‘Is Pittendean weakened by his son’s death? He’s an old man.’
‘Yesterday I saw him talking with Lord Basil, Hamilton’s brother, at Holyrood House. He’s a political animal to the soles of his feet.’
‘Could the Presbyterians be involved in the assassination?’
‘They must persuade a Papist to kill for them. Do you believe the killings are connected?’
MacKenzie hit another powerful shot. It seemed to hang for a moment against the blue of the sky before falling onto the green.
‘One is a premeditated assassination before a score of witnesses. The killer makes confession and is executed. Stuart told us nothing more of his motives. The slaying of Thirlsmuir appears the act of a madman. I’m privy to all the details, which are monstrous. But something doesn’t quite fit. Perhaps it’s just the times.’
Scougall thought again about the connections he knew about – the boy who delivered the note and Stuart’s testament; the make of London wig worn by Kingsfield and kept by Guillemot in the storeroom. Behind it all was the association.
‘The government must regret sending the army into England. Scotland’s left open to insurrection,’ said MacKenzie.
‘The militia will protect the kingdom,’ replied Seaforth.
‘The Presbyterians are well armed. The cellars of Edinburgh are stacked full of weapons. The door of the kingdom is left open.’
‘The Scots army must help the King,’ continued Seaforth. ‘The Prince of Orange must be crushed in England first. If he takes the south, Scotland will fall and Ireland too.’
‘If the King called a parliament and negotiated he might regain the people’s trust. They don’t want to rise up against him. They don’t want another civil war. Remember the devastation of the last one.’
‘I fear it’ll be decided in the field as all such struggles are. We can’t negotiate with rebels. They must be crushed.’
‘But the rebels have widespread support among the people. The King has none.’
‘It’s only a minority in Scotland who support them, a rabble from troublesome parts of the kingdom. Claverhouse showed what can be done… with a little force.’
Scougall hit his second shot straight as a die, high into the sky. They followed it with their eyes to an almost unimaginable height before it fell to land just in front of the green, bounced a couple of times and came to rest within ten feet of the hole.
On the green, Seaforth putted home after four attempts. ‘One hole will suffice today, gentlemen. I’ve other business to attend to.’
‘I must see Ruairidh,’ said MacKenzie solemnly.
‘I’ll ask him before he leaves.’
‘He’s still in Edinburgh?’
‘I’ve said too much. There are spies everywhere and possibly assassins.’
Scougall observed the two shifty Highlanders at the edge of the green. As Seaforth picked up his ball he spoke directly to him for the first time: ‘You must be pleased with developments, sir?’
‘I’m a golfer, my lord. I’ve no interest in politics.’ This of course was true, for in the game of golf there was no shady halfway house, no subterfuge and mistrust, just a simple desire to get a ball in a hole in the lowest number of shots. It was a game of purity, whereas politics was corrupt.
‘I could be the next target of an assassin,’ Seaforth continued. ‘The gates of the city are watched. Each ship leaving Leith is searched. The Presbyterians have spies on every road. It’s too dangerous to move him at the moment. When the time’s right, I’ll get him out.’
‘He might tell us something useful about Thirlsmuir’s death. Stirling has asked me to help with the case.’
‘It might be possible. There’s just one other matter.’
MacKenzie knew he had fallen into a trap. There would be a meeting with Ruairidh, but there was a price. There was always a price when dealing with the nobles.
‘My funds have dried up. The merchants change all their money into gold and silver. Some take cash out of Edinburgh and bury it on their estates. No one wishes to hold bonds or notes. No one will lend me anything unless at exorbitant rates. I must rely on the generosity of my clansmen.’
It was no wonder that the moneylenders would not lend the spendthrift a penny, thought MacKenzie. They would never see any of it again. It would be spent in London shops or the bawdy-houses of Paris. ‘I’ll see what I can do, after I’ve spoken to him.’
‘You drive a hard bargain, John. Two hundred pounds sterling would see me through the next few months.’
Scougall was shocked by the size of the request, a reflection, no doubt, of Seaforth’s desperate finances. The bonds of kinship were like the filaments of a spider’s web. It was impossible to be free of them.
‘There’s another matter. I need to know the names of the principal usurers in the city,’ said MacKenzie.
‘Credit’s scarce at the moment,’ Seaforth continued, ‘but a couple still lend. One is a merchant called Adam Moffat; the other a fellow just returned from exile called the Lamb.’
‘The Lamb?’ repeated MacKenzie.
‘Baillie of Lammington, a laird from the Borders.’
Scougall realised he could not put off telling MacKenzie much longer.
22
A Body in a Bawdy-House
SCOUGALL GRABBED HIS cloak and followed MacKenzie and Stirling. They passed down the High Street and made their way through a warren of closes to an inconspicuous door in Weir’s Land.
‘I’ve nae touched onything,’ the woman in a low-cut scarlet gown who answered the door said defensively. She was in late middle-age, her face covered thickly with powder and rouge. She smiled at Stirling with an expression full of recognition. Scougall realised he was a customer of the house. Why did he need a whore when he had a wife? It was the road to damnation. He recalled the verse from Proverbs 7:27: Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death.
‘Where is he, Maggie?’ Stirling asked solemnly.
‘I’ve nae seen you for a long time, sir. Come this way, gentlemen.’
They followed her up a spiral staircase and down a passageway to a door. Maggie shook her head. ‘I cannae go in. I’ve nae had a deid ane in ten years. Deid anes are bad for trade.’
The small chamber was simply furnished with a bed, table, chair and cupboard. An awning hung on the wall opposite the door. As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, a shape on the bed became visible. MacKenzie took Stirling’s candle and lit another on the table. He slowly pulled back the white sheet which covered it.
A naked body was lying face-down on a mattress drenched in blood. Scougall turned away in disgust. ‘Who is he?’ he gasped, repulsed by the large hairy buttocks.
MacKenzie held the candle above the head to reveal cropped red hair. A pile of clothes and a periwig lay beside an expensive pair of boots on the floor.
‘How was he killed, John?’ Stirling asked from a safe distance behind.
MacKenzie examined the body closely. ‘It looks like he was garrotted. Observe the indentations on the mattress on either side. The killer sat on the victim’s back when strangling him. There are bruises around the neck and marks left by a cord. The blood is from an injury to his front. We need to turn him.’
The dead man was as heavy as a sack of coal. At last, the three of them managed to tip him over. A dreadful wound in the groin was revealed.
‘He’s been castrated!’ cried Stirling.
‘Not just castration, Archibald. All his organs are removed.’
‘A second murder, or a third! Rosehaugh will be appalled.’
MacKenzie turned to Maggie who was still in the passageway. ‘Who is he?’
‘Dr Black, sir. Dr Isaac Black, a medical man, a travelling fellow. It was his first visit tae ma hoose. He said he was just back frae foreign lands.’
The name struck Scougall like a punch in the guts. Two members of the club slain hideously. It could not be a coincidence. A terrible thought swept through him. His own
life might be in danger. Were all those who attended being punished for plotting against the King, for questioning the natural order established by God? He cursed himself for agreeing to accompany Morrison.
‘Who was he with?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘A new lass frae France. She didnae look strang enough tae kill a man like that.’
‘Where is she?’ asked Stirling.
‘There’s nae sign of her since the body was found.’
‘Where does she live, Maggie?’
‘Baxter’s Land, I believe.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Christine, she called herself.’
‘Christine what?’
‘Just Christine.’
The three of them searched the chamber meticulously. There were bloodstains on the floor and wall beside the bed. MacKenzie got down on his knees and moved the candle along the floorboards to look underneath. A couple of old dresses hung in the press. Stirling pulled back the awning to reveal a small window about two feet square. He opened the shutters and looked out. The neighbouring tenement was about ten feet away across the wynd. There was a sheer drop of above twenty feet.
‘Could a woman have the strength to strangle a man as large as Black?’ asked Scougall trying to compose himself.
‘It’s possible she was aided by a man. He might’ve been waiting in the room, or she may have let him in.’
‘Where could he hide?’ asked Stirling.
‘Maybe in the shadows behind the door. The cupboard doesn’t look big enough.’
‘Did the killer escape through the window?’ asked Scougall.
‘But it’s tiny,’ Stirling said.
‘A small woman might’ve squeezed through.’
‘Perhaps they just left through the door.’
‘We’re three storeys up. A descent would be treacherous, requiring someone undaunted by heights, perhaps an acrobat of some kind.’
‘They have high mountains in France,’ Scougall said without thinking.
‘It all looks too tidy,’ MacKenzie replied. He turned to Maggie. ‘Was there a letter left in the room?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
Stirling left the house to summon Lawtie and inform Rosehaugh, while MacKenzie and Scougall retreated to Maggie’s howff, a small cave of a room on the ground floor which was her office. They sat on a threadbare settee.
‘Will you share a glass with me tae calm yer nerves, gentlemen?’
‘Thank you, Maggie,’ said MacKenzie.
‘Your tall friend has gone?’ she asked.
‘Mr Stirling attends to business.’
Maggie gave a knowing smile. ‘He’s a fine gentleman, Mr Stirling. A gentle giant of a man.’
Scougall could not believe that he was sitting in a bawdy-house, sharing a glass of wine with a whore.
‘How did you find yourself in this business, Maggie? I’m sure there are easier professions to follow,’ MacKenzie asked affably. As she filled their glasses with foul-tasting wine, she told them her story. Scougall sat with his notebook on his knees, taking down her words, appalled by the narrative of depravity, but moved by her sad history. She counted her cash as she spoke, recording the amounts on a piece of paper, the strokes of her quill slow and deliberate. She said she could barely read or write but had a sharp eye for money.
‘Tell us what happened tonight, Maggie,’ said MacKenzie when she had completed her story.
‘The doctor arrived at about six o’clock. I went through in my mind who I had tae offer. Jenny was nae weel, Jessie six months with child. Perhaps the new lass frae France would do. She was a bit strange looking with an uncanny face, but they all like fresh meat.’
‘The doctor staggered into the howff. He was drunk. He smiled at me. “Ah Maggie,” he said, slurring. “What do you have for a poor man on this summer’s night? I’m inflamed with passion. My soul’s burning for it.”
‘I said “Come awa in, sir. Have a seat in the howff. I’ll pour you a glass. Let me hae a wee word with the new lass frae France. You ken the French are expert in the airt o love.’
“She’s travelled far to be with me tonight. I’m honoured, Maggie.”
‘“She’s fled persecution in that country, sir. You’ll be the first to hae her in the kingdom of Scotland.”
‘I left him for a moment, made my way quickly tae her room, the chamber where his body lies. She was combing her hair at the glass. I told her she had a customer and she asked his name. “He’s a doctor,” I says, “a Dr Black.” She smiled at this as if she recognised the name. “Then he will be my first customer in Scotland.” “He’ll be up presently,” I said tae her. I returned tae the howff and telt him the room, reminding him of the price. He finished his glass, put doon half and aff he went. It was a quiet night, just a couple of ither customers ouer the next few hours. I dozed for a while. When I woke I realised he’d been with her almost three hours. I usually check tae mak sure the lassies are content for things tae continue, so I knocked on the door at about nine-thirty. Nae answer. I knocked again. Nae answer. And again. I thought they’d maybe fallen asleep so I tried tae open it. It was locked. I was annoyed. I had told the lass tae keep it unlocked. I had tae fetch my ither key. As soon as the door was opened, I saw blood everywhere. I couldnae look at the body, so I got a girl tae put a sheet ouer him. I told her nae tae touch onything and sent for the guards.’
‘Tell me about Christine,’ said MacKenzie intently.
‘She came to see me last week, looking for work, a poor refugee frae France, she said. She had come tae the city with her bairn. She knew the trade from her younger days. She was a bonnie looking thing, thin-like. She begged me to gie her a chance. She feared working the streets in a town she didnae ken.’
‘Was there anything else about her? What did she wear?’
‘She was dressed in an auld red frock. She didnae hae much of a chest, thin-like, as I said, but some men like that. I would nae usually tak a girl withoot recommendation. But she looked desperate and business is doon over the last few months. Folk are fired up wi politics, nae fornication. I’ve lost a couple of girls. So I telt her I would tak her on trial. She turned up on time, an hour before the doctor appeared.’
‘Did she bring anything with her?’
‘I think she carried a bag, but I dinnae ken what was inside it.’
‘What size was it, Maggie?’
She indicated with her hands a couple of feet long.
‘Was it made of this?’ MacKenzie removed a piece of linen about an inch square from his pocket. ‘I found a snag attached to a nail on the floor beside the bed.’
Scougall had not noticed him coming upon it.
‘That looks like it, sir.’
‘And you said she lived in Baxter’s Land.’
‘That’s what she telt me. I’ve nae idea if it’s true.’
‘What was her surname?’
‘She told me. A French name but I cannae mind it.’
‘How regular a customer was Black?’
‘It was his first time in ma hoose.’
‘Had you ever seen him before?’
She hesitated. ‘No, sir. I would’ve remembered a gentleman like him.’
MacKenzie sat forward and smiled. ‘I need you to do something for me, Maggie. It may not be to your liking. I want you to write a list of all your customers over the last month, as many as you can remember. I realise it’ll be difficult. Your clients desire anonymity. But if you want business to revive, we must catch the killer quickly. I will, of course, keep the names secret and destroy the list when the case is solved.’
‘I’m slow at writing, sir.’ She did not look keen. ‘I’ll dae my best. Do you think the killer is ane of them, working with Christine? Ma ither lassies are aw terrified.’
‘That’s what I aim to find out, Maggie. But I’ll need your help.’
She said that she would do what he asked. He then told her that he wanted to speak with the other girls.
‘There are only
two, Janet Stratton and Isobel Young. I’ll get them for you.’
MacKenzie questioned both but found out little. They had no recollection of anything particular during the evening. Janet recounted how she was summoned by Maggie and in terror placed a sheet over the corpse. Isobel could not face entering the room. Neither of them knew anything about the French girl.
23
Scougall Makes a Confession
SCOUGALL SAT NERVOUSLY beside the fireplace in MacKenzie’s study, looking up at the paintings on the only wall not lined with books. One was a portrait of Grissell Hay whose death they had investigated the year before; the other was MacKenzie’s wife. There was a remarkable resemblance to his daughter Elizabeth, the same dark hair and striking blue eyes.
‘I’m sorry for keeping you, Davie,’ said MacKenzie as he entered. ‘I’ve had a long meeting with Stirling. Some more wine? The news from England is not good… although you may disagree. The King’s supporters are melting away. His daughter Ann has left London for the north.’
MacKenzie withdrew a bundle of documents from a leather case and spread them on the table. ‘We need to take stock; stand aside from the fervour on the streets, take to the balcony and observe the dancers from above; apply the faculty of reason to the evidence, although there’s not much.’
He took a seat at the table before continuing. ‘A young Papist commits murder on the High Street of Edinburgh, confesses his crime and is executed. Why did he kill, Davie?’
Scougall wanted to tell him about the association immediately, but felt compelled to answer. ‘He was possibly driven by hatred of a father whose abuse encouraged him to seek revenge.’
‘But who was pulling the strings? And there’s the connection with Ruairidh MacKenzie.’
‘Is he still to marry Elizabeth?’
‘I’ve been misled by my chief. I’m also angry with myself for not being more cautious. I know you were unhappy about the negotiations.’
Pilgrim of Slaughter Page 11
