‘Francis Leslie of Thirsmuir is… was… Pittendean’s third son. He was forty years old; married to Jean Scott, a daughter of Scott of Hardenfauld. He held the estate of Thirlsmuir in Fife from his father and represented the shire in parliament. A gifted speaker in the chamber, he was often in London on his father’s business. Pittendean is travelling to Edinburgh to attend… what is left of his son’s body. There are two older brothers: Lord Glenbeath, the heir to the title, and James Leslie, a soldier on the Continent. The family are suspected of supporting the Prince of Orange, although they still claim loyalty to His Majesty in public.’
‘What about Thirlsmuir’s movements before he was killed?’
Scougall continued to take notes nervously, terrified that Stirling had found something out about the association. He tried to think about how he might explain his attendance.
‘He arrived in Edinburgh the day before yesterday, staying in his father’s house in the Canongate. Yesterday afternoon, he met Archibald Craig, his man of business, in the Royal Coffee House at about two in the afternoon.’
Scougall tensed again. Here was another character from the secret club. He recalled his fat little hands counting the donations.
‘Thereafter his whereabouts are not known,’ said Stirling.
Scougall stole a look at MacKenzie. Thankfully, he did not see his discomfort.
‘What about the fellow who found the body?’ MacKenzie asked.
‘Guillemot is a Huguenot refugee, now a merchant in Edinburgh. He made the discovery at about nine o’clock in the evening. The flames were already extinguished. He raised the alarm. I was there by ten.’
Scougall’s mind flashed back to the association. Thirlsmuir had said little before the note arrived. He recalled the boy’s face through the door. The same urchin had handed out the proclamation at Stuart’s execution. Guillemot was a vague figure in his memory. He remembered only his French accent and exotic wig.
‘Rosehaugh does me great honour,’ said MacKenzie, taking his seat again. ‘I’ll apply my full attention to the case. Have you spoken to Craig?’
‘He’s a kinsman of the family of Pittendean, hailing from a village nearby, trained as a writer and employed as man of business. He met Thirlsmuir yesterday to catch up with news and prepare for developments, as he put it.’
‘Developments?’
‘Political developments, most likely – the progress of the Prince in the south.’
‘Who does Guillemot rent the chamber from?’
‘A merchant called Andrew Hunter who’s well known in town. He’s trustworthy and of good credit. The Huguenot took the storeroom a few weeks ago. His family have suffered under the persecution in France. I’ve not spoken to him yet, but I’ve heard he’s an honourable trader.’
‘Is there anything else?’
Stirling took a sip of wine and thought for a moment. ‘An old woman called Bessie Troon who lives in Niven’s Wynd saw two men outside the storeroom in the late afternoon.’
Scougall reflected that Thirslmuir must have passed straight from the association to his death. How was he to tell all this to MacKenzie? He had sworn an oath of secrecy to the Presbyterians.
‘What about relations between Thirlsmuir and his family?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘He was close to his father. I know not how he got on with his brothers.’
‘Perhaps we can meet tomorrow in The Periwig. I need to read Lawtie’s report and visit the scene of the crime.’ Despite the horrendous nature of the crime, MacKenzie felt better. He could still see the black bird circling in the distance, but it was not coming nearer for now.
17
Investigations in Niven’s Wynd
SCOUGALL WANTED TO tell MacKenzie everything, but an opportunity did not present itself and it was in his character to put things off. He decided to wait for a time when the shock would not be so great, when his friend’s humour was conducive.
After breakfast in The Periwig they walked down the Bow to the Cowgate, a long narrow road running parallel to the High Street on the south of the city. Buildings rose precipitously above the dark artery through which livestock entered the Grass Market. Copious piles of excrement lent richness to the air outside St Magdalene’s Chapel, an ancient religious edifice, now the centre of Presbyterian worship in the city.
‘Was he attending a meeting in there? It’s now a nest of vipers, Davie?’ asked MacKenzie provocatively.
Scougall knew he was teasing him and did not fall into the trap. ‘Many Presbyterians worship there now, sir.’
‘The council has provided a sanctuary for those plotting against the King! Let’s turn our attention to Bessie Troon first. According to Stirling’s report, she saw two figures standing here, a tall man and a short one.’
Niven’s Wynd was only a stone’s throw away. About twenty yards up the slope they found a door on the right with the initials AH carved into the lintel – the storeroom of Andrew Hunter where the body was discovered. MacKenzie tried the door but it was locked. A bairn was watching them across the way.
‘I’m looking for Bessie Troon, my boy.’ MacKenzie opened his hand to reveal a penny. The boy’s face lit up.
‘I’ll tak you, sir.’
They followed him into a stinking stairwell. The cries of children and the screams of a drunken argument echoed downwards as they ascended six flights of delapidated stairs. Having delivered them to a door on the top storey, the child sped off with his earnings.
A young woman dressed in filthy rags and carrying a baby answered.
‘I’m looking for Bessie Troon,’ said MacKenzie.
The woman eyed them suspiciously. ‘What dae you want wi her?’
‘We want to talk to her about the killing in the storeroom across the way.’
She disappeared into the grim interior and a few moments later, a tiny woman appeared with a thin weathered face. ‘I’m Bessie, gentlemen. Come awa in.’
They followed her down a short hallway into a large room with a low ceiling. There was a damp stale odour about the place. The walls were stained green and the floorboards were filthy. There was a hearth, although the fire was not lit. A few cooking utensils lay on a small table. Scougall counted five box-beds against the walls.
‘The wee one’s ill, sir. He’s going tae dee like the ithers,’ she said without emotion.
A bairn was asleep in a bed, emaciated and pale, perhaps only a couple of years old, lying in grey sheets.
‘I believe you’ve already spoken with Mr Stirling?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘No, sir. Not Stirling. Anither man.’
‘Meikle?’
‘That was him. An ugly brute.’
‘I’m helping with the case. I like to hear everything myself. Sometimes the smallest detail is important, Mrs Troon. You told him,’ continued MacKenzie, ‘that you saw two men at the bottom of the vennel at about four o’clock yesterday afternoon. Tell me everything you can remember about them. Meikle only noted that one was tall and the other short.’
‘I was on ma way tae the cludgie. As soon as I was ootside I saw them staundin there thick thegither, ye ken, talking about some great matter. They paid no attention tae the likes o me. I couldnae hear what they said, but the tall ane looked fashed and the wee ane was trying to explain something, moving his hands aboot. Then all of a sudden the vennel was full of folk. There was a young wumin going up the way and a man coming doon. The man looked at the pair as if he was aboot tae say something. He didnae stop but entered the storeroom. The woman kept on her way. I mind thinkin, it’s busy in the wynd the day.’
‘Thank you, Bessie. You’ve a keen eye. Could you describe them to us?’
‘The small ane was dressed much like you, sir.’ She nodded to Scougall. ‘He wore a black jacket and breeches wi a short wig. He looked like a clerk, but with a great belly on him, a fat face and small een. The tall ane was a gentleman. There was nae doubting that. He wore a suit with gold trim, a long wig and blue necktie. I mind thinking he was a guid looking man.
I didnae want tae stand there gawping all day, so I left to dae ma business. When I came back they were awa.’
‘What did the man coming down the wynd look like?’ Scougall asked.
‘He was smairt tae, a merchant with a muckle wig, the like of which I’ve never seen, like a bush on his heid. I’m telt it’s the fashion. He opened the door of Hunter’s store, closing it behind.’
‘And the woman?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘She was just a maid. I did nae ken her.’
‘Has anything else happened out of the ordinary round here?’
‘It’s so busy these days, sir. All kinds o folk are in town. The chapel doon there is like the Links on Race Day. I’ve never seen the Cowgate sae busy. Some say a prince has come tae save us frae the Papists! I pray they’re right.’
Not far from the top of Niven’s Wynd, a crudely painted sign depicting a wig hung above a doorway. In the window, periwigs in a host of colours and sizes were displayed on wooden heads. Scougall touched his own headpiece, reflecting how unfashionable it was compared to those on display. He could not quite get used to the idea of wearing one. His mother viewed the wig as an affectation of the Godless. Why would you cover up the hair on your head with that of some other poor creature? There was logic in what she said, but she knew nothing of the world of fashion. Her reply that fashion from France was the mark of a Papist stung him. It could not be denied that wigs were a foreign import. MacKenzie had told him how the nobles started wearing them after the Restoration, aping the French. It was ridiculous when you thought about it. They were often made from the hair of the poor. But men of business wore them and he wanted to be a man of business. He had told his mother, but she was not satisfied. ‘Your father never wore a wig.’ ‘How am I to find a wife without one,’ he had replied. ‘You don’t need a periwig to find a bedfellow in Musselburgh.’ This was no doubt true, but if he sought a wife in Edinburgh he would need one, or he would be the laughing-stock of the town. Every notary wore one. Morrison had a very fine piece, no doubt purchased in Amsterdam. Perhaps it was time to buy a new one, just a run-of-the-mill periwig, a simple bob, not too expensive and not too cheap, but an improvement on the one he wore.
‘Let’s see if we can have a few words with Mr Guillemot,’ said MacKenzie.
Scougall was struck with fear at the prospect of meeting the merchant in case he referred to the association. But he could think of no excuse and sheepishly followed MacKenzie into the shop.
The interior was crammed with hairpieces of all kinds: dress wigs, campaigns wigs, travelling wigs; in a variety of colours, sizes and styles. A large mirror rested against one wall. A middle-aged man emerged from a doorway at the back wearing a resplendent wig. Scougall dropped his head, praying that he would not remember him.
‘Welcome, gentlemen,’ Guillemot said in a thick French accent. ‘You arrive just at the right moment. A delivery of fine merchandise from London arrived only a few hours ago. I’ll bring some through from the back. Please be seated.’
‘We’re not customers, sir. I’m John MacKenzie, Advocate, and this is David Scougall, Notary Public.’
Guillemot bowed in an exaggerated manner. Scougall recalled the vow of secrecy and prayed the merchant would keep it.
‘It’s a pleasure, gentlemen, a pleasure to make the acquaintance of such fine men of Law.’
Guillemot was more confident in his shop than he had appeared in the club. Fortunately he acted as if he had never seen Scougall before in his life. It was so convincing Scougall was not sure if he simply did not remember him. As a newcomer to the city he had doubtless met scores of folk.
‘Your wig is a fine specimen, sir. Is it a Jasper of London?’ Guillemot asked MacKenzie.
‘That’s correct, Mr Guillemot.’
Scougall recalled that he had purchased his from Shield’s stall in the Luckenbooths in a deal which included six featheries. The periwig was thrown in as a sweetener.
‘But, sir,’ addressing Scougall as he stood petrified, although Guillemot continued to give no indication they had met before, ‘C’est ne pas bon. A young gentleman who seeks the ladies’ attention should not wear such an accoutrement.’
Scougall blushed, reflecting that he received little attention from any ladies. Perhaps this was due to his second-rate wig! A new one might impress Agnes.
‘All in good time.’ MacKenzie’s change of tone stopped the merchant in his tracks. ‘We’re not buyers of your wears today. We investigate the death of Thirlsmuir.’
Guillemot straightened his back, adopting a serious demeanour. ‘I’m forgetting myself. I take every opportunity to sell! You must have many questions. I found the body myself. C’est une affaire terrible, n’est pas?’
‘Who do you rent the chamber from, Mr Guillemot?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘Monsieur Andrew Hunter is an upstanding merchant of the burgh. I recently arrived in your good toon, as you say. I learn the Scots tongue quickly, n’est pas? I was forced to flee the persecution in my own land. I’ve lost my beloved wife and child to the Papist oppressor. I seek a new life in Scotland. The council gave me permission to open a shop. With the little capital I took out of France, I set myself up in the trade I know best, importing wigs from France, Amsterdam and London. I aim to improve the fashion of this place. In time, I’ll start making them here, stopping the drain of money from the kingdom. Then I’ll pay the women of Scotland for their hair and export when the Privy Council permits.’
‘These are sizeable premises, why did you rent the storeroom?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘So I could hold more stock! Business is booming, gentlemen. The chamber was perfectly situated, only five minutes’ walk away. As you get closer to the Cowgate, rents fall considerably.’
‘Where do you live, sir?’ MacKenzie probed.
‘I have chambers on the third floor of this building, also rented from Hunter, a fine and generous man.’
‘What happened to your wife and daughter?’
Guillemot looked down at the floor. ‘Both lost in the chaos that’s swept through France since the revocation of the Edict. My land swims in Protestant blood! My beloved wife slain and my daughter lost. I hope she is alive somewhere, but I’ve no word of her for two years.’
‘What age is she, sir?’
‘She’ll now be eighteen. A beautiful creature.’
‘I have a daughter also, Monsieur Guillemot. She’s twenty. It must be very painful for you.’ MacKenzie waited a moment before continuing: ‘Which part of France are you from?’
‘Mazamet in Languedoc. C’est tres belle. I believe I’ll never return home.’
‘Why did you come to Scotland? I thought most of your people settled in London?’
‘It’s true, Monsieur. Hundreds are gone there, maybe thousands from across France. But one of your countrymen, a merchant called Alexander Douglas who settled in France, told me about the city of Edinburgh. When I arrived in London I saw there were many of my countrymen there, so I decided to go north to the land of Douglas where there would be less competition in the wig business.’
‘Tell us what happened on the day of the murder?’
As MacKenzie asked the questions, Scougall busied himself taking notes.
‘I was in the shop for most of the day. I visited the storeroom at about four o’clock in the afternoon to get some stock. I don’t have a servant yet, so I must carry the boxes back myself. I returned in the evening. That was when I found him.’
‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary on your first visit?’
Guillemot hesitated for a moment before answering. ‘I did see two gentlemen in conversation at the bottom of the wynd. I remember observing one of their wigs was of the highest quality while the other wore a cheap piece. I was about to take the opportunity to tell them my shop was only two hundred yards away, when I heard one curse violently. I thought it not an opportune time, so I entered the chamber.’
‘Could you describe them to us?’
‘One w
as a fine looking gentilhomme, as we say in French, dressed in a silk suit with a gold-fringed jacket. The other was shorter, not a gentleman, perhaps a clerk. I think you would describe him as fat.’
‘Which of them was cursing?’
‘The taller one, sir. I was struck by the vehemence of his swearing and the anger of his expression. When I came out ten minutes later he was gone, but the other was standing across the Cowgate beside the chapel reading a pamphlet. I bid him good day and made my way back to the shop.’
‘Could you describe your second visit?’
‘I closed at six o’clock and ate my evening meal. At nine I decided to fetch a couple of boxes from the storeroom to save me the trouble in the morning.’
‘Do you usually go there so late?’
‘No, the Cowgate can be boisterous at that hour, but I could not sleep. There was so much noise on the High Street caused by the rabble. When I got there, I was surprised to find the door ajar. I was sure I’d locked it in the afternoon. Fearing a thief was inside, I enetered slowly. I was struck by a strange smell which reminded me of roast boar. I was horrified to find a body on the spit rather than a pig. The fire was out but it was still smouldering. I found blood on the floor beside the fireplace. I was unsure if the fellow was dead or alive but a quick look at him told me he’d breathed his last. I sought the town guards at once.’
‘How many keys do you have?’
‘Two were provided by Hunter. I keep one on my belt and the other under the counter.’
Guillemot ducked down and began to rummage behind the wooden counter at the back of the shop. ‘It’s gone!’
‘Did anyone else know you kept it there?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘One last question, Monsieur Guillemot. Did you know Thirlsmuir?’
Guillemot caught Scougall’s eye for an instant.
‘I didn’t know him, although I’ve heard he was a man of importance, the son of an earl. C’est terrible. I believe the Catholics are behind it.’
By the time they made their way back down the wynd with Guillemot it was late in the afternoon. The walls that rose steeply for ten storeys on each side cast the narrow lane into darkness. Piles of excrement, human and animal, lay at the sides, the stink becoming worse as they neared the Cowgate.
Pilgrim of Slaughter Page 8
