fool’s errand, or was it for real? Either way, he would rather go all the way out to Ogilvy’s homestead to discover he’d been duped than to leave the old man unprotected and at the mercy of raiders.

  He hastened to the garrison. Once inside the sheriff’s office, he removed his pouch and hid it in his sleeping chamber in case Neyll was indeed involved and had hired brigands to accost him on the road to retrieve the tax roll in his possession. He chided himself for overreacting, but he preferred to err on the side of caution where Ogilvy was concerned.

  He donned his chain mail hauberk and fastened his leather scale armor over it. He put a padded arming cap under his bascinet, which was the type of helmet he preferred because, unlike a nasal helm, it had no nosepiece to obstruct his vision. He was about to leave the sheriff’s office when he decided on a whim to take his father’s axe with him, in addition to his own. He removed the weapon from the oilskin and went outside to tie it behind the saddle.

  Before riding all the way to Ogilvy’s, he decided to pass by the blacksmith’s shop to see if Macalister was there. He found the shop deserted and Fergus the dog gone, so he turned the gelding’s head to the north and set out at a canter, with only light from the moon to guide him. Along the way, he kept a sharp lookout for highwaymen. For most of the journey, though, he had the whole road to himself.

  It took him an hour to reach his destination. Even before he turned off the main road, he saw the glow of a fire beyond the trees. Afraid he might be too late, he urged the gelding into a full gallop. As he hurtled down the lane that led to Ogilvy’s homestead, something slammed into his chest and swept him from the saddle. He landed flat on his back on the beaten earth, the impact of which drove the breath from his lungs and stunned him clean out of his wits.