Pilgrim of Slaughter

by Pilgrim of Slaughter (retail) (epub)

  Scougall could not understand MacKenzie’s loyalty to his clan. He did not know if there was a chief of the Scougalls, although there were many folk of the name throughout the kingdom. None were landed men, nobles or lairds; all belonged to the middling sort, although a distant relative was an artist of renown who had painted the famous Marquis of Argyll. He did not know what to say, so he took a sip of wine, looking for the courage to begin. ‘I was worried you were giving away too much money, sir.’

  ‘It’s entirely possible that the killing of Black is unrelated. There was no letter. Let’s turn to Thirlsmuir.’

  ‘It may be a blood feud, sir.’

  ‘But most killings of that kind are by pistol or sword. Roasting a body on a spit is not common in family fights. We’re dealing with a killer who wallows in destruction, one who exalts in murder, not a person who kills on the spur of the moment. On the other hand, it could be a political conspiracy.’

  ‘Surely only a man possessed by the Devil, a servant of Satan, could kill in such a manner!’

  ‘It’s not Satan we seek but a man or woman, Davie!’

  ‘A woman could not emasculate a doctor and hoist a laird onto a spit!’

  ‘A strong woman is capable of doing these things or a woman helped by a man. Now let’s examine the letters again. There must be something in them.’

  Scougall looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He could put it off no longer.

  ‘I must tell you something, sir.’ He tried to look worried, so MacKenzie would understand that he had something serious to say.

  ‘What is it, Davie?’

  ‘I fear you’ll not be pleased with me.’

  ‘What have you done?’ MacKenzie smiled, raising his head to meet Scougall’s eyes. ‘Something very foolish?’

  ‘I’ve attended an association, sir.’

  MacKenzie’s smile disappeared. ‘I didn’t realise you were a political man. I didn’t think you plotted with Whigs!’

  ‘I don’t plot, sir. I’m not cut out for politics. I don’t like the business. But I don’t support the King. I cannot do so. His policies go against all we have fought for since the Reformation.’

  ‘There’s a difference between not supporting his policies and siding with those who seek to get rid of him by force, even by killing him. I don’t support them, but I could not countenance armed rebellion.’

  ‘I’ve only been there once, sir. I didn’t like those who attended. They use the mob to do their bidding. They turn its anger on and off like water from a pump. I didn’t support the assault on Innes.’

  ‘You were there?’ MacKenzie wore an expression of incomprehension. ‘I can’t believe you were part of a rabble which took the law into its own hands. I’ve heard the priest was badly beaten. It may yet be an act of murder if he doesn’t recover.’

  ‘I wasn’t involved, sir. I stood at the back. I attended… reluctantly. I didn’t know what was going to happen.’

  ‘But you did nothing to help him.’

  ‘He was a Papist priest!’ Scougall felt tears welling up. ‘What was I to do? The crowd would have turned on me if I’d come to his aid.’ He was ashamed to admit that he had had no intention of doing so. The priest was a servant of Antichrist. He could never bring himself to help such a person.

  ‘He was an unarmed man set upon by a mob.’ MacKenzie looked disgusted.

  ‘George Morrison persuaded me to go. He’s an old acquaintance from Musselburgh, recently returned to Scotland. He said it would be good for business.’

  ‘What business?’

  Scougall had not intended to tell him everything about his dealings with Morrison.

  ‘He wants to establish a company of merchants to trade with the Indies. He says the opportunities are great. He’s asked me to be his man of business.’

  ‘His man of business! What of your work for me as writer? Is that not good enough for you, Davie Scougall?’

  ‘It is, sir. I have much to thank you for, much indeed. But am I not to rise? The company might prosper. The opportunity might not come along again.’ He felt wretched.

  ‘So you seek to raise money from the club. The fanatics are to be your investors!’

  ‘No. That isn’t the reason. I accompanied him because he asked me to. We seek money from anyone who’ll provide it. You may invest if you wish.’

  ‘I wouldn’t give a penny to such a nest of vipers!’ MacKenzie cursed violently in Gaelic. ‘I can’t believe that after all I’ve done for you, after all we’ve been through together, I’m repaid in this way. You plot with Whigs behind my back!’

  Scougall bowed his head. He knew there was worse to come. ‘There’s more, sir.’

  ‘More? Tell me!’ MacKenzie snapped. ‘You’re to be made Sheriff of Haddington after the rebellion?’

  ‘I should have told you. I’ve wrestled with myself for days. I couldn’t sleep. Golf has brought me no comfort. I’m ashamed of my conduct, but I couldn’t find the right moment. It’s been an unbearable burden. There were always interruptions. I didn’t know where to begin…’ He was mumbling feebly and his face assumed the rich hue of port. Tears were on his cheeks. He felt humiliation like a dagger in his guts.

  ‘What are you talking about, Davie?’

  ‘I’ve kept important intelligence from you.’

  MacKenzie fell silent for a few moments, before asking: ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Thirlsmuir and Black were members of the club.’

  ‘Two of the men you plotted with are murdered and you forgot to tell me!’ There followed a stream of expletives in Gaelic.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Get out!’ MacKenzie shouted. ‘Get out of my sight, boy!’

  Scougall had never seen him so enraged. As he rose, he stammered another pathetic apology and began to take his leave.

  ‘Sit!’ bellowed MacKenzie.

  Scougall retraced a few spaces and dropped down obediently.

  ‘This case is more important than your ridiculous antics. You’ve been a fool, Davie Scougall! You’ve let me down… But here’s something, at last. Tell me everything you know and don’t hold anything back.’

  Behind his mask of anger, MacKenzie’s mind was spinning. The killing of two men from the club was of great significance. Excitement burned through him and he felt his confidence returning. He could see in his mind’s eye the black bird receding further into the distance.

  Scougall shared everything he could remember of the night at the association, in particular the identity of all those who attended. He apologised again and again until MacKenzie told him to shut up. When he had asked his questions, they shared a bottle of wine. Scougall was relieved to take refuge in claret. Quite unlike himself, he drank deeply, seeking the oblivion of inebriation. Only when they had finished the second bottle and begun a third, did he forget his stupidity.

  ‘You’ve made your confession like a Papist!’ MacKenzie slurred.

  Scougall laughed. He was drunk. But he felt much better having unburdened himself.

  24

  A Walk in the Country

  SCOUGALL MADE AN effort to say little that might be deemed controversial as they walked down Leith Wynd to the north of the city. He was eager to make amends for his deception. They passed the Correction House where the poor were put to work and the College Kirk, before leaving the city through Beggar’s Walk between the Nor Loch and the North Craigs. They found themselves among open rigs, the path meandering northwards through some pleasant countryside. At a junction they turned west along a well-worn path which afforded views of the city to the south and of Fife across the Firth to the north.

  ‘The fresh air will blow away our hangovers. Tell me again about the note, Davie.’ MacKenzie was in good spirits having slept soundly.

  Scougall was feeling unwell but focused all his attention on remembering every detail from the association. ‘The door opened without a knock towards the end of the meeting. One of the guards entered. He handed Thirlsmuir a no
te. He read it quickly, whispered something to Craig, took his hat and left.’

  ‘There was no sign of the hat in the storeroom. Was there anything else, Davie? Think.’

  He tried to recall the scene. He had looked up as the guard left. ‘Yes – outside was a boy in the shadows.’ He had forgotten to tell MacKenzie the previous evening.

  ‘Would you recognise him?’

  ‘The same child handed out Stuart’s paper on the day of his execution. He has a harelip.’

  ‘You told me no one knew of the location except those who attended. However, the person who gave the boy the note knew where they were meeting. You know what this could mean, Davie?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir.’

  ‘The killer could be one of those at the meeting.’

  ‘But why would a Protestant slay other Protestants? Why would he send Thirlsmuir a note if he was at the meeting?’

  ‘He wanted Thirlsmuir to leave, but did not want to draw attention to himself. He may have appointed the boy or got someone else to do so. We must, of course, assume that those who attended didn’t tell anyone else. We can’t be sure of that, but given the sensitive nature of the discussions it’s possible. We need to find the boy as a matter of urgency. He may lead us to the killer.’

  ‘Is it possible a Papist has infiltrated the association?

  ‘The person may be Papist, Protestant, or neither. At least we’ve a theory to be working with. One of those sitting round the table could be responsible. Let me recall their names – Black, Lammington, Grimston, Craig, Johnston, Guillemot, Quinn, Thirlsmuir and Morrison. Of the nine, two are dead.’

  ‘It’s not Morrison, sir. I can vouch for him.’

  ‘But you’ve only just met him again after many years. You know little about him.’

  ‘I know his sister. He’s a merchant, not a murderer!’

  ‘I hope we can rule him out, Davie, but they’re all suspects at the moment, with the exception of you. I base this supposition on knowledge of your character.’ Scougall was pleased to see him smile.

  ‘What about the guards?’

  ‘Morrison told me one was Lammington’s man and the other Grimston’s.’

  ‘You said yourself the same pair carried off the priest. Thirlsmuir was dead by then. I don’t see how they could’ve killed him.’

  ‘Morrison and Johnston were also with the mob, so was Craig.’

  ‘Then we might be able to exclude them, unless they arranged for someone else to carry out the killing.’

  ‘What about Ruairidh MacKenzie?’ Scougall asked tentatively, hoping not to sound as if he was gloating.

  ‘Seaforth’s adamant he had nothing to do with Kingsfield’s shooting.’

  ‘But he’s a Papist, sir.’

  ‘Seaforth will arrange a meeting so we can question him. Is there anything else you can remember?’

  ‘There’s one other thing. The note was left on the table. Craig knocked it onto the floor.’

  ‘We must visit the room as soon as we’re back in town.’

  They reached the top of a small knoll and stood in silence, taking in the panorama to the south, the great castle on the right, the spires of kirks and high tenements, the Nor Loch before them like a black rag, the long sentence of Edinburgh taking the eye from the castle rock to Arthur’s Seat which guarded the city like a crouching lion.

  ‘All appears quiet from here,’ said MacKenzie. ‘But what plots are being hatched, what murders formulated over there?’

  He turned to look north across the Firth. ‘I long for the Highlands. Let’s return when these troubles are over.’

  Scougall’s prejudices against the Highlands had been accentuated by a violent assault at the hands of caterans on a journey to Glenshieldaig, the retreat of a MacLean chief, a couple of years before. The thought of another visit was not appealing. He knew what he would find – high mountains, bog, rain, wind and whisky, which he had no taste for; the people were little influenced by the church, often keeping barbarous customs, which included the worship of deities other than the one true God. He longed to experience the wide world, rather than freezing in a Highland keep. But he must work his way back up in MacKenzie’s estimation. He forced himself to smile. ‘It would give me great pleasure to see your ancestral home, sir.’

  ‘Splendid. I’ve business outstanding in Ross-shire. We’ll make a journey to Ardcoul as soon as this case is over. You’ll meet my brothers. We’ll enjoy some leisure – golf and perhaps hunt in the hills.’

  Scougall had never hunted in his life. But his feigned enthusiasm seemed to improve MacKenzie’s mood. He patted him affectionately on the shoulder.

  ‘Let’s turn over a new leaf, Davie. I accept your apology for your stupidity. I’m sorry I was so angry with you… We must agree to differ on politics.’ He nodded towards Edinburgh. ‘Revolution’s in the air. A revolution which you support and I do not. I’ll not change your view about bishops and you’ll not alter mine about Presbytery. The issue will be resolved by men who have stronger convictions than us. They’ll risk their lives for Presbytery and fight with every fibre for their King. They’re the men who make history. We’re only observers of it. We must hold on to what we share as men, especially the rule of law. History teaches that revolution will not be the end of change. Some hope for greater transformation – fundamental reform of the constitution, including a closer union with England.’

  Scougall was about to say that such a union was a sound idea. It would lock two Protestant realms together and provide markets for Scottish goods in England and its plantations. But he remained silent. He knew that MacKenzie believed it would be a disaster. Scotland would be a conquered land run entirely in the interests of England.

  ‘I fear that everything is pre-ordained, sir. There’s nothing we can do to change the course of events. The killer’s actions are predetermined. We’re all being slaughtered one by one.’

  MacKenzie smiled mischievously. ‘A Presbyterian ponders pre-destination. Forget such preposterous metaphysics. We have free will. I assure you, Davie. Nothing’s set in stone. Th effects of last night’s wine have dampened your spirits.’

  But Scougall had heard it often enough in church. Only a few were saved and assured a place in heaven as the Elect. Most were condemned to Hell. He had not considered the details before, but now that he feared for his life, he saw there was logic in it. ‘I’ve sinned against the Lord. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘Forget the pronouncements of the clergy, Davie. How do they know anything more than the next man? It’s a ridiculous theory,’ MacKenzie scoffed.

  But Scougall was trapped in a laberynth of theology.

  ‘A murderer of a most brutal kind is in the city. We must find him or her, before they kill again.’

  Scougall nodded solemnly. ‘I must apologise…’

  ‘No more apologies. Let’s turn our minds entirely to the case. You still have much to tell me. I want to know everything you can remember about the association. Last night you spoke through the fog of wine.’

  MacKenzie led the way down the track as Scougall went over everything again.

  ‘Both Thirlsmuir and Black were leading figures in the movement,’ said MacKenzie as they approached St Cuthbert’s Kirk in the shadow of the castle. ‘Their deaths open the field for others. Could a power struggle be behind this? We’ve already met Guillemot. What motive could he have?’

  ‘I can’t think why a newcomer to the city would commit murder in a place which has welcomed him.’

  ‘I want you to speak with young Johnston. Learn as much as you can. Leave Grimston and Lammington to me. Then we’ll seek out Quinn and Guthrie. First, tell me something of Morrison and his sister.’

  ‘George and Agnes are Musselburgh folk. He’s an enthusiastic merchant and Agnes…’ He was looking for the right words, but what ones could describe her – fine, comely, buxom, bonnie, blithe, beautiful, wholesome. None of them were quite right. None would quite suffice to describe h
er or Elizabeth. And another question troubled him – was Agnes one of God’s chosen?

  ‘Agnes… Agnes will be my wife… I hope… but I haven’t asked her yet.’

  ‘May I give you a piece of advice, Davie. Ask her before someone else does,’ laughed MacKenzie.

  Scougall had not considered she would have other suitors. The thought of a rival or rivals was dreadful. He would have to act soon or risk losing her.

  ‘I’ll ask George tonight. Her father’s dead. You’re right, sir – what on earth am I waiting for?’

  ‘By the way, I collected this from Maggie Lister this morning.’

  MacKenzie handed him a grubby piece of paper. On it was a list of names scrolled in a child-like hand. There were also a series of strange doodles down one side which looked like an elephant’s head and trunk. Scougall recognised two names on the list – Stirling’s was not unexpected, but the other was. Lammington had visited the house on the day Black was killed.

  Back in town, Scougall retraced the route he had taken to the association. Eventually he found the old apartments. The door was open. They climbed the spiral staircase to the third storey and walked down the passageway to where the guards had stood. The door of the chamber was ajar. No one was inside; the bottles and glasses still lay on the table untouched since the meeting.

  ‘I was sitting here, Morrison was beside me, Thirlsmuir next to him,’ said Scougall. He got down on his knees to search on the floor and spotted a ball of paper beside the wall. Fishing it out, he handed it to MacKenzie.

  ‘Three letters cut from a pamphlet: the capitals S, T and M.’

  ‘Why is it presented like that?’ asked Scougall.

  ‘The killer leaves little behind. We can’t observe the handwriting.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  MacKenzie reflected for a few moments. ‘STM. St Magdalene’s Chapel, perhaps. It may have simply been a request for him to go to there.’

  Quinn’s shop was opposite Guillemot’s at the head of Niven’s Wynd. Scougall was reluctant to face the Irish shopkeeper. If they had not been told already by Guillemot, the association would surely find out he was aiding MacKenzie. He entered timidly behind him.