Sitting in The Periwig that afternoon, MacKenzie told him the details of the fraud. Morrison had transferred all the company’s money to London using bills of exchange. But it had not paid for a ship or insurance. All of the funds simply disappeared. It was a confidence trick. Money was raised from investors in Scotland and transferred to a rotten merchant in London who could not be found. The tentacles of the fraud spread wider. Morrison had used some of the money to secure a supply of hair for Guillemot’s wigs. They were stamped falsely with the mark of Tippendale and shipped to London to be sold as genuine ones. The margin of profit was huge. The export of hair was illegal by act of Privy Council. Guillemot had been caught transporting a batch out of the city and was incarcerated in the Tolbooth awaiting trial. He knew nothing of the whereabouts of Morrison.
‘I’m sorry for your hundred pounds, sir. I promise I’ll pay it back.’
‘You should not take all the blame, Davie. Frauds are not uncommon in the world of business. We should all have delved more deeply into the history of George Morrison. Reputation is everything in finance.’
Scougall shook his head in disbelief. ‘I must speak to Agnes.’
He rushed to their lodgings, followed by the guards, but found them deserted. There was nothing left to hint that she or her brother had ever lived there. All the furniture and cooking utensils were gone. The presses were empty. There was not a crumb left in the pantry.
As he was about to leave, a woman appeared. He recognised the wife of the landlord who lived in the floor above. She did not look pleased. ‘They left without paying the rent. Are you David Scougall?’ She handed him a letter.
My dearest Davie,
I know you’ll never forgive us for what we’ve done.
You must believe me when I say I did have feelings for you as a kind and gentle man. I didn’t mean to encourage thoughts of marriage in your heart. This was not part of our plan and makes our subterfuge appear all the more cruel. With all my heart you must believe me when I say this.
George and I are gone to another land where we’ll start our lives again with money to make our arrival less miserable than our coming to Holland. We’ll never see each other again. For this I’m very sad, as I was grown fond of you. I know you’ll find another woman who is worthy of you and who’ll make you a loyal and loving wife.
Agnes Morrison
Scougall felt wretched. Like a tormented schoolboy, he stormed out of the tenement making for the crags beside Arthur’s Seat to throw himself of the precipitous cliffs. When he reached the top, he stood at the edge looking down on the city. He could just make out the bells of St Giles Kirk where he worshipped every Sabbath. He recalled the view of the spire from his office window. He thought of Jesus Christ who had died for him on the Cross and realised his family and friends would be devastated if he took his own life. He took a few steps back and felt his anger fall away. He thanked God for helping him reject the folly of self destruction. A few minutes later, he heard the cries of the guard who had followed him down the High Street. ‘Mr Scougall! Mr Scougall!’
He stood panting for a while beside him. ‘I’ll nae get ma siller if you’re deid, sir.’
It almost made Scougall laugh. ‘I just came up here to think. Don’t worry yersel, your siller is safe.’
He had never known a broken heart before and it pushed the hours spent as Quinn’s captive out of his mind for a while. In the days following he was more miserable than he had ever been. Even the game of golf appeared a pointless pursuit.
At last, as he was wont to do, he turned to prayer. God spoke to him, telling him he was suffering as His Son had done on the Cross. When Scougall thought of the crucifixion, he recognised his own selfishness and was determined to make amends for his foolishness.
Now and then over the following days, his mind strayed to Elizabeth. He was moved by her kindness during his recovery and saw she was afflicted by her own torments. He hoped she was safe. Above all, he prayed that she was not wed.
49
Jacobite Rebellion
THEY STOOD OUTSIDE Scougall’s office watching the long procession making its way down the High Street, a congress of the political nation of Scotland: dukes, earls, viscounts, baronets, knights, officers of state and burgesses plodding slowly towards the Parliament House behind St Giles Kirk, a Convention of Estates to decide who should be King and Queen.
MacKenzie and Scougall followed at the back and stood under the equestrian statue of King Charles II among a large crowd outside the doors of Parliament House. MacKenzie was relieved to see the people’s passion was abated. He hoped they would determine the future of the realm by words rather than swords.
‘Still no sign of him, sir?’ Scougall asked timidly. He prayed every night for Quinn’s capture. How could he ever live at ease with the thought he might return hanging over him?
MacKenzie shook his head. ‘We’ll get him, Davie. Even the Presbyterians are looking for him.’
Scougall noticed how the light was taken out of MacKenzie since Elizabeth had gone.
The doors suddenly burst open and there were cries of ‘God save the King’ and other proclamations of support for King James from a few Jacobites in the crowd. Scougall was surprised to see the diminutive figure of Viscount Dundee. He was welcomed by a few supporters and enveloped in the waiting throng, before heading down St Monan’s Wynd in the direction of the Cowgate.
At the same time Scougall became aware of another commotion beside the doors and shouts of ‘he’s been stabbed!’ An old man in a long wig was holding his neck and screaming in pain. He sank to the ground, blood spurting from a wound. ‘Pittendean’s stabbed!’ someone shouted.
Scougall looked round in panic. It was then that he saw him. He was dressed like the other Cavaliers who accompanied Dundee in a large hat, flowing wig and velvet jacket. For a few moments terror paralysed him. He could not move or utter a word. Quinn turned in his direction. As he looked into his eyes a smile spread over his face. He nodded knowingly, before ducking down into the crowd.
‘It’s him! It’s him! Quinn!’ Scougall found his voice again. He was relieved to find MacKenzie and Stirling at his side. ‘There he is!’
Quinn was making his way back up the High Street towards the castle.
MacKenzie shouted for the guards to get after him. They had to battle against the flow of the crowd. Few had seen what had happened to Pittendean and they were not interested in stopping Quinn. Scougall feared they were falling into a trap as they sped down the Bow, Quinn’s lithe body darting this way and that about forty yards in front.
When they reached the Grass Market, Scougall kept catching sight of him, but losing him again. He was aware of a noise coming from the Cowgate, a deep rumbling sound. One guard was only a few yards behind Quinn, but the crowd was tightly packed and he could not grab him. Everyone was craning their necks to observe something to the left. With every fibre of his being Scougall fixed his eyes on the white feather sticking from the hat of his tormentor.
Quinn slipped through a gap in the crowd, darting across the street towards the south side of the Grass Market where steps led up to Heriot’s Hospital. At that moment a troop of horse exploded onto the street, galloping at speed. Scougall lost sight of him in the melee. There were screams as onlookers tried to get out of the way. His eye was taken by the figure at the head of the dragoons. It was Dundee himself, his long wig billowing in the wind, a man of action done with argument who had chosen war. He would fight for King James until his last breath. Scougall saw this in an instant before his eyes sought Quinn among the horses. His nimble body dodged across the street… then he lost him again. The dragoons were gone through the West Port, abuse reigning down on them from the people. Taking up the rear was the ponderous figure of Glenbeath, looking uncomfortable on horseback.
A number of bodies lay on the street. Scougall prayed the creature who had almost claimed his life was one of them.
MacKenzie stood beside a pulverised corpse. ‘H
e was trampled by the horses, Davie. The Harlequin’s dead. His final act was patricide: the slaying of his father.’
Scougall looked down on the battered body. He would never forget the thin pointed face. He thanked God from the bottom of his heart.
Epilogue
Glorious Revolution
11 April 1689
‘THE CLAIM OF RIGHT is a just document which will form the basis of a lasting settlement,’ said Scougall. He took a sip of coffee before continuing: ‘King James the Seventh invaded the fundamental constitution of the Kingdom, altering it from a legal limited monarchy to an arbitrary absolute power to the subversion of the Protestant religion. It has pleased God to make his Royal Highness William Prince of Orange, King of England, the glorious instrument of delivering us from Popery and arbitrary power.’ He put the pamphlet down.
‘I would follow Dundee to the Highlands if I was a younger man,’ MacKenzie sighed.
Scougall continued to read quietly: ‘The Convention has declared the Crown of Scotland vacant and resolved that William and Mary, King and Queen of England, France and Ireland, be declared King and Queen of Scotland. An oath of allegiance is to be taken by all Protestants.’
MacKenzie took his hat to leave. ‘I must return to The Hawthorns, Davie. Elizabeth’s been seen in the north. You said you’d go with me.’
Scougall nodded, uplifted by the news.
‘We leave tomorrow morning,’ added MacKenzie.
Scougall would have baulked at such a journey before, but he felt loyalty burning in his veins. He prayed every night that Elizabeth would not be wed to the Papist.
MacKenzie left to get his horse, while Scougall sauntered up the High Street. The thoroughfare was packed. The city was still splitting at the seams. At the Mercat Cross, the Duke of Hamilton was addressing the crowd. He was proclaiming William and Mary King and Queen of Scotland. There was great rejoicing at every word.
When the Duke had finished, Stirling appeared at Scougall’s side. He was in a relaxed mood following his retirement from his position as Crown Officer. ‘I’ve something to ask you, Davie. I’ll be finished my history soon… perhaps in a few months. I’d like you to make a fair copy of the manuscript as a man skilled with the pen. I’ll pay you, of course.’
‘I’ll have to look to how much business I have when the book’s finished, sir.’ Scougall was sure that it would not be completed for a long time.
After the crowds dispersed, he remained at the Cross, pondering everything that had happened. The people had risen up against a tyrant. Scotland had a Protestant King and Queen again. The bishops were still in place for now, but they would be gone soon. Some called it a glorious revolution; others, an unexpected one. The old King, or rather the deposed one, who was still called the King by the Jacobites, was in Ireland, preparing to take his kingdoms back by force of arms, supported by King Louis, arch-enemy of the Protestant cause. Dundee was raising the Highland clans to fight for him. Seaforth and his brother were expected to join him.
Lammington had returned to Edinburgh with a position in the government and a pension of four hundred pounds sterling a year. It was said his forfeiture would be rescinded soon. Grimston had received nothing and was much aggrieved. Glenbeath had joined the Pretender in Ireland, as the old King was called by some.
Scougall thought about his own journey since the previous summer. The memory of Agnes was still fresh in his mind. His heart was still broken, although less so each day. He feared that he would never savour the joys of the married state. The thought of re-entering negotiations with his mother and examining new candidates in Musselburgh was unappealing. Perhaps he would talk to MacKenzie about it during their journey to the Highlands.
Thoughts of his torture at the hands of Quinn lurked in the recesses of his mind, ready to haunt him when he was alone. In his dreams at night, he often returned to the hideous chamber. There he saw himself chained to the floor, a naked creature, perplexed and distraught, preparing to suffer in Hell. He would wake in a cold sweat and pray fervently. He came to see that this was the state of all sinners without God’s grace.
As he walked back to his office, the sky was crystal blue beyond the spire of St Giles. It was almost spring. Bells were ringing across the city to celebrate the reign of the new monarchs. His old self would have rejoiced, but he had experienced too much pain. The old certainties were gone from his heart. In their place was something new – a feeling of doubt.
Acknowledgements
A special thanks to my wife Julie for her perceptive comments on an early draft of the text and all her love and support over the years. Thanks also to everyone at Luath Press.
Pilgrim of Slaughter Page 24
