Death of a Chief

by Douglas Watt

  CHAPTER 22

  A Few Words at Glenfarg

  SCOUGALL AND MACKENZIE travelled on through the rolling countryside. After a few hours a large loch appeared on their right with hills rising from the far bank. In the middle of the water was an island, on which stood a ruined castle surrounded by trees.

  ‘That was where Queen Mary was held captive after her deposition, Davie, and where she escaped from,’ said MacKenzie.

  ‘Then this is Loch Leven and those hills in the distance are the Lomond Hills,’ answered Scougall, who was delighted to see this place, which he had heard so much about.

  ‘Having escaped this prison, she found herself in another when she crossed the border into England – Queen Elizabeth was not welcoming,’ said MacKenzie.

  ‘But Mary would have reinstated the Papist religion in both Scotland and England.’ Scougall was always happy to discuss one of his favourite topics in Scottish history.

  ‘It has always amazed me, Davie, how human beings strive to divide themselves into different sects and how history, a subject which should educate us about the follies of the past, becomes another weapon in the wars of the present.’

  Scougall was unsure how to answer and remained silent until they reached a small settlement.

  ‘Where are we, sir?’

  ‘This is Glenfarg, Davie. We will rest in the inn for a short while and take some refreshment.’

  They dismounted and entered a two-storey dwelling house, which to Scougall’s eyes looked little different from the rest of the squat buildings in the small township. Once inside, he realised they were in a hostelry of a most basic kind. A decrepit innkeeper indicated with a grunt that they should sit down at one of the tables. The place was dark, dirty and stinking.

  ‘Now Davie, there are some other details I wish to share with you about the character and family history of Mr Primrose. You have already told me your impression of him – a fine lawyer with great prospects, perhaps prone to conceit. I disagree with none of this. He belongs to the family of Primrose of Culross, who have made their money over the last hundred years. His great-grandfather secured their fortune through trade with the Baltic in the time of King James; his grandfather advanced their wealth, becoming a moneylender to the nobility of King Charles and his father is still a man of substance, having preserved the family’s money during the Wars of the Covenant by recalling loans at a small loss and selling others before the country fell into civil strife and the market for credit collapsed. Many others less astute were ruined. Younger sons of the family were encouraged to pursue careers in the law. Primrose’s great-uncle became Clerk of the Privy Council and his uncle was a writer, like yourself, who gained the position of collector of fines from those in the Highlands who had protected the Clan Gregor. As a result he was very unpopular with that unlucky kindred, and with many other clans who had helped the MacGregors over the many years they were relentlessly pursued by the Campbells. Another uncle became an advocate and rose to the bench as Lord Dourobin. Some anticipate that Mr Primrose will eventually rise to become a judge like his uncle.’

  MacKenzie stopped to take a sip from the tankard of ale that had been placed in front of him by the innkeeper.

  ‘It is the history of every successful Scottish family since the Glorious Revolution of 1560 when our nation made its monumental break with Rome,’ interjected Scougall.

  ‘Yes, Davie,’ said MacKenzie, cutting him off quickly, ‘Now, let me continue. One of his great-uncles was passed over in the family succession. It was something of a scandal back in the ’20s. Walter Primrose was accused and convicted of being a warlock and committing abominable acts on horses. He was sentenced to be strangled and burned at the stake on the Castle Hill of Edinburgh, but he escaped from the Tolbooth the night before he was to be executed and was never heard of again. Many thought he had escaped abroad – others that he had fled to live the life of a broken man in the Highlands. Ever since his disappearance, tales have been told in Culross about his return, especially when a stranger is seen in the town. At the time this was a great calumny for such an ambitious family and it took many years for these events to fade from people’s memories – it perhaps accounts for their attempts ever since to play a very close political game. It may also explain the driving ambition of our Mr Primrose.’

  ‘Madness often skips a generation,’ Scougall said, delighted to hear that Primrose had some imperfection in his pedigree.

  ‘We now have a fuller picture of most of the characters under our scrutiny, although relatively little of Smith’s wife and daughter, who were both present in the house at the time of Sir Lachlan’s death. Smith’s own testimony states they remained in their chambers for the entire evening. Margaret Smith is the daughter of an East Lothian minister and known as a hard-working and devout woman. Her daughter is a girl of but twelve years. They were both interviewed by Stirling and their accounts do not differ from John Smith’s. Although we do of course know that Mrs Smith attended St Giles Kirk last night in an anguished state. Come, Davie, let us drink up.’

  MacKenzie left a few coins on the table and bid farewell to the innkeeper, who grunted an unintelligible reply. Once outside he stroked the back of his horse.

  ‘It now only leaves you and me, Davie. And I have already said I believe you are incapable of committing such a crime. Am I correct in my supposition?’ MacKenzie’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

  Scougall looked worried.

  ‘I think you are, sir. I admit that my family has had its sorrows. I have mentioned my uncle’s difficulties with drink and melancholia.’

  ‘All families have such problems, Davie. I could entertain you for hours with stories of Highland madness. My clan in particular seems to be plagued with such an affliction. It is not a thing to be feared, it’s all part of human nature. Nevertheless, there is one person we have not yet considered.’

  ‘Who is that, sir?’ asked Scougall.

  ‘Consider this. It is quite possible that I could have returned to Sir Lachlan’s lodgings, poisoned him and then killed the apothecary – quite possible. Mr Stirling has not made any detailed assessment of my whereabouts apart from our initial statements. Are you convinced I am innocent of the crime?’

  Scougall was surprised by the direction the conversation was taking.

  ‘I believe you played no part in these terrible events, sir.’

  ‘And on what basis have you formed this opinion?’

  ‘I just… know. I cannot prove it. It is of course possible you were responsible. I don’t think you were… I know you weren’t. You’re a fine lawyer, a clerk of the Session, many clients have placed their trust in you, you’re rich and successful and have a beautiful house and a… daughter,’ Scougall stammered, turning red.

  ‘Don’t worry, Davie. I am not guilty – unless I was possessed by a spirit which laid a cloak over my consciousness. But in any investigation you must learn to keep an open mind and cover all eventualities. Almost anything is possible in this world; that is what I have learned from many years in our law courts. Good men can be driven to do bad deeds, evil men do good ones. Keep that in your mind and think about me. What is my story? Could it explain that I am the murderer?’

  ‘I know enough to believe you are a good man. That is sufficient for me. I have faith in you as I have in God.’

  ‘Come,’ said MacKenzie as he mounted his horse, ‘I will entertain you with the story of my life as we ride down to Perth.’

  Scougall pulled himself into the saddle and they followed the track heading north out of the village. ‘I will not bore you with a history of the MacKenzie clan. Genealogies can easily become tedious if they are not your own, and a full description of the exploits of my kin would last the whole journey to Glenshieldaig. But do remind me to give you a manuscript which is in my possession covering the early history. My father, Roderick MacKenzie, was given the lands of Ardcoul by his father, the famous Roderick MacKenzie tutor of Kintail – my mother was a Chisholm. I was the thi
rd son of their marriage and was fostered with a neighbouring family at the age of seven, a practice which was then common in the Highlands. It was a great wrench to be taken from my mother.’

  MacKenzie was briefly lost in his own thoughts, remembering the ceremony that had taken place more than forty years before, when he had been presented to his foster parents: Gillecreist and Katherine MacKenzie. He had stood in his bedchamber in Ardcoul Castle, dressed in his finest shirt and breeches, while his mother, tears streaming down her cheeks, said her final goodbyes. At the time he had been too excited to think about missing her. He recalled riding proudly beside his father and kinsmen to the house of his foster parents, where a crowd was waiting for him – he had a wonderful feeling of importance, of being the centre of the world. He had stood silently, as instructed, listening to the old lawman sealing the contract in Gaelic, which was then laboriously translated into English and written down by his father’s notary. That evening a great feast had been held in his honour, followed by music, songs and stories. It had been the stories, some told by bards, others by clansmen of his father, that had most exhilarated him. They painted pictures of distant times, of battles and adventure. He had always loved such tales. And then the next morning he remembered waking in a strange bedchamber; finding himself part of a new family which spoke not one word of English.

  ‘I attended the burgh school of the Chanonry of Ross and at the age of fourteen was sent south to university at Aberdeen, where I spent four years before travelling to Leiden to study law. At first I hated Holland. I found it a dismal place after my student days in Scotland and the taste I had had of the joyous life of London on my way to the United Provinces. I detested the University of Leiden and was much affected by low spirits, but I made friends with my fellow students and a number of the Dutch and greatly enjoyed my travels in France and Italy after my legal studies.’

  ‘I have always wished to travel abroad, sir,’ said Scougall.

  ‘And one day you shall, Davie. On my return to Scotland I became an advocate in the Court of Session and pursued a career in the law. I married the daughter of a Fife laird and we had a daughter. But my wife died in childbirth and the following years were a time of great sadness Davie – the worst of my life. I was struck hard by melancholy, which did not lift for a long time and still afflicts me. I seemed to live life as in a dream. But I finally emerged from the pit, pulled out by the soft words of my daughter as she grew into a beautiful child. There you have it Davie, the story of my life. Probe deeper if you may.’

  Scougall was deeply moved by the personal details that MacKenzie had revealed to him and waited for a few minutes before posing a question.

  ‘Did not the promise of your wife’s eternal life provide you with some comfort during those dark days?’

  MacKenzie stopped his horse and Scougall was forced to do likewise.

  ‘No it did not,’ he sighed. ‘I have already told you I have little time for theology. By upbringing I am an Episcopalian, but I confess I have little love for bishops or presbyteries. I cannot fathom God’s purpose and believe that no one else can, even the mighty divines of the Church. I was more antagonistic towards them in my years of grief. It was not God who helped me but my young daughter and friends who made my life worth living.’

  Scougall was silent. He could not comprehend this viewpoint.

  ‘Alas, I see the question of religion troubles you Davie. I think, therefore, it is a subject we should avoid for the moment. Let your mind wander from such things and return to this world. Have you had any further thoughts upon the matter in hand?’

  Scougall was relieved to think about something else.

  ‘The accounts given by Sir Lachlan’s two men,’ said Scougall, ‘do they agree?’

  ‘Yes – they remember seeing the chief return to his chamber. They drank the rest of the wine and both slept soundly in the small room next to Sir Lachlan’s. I have spoken to them and they recall nothing remarkable about the evening. Nor, unsurprisingly, given the amount of drink they had consumed, did they hear anything until the morning.’

  ‘Is it possible that they were involved in the killing?’

  ‘Possible, but they had both served Sir Lachlan for more than twenty years. Duncan MacKenzie was his father’s servant and Gregor McIan a landless man who had followed him since the days of the Covenant. Their wives, children and grandchildren have quarters in Glenshieldaig Castle. The future of their families depended on Sir Lachlan. It is not clear what they could gain from such an act. Sir Lachlan was liked by his servants. He paid well and stood by them. Hector is unlikely to be so generous.’

  ‘This whole process is leading nowhere,’ said Scougall peevishly. He was beginning to feel tired and sore after their long journey on horseback.

  MacKenzie recognised his friend’s mood.

  ‘Davie, it has been a long day for you. We will soon be in Perth, where we can rest.’

  CHAPTER 23

  Dunkeld Cathedral

  ANN MACLEAN EMERGED from the inn beside the mercat cross of Dunkeld wearing a black cloak over a blue dress, her hair not tied up but left to fall on her shoulders.

  She wandered up a lane leading off the main street of the small burgh to a high set of iron gates, which she opened to enter the grounds of a large kirk. The cathedral was a huge structure for such a remote area of the country. The main part of the building was in a dilapidated state and most of the roof had collapsed. Ann thought how much the Reformers had to answer for – the destruction of beauty, all carried out by men. That vile Knox, the way he had treated his queen. She had attended mass in secret in London and their king was now an open Catholic – might she not find more peace in the old faith of Scotland? However, there was also an emotive grandeur in the ruinous state of the old kirk. Her eyes moved to the huge pine trees growing on the grassy bank and then to the mighty river.

  She made her way through the trees, stopping now and then to touch the bark of the vast creations, or to stand with her back to one, and stare directly upwards until she felt dizzy, watching the highest branches sway in the breeze. She reached the bank and looked on the Tay. The river was wide, deep and in spate, for it had been raining in the mountains to the north and west. Its power had a magical attraction for her. She stood bewitched by the dark waters tumbling past, reflecting on the fleeting mystery of life; she considered her father’s death and how the end of one life might, paradoxically, enhance and enrich another. She recalled the last words he had spoken to her: ‘Your mother will be pleased with the result – a picture of a real Highland laird to remember me when I am dead.’ His words had been prophetic, for the portrait painted of him by Henryson in Highland dress had turned out to be the last image of him. She felt a mixture of grief and annoyance which gave way to guilt. There were tears in her eyes.

  No wonder the men of old had built their church in such a place beside these vast trees and this great river. She wanted to watch the water forever; the countless eddies on the river’s surface, the turns and fluxes signifying to her the strange movements of fate.

  A salmon broke from the water not far from where she stood. For an instant she saw the long silver body of the fish before it fell back into the black river. The splash ended her reverie and she remembered why she was there. Smiling at her absentmindedness, she quickly retraced her steps through the pines to enter a side door of the ruined kirk.

  Light poured through the ribs of the roof, but some corners remained in darkness. She entered an area of shadow and found herself beside a tomb with a stone effigy of a knight lying on top of it. She could just make out the inscription in the gloom. It told her that the man buried there was the Wolf of Badenoch, an infamous member of the royal family, who had brought havoc to the Highlands hundreds of years before. She let her finger move from his spurs along his armoured leg and up to a stone thigh. What had this knight been like as a man?

  Suddenly she was grabbed by a figure who emerged from the shadows. A hand smothered her mouth. She
could not scream. Panic seized her and she struggled, but as her head fearfully turned to look at her assailant she met eyes she recognised, and, feeling his strong body against her, sought his lips. For a few moments they kissed and then emerged into the light beside the altar.

  George Scott spoke softly: ‘Are you sure no one saw you?’

  ‘I’m sure. All the men are resting after our journey from Perth. Most of the town came out to welcome us. I had forgotten how beautiful this place is, Geordie.’

  ‘Your brother would not be pleased by my presence here. Have you spoken to him yet?’

  ‘I tried to do so as we rode here today, but he was cold and brooding, as he has been since Father’s death. All he talks about are the finances of Glenshieldaig. He has said he must explore all possible avenues for raising money to save the House. I fear this means he wants to marry me to a local creditor, like my father did, or to the son of an English noblemen. Both prospects are vile to me, Geordie. I thought the destruction of my father would provide a more hopeful future for us – the prospect of a tocher if I married you. But my brother is becoming as stubborn as our father ever was! I do not know what we should do.’

  ‘Come, let us take a short walk.’

  Scott took her by the hand and led her out of the cathedral, looking around to make sure they were not being watched. They meandered through the trees. On the banks of the river he began to recite:

  When Tayis bank was blumit bricht

  With blossomes blyth and braid,

  Be that river ran I doun richt,