by Douglas Watt
‘Mr Scougall, thank you for travelling so far to pay your respects to my husband. I hope your journey was not too uncomfortable and you will return from Glenshieldaig with a favourable disposition towards life here.’
She spoke slowly, in a soft melodic voice, as if reminding herself how to speak in English.
Scougall was still lost for words. MacKenzie came to his rescue.
‘Tibbie, I am deeply sorry – he will be missed by many.’ MacKenzie paused. ‘I regret I must talk of business at such a time but I am sure that Hector has told you there is much to be done so that the affairs of the estate can be put in order. Mr Scougall and I are here as your servants and we would be very grateful if you could allow us to examine Sir Lachlan’s papers. As you know, a number of creditors cry out for money on the expectation that Hector will be a better payer than his father.’
Tibbie MacLean gave MacKenzie her hand, which he took and held between his own. ‘It is very good to see you again, John – it has been too long since you last visited Glenshieldaig. Mr Primrose will give you the key of the charter kist.’
They were directed forward by one of the servants. A painting of the dead chief had been placed on the coffin. The likeness was very good. Sir Lachlan stood in Highland dress with red and black chequered hose, a plaid of brown and red tartans hung over one arm. He wore a richly embroidered short jacket and a large black hat from which a single white feather drooped. A small dirk with jewelled handle was hanging from his belt and in his right hand was a long musket which rested on the ground. Scougall realised the chief had been painted in John Smith’s house, but the artist had transferred the setting to Sir Lachlan’s own bedchamber in Glenshieldaig Castle. At one side of the chief was a small table on which rested a book, a linen kerchief and a wine glass. On the other, behind the musket, was a window which opened onto a view of Highland hills; a few stags were just visible in the distance.
‘This is the painting Henryson completed on the afternoon of the murder,’ said MacKenzie, who moved forward to get a closer look, his eyes coming to rest on the table. He could just make out the words written on the leather cover of the book, ‘The Conquests of King Alexander’, while on the kerchief was a tiny embroidered insignia which appeared to be a galley, and on the side of the glass were the initials ‘LM’.
MacKenzie and Scougall were directed out of the chapel by a servant and found themselves back in the Great Hall with Hope and Primrose. The key of Sir Lachlan’s charter chest was provided by the young advocate who smiled as he passed it to MacKenzie.
‘I believe there will be much work required to establish order in the morass of Sir Lachlan’s papers – I bid you good luck, gentlemen,’ he said.
‘Come, Davie, we obviously have much to do. Let us make haste,’ said MacKenzie.
They walked down a long passage, up a narrow spiral stairway for two flights, and into a room which, when they lit their candles, revealed account books, ledgers and legal papers from floor to ceiling and a large kist at the far side. Placing the iron key in the lock, MacKenzie turned it with considerable difficulty and heaved open the top of the chest.
‘Now, Davie, the keen eyes of a young notary are required!’
‘But what are we looking for, sir?’
‘Ah! We will not know until we have found it! I suggest you take off your cloak and prepare for a long afternoon. Buinnigear buaidh le foighidinn – patience wins victory.’
MacKenzie divided the documents he removed from the chest into two groups.
‘There, Davie – one for you and one for me.’
There was only one small table and a solitary chair in the room. MacKenzie lifted up a bundle and placed them on the table. Scougall was forced to sit on the floor with his pile. He took the document from the top and began to read.
It was a long afternoon. Time passed at a snail’s pace. The two lawyers did not talk as they sat over the documents. Scougall’s thoughts drifted now and again to the grim face of Glenbeg or the cateran’s blade. MacKenzie was thinking about Tibbie MacLean thirty years before – she had been such a beauty – she still was.
The sun was low in the sky when Scougall sighed deeply and said, ‘I have found nothing out of the ordinary in any of these documents, sir. Every charter, instrument and bond appears as it should. I fear we are wasting our time here.’
‘Perhaps you are right. Even so, I still believe the documents that were disturbed in Sir Lachlan’s chamber in Edinburgh have some bearing on this case.’
CHAPTER 30
Refreshments in the Great Hall
TWO HOURS LATER they decided to abandon work for the night and made their way back to the Great Hall where kinsmen and guests seated at long wooden tables were enjoying an evening meal. The smell of roasted meats including beef, chicken, rabbit and venison was enticing. The room was aglow as the dark red tapestries seemed to exude the warmth of the raging fire. By the great stone fireplace sat Sir Lachlan’s family and the Lowland guests.
‘Welcome,’ said Tibbie MacLean. ‘Please be seated. I can see from your bleary eyes you’ve spent an hour too many on my husband’s documents. Forget legal business for a while and join us.’
MacKenzie and Scougall returned the greeting and took their seats.
‘I have already made a brief survey of Sir Lachlan’s papers and all appears in order,’ said Primrose before biting vigorously into a chicken leg.
‘Yes,’ replied MacKenzie, ‘Hector will succeed to the lands and dignities of Glenshieldaig without much delay.’
‘I’m afraid there is little dignity still attached to the House of Glenshieldaig! My father has left his estate in such an afflicted state. Unless I take action to remedy the situation, I will be unable to travel to Edinburgh again without fear of arrest,’ said Hector MacLean in a cold voice.
There was silence around the table for a few moments following the young chief’s outburst.
‘Have you found out anything further about my father’s murder?’ Ann MacLean directed her question to Mr Stirling rather than MacKenzie.
‘Our enquiries are continuing, my lady. Glenbeg has been spotted in Perth – it is only a matter of time before he is apprehended and questioned. He has few friends left in the Highlands.’
‘Please, Mr Stirling,’ interrupted Tibbie MacLean, her voice revealing her grief, ‘let us not talk of such things until my husband is laid to rest, especially not now, on the night before his funeral. I wish only to think of him as he was, and not dwell further on the terrible events in Edinburgh.’
‘I am sorry.’ Ann placed her hand on her mother’s and clasped it tightly.
The chief’s widow beckoned one of the servants to bring a large earthenware bottle to the table and filled everyone’s drinking vessels.
‘Gentlemen, join us in toasting my husband’s life.’
They all raised their quaichs and drank to the memory of the chief. Thirsty after his long session in the charter room, Scougall finished the contents in one go, only to lurch forward in a fit of coughing – his chest was on fire!
‘Davie! Another new experience for you – real Highland whisky!’
‘I thought it was wine. It is burning my very insides!’
Scougall took deep breaths until the urge to vomit diminished. He felt he was revealing himself as an imbecile at every turn.
‘I am deeply sorry my lady,’ he said, addressing Tibbie MacLean, ‘for degrading the memory of your husband.’
‘Do not worry, Mr Scougall – my husband would approve. He was always pleased to see a lawyer in difficulties,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘Now, gentlemen, an announcement! Mr Primrose has just informed us that he is to be married to the younger daughter of the Earl of Boortree.’
Primrose looked even more smug than usual.
‘A most beautiful and gentle creature. I am convinced she will make me a better man,’ he said with false modesty.
‘And her father’s influence will not hold back your legal career,’ said Hope.
‘She is a perfect match,’ Primrose simpered.
‘If only my children could be as fortunate – the issue of marriage has brought nothing but trouble to this house,’ Tibbie MacLean sighed.
Ann looked coldly at her brother, then away.
‘Do you have any plans to marry, Mr Scougall?’ Tibbie asked.
The image of MacKenzie’s daughter came into his mind.
‘I have begun to give it serious attention, yes.’ After downing the whisky he was in danger of becoming loquacious. ‘I am now four and twenty years old. I have devoted my entire life to the law…’
‘And golf,’ interjected MacKenzie. ‘He plays a better wood than any lawyer I know in Edinburgh.’
‘I must now consider marriage more seriously, for I can think of no more perfect union than that between man and woman under God…’ His habitual self-consciousness suddenly returned.
‘I had expected Mr Smith might also have travelled to Glenshieldaig,’ MacKenzie said, turning to Hope.
‘It appears he has received some bad news. His sister-in-law in Perth has died unexpectedly. Smith’s wife has taken it badly. They were very close. The burgess is unable to leave her at the moment.’
Scougall remembered their conversation with Glenbeg. Perhaps the lank Highlander was telling the truth and Peggy had misheard her master’s words. He looked at MacKenzie, who appeared to be deep in thought.
After the meal was finished and a number of further toasts drunk to Sir Lachlan, the MacLeans of Glenshieldaig and the MacLeans of Duart, Tibbie accompanied them to the door. Scougall was by now swaying slightly. A painting on the wall facing appeared to loom up towards him – another portrait of Sir Lachlan, but in early middle age. For the first time he realised that the chief had been a handsome, powerful man. There was no sign of the large bags under his eyes and his hair was dark brown rather than grey.
‘John, I think it may be of importance to mention to you that my husband kept another small box of documents in his private chamber. I am not sure of his reasons for doing so. Here are the keys. The casket can be found in the cabinet beside the bed,’ said the chief’s widow. She spoke in a low tone, her tired eyes and drawn face betraying the devastation of her loss.
‘Has anyone else had access to these keys, Tibbie?’ asked MacKenzie, staring intently at her.
‘No one. I only remembered its existence a few moments ago when…’
‘Tibbie, I would be pleased if you would not mention this casket to anyone else until I have had time to look through its contents.’
‘Of course.’
‘Do your children know anything of it?’
‘I am sure they do not, for my husband was careful in hiding it in his private chamber. I don’t think he ever talked about it with my son.’
Tibbie returned to her place at the table beside her son and daughter, who were deep in conversation.
‘Davie, our work is not yet over for the day,’ MacKenzie said urgently. ‘We must be quick before tiredness robs us of our faculties. Unfortunately you have partaken too liberally of the uisge-beatha – not an ideal preparation for the study of legal documents!’
‘I am perfectly well sir,’ slurred Scougall, ‘I am in complete command of my faculties.’ He almost tripped as he followed the advocate out of the Great Hall.
CHAPTER 31
The Contents of the Casket
SIR LACHLAN’S CHAMBER was an opulently furnished room at the top of the castle. The walls were covered with arras hangings of dark red, depicting hunting scenes. An ornately carved four-poster bed with a magnificent crewel-work bedspread was the central feature; the rest of the furniture comprised a number of chairs and a couple of small tables. A wooden cabinet in the Dutch style stood beside the bed. MacKenzie tried one of the tiny keys, but it did not fit and he used the second one. The door of the cabinet opened. Inside was a small casket, perhaps a foot in length, half as broad, and finely carved from the same wood as the bed.
Scougall stared down at the exotic carving on the lid of the casket. It seemed to represent a series of human bodies. He was shocked to discover that he was looking at a carnal entangling of a number of men and women. He was about to draw MacKenzie’s attention to the libidinous nature of the work of art, which was surely the creation of some depraved craftsman from the Orient, when the advocate slipped the small key into the lock and opened it to reveal a roll of parchment tied with a thin piece of leather. MacKenzie carefully loosened the thong and the coiled paper fell apart to reveal a number of separate documents.
Scougall’s attention wandered to a gruesome depiction of a wolf hunt on one of the hangings. He recalled with a frisson of fear that such beasts still roamed the hills around the castle.
MacKenzie laid six documents on the table at the foot of the bed. He looked down on the ochre parchments, focusing hard on each word.
‘Instruments of sasine relating to tracts of land purchased by Sir Lachlan,’ said Scougall, peering over his shoulder.
‘Very good, Davie.’
‘They appear to be adequate examples of the notary’s art. I can see nothing particular in them. Who was the writer?’
‘Gavin Hamilton, the clan notary of the MacLeans of Glenshieldaig who served Sir Lachlan for a generation. He died only a few years ago.’
Scougall glanced down again at one of the documents, checking that all the clauses were in order and then examining the witness list. Forgetting himself, he began to read the names of the witnesses: ‘Sir Lachlan MacLean of Glenshieldaig, John MacLean of Kinlochard, Sir Roderick MacKenzie of Ardcoul, Kenneth MacKenzie of Gairlochhead, Gavin Hamilton, notary public, dated the 12th day of October 1642 at Glenshieldaig.’
MacKenzie turned to him, his voice betraying his excitement.
‘Read the witness list again,’
Scougall did so, emphasising each word and trying not to slur.
‘That’s it!’ MacKenzie exclaimed.
‘What, sir?’ Scougall could discern nothing unusual in the list.
‘Sir Roderick MacKenzie of Ardcoul is my father – he died in 1639. This document is dated 1642! The instruments are forgeries! Well done, Davie Scougall! The whisky encouraged you to read aloud and it has jarred my mind into activity at this late hour. We must take them down to the charter room so we can compare the signatures.’
The room where they had spent the afternoon was now icily cold. The fire had burnt out. It was approaching midnight. The advocate’s fingers searched through the contents of the chest until he found the document he was looking for.
‘Davie, this instrument is dated 1638. Look at the witness list.’
Scougall read from the document: ‘Sir Lachlan MacLean of Glenshieldaig, John MacLean of Kinlochard, Sir Roderick MacKenzie of Ardcoul, Kenneth MacKenzie of Gairlochhead, Gavin Hamilton, notary public.’
‘Now, examine the signatures.’
MacKenzie placed the document from the casket beside the instrument from which he had just read. At first glance the signatures looked identical, but as Scougall’s eyes moved from one to the other he discerned subtle differences. The forger had made a good job.
‘What does all this mean, sir?’ he asked.
‘I am not quite certain yet. I must keep these papers with me tonight. I fear the forger might wish them destroyed. We will have to leave something else in their place. Have you any papers on you?’
‘Only some theological reflections I have copied from Grundy.’
‘Ah, your favourite author! Well, that will have to do.’
Scougall removed a wad of crumpled paper from his leather pouch and handed it to MacKenzie, who rolled it up carefully, tied it with the leather thong and placed it in the casket, which he returned to the cabinet.
‘Come, we must get some sleep. It has been a very long day and I suspect that tomorrow will be a testing one.’
When Scougall returned to his chamber he checked that the door was firmly bolted, then opened the small window and stuck out h
is head. Cool night air and the smell of the sea reminded him of his home in Musselburgh. It was a moonless night and he could not see the ocean, but he could hear the gentle lapping of the waves against the castle rock some fifty feet below.
After a few minutes he closed the window, lay on his bed and tried to make sense of the events of the day. Before he came to any conclusions, he had fallen asleep.
CHAPTER 32
A Late Guest Arrives
SCOUGALL WOKE SUDDENLY. The pain in his head was acute, his mouth as dry as he could remember. He must get some water!
He staggered to his feet and in the darkness tried to find the jug on the table at the other side of the room. His hand knocked into something which crashed to the ground and he felt coldness on his legs. He groaned – the water was spilt. It was the middle of the night and he could not call a servant in such a condition. He would have to make his way down to the kitchens to get some more.
He groped towards the door, found the bolt and was out into the corridor. At least a candle was burning on a metal bracket on the wall. His journey would not be in complete darkness.
He walked along a half-lit passageway until he reached the top of a stairwell and began to descend, fearful that he might slip on the damp stones that spiralled downwards.
He heard a sound. Unsure if it came from within his own head, he stopped and listened. Yes – he was sure – someone was climbing upstairs towards him, one of the castle servants perhaps.
Scougall resumed his descent – round and round the tight spiral of stairs, down and down.
A figure suddenly came into view. The pale face encased in a white periwig was unmistakable. Scougall gasped. It was Archibald Campbell of Glenbeg!
Glenbeg’s face in the ghostly half-light was terrifying. Scougall stood paralysed by fear.
‘Mr Scougall, we meet again!’ Glenbeg said coldly. He ascended until he was two steps below the young notary. The festering odour of alcohol wafted from the mouth of the wheezing Highlander into his face. Scougall thought he was going to vomit.
