‘Have you never beheld a eunuch before, Mr Scougall? I served the Sultan in his seraglio.’
Quinn went to the press and removed a garment, a vest or semmet, wrapping it round him. He moved closer to Scougall.
‘Do you like my coat of many colours, sir? It’s made of the finest leather. Touch it. Feel its soft texture.’
Scougall realised it was a human skin. His heart stopped working. It would not beat. It was stuck. At last there was a thump inside his chest. It began to pump again. There was a ghastly smile on Quinn’s face. Round his neck was part of a face attached to the skin. There was a cleft in the palate. It was the boy Troon.
‘Do you know how much time it takes to flay a body, Mr Scougall? But it’s worth the effort, don’t you think? A fashionable piece, indeed.’
Quinn removed the skin, folded it carefully and placed it back in the press. She took out a shirt, undergarments and breeches and put them on, placing another wig on her head. Andrew Quinn stood before him. ‘I’m ready for you now, sir.’ His voice had an Irish brogue again, but shifted to the higher lilting tone of Helen Quinn: ‘Some perfume for your lady, sir?’
Scougall was confounded, unable to take everything in. He tried to say something through his gag.
Quinn dragged the stool to the middle of the room a couple of yards in front of him. Turning it round, he sat down, his legs spreadeagled. His voice changed to a refined Scottish one. Scougall tried to place the part of the country it was from. He was reminded of the gentry from north of the Forth, perhaps Fife or Angus.
‘My work’s almost done,’ began Quinn. ‘I returned to my native land after years of absence. I was born and bred in Scotland. I’m of noble birth, the eldest son of an ancient family. I’m no merchant or money-man like those in the association.
‘My family believe I’m dead. They kept me chained like a beast in a turret, just as you are incarcerated. They said I was a creature covenanted with the Devil. But I was made by God like all his creatures. I escaped their clutches and wandered the world. I travelled to the Holy Land and beyond, to India and Sumatra. Near Madgascar our ship was taken by pirates. Many were crucified on board. I was a lucky one. Molten tar was poured over me and I was left for dead. I lay for days on the abandoned deck. Finally we were found by slavers. God preserved me for some reason. It was written in the book of life from the start of time. I was taken to the seraglio where I lived with the most beautiful creatures in the world. My manhood was destroyed… but I was still alive. I bided my time. I became the most trusted eunuch… I earned liberties and one day I escaped. Since then I’ve followed another trade. I’ve perfected my craft. It’s a path only a few can follow.’
Quinn stood up with the candle in his hand to illuminate the walls. ‘It’s the trade of death, Mr Scougall. I do God’s work. I smite the degenerate. I’ve killed in a multitude of ways. I’ve committed fratricide. I will end with patricide.’
He continued to speak calmly. ‘Like all exiles I longed to return to my native land. I heard the cries of my people. I heard their souls calling me. They begged me to end the rule of Antichrist and I’ve brought them deliverance. I inflamed the crowd on the streets. I moved it towards fruition. Without the killings, none of it would have happened. I’m the spirit of revolution! I’ve made glorious revolution!’
Scougall felt an acute pain across his chest. His eyes darted round the room, looking for something that might help – anything. There was nothing else other than the press, the dresser, the shelves, the stool and Quinn.
‘Each killing was a sacrifice which brought it closer. I dispatched Thirlsmuir with a blow to the head after the association, summoning him to St Magdalene’s, where I asked him to accompany me to a quiet place where I could provide him with the money he desired. I’d taken the key from Guillemot’s shop. I cut off his hand and hoisted him onto the spit, extinguishing the flames myself when he was done. Then fate intervened. Black was taken in a bawdy-house, strangled in his bed as he waited for a whore. I stood in the chamber after it was done, astonished. God was on my side, aiding me. I slit Johnston’s throat in a vennel beside the Weighing House, took his head off with a stroke of my sword. I shot Guthrie in the mayhem of the great riot. I plucked out his eyes with my thumbs, cut off his ears, nose and tongue. Behold my handiwork.’ He held up the candle beside the shelves.
‘Behold my cabinet of wonders! They are my holy relics. On the top shelf there’s room for another piece, Mr Scougall.’ He gave out a hellish laugh.
‘I hear others calling me from across the sea in Ireland and France and America – I’ll go wherever Antichrist must be fought. I’ll bring them revolution too. He’s made me this way. This is how I must serve Him.’
He began to rummage in a drawer under the dresser.
Scougall felt another sharp pain across his chest, like a dagger being stuck into him. He was having difficulties breathing.
Quinn took out a leather bag and placed it on the dresser. He removed a long metal implement, a rod about a foot in length with a sharp curved spike at the end.
Scougall tried to scream, anticipating the agony, but the gag was too tight. He tried frantically to move, but the chains only cut more deeply into him.
Quinn tested the weapon’s sharpness against his finger. ‘You’ll suffer, Mr Scougall. You’ll suffer, as I suffered. That’s the way of things. I couldn’t help what I was. I couldn’t help what I did. It was in my nature from the start of time. They didn’t know I was born to serve Him.’
Quinn moved towards him, a smile on his thin lips.
Scougall begged God to save him. He had not sinned. He was a loyal servant of Christ. He sought only to serve. He would do anything he asked of him. He prepared for death. The last thing he saw before he shut his eyes was a quizzical expression on Quinn’s face. He felt the implement against his chest.
There was a noise beneath. Scougall opened his eyes. Quinn was standing over him listening intently. It sounded like a distant knocking. The knocking continued. There were faint voices, then muffled shouts.
Quinn looked disgruntled, as if at a meal interrupted by the call of an unexpected visitor. He waited, expecting the person to go away. It was surely only a late customer.
The voices stopped. Quinn turned towards him again, hungrily.
But they started again, louder this time, more urgent. There were shouts. The knocking became a banging. The door of the shop was being smashed down. Someone knew he was there! A glimmer of hope appeared.
Quinn held the blade inches above his chest, a look of indecision on his face.
In his mind Scougall pictured his own ribcage being ripped open, his heart pulled out. Quinn feasting on it.
There was a crash far below. The door was down. He could hear footsteps on the stairs, shouts of something familiar. It was his name. ‘Davie!’ They were shouting his name. He prepared to tackle Quinn somehow. He would do all he could, even head-butting him. It might give him a few seconds.
In an instant Quinn was gone from his side. Putting the tool down on the dresser, he left through the door, closing it after him.
Scougall thanked God. He looked up at the empty space on the shelf. Terrifying moments of silence followed. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears. There was a much louder crash. More shouts and screams, then another long silence. Suddenly, a gun went off, and then another shot, and another. More silence. The moments seemed to last for ever. He counted each beat of his heart, each second of his life. There were footsteps again on the stairs. Someone was climbing up to the room. He closed his eyes, praying it was not Quinn. There was another agonising silence, then murmuring outside. Finally, the door opened.
Stirling entered with a pistol in hand. He looked round the room in shock. Another taller figure was behind him. With joy, Scougall saw it was MacKenzie.
‘Are we too late?’ MacKenzie asked.
Stirling was at his side. ‘He’s still alive, but God knows what he’s suffered.’
When
MacKenzie removed the gag, Scougall tried to thank them. He wanted to shout out that God had answered his prayers. He was not condemned to Hell. It was decreed that he was to live. But all he could do was mumble incomprehensibly before collapsing into unconsciousness.
47
Recovery at Libberton’s Wynd
FOR AN AWFUL moment when he woke he thought he was still in Quinn’s chamber. But as he came round he saw he was lying in a soft bed under clean sheets in a bright room. When Elizabeth appeared with a tray at the door, he was overjoyed.
‘You’re in Libberton’s Wynd, Davie. You’ve been out cold for a day and night.’
His body ached everywhere. The chains had badly bruised his arms, legs and torso. His skin was lacerated all over. But he had survived somehow.
Elizabeth sat on a stool beside the bed. She took a bowl and fed him chicken broth with a spoon. He was just able to raise his head.
‘What has become of you, Mr Scougall?’ she said as she tipped the soup into his mouth, concern in her voice. ‘You must eat if you’re to get your strength back.’ She seemed to have forgiven him for not helping her.
‘Is he caught?’ Scougall said at last.
‘Not yet. But he will be. Don’t worry yourself. There are guards at the door.’
The last guard was a useless drunk, he thought. ‘What happened to Quinn?’
‘He escaped, although Stirling thinks he took a bullet in the leg. He’s likely fled the city.’
‘He’ll have somewhere else, another lair. He could be anywhere, playing another role, male or female. He could be in the tenement next door. He might be one of the guards outside.’
‘That’s ridiculous. They are two large men, much bigger than him.’
He fell back into a fitful sleep. When he woke in the evening MacKenzie was at his side with a cup of ale and more food. He could just pull himself up in bed.
‘What happened, sir?’
‘Rest now, Davie. I’ll tell you everything later.’
‘I must know.’
MacKenzie put down his cup on the table beside the bed. ‘Is fheàrr àgh na ealain. Luck is better than skill. We were very lucky, Davie. Mrs Baird, the good old soul, raised the alarm as soon as you didn’t return for dinner. She ran all the way up the High Street to tell me herself. I went straight to Morrison’s lodgings, hoping you were there. They were not at home so I searched the usual haunts, returning to Mrs Baird’s in case you had appeared. I then got Stirling to have his men search for you. That’s when they found a body in Stein’s midden with a slashed throat. I feared it was you, Davie. It was the guard.
‘I was in a state of confusion. I wandered up the High Street, my mind spinning. I had excluded Morrison based on a critique of his character, in particular the hunger in his face at the company launch. He is driven by money rather than blood-lust. Craig was gone with his master to London. I didn’t think Guillemot could be the killer because of the way he reacted to the news about his daughter. I’d already narrowed the field to Grimston, Lammington or Quinn. It was here that luck intervened. Without thinking, I found myself standing before Sarre’s players in the Lawn Market. The harlequin stood above me on stage. The close association of ‘Harlequin’ and ‘Helen Quinn’ came to me. In a flash I remembered her words when she described her shop with golden vials full of odours – echoing Revelations 5:8. The letters were peppered with phrases from the same source. You were saved by a player, Davie! There was another hint a woman was involved. Bessie Troon’s boy claimed he saw a witch in the storeroom attacking Thirlsmuir. I didn’t realise Quinn and his sister were the same person, but it makes sense. There was an uncanny resemblance. The disguise provided Quinn with the perfect cover to pursue his murderous acts.
‘Anyway, I fetched Stirling and we headed straight to the shop. He had no hesitation in ordering his men to break down the door. When we reached the fourth storey Quinn fired at us before jumping through a window. He landed on a roof below and dropped down into the vennel. Stirling and his men returned fire. A search has uncovered no sign of him yet. We found his secret chamber on the top floor.’
There were tears in Scougall’s eyes as he recalled his captivity. Slowly and with many breaks he told MacKenzie what had happened, describing Quinn’s claim he was the eldest son of a noble family, his travels and incarceration in the seraglio.
‘He said his first crime in Edinburgh was fratricide. What did he mean, sir?’
MacKenzie nodded knowingly. ‘Pittendean told us his firstborn was taken from them. Quinn is perhaps… Thirlsmuir’s brother! Pittendean’s long lost son, returning to wreak havoc on the family that abandoned him.’
‘What kind of creature is he?’
‘He’s a broken spirit, Davie.’
‘He’s surely the servant of the Devil – a vile demon!’
‘A disease of the mind drives him to kill. For him murder is a compulsion. This is suggested by the trophies and bizarre drawings in the chamber. We found the parts of fifty different bodies. He passed from city to city, taking his collection with him, adding to it as he went. A pilgrim of slaughter.’
Over the next few days Scougall recovered his strength helped by Elizabeth’s gentle nursing. Even old Meg revealed a tender side of her character he had not seen before. The old woman barely spoke a word of English, but her Gaelic laments helped him find slumber as she sat spinning her thread on the wheel in the corner.
On the fifth day after his captivity he was overjoyed to receive a visit from his parents. He did not share everything that had happened. He knew it would be too painful. MacKenzie only told them the killer had made an attempt on his life.
‘I’ll hae the beast maself. Gie him tae me!’ Mrs Scougall screamed when she was told in MacKenzie’s study. But when she looked upon her son, she broke down in tears. Taking the cloth from Elizabeth, she tended him as she had when he was a child with fever.
The presence of his parents comforted him. He knew they would defend him to the last drop of their blood. They had no hesitation sleeping in chairs by his bed at night until his spirits were revived. His father read chapters from the Bible, the words a balm to his battered spirit.
He hoped Agnes would come to visit him. But there was no word from her or Morrison. He was troubled by this, although he expected they had left town for a few days. He dearly wanted to see her, so he could introduce her to his family.
During his days of recuperation he spent much time in prayer, thanking God for his delivery from Satan. He saw he was guilty of the sin of pride, having sought a higher station for himself influenced by Morrison’s flattery. God had punished him. The Devil had almost taken him. He felt contrite and begged forgiveness. When he was strong enough, he went down on his knees on the floor of the chamber, prostrating himself before his Maker, calling himself to account before his maker, thanking him from the core of his heart for saving him.
Meg folded down his sheets, fluffed up his pillow and brought him a bowl of soup or a hot drink. Elizabeth sat beside him, chatting over her needlework or reading a book to him. He wanted to ask her what had become of Ruairidh MacKenzie, whether she was still betrothed to him, whether she still loved him, if she knew where he was gone. But it was not his place. She was above him, out of reach.
After ten days, he was recovered enough to return to his lodgings. On the day of his departure, there was a commotion in the house. He could hear Meg crying. MacKenzie came up to his room to break the dreadful news. Elizabeth had left during the night to find Ruairidh. They did not know where she was gone. He feared the worst – they would be married against his wishes and live in exile. Scougall had never seen MacKenzie so despondent. The life was sucked out of him. He tried to find words of comfort, but all he could say was that he would do everything he could to help bring her back.
During his time at Libberton’s Wynd it was confirmed that the King had passed over to France, where the Queen and child were gone already. James Stewart was an exile again. There was much debate
in Scotland and England about what should happen. Some desired that the princess Mary be made queen in her own right as his daughter; others called for a Regency. The Tories wanted to invite James back upon conditions, while Republicans wished to give the Prince of Orange the powers of a Stadtholder and not a King. Everything would be decided by a Convention to be held in London at the end of the month.
48
Failure of a Bill
TWO WEEKS AFTER his ordeal Scougall felt strong enough to return to the office. As he walked down the High Street in the rain accompanied by two guards, he was surprised to see a small crowd gathered outside his door. Some of them were gesticulating in his direction.
As he got closer he heard shouts of ‘There he is. There’s the rogue.’ At first he wondered if he misheard, thinking that they knew of his experience at the hands of Quinn and wanted to ask him about it.
A merchant who he knew by sight spoke angrily to him: ‘A bill of exchange drawn on the company has failed in London, Mr Scougall. We want oor money back.’
Scougall was dumbfounded. ‘I’ve been away for a couple of weeks. I know nothing about it, sir.’
‘Feathering your ain nest!’ shouted another.
‘Open up and gie us back oor money,’ said the first.
Scougall fumbled in his pocket for the key. His hand shook as he opened the door. About twenty irate investors pushed in behind him, filling the tiny office and knocking over his writing desk. There were only a few pounds left in the kist. An angry soldier pinned him against the wall by the neck. ‘You ken whaur it is, ye greedy wee shite!’ Thankfully, the guards intervened, breaking up the protestors and forcing them to leave.
‘You’ll get all your money back… I’ll check with Mr Morrison. There’s surely some mistake,’ he shouted as the last one left.
When he was alone, he locked the door, leaving the guards outside. He turned his face to the wall and shed tears of self-pity. The world stood against him. He recalled Morrison’s drinking and gambling and cursing and his request to borrow money against the subscriptions. He had reaped what he had sowed. He should have probed more deeply into his character, as MacKenzie had suggested. He had been terrorised by Quinn. Now he was humiliated by Morrison. But most of all he felt anger towards himself.
Pilgrim of Slaughter Page 23
