by Douglas Watt
Archibald Stirling’s face exuded worry from every pore. He was still thinking about the case and the reaction of the Lord Advocate if he had discovered nothing by the time of his return to Edinburgh. His wife’s mood was also a concern. She did not understand why he had to make this sudden journey to the other side of the country. The only thought that brought him some cheer was that he was following in the footsteps of his hero. James Graham, the great Marquis of Montrose, had led a miraculous military campaign through the Highlands in 1644 and 1645.
‘You appear ill at ease, Mr Stirling,’ said Primrose. ‘Take heart. I have heard that the Highlands are not as painful as many believe.’
Stirling smiled. ‘The worries of a professional man, Mr Primrose. I have travelled through the Highlands many times and my impressions have generally been favourable. When I was your age, I was employed often by the Campbells of Glenmore, and made many visits to their residences.’
‘I have heard the family has now fallen on hard times,’ interjected Hope.
‘That is correct – my client Sir Colin was little concerned with the management of his estates. All he desired was to secure a peerage from King Charles. He aspired to become a viscount or a marquis, believing that the family had reached such power and standing it deserved to be recognised. Sir Colin became so obsessed that everything was directed towards this end.’
‘Vanity affects all such families. I believe that many years ago Sir Lachlan had hopes of a baronetcy,’ said Hope.
The Crown Officer appeared to ignore him.
‘Much of my work for Glenmore was taken up with the demands of this issue. When I think of the number of letters I had to write, each carefully making the case on behalf of Sir Colin and sent to scores of aristocrats and anyone who had interest at the Court in London. Despite all my efforts, he never secured anything. But I made money, as all good lawyers do. Sir Colin always told me each time I arrived in the Highlands – he rarely travelled to Edinburgh – that all he waited for in this life was a letter with good news from the King. I suppose much legal work, like so much human effort, is worthless.’
‘Come now Mr Stirling,’ said Hope, ‘Let us not be cast down by melancholia on such a night. Like Mr Primrose, this is my first journey out of the Lowlands. Put such thoughts of woe from your mind and tell us something of your experiences so that we may be prepared for life at Glenshieldaig.’
‘As I said, gentlemen, I was young. On my visits to Sir Colin all manner of sports were possible and I am sure the same will be the case at Glenshieldaig. Sir Colin’s boat was given to us for fishing expeditions on Loch More. We also hunted in the mountains, but I am not skilled with either gun or bow and I had little success. The hunts were great gatherings: the chief, hundreds of clansmen and many of the neighbouring clans came together to kill and feast.’ Stirling paused, then added, ‘Sir Lachlan was a great man for hunting too, I believe.’
The three men fell silent and sat sipping their drinks until Primrose at last spoke: ‘Mr Stirling, it pains me much to return to the subject, but have you learned anything significant about the killing of Sir Lachlan?’
‘The affair appears as dark as ever,’ said Stirling morosely, ‘though my waking hours are spent on nothing else. The other night the ghastly faces of Sir Lachlan and Jossie appeared in my dreams. I have so little to go on. The disappearance of Glenbeg places suspicion on that scurrilous man, but I have no evidence of his involvement. It is no wonder my Lord Advocate grows weary. The Privy Council is now putting much pressure on his lordship, who then applies it to me. I have no appetite for such affairs at my age, gentlemen. Indeed, if I could afford to, I would retire as soon as this case is ended. I only hope that Mr MacKenzie has been luckier than I in his endeavours.’
‘Why does MacKenzie meddle in such affairs? He is, after all, a potential suspect, as is his cohort, Mr Scougall,’ said Hope. The minister’s voice betrayed a degree of resentment that he would have preferred to hide.
‘He is an honourable man and he acts with the authority of the kin of Sir Lachlan. I am glad of his work. He goes at it with a passion,’ Stirling responded.
‘In my opinion the most likely agent of the destruction of Sir Lachlan is Glenbeg,’ Hope said. ‘I have heard an interesting tale from a parishioner, who tells me that Glenbeg has been accused of murder before. On the Continent, after a commission had taken over his lands because of the miserable state of his finances, he became associated with an extreme group of sectaries known as the Children of Christ. They were convinced the apocalypse was imminent and that they had been chosen by God to proclaim the closeness of the event to the rest of mankind.’
The minister looked round the tavern to make sure they were not being listened to and lowered his voice.
‘The details are sparse. Glenbeg was rescued by them following a grotesque period of debauchery. He was taken into their community destitute and provided with food and shelter. At some point thereafter he was converted to the cause, if only to secure some bread, and roamed the United Provinces preaching the end of the world. One night a member of the sect was accosted by a drunken soldier. Glenbeg was nearby. He withdrew the dirk he still carried with him and was on the soldier in an instant, stabbing the man in the stomach. He proceeded to tear the fellow’s neck with his teeth. Glenbeg had to flee the local jurisdiction and leave his beloved brethren. Eventually he made contact with some clansmen who secured his return to Scotland. Since then he has begged his way round old acquaintances like Sir Lachlan, who were always too generous to the rascal.’
‘I fear that such a tale cannot be used as evidence in our courts,’ said Stirling.
‘I have heard a similar story, Mr Stirling,’ Primrose interjected, ‘and I’m sure there must be something in this. A man who can rip out another’s throat could murder again.’
‘Perhaps you are right,’ replied the Crown Officer.
‘Now, gentlemen, it grows late and we must rise early tomorrow for we depart at sunrise. I suggest we take to our beds,’ said Primrose, yawning.
CHAPTER 27
MacGregors
SCOUGALL SAT ON an animal fur beside a raging fire. This, presumably, was the ‘bed’ referred to by the MacGregor chieftain. Despite the warmth of the fire that crackled with considerable ferocity only a few feet away, he still felt chilled to the bone. The thought of the knife on his neck would not leave him. As he stared into the flames he thanked God for his deliverance, but cursed himself for agreeing to the journey in the first place. And now he was in the company of the most lawless clan of them all! And Alistair MacGregor was a client of MacKenzie! He looked at the Highlanders around the fire drinking and feasting on some kind of meat, apparently celebrating a good price for their cattle at the market in Falkirk.
The MacGregor chieftain and MacKenzie, who had been deep in conversation in Gaelic a little distance from the fire, came to join him.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ Alistair MacGregor began, ‘it has been a close shave but you will soon feel better.’
‘Thank you, Alistair. I have been travelling the drove roads to Ross-shire for over thirty years and this is the first occasion I’ve been attacked in this manner,’ said MacKenzie, his usual sparkle of good humour missing.
‘It will take time to recover – these men were sent to kill you. It seems you have upset someone.’
‘Are you familiar with the details of Sir Lachlan MacLean’s death?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘News has reached us that he was poisoned, but the culprit remains unknown.’
‘Mr Scougall and I have been on the trail of the killer – and we are now getting close for he, or she, has decided to destroy us as well. This is most disturbing, but at the same time it is an incentive. I am sure we are near to finding the identity of the murderer.’
‘I have many spies in the Highlands, John, they will listen for intelligence. We had been trailing your attackers for a number of days. Such men are easy prey for us. If they have stolen a few cattle from a Lowlan
d landowner, we will take them for ourselves. It is the way of things here, Mr Scougall. Feumaidh na fithich fhèin a bhith beò, as we say in Gaelic – the ravens themselves must live.’
‘Who were the caterans?’ Scougall at last broke his silence.
‘Ah! I see your assistant does speak!’ said MacGregor, a half smile on his lips. ‘Their life is one of wandering from glen to glen, seeking what they can,’ he continued. ‘Sometimes they venture into the Lowlands where they make cattle raids or take whatever else they can lay hands on. They were tenants once, or followers of a particular chief, but have lost all claim to tenancy or have been banished from their clan. The government in Edinburgh believes we MacGregors are broken men, but we still survive as a kin despite being harried by the Clan Campbell these last two hundred years. Some of us have even been forced to change our names and till the lands of the hated Campbells. Others, like ourselves, roam these lonely glens and make of life what we can.’
He broke off and looked closely at the young notary, as if to discern what impression his words were making.
‘Mr Scougall, it is too easy to judge these caterans by your Lowland standards. Life in the Highlands is difficult. As you see, the land produces little. Rain and wind are our constant companions. And some of us have been slow in changing. We have not followed clans like the MacKenzies and the Campbells into the Lowlands to the very heart of government and the law. We cling to the old ways.’
MacGregor turned to address MacKenzie.
‘John, many of your clansmen are now rich lawyers in Edinburgh – a number are notaries; a few, like yourself, are advocates; some like Rosehaugh have achieved even higher positions. This has given your clan many advantages. But we MacGregors have not followed this path, partly because of persecution, and also because we have our pride. We care not for Lowland ways. We wish our children to speak Gaelic and to be educated at our own schools – not in the Lowland burghs. But the story of the MacGregors is indeed a long and sorry one, and I fear Mr Scougall is perhaps not in the mood for Highland history.’
The MacGregor chieftain indicated that he wanted a word with MacKenzie in private. The two men moved away from the fire and their conversation continued in Gaelic. Scougall did not understand the words that he could barely hear.
It was now pitch dark and most of the clansmen were at the fire. Scougall looked around nervously and was relieved to see a number of men posted to keep watch.
‘Don’t be concerned, Mr Scougall,’ said MacGregor, who had returned to sit beside him. ‘My men have keen ears and caterans would not dare risk making an attack on us, even for two thousand pounds!’
Bowls of brose were passed to them. Scougall forced himself to eat despite his lack of appetite.
MacKenzie was right, he thought, this attempt on their lives showed the killer was scared.
‘It is the custom that our bard should provide entertainment after a meal. Are you a Gaelic speaker, Mr Scougall?’
‘I speak not one word, sir.’
‘Then I will translate for you. Sit close beside me and as he recounts the story I will whisper the words in English into your ear.’
CHAPTER 28
Arrival at Glenshieldaig
FORTUNATELY THE JOURNEY thereafter was uneventful. The following day they reached Blair Castle, where they spent a comfortable night, although MacKenzie’s client, the Marquis of Atholl, was not in residence. The next morning they left before dawn and made good progress. They caught up with the chief’s cortège in the late afternoon. In the evening they set up camp by a deep loch below precipitous mountains, and there they were joined by Hope, Primrose and Stirling with two Highland guides who had taken another droving route from the south.
The expanded party continued through the high mountains of the West Highlands. Scougall was still tense and taciturn, even with his fellow Lowlanders. But as the impact of the incident with the caterans began to fade in intensity, he became more aware of the bleak beauty of his wild surroundings.
At last they reached the top of the pass. Before them lay waves of hills descending to the sea, and, towards the horizon, the silhouettes of islands with their own high peaks. Scougall gazed in amazement – he had seen nothing like it before. In the far distance he could just make out a black castle on what looked like a small island near the shore.
‘What is that?’ he asked MacKenzie, pointing to it.
‘That is the end of our journey, Davie – Glenshieldaig Castle. You are very fortunate, for most do not see it for the first time in such fine weather. It is indeed a magnificent vista from this vantage point.’
‘How old is the castle, sir?’
‘Hector, I am sure, can give you a full history.’
The young chief was standing beside the two lawyers, staring mournfully towards the sea. He spoke curtly, without looking at Scougall.
‘It was built by the Lord of the Isles and came into the hands of MacLean of Duart at a later date, and then to our family. My father made many alterations to the structure and spent a pretty penny on making it comfortable. Henryson travelled all the way from Edinburgh to paint the ceilings, which are regarded as the finest in the West Highlands. My father bought exquisite hangings from the Continent and furniture from England, France and Holland. Unfortunately the lands are mortgaged to the hilt.’
Hector abruptly mounted his horse and trotted to the front of the cortege to join his sister and clansmen. MacKenzie and Scougall remained at the rear in the company of Primrose, Stirling and Hope as they slowly proceeded down the track towards the sea. None of the Highlanders spoke as a mark of respect for their dead chief’s return to his ancestral home.
It took them two hours to reach the machair. Scougall noticed that this area of flat grassland beside the sea was home to what seemed like hundreds of wild flowers. The air was full of birdsong. The local people assembled to witness the return of the chief stood at the side of the muddy track, heads bowed in silence as the party passed with the body of Sir Lachlan, then joined the procession that slowly wound its way along the shore towards Glenshieldaig Castle. Scougall’s attention was taken by the aspect of these folk; dressed in dark plaids, they paid their respects in what he regarded as a most dignified way, only a few children breaking the silence.
They passed through a small township. Scougall was fascinated by the simple dwelling places: stone walls perhaps only five feet high, low wooden doors and two tiny windows beneath peat roofs.
At last the castle came into clearer view. It was built on a rocky islet perhaps a hundred yards from the shore. Reached by a narrow causeway, it was in essence a stone keep – a defensive block of stone with no windows, only the odd arrow slit in irregular positions. Its architecture forcibly impressed on Scougall that violence was still at the heart of life here. For him, the castle’s stark walls of black stone recalled the cold metal of the cateran’s dirk.
When Hector MacLean and his kinsmen reached the causeway they halted their horses and waited silently for a few minutes. The gate of the castle was opened and a woman dressed in black appeared. She walked slowly towards the coffin. At a distance, the gracefulness of her bearing caused Scougall to imagine she was young. As she came closer, however, he realised she was older but nevertheless beautiful, with long dark hair falling to her shoulders. She embraced her son and daughter and greeted her husband’s kinsmen; then, bowing her head in the direction of the coffin, she turned and retraced her steps back towards the castle. The procession followed her, the sound of hooves echoing on the stone.
When she reached the castle the gates were opened fully and the cart bearing Sir Lachlan’s body, followed by thirty horsemen, entered the courtyard.
The rest of the clan remained on the other side. Scougall walked across behind MacKenzie, his eyes cast down, observing the rock pools and black seaweed in the shallows. He was reminded of carefree days on the beach near his home. How far he had travelled in the space of a few weeks.
CHAPTER 29
The Gr
eat Hall of Glenshieldaig
THE HUGE TAPESTRIES depicting Biblical scenes hanging from the walls of the Great Hall of Glenshieldaig Castle took Scougall’s thoughts back to the night when Sir Lachlan had been killed, when they had all sat around Smith’s oak table, playing cards. The ceiling in Sir Lachlan’s Edinburgh lodgings was decorated in a similar manner. Scougall felt guilty. He had been the only one not to drink more than a glass of wine and should have been able to give MacKenzie at least one detail which would help to provide an answer to this dark puzzle. If only he could remember more clearly the events of that evening. He shut his eyes and took himself back to his arrival at the tenement. He remembered following MacKenzie up the stairs to the third floor; knocking on the door; Sir Lachlan welcoming them both warmly; walking through to the chamber; sitting beside Primrose; listening as Sir Lachlan praised his lawyers for their success in the Session.
A nudge from MacKenzie startled him and he opened his eyes. For an instant he forgot where he was, as if awoken from a deep sleep, and spoke out loudly: ‘The answer lies at the table in Smith’s house!’
MacKenzie held the elbow of his young friend until Scougall regained his composure, the redness of his cheeks betraying his embarrassment. MacKenzie indicated they were to walk forward and Scougall followed him. They had been waiting in a line to greet Sir Lachlan’s widow, who stood beside the coffin in the chapel off the Great Hall – a small windowless room with a vaulted ceiling, whitewashed walls and a few silver candles. Scougall was relieved by the simple appearance – no suggestion of popery! Sir Lachlan’s coffin seemed to take up the greater part of the room, just like the chief himself. Larger than life, even in death.
MacKenzie embraced Tibbie MacLean and beckoned Scougall forward. The young notary was ill at ease, unsure what to say to the chief’s wife. But before he could ponder too long, MacKenzie had introduced him and he found himself being embraced by a tall woman who was older than his mother, but whose startling brown eyes had an alluring power.
