He retraced his steps to the Tolbooth and in his office began to pen a brief report. His thoughts soon wandered onto the roots of the disloyalty to King Charles in the 1630s, a subject which he had spent hours thinking about over the years, central as it was to his history of the Great Rebellion. How did a kingdom at peace with itself under a wise king fall into bloody civil war? His face bore a lost expression as his mind sifted through a myriad of visions conjured from books, letters and manuscripts he had read over the years. The theme of disloyalty led him back to the present. The Presbyterians, the same group of fools who precipitated the troubles in the 1630s, were returning from exile in increasing numbers.
Those who plotted to remove the King by violence acted against the order established by God. Such action could only disturb the social hierarchy and turn the world upside down – war, disease and death the only possible outcomes. Stitch by stitch the finely woven fabric of the kingdom was being unpicked. The employment of Jesuits in the Abbey Church at Holyrood was an outrage! By God, he was no Covenanter, but he was a sound Protestant. The agents of the Papacy in the very heart of Edinburgh! It was monumental idiocy, indescribable folly, inflaming the passions of the people. No one could have predicted what signing the Covenant would bring – a King executed by his own people in 1649. A knock at the door pulled his mind back to the present case.
Meikle deposited a sealed letter on his desk.
‘What news in town?’ asked Stirling.
‘Aw is quiet, sir. Though the Presbyterians blame the Papists for the murder.’
Stirling checked the clock. He was due to meet Rosehaugh in five minutes. The Advocate unsettled him – such devotion to work and single-minded commitment to politics. He could not abide such enthusiasm. The pleasures of the private life were everything to him. He desired above all to retire and devote himself to his studies. But he still needed a year or two’s earnings to make his retirement as comfortable as his wife demanded.
He waited for Meikle to leave before taking up the report. The second paragraph made him gasp out loud:
‘The right hand of the victim is missing, removed by a sharp implement applied through the bones of the wrist’.
How could he have missed it! He read the entire paper again, making sure he had every detail committed to memory. Thank God it had arrived before he met Rosehaugh. His anger would have known no bounds if he had not been told about the missing hand. In Lawtie’s view, death was caused by a blow to the back of the head where the skull was smashed. The victim’s hand was sliced off afterwards with immense blood loss. The corpse was then strung up on the spit and the fire lit. The details would inflame the passion of the people. They could not be made public. But the town guards showed no discretion. Their tongues wagged like dogs’ tails.
Gathering his documents, he left his office, and walked twenty paces down a corridor to a door. Rosehaugh sat behind a large darkly stained desk, a small man engulfed by a large wig. The familiar feeling of despair washed through Stirling as he observed the portraits of previous Lord Advocates looking down at him accusingly from the walls. How unfit he was for public life. Why was he not born into the ranks of the gentry or nobility instead of having to earn a living by following a profession? At least he had not seen much of Rosehaugh since his return as Advocate in February.
‘You’re late, Mr Stirling.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. Lawtie’s report just arrived.’
Stirling passed it across the desk. ‘And this letter was found beside the body. It’s addressed to you, sir.’
‘For me?’ Rosehaugh looked surprised for once.
‘I found it on a table beside the fireplace.’
Placing the letter on the desk, Rosehaugh read the doctor’s report with no sign of emotion or surprise at the gruesome details of the killing. Perhaps he had heard them already from one of his spies. He turned his attention to the letter.
An elegant hand had written his name – Sir George MacKenzie of Rosehaugh. He broke the seal and unfolded it.
‘What do you make of this, Mr Stirling?’
Stirling took it from him.
The time is at hand, oh Lord. I am your servant. I bow before you in this city beholden to priests which is become the seat of Satan.
Oh Lord, the time of transformation is near. It is as a great wheel which cannot be stopped.
Haunted by them, I follow in their footsteps. I am one with them. I pass through closes. I stand in squares and courts as they seek abatement. Vile sinners, I will follow them through the darkest night. I catch them in the moment of destruction, dark, pure and brilliant. I watch them suffer. I share their agony. I feel their torment. I must smite those who disobey you.
Nations drink of the wine of the wrath of her fornication. I follow men of God, priests, clergy, prelates, bishops, all who seek eradication in lust.
Now I walk with him to the house of the whore, to the palace of Jezebel. I pass with him to her fragrant chamber. I lie in her filthy bed. I inhale the sickly odour of her sheets. I feel her cold embrace.
She was Babylon the Great, the mother of harlots and abominations of the earth. Upon her forehead was a name written.
Oh land of the hypocrite. I will end your suffering. I will snuff it out. I will close the cycle of despair. I will smite them. I will bring them to fruition. I will usher them towards finitude. I will make them as nothing. I will break them with the hammer of righteousness.
Join with me. I am the harbinger. I am the messenger. I am the agent.
‘The ravings of a madman,’ replied Stirling, ‘perhaps one of the Presbyterian persuasion who are now numerous in the city.’
‘A man who believes he can hasten rebellion against the King. Or is this just a front for Presbyterians, a way of fomenting revolt, encouraging blood-lust and whipping up the mob.’ Rosehaugh looked troubled. Stirling had not seen him like this before. ‘This letter must remain secret, Mr Stirling. Don’t speak of it to any of your men. Are we the only ones who know of its existence?’
‘That’s correct, sir. I’ve shown it to no others.’
Rosehaugh rose from his desk and walked to the press in the corner. He opened a drawer and withdrew another letter which he handed to Stirling. ‘I received it three days ago. I believe it’s written in the same hand.’
‘The writer has a powerful turn of phrase. He sounds like a deranged minister or field preacher,’ said Stirling.
‘The political situation is serious, Mr Stirling. An arrest will help to defuse the tension. Put all your other business aside. Have all your men focus on this case. I regret that political affairs take up most of my time at the moment, but keep me informed of any developments, day or night. Discuss the details with our mutual friend John MacKenzie. His counsel may prove useful and he can be trusted, unlike your men who gabber like fish wives. Now, you must excuse me. I need to inform the privy councillors of events.’
15
Dissection of a Frog
TAKING A SCALPEL, he carefully cut through the abdomen, peeling back the skin and tissue on each side to reveal the heart, lungs and intestines. The tiny heart was truly miraculous. He thought of the human one, large and ponderous. What was it that connected the frog and man? What was it that made them different? Could a frog be evil like a man? The face came back to him, smothering him, brutal lust in his stinking breath. A poor orphaned bairn should not be abused by his own teacher. But he would have revenge.
There was a knock at the door. Placing a linen sheet over the dissection, he took a dirk from his belt. He must be careful. He had been warned that his life could be in danger.
Opening the door slowly, he peered into the shadows. It was the boy with the harelip from Niven’s Wynd. ‘I hae something for you, Mr Johnston.’ He held a sack in his hand.
‘What is it?’
‘Rats, sir.’
‘I wanted a dog or a cat and you bring me a rat, Troon.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. It was aw I could find.’
‘Let me see.’
Troon came into the chamber closing the door behind him. He tipped the contents onto the floor. The cadavers of three black rats fell onto the wooden boards. Johnston took out his dirk. Piercing one in the back, he lifted it up to observe the long tail closely.
‘I wanted a cat or a dog… but these’ll do. Take this.’ He gave the boy a coin. ‘Next time I want something bigger, understand.’
Troon nodded fearfully.
Without warning, Johnston raised the knife to the boy’s throat, resting the point of the blade on his larynx.
‘Please, sir. I’ll get ye a dug next time.’
‘Have you ever seen a man’s body cut open, Troon? Have you ever seen a heart or a brain? Have you ever seen a human being eviscerated?’
‘I’ve not, sir.’ He was terrified.
‘I’ve seen it done. I’ve watched surgeons in the college. I’ll do it… myself… sometime.’ He moved the blade down to the boy’s chest before letting it fall, smiling. ‘Don’t worry yourself. These’ll do for now. I expect better next time, mind. You’ll be on the street when I call?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s all for now.’
Troon was out of the door in an instant. Johnston laughed at his fear. In his mind he saw himself cudgelling the boy over the head and dragging him back into the room. He would never be missed, not even by his own mother. He saw the boy’s body lying on the floor. He saw himself remove the clothing. He watched himself cutting open the stomach with his knife… it was only a dream or a vision. Or was it the future that he beheld? His pulse was racing. There was much to do first.
He scooped up each rat with a wooden spade and put them back in the sack. He wondered how much bigger was a rat’s heart than a frog’s and how much larger was the human heart.
16
A New Case for MacKenzie
SCOUGALL WAS READING aloud from a pamphlet in MacKenzie’s study in Libberton’s Wynd. ‘The Queen is preparing to go to Portsmouth for her safety… Lord de la Mare has appeared for the Prince of Orange in Cheshire… the nobility meet in Yorkshire to decide their position… the Archbishop, bishops and peers in London address His Majesty for a parliament… a mob has demolished a Popish Chapel and pulled down the Nunnery at St John’s… On the street it is said that Holyrood Palace will be next, sir.’
‘I hope it’ll not come to that, Davie.’
Meg’s old face appeared at the door. She said something in Gaelic and a few moments later Stirling entered in an agitated state.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but the situation is grave, gentlemen,’ he uttered breathlessly.
‘What on earth is it, Archibald? Calm yourself, man.’
‘There’s terrible news.’ He waited until Meg had closed the door. ‘Thirlsmuir is murdered!’
Scougall’s hand tightened on the pamphlet. He was about to say something, but decided to hold his tongue.
‘Ah, Davie. I didn’t see you there,’ said Stirling.
‘Take a seat, Archibald. Tell us what’s happened,’ said MacKenzie.
Scougall was dumbfounded by the news; his mind raced through the previous night, in particular his memories of Thirlsmuir. He recalled the fine cut of his jacket, the exemplary wig, the quiet but determined voice. There was also the note delivered by the deformed boy.
MacKenzie prompted him to use his shorthand to record Stirling’s words. He put down the pamphlet, sought his notebook and took another chair, trying to contain the flood of emotions.
‘I was at work last night, adding the finishing touches to a chapter, pondering the thorny question of rebellion, when I received a message from Rosehaugh.’
MacKenzie smiled ruefully. Stirling had been writing a history for years, one which was always close to completion, but never sent to the press.
‘The position of Montrose in the late 1630s troubled me,’ he continued. Scougall failed to see what this had to do with the death of Thirlsmuir, although he knew Stirling was fond of the nobleman.
‘I was thinking of parallels with today,’ he continued. ‘The Whigs are grown in confidence since the Indulgences. Edinburgh is full of schemers, fanatics plotting armed insurrection. They tried in 1685 and they will try again given the King’s difficulties.’
Scougall nodded, but said nothing. Despite his cynical attitude, Stirling was an important man in the government. Scougall was not as vociferous in his condemnation of Episcopacy in his company. The King was facing something more serious than a few difficulties. His people were turning against him; they were rebelling.
‘If you could get to the point,’ MacKenzie said affably.
‘As I made my way down the Bow, I reflected that the King’s policies were folly,’ Stirling continued. ‘Fools like Perth and Melfort care nothing for the wellbeing of the kingdom.’
‘Archibald, get to the point!’
‘I’m sorry, John. The last thing anyone needs just now, especially after the killing of Kingsfield, is a murder. Rosehaugh’s note told me a body was found in a storeroom at the bottom of Niven’s Wynd.’
Stirling described what he had seen in the chamber. ‘The first thing I noticed in the room was a sweet meaty aroma, so powerful it almost made me retch. I’m sorry to say it was a familiar one – burnt human flesh.’
Scougall stopped his note taking in shock. MacKenzie said a few words in Gaelic under his breath.
‘The body was discovered at about nine o’clock by a Mr Guillemot who rents the chamber from a merchant called Hunter.’
Scougall emitted a groan. The mention of another figure from the association caused his heart to miss more than one beat.
‘I know it’s a shock, Davie. Please keep up with your notes.’ MacKenzie noticed his consternation, but attributed it to the disturbing details.
‘I stood a yard away,’ continued Stirling, ‘observing the body. It was mostly burned black, although the head and feet were unscathed, owing to the victim’s height. He wore a fine pair of leather shoes and a lace cravat. As I looked at the face, I realised it was Francis Leslie of Thirlsmuir.’
‘I’ve had legal dealings with him,’ said MacKenzie, looking pensive, although he felt calmer than he had since the news of Ruairidh’s conversion. Scougall wondered what he meant, but continued to take notes.
‘I knew him also, John. I found him a distant figure who said little, although loquacious in parliament. Whatever his character, the manner of his death is obscene. It’s bad enough to kill, but to desecrate a body in such a way. There are of course significant political implications. His father Pittendean is suspected of siding with the Presbyterians. The murder of his son is a very worrying development.’
Scougall knew Thirlsmuir supported the Prince of Orange. There was no doubt about his father’s position. He must also be plotting against the King.
‘Could you describe the room?’ asked MacKenzie intently.
‘It was rectangular with a high vaulted ceiling, possibly twenty yards by ten, full of shelves crammed with boxes of wigs.’
‘Were the wigs made locally?’
‘The box I opened were full of Tippendale wigs from London.’
Scougall recalled Kingsfield’s headpiece lying on the High Street. Here was a fact, a piece of evidence, whatever you wanted to call it, which linked the two killings.
‘It might be a coincidence, sir. Kingsfield was wearing the same kind of wig when he was shot. I picked it up from the street and returned it to his servant.’
‘There’s a further unsettling detail,’ continued Stirling. ‘The right hand of the victim was missing, removed by a sharp implement applied through the bones of the wrist.’
‘What was the cause of death?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘A blow to the back of the head by a blunt instrument in Lawtie’s view. The hand was then cut off, the corpse strung up and burned.’ Stirling sighed. ‘The details cannot be made public.’
‘What about the Town Guards?’ asked Scougall.
�
��Money will have to be distributed. Anyway, Rosehaugh was still at his desk, despite the late hour. He believes the political situation is precarious. He wants the perpetrator, or perpetrators, caught as quickly as possible. An arrest will diffuse the atmosphere in Edinburgh considerably. I’m to put all other business aside and have my men attend to it. He told me to discuss the case with you, saying your counsel might prove useful. And here I am, seeking your wise advice again, John.’
MacKenzie filled three glasses with claret and handed one to Stirling, before walking to the window. He looked down on the High Street deep in thought.
‘The King’s position is increasingly desperate,’ Stirling said despairingly. ‘Edinburgh’s full of zealots who want to bring down the government.’
‘I agree that the King is in a tricky spot. His policies are madness in a land which abhors the Papist. He’s learned nothing from the demise of his father whose troubles began in Scotland. But let’s not lose heart. He still controls the army and the nobles are loyal. William of Orange is a Dutchman, not a Scot or Englishman. The situation may be improved with a little wise policy.’
‘There’s more, John.’ Stirling’s face darkened as he reached into his jacket pocket. ‘I found this letter addressed to Rosehaugh near the body. Rosehaugh received another in the same hand a few days ago. I can make nothing of them.’
MacKenzie read them both carefully, before handing them to Scougall.
‘I don’t understand sir… what are they?’
‘You must make copies now, Davie.’
‘The wine is good, John,’ Stirling began to relax after unburdening himself. ‘How many happy times have I enjoyed your hospitality in this oasis? You’re right. We must ponder things deeply.’
‘Let’s first consider the victim,’ MacKenzie returned to his seat. ‘What can you tell us about him?’
Pilgrim of Slaughter Page 7
