Death of a Chief

by Douglas Watt

  On the walls were portraits of previous Lord Advocates. Their eyes seemed to stare accusingly at him, as if they knew he was not as committed as he should be to his work as Crown Officer. All appeared to be dour-faced figures who had devoted every moment of their existence to the law, so reaching the pinnacle of their profession. He could not fully understand such men. All he wanted was some peace to spend more time with his wife and daughters, and the other great passion of his life – his history of the Great Rebellion. Again a feeling of regret washed through him, mixed with despair; life was slipping away and nothing achieved.

  The door opened and the Advocate, wearing a black gown and a long periwig, made straight for his seat without saying a word. His dress was indistinguishable from any other lawyer; black breeches and jacket. He carried some documents which he placed on his desk, and began to read from the one on top. At last he looked up; he was in his mid-fifties, with small darting eyes and a deathly white pallor. He was clearly suffering from a serious illness. There was a calm but determined look on his face as he spoke.

  ‘Mr Stirling, I have read your report. There seems to be no conclusion to this affair. Or have you learnt anything further in the last few hours?’

  ‘I have nothing more to report, sir. Glenbeg has still to be apprehended and I have discovered little more about the murders.’

  ‘I am sure you are aware that the Privy Council wish this matter to be resolved with all haste. The Town Council are also voicing their concerns. Events of this kind sour the atmosphere of a town and are bad for trade. I have assured them both that you and your men are working night and day to find the killer. Am I correct in my assumption?’

  The Advocate spoke quietly, his eyes moved from one side of the room to the other, as if following the flight of a swooping bird of prey, but did not meet the gaze of the Crown Officer. Stirling felt most uncomfortable. He could not say that he had been working night and day, but he had at least given the case his complete attention during office hours. Was he to devote his entire life to the pursuit of criminals?

  ‘My Lordship, as you well know, for I have brought this matter to your attention on many occasions, I have only two men under me. Insufficient funds were made available and I was unable to attract the most suitable candidates. Innes is almost as old as I am; Miller, I am sure, is looking for a more highly paid position elsewhere, and as a result applies himself little. They do as they are told, but I fear they show scant initiative in their work.’

  ‘Then you must manage them more carefully, Mr Stirling. If you are successful in apprehending the killer, or killers, of Sir Lachlan and Jossie I am sure I can persuade the Privy Council to grant your office a higher allowance. But at the moment you must make do with what you have and grind the millstone a little harder.’

  Rosehaugh placed a harsh emphasis on his last words. There was anger in his voice.

  Stirling saw the corner of the Advocate’s mouth twitch. In his mind he heard the screams as Rosehaugh ordered the thumbscrews to be tightened. Did he ever show any emotion? There was no nobility in servants of the state any more.

  ‘I will do my best, sir.’

  ‘Your report informs me that Sir Lachlan’s kinsmen have arrived to escort his body to Glenshieldaig. May I recommend that you do the family the honour of attending his funeral. It is possible you may uncover information critical to the case from such a journey. Leave one of your men here. I will supervise the tasks you set him.’

  Stirling was dismayed to hear Rosehaugh’s order. He had not intended to travel to Glenshieldaig. It was not the thought of the Highlands that depressed him, but the miserable inns lining the route, so-called Highland hospitality. He would be away from home for a full week at least, or more. His wife would not be pleased. He would have to postpone his studies again. Why was his real work frustrated at every turn?

  CHAPTER 17

  A Cup of Ale in the Canongate

  IT WAS DARK when Scougall emerged from St Giles Kirk and headed down the High Street in the direction of Holyroodhouse. Against his natural inclinations he had decided to act decisively. Surely he had been directed to St Giles for a reason: so that he might witness the distress of Smith’s wife. It was now his responsibility to find out as much as he could about what was happening in the household. He would show MacKenzie that he was not just a dull scribe. Armed with new determination he marched confidently through the Netherbow Port and into the Canongate, where the tenements were not so high and there were fewer shops and taverns.

  However, as he approached his destination, he became less confident. His pace slowed, until he found himself standing at the threshold of the merchant’s house without the nerve to knock on the door. What was he to say to Mr Smith? He was not an advocate like MacKenzie; he had never stood up in a court room and vigorously questioned an accused. He could not remember vigorously questioning anyone, except perhaps his young sisters, and that was many years ago. What possible reason could he give for such a call? He was not a close friend of the family, having only met Smith on one occasion, and had never spoken to his wife. He was gripped by intense anxiety and his face flushed at the thought of the pitiful image of a tongue-tied fool he would present if the door was answered.

  His paroxysm of self-doubt was interrupted abruptly by the arrival of Smith’s maidservant Peggy, carrying a wicker basket filled with fresh fruit and vegetables.

  ‘Mr Scougall, sir. Are ye callin on ma maister an mistress?’

  Scougall was put on the defensive for he had not noticed Peggy approaching.

  ‘No… well, yes. I was wishing to see… Mr Smith,’ he spluttered.

  ‘Well, in ye come, Mr Scougall. I’m afraid they are baith out at the moment. But Mr Smith will be back shortly. Ye can wait in ma maister’s chamber.’

  Scougall was lost for words. All he could think of doing was to follow Peggy into the house. As he climbed the stairs behind her to the first floor where Smith lived with his family, he could not help but notice the swagger of her hips moving from side to side. He remembered the look she had given Mr Hope on the night Sir Lachlan was killed. What could this sonsie girl see in a fat old minister? Scougall found himself admiring the view as he ascended the stairs behind her. But he suddenly recalled that he had just been in St Giles asking God to deliver him from sin! He tried to think about something else.

  Peggy opened the door with her key. Scougall was reminded of the room in which they had been entertained by Sir Lachlan – it was the same size and furnished in similar fashion: a large oak table, a long wooden sideboard, a few chairs and portraits on the walls. But instead of Scottish monarchs, the paintings were of the Smith family. Scougall recognised one of the merchant himself.

  ‘Please be seated,’ said Peggy with a smile.

  Scougall sat down on one of the fine upholstered chairs. What was he to talk about until Smith returned, and then what was he to say?

  ‘Would ye care for onything tae drink, Mr Scougall?’

  Scougall was not thirsty but he heard himself say, ‘A little ale would suffice, thank you.’

  Peggy disappeared to fetch the drink. He thought of his master when they had visited Hope. He must act in a similar manner. MacKenzie would make the most of such an opportunity. He must have confidence – he had been shown a sign in St Giles.

  Peggy soon returned with a pewter tankard of ale. His eyes could not fail to catch her ample cleavage as she bent over to place the beer on a small table beside him. Her face was not pretty but there was something about her.

  ‘Now, Mr Scougall, are ye happy to wait until Mr Smith returns? I’ve some work to be gettin on wi.’

  ‘Peggy,’ began Scougall, summoning up the courage to ask what for him was a very forward question, ‘has Mrs Smith been greatly upset by the death of Sir Lachlan?’

  ‘She’s been upset about the scandal, sir. I don’t think she was too sorry tae see Sir Lachlan depairt himsel – she thought he was a bit o a burden, for he was never payin Mr Smith onything.’


  ‘I see,’ said Scougall. ‘I only ask because earlier this evening I saw her in St Giles and she was weeping.’ Usually Scougall would not have discussed such information with a servant, but he sensed that sharing this with Peggy might reap rewards, and he was not disappointed.

  Peggy appeared excited to hear such news. She lowered her voice and an earnest expression spread over her face.

  ‘Is that right? I hae never seen ma mistress sheddin tears afore. But there’s been some mighty strange affairs in this hoose oer the last few days.’

  ‘What in particular?’ asked Scougall, trying not to appear too interested.

  ‘Well, first of aw that business wi Sir Lachlan. And now there’s mair trouble, I’m no sure what. These walls are thick and ma maister and mistress keep things tae themselves, but I ken when something’s wrang and I ken this much aboot what caused it. A letter arrived this mornin. I’m sure it was frae yon strange creature Glenbeg, I heard his name mentioned and it was posted in Perth – I spoke wi the man who delivered it. There were long talks between Mr and Mrs Smith aw mornin. I kenned somethin was happenin, for ma maister left unexpectedly and said he would no return till later this evening. Ma mistress said she intended to visit her sister in Gray’s Wynd. I ken weel that Glenbeg is suspected o killin Sir Lachlan and that he’s ran off, and now I’m wondrin what else he’s done. Maybe I’ve said too much, Mr Scougall, I find ye an easy man tae talk wi.’

  She gave the young notary her most alluring stare.

  Scougall’s thoughts, however, were now focused elsewhere. He was delighted with what he had gleaned.

  ‘Was Glenbeg a friend of Mr Smith?’

  ‘He was seen roond here now and again, but I was feart o him. That face! The haunds o a skeleton! Braith like a reekin corpse! I think ma maister had lent him money – what ither reason would draw a fiend like Glenbeg here?’

  ‘Do you know where Mr Smith has gone?’

  ‘He didnae tell me but I guessed frae his face that he was attendin tae important business. I’m sure it was about Glenbeg. I’ve heard it told that he has killed afore…’

  Peggy suddenly dried up in mid flow, aware that the consequences of passing on the fruit of her eavesdropping could be severe. The Smiths were a good family to work for and she did not want to lose her position. She had already risked much with that stupid minister who had promised to give her a few of his recipes. ‘Now, ye must excuse me sir.’

  Scougall sought to change the subject: ‘How old are you Peggy?’

  ‘I will be fifteen in July,’ she said, returning his smile as she left the room.

  Scougall sat alone, staring at Mr Smith’s fine clock which stood on the mantelpiece. Time drifted by. He had arrived at seven o’clock and it was now five minutes to eight. He could not sit here all night watching the clock, he told himself, he had to pack for tomorrow’s journey.

  At last he shouted through to Peggy and excused himself, asking her to inform Mr Smith that he had called and would visit again on his return from the Highlands. Before Peggy reappeared to warn him about the dangers of his destination, he had shown himself out.

  As Scougall walked back up the High Street towards his lodgings he passed a small figure hurrying down in the opposite direction. Mr Smith had a look of anguish on his face. The merchant did not see the young lawyer.

  CHAPTER 18

  A Letter for Davie Scougall

  WHEN SCOUGALL RETURNED to Foster’s Wynd he hoped to make straight for his chamber. He opened the door as quietly as he could for he did not want to disturb Mrs Baird, the relict of Mr Baird, merchant, from whom he rented his room. He was just about to place a foot on the first step of the stair when he heard her calling.

  ‘Mr Davie, do ye no want onything tae eat this evening?’

  ‘No thank you, Mrs Baird. I have had a long day and wish to retire to my bed early.’

  Mrs Baird, an old woman in her seventies, dressed plainly in black, appeared through a doorway. She was so diminutive that Scougall towered over her.

  She may be old but she has the ears of a fox, he thought.

  ‘How mony times have I telt ye no tae work sae hard. Look at my dear Willie – workin every day o his life frae the age o fourteen tae the day he died at only fifty, leaving me a poor relict these six and twenty years. Find time for leisure, Mr Davie.’

  Scougall had heard her saying this many times before and he always gave the same reply: ‘I play golf, Mrs Baird.’ She did not seem to regard golf as recreation.

  ‘Good night,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ll not be at breakfast tomorrow. I rise early to watch the Highlanders take Sir Lachlan’s coffin. Then I travel in the company of Mr MacKenzie to attend the chief’s burial.’

  The old woman shook her head, looking as if someone had just told her about a death in her family.

  ‘The Hielands! Whatever is Mr MacKenzie doing sending a poor boy off tae sic a place.’ Scougall was about to ascend the stairs when she continued, ‘I almost forgot, this letter came for ye in the early evening. It was delivered by Mr MacKenzie’s servant.’

  Scougall came back down the stairs to collect it.

  The arrival of a letter was a rare occasion. His mother wrote perhaps once every few months and his sisters the odd letter. MacKenzie must be sending him some final instructions about the journey.

  Mrs Baird at last retreated to her fireside and he was able to escape to his small room on the first floor. The window faced south, overlooking the gardens which lay behind the close. The room was simply furnished with a bed and table but it was cosy, as Mrs Baird had lit a small fire earlier. A set of golf clubs leaned on the wall in one corner. Scougall’s copy of Blair took pride of place on the cabinet by his bed. He recalled the gently mocking words of MacKenzie when he had introduced him to Sir Lachlan in the Periwig:

  ‘Davie is one of the fortunate disciples of our learned friend Mr Hugh Blair, author of that most loquacious of legal tomes, and considered by some poor souls, as the notary’s Bible, The Art and Style of the Scottish Writer.’

  A few other books, mostly theological and legal texts, had been placed carefully on the table where Scougall seated himself and, having lit a candle, broke the seal of red wax and opened the letter.

  He did not recognise the hand.

  It was not from his master.

  Libberton’s Wynd

  16 May 1686

  Dear Mr Scougall,

  Just a short note to inform you of my findings today. I met with my friends Jean Guthrie and Margaret Oliphant for we had arranged to visit some of Edinburgh’s shops. All the talk, as you can imagine, was of Sir Lachlan and Mr Jossie and my friends were intrigued to learn that my father and you were on the killer’s or killers’ trail. I hope you are not offended, but I turned our conversation towards jewellery saying that I admired a particular brooch I had seen – the brooch you described to me. Good news, Mr Scougall! Miss Oliphant has seen the very same in John Nisbet’s shop in Bell’s Wynd. We were most excited by this discovery and at once made for his shop, where we found a range of such brooches in different sizes being sold at a reduced price of 5 shillings – the jeweller bemoaned the fact that they had not sold well. He remembers only two being bought: one by a soldier, a young man in his twenties – he does not know his name – and the other by an elderly woman.

  I hope this information proves useful.

  Your affectionate friend,

  Elizabeth MacKenzie

  Scougall read the letter over again in rising excitement. The details about the brooch invigorated him; even more so, that it was from Elizabeth. He must write a reply immediately and send it tomorrow morning. He rummaged around until he had found a sheet of paper and began to write with his quill.

  CHAPTER 19

  Sir Lachlan’s Funeral Cortège

  AN HOUR AFTER sunrise, around two hundred men and women had gathered in the Canongate outside the house of John Smith. Scougall and MacKenzie stood near the front door, trying to keep warm by stamp
ing their feet on the ground. Behind them was a gallimaufry of onlookers – lawyers, merchants, servants, artisans and a rabble of beggars hoping to profit from the munificence of the young chief, for it was the custom that the poor were to be provided for at such times. In the crowd were some who had known the deceased and others who had never heard of him until his untimely death. However, they had all risen early to witness the spectacle of the clansmen of Sir Lachlan, the nobility of a Highland clan, the MacLeans of Glenshieldaig, collecting the body of their dead chief to escort him back to the clan lands for burial.

  The crowd was silent, mesmerised by the sight of thirty mounted Highlanders in tartan plaids of different colours, which gave them the look of another world against the plain blacks and browns of the citizens of Edinburgh. Each clansmen had a leather targe flung over his back and a long broadsword hanging by his side.

  Hector MacLean and his sister emerged from the doorway, both dressed in Lowland clothing. They acknowledged MacKenzie and Scougall and other friends. Then the coffin appeared behind them, carried by six tartan-clad men, and was placed on a simple wooden cart. Coins were distributed to the city’s poor by Hector’s men. Hector himself, his sister and the coffin-bearers mounted their horses and led the strange party up the High Street towards the Netherbow Port and then turned right onto Leith Wynd.

  When the cortège had disappeared, Mr Primrose emerged from the throng and came over to greet MacKenzie and Scougall.

  ‘Gentlemen, may I have a few words?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Primrose,’ said MacKenzie.