MacKenzie was working in his study. ‘I need to visit a client, Davie. Alexander Stuart, son of the Laird of Mordington.’
‘The assassin, sir?’ Scougall was shocked to hear the name of Kingsfield’s killer.
‘I’ve overseen the family’s affairs for years. His mother is travelling to Edinburgh from the family estates. His father is a soldier on the Continent. I need to see him this morning, but first let’s breakfast.’
The Tolbooth was an ancient stone conglomeration on the High Street beside St Giles Kirk, a couple of minutes’ walk away. The city councillors met behind its ancient walls, while prisoners languished in its dark cells. They were shown into a stinking windowless chamber lit by a couple of candles where a young man sat at a stained table. He was a few years younger than Scougall, perhaps in his early twenties, dressed in a finely cut but filthy suit. He wore no periwig, so his thin face, bulging blue eyes and shock of fair hair were visible in the flickering candlelight.
MacKenzie asked Scougall to record Stuart’s words in shorthand.
‘Tell us what happened on the sixteenth of October, Alexander?’ he asked.
The young man spoke slowly without emotion. ‘At thirty minutes after ten I rose from my seat in the Royal Coffee House. I walked up the High Street and waited at the entrance of Foster’s Wynd. I cocked my pistol in the shadows, keeping it hidden in my jacket.
I had to wait about ten minutes before I saw him walking towards me with his servants. I sauntered down the street, cradling the gun under my coat. When he was about five steps away, I removed it and fired at his heart. God’s work is done, I said to myself.’
Scougall was disturbed by the cool manner in which he confessed.
‘I provided Mr Stirling with the same statement,’ Stuart continued. ‘I don’t know why my mother has asked you to act on my behalf. I’ve made my confession. Kingsfield deserved to be slain. Now I must die.’
‘There are a few legal matters to tidy up,’ MacKenzie began in a perfunctory tone as he observed him carefully. ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked calmly.
‘The Duke opposed the King’s policy of toleration. He was an enemy of the true Catholic Church. I acted with authority.’
‘Whose authority?’
‘With the highest authority.’
‘God told you to kill Kingsfield in cold blood?’
‘Our King seeks toleration for all his subjects. Kingsfield stood against this. He sought our continued persecution.’
‘Your mother will be here soon, Alexander. She travels north,’ MacKenzie added.
Scougall wondered what agony she must be experiencing, what disgrace – the conversion of a son to Rome was humiliation for a devoutly Protestant family. Stuart’s father fought against the Papist on the Continent.
‘We’ll have to send word to your father. It’ll be terrible news for him,’ said MacKenzie.
His mention roused Stuart from his lethargy. ‘Do you mean my conversion to the true faith or the slaying of Kingsfield?’ There was a bitter smile on his face.
‘It’ll be terrible news to learn his only son’s to be executed for murder.’
‘My father cares nothing for me. He hates me and I despise him.’ There was finally emotion in his voice. ‘He’s an emissary of the Devil, the darkest rogue. He’s abused us all his days. Now I have revenge!’
‘You committed murder to spite your father?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘I sought to serve God and the true Church. My father is irrelevant.’
‘What did you mean by him abusing you?’
‘I don’t have to answer your questions. I’ve nothing more to say on the matter. I killed Kingsfield. There are a score of witnesses to the slaughter.’
‘How did you know when and where to find him?’ asked Scougall.
‘I was told by God.’
‘Someone must have told you.’
‘I was told by God.’
MacKenzie shook his head. ‘We’ll see to your affairs as your mother requests, pay your debts and collect all that’s due from your debtors. Is there anything else you want from us?’
Stuart looked down at his hands, gazing at a ring, turning it gently round a skeletal finger. MacKenzie’s eyes were drawn to the large blue gemstone.
‘There’s one thing. I want my final words printed so all may hear the truth.’
‘That will cause trouble, Alexander. It’ll draw attention to the Papists in town when it’s best they lie low,’ said MacKenzie firmly, annoyed by the arrogance of the young fool.
‘We’ve no wish to lie low, sir. We’ve been silent too long, accepting persecution. We’ve put up with the rule of a corrupt church without fighting against it.’
‘You think nothing of your mother, boy?’ There was a flash of anger in MacKenzie’s voice. ‘She’s your flesh and blood. She’ll be left alone with your father… when you are… gone.’
This last word seemed to make Stuart pause for reflection. ‘It can’t be helped. She’ll join me, in time. But I must serve God first. My dying words will be published. I must speak directly to the people of Scotland; tell them they can worship in the way they wish, celebrate the Mass without disturbance or threat of arrest; raise their children in the faith. I believe she’ll understand in the end.’
‘As your legal adviser, I recommend strongly that you don’t have any statement printed. If you’re inclined, make a confession to your friends in a private letter which may be published at a later date. Write to your mother proclaiming your love for her. Don’t have your dying words printed. Only the mob will take sustenance from them. For your mother’s sake…’
‘I serve God, not my mother,’ Stuart said resignedly.
MacKenzie rose from his chair, glowering down at him. ‘Do you understand nothing, boy! You’ll be tortured by the council! You’ll be forced to tell them everything in the end!’
‘God will protect me. I don’t fear torture.’
‘If you don’t give the names of those who helped you, they’ll put you to the Boot or Screw. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. Rosehaugh will argue that the security of the realm is threatened. The government will want the names of all the conspirators.’
‘There are none. There was no conspiracy. I was told by God what I should do.’
It had not occurred to Scougall that Stuart would be tortured. The devices were appalling: the Screw ripped out fingernails; the Boot crushed the leg to pulp. Few did not talk under such agonising assault. He wanted to feel pity for him for the pain he was to suffer. But his arrogance was palpable. He cared nothing for Kingsfield’s kin. He cared nothing for his own mother. He was a foolish Papist who plotted against the Protestant religion. If he was not killed, he would murder again. Papists would destroy everything created since the Reformation.
‘For the last time, I ask you not to publish anything.’ The anger was gone from MacKenzie’s voice.
‘I insist upon it, sir. As my man of business, you’ll attend to it or I’ll employ another.’ Now Stuart’s eyes flashed with anger.
‘You imbecile – you ignorant fool – you’ve had all the benefits of the laird’s life, but you’ve chosen the path of the knave. You’re nothing but a puppet whose strings are pulled by others.’ Then MacKenzie switched to Gaelic: ‘Amadan na mì-thoirt, bhiodh meas duine ghlic air nam biodh e’na thosd. The poor fool would pass for a wise man if he held his tongue.’ The words calmed him, his anger melting to sympathy. ‘I’m sorry for you, Alexander. I’m truly sorry for you. There’s nothing more I can do.’
9
An Opportunity for Davie Scougall
SCOUGALL WAS DELIGHTED to find a note from Agnes when he got back to the office, informing him that her brother George wanted to meet him that afternoon. He sent a message back saying that it was convenient and spent the rest of the morning nervously working on his instruments, although he found it difficult to concentrate. From the time he had left her on the High Street after the killing of Kingsfield, he had thought of
little else. Elizabeth was now a distant star, flickering on the edge of his vision, but out of reach. Another brighter one had appeared in the sky.
He was not used to entertaining guests so he prepared his office carefully, placing two chairs near his desk, one borrowed from Robbie Dundas who rented the chamber next door. He gave the floor a more vigorous sweep than usual, left the door open to air the room and bought some refreshments in the Luckenbooths. He was not sure if they would take a glass of wine, not knowing how pious they were, but he did not want to seem inhospitable, so he left a bottle in the press where he could retrieve it easily if required. He also purchased a few pies which he left on a tray.
He spent the rest of the morning gazing out of the window. The city was getting busier every day. Folk were arriving from all corners of the kingdom or returning from Holland with rumours of invasion. Everyone had a different view on the timing and size of William’s armada, about what it would mean for Scotland, for Presbytery and the King. The rabble on the street was inflamed by a myriad of grievances, which now included the slaying of Kingsfield. There were sightings of more Papists, including Irish soldiers and Jesuits, although he had seen no evidence of any, only hundreds of Presbyterians flocking to the city, hoping to hasten the return of a Godly settlement to the church. Students from the College, artisans, apprentices, merchants and writers, were out on the street every night to the beat of the drum, usually after a few pints of ale. They marched up and down, chanting and cursing as they decried the Papist. He supported the cause, but did not approve of such conduct, especially the swearing. Nonetheless, it felt like a storm was brewing. He could hardly believe Jesuits celebrated the Mass in the very heart of Scotland. How could the King allow such a thing? He was a disciple of the Whore of Babylon himself. Scotland had a Papist king. It was just as Shaftesbury had warned during the exclusion business.
Scougall came from a long line of Presbyterians, loyal followers of the Covenant who believed Scotland was a covenanted nation, with a special relationship to God, like the Jews. Episcopalians like MacKenzie and Stirling supported bishops in a Protestant Church. To Scougall, an episcopal structure was only a step away from Popery. He wondered how his friendship with them would be viewed if there was a change of government or if he was suspected of half-hearted support of Presbytery. And then there was Elizabeth. Marrying into a Papist family at such a time was a terrible mistake, even if her future husband was the brother of a chief.
The appearance of Agnes through the door abruptly ended his reflections. Behind her was the tall figure of her brother, George Morrison. As he rose, Scougall knocked over his inkhorn, spilling the dark liquid onto a letter as he blurted out a greeting. He hated himself for being such a clumsy oaf. He was trying above all to impress them.
‘You’ve not changed much, Davie Scougall! Always colliding with something!’ Morrison shook his hand enthusiastically. Scougall recalled the youth who had bullied him in Musselburgh school yard.
He was about to reply that he was a notary public who had golfed with a viscount, when he saw Agnes’s smiling face and joined in their laughter. Returning the inkhorn to an upright position, he mopped up the ink with a rag.
‘I’ve not spilled ink in many years! And on a letter to the Earl of Strathmore!’
‘You’ve moved up in the world, Davie! It’s been too long.’ Morrison gave him a slap on the shoulder. Scougall recalled a dead arm from the same hand in the far off days of childhood. He put it to the back of his mind. All children were cruel in some manner.
‘I’m honoured to welcome you. Please be seated.’
Scougall stole a quick look at Agnes. His first impressions had not been wrong. She was bonnie indeed.
‘Can you believe we’ve been away for six years,’ said Morrison, taking a seat. ‘My deepest regret is that my parents didn’t live to see their native land again. But it’s so good to be back in Edinburgh. I think Agnes has told you of our fortunes.’
‘It’s justice to see those forced into exile returning home,’ said Scougall.
‘They were difficult years. But I didn’t waste my time. I studied the Dutch merchants carefully in Amsterdam. It’s time to apply what I’ve learned in Scotland. Our land’s been held back too long.’ Morrison lowered his voice to a whisper as if there might be someone else in the room to overhear. ‘The Stewart Kings have enslaved us. But we’ll apply ourselves whatever happens. There’s nothing stopping us, only our caution. We’ll have companies in Scotland too!’
Scougall wondered why he kept saying ‘we’. ‘Companies?’ he repeated.
‘I want to establish a company of merchants in this city like the Dutch and English. The Dutch East India Company sends ships to the Indies each year which return with holds full of spices. The profits are huge for those who invest their money. That’s what we can do here, Davie. I see from your face you’re perplexed. I run ahead of myself. Let me explain. First, I’ll apply our capital to the purchase of a shop, for which we require your services as writer. Once I’m settled as merchant, we’ll launch a company by selling shares. Think of it – two Musselburgh lads rising together. In time the venture might encompass the globe.’ He let out a bellowing laugh before his face adopted a serious demeanour. ‘Money will beget money and trade will beget trade to the end of time, as I’ve been told by the great William Paterson.’
‘How am I to be employed?’ Scougall was surprised but delighted by what he was saying. He had never heard of Paterson.
‘I want you to be my man of business; my right hand man responsible for the legal side of our endeavour. That is, if you want to.’
‘Man of business,’ Scougall repeated, parrot-like. The phrase had a certain ring to it – certainly more exalted than notary public. Morrison’s words had kindled something in him which he had not known existed. He had ambition, after all, although most believed he had none. Known as dull Davie Scougall, he was reliable with the pen, and a good swinger of a golf club, but often dismissed as a man of few words. He could not rouse a congregation like a minister or plead for a client in court like an advocate. But perhaps he could rise? Was it not time to diversify his interests from the law? The thought of being stuck in a tiny office for the next forty years suddenly appeared tiresome compared to the vista of global trade. He had never left Scotland, but now he might travel to London or Amsterdam, perhaps even America or the Indies. In time he might become David Scougall, Esquire, ultimately Sir David Scougall. The flame of ambition burned stronger as he turned to look at Agnes’s smiling face. The prospect of marriage to her would be the icing on the cake, like a hole in one at the seventh on Leith Links.
10
A Customer for Maggie Lister
SHE CAREFULLY RUBBED each coin between thumb and forefinger, admiring each: a rix dollar, pound, bawbee, shilling, penny; each accounted for, each marking a triumph.
God kenned she had worked haird, hairder than maist, surviving six doses o the pox, two stillborn bairns, beatings frae countless men. She would keep working till she had enough, then she was aff, awa frae aabody who kenned Maggie Lister, Madam Lister, the hoor. It was aw about money aifter all. Naething else mattered in the scheme o things, awthing was valued in siller.
What did they ken about her life, the wee scabs that shouted at her on the street? When she got hold of ane she wisnae feart tae clout them haird, batter them wi her stick. The wee shites! What did they ken about her, born in this god-fearing city o hypocrites fifty years afore, illegitimate, a bastard bairn, unwanted by her faither, a gentleman, so her mither telt her; her bonnie mither a servant tae a merchant, poor but honest, guid like, no a hoor like her dochter. But her bonnie mither was deed o plague when she was ten and she was left with naebody. The merchant was nae a bad creature, but he fell on haird times himself and could nae langer afford tae keep her. She was left tae fend for herself with no kin an only a few rags tae her name. She tried tae work honourably, but there was nane for her. It was the time when the ministers had power over aw, a
dark time of fear. She was starving, living in a wee hovel with ither bairns frae the streets, poor orphaned bairns like herself. It was only poor orphaned bairns o merchants who were taken in at Heriot’s Hospital, nae scum like her. She spent time in the poorhoose but she hated it and ran awa.
Then one nicht a gentleman stopped her in a wynd, offering a shilling. She still minded the coin shining in her hand and what it offered – food and warmth for a few days, a pint o ale; a pie or two. She did what he asked, for the coin was already in her pocket.
He took her tae a dark corner of a stinking close, felt her breasts, undid his belt and telt her tae gae doon and suck. She did as he asked, trying nae to retch before the seed came ontae her hands like a dug’s slaverings.
Men were just like dugs, guid fir naething dugs, willing tae rut onytime with onything. Aw men were the same, lords and ministers, lawyers and lairds, mindless dugs worth naething in the scheme of things.
She learned what it took to get the work over quickly, just a few words would dae, a few words were aw it took whispered in their lugs, a few words and they were puppies, most of them. A few were bastards who would beat ye fir taking their enjoyment too quick, or just wanted tae kick a woman cause they hated aw that lived on the earth, bleak men with nae an ounce of gentleness in them. But God had given her strength in her airms and legs. She kenned the wynds and vennels like the lines on her hands. She could disappear intae a darkness of secret ways.
Ten years she’d worked the streets as hoor, then in the bawdy hoose o Jean Gangie and when Jean was in her coffin she claimed the howff as her ain and it became Maggie Lister’s. She stopped serving the dugs and looked aifter her own lasses, counting the pennies they earned and taking her cut. She knew maist o the men in toon who hungered for a hoor. Why did God make Man such a shallow creature, and poor woman, receptacle of his sin, if it was sin at all?
Pilgrim of Slaughter Page 4
