Death of a Chief

by Douglas Watt

  ‘Life is a strange game, Mr Scougall!’

  Glenbeg’s skeletal hand began to rise towards Scougall, who was transfixed by the hideous apparition. The Campbell was no longer wearing Lowland breeches and jacket but was clad in a dark green plaid tied with a leather belt around bony hips. From it, a Highland broadsword hung, the golden handle reflecting the candlelight. Scougall’s mind flashed back to their previous meetings: the silent figure at Sir Lachlan’s gaming table, the hunted man in the drinking den in Perth where he had confessed to committing murder. Scougall was now convinced that Glenbeg was Sir Lachlan’s killer – there could be no doubt. But why was he roaming the gloomy passageways of Glenshieldaig castle during the night? Was he, Davie Scougall, notary public, to meet his end here in this dank stairwell? Were all his hours at the writing desk a preparation for this pathetic exit?

  The gaunt Highlander’s hand reached his ear. A forefinger moved down the side of his cheek. Scougall felt the long nail against the bristles on his face. Glenbeg smiled.

  A finger was on his nape – then a hand slid round his neck. Glenbeg began to tighten his grip, the cheerless grin still in place, his eyes cold and deadly. The other hand rose and joined the act of strangulation. Scougall finally put his hands up to resist but the old Highlander was too strong for him. He felt his grip on consciousness start to ebb away.

  Then he was aware of someone singing a Lowland air his mother had sung to him when he was a boy.

  Sae gently I staw tae ma bonnie maid’s chamber,

  And rapped at her windae, low doon on ma knee;

  Beggin that she would awauk frae sweet slumber,

  Awauk frae sweet slumber an pity me.

  The pressure on his neck was suddenly released and Glenbeg was past him and disappearing round the next bend in the staircase. Scougall’s back slid down the outside wall and he ended up sitting on a stone slab. The large smiling face of Mr Hope loomed into sight.

  The notary thanked God for the fat minister.

  CHAPTER 33

  A Nightcap

  ‘JOHN, I’M SORRY to summon you at this late hour,’ began Stirling, ‘but I have important news. George Scott has been spotted in Dunkeld. A note he sent from there to Ann MacLean has been intercepted. If I may quote briefly from the first line of the letter: My dearest Ann, now that your father is no longer here to thwart…’

  MacKenzie took a seat at the fire beside the Crown Officer. He was tired but knew it would take him a long time to sleep tonight: there was so much to think about and the discovery of the forgeries had exhilarated him. The pit was far off – out on the edge of his mind where he wanted it to be. Strenuous business kept those feelings at bay. The darkness would not come tonight, of that he was certain.

  ‘I’m sure we have the killers, John. The contents of this note and the brooch you found at Jossie’s shop are evidence enough. The motive is clear – Sir Lachlan stood in the way of their marriage. He would settle no tocher on his daughter if she wed George Scott. With the chief out of the way, a financial arrangement is possible with Hector. I have sent orders for Scott to be arrested and I intend to detain Ann MacLean after the funeral. Glenbeg it would seem is innocent.’

  Stirling’s feeling of grim resignation had gone; he was going to tie up the loose ends of the case and return home. He handed the note to MacKenzie, who read it quickly.

  ‘Archibald, I fear the evidence is not conclusive,’ he warned the Crown Officer. ‘This letter from Scott is but a statement of fact and not a confession. Also, I have intelligence that the brooch I found can be bought in John Nisbet’s shop for five shillings. It hardly seems the kind of piece to be worn by a lady who holds herself in such high esteem.’

  ‘It seems clear enough to me, John!’

  ‘Archibald, you must remain calm. I am sure we are very close to the end of the search. Give me one more day before you take any action. Keep your eyes on me at the funeral tomorrow. When I leave the graveside, follow me, but remain at a distance. If my suspicions prove correct, we will discover the identity of the killer.’

  As MacKenzie rose to leave, he noticed a manuscript book on the table by the fire.

  ‘I see you still work on your History. Did you know that I actually saw Montrose at Inverness in May 1650, after his capture – he was on a small horse with his feet fastened beneath wearing an old red plaid. The whole town turned out to see him. He was offered wine at the mercat cross but asked for water. I will never forget it – a great man.’

  The subject of his hero animated Stirling.

  ‘You must put your memories on paper so that I can use them, John. We all need heroes, especially during these troubled times – a leader to inspire us.’ The Crown Officer thought of the lean figure of Rosehaugh. Such a man did not engender love or loyalty. ‘Yes, John – ten years’ effort so far.’

  ‘When do you hope to publish?’

  ‘Soon – when I find time for a little more revision. I must review certain parts of the narrative; revisit some of the main characters; delve deeper into the well of motivation.’

  MacKenzie reflected that if his old friend could apply such passion to the real world he would make a fine Crown Officer. But he knew only too well the alluring power of books – how a happier life could be led within the confines of literature. He understood the fascination of disentangling the mysterious web of history.

  ‘I look forward to reading it very much, Archibald. It will be a great achievement. The one by which you will be remembered.’

  CHAPTER 34

  Sir Lachlan’s Funeral

  SCOUGALL STOOD IN the courtyard of the castle feeling wretched; his head was pounding and his body leaden with intense weariness. He cursed himself for drinking so much whisky. He should have known it could only result in humiliation. Why had he not stopped after the first toast? Was there not the example of his uncle? And now he had suffered the indignity of having to be roused by his master. After knocking on his door without answer, MacKenzie had pushed it open and found him slumped on his bed, fully clothed and barely able to move.

  Losing control made Scougall hate himself. How was he to attend a funeral in such a state? His hair was uncombed, his jacket and breeches crushed and his eyes red. He rubbed his neck and thought of the cold hands of Glenbeg tightening like a vice. A cup of warm milk was all that he could stomach for breakfast. He begged God for forgiveness.

  The courtyard was full of mourners preparing to follow the coffin to the family tomb. MacKenzie was speaking to Tibbie MacLean. He looked none the worse for their late night. Scougall had blurted out the tale of his horrific encounter with Glenbeg, the attempt on his life and the divine intervention of Mr Hope, but MacKenzie seemed to take these revelations with remarkable equanimity, merely asking him to hurry or they would be late.

  The chief’s widow was listening intently to MacKenzie and she looked worried. Hector MacLean stood solemnly some distance away. He was now the chief of Glenshieldaig, but the title had brought little wealth or happiness. Estate policy was everything to him.

  Ann was standing behind her brother. Scougall noticed her resemblance both to Sir Lachlan and his wife; she was beautiful but also haughty and he found this unattractive. It was difficult to believe she was capable of two murders, but she and Scott would not be the first lovers in history to be driven to commit such acts.

  His gaze shifted to the other side of the courtyard, where the two Edinburgh lawyers, Primrose and Stirling, were deep in conversation. Primrose was not a likeable man, thought Scougall, despite his fine coats, good looks, eloquence and prospective marriage to the Earl of Boortree’s daughter. There was something calculating in his demeanour – such a man was surely capable of anything – but he had no apparent motive and he was known as a scrupulous lawyer. Primrose turned to address Mr Hope, who had just arrived. Scougall reflected that before meeting MacKenzie he would not have believed a man of the church could be implicated in such a crime, but the interview with Hope after Sir Lachlan’s death
, in which he had confessed so readily to fornication and duplicity, had raised doubts in his mind, although the minister’s intervention last night had altered his opinion somewhat. Hope had practically carried him back to his chamber and deposited him on his bed.

  Or was it Glenbeg? Scougall was suddenly struck with doubt. Had he only dreamt about their meeting on the stairwell?

  He observed Sir Lachlan’s two men beside the wooden cart on which the chief’s coffin rested. They had been drunk on the night of the murder. They were ugly, shiftless looking creatures, uncivilised and godless, speaking only the barbaric Gaelic tongue. Scougall’s eyes wandered round the others in the courtyard: kinsmen of Sir Lachlan, neighbouring chiefs, lairds and tenants. The faces of all took on a greyish hue under the overcast sky. He began to feel worse and shut his eyes. His forehead was glistening with cold sweat. It was important to clear his mind. He must think of the goodness in people. Despite the attack by the caterans, he had met with goodwill and genuine hospitality on his journey through the Highlands and at Glenshieldig Castle. MacKenzie was right. He must dispel the prejudices of his upbringing and adhere to arguments based on reason. But then the cadaverous features of Campbell of Glenbeg came into his mind again – the skeletal hands at his throat – the reek of his breath.

  Scougall opened his eyes – a chink of blue was visible in the sky and he felt momentarily cheered. Everyone began to line up behind the cart on which the coffin rested. At the front of the procession were Tibbie with her son and daughter, then kinsmen of Sir Lachlan, followed by other chiefs – at the back were friends and Lowland guests. MacKenzie appeared at his side.

  ‘Come this way, Davie. We will walk with Mr Primrose and Mr Stirling.’

  The cart was pulled slowly out of the courtyard by a pair of black horses. The mourners followed through the wooden gates and across the causeway. A large crowd was waiting at the other side: the people of the clan, vassals and tenants of every rank, who had come to say a final farewell to the father of their family. Scougall was again surprised by the size of the throng, there were over a couple of thousand present to pay their last respects. As the cart passed through them, he heard women weeping and wails of despair. The procession proceeded up a dirt track for a mile or so then descended a small incline to the burial ground, where views opened up inland towards the peaks of the great mountains of the western Highlands and out to the islands of the west.

  Hector MacLean and five clansmen lifted the coffin onto their shoulders and slowly moved it towards a finely carved tombstone. Scougall tried to make out the inscription but he was too far away. A churchman emerged from the crowd and began a prayer in Gaelic. The words seemed to merge with the wind as the coffin was lowered into the ground. The Gaelic flowed from his mouth, invoking God to look after the soul of Sir Lachlan.

  Mourners came forward to pass on their condolences to the close family. Scougall lost sight of Hector MacLean and his sister in the crush around the graveside. Was Glenbeg there in the crowd? Scougall’s eyes nervously darted from face to face.

  Suddenly he felt a hand on his elbow.

  ‘Davie, I must talk with you.’

  MacKenzie started to lead him back towards the castle. The sound of the pibroch filled the air with a haunting elegy for the dead chief. Scougall looked back and spotted the solitary figure of Ann MacLean heading in the same direction as they were. His steps faltered.

  ‘We have no time to lose, Davie. We must return as fast as we can to the castle.’

  ‘But what of Sir Lachlan’s funeral, sir? Surely we cannot leave. It would be ill-mannered and we have come so far.’

  ‘All eyes are upon the graveside. We must act now.’

  ‘But, who…?’ began Scougall.

  Without giving an answer, MacKenzie ran up a small hillock. Scougall followed in confusion. He had to stop beside the first tree to retch, spitting a mouthful of yellow bile onto the ground. By an effort of pure willpower he forced himself to run on, catching up with MacKenzie at the bottom of the field which led on to the causeway.

  ‘What are we doing, sir?’

  ‘I have no time to talk now,’ panted MacKenzie. His face was bright red and he was breathing heavily. ‘Come!’

  Both men ran across the causeway towards the castle gates. At the far end MacKenzie stopped and leaned against the large wooden planks to catch his breath. He held his face close to the wood as if listening to the vibrations within the timber. Scougall reached the gates a few seconds later and also stood panting, the palms of his hands resting on his knees.

  ‘What is this madness, sir?’ he wheezed, now feeling slightly better; at least the run from the burial ground had cleared his head.

  ‘I have no time for conversation, Davie!’ MacKenzie stared at Scougall with an intense expression that he now recognised. There was a slight pulsing in the small bag under MacKenzie’s left eye.

  ‘Follow me, do not make any noise,’ he said in a peremptory tone.

  MacKenzie carefully pulled one of the gates open and they slipped into the courtyard, where the distant sound of the pipes reached them now and again with the wind. MacKenzie moved to the main entrance of the castle and opened the iron door. It made a rasping screech. They were quickly through, but stood frozen in the hallway listening for any sound from within.

  They began to move down a passageway to the right. As they crept along, Scougall’s attention was drawn to a line of portraits, the ancestors of Sir Lachlan peering down as if watching impostors.

  MacKenzie stopped and pointed towards the stair that led to the chamber where they had examined the contents of the casket. They inched their way round the spiral and onto the first floor of the castle. With a start, Scougall saw that his master held a small dagger in his right hand. It looked ridiculously ineffectual.

  They reached the door of the chamber and listened. Faint sounds reached them through the thick oak door. Scougall felt his heart pounding violently and began to sweat again as MacKenzie firmly pushed the door open and strode inside.

  CHAPTER 35

  A Conversation by the Fire

  A TALL FIGURE dressed in a long black cloak stood at the fireplace with his back to the door. As MacKenzie and Scougall entered, he thrust a roll of paper into the flames. A wooden casket fell from his other hand and smashed into pieces on the floor. The man turned and the handsome face of Mr Primrose greeted them. Scougall was dumbfounded. He had been convinced they would find Glenbeg in the room.

  ‘Mr Primrose, what are you doing here at such a time?’ he blurted out.

  ‘I could ask you the same question, Mr Scougall,’ replied Primrose. There was no hint of his usual charm.

  ‘Destroying the documents that we examined yesterday, Davie,’ said MacKenzie, his eyes fixed on Primrose.

  ‘But why should Mr Primrose do such a thing?’ Scougall’s voice was querulous with confusion.

  ‘Because Mr Primrose has come here to eliminate the evidence that indicates his responsibility for the murder of Sir Lachlan and the apothecary Jossie.’

  ‘I am intrigued, Mr MacKenzie, how you have come to the conclusion that I had any hand in these wretched acts. I fear that you are deluded.’

  ‘I can assure you, sir, my faculties are in order and I am under no delusions. The conclusion I have reached is thoroughly considered and rests on hard fact. The evidence I have found, with the help of Mr Scougall, has convinced me that you were responsible for both crimes.’

  Primrose stood motionless, his face giving nothing away.

  ‘From the first I have dismissed suicide as a possibility,’ MacKenzie continued. ‘Some conjectured that the problems which had afflicted Sir Lachlan over many years had risen to overwhelm him, but I had known him as a friend and had acted as his legal adviser since we were both young men. He was not remotely predisposed to take his own life. I noted that the documents in his chamber in Smith’s house were in a disturbed state, indicating that a hasty search had been made following his murder. The sound of an in
truder probably interrupted the killer’s search, for he was not, as we found out, the only one to return to John Smith’s lodgings that night. Our good Mr Hope came back for matters of quite a different nature. Unwittingly he became a key witness – the cloaked figure he saw on the stairs convinced me that Sir Lachlan’s death was indeed murder.’

  ‘I see you rest your so-called case on the word of a fornicating hypocrite and manufacturer of spurious herbal remedies.’

  ‘Hope may be a fool and an adulterer,’ said MacKenzie, ‘but he is not a murderer. He does not possess the ruthless nature of a killer and he had been secure in the knowledge that Sir Lachlan would keep his indiscretions secret.

  ‘Campbell of Glenbeg was viewed by some as the most likely candidate. He was a notorious drunkard and gambler. Gruesome tales clung to him like craws around a corpse, rumours which you yourself were eager to keep in fresh circulation. But I knew that Glenbeg was very close to Sir Lachlan, practically the only man to have stood by him. What motive would he have had to kill such a benefactor? A fit of drunken debauchery was suggested, but the state of Sir Lachlan’s chamber in Smith’s house did not indicate that kind of attack.

  ‘There were others present that night, but they had little motive and can easily be dismissed. Smith and his wife had hoped to marry their daughter to Hector MacLean. But was Sir Lachlan’s opposition enough to drive a canny Edinburgh burgess who had accumulated capital over many years to commit murder? I do not think so.

  ‘The chief’s two men might have killed their master in a drunken plot, but again, this seemed highly unlikely. Their families depended directly on Sir Lachlan’s patronage and evidence from the murder scene suggested that no irrational killing had occurred. At an early stage therefore, by a careful study of the characters, I had narrowed the field down to two men: yourself and Hector MacLean.’