‘Then we must retrieve it.’
A couple of minutes later they were in Stirling’s office.
‘I’ll leave it to your sharp eyes, Davie.’
Stirling was leaning back in his chair. ‘Rosehaugh is incensed. The nobles and lairds are all on their way to London, or preparing to go, hoping for audiences with William himself. They’ll offer proclamations of loyalty, so that whatever the new settlement brings, they’ll not be forgotten in the scramble for office. It’s expected by everyone except the King’s most loyal supporters that power will soon be in the hands of his son-in-law.’
Scougall studied each signature in the book against the hand in the letter. There were about forty in total. He took his time, savouring a task which took his mind off the prospect of his own demise. The thirty-eighth name matched perfectly. He looked back and forward between the letter and the book half a dozen times to make sure. ‘Archibald Craig is the author of the letter. It’s as clear as day.’
‘We’ve no time to lose,’ said MacKenzie taking his hat.
They were followed down the High Street by the old guard who struggled to keep up, his sword swaying at his side. A coach and horses was waiting outside Pittendean’s house in the Canongate. MacKenzie admired the exquisite gold gilding of the exterior and the six black horses. ‘It must’ve cost a small fortune. Such fine craftsmanship doesn’t exist in Scotland. Pittendean will make a speedy journey south, providing him with a significant advantage in the scramble for position.’
Scougall was not impressed.
As they entered the gates, Pittendean emerged from the door of the mansion, a diminutive figure in a long wig. Beside him was the stocky figure of Craig. They were deep in conversation.
‘May I have a few words with your lordship,’ MacKenzie asked politely as they stepped through the gates.
Pittendean looked bemused while Craig was clearly annoyed by the interruption.
‘It’s not convenient, MacKenzie. I must be in London as soon as possible. The road south hasn’t been so busy since James the Sixth inherited the English crown, nor so full of scoundrels!’
‘It’s very important, my Lord.’
‘If you’ll sit with me inside, I’ll give you a couple of minutes.’
MacKenzie climbed in after him while Craig remained on the street with Scougall. The guard stood a few yards back saying nothing. The coach door was open so they could hear the conversation within.
‘My Lord,’ MacKenzie began calmly enough, ‘We’ve discovered something about your man.’
Pittendean leaned forward in his seat, suggesting that he was hard of hearing.
‘We’ve identified Craig as the author of a letter.’ MacKenzie raised his voice.
‘What letter?’
‘A letter to Alexander Stuart.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘A letter pretending to be from the Jesuits. A letter encouraging Stuart to kill Kingsfield.’
‘I believe Craig has little business with Jesuits,’ scoffed Pittendean.
‘The same man signed Craig’s subscription to the company’s shares in the Royal Coffee House.’
‘Come, MacKenzie, he’s accused from his handwriting! Many men have similar hands.’
‘It cannot be a coincidence that Craig and the Superior General of the Society of Jesus have the same hand,’ Scougall interjected from outside.
‘The supposition is preposterous,’ Craig replied angrily.
‘That’s not all,’ MacKenzie continued. ‘Craig is the cousin of a man called John Pringle.’
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ replied Pittendean.
‘Pringle is also known as Cornelius Cathcart.’
‘I’ve never heard of the fellow,’ said Craig.
‘Disguised as a priest, Cathcart was supposedly roughed up by the mob on the night Ruairidh MacKenzie was discovered in a Papist cell. However, the fellow was seen a few minutes later shaking hands with his captors and bidding them good night.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me, MacKenzie.’
‘Cathcart was a spy. He was passing information back to the Presbyterians. He encouraged the gullible Stuart, no doubt by suggestion at first. The letter was a master-stroke, making the poor boy believe he had orders from the highest authorities in the Catholic Church.’
‘What say you to all this Archibald Craig?’ asked Pittendean leaning out of the coach.
Scougall was surprised that the Earl wore the same unperturbed, slightly weary expression.
‘I’ve a cousin called Cathcart. He’s a blacksmith in Cupar, my lord. He’s no spy. As for the letter, it must be a copy by someone else, surely an attempt to make mischief.’ Craig did not smile, however.
‘All is explained, MacKenzie. It’s just a little misunderstanding. Why on earth would Craig be involved in such a plot?’
‘There’s more, my lord. Craig also made a request of Davie.’
‘What request?’
‘That he should assassinate Rosehaugh, just as Stuart slew Kingsfield.’
‘Mr Scougall misunderstood me,’ interjected Craig. ‘I was testing his loyalty to the cause. I didn’t think he would take what I said, literally.’
‘And you are a beneficiary of Kingsfield’s death,’ continued MacKenzie. ‘A rival is removed from the scene. Kingsfield is not riding to London, but is six feet under the ground.’
‘I’m not the only one. What of Atholl and Melville and Queensberry and a host of other nobles?’
‘They didn’t owe him so much money. You are indebted for 100,000 merks. His death brings breathing room, time for your lawyers to delay proceedings while you seek high office to alleviate your financial distress.’
‘I must ask you to leave my coach, sir. You’re accusing me of complicity in murder. It’s ludicrous!’
‘I’m accusing you of arranging Kingsfield’s death. I’m accusing you of paying Cathcart to infiltrate Papist meetings. I’m accusing you of a conspiracy of a most evil kind.’
Pittendean looked on the point of saying more, but he sat back in the plush red leather seat and removed a small ivory snuff box from his pocket. Placing a quantity of tobacco on his hand, he sniffed loudly. ‘I’ve never seen the like,’ he said calmly. ‘The mob is driven to such a fever I fear for my house. Remember I’ve lost a son, MacKenzie. I’m still in mourning. You were supposed to find his killer. Instead you accuse me of murder and make preposterous accusations against my man, while your chief and future son-in-law flee the city in disgrace... Rosehaugh will soon be out of office. The MacKenzies are finished and you’ve made an enemy of me!’ For the first time there was anger in his voice.
‘We have evidence linking you with Kingsfield’s death.’
‘Your suppositions are fantasy. You clutch at straws because you make no progress in finding my son’s killer. I’ve heard enough. Join me within, Mr Craig. We need to prepare my address. Much is at stake in London. I ask you to reconsider things while I’m away. Stuart was a foolish Papist driven by fanatical delusions.’
As they watched the coach speeding off in a clatter of hooves down the Canongate, MacKenzie cursed violently in Gaelic. ‘I fear the evidence will not stand up in court, Davie. Life may be difficult for us if he returns with a dukedom and a place in the government.’
When he was back in his office, Scougall wrote to his parents telling them he would not be home over the New Year holiday as events in Edinburgh made it impossible for him to travel. He knew this would be taken badly, especially by his mother who set great store on the family being together at that time of year. It grieved him that he would not enjoy her table. They were not strict puritan folk but liked to eat and drink well as long as there was not too much show. He feared that she might come to town herself to give him a piece of her mind, so he also penned a short note to his father, directing it to his place of work, telling him the serious nature of the occasion, and advising him that he must not allow her to travel to Edinburgh. He would return hom
e as soon as he could. Nonetheless, a nagging doubt remained in his mind that she would not take a telling, for in the Scougall household there was only one true monarch and despite being Presbyterians, her rule was absolute.
40
Christmas Day in Edinburgh
MACKENZIE LOOKED DOWN on the High Street from his apartments in Libberton’s Wynd. Another vast assembly was gathered beneath, the cacophony of sound reverberating through the sash window. He could see a huge construction beside the Mercat Cross, perhaps ten feet in height with a gruesome witch-like visage, a mitre on its head and a crozier in its hand, dressed in the crimson gowns of the Whore of Babylon. He shook his head. This was how the Presbyterians celebrated Christmas; this was their message of joy and rebirth. He could just hear the church bells ringing to celebrate the day above the roar of the crowd.
The effigy burned against the darkness of the early evening as an orgy of hatred rained down upon it. He hoped this would mark the high tide of the people’s anger. It was surely not possible for the nation to protest more vigorously its opposition to the King or articulate more stridently its support for William of Orange.
In a matter of minutes it was melted to nothing. The Mass would be said no more in Reformed Scotland. The Papist was banished from the realm. But would the people be content?
Meg was at the door. A boy had a message from Stirling. MacKenzie read the note quickly. There was an important development. Maggie Lister had remembered the surname of the French girl who was with Black. She was called Christine Guillemot.
He wasted no time in summoning Scougall and heading for the wig shop, the tall guard following in their wake. Guillemot looked puzzled by their sudden appearance.
‘How’s your new piece, Mr Scougall? I see you don’t wear it yet.’
Scougall nodded but did not say anything.
‘I hear the persecution continues in France, sir,’ began MacKenzie.
‘It’s difficult for me to think of my homeland without shedding tears, especially today,’ sighed Guillemot. ‘How long it will last, je ne sais pas. Louis wants every Protestant turned into a Papist.’
‘Have you news of your family?’
Scougall wondered why MacKenzie was asking these questions given what they had just learned.
‘I’ve a cousin in Mazamet converted to Papist who’s still in the village. He keeps me abreast of news. There’s nothing heard of her.’
MacKenzie straightened his back. Scougall recognised it as a mark of resolve and looked down at his shoes.
‘I must apologise for asking, Monsieur Guillemot. I don’t know if it’s true. We have some intelligence.’
‘What do you mean, Monsieur MacKenzie?’
‘Maggie Lister has recalled the name of a young woman who was living in Baxter’s Land a few weeks ago. She was called Christine Guillemot.’
The colour drained from Guillemot’s face. ‘Then you must take me to her, sir! How did you hear this?’
‘She was employed by Maggie. She disappeared on the day Black was killed. We’ve just been told her surname.’
‘Is this true… how can this be?... is this true, Mr Scougall?’ Guillemot turned to him, his face pleading.
‘It’s what we’ve been told,’ replied MacKenzie.
‘In what manner was she employed?’
‘Please sit down, Mr Guillemot. I know it’s a shock.’
‘How was she employed, sir?’
‘She was employed… as whore.’
Scougall closed his eyes, not wanting to witness the impact of the blunt statement.
Guillemot howled incomprehensibly. Taking to his feet, his face entered a paroxysm of agony.
‘We don’t know if it’s true,’ MacKenzie continued. ‘It might be an attempt to mislead us, but I had to tell you. I’m sorry for the pain it’s caused.’
‘My daughter reduced to whore!’ Guillemot screamed. ‘I must speak to Maggie Lister, now!’
‘You should not do so in such a state. Stirling’s men have searched Baxter’s Land already. There’s no sign of her. No one has ever heard of her. You must calm yourself, sir.’
‘How am I to calm myself?’ There was a small knife in his hand. ‘Just try to stop me, just try!’
Guillemot lounged forward, suggesting he was willing to use the weapon, but he did not look proficient with it. There was a crazed look in his eyes as he fled the shop.
‘He’ll make a more vigorous search than we ever could. I’ve already sent a message to Maggie telling her not to let him into her house.’
Scougall was surprised to see MacKenzie looking pleased.
‘We’re making progress at last,’ was all he said.
41
Revelations
MACKENZIE WAS EXAMINING the letters again in his study. He read each backwards, then forwards; he read each word out loud, then every second one, then every third; looking for some kind of pattern. He wondered if they were just a clever trick, perhaps they provided nothing else. His eyes darted from letter to letter, looking at particular phrases – nothing. He rose from his desk and wandered round the study observing his books. His eyes fixed on a copy of the Bible – the source of so much discord among humanity, he thought. Taking it down from the shelf, he placed it on his desk and began to flick through it. He came to the Book of Revelations, his eyes darting through the text, readingly randomly:
‘Blessed is he that readeth, and they that hear the words of this prophecy… for the time is at hand… stood a Lamb as it had been slain, having seven horns and seven eyes… the wrath of the Lamb… a rod of iron… upon his heads the name of blasphemy… drink of the wine of the wrath of God… for all nations have drunk of the wine of the wrath of her fornication…’
The letters were clearly influenced by the book, but to what end?
There was a brisk knock on the door and Elizabeth entered. ‘I must talk with you, Father.’
He turned his chair towards her as she took a seat beside the fire. ‘You must tell me where Ruairidh’s gone,’ she said.
‘I don’t know, my dear. Seaforth wouldn’t tell me. He said only he’d left the city.’
‘I don’t believe you. You must know something.’
‘He wouldn’t tell anyone. It’s too dangerous for anyone to know.’
‘I don’t believe you, Father!’ she said shrilly.
‘He’s maybe gone to the Highlands. He’ll be safe in the west or in the islands.’
‘When will he return to Edinburgh?’
‘That will depend on what happens in London… how things develop there… you know as we say in Gaelic… Is ioma car a tha’n saoghal a’ cur dheth. Many a turn the world takes.’
‘What about our marriage?’ she replied in English, ignoring his Gaelic.
MacKenzie rose to his feet and walked to the window. ‘We mustn’t be hasty… we must tread carefully… I don’t know how we should proceed…’
‘I will still marry him, whatever happens. I don’t care about his religion, father… I care nothing about his past…’
‘Things are complicated… we must look at the arrangements again… the financial details… tighten a few clauses… make full provision for your children… are they to be raised as Papists, for instance?’ He realised he was sounding like a lawyer rather than a father.
When he raised his head he saw she was crying, holding her head in her hands. He wished with all his heart that his wife was alive to help him. She would know how to proceed. All he knew was that he could not risk losing her. He would have to be conciliatory. ‘When things are calmer, I’ll meet them. I’ll travel to the Highlands, even to France if that’s where they’ve gone. But the path might be difficult… for you both… if there’s a change of government… if the Presbyterians are in the ascendancy, or if the King loses his throne. It’ll be a trying time for those who were loyal to James. It will be a difficult time for the Clan MacKenzie.’
‘It’s what I want, Father. I’ll do anything, go anywhere. I love
him.’
MacKenzie took her hand and squeezed it gently. ‘You must be patient. When it’s safe I’m sure he’ll return. In the meantime I’ll keep in contact with Seaforth through my brothers in the north. We’ll learn where they’re bound.’
Meg’s old head appeared at the door and she barked at him in Gaelic.
‘Bring it here.’ She handed him a note from Stirling.
He sought out Scougall immediately. When they arrived at Stirling’s office, Lawtie was leaning over a table working on something. Stirling sat behind his desk.
‘A bag’s been found in the Nor Loch,’ he said. ‘Lawtie’s examining the contents.’ He pointed to a long knife lying on the table. ‘This was found inside it.’
Lawtie turned towards them, his eyes magnified through thick spectacles. He nodded curtly and returned to the task at hand.
‘Why’s he here?’ asked MacKenzie in a whisper. He did not like the grasping little doctor who was only concerned with his fees.
‘The contents of the bag… the contents are of an anatomical nature,’ replied Stirling, beckoning them to have a closer look.
The sodden bag lay on the table like a black liver. MacKenzie removed the piece of material found in the bawdy-house from his pocket. It was a perfect match. ‘The pieces of the jigsaw are coming together.’
Lawtie was poking at something on a china plate with a pair of tweezers.
‘These belonged to Black?’ asked MacKenzie.
The doctor nodded.
With horror Scougall realised he was looking at the remains of Black’s genitals, shrivelled and festered by their time in the loch. Lawtie was trying to prise something out of one of the testicles. He made a number of attempts, cursing each time he failed to dislodge it. At last he held up a small piece of dark tissue, about a quarter of an inch long. Dropping it into a dish, he poured water over it. A small translucent crescent was revealed.
‘What on earth is it?’ asked Stirling.
‘A piece of fingernail,’ smiled MacKenzie.
‘You’re right, sir,’ replied the doctor. ‘It must’ve broken off during the attack. It was left embedded in the tissue.’
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