by Douglas Watt
‘But what of Ann MacLean, sir,’ Scougall interrupted. ‘I was sure that I just caught sight of her leaving her father’s graveside alone.’
‘Davie, I will hazard a guess that she and George Scott are escaping to begin their new life together. I have observed that relations between Ann and Hector have become ice cold. Hector was as strongly against her marriage to Scott as his father had been. The lovers have reverted to the simple elopement they probably planned when Sir Lachlan was alive – a much less troublesome solution than committing double murder. I was also convinced on meeting Scott that he was a man of sound character.
‘There was little at first to indicate that you, Mr Primrose, could have anything to do with the killings,’ continued MacKenzie, his eyes fixed on the young advocate. ‘After all you were one of Sir Lachlan’s own lawyers who had acted for him over the last few years and had just secured a famous victory in the Session. However, I took it upon myself to examine the family history of all my characters. Genealogy may be a dry discipline, but there is much to commend it. The subject often provides the skeleton of history on which we can place the body of life. The story of your kin is typical of many Scottish families in this troubled century, but there were a few details which did make interesting reading, in particular the disgrace of your uncle in the 1620s and his subsequent disappearance.’
‘We have heard much conjecture, Mr MacKenzie, and you obviously set great store by your so-called “instinct” but you have provided no evidence,’ Primrose interrupted.
‘If you will allow me, Mr Primrose. Yesterday we saw the portrait of Sir Lachlan that was painted on the afternoon before his death displayed on his coffin. I must praise the skilful artistry of Mr Henryson, for he carefully recorded all the objects on the table beside Sir Lachlan’s bed on the afternoon before his murder. When I examined the table the next morning in the company of Mr Stirling we found Sir Lachlan’s favourite book, a wine glass and a plain white kerchief. The painting of Henryson clearly shows these three objects, but the linen kerchief is embroidered with a small sailing galley – the coat of arms of the MacLeans of Glenshieldaig. The one I had found had no such embellishment. However, the kerchief you used to wipe your jacket at Boortree House possessed an identical motif. I believe it possible, Mr Primrose, that in your haste to leave Sir Lachlan’s chambers you inadvertently picked up the wrong handkerchief. It was that same one you took from a pocket when you looked for something to mop up the wine. Not a conclusive piece of evidence, I agree, but certainly suggestive.’
Primrose looked relieved and burst into a whinnying laugh:
‘Really Mr MacKenzie, you will have to do better than that. I am to be convicted on the evidence of a mad uncle and a handkerchief which Sir Lachlan gave me as a gift?’
‘Oh no, sir, there is more – much more. The documents that Mr Scougall and I located in Sir Lachlan’s secret casket are the key to this mystery. Thanks to a little whisky we were able to determine that the instruments were forged. This gave me the chance to test my theory. Sir Lachlan and his son had been at loggerheads for years and as anyone well versed in Highland history will be aware, enmity between a chief and his son is common. Indeed it has led to a number of documented patricides. However, one clear piece of evidence indicated that he was not the killer. When Hector was told of the existence of the casket this morning Tibbie MacLean informed me that he was anxious that the contents should be given to me to examine. He was hardly likely to do so if he was the killer and knew they contained forgeries linked to his father’s murder. But while we waited in the courtyard before the coffin was carried to the burial ground, I asked Lady MacLean to inform you of the existence of the casket. I expected, if my suspicions were correct, that you would take advantage of the burial to destroy the forged instruments.’ MacKenzie halted his narrative for a few moments. ‘And here you are, Mr Primrose.’
‘Here I am Mr MacKenzie, and behold,’ Primrose smiled and pointed to the fire, ‘they have been cast into the eternal flames.’ He looked down into the grate where the smouldering remains could be seen. ‘I must compliment you on your pertinacity, albeit in the absence of proof. Your analysis is good on many points, but not in its entirety. It feels to me that these documents were just part of a strange dream which has afflicted me over the last while and from which I am now awakening.’
‘The list of creditors you provided Mr Scougall with indicated Sir Lachlan owed large sums to a very great number of people,’ MacKenzie cut in sharply. ‘But there was a name on the list that I did not recognise. I thought this most unusual, considering that I advised Sir Lachlan on most of his financial affairs. James Sovrack – the name has a Polish or Bohemian ring to it. I thought long and hard and got nowhere, until Mr Scougall lay on a grass verge recovering from his sail across the Forth, his head resting beside a small yellow and white flower – a primrose. The name came to me first, of course, in my own language of Gaelic – sòbhrach. The irony, Mr Primrose, is that your victim has fooled you from beyond the grave. When you copied the name onto the list of creditors, you made a mistake, transposing a ‘k’ for an ‘h’, the word Sovrach becoming Sovrack. Sir Lachlan wrote the word phonetically, ‘bh’ represented as ‘v’ – his written Gaelic was never good. And so, you see, he used your own name to record the illegal transactions! This was perhaps a convenience to indicate the bonds that had been raised against forged instruments, or it may have provided some kind of insurance too. We will never know.’
MacKenzie noted the first hint of agitation in the face of his quarry.
‘If I may continue, Mr Primrose, I will try to describe for the benefit of my young friend what happened on the night of our soirée and why you killed the old chief. The forged documents indicate that Sir Lachlan was hoping to solve his financial problems by illegal means. The instruments created fictitious land transactions. He was thus able to issue bonds secured on land that did not exist. I believe it unlikely that your legal advice on this matter was provided free of charge. I assume you received a cut of the profits. The forgeries were no doubt made a few years back, at the start of your career, when you were trying to ingratiate yourself with the nobility. I expect you were perhaps short of a penny or two. The memory of disgrace still hung over your family.’
MacKenzie stopped for a moment and looked at Scougall. Satisfied that he was giving the narrative his undiluted attention, he turned his eyes back on Primrose.
‘You worked hard at the law and in society becoming a friend of Boortree. Everything was running smoothly for you, until Sir Lachlan began to disturb the serene water of your life. I cannot be sure, but knowing his lack of financial discipline, I believe he was putting pressure on you to produce more forgeries to secure cash. By now you were a well-kent face around Parliament House, an able and proficient master of the advocate’s art, a good friend of the Earl of Boortree. It was only a short while before your goal of marriage into the aristocracy would be achieved. You had no desire to risk everything by flooding the market with illegal instruments. No doubt you cautioned Sir Lachlan, advised him to bide his time. Perhaps you promised that you would be able to secure larger amounts of money for the impoverished chief when you became a son-in-law of the Earl. But as we all know, Sir Lachlan was not a patient man. He had seen how easily the documents had been drawn up and how quickly the money had appeared. He did not care that forgery was a capital offence and that many notaries have been hung on the Burgh Muir for trying to circumvent the law in this manner. He may even have threatened to reveal the existence of the forgeries. But you were not the kind of man to be overwhelmed by events – you decided to take things into your own hands. On that fateful day, you pleaded Sir Lachlan’s case in the Session with all your skill. During the soirée, or before it, you arranged to meet him later in his bedchamber. After you had left with us you went to your own chambers, as you have said, but later returned to Smith’s house. Sir Lachlan must have given you keys and he was waiting for you. I do not know what arguments ensued �
� what heated debates – but you ended with a toast. Perhaps you agreed to make further forgeries. Sir Lachlan was already drunk and it was easy to encourage him to have one more glass. It was easy to apply a few drops of poison to his glass, using your kerchief to avoid contact with the skin. Sir Lachlan drank heartily, believing his financial woes might at last be coming to an end – but within seconds he collapsed onto his bed, dragging the plaid he had worn that afternoon over himself. You made a search of his documents, hoping he had taken the forgeries with him to Edinburgh as you had requested – but he had not. Stupidly you picked up the kerchief on his table, mistaking it for your own, and put it in your pocket. Disturbed by a sound from the floor above – perhaps Mr Hope preparing to depart – there was not time to rearrange the documents and you hastily made your way out. On your way down you were seen by the minister. However, fortune was on your side, for the short-sighted Hope was unable to identify you under your cloak.’
MacKenzie again stopped briefly. Primrose did not move, presenting an inscrutable visage as if posing for his own portrait.
‘The next morning, during Mr Stirling’s interviews, you overheard that he had ordered his men to question the city apothecaries. It must have been a blow to discover that the Crown Officer was not treating the case as suicide as you had hoped and I think it was at this point you panicked. I must admit I am not sure of the exact train of events from here. Perhaps you can help me, Mr Primrose?’
Primrose remained silent.
‘Then let me hazard a guess. You knew how meticulously the old apothecary recorded his administrations. The risk that he might have recognised you was too great. The old man came to the door, opened it and was attacked savagely. You were taking a grave risk, you might have been seen in Steel’s Close.’
‘Do you think I would lower myself to murder an old creature like Jossie?’ Primrose said with disgust.
MacKenzie ignored his interjection.
‘Darkness, however, provided the cover. You dragged him down the close, along the pathway overlooking the Nor’ Loch and threw him over a steep drop. You immediately returned to the shop and removed the most recent pages from his ledger. Mr Scougall and I examined the scene on the following day and believed that we had intercepted the murderer. I now think we only disturbed an opportunistic thief who had hoped to benefit from Jossie’s stock of rare medicines. The brooch we found seems to have been unconnected with the crime. You had now killed twice in the space of two days, Mr Primrose. But somehow you managed to appear your usual self at the betrothal feast of your future sister-in-law; a most accomplished piece of self control. Our London actors could learn a thing or two from you! However, words spoken by me at the party left you with an uneasy feeling. Our investigations were thorough and it was possible we were on your trail. You could not be sure – better to cover all eventualities. A deal with the caterans was easily made. Instead of travelling to Culross you made straight for Perth where you arranged for our assassination the night Mr Scougall and I met Glenbeg. You almost succeeded. Those men had their knives at our throats. We were seconds from being slain. Young Mr Scougall’s vision of the Highlands was almost realised. As is often the case, the strings of discord were being pulled by a Lowlander – your good self.’
There was now contempt in MacKenzie’s expression. As he reached the climax of his speech, his voice became louder and his eyes sparked with rage.
‘But fate intervened, Mr Primrose, or perhaps God came to our rescue! Mr Scougall had prayed for such protection in the very church where you are soon to be installed as an elder. The MacGregors, the same clan that your uncle had spent so much time suppressing, were on the trail of the caterans – we were miraculously saved! Your priority was now to destroy the evidence and I knew you would seize the first opportunity.’
‘A most entertaining story, Mr MacKenzie. But you must realise that this far-fetched tale will not stand up in a court of law.’
‘We have evidence, Mr Primrose.’ MacKenzie withdrew the scroll of documents from his cloak. ‘Yesterday, after Mr Scougall and I examined the contents of the casket, I removed them, putting papers belonging to Mr Scougall in their place. I am sorry, Davie, but Mr Primrose has condemned your reflections on church government to the eternal flames.’
Primrose brought his fist down on the mantelpiece and sent a candlestick reeling across the floor.
‘I would advise you to return those to me, Mr MacKenzie!’
Primrose pulled a pistol from his jacket, cocked the hammer, extended his arm and pointed the flintlock at the older lawyer.
Scougall cried out in panic: ‘No! Stop, Primrose! No!’
CHAPTER 36
A Conclusion to this Grim Affair
‘DON’T BE A damned fool, man!’
The shout came from a figure standing at the open door. Stirling had been listening to the conversation outside and now entered the room. As Primrose turned his head to see who it was, the Crown Officer’s pistol went off. A haze of smoke and a strong smell of gunpowder accompanied the blast. Stirling had missed his target. A huge hole was visible in a portrait on the far wall.
MacKenzie lunged towards Primrose, partly knocking him off his feet and causing him to drop his gun. But the younger advocate was more nimble than his middle-aged opponent and thrust him back into Scougall. They both clattered into a wooden wardrobe, allowing Primrose to recover his weapon. As Stirling moved forward a second shot was fired. The Crown Officer looked down to see blood seeping through his jacket just below the elbow. His arm had been hit. He made a feeble attempt to pull Primrose down with his good arm, but was pushed aside and struck a glancing blow to the head. The young advocate fled through the doorway.
‘After him!’ yelled MacKenzie.
They followed Primrose into the corridor and moved as quickly as they could down the narrow staircase – one level, then two, then three – heading below ground, into the lower reaches of the castle. It was like descending the spiralled belly of a serpent. At the bottom was a cavernous room – one of the kitchens which catered for the insatiable kinsmen of Glenshieldaig. All of the cooks were at the funeral ceremony. A fire burned low in a stone fireplace, in which hung a huge iron spit. The wooden tables were covered with the leftovers from yesterday’s feast. On the smoke-grimed walls were an array of hundreds of pots and pans. In the centre of the room was a large well-head descending into a deep well. The cast iron cover had been raised. Primrose stood behind it.
There were no other doorways, but to the right in a recess high on the wall was a square grain-hatch, which let in a shaft of light and lit up the barrel-vaulted ceiling.
‘Good God Primrose!’ shouted MacKenzie. ‘Your game is up – the hangman’s noose is round your neck. Surrender yourself with some dignity.’
‘Am I to be taken by an old man, a snivelling boy and a cripple?’ Primrose sneered.
Stirling was trying to support his arm, which was riven with agonising muscle spasms. He knelt on the floor, feeling anger rise hot inside him.
The grin on Primrose’s face grew wider.
He reached inside his right breast pocket and removed a small silver pistol.
‘My insurance, gentlemen. I’m afraid it is your game that is up, MacKenzie.’
As Primrose’s thumb moved to cock the pistol, there was a swift movement from the shadows below the grain shaft. A figure was barely visible behind him. The grin on Primrose’s face subsided. The intense stare fixed on MacKenzie did not falter, but he gave a gurgling cough, brought up a black mouthful of blood and slumped forward. His immaculately dusted periwig fell from his head onto the ground; the gun tumbled into the well. His body lay arched over the small wall enclosing the well shaft. Embedded in his back between his shoulder blades was a Highland broadsword.
‘Glenbeg!’ called MacKenzie.
The old Highlander moved forward to remove the sword; then, with his left hand, grabbed the back of Primrose’s breeches and heaved him over the edge.
‘A fitti
ng resting place for a lawyer! And such an arrogant one, gentlemen. He promised to redeem my debts.’ The Highlander nodded his head to indicate Primrose. ‘Every one of them – every last one – so I would owe nothing.’
‘I suspected you were implicated in some way although not the ringleader. Alistair MacGregor secured your name as the cateran’s paymaster, but I was not sure about your role in the other murders,’ said MacKenzie.
‘I have been enslaved for forty years in a prison of bonds – chains of paper written by lawyers like you and him and finally I was to be free. I had no choice, John. It had to be.’
‘Then you sold your soul to the Devil, Glenbeg. Sir Lachlan’s blood is on your hands.’
‘I merely provided the poison. Primrose administered it. I should have sought it elsewhere, but I went to Jossie, for I knew him well. It was too easy – I was a long-standing customer. He had often provided me with drugs and medicines to ease my pains – arsenic was mine for a small price. Sir Lachlan’s death was supposed to appear to the world as suicide. Primrose should have left a note. Things did not proceed as planned. There was a trail and it had to be dealt with.’
‘But what of Jossie – an innocent old man?’
‘An unfortunate complication.’
‘And the employment of caterans to dispatch Davie Scougall and myself?’
‘A swift death by the knife is better than many – and in your beloved Highlands! Be still, MacKenzie. I have no quarrel with you now. I have repaid my debt – your life has been saved.’ Glenbeg looked up towards the grain hatch. ‘And now you will let me go.’
‘You know I cannot do that. The kin of Sir Lachlan demand justice as does the family of Jossie.’
For once Scougall found himself acting before he thought. Suddenly he was on his knees and under one of the long tables, just escaping a blow from Glenbeg’s sword. Scuttling his way along the wall as fast as he could, he emerged at the other side of the room and grabbed a copper pan. Running straight at Glenbeg, he slammed it down on his head. The tall Campbell let out a cry and stumbled to the floor. But before Scougall could take advantage, he felt an icy grip on his ankle. A bony hand pulled with terrific force, bringing the young notary to the ground. Glenbeg heaved himself back to his feet and raised his sword.
