by Marie Laval
‘Whatever happened, Lieutenant?’ Wallace asked.
‘I was set upon by a gang at the harbour. My fault, entirely. I was careless, I didn’t even take my pistol. It could have been far worse had an old fisherman not come out of his cottage and raised the alarm.’
‘What were you doing there?’
Wincing, McGunn walked across the lobby to lean against the counter. ‘I thought I saw one of my men in here and went looking for him. I didn’t find him, I must have been mistaken.’
He paused. ‘Listen, Wallace, I need to speak to you, and make plans for tomorrow. Can you stay a while longer while I take Rose to her room and tidy myself up?’
Wallace nodded. ‘Of course. I’m stopping at my uncle’s tonight. You remember him, don’t you? The man’s an owl, he never goes to bed before dawn. He won’t mind if I come back late.’
He gestured toward the counter. ‘I’ll get us a couple of whiskies while I’m waiting.’
‘Good man.’
McGunn asked the innkeeper for warm water and fresh towels to be brought up to his room then turned to Rose.
‘Come with me,’ he ordered as he took hold of her elbow to march her up the stairs.
Although she didn’t care for his tone or his iron grip on her arm, she didn’t protest. Somehow she knew it would be pointless.
‘Make sure you lock your room up tonight,’ he said when he opened her door, ‘and don’t open it for anyone else but me.’
‘Why?’
‘The men who attacked me were after you. One of them is the post guard. He’s working for Morven.’
‘Are you sure? What would Morven want with me?’
‘I don’t know,’ McGunn said in a low voice. ‘But I intend to find out.’
Chapter Nineteen
Rose pulled the curtains half open onto the night so that she could see the sky from the bed. Even if the crescent moon was thin, pale and blurred, and only a few stars pricked the sky’s velvety darkness, it was still better than being closed in. She set the oil lamp on the bedside table to adjust the light. The flame hissed and flickered in the yellow tinted globe, making huge shadows on the wall.
Holding her father’s diary against her chest, she slid under the bedcovers, shivering as her bare feet made contact with the cold sheets. She gave the fluffy pillows a tap and sat back with the diary on her lap. Her fingers stroked the leather binding and traced the burn marks and charred edges caused by Cameron dropping it into the fireplace. Inside, the pages were yellowed and brittle. Soon it would fall apart, the ink would fade, and there would be nothing left of her father.
No, that wasn’t true. She would always have the memories of his smile, of the intense blue of his eyes, of the warm, solid feel of his arms around her, and the deep rumbling of his voice. She closed her eyes and smiled. She would never forget his voice. She still heard it in dream sometimes. It always sounded so real it was as if he was right there, next to her, like the evening she was locked inside the abandoned cottage at Sith Coille, scared and cold before Lord McGunn arrived.
The journal slipped from her fingers. She had forgotten all about that strange dream until then. Her father had pointed to the diary and urged her to find a medal. What medal? He did write about a medal in his journal, but it was Niall McRae’s medal … never mind, she sighed, it had only been a dream.
She opened the diary again and flicked through the pages until she found the first entry about her father’s encounter with Captain Niall McRae.
‘“16th June 1815 …”’ she whispered.
‘“Quatre-Bras. 21:30. What a terrible mess today’s been, what a wasted opportunity! As the murky daylight gave way to a moonless night, putting an end to the fighting, we realised we’d lost every inch of ground we had managed to gain earlier today. So many dead and wounded and it was all for nothing! Now we have pitched our tents in the mud and struggled to light fires under the rain, it is time to tend to the wounded – ours and a few dozen English, Scots and Dutch we have brought from the battlefield to the hospital tent. We might have lost the battle today but we took a substantial number of prisoners – although what we’re supposed to do with them, I have no idea.
All kinds of rumours are flying around the smoky camp fires tonight, rumours that make the men angry and bitter. The worst by far is that our enemies stripped our fallen cuirassier comrades naked and left them to rot in the mud, and now Wellington’s and Blücher’s troops are eating their dinners from their breastplates.
Victory should have been ours – it was ours, if only for an hour or so, before the debacle, and now we’re all wondering what the hell went wrong. Why did it take so long for Ney to issue the orders to take Quatre-Bras, and why did d’Erlon’s First Corp spend the afternoon marching between Quatre-Bras and Ligny?”
She carried on reading, her lips moving in a whisper.
‘“22:30. Back from a tour of the camp. Ney just left with his aides-de-camp and I can hear Kellerman rant and rave in his tent nearby. He has good reason to, he only narrowly escaped death after Ney’s daring – some said suicidal – charge. When his horse was killed under him, he rode away standing on the stirrups of two of his cuirassiers.
In the hospital tent the chaplain, who doesn’t speak a word of English, asked me to talk to a Scottish captain from the 92nd Highlanders regiment, a Lieutenant Niall McRae. Ever since he regained consciousness after the battle, the man has been begging for a scribe to write his last will and testament. The chaplain says he won’t last the night. McRae is in terrible pain and yet he shows great courage. He is a brave devil, I’ll grant you that. I hope I’ll have his resilience when my time comes.
Something strange happened when I first laid my eyes on him. I had the most peculiar feeling I knew him, yet I’m sure I’ve never seen the man. Even though he is lying down on a stretcher, I can see how strong and tall he is – a real force of nature. The man’s a fighter. The laudanum the surgeon gave him for the pain didn’t do much to knock him out. He won’t take any more because he wants to keep a clear head to dictate his letters before it’s too late.”.’
A knock on the door broke the silence and made Rose jump.
‘Rose? Open up, it’s McGunn.’
She drew in a sharp breath and put the diary on the bedcovers next to her.
He knocked again. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Just a minute, I’m coming,’ she answered, jumping out of bed and frantically looking for her shawl.
She gave up the search when he knocked a third time, a little harder. At this rate he would wake up every single patron in the inn. She unlocked the door and opened it just enough to peer through. He had changed into a fresh white shirt, washed the blood off his face and combed his hair back. His eye was still slightly swollen but the cuts and bruises didn’t look quite so bad now.
‘What took you so long?’ he grumbled. ‘I thought we agreed you would read me your father’s diary.’
‘I didn’t think you would still want to, not after what happened.’
He shrugged. ‘I told you, I’m fine. Aren’t you going to let me in?’
She didn’t have much choice, so she opened the door. As soon as he walked in, the room felt too small, hot and stuffy. Painfully aware of her state of undress, she glanced around and let out a small whimper as she spotted her freshly-washed stockings and drawers dangling from the back of a chair at the side of the fireplace.
‘Just let me tidy those away,’ she stammered as she rushed to the fireplace to pull her undergarments down and throw them in a heap on the floor.
He looked at the bed, the covers down and the pillows still bearing the imprint of her body, then at the window and his face hardened.
‘Why the hell did you leave the curtains open? Anybody can see you from the square. I told you these men were after you.’
‘Oh … I didn’t think. You’re right, of course. It’s just that I have this … thing about dark, confined spaces, and I can’t breathe if I don’t see the sky,
the stars, the moonlight.’
He arched his eyebrow. ‘You’re afraid of the dark.’
She grimaced and gave a brief nod.
‘You never complained when we were at Sith Coille.’
‘You were there, so I wasn’t afraid.’
‘Well, I’m here now too and I don’t want to risk anybody seeing you from the street and finding out which room you’re in.’
He walked to the window and drew the green curtains with a sharp tug.
‘Sorry I’m so late, but the maid took her time bringing hot water and towels, and then I had to talk to Wallace.’
‘The maid?’ she said in a sour voice. ‘I hope her soft hands didn’t disappoint.’
He frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
Embarrassed, she shook her head.
‘Nothing. Just forget it. What you do with chambermaids is none of my business. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
He seemed to think for a moment, then he drew in a long breath.
‘I was only trying to sweet-talk the girl into telling me about her cousin’s whereabouts – the mail coach driver. Poor Effie is most upset with him because he ran away to Inverness yesterday having taken all her savings. No one in her family understands why he left his work for the Royal Mail. They all think he’s gone mad … of course, I found out tonight to my own cost that if the driver ran away, the post guard is still around and is, in fact, in league with Morven and they are trying to prevent you from reaching Westmore.’
He pulled a chair and sat down near the fire, stretching his long legs in front of him.
‘Let’s get on with that diary, shall we?’
She nodded, picked the diary up she’d left on the bed and sat opposite him to read the first entry once again, translating it into English as she went along. Every time she looked up, he was staring straight at her, sharp and intense, absorbing her every word.
Her hand shook a little as she turned the page.
‘“17th June. 03:30
Captain McRae died twenty minutes ago. I stayed
with him until the end. It was odd that I should feel the man’s death so keenly. It wasn’t the first time I had seen a man die from battle wounds – God knows I’ve killed enough men myself – but there was something about him, something I can’t explain, a connection of some kind. I guess I’m just being fanciful. It’s probably because I’m so damned tired.
The question is, what do I do now? I can’t go to my superiors, since they wouldn’t give a damn about McRae’s last will and testament, and riding to the 92nd Highlanders camp is out of the question. So I guess I have to wait and keep the three letters I wrote on McRae’s behalf safe in my greatcoat bag until I can dispatch them to Scotland when the campaign is over. I don’t know what good it’ll do, though. I don’t share McRae’s faith in human nature. Pride and greed too often take precedence over justice and fairness. In the case of Niall McRae and his son, I fear this is exactly what will happen.
As well as the letters, McRae also entrusted me with his personal effects. There isn’t much. A monogrammed silk handkerchief embroidered with heraldic griffins, a silver whisky flask, a pair of fine leather gloves and a particularly fascinating item I didn’t immediately recognise – one half of a gold medal, the Order of the Crescent, granted by Selim III, ruler of the Golden Porte, to British officers after the Anglo-Ottoman victory at the 1801 battle of Canope.
McRae had it cut in half, so that only half the moon crescent, the star and sunrays remained, as well as the first two digits of the date. The man said he gave the other half to his woman, and begged me to send his own back to her, together with one of the letters.”.’
Rose lowered the diary on her lap.
‘By Old Ibrahim’s Beard … I think my father just described your medallion.’
McGunn sat up, looking pale and tense. ‘It seems like it,’ he said at last.
‘But … how did it come to be in your possession?’
‘I have no idea. I was told it belonged to my mother. It passed on to me after she died. Please carry on.’
‘I have to skip a few pages. Two days after Quatre-Bras, on June 18th, it was of course …’
‘Waterloo,’ he finished.
‘That’s right. The next time my father mentions Niall McRae is on 22nd June. After Waterloo, my father followed Napoleon’s retreat to Paris where he witnessed the Emperor’s abdication in favour of his son.’
‘“L’Elysée, 22nd June 1815
We’re camping at the palace, and despite the tents and campfires on the grounds and the garrisons standing guard at the gates, the atmosphere is quiet and subdued. There was no sign of Napoleon today. The word is that he is preparing to leave for La Malmaison to plan his next move – not that he has an awful lot of choices. It won’t be long before Wellington, Blücher and their armies are at Paris’ gates. According to the latest reports the Prussians are already marching towards us, destroying villages and crops on their way.
I haven’t been able to dispatch McRae’s letters and personal effects to Scotland yet. I keep thinking about the man’s anguish that last night, and of his determination to make sure his woman and child were provided for. I hope I won’t fail him.”
“L’Elysée, 27th June 1815
The Emperor left for La Malmaison. We are now left to our own devices and waiting for the allied forces to enter the capital. I have resolved to travel to Scotland and deliver the letters in person as soon as I am discharged from my duties.”.’
‘Your father came all the way to Westmore?’ Bruce asked, startled.
Rose flicked through a few pages and shook her head.
‘No. He was entrusted with an important mission in the following weeks and chose one of his men, a Capitaine Raymond Pichet, to take the letters in his place.’
She flicked through the diary and put her finger on a page.
‘Ah, here it is …’
‘“Paris, 2nd August 1815
Capitaine Pichet came for his orders today. He’s a good man and I trust him to fulfil his duties with efficiency and integrity. I revealed only the bare minimum of McRae’s story, enough for him to understand the importance of his mission but not enough to jeopardise the necessary secrecy surrounding McRae’s family circumstances.
I advised him to start with McRae’s lawyers in Inverness – Longford and Stewart – where he should hand in the will I scribed and witnessed at Quatre-Bras, as well as McRae’s personal effects and the letter to his wife. He should then travel north to deliver the last missive. He promised to keep me informed of developments by writing to the French consulate in Algiers where I have now been assigned.”.’
‘There were three letters,’ Lord McGunn remarked. ‘One to the lawyers, the other to Lady Patricia … who was the last letter addressed to and did Pichet succeed in his mission?’
‘My father didn’t write the name of the recipient of the last letter,’ Rose replied, ‘and poor Capitaine Pichet was murdered in Scotland at the end of August. My father only heard of it a few months later.’
‘“Algiers, 15th October 1815.
I received some sad news today. Pichet was mugged and killed in Scotland, but the details of his death are still unclear, according to the report the local police sent the French consul in London. The poor man appeared to have been robbed, beaten up and left to die on a stretch of moorland near Kinbrace, north of Inverness.
It took some time to establish his identity because his bag with all his papers was missing and he was wearing civilian clothing. He was eventually identified thanks to his regimental signet ring which was tucked inside his coat pocket and the tenacity of a Scottish police constable who got in touch with our War Office.
Since I don’t know if Pichet managed to deliver all of McRae’s letters and personal effects, I thought it best to write to the lawyers to introduce myself, relate the circumstances of my meeting with their late client and relay his last wishes all over again, especially regarding his child
and the woman McRae loved so much.”.’
‘I wonder who this person was, and why my father didn’t write their name …?’
‘Keep reading,’ was all McGunn said.
‘“Algiers, 30th November 1815.
Still no news from Scotland. Have written to the
lawyers again. Losing patience now. Told them I will visit them in Scotland myself if I do not receive a reply soon.”
“Algiers, 10th January 1816
Have received at last a brief letter from Langford and
Stewart assuring me that they did meet with Capitaine Pichet at the end of August and followed the instructions left by Niall McRae regarding his estate and last will and testament. They also write that they gave Lady Patricia her own letter and her late husband’s personal effects. It’s a great relief to me to learn that MacRae’s last wishes were fulfilled. May he now rest in peace.”.’
‘Is that it?’ McGunn’s voice was hoarse.
She shook her head.
‘No, there is something else. A few months later, my father received a report from the French consul in London about the enquiry regarding Pichet’s death.’
‘It is dated March 1816 but my father didn’t get his copy until the summer.’
‘“Algiers, August 15th 1816
I received this morning a copy of the report sub-inspector MacLellan from the sheriff’s office in Inverness sent the French Consul in London regarding Capitaine Pichet’s death. It seems all loose ends have finally been tied and that Pichet’s killer was apprehended and punished for his crime. I feel saddened and angry that Pichet died carrying out my orders. It should have been me travelling on that lonely stretch of road that day.
I attach the report below.
‘Inverness, 8th March 1816
To: Colonel Hugo Saintclair, care of His Excellency René Eustace d’Osmond, French ambassador to London
Sir,
You wished to be kept informed of developments in the enquiry into Captain Auguste Pichet’s murder which occurred near Kinbrace at the end of August 1815. My initial investigation pointed to the killing having been carried out by a group of vagrant soldiers recently discharged from their regiment and who had since been causing trouble in the area on numerous occasions.
