by Douglas Watt
Stirling brought himself back to the present and sat opposite Hector MacLean at the circular oak table in Sir Lachlan’s living quarters. The fire burning in the grate cast shadows onto the decorated ceiling beams, bringing to life brightly painted scenes from antiquity and the Bible. A long oak cabinet, with a large candlestick and candle at each end, was the only other piece of furniture in the room. A number of oil paintings portraying Scottish monarchs hung from the walls.
Stirling dipped his quill into a small container of ink and began to write. As he posed his questions, he did not raise his head to look into the eyes of the young chief, who was in his early twenties, but listened attentively and made notes as Hector spoke, his long thin hands gliding across the parchment that lay in front of him.
‘At what hour did you last see your father?’
‘It must have been after midnight, but before one o’clock, for I heard the bells strike twelve. My father retired to his chamber after our small celebration had ended. He was in unusually good humour following our victory in the Session and had drunk a good deal. We played cards after dining.’
‘Who was in attendance here last night?’
‘Myself, my father, John Smith, our lawyers – that is, the clerk of the Session Mr John MacKenzie and advocate Mr Francis Primrose – the minister Mr John Hope and Robert Campbell of Glenbeg. We were served by Smith’s servant girl and our two men remained in the room throughout the evening. I presume that Smith’s wife and child were also in the house. And of course, I almost forgot, David Scougall, MacKenzie’s new writer, was also present. He did not play cards and barely touched a drop of wine all evening.’
‘And where was your sister, sir?’
Hector cleared his throat.
‘Ann was visiting one of her close friends – the daughter of Sir William Dunbar. She often spends the night at Drumliston House when we are in Edinburgh. My father and Dunbar were in exile together.’
‘Why had your father come to Edinburgh?’
‘As I have already mentioned, Mr Stirling, we had a case before the Session against Menzies of Pitcairn in order to determine title over lands. There has been a long-standing dispute about the rights to Ardintrive. Menzies claimed that since he had tenants in situ, possession was his. We based our claim on a purchase made in 1573 by my ancestor and namesake Hector MacLean of Glenshieldaig. My father wished to wadset the land to raise cash. Mr MacKenzie and Mr Primrose will be able to give you a more detailed account of the legal proceedings over the years and their tortuous history.’
‘Did your father have any contact with Menzies after the case was heard in the Session?’
‘I did not see him do so, nor did he refer to it.’
Stirling fell silent for a few moments and his thoughts gravitated, as they often did, to the execution of Montrose – his beauty defiled by the Covenanters, the gruesome quartering of his body, his head stuck on a spike at the Tolbooth – such butchery in the name of God. He coughed and forced his mind back to the matter in hand.
‘It was common knowledge that your father was not, how shall I put it, sir, a man of happy disposition – he was deep in debt and many creditors were at law against him. Is it possible that he ended his own life?’
Hector inhaled deeply.
‘I do not believe so. He was indeed troubled by financial misfortune, but my father was not the kind of man to run away from a fight. He thrived upon legal disputation.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might want to kill your father, or who might have benefited from his death?’
‘It’s true that my father has made many enemies through the years and debt has been his undoing. The lands of Glenshieldaig were devastated during the Great Rebellion. Rents collapsed to practically nothing. The huge debts accumulated by the family in the early part of the century could not be serviced. Despite attempts by my father to reduce the burden of debt by boosting the income of his lands from the cattle trade, the total continued to swell, like a tumour on the House. Many of his creditors have not been repaid. I regret this very much, for it leaves our family on a weak footing.’
‘Was Menzies of Pitcairn such an enemy?’
‘The case still stands in law and so he would have gained nothing. I think it very unlikely.’
‘Were you and your father on good terms?’
Hector slowly drew the fingers of his right hand into a fist. For some reason the small pamphlet which his father had penned for him when he came of age appeared in his mind. Advice to My Son, intended to provide him with some pointers in life, was full of pithy nuggets such as: ‘I can recommend no more useful and dignified recreation than the golf’; ‘Spend time at Court – a man with no interest at Court is like a bee without a sting’; ‘Refrain from gambling, drinking and lechery.’ If only his father had followed his own maxims.
The young chief opened his hand again.
‘We had our differences. What father and son do not? My father was a man of strong opinions, a great man for tradition, for wine, the table and trips to Court in London. He was not well disposed towards change or towards my suggestions for increasing the produce of his land so that debts might be redeemed. He opposed cutting the cost of the household at Glenshieldaig and stood firm against the policies being pursued by many other chiefs, some of them our neighbours, who have increased rents.’
‘Can you provide me with an inventory of his debts? That might prove useful.’
‘I will see that one of our lawyers attends to it.’
Stirling rested his quill for a moment and threw a piercing look at Hector.
‘Robert Campbell of Glenbeg. Why did Sir Lachlan keep such company?’
‘Glenbeg has always been close to my father.’
‘Is that not most unusual, sir, for your father to be on such friendly terms with a Campbell laird?’
‘True, my father did not count many Campbells amongst his friends. The MacLeans have a profound loathing for the Clan Campbell and Highland feuds burn deep. But Glenbeg was a strange fish. He had fought against his own clan in the Wars of the Covenant; he’d been with my father at the Battle of Inverkeithing and spent many years in exile with him. He too is prone to melancholia and has sought oblivion in drink and the table, although I believe Glenbeg pursued his vices much deeper than my father. His debts became insurmountable and he was forced to relinquish his own lands to a commission of clansmen and neighbours. I was surprised to see him here last night, for I knew he could not afford to make further losses at the table. But the love of cards is a disease from which men are not easily cured.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Stirling, noting the expression in the tired eyes of the young chief. ‘That will be all for now. Please find your sister and tell her that I wish to talk with her.’
Ann MacLean entered the chamber and sat at the table. Stirling could see that she had been crying and at once felt sympathy for her. Ann’s beauty did not escape him. She wore a simple dark gown which drew the eye to her graceful white neck. Her hair was tied back and there was a black gauze pinner upon her head.
‘My lady,’ he began, ‘I will not detain you long, but the nature of your father’s death makes it necessary.’
Ann MacLean’s face paled. ‘My father was a difficult man but I loved him,’ she said.
‘I am sorry that I must ask you this. Can you think of any reason why your father would take his own life?’
‘Never! He would never have destroyed himself!’
There was silence for a few moments, broken at last by the Tron Kirk bell. Stirling waited until it had sounded ten times.
‘Can you tell me where you were last night?’
‘I went to the house of my friend, Isabella Dunbar, the daughter of Sir William Dunbar. I arrived in the late afternoon, after spending some time here watching Henryson paint my father’s portrait. Isabella and I had our supper when it got dark, and then we played on the virginal. After some conversation we retired to our bedchamber.’
‘Was
it common for you to remain overnight at the house of Sir William?’
‘Yes – I have no time for dull evenings with my father’s friends. I find the company of his lawmen tiresome and his soirées always finish with ridiculous poems and tales of battles, and then Gregor McIan is ordered to take out his fiddle.’
‘You are not a speaker of the Gaelic tongue?’
‘It is my first language but it belongs to the past, Mr Stirling – a past of clan battles and of bitter poetry celebrating slaughter. I choose not to speak it. English is the tongue of the future,’ she said defiantly.
‘You did, I trust, leave on good terms with your father yesterday afternoon?’
‘As good as ever. My father and I had our disagreements, especially about my marriage. He wanted me to have a local laird as a husband for the good of our kindred and the future standing of the House of Glenshieldaig. Mr Stirling, when I was growing up I spent much time at Court in London. My father made many journeys there in the vain hope of receiving favours from the late King Charles and his father for loyal service during the Great Rebellion. Have you ever tasted the life of London? If so, you might understand why I find this cold city not to my liking. The damp castles of the Highlands hold even less appeal. My father felt I was being disloyal. My mother had to intervene between us many times.’
‘And you will now marry whom you please?’
‘That will depend on my brother.’
‘I must ask, my lady – have you noticed anything that might shed some light upon the sudden death of your father?’
‘Nothing.’
Stirling lapsed into thought for a few moments. Montrose’s mother Margaret Ruthven died when he was in his sixth year. He had perhaps not thought deeply enough about her influence on him.
‘Has Lady MacLean been informed of this terrible event?’
‘Yes, word has already been sent north.’
‘If I may ask but one further question. How were relations between your mother and father?’
‘As you might expect there were disagreements but they have been together for almost thirty years and have great fondness for each other. I fear my mother will be devastated.’
‘Will you see her soon?’
‘I will travel north with our kinsmen when they come for my father’s body.’
‘Those are all my questions for now.’
Stirling allowed his eyes to drift up to the painted ceiling, which was of a most impressive standard. He must ask John Smith who was responsible for it – his own chamber would certainly benefit from the attention of such an artist.
His gaze rested on a voluptuous female figure in a scene from antiquity. His wife would certainly appreciate their chamber ceiling being painted in such a manner – and he would be rewarded in the way he liked. But this dreadful affair had to be concluded first.
CHAPTER 5
Memories of the Night Before
MACKENZIE PUT HIS head out of the window into the cold morning air and took long, deep breaths. The powerful memories began to fade and with them the sickness and sense of panic. All that remained was the residue of sadness, which he knew would always be there. He could not shake off the sense that he was being punished for his sins, despite his own rational arguments.
As he sat down in a chair, a vision of Sir Lachlan came back to him – his large head swaying, cheeks bright red, singing a beautiful Gaelic song about a young woman lamenting the death of her husband. Everyone present had been moved, even the Lowlanders. MacKenzie had been especially touched, for his wife had often sung this song when they sat together in the evening.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Davie Scougall stood before him.
‘Have you heard the news sir? Sir Lachlan MacLean is dead!’ Scougall announced, in considerable agitation.
‘Indeed, Davie, I have. I was just on the point of departing for his lodgings. Come, let us walk there together.’
The two men made their way down the winding stone stairs. Scougall was considerably shorter than MacKenzie, by perhaps a foot. There was a darkness round his mouth and on his cheeks and neck, suggesting a razor had to be applied twice a day to contain the growth of his facial hair. They emerged onto the bustling High Street. Stone tenements, some up to six storeys in height, enclosed the wide road on both sides. The fine weather of the early morning had given way to dark clouds and as they walked downhill in the direction of the Canongate it began to drizzle.
On reaching Smith’s house, they were shown into the room where only a few hours before they had dined with Sir Lachlan. They spoke briefly with Hector MacLean before being presented to the Crown Officer.
‘Ah, John!’ said Stirling, ‘I am glad you are here. My Lord Advocate sets me to it with great haste – it appears the case is of some importance to him – or perhaps he wants me out of the office at this difficult time. He suffers much from what he calls “politics”. Anyway, maybe you can shed some light on this grim affair.’
‘Archibald, let me introduce my young friend Davie Scougall,’ said MacKenzie. ‘Davie, Archibald and I were students together at Aberdeen.’
Stirling and Scougall shook hands.
MacKenzie continued, ‘This is indeed a dark hour. How did my old friend meet his end?’
‘It seems he died by poison, administered either by his own hand or through the agency of another. At least, that is the view of our learned medical friend Mr Lawtie, whose report should be presented to my office tomorrow. I have already spoken with most of those who were present last night: Hector MacLean, John Smith, his wife, his servant girl and also to Ann MacLean, who was visiting a friend. I now await Mr Hope, Mr Primrose and the Laird of Glenbeg. If you both care to sit down I would like to ask some questions.’
MacKenzie and Scougall seated themselves at the oak table. ‘John, would you please give me a full account of the events of last night and whether you noticed anything pertinent to Sir Lachlan’s death?’
‘Davie and I arrived at about eight o’clock. Mr Hope was already here, administering one of his famous cold remedies to Sir Lachlan, who had complained of suffering from such a condition when we met in the Periwig Inn the previous evening. Perhaps ten minutes later Mr Primrose arrived, and then Campbell of Glenbeg, a few minutes after that. We ate a fine meal – roast mutton in blood, ragout of rabbits, pottage, roast pigeons, finished off with tarts and boiled pudding, if I remember correctly. We also drank freely from John Smith’s wine cellar. At around ten we began our cards which we played for perhaps two hours. Songs and poetry, mostly in Gaelic, ended the evening’s entertainment. Davie and I left at about thirty minutes after midnight accompanied by Mr Primrose and Mr Hope. I do not know when Glenbeg departed. During the evening we all left the room on a number of occasions to pass water. Smith’s servant girl moved in and out with food and drink. Sir Lachlan’s two men were in the room throughout. I noticed nothing out of the ordinary, although I must confess that the claret jug may have blunted my powers of observation. Perhaps Davie might provide you with a clearer picture of the later part of the evening.’
‘Does Mr MacKenzie’s description concur with what you can remember, Mr Scougall?’ asked Stirling.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Scougall, his mind racing back through the previous evening. An image appeared to him, he hesitated and an incomprehensible sound came from his mouth. He was forced to continue to save himself further embarrassment: ‘There was one thing – it may be nothing. I did think it somewhat odd. I would not want to suggest something that did not exist. During the songs at the end of the evening, Smith’s servant girl spoke privately to Mr Hope. I was… disturbed by the look that enveloped his face. I fear the spirit of lust had been awakened in him – and he briefly placed his hand upon her. But as Mr MacKenzie has said, we departed with him and he came up the High Street with us as far as the Tron Kirk.’
Scougall was interrupted by the arrival of one of Sir Lachlan’s men. On being informed that Primrose and Hope had arrived, Stirling said
, ‘John, I would be obliged if you could meet me at my chambers in the Session tonight so that I may share my findings with you and benefit from some of your wise counsel. I believe that you know the characters involved better than I.’
‘Of course, Archibald. But before I leave, may I view Sir Lachlan’s chamber?’
‘I must come with you to ensure that nothing is disturbed.’
As they approached the door, Stirling took hold of the cuff of MacKenzie’s jacket and lowered his voice so that no one else could hear.
‘Do you think that Sir Lachlan would take his own life?’
‘I’ve been his legal agent for over twenty years and I do not believe that his nature made him capable of self-destruction.’
They entered the chief’s chambers, Scougall following reluctantly behind. The corpse had been attended to, the limbs straightened and the body covered with a sheet of white linen. MacKenzie walked over to it and pulled the sheet back to reveal Sir Lachlan’s large, wigless head. His eyes were closed and he looked at peace. Noticing the bilious stain on his white shirt, the advocate replaced the sheet and walked slowly round the chamber, his eyes seeming to devour the objects in the room. Scougall stood at the door, transfixed by the shape underneath the white cloth.
‘Until tonight, Archibald,’ said MacKenzie, his perusal of the scene complete. He kept his own counsel as he and Scougall made their way back up the High Street.
‘I must return to my house early in the morning, Davie,’ he said, as they reached the Tron Kirk. ‘Why not travel out tomorrow yourself? My man will bring you a map. It will give us a chance to probe the potential causes of this tragedy. My daughter will have a meal prepared and you can spend the night, then we will travel back to Edinburgh together the following day.’
