Death of a Chief

by Douglas Watt

  After penning a quick note to his parents, he put down his quill and placed the documents he had been working on in a small cabinet, which he locked, then pulled on a rather threadbare cloak and stepped outside. It was a fine evening. Some fresh air would clear his mind. He often walked down the High Street towards the Palace after work if he was not golfing.

  Scougall’s tiny office was in the basement of one of the high tenements across from St Giles Kirk. He locked the door, climbed the few steps up to the High Street and looked up at the crown-shaped steeple towering above the Luckenbooths and the Tolbooth. The sky was a perfect blue and he breathed in deeply. He always felt content after a long day’s work.

  Today, instead of turning left as usual, he made his way uphill in the direction of the Castle and soon found himself at the opening of Steel’s Close, where he and MacKenzie had lost sight of the figure from the apothecary’s shop the previous night. The sun was slipping low in the sky and the close was now in shadow. He screwed up his eyes and looked down the long passageway between the tenements. Dare he go down and have another look? His first inclination was to forget about it – but was he not the assistant of Mr John MacKenzie, advocate, and an associate of Mr Archibald Stirling, the Crown Officer who acted for the famous Advocate Rosehaugh? Bolstered by such thoughts, he began to make his way slowly past a series of small shops that were closing up for the day, until he found himself outside James Jossie’s door. A handwritten note had been attached to it, indicating that the business was closed.

  Everything seemed peaceful. Scougall continued down to the hole in the old wall which led to the pathway he had climbed with MacKenzie the night before. He was now back in sunlight and faced with a wonderful view across the Nor’ Loch to the Firth of Forth, gleaming silver, rather than its usual grey, with the fields of Fife in the distance. Scougall peered to see if he could catch sight of a mountain in the north, but it was too hazy.

  As he was about to climb through the gap in the wall and descend to the path, he stopped in his tracks. A patch of dark red on the stones beneath his foot caught his eye. Scougall shuddered. The image of the apothecary bleeding to death rose in his mind. Had Jossie been dragged here by the murderer? His eyes followed the pathway, looking for more signs of the savagery of the previous day. After a few minutes of scrutiny he found another dried splash of blood three feet further down the track.

  He followed the path for about fifty yards until it bifurcated, one branch leading down to the Nor’ Loch, the route they had taken the previous night, and the other along the hillside to a precipitous rock face. He found another bloodstain on the latter path, which led along the higher route to end in an area of bushes and shrubs. A few yards off the path, there was a sharp drop. Scougall peered over the edge. The bare rock went straight down for about thirty feet, then a grass slope led to the mirky water of the loch. In all probability this was where Jossie had been thrown to his watery grave. He looked around but could see little indication of disturbance. Jossie must have been dead already and his body dragged along. The killer must have been strong – it was a fair distance from the shop. Surely Ann MacLean would not have been able to carry a body so far, unless aided by George Scott? Or was it Hector MacLean and one of Sir Lachlan’s old servants? Scougall imagined each character in turn dragging the old apothecary along the track and throwing him down the slope. Finally he pictured Glenbeg carrying the corpse under his arm and hurling it over the edge.

  He retraced his steps and was relieved to find himself back on the High Street amongst other human beings, then walked down the gentle slope towards St Giles, hoping to seek guidance from a higher authority and give thanks for his deliverance the previous night.

  He was always impressed with the splendour of the ancient kirk. It was perhaps small in comparison to the great cathedrals of England and France, but for someone who was accustomed to worshipping in a parish church it was a remarkable building. The north façade was a series of projecting gabled chapels and aisles. The crown-shaped steeple reminded him of the Scottish monarchy. He recalled that kings had not lived in Scotland since 1603, when James VI inherited the great English crown from Elizabeth, and had departed south in haste, only to return to his northern kingdom once thereafter. It was a great shame that Scotland had lost its king, but then he reflected on the disastrous policies of James’s son, King Charles I, who had tried to shift the Scottish kirk towards popery. Perhaps Scotland was safer without a king! It was at this very spot that Jenny Geddes had thrown her stool.

  The image of his grandmother telling the tale of this heroine of the Covenant came to him – one of the clearest memories of his childhood, for the old woman, in the telling, had suddenly seized the very stool she sat on and threatened to throw it across the room. The effect on him and his sisters had been overwhelming. The honest women-folk of Scotland standing up to a king! And now the kirk was officially a cathedral and the seat of a bishop. He hoped dearly that it might become a place of Presbyterian worship again.

  The door was open and he went inside. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the gloom for it was now almost dark outside and the kirk lit by a few flickering candles. Scougall admired the huge stone pillars supporting the roof. Placing his hand on one, he was reminded of the great age of the church – thousands of folk had worshipped here. He wondered how many had placed their hands on the cold stone like himself.

  He was comforted by the atmosphere; the stream of thoughts about the murder of Sir Lachlan, which had upset his daily rhythm, began to recede. There were only a few people inside, each meditating in silence. He sat down on one of the wooden benches, put his hands together, bowed his head, closed his eyes and began to pray: ‘Lord give me strength at this difficult time – let me think clearly so I might be of use to Mr MacKenzie. Guide my friend in his pursuit of the truth. Provide him with evidence to bring the person who has sinned against you to justice. Lord, if only you would give me a sign which might help me understand these terrible events, for I am completely at a loss to comprehend the reasons for such heinous crimes.’

  Scougall heard someone passing and stopped his prayer. A woman sat down a few rows in front of him. He continued in a soft whisper: ‘Lord, I also beseech you – look after me in my journey tomorrow. I know that many Highlanders are godless barbarians and servants of the Antichrist. I ask you, for the sake of my mother and father, to lead me safely through this valley of evil. Always direct me away from sin. Amen.’

  As he raised his head, he became aware that there was something familiar about the woman in front of him, yet he could not remember where he had seen her before. He racked his brains, becoming increasingly annoyed with himself. She looked unremarkable enough: middle-aged, soberly dressed, greying hair – a merchant’s wife. That was it – she was John Smith’s bedfellow!

  He was about to move forward and offer his respects when he realised that she too was praying; he thought he could hear her crying quietly into her clasped hands. Yes, he was certain, she was sobbing. It occurred to him that he should go and comfort her but decided against it. She would be displeased to know he had been watching her. Suddenly she rose to leave. Scougall closed his eyes again and bowed his head, pretending to pray. As she passed him in the aisle, he caught a glimpse through his fingers of a distraught face. He listened to the sound of her footsteps as she made her way to the north door.

  Scougall was puzzled. It crossed his mind that this was perhaps the sign he had requested from God. Was Mrs Smith involved in this terrible crime? Or was she still coming to terms with the brutal fact that a murder or suicide had taken place under her own roof while she slept? Whatever the reason, MacKenzie would certainly be interested to learn of her agitation and of his discovery on the path. His master was not returning from Boortree House until later that evening. He decided he must try to find out more about what lay behind Mrs Smith’s distress.

  CHAPTER 15

  Small Talk at Boortree House

  MACKENZIE WAS LISTENING to Pr
imrose rehearse his great success in the Session; a subject which seemed to engross him more powerfully than the death of his client. He couldn’t help but notice Primrose’s fine attire: immaculate periwig, finely cut velvet jacket, silk handkerchief embroidered with his family crest – a ship – protruding from a pocket, expensive pair of shoes. His voice sounded refined, with less of a Scottish brogue than most other advocates. He was now describing some of the actual phrases he had used in Sir Lachlan’s case. Like most ambitious men, thought MacKenzie, Primrose was a bore. He started looking for an excuse to end their conversation.

  The huge room was full of chatter and laughter. Generous quantities of wine had removed the inhibitions of the guests. Suddenly a servant knocked into his companion and the contents of his wine glass splashed over his jacket. ‘Fool!’ shouted Primrose, hastily withdrawing his white handkerchief and scrubbing at the stain.

  The peacock’s feathers are ruffled! thought MacKenzie, just as he spotted Sir Lachlan’s son across the room and thankfully made his excuses.

  Hector gave him his hand.

  ‘John, I am glad of the opportunity to speak with you. I was undecided whether to attend the celebration today since so little time has elapsed since the death of my father, but my sister persuaded me we should escape from brooding in Smith’s chambers. I also hoped some of my father’s friends would be here. There are many legal issues to be discussed before I can gain full possession of Glenshieldaig. I expect you have received my letter sanctioning your authority to investigate my father’s death on behalf of the kin?’

  ‘Yes, I will give the matter my full attention, Hector. But perhaps a party of this kind is not the place to discuss the details of inheritance law. I must arrange a suitable time when we can deal with your concerns in full.’

  ‘You are right, please forgive me. My mind is driving me on too hard these days.’

  ‘It is only natural. Your father has not yet been buried. Have all the plans for the funeral been made?’

  ‘My kinsmen arrive today and we leave with my father’s body tomorrow. Is there any word from Mr Stirling about his investigations?’

  ‘Mr Stirling and his men continue to make enquiries.’

  MacKenzie observed the young chief carefully. He was in many ways a smaller version of his father but more serious and without the chief’s caustic wit.

  ‘Some of my clansmen are convinced of Glenbeg’s guilt and are ready to launch a feud against his clan and lay waste to the lands he once held,’ Hector remarked. ‘I have contained them so far, but the longer he remains in hiding, the more difficult it will be to restrain them from taking revenge against the Campbells. You know yourself how easily feuds can start and how difficult they are to stop. I pray it does not come to that, for I am of the strong opinion that violence between families should be consigned to the past. Feuds only hinder the work of sound estate management.’

  ‘Wise words indeed, Hector. If only more of our fellow Highlanders followed your example. Now, if you do not mind, I have a question or two to ask myself. Firstly, what do you make of George Scott? He appears to be an excellent match for your sister.’

  ‘Ah! My sister has inherited the character of my father – there is no compromise with her – everything is black or white; she sees no middle road where people of different opinions can come to an accommodation. I may have to relent and allow her to marry Scott although, as you know, he brings little interest or money to the table. But he does hope to be an independent man and seeks service in the Army. My sister will be happier in foreign lands than in the Highlands.’

  ‘And what of you, Hector. You are now free to marry the wife of your choice and pursue the policies you recommended to your father for so many years.’

  The young chief hesitated before answering, aware that MacKenzie was framing his questions in a way he might do in a court of law.

  ‘I must make a careful match, John. If I go to London and marry the daughter of an English nobleman and come back north with a fair tocher of £5,000 sterling, the family’s financial position will be eased considerably. However, this will not be popular with my clan, who still hope I will marry the daughter of a chief. But that will only bring a few pennies to our empty bowl, since our neighbours are as bankrupt as ourselves. I cannot please everyone and now I must learn that compromises are necessary if I am to follow good policy. All I can say is that there will be changes at Glenshieldaig – my kinsmen know there have to be. The estate will be made more productive and I will cut the cost of my household. By removing one or two of our bards and musicians, who hold land for free, and by raising the rents of the tenants by a small degree, our finances could be in balance this year and the estate placed on a more secure footing. No new hangings will adorn the walls nor French furniture grace the chambers of Glenshieldaig Castle over the coming years. We must learn from the Dutch and English landowners. We cannot stand still or turn back the tide as my father hoped could be done. The world changes before our eyes – the old ways disappear like spring snow on a dyke.’

  ‘I have heard reports you are considering a marriage to John Smith’s daughter?’

  ‘That is true. Smith was pushing for such a match but my father was against it. He believed the merchant class to be beneath us. I do not hold to this view. If Smith can make a good enough offer I will consider his daughter, but only if it benefits the House of Glenshieldaig.’

  MacKenzie took a sip of wine.

  ‘Mr Primrose has drawn up a list of creditors who were at law against your father. It includes a name I have never heard before, a surprise, I confess. As one of your father’s advisers I was deeply involved in much of his legal work. The man concerned is James Sovrack. Do you know who he is?’

  ‘I have never heard the name before, John. But my father could smell out a moneylender – there were always some willing to lend to him at usurious rates. Does Mr Primrose not know who the man is?’

  ‘I have just spoken with him and he too is in the dark.’

  ‘My father had travelled widely – he was well known in London, and even in Paris and Amsterdam. Perhaps the man belongs to one of these cities, for I know their streets crawl with those who make a living from lending money.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps he is a foreign merchant. Anyway, I will have Mr Scougall take a careful look at the papers in Smith’s house. If we can locate copies of the bonds to Sovrack, we will know who witnessed them and the date and place of signing.’

  ‘I fear that will not be possible. The documents my father had with him in Edinburgh were sent back to the Highlands today. You may have to wait until you reach Glenshieldaig to gain further information about this man.’

  ‘How inconvenient,’ MacKenzie observed.

  Hector MacLean did not reply but nodded his head slightly and looked round the room nervously. MacKenzie could see the young chief wanted to end their conversation, so he excused himself and, having thanked the Earl of Boortree for his hospitality, departed from the house.

  CHAPTER 16

  A Meeting with the Lord Advocate

  ARCHIBALD STIRLING ALWAYS dreaded his interviews with the Lord Advocate. It was not that the Advocate possessed a particularly domineering tone or thunderous voice, but the fact that he himself was always on the defensive. He regretted accepting the position of Crown Officer – he should have continued with his work as an advocate, at which he was quite proficient. His wife had advised him to refuse the new position, but he had ignored her. She was proved correct, as usual. The temptation of something new, something different from the usual drudgery of court work had been too strong; that and his vanity. He had pictured himself as the associate of MacKenzie of Rosehaugh, author of Aretina, Religio Stoici and the great Defence of the Antiquity of the Royal Line of Scotland, with real power and influence for the first time in his life. However, he had not expected his new job to be so demanding and the great Rosehaugh had turned out to be more of a politician than a man of letters. Most of those who committed crime escap
ed and the blame came to rest, again and again, on his shoulders. And there was less and less time for his historical studies.

  Stirling sat on a hard wooden chair in front of a vast desk which through age had taken on a black hue. The desk was very tidy with only two neat piles of paper on the left and right. He recalled the heaps of documents that were eternally accumulating in his small office across the corridor. The Advocate’s efficiency was another thing which troubled him. He was a scrupulous manager of men and paper.

  The Crown Officer gazed round the depressing room. There was little direct sunlight, only one small window near the ceiling; the chamber was lit by candles attached to the walls. He preferred more light and fresh air. There was a stale, putrid smell in here. Rosehaugh conducted interviews with prisoners in this very room – mostly of a political nature and thankfully outside the sphere of his responsibility. But it was well known that torture had been used on a number of occasions to elicit confessions. The thought of the thumbscrews made him shudder. The excruciating pain as the thumb was crushed to pulp. The leaders of the conventiclers had been dealt with very harshly. But what was to be done? As a student of the manoeuvrings of the 1640s, he knew well that Scottish politics was a brutal and dirty business. The security of the government was at stake. These men wanted to bring about a revolution in the church and state. At least he need not concern himself with such affairs. Perhaps King James would prove a more tolerant monarch than his elder brother.