‘I use my own capital. I’ve no need for moneylenders.’
When Morrison left, MacKenzie placed the letters before Scougall on the table. ‘I’ve something to show you, Davie.’
Scougall was amazed by the discovery.
‘We must warn Johnston immediately,’ said MacKenzie.
‘He believes his life is in danger as a leader of the rabble. I’d almost forgotten.’ Scougall took out his notebook. He had a list of bonds from the Books of Council and Session showing that Pittendean was a substantial debtor of Kingsfield. The loans stretched back over a number of years.
MacKenzie examined his notes. ‘The original debt was for 20,000 merks,’ he said. ‘Each year it was rolled over for a larger amount at a higher rate of interest. The unpaid interest was added to the principal. It would be impossible to escape this spiral of debt. In 1680 Pittendean owed Kingsfield 20,000 merks. The sum is swollen to more than 100,000.’
‘But the debt has not been erased by the Duke’s death. The same sum is due to Kingsfield’s heir,’ said Scougall.
‘Kingsfield’s grandson is a boy of four. If Pittendean can secure the perquisites of office, he might alleviate his financial position significantly. It will also give him leverage in the Court of Session when his debts are considered.’
‘There’s more, sir. A man called Sir Thomas Mann is a witness to each bond.’
‘I’ve not heard the name before, Davie.’
‘Neither have I. Nor have any of my fellow notaries. He’s described as a merchant in the documents.’
MacKenzie smiled. ‘STM – Sir Thomas Mann.’
32
A Night on the Town
‘IT’S BEEN A success beyond my wildest dreams, Davie. Two thousand pounds will be in our hands in a few days!’ Morrison was in exultant mood. Scougall was invited to a celebratory dinner in their lodgings, a small apartment of rooms on the second floor of Sleich’s Close.
‘I did very little, George.’
‘A few serious words were enough to persuade the waverers. I provided the vision; you kept their feet on the ground. And you brought in Dundas and Stoddart and of course MacKenzie. It’s just as the great Paterson foretold – you must strike when the iron is hot when raising a fund. It’s not about rational argument. It’s all about pure emotion. Come, drink up.’
Morrison filled his glass as Agnes entered the dining room carrying a tray. ‘George has told me everything, Davie. The great and the good gathered round the table – your words of sense.’
Scougall recalled the couple of sentences he had practised again and again before his glass. He had never thought he could speak in public. But the subscription book sat in his office full of promises of money from a list of more than fifty subscribers. He could not believe how fortune had shined on him since meeting her. He took a slice of the pie. It tasted delicious. All his hard work was paying off at last. He was to rise and he had found an admirable bedfellow.
‘What will you do next, George?’ she asked, making herself comfortable at the table.
‘We must arrange a meeting to elect directors. We also need an iron box for the cash. You might obtain one, Davie. Once we have the money, we’ll transfer some to London to pay for a ship. I know a man who will do this cheaply, a London merchant of sound credit called James Smith. We’ll travel to the city ourselves soon.’
Scougall had never been outside Scotland before. The thought of visiting London was exhilarating. He had risked his life on a journey to the Highlands, but this would be a trip towards the heart of civilisation, rather than the bosom of barbarity.
‘If the King’s regime falls, as I hope it will, the great men will flock south like geese. We’ll follow in their wake. A glorious future awaits us.’ Morrison took a tartlet from the tray, bit into it and complimented his sister on her cooking. ‘I must be off,’ he said, still munching. ‘I need to negotiate bills of exchange. Agnes will entertain you until I return.’
Scougall had not expected to be left alone with her. He watched her clear the table, admiring her pretty face and comely figure, imaging what it would be like to be married, what it would be like to sleep with her. In the midst of his joy, however, doubts bubbled to the surface, feelings which often came over him during happy reflections, like a slice or hook after ten straight drives on the golf course. He wondered if she could find anything attractive in him. In the coffee house he had felt like a man of business, now he was a plain clerk again, hardly the company director yet. He found himself short of words, as usual. She disappeared into the kitchen. He could at least look MacKenzie in the eye, having confessed his foolishness. He would have nothing more to do with the association. As Morrison had said, it was not politics that interested them but money. He was stirred by his speech in the coffee house. He had said that he cared not whether a man was Presbyterian, Episcopalian or Papist. If he had money to invest he stood with them. This was surely a new brotherhood laying aside religious differences in the pursuit of wealth. They would not take the Papist’s Mass, but they would have his cash!
Agnes returned carrying a delicious-smelling dish of roast mutton in blood. How appealing her cooking would be after Mrs Baird’s familiar fare. He wanted to ask her there and then if she would consider him as a husband, but something held him back. It would be better if he broached the subject with Morrison first. As her father was dead, it was only right. He would do it in a casual way, a few words enquiring if she had any suitors, establishing his interest. Watching her across the table, he felt blissfully happy.
‘George tells me you’re helping Mr MacKenzie with the murders.’
Scougall was struck by how little he was affected by the killings. ‘I’ve worked with him on other cases.’ He did not want to boast, but it was the truth.
‘What do you do?’
‘I take notes in shorthand. I jog his memory. I propose ideas. Sometimes they are stupid ones, but he says having someone to talk to is helpful. We must consider all possibilities like a game of chess. Even the slightest detail can be important. Stirling often relies on him. I’m pleased to say he puts his faith in me, to some degree.’
‘You’re changed much from your boyhood in Musselburgh.’
‘I was a shy child, Agnes.’
He recalled an image of himself at school, a lonely ridiculed bairn. The cruelty of children knew no bounds.
‘You appear less shy each time we meet.’ She smiled, but her expression changed as she heard the beat of a drum outside. Another night of protest was in store, a night of violence as Johnston had promised. One that he was supposed to be a part of.
‘I hope it’ll be over soon,’ she said. ‘It frightens me. Some of those attacked are not Papists, but good Protestants. The innocent are being targeted too. Everyone is terrified.’
‘Things will come to a head soon,’ he assured her. ‘The Prince of Orange is almost in London. There will be elections in Edinburgh for a Convention of Estates to decide the government here.’
‘I’ve already lost my parents. I couldn’t bear losing George… or you, Davie.’
‘I’m sure the Papists are behind the killings,’ he stated bluntly, shocked by his own confidence, unsure if it was the wine talking, as he had drunk three glasses of sack. ‘I know you’re unsure about MacKenzie. It’s not his fault he was born in the Highlands where he was exposed to unfortunate influences. What he seeks above all is the truth. He’ll not rest until the killer’s found.’
‘I believe him to be an honourable man, if you say he is, whatever the name MacKenzie signifies to Presbyterians. If only life might return to normal, people could go about their business and turn their attention to… other matters.’
He wanted to say something about marriage, but could not think of the right words. ‘The kingdom’s going through a transformation,’ he said finally. ‘I’m passing through one too. I used to be tongue-tied, but you and George have woken something in me. A new sun is rising in my life. Despite all the killing, I’m hopeful
for the future.’
‘I am too, Davie.’
She returned to her seat from the window. As she went to pick up his plate her hand touched his for an instant before she withdrew it. He looked into her dark eyes and felt an effusion of joy course through him.
Morrison was back half an hour later. ‘Let’s have a nightcap.
I know just the place.’
‘I’ve an early start tomorrow, George.’
‘Let’s celebrate our success over a glass or two of claret. I’ve something to tell you.’
‘And I have something to ask you,’ Scougall added, but he did not think Morrison heard him.
An hour later he watched Morrison down his umpteenth glass. ‘I’ll show you the sites of London, Davie. You’ll be amazed… we’ll visit Amsterdam and Hamburg... and maybe the Indies… and Africa… Agnes will look after the business here.’ His eyes were glazed. He was more than a little drunk. Scougall was not sober. Four glasses were a great deal for him.
‘Let’s drink to the new company!’
Scougall wondered if it was a good time to raise the subject of marriage, but decided he should wait until his mind was clear, although he had an overwhelming urge to let the world know of his love. He was on the cusp of saying something, when Morrison stood up, taking his hat.
‘Let’s risk a few pounds. I feel lucky tonight!’
Scougall was not sure what he meant, but followed obediently as he staggered out of the tavern, knocking into everyone, avoiding fights with apologies, laughter and slaps on backs. They crossed the High Street and made their way down to the Canongate through hoards of inebriated revellers screaming their hatred of the King. Johnston’s drink money was spent already. The mob had done its business. They turned into a vennel leading to the south-west of the burgh, and found themselves in a teeming warren of closely packed tenements. Morrison was meandering like the River Forth. At last he found the door he was looking for.
At first Scougall could not tell the nature of the place. They stood in a large room full of men sitting at tables in subdued conversation. A couple of fiddlers played in a corner in a restrained manner. It was all very different from the frenzy of the streets outside. Servants wandered round pouring wine and serving food. His shock at the realisation of where they were was only partly diminished by the wine he had drunk. Gambling dens were the haunt of sinners where the Godless risked everything on the roll of a dice or the turn of a card. The tables were full of all sorts of folk – nobles, lairds, lawyers, merchants, soldiers. He looked round their faces. Some exhibited the agony of loss, while others expressed the joy of success. A few were as impenetrable as stone. As his eyes adjusted to the candlelight, he began to recognise some of the countenances. He had written instruments for many of them over the years. He had an overwhelming desire to be quit of the place, but Morrison grabbed his arm and led him to a table.
‘Come, Davie. There are seats here.’ Once they were settled, he whispered in his ear. ‘Do you have any money? I’ve spent mine. Will you lend me a pound or two?’
Scougall pulled a few coins from his pocket. ‘That’s all I have, George.’
‘You must have more. I feel lucky tonight...’ He leaned close and whispered: ‘We could borrow some more, only a few pounds mind… on the security… on the security of the subscriptions.’
Scougall’s face wore a look of horror at the suggestion and Morrison rolled his head back in laughter. ‘I only jest. I only jest.’ He grabbed the coins and turned to the banker. ‘Count me in, Mr Law.’
But Scougall knew it was no joke. A young man with a pock-marked face dealt from a deck of cards. ‘And you, sir?’ he asked politely.
‘I don’t gamble.’ There was muffled laughter around the table. ‘He doesnae gamble!’ repeated a man in a long wig. ‘Then why on earth are you here, sir?’ There was more laughter.
‘I don’t know.’ Scougall was beginning to feel unwell.
‘Gentlemen.’ The laughter drained away as the banker shuffled the cards and dealt them deliberately.
‘There you go, Davie!’ Morrison moved two coins across the table. ‘My debt’s repaid already. I knew my luck was in.’
‘I want to retire,’ Scougall said taking his hat.
But Morrison was not listening. An expression of the utmost seriousness had spread across his face despite his inebriation as he pondered his next hand.
‘Goodnight,’ Scougall said, wanting to be out of the place as quickly as possible.
‘I’m sorry, Davie. I want to stay a little longer. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Scougall was relieved to take his leave. As he made his way out, staggering slightly, he heard a familiar voice behind some curtains. He stopped in his tracks and stole a quick glance through a gap. Lord Glenbeath was deep in conversation with another man at a private table. As he turned his head Scougall realised it was the abuser of the Presbyterians – Graham of Claverhouse. It was a strange combination. Glenbeath’s father was a suspected Presbyterian; Claverhouse was the loyal servant of the King.
33
A Witness Comes Forward
STIRLING ASKED TO meet them in Greyfriar’s Kirkyard at noon. He chose the secluded spot because he feared spies were everywhere. He no longer trusted his own guards who were in cahoots with the Presbyterians. Edinburgh was splitting at the seams, every tavern packed to the gunnels, every coffee house stowed out. It was difficult to find a place away from the crowds where you could talk without catching another man watching you, weighing you up.
MacKenzie and Scougall were waiting on a small mound among the graves and lavish tombs of rich merchants and lawyers. The spot afforded a good view of the city; the small steeple of St Magdalene’s Chapel just below them to the right, the castle looming above and the turrets of Heriot’s Hospital visible now and again through the trees. It always pleased Scougall to stand on the hallowed ground where the National Covenant was signed in 1638. He recalled the bravery of a previous generation who had fought against another despot, the present King’s father. Charles I had tried to force the English prayer book on Scotland. The present King had learned nothing from his father’s disastrous rule.
Stirling approached stooping slightly, his tall fleshy body leaning into the wind, as his black cloak billowed round him like bat’s wings. ‘I’ve important news, gentlemen.’ He waited a moment to catch his breath. ‘It’s about Innes, the priest who was taken from the Papist meeting. A witness has come forward, a flesher called Bruce. He says he was cleaning his stall in the flesher’s market when he heard the mob on the High Street on the night Thirlsmuir was killed. He was about to leave for home when three men came into the courtyard. He ducked behind his booth, fearing it was the rabble. From there he saw two large men carrying the priest. To his surprise they let him down gently and spoke kindly to him. The priest removed outer garments which were placed over other clothes and departed laughing. As the two fellows retraced their steps to the High Street, Bruce heard one of them refer to him as ‘Cathcart’.
‘That was the name I heard at the association,’ said Scougall.
‘He must be in the pay of the Presbyterians, pretending to be a priest, but working for those who oppose the King. There’s double-dealing going on here,’ said MacKenzie.
‘Is it connected to the other killings, John?’ Stirling asked, perturbed.
‘I’m not sure, Archibald. Use your contacts to find out what you can about Cathcart.’
‘Is he the killer?’ asked Scougall.
‘I don’t think so. But he’s a part of what’s happening.’
Stirling looked around, observing the scene, enjoying the peace and quiet for a few moments. ‘I still find it difficult to believe Montrose signed the Covenant here.’
‘People change their mind,’ said MacKenzie.
‘He opposed his King, but became his staunchest supporter.’
‘We can never tell how we’ll act during a crisis. It takes time to think things out.’
Sc
ougall knew MacKenzie referred to his recent deception. ‘I’ll not displease you again, sir,’ he uttered.
‘There are difficult choices for us all, Davie.’
Stirling rested his hand on Scougall’s shoulder. ‘Friendship counts above everything. Remain loyal to your friends… whatever happens. I’ll keep you informed, gentlemen.’
‘Have you warned Johnston?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘One of my men spoke to him this morning but he laughed it off.’
They watched Stirling’s long back retreat to the gates.
‘You must speak to him again, Davie. He has a loose tongue. Find out anything you can about Cathcart but don’t mention you know anything about the letters.’
Scougall found Johnston holding court in the College library. He was describing the brutal events of the previous night to a small group of students. Scougall waited in a quiet corner beneath the portraits of Protestant saints Calvin, Luther and Melanchthon.
‘I didnae see you last night, Mr Scougall.’
‘I was feeling unwell. I heard it was a great success.’
‘Too successful, I fear,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve a message frae the Crown Officer that my life’s threatened like Black and Thirlsmuir,’ he added casually. ‘It’s nae the first time I’ve received such warnings. It will nae be the last.’
‘Let me buy you a pint. I would like to hear more about last night.’
Johnston’s face lit up at the prospect of a free drink. ‘The scholar always has thirst for beer and wenches,’ he smiled.
Johnston suggested they retire to the Ganton Tavern, a drinking den with a reputation as a haunt of rogues. The scene of debauchery and drunkenness which welcomed them repulsed Scougall. Johnston downed pint after pint, while he stuck to wine, sipping slowly, swallowing only a tiny amount. He pretended to be a little drunk as Johnston repeated how the time was ripe for bloody revolution. He joined in toasts to the Prince of Orange, praying that no one would see him in such a place.
Pilgrim of Slaughter Page 17
