‘May I congratulate you on the discovery, Lawtie,’ said Stirling.
‘I’m perhaps useful for something,’ he laughed. ‘Look carefully, gentleman. There’s a hint of red varnish on it.’
‘He was attacked by a woman, after all!’ exclaimed Scougall.
‘We seek a woman with red nail varnish,’ said MacKenzie turning to Stirling. ‘I believe you’re well acquainted with such a woman, Archibald?’
‘My God! Maggie’s such a loving wench. I’ve never known her to raise her voice in anger.’
42
A Confession
On the twelfth day of November in the year of God 1688 I killed Isaac Black, doctor, by strangulation within a chamber in my house. Thereafter I did great dishonour to his body, by removing his sexual organs with a sharp knife and disposing of them in the water of the Nor Loch.
It was Dr Black’s first visit to my house. He appeared at about six o’clock in the evening saying my establishment was recommended to him. As soon as I opened the door I recognised the man who defiled me when I was a ten-year-old child. He still carried a stick with an elephant’s head carved on the handle. I had never forgotten it.
I said nothing although anger rose within me like a storm. I led him to the chamber, smiled at him, encouraging him to relax. I helped him remove his wig and pulled off his boots. There was no doubt in my heart. I offered to rub his neck and shoulders. He was a little drunk which made it easy for me.
I had him lie face down on the bed and took up position at his side. I rubbed him softly. I stood up. For a few moments I looked down on him before raising my skirts and jumping on his back. I was surprised by my own strength. It was as if I possessed unnatural power. As I straddled him I thanked God for bringing him back to me and providing me with the opportunity for revenge. I felt power coursing through me. I was exultant. The cord was round his neck in an instant. I thrust his head down into the pillow and choked the life out of him, enjoying every grunt and gasp he made.
I waited for a minute. I pulled again. I was lost to myself. I did not know who I was but I knew I did right. I climbed off and checked his pulse. There was none. I looked down on him for a long time, hatred still burning through my veins. He was not an ugly man. He was tall and handsome, so why had he abused me? Why had he beaten me with his stick after he was done with me?
I turned him onto his front and removed his breeches and undergarments. I observed the member that had taken my virginity all those years before.
I left the room to retrieve a knife from the kitchen. I returned and stood beside the bed watching him one last time, my mind pulsing with memories of my debauch all those years before. I sliced off his organ as if it were a carrot or parsnip, cupping it in my palm. It was worth its weight in gold. I dropped it into a bag on the floor. Blood was seeping onto the sheets. I sliced off his balls, and threw them into the bag too.
When it was done, I did not know what to do. My revenge was complete. I felt empty, my anger dissipated. I heaved the body over onto its back. When I looked down on my dress which was covered in blood, I came back to my senses. I went to my chamber, took everything off and threw my clothes in a corner. I would burn them later. I put on another frock, washed my hands and face. I went back to the chamber and tidied the room. As I swept it, I listened to the drip drip drip of his blood on the floor.
I told Janet I had discovered a body and fabricated the story of a French whore. I do not regret what I have done. If I had the chance I would do it again. Black is in Hell where he belongs.
I did not kill Thirlsmuir, Guthrie or the boy Troon with the harelip. I wrote no letters to Rosehaugh as I have difficulty writing.
This confession was written by the notary public John Hastie under direction from me. I sign with my own hand having heard the words read back to me.
Margaret Lister, the Tolbooth of Edinburgh, 26 February 1689
43
A Walk in the Gloaming
SCOUGALL SPENT AN hour in his office attending to business, before meeting Morrison in the Royal Coffee House to discuss the affairs of the company. He was accompanied everywhere by the guard who sat at the adjacent table supping ale after ale, saying nothing.
‘I’ve secured the services of Captain Rammage,’ said Morrison enthusiastically. ‘He’s experienced in the Indies trade. I’ve begun to purchase goods for the voyage. I’m storing them in a chamber rented in Leith. We’ll travel to London in the New Year; take the coach to Newcastle before catching a ship.’
A journey to London would allow him to escape Edinburgh for a few weeks. The killer might be caught by the time he returned.
He spent the afternoon at his desk working on an instrument, a task which brought him no satisfaction. In the gloaming he decided to wander over to the Parliament House for news of events in London. He was accompanied everywhere by Stirling’s man who followed a few yards behind him with a loaded pistol in hand. There were more rumours that the King had fled, but they were not confirmed. The Presbyterians were in buoyant mood, but he could not share their exhaltation.
It was good to be out of his lodgings. He had spent too many hours cooped up like a bird in a cage. He walked aimlessly down Greyfriar’s Wynd into the Cowgate, passing St Magdalene’s Chapel. The demise of Guthrie and Johnston were overshadowed by other matters; the manner of their deaths concealed by Rosehaugh. The opinion on the street was that Johnston was killed in a brawl with another student; his decapitation was suppressed. Bribes were liberally distributed to the town guards. Guthrie’s killing was painted as a tragic accident during the great riot when many lost their lives. In other words, it was as if the murders had not occurred. No one knew those slain belonged to the same Presbyterian group. No one referred to the killings in the taverns and coffee houses. Events in England were the sole obsession.
Scougall turned up Niven’s Wynd, his mind drifting back to Agnes. He had still not broached the subject of marriage with Morrison, having lost confidence since the last letter was found. He could think of little else but his own demise.
He climbed slowly up the wynd, passing Hunter’s storeroom where Thirlsmuir was found. He thought of the boy Troon who had disappeared. There was still no sign of him. He recalled Guillemot telling them that lanterns were to be installed soon. Niven’s Wynd required them badly. He could hardly see where he was going in the shadows. He nervously looked behind every few paces. The guard was still there. He looked up as a murder of crows flew overhead.
It was almost dark by the time he reached Guillemot’s shop at the head of the wynd. He recalled Helen Quinn’s description of Maggie Lister looking in the window. The whore had been executed the day before, her life of sin brought to an end, although he felt pity for her, believing she was a good soul corrupted by Satan. He recalled his Tippendale wig which was still in its box in his press. He had not found the courage to wear it, nor his new shoes or suit. Everything was on hold.
He crossed the vennel to Quinn’s shop. It was also shut. He took a deep breath. He could smell the perfumes emanating from within. He was becoming used to the smell, indeed began to like its sweetness. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. When he opened them, he thought he saw a figure inside the shop. Perhaps it was Quinn or his sister tidying up after the day’s work. He looked round for the guard. There was no sign of him. Where was the fool? Probably off to urinate in a dark corner. That was all he seemed to do: drink and piss. Uneasiness spread through him. He looked around again for the fellow. He had disappeared into thin air. It was getting late. He must get home soon for his meal with Mrs Baird. He would complain about him the next time he saw Stirling. How could a guard spend his time drinking? He was not paid to do that.
After about ten minutes standing alone in the cold he decided to return to his lodgings himself. The foolish fellow would get a fright, but it was his own fault. He would take a shortcut through Jessop’s Lane. It was a very narrow passageway, but would save him a couple of minutes. As he entered the shadows, someth
ing whistled through the air above his head.
44
Cabinet of Wonders
SCOUGALL’S HEAD WAS stooning when he came round. He could hardly breathe. Something was stuck in his mouth. It was a gag. His eyes blinked open. A thick metal chain was wound round him, pinning him to the floor. He was naked as a newborn bairn. Someone or something had removed his clothing, even his undergarments. Feelings of breathlessness and nausea gave way to terror as he realised he was incarcerated somewhere. He looked around as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. There was only one source of light – a single candle on a dressing table. He had no idea where he was. He did not know how long he had been lying there.
The first thing that caught his eye was his own periwig on a wooden head on the table. There was a mirror against the wall and above it shelves reached up to the ceiling. On them was a collection of some kind, an assortment of leather goods. He wondered if he was in a craftsman’s studio or workshop. The walls were covered in drawings. He craned his head round to get a better look. A disturbing image caught his attention; it looked like a huge pillar of interconnected bodies burning in the flames of Hell.
He looked back at the shelves. In a glass container, a round shape was suspended in translucent fluid. With revulsion he realised it was Johnston’s head. Gradually the other pieces came into focus – an assortment of body parts – ears, tongues, legs, arms, hands, fingers, feet, toes, organs – all shrunken and desicated. He was in a shrine to the dead, the lair of Satan himself.
He struggled violently against the chain in an effort to escape. But with each movement it dug more deeply into him. He could only move his neck and hands without severe pain. In despair he began to pray, confessing his vanity and pride. He must have sinned gravely to be imprisoned in such a place, to face an excruciating death at the hands of the Devil. He begged God to save his life.
He thought of Agnes and his desire for marriage and his hopes in the trading venture and his mother and father, kind folk who loved him, and his twin sisters, annoying at times, but whom he loved dearly. He thought of the game of golf which he would miss above all earthly pursuits, recalling the wonderful feeling of a sweetly hit wood on a spring day. He thought of MacKenzie whom he admired above all men. He begged God he would hear the Gaelic tongue spoken by him again.
None of them would have any idea where he was, although Mrs Baird would know he had not returned for his evening meal. She would surely raise the alarm. Then there was Stirling’s man, if he was still alive.
He did not know how long he lay in a state of horrified distraction, looking on his nakedness with shame, fearing his fate with an ache as deep as the coldest ocean. He was reduced to utter dejection, the weight of self-pity like a heavy stone upon him. He felt a presence in the chamber coalescing round him, enveloping him, overpowering him. Death was very close.
45
A Visit from Bessie Troon
‘I’M SORRY TAE bother you, sir. But I’ve naebody else tae turn tae.’
‘Come in, Bessie. Take a seat by the fire. Would you like some ale?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘No, sir. I’m fine. Thank you. I need tae speak with you. I’m sorry for the trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble, Mrs Troon.’
She was cowed by the thought of sitting in a gentleman’s chamber but she must do something. ‘I’ve nae seen my boy for twenty days now, sir. It’s nae like him. He disappears sometimes for a day or twa, but never as lang as this. I fear something’s happened tae him.’
‘The town guards are still looking. He might show up.’
‘He willnae, sir. I ken he’s deid. They’ve killed him. I ken they have.’
‘Who has?’
‘There’s a coven of witches in the city. They’ve taen him for Satan. I ken.’
‘Why do you say that, Bessie?’
‘The ministers tell us witches are aboot…’ She began to cry. ‘I’ll never see him again. It braks ma heart.’
‘Tell me about the last time you saw him. You must tell me everything.’
She gathered her thoughts. ‘I’d just sold some gear tae Shields. Ye ken his booth by the Kirk. I had a wee bit money, so I gave Doad a few pennies, just a little. He thanked me and aff he goes tae spend it, nae doobt in a tavern, I dinnae ken, but he sauntered aff and that was the last time I saw him.’
‘What gear were you selling, Mrs Troon?’
She looked down at the floor. ‘I’ll tell you, sir, but you must understand I’ve tae feed ma bairns. Doad took a couple of wigs frae Guillemot’s storeroom.’
‘Did he have a key?’
‘No, sir. The ither door, there’s anither way in.’
‘I thought it was bricked up.’
‘It is, sir. But a small boy can squeeze through. He just took a couple. But he saw something. He telt me.’
‘What did he see?’ MacKenzie edged forward in his chair and stared at her intently.
‘He saw something the night Thirlsmuir was killed. When the door tae the vennel opened, he hid behind the ither ane in the darkness. He couldna see everything as he peeked through a crack in the door, but he saw Thirlsmuir come in followed by a beast in a cloak. As soon as the key was turned Thirlsmuir was hit. He never saw it coming. He was dragged tae the fireplace. Dodd couldnae see much aifter that. He was so terrified, he slipped through the gap tae safety.’
‘You said a beast, Mrs Troon.’
‘It was a creature, sir, nae human, a witch. That’s what he said. Thirlsmuir was slain by a witch.’
‘What did the witch look like?’
‘I dinnae ken, sir. Aw I ken is Satan walks among us. Satan is killing these folk, nae other! Doad was a guid lad, sir. I was saving a little for an apprenticeship so he might follow a trade and mak something of his life.’
‘Is there anything else, Mrs Troon?’
‘No, sir. I should’ve telt you before, but I feared we would hang for stealing.’
MacKenzie’s mind was spinning. He went to his desk and looked down at the Bible still open at the Book of Revelations. He flicked through a few pages, then read: ‘And when he had taken the book, the four beasts and four and twenty elders fell down before the Lamb, having every one of them harps, and golden vials full of odours, which are the prayers of saints.’
46
The Lair of Satan
THERE WERE NO windows to hint at what hour of day it was, only the single candle on the dresser which was burned down by about an hour, Scougall guessed, since he had come round. His eyes darted across the horrific drawings on the walls. Obscene images of destruction were everywhere: castrations, crucifixions, impalings. Fear engulfed him like a shawl.
Time lost meaning. Life was reduced to heartbeats. He kept trying to visualise the face of Christ on the Cross… the bristles of his beard, the tears on his dirty cheek, the sweat on his neck. He had died so that he might live. He must cling to that. But did all this show he was not one of the chosen, that he was not one of the Elect? If that was so, he was bound for damnation anyway, he always had been.
There was a sound outside the room. He did not know if he was in a cellar or the highest loft. But there was definitely a sound. He feared that the creature would be the Devil himself. Satan had preserved him for some vile purpose. He awaited torture infinitely worse than the Boot or Thumbscrew.
The sound was getting closer. He realised it was footsteps. Someone was climbing a stair far below. As they got louder he heard MacKenzie’s voice speaking as if he was inside the room with him. His words were full of sympathy. ‘Calm yourself, Davie. Observe everything carefully. This isn’t the Devil but a man. All men have weaknesses. While there’s life, there’s hope. Use your wits, for God’s sake!’
Someone or something was slowly climbing the stairs outside the chamber. For what seemed eternity, he listened to the footsteps getting closer. He imagined a high turnpike stair. He knew he was not in a cellar but a tenement.
When the door opened, he was surprised to see a woman
enter. At first, he was suffused with relief thinking she had come to his aid. He was to be saved after all. He looked up from his chains expectantly. But his hopes were dashed in an instant. Helen Quinn peered down at him. He knew from her expression she was not his saviour. She bore a look of anticipation as though she had come upon meat after a long fast.
‘The time is at hand, Mr Scougall.’ She spoke in a different voice from the one she had used in the shop. It was deeper and predatory, with no hint of an Irish accent, but the refined diction he associated with a laird’s wife.
‘You were delivered unto me,’ she said as she sat on the stool in front of the dressing table. She observed herself in the mirror, tilting her head coyly to the side, fiddling with her hair. ‘You were delivered unto me,’ she repeated as she carefully removed her wig. Underneath, her scalp was clean shaven. Scougall had never seen the like on a woman before. The egg-like dome made a vivid impression. She took a cloth and began to wipe her face, removing the makeup that was thickly applied. He could not clearly see her face, only a dim reflection in the mirror. There was no sign of panic in her movements. She took her time, languidly drawing the cloth round her face, wiping it clean.
When she was done, she stood up to look at herself in the glass, admiringly, then in a flourish removed her gown over her head and let her petticoat and undergarments fall to the floor.
Scougall was shocked to see her standing naked before him. For the first time in his life he beheld a woman naked. She moved forward, enjoying her display, swaying as if a dancer on a stage, exhibiting her body to him. It was thin with no breasts. As she turned he saw that the skin over her abdomen and groin was disfigured, rising in rumples of scarred flesh. His fear disengaged rational thought as he tried to take in everything. He began to retch.
Pilgrim of Slaughter Page 22
