‘I hope the streets of Mazamet were kinder on the nose!’ exclaimed MacKenzie.
‘Like all great cities, your streets have, how do you say, a particular reek. But I’ve heard your city is soon to have lighting?’
‘Lighting!’ Scougall repeated, incredulously.
‘It’s true, Monsieur Scougall. The council is placing lanterns in the High Street and Cowgate to illuminate the town. It may usher in a new age of enlightenment, atteindre l’illumination, n’est pas?’
Guillemot opened the door of the storeroom and lit the candles on the walls, revealing the cavernous interior. The fireplace and spit were at the far end; the room was packed with shelves containing an assortment of boxes.
MacKenzie made straight for the fireplace which he examined closely. He opened a few of boxes and looked under the shelves. Scougall followed his example, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
After about ten minutes MacKenzie ushered them both to the door. ‘This is where Thirlsmuir was struck on the head. The bloodstain on the wall must be from the strike. Then he was dragged to the spit. Observe the two lines on the floor made by the heels of his boots.’
Scougall and Guillemot followed him to the fireplace where he showed them a larger bloodstain. ‘The hand was cut off here. The killer must’ve had significant strength to hoist him onto the spit. Thirlsmuir was not a small man. But why was the hand taken?’
‘Could it be a warning,’ suggested Scougall.
‘It caused great effusion of blood, possibly covering the killer’s clothes. This was not a spontaneous murder following an argument or fight. If that was the case, we would’ve found him with a smashed skull in a corner of a vennel or dumped in the Nor Loch. The killer wanted him to be found, wished to display the manner of his death, desired to cause maximum offence. He wanted us to notice the hand and find the letter. He wanted us to ponder the meaning of the killing.’
‘It’s surely the act of a madman!’ cried Guillemot.
‘We would regard the person as mad. This isn’t like the shooting of Kingsfield. We’re dealing with something quite different.’
‘Do you believe the Papists are behind it, Monsieur MacKenzie?’
‘I don’t know, yet.’
‘The Papists will do anything, torture and kill in any manner!’
‘That may be so, but the evidence doesn’t tell us if the killer’s a Papist or not,’ continued MacKenzie. ‘We may be dealing with a person compelled to kill. On the other hand, the display of the body was designed to have a political impact. The victim was not an unknown urchin, but the son of one of the great nobles in the land. It could be a conspiracy to destabilise the government.’
Scougall was convinced the Papists were responsible. They wanted to provoke the Presbyterians by killing Kingsfield and slaying Thirlsmuir. MacKenzie did not know all the facts on this occasion.
18
Pittendean House
THEY PASSED THROUGH the Nether Bow Port into the Canongate, stopping at the gates of an imposing mansion about halfway down on the north side. It was set back from the road by about thirty yards, a large three-storey house harled in ochre with crow-stepped gables.
‘It’s one of the finest dwellings in Edinburgh. Pittendean has spent a fortune on it,’ said MacKenzie as they approached the front door.
An impeccably dressed servant who spoke with an English accent showed them into a large hallway into which light flooded from a huge cupola above. MacKenzie reflected that servants from the southern kingdom were becoming more common. It was a way for the nobles to show off their position, aping the English aristocrats when local servants cost a fraction of the price. They ascended a broad staircase onto the first floor.
The chamber they were shown into at the back of the house was less grand, although it did provide a view of the gardens and fields to the north of the city. The earl’s private sitting room had a homely feel; there was a welcoming fire, a few chairs, table, bookcases and desk. It was all quite informal.
An old man rose from an armchair beside the fire. He was not above five feet in height and swamped by a huge periwig which encased a lined face. MacKenzie bowed and Scougall followed suit.
‘Welcome, gentlemen.’
‘Thank you for seeing us, my lord, especially at such a terrible time for your family,’ began MacKenzie.
‘I’m robbed of a fine son; a fine son in his prime. Scotland has lost a devoted servant.’ Pittendean sighed as he beckoned them to sit in two richly upholstered chairs by the window.
‘This is your assistant, MacKenzie?’
‘Davie Scougall, Notary Public – an exemplary penman and golfer,’ said MacKenzie.
‘A fine game which I was much taken with in my youth, Mr Scougall. Now I cannot walk far enough to complete a round. I sit at cards or read a history for my entertainment, when I’ve time. There’s always so much business to attend to. Politics is an all-consuming profession. I can understand why my son James became a soldier. He’s plenty of leisure when he’s not fighting – too much. His debts are huge – gambling bills in Paris, tailors’ bills in London, furniture bills in Amsterdam.’
Scougall nodded, but said nothing. He was beginning to feel hot. A roaring fire burned in the hearth. He had always sweated profusely, an affliction which he was often teased about.
‘It’s strange how children from the same family,’ continued the Earl, ‘have such different characters. Take my eldest, Glenbeath. A gentler man you couldn’t find, happiest on his horse hunting with his hounds. He cares nothing for politics, or, some say, for his wife and family. Thirlsmuir, on the other hand, had a hunger for public life. He loved the horse-trading, argument and debate in parliament, and a little intrigue when it was called for. My daughters are as different as crab apples and quince. Sarah a sensible girl who has caused me not a moment’s grief in her whole life. She was married at fourteen to the man chosen for her, though twenty years her senior. Whereas Sophia has a mind of her own, refusing all the matches I suggest. But she’s my favourite. I’ve spoilt her, so I’m to blame.’ He took a deep breath and sighed before continuing: ‘How’s your daughter, MacKenzie? I’ve heard she’s betrothed to a Highland man? A match, how will I put this, which may take as much as it provides.’
‘I must take account of my clan as a Highland man, my lord. But the match is a sound one from a personal point of view. My daughter’s much taken with him.’
Scougall felt a twinge in his chest at the thought of the pair. He did not know if the Earl’s smile indicated that he knew about the difficulties in which Ruairidh found himself.
‘What think you of the family, Mr Scougall?’
Scougall hated the way nobles only noticed you when it suited them. Perhaps a change of regime would bring them down a peg or two.
‘I believe the family’s a fine thing, sir.’ It was an inane thing to say but he could think of nothing else. Pittendean seemed to ignore him anyway. He was sure he had asked just to keep him on his toes, to remind him, despite his diminutive height, of his authority.
‘What do you make of the progress of the Prince, gentlemen?’ asked Pittendean.
‘He’ll be in London soon,’ Scougall blurted out, which he immediately regretted as it was clear from the way he said it that he looked upon the prospect favourably. MacKenzie had told him a score of times not to give anything away when questioning a suspect. Pittendean, although a grieving father, was apparently viewed by him as one, although he could not believe he would kill his own son and burn his body, or have someone else do so.
‘Is your intelligence good, sir?’ The Earl seemed interested, although Scougall caught a disgruntled look on MacKenzie’s face.
‘It’s only what I’ve heard in the coffee houses, my lord. I know no more than any other whether it’s true or false.’ This was a lie, but he could not tell him he had intelligence from a group of conspirators, which had included his own son. The thought increased his anxiety and he felt sweat dripping from his
oxters. He was glad Agnes did not see him in such a liquid state.
MacKenzie intervened, saving him further embarrassment. ‘How does your lordship stand at this delicate time?’
Pittendean pulled himself up in his chair, lent forward and spoke in a whisper. ‘I must watch what I say to you, gentlemen. Whichever way the wind blows, I’m still Earl of Pittendean.’
Sitting back, he laughed, then pulled a cord beside his chair. The presence of his son at the association suggested his support for the Presbyterians, thought Scougall. But what if he was playing a double game, letting them think he supported William, while remaining loyal to the King?
‘Rosehaugh has asked me to speak to you.’ Pittendean’s tone changed, his smile disappeared. He looked old and vulnerable. ‘He says you’re to be trusted. As you can imagine, rumours about the manner of my son’s death are causing disquiet. The official view is that he was stabbed. The truth is a gross insult to my family. I want the perpetrator, or perpetrators, caught and punished. The Presbyterians howl for Popish blood and the Papists blame Protestant fanatics. The death of Kingsfield has unhinged things. Everything is on a knife edge. Edinburgh could explode at any moment, so we need to get to the bottom of this quickly. I’ll answer your questions as long as you keep off politics. My lips are sealed on that subject.’
‘I realise this will be painful, but could you tell us what happened yesterday?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘It was a day like any other. Thirlsmuir arrived from London in the morning. In the afternoon he met Craig in the Royal Coffee House. After that he appears to have gone missing. I can find out nothing about his movements thereafter. I arrived in town this morning from Fife.’
‘How long has Craig been in your family’s employment?’
‘His father was a servant of my house. Craig was trained in the law to serve us as secretary. I believe he’s devoted to our interest.’
‘Was there any disagreement between him and your son?’
Pittendean thought for a moment before answering. ‘Their relations could be strained at times. My son was demanding and could be impatient. But Craig could stand up for himself.’
‘Was there anything in particular they argued about in the days before his death?’
‘Are you suggesting he was responsible for killing my son? How would his interest be served by such an act? He would lose everything.’
‘Your son and Craig were seen arguing in the Cowgate near St Magdalene’s Chapel in the late afternoon, close to the storeroom where his body was later found. It may be nothing, but I must cover everything for Stirling.’
‘It’s likely they were arguing about… strategy.’
‘Strategy?’
‘Craig was less cautious than my son. He’s a great hater of the Papist, a view inherited from his father.’
‘There was nothing he spoke of that might indicate the nature of their meeting?’
‘All I’ll say is that it was to discuss developments in England which change by the day, if not the hour. It’s no secret that St Magdalene’s is a centre of… political activity. As a family we must keep abreast of what’s happening. My people look to me for leadership at this… dangerous time.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted him dead?’
‘Assassination is not uncommon in this land. Look at the fool who shot Kingsfield. Feuds flare up and burn out. In the Highlands they still occur regularly, though not as vehemently as they once were. But to desecrate a nobleman’s body in this way – thank God my dear wife is dead. This is not a feud but the act of a madman.’
Pittendean looked beyond them out of the window. ‘We lost our eldest child, years ago, when he was a boy. My wife never recovered.’
‘I didn’t know, my lord. I’m sorry for it. I know the pain you must have suffered,’ said MacKenzie.
After a few moments, Pittendean turned to them again: ‘Please continue, gentlemen. I was lost in thoughts of the past.’
‘Who are your political enemies?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘I would have placed Kingsfield himself amongst them.’
‘Are you at law with anyone?’
‘There’s a tiresome case against Soutra which has dragged on for years. He may be a Papist, but I can’t believe he would kill my son and desecrate his body to recover a few thousand pounds. I’m at law with a handful of others, but why would they kill him? It’ll hardly improve their chances in court!’
‘Would it be possible to get a list of your creditors and debtors?’
‘Craig will be able to help you.’
‘I’m sorry to ask this question, but how were relations in your family?’
‘My eldest son is soft in spirit. My youngest is a soldier on the Continent. They had little to do with Thirlsmuir. The idea they were involved is preposterous.’
‘There was nothing in your son’s history that might have left him… vulnerable.’
‘I can’t think of anything. He was dedicated to one thing in life – politics. He was a fine speaker in parliament. Under a union between Scotland and England, a greater stage would have opened up for him. Who is to represent the House of Pittendean now? Glenbeath cannot, so I must encourage James, who is weak. I’m too old for the game of politics.’
There was a knock at the door and a large well-dressed man entered. From his features he was clearly related to Pittendean.
‘Here’s my eldest son, Lord Glenbeath.’
‘My brother’s death’s a great shock, a great shock to us all,’ said Glenbeath.
‘I’d like to talk to you, my lord,’ said MacKenzie.
‘That will not be possible, sir. I leave tomorrow to take my brother’s body home for burial.’
‘My son will give you a few moments of his time,’ Pittendean said firmly.
‘It’s not convenient, Father. I’ve much to do, too much to do.’
‘You’ll make time for your brother’s sake.’
‘If you insist,’ he said in an aggrieved manner.
Pittendean rose and bid them farewell. MacKenzie waited until he had left the room.
‘I’m sorry to ask this, my lord Glenbeath, but where were you on the night your brother was killed?’
‘You think I killed him! What right have you to question me in this manner?’
‘I’ve been asked by the Crown Officer to aid his enquiries.’
Glenbeath looked suspiciously at MacKenzie, then at Scougall. ‘I accompanied my father to town this morning.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might have wished your brother ill?’
‘Wished him ill!’ Glenbeath repeated in a scoffing manner. ‘Many wished him ill. I wished him ill. He was an arrogant dolt. He thought I was a despicable creature.’
Scougall was shocked to hear him speak so heartlessly of his deceased brother.
‘I wasn’t devoted to business like him. I prefer… the pleasurable things in life. I’ve no interest in causing a stir in parliament. He didn’t understand… my appetites. But he was not as perfect as my father believes. All men have a vice.’
‘What vice are you referring to?’
‘The vice of gambling from which he could not free himself. I enjoy the table like any man, but he would spend hours there. He often won handsomely, but also lost badly. I believe his debts were kept hidden from father.’
‘Who’s the money owed to?’
‘There are many – usurers, moneylenders, those in the shadows.’
‘Why did he borrow from them?’
‘He had tried the patience of legitimate lenders – lawyers like you, Mr MacKenzie.’
‘Do you have any names?’
‘I’m not part of that world. I don’t share the obsession some have with games of chance. They’ll risk everything on the turn of a card or the savagery of a cock in the pit. I wouldn’t be surprised if an unpaid debt is behind this. I know how such lenders operate if they’re not repaid. First there are warnings, followed by threats of violence. Finally, the
y kill without compunction.’
‘Would they burn a man’s body for an unpaid debt?’
‘They have no legal way of recovering money other than the threat of violence or the use of it. They don’t lend by bond written by notary. Everything is sealed by word of mouth and shake of hand. It’s possible he was being made an example of. Seek out the moneylenders of the city. You may find his killer among them.’
‘But you don’t know any of them?’
‘I’m sure it will be easy to find out who they are. Usury was always in fashion.’
‘You said relations with your brother weren’t good?’
Glenbeath turned to look out the window and hesitated before answering. ‘I half expected him to kill me one day so he would inherit the title.’
‘Were you jealous of him?’
‘You misunderstand me, Mr MacKenzie. It wasn’t jealousy. It was hatred. He despised me. I despised him. But I did not kill him. I was at home in Fife.’
19
Lodgings of a Papist
DRESSED IN BLACK mourning, Jean Stuart stood at the window with her back to them. As she turned, the devastation of sorrow was visible on her drawn face. ‘Thank you for coming, gentlemen,’ she said in a soft emotionless voice.
MacKenzie and Scougall sat by the fireplace in the sparse chamber.
‘Alexander spent little on the encumbrances of life,’ she continued. ‘He’d no need of luxuries, so devoted was he to the cause in which he believed. He worried about soul, not body. He forgot everything else, even his mother who loved him like no other.’
‘We acted as witnesses as you requested, madam,’ MacKenzie said solemnly. ‘Your son met his end with dignity. We’ll deal with all the outstanding legal issues with your permission.’
Scougall recalled the terrible image of Stuart’s twitching body on the gibbet; his screams for the woman who stood before them; his hand lying in the dirt. It would be too painful to tell her that in the last moments of his life he did not cry out for God but sobbed for her. He recalled Thirlsmuir’s hand, removed after he was killed. Were they connected in some way?
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