I patted Tasunke’s neck and led him forward, a curl of smoke rose from the chimney of the cottage. The roof looked in need of urgent repair, a quick scan of the barn revealed its own dereliction, there were several stones missing from the sides. I could detect movement and wondered if some poor beast tried to stay out of the weather. Or perhaps Beth McGreevy or one of her famous sons hid inside. Instead of walking towards the cottage, I changed direction. I thought only to speak to Beth, however if her sons were around all the better to discover their involvement in the explosion on the fens the other night. With the tomahawks Hania had taught me to use loosened on my belt along with the pair of ivory-handled flintlocks I inherited from my father tucked into my coat, I felt safe. The trio of weapons had seen me through all manner of tight situations in the New World. I walked cautiously forward.
“What the devil dae ye think yer up tae, laddie?” A shrill female voice sounded from behind me. “Turn slowly, so I can see yer hands.” Obeying I turned and faced a woman, who wore a black scowl and pointed an old rifle at my chest. She looked skinny enough for one shot of the rifle to thump her into the snow-covered earth.
“Good morning, Beth McGreevy, I presume?” I kept my voice firm. “I am Captain Esmond Clyde-Dalton, the new excise man for Markinch. I need to have a couple of words with you regarding recent events. Thought I might settle my horse in the barn, out of the weather.”
Squinting up at me, I watched any number of emotions dim her features. She was thinking hard. “Got some pigs in the barn. They will try and make an escape if ye open the door and I’ll lose them out on the fens. Best ye settle yer horse under the eaves. Better get out of the weather if ye know what’s good for ye.”
I took a quick look back at the barn. An uneasy feeling compelled me to investigate further, however Beth mumbled something under her breath I did not catch. I felt rushed to accommodate her in order to get the information I needed, both Beathan and Tavish had warned me of her temper.
“Thank you for inviting me in.” I greeted Beth after settling Tasunke and taking another cursory glance around the yard. “I know it is dangerous to invite men into your home when you live alone up here.” I sat in one of three wooden chairs around a table, one leg shorter than the others, making it tough to balance on the cobbles.
Beth smiled, enjoying my discomfort. She put two glasses on the table and filled each one with Scotch, pushing one in front of me. The glass greasy with finger-marks made my stomach protest at the thought of putting it to my lips. She did not notice my reluctance and downed her glass in one. I took a tentative sip.
“Dinnae get any visitors up here, except the law of course, falsely accusing my boys of all sorts of trouble.” Beth took the chair opposite and settled her spindly frame, though without a cushion I could not imagine her being comfortable. “Dinnae run a still, never hae. I suppose ye are going tae accuse my boys of murdering the McKinneys.”
The accusation hung in the air, I never thought of it, mostly because of the rumours around Mr Turner’s involvement. His connection planted itself in my imagination and now little else occupied my thoughts. “How well did your boys rub along with the McKinneys?”
“Och, well enough, I suppose.” Beth poured another draught into her glass. “We are distant relatives, mind, from back when the auld Laird died. Though the McKinneys hae always been a bit tae big fur themselves. Even though we come from the same place, think they are better than us.” Beth thought for a minute, cleaning under her fingernail with a bit of splintered wood. “Rupert was the same age as my youngest, Levy.”
Stomach turning at the sight of the small pile of debris building on the table from Beth’s nails, I looked around the kitchen. Hard to say whether the boys were living here. The meagre contents could service one or three. “When was the last time you saw your boys, Mrs McGreevy?”
“Few months back,” Beth wiped the pile of black dirt from the table with the sleeve of her gown. “They went down south tae find some work after the lambing season up here. Brought me more wool tae spin. Should be home in a week or so tae take my work tae market. I dinnae leave the cottage unattended. There are brigands around.”
None bigger than you, I thought to myself. Tavish would not have mentioned them to me if he did not believe they might be around, nor would Beathan be quick to accuse them. “I have to ask you if either of your boys has been operating a still. An explosion occurred on the fens the other night, not far from this cottage and there has been some speculation your boys might be involved.”
“Lies,” Beth slammed a surprisingly strong fist onto the table. It shook the glasses and the bottle of Scotch pitched perilously. I reached out to steady it. “Bet ye heard it from those ingrates down in Markinch. Well, I will tell ye they hae it out fur my boys. They worked at Deoch. Then some lads accused them of theft. Tavish fired my boys. But they were innocent. Now they go and find work where they can. I spin wool. If the two of them hae learned tae operate a still, we could be as rich as the bloody Clunes.” A fire lit Beth’s eyes and she appeared feverish. “They could stay home all the time, but I tell ye, Captain, I dinnae think they hae the brains. I love them, but stills are a complicated business.”
She was lying. I could not prove it, however I felt it in my guts. Instincts warning me of her duplicitous nature, the only truth she spoke was her belief her boys could not run a still. This did not mean they were not trying. “Madam, thank you for taking the time to answer my questions. I should be off, back to the village. When your boys do turn up. I will be looking to question them myself.”
“They are normally home fur Christmas.” Beth stood and eyed my half-empty glass between narrowed eyes. I clenched my stomach, forced a smile and downed the rest in one swallow, breathing heavily to stop from heaving. She continued speaking, satisfied. “Nae much work around in winter for two lads.”
Grimacing on a hiccough. “I shall perhaps see you in the village.” I bowed smartly, pulled the fur around my shoulders tighter and headed out the door without a backward glance. Tasunke stood watching me with a baleful eye. He looked ready to slumber back in the warm barn, with a bucket of oats by his side.
I could feel Beth’s eyes on me as well as someone in the barn. Out in the open and alone I could easily be taken down, the best way to take down an opponent was through surprise, it’s the reason we used raids to harry the French. I climbed into the saddle, and saluted the occupants of the barn. I wanted them to know I sensed their presence. Tasunke’s clever hooves managed the path and we met the road. Another foot of snow had fallen in the time I spent with both women. I let Tasunke have his lead. He knew the way back to the barn and warmth.
I thought falling snow magical as a child. It drifted from the sky, swirling, as light as air, and it covered everything in cold drifts of ice. Such a simple instrument of chaos, roads shut under its weight, accidents befell the unwary traveller and all remained quiet, sleeping under its heavy silence. Relaxing into thoughts of spending the afternoon working through ciphers for Mr Turner’s diary. I remained convinced the answers to his actions before his death would be revealed along with his involvement with the McKinneys. The lack of any other occupation in Markinch fuelled my need to solve the mystery.
The sound of a dry branch snapping echoed out onto the road. I immediately leapt from the saddle and loosened the weapons on my belt. Tomahawk in hand, I led Tasunke to the side of the road and waited for the cause of the noise to reveal itself. It may have only been a deer or it might be the McGreevy brothers following. Hania taught me the importance of stillness. We spent many autumns hunting together. He would teach me, sometimes with painful consequences, the true abilities of a hunter and a warrior. Those lessons saved my life in the New World. I never thought to have to use them here in Scotland.
Minutes passed, the cloud of white breath emerging from my chapped lips the only sign of my presence. I could wait for hours, crouched in this position, in the summer, in a comfortable temperature. Unfortunately the fast
falling snow building up on my shoulders and head reminded me my clothes would begin to leak in time. Exposing me to another chill. The thought of spending any more time in bed with a fever, relying on the feminine ministrations of Freya, spurred me into action. I decided to shout out and take a stand when a small voice emerged from the woods on the opposite side of the road, a few feet judging by the slight echo.
“Captain, it’s only me.” Kieran’s voice shook with shivers and I immediately stood up. Tasunke lifted his head, studied my profile and fell still again. “I went around tae check my snares before the weather turned worse and I saw ye go tae the McGreevys’.” Kieran stepped out onto the road, a brace of conies over his shoulder. He shivered so hard I was surprised he could speak at all.
Quickly striding over to him, I took his frozen hands in mine, looking over his clothes. “For a lad who spends most of his time out of doors. I’m surprised to see you so ill prepared.” I lifted him up and carried him over to Tasunke, placing him on the front of the saddle. Taking the hares, I slung their frozen bodies across my back.
“McGreevys are dangerous folk.” Kieran chattered through his teeth as I tried to get comfortable in the saddle behind him. Pressing his small frame into the warmth of the wolf furs. “I know Roth and Levy are up there. They dinnae show themselves often and probably wouldn’t tae a stranger. Thought ye might need my help again.” I heard the grin on his face.
“You’re a good lad with a good heart.” I signalled for Tasunke to move forward again and we plodded at a slow pace. I could not risk Tasunke becoming lame with Kieran in such a state. “If you knew the weather would close in, you should not have stayed out. You must always have a plan to get home, lad.” Laughing under my breath. “I would hate to know what your father might do to me if he knew you fell ill while chasing after me.”
“He does nae hae a mind for such things, might nae notice if I took ill.” For the first time Kieran sounded like a small boy. It was hard to think of him as vulnerable. “He wishes he lived in another time and place. Maybe fur things tae go back tae the auld days. He wants his rightful life.”
I let the silence grow. The warmth from the furs began to work their magic, Kieran’s scrawny shoulders eased from shivering and he leaned back. Tasunke dutifully trudged along in the deepening snow, needing to break the silence. “And what do you want, Kieran?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders. He remained quiet for so long I thought he was either not going to answer or had fallen asleep. “I suppose I would keep everything as it is now. Faither working at Deoch, Tavish teaching me how tae make Scotch and always having time tae check my snares or look for fish. I would wish tae remain in Markinch. Except when I am fighting in the New World, as ye did. I shall be away from Markinch and Scotch. I will be having stoatin adventures and be like my great-great-grandfather, the auld Laird.”
Hoping to make light of his desire to become a soldier, I said. “I for one would be terrified to come across such a fierce small thing in battle.” Kieran sat up taller when I used the word small. “Size is not everything in a fight. There are many ways to take down a larger opponent, and not only with your fists, using your wits and playing to your own strengths.”
The boy sniffed. “I dinnae believe it, Levy McGreevy is the biggest man around. They say he is the meanest fighter. He never, ever loses.” Kieran leaned forward and patted Tasunke’s neck and ran his fingers through the horse’s ice-crusted mane. “Besides, Jimmy’s the largest lad in the village and he has never lost a fight, nae ever.”
It sounded as if the lad might have some experience with the latter of the two village bruisers. I did not want Kieran to think I might be singling him out. “Tell me of Jimmy, does he pick on all the village children?”
“He’s the landlord of the Thistle’s son. So he can get intae the beer and Scotch,” Kieran shrugged. “He only shares with his friends and if anyone threatens tae tell his mother, they get a guid bop on the head. I’m nae a snitch. I tried trading a couple covies fur a taste, dinnae tell my faither.”
The houses of the village finally began to appear as dark shapes in the falling snow. We would soon be safe, out of the elements. “I assure you I am not a snitch, either. However I would warn you over the dangers of alcohol.” Thinking quickly, “I have heard a few scientific studies on the effects of alcohol on size, and I believe it may cause men to stay small their whole lives.”
“You never say.” Kieran’s voice sounded worried. “I’ve only ever taken sips, nae much. Dae ye think it might affect my size? The auld Laird was as big as a bear, folk say. I need tae be at least the same size as him.”
Legends tended to grow larger in people’s minds with time. “I think the odd sip is fine. It might be best if you leave the drinking to old men such as myself. No more growing to be done, you see.” The lights from the village windows shone weakly through the snow and we turned into the main road, not a soul moved on the street.
Kieran slid from the saddle before I turned Tasunke into the inn’s back courtyard. I handed him the brace of rabbits and he snapped one off the braided sticks and handed it back. “It’s still foul weather. I can take you all the way back up to your cottage at Deoch.”
The boy slid a hand longingly over Tasunke’s wet, icy neck. “Nae, I better make my own way home, never know what mood Faither might be in. Best tae keep him couthy. After all, I’m still on my punishment fur my last adventure with ye.” He doffed his cap and stepped lightly through the drifting snow. I watched until he disappeared.
Without prompting Tasunke turned into the narrow passage and did not stop until we stood in front of the barn doors. Dismounting, I spoke. “Well, old man, I think we have had an interesting morning. Let’s stay inside for the rest of the day, shall we?”
Chapter 9
I relaxed into my favourite chair in front of the fire in the drawing room, a plate of half-eaten oat biscuits and a pot of tea at my elbow, as I drowsily contemplated the falling snow through the front windows. Kieran would have made it home safely, yet I worried for the boy. He was far too adventurous for his own health. I resolved to report back to Colonel Manners, his letter prompting news from me aside. I needed to be sharp in order to present recent circumstances in a respectable light. The current mysteries in Markinch did not warrant a whole militia, the less military involvement the better for everyone.
Finishing the cup of tea, I took up my travelling writing case. The battered wood as familiar to my eyes as my own hands. I ran my thumb over the small brass plate with my father’s initials, JD, carved into the metal in script, as I had hundreds of times before. Opening the lid on paper, ink and goose quills. Using a small knife, I sharpened the end of one of the new quills. I closed the lid of the wooden box, set my paper in place and stared at the blank sheet.
One of my last letters had been to Mr Wick, informing him of my purchase of a great swath of land to the north of Boston. I had told him of my plans to settle there. Have a family and never return to London, finally at peace with the world. The minutes ticked past in mechanical succession, the clock on the mantelpiece reminding me of time lapsing. I put the quill to paper several times, only to discard my words and think anew of an opening. I questioned my motives for protecting the people of Markinch. They would hardly thank me for my efforts. Previous experience taught me. Better to write something than nothing at all, and I wrote across the page in halting script. Hoping to see my thoughts in order to organise them.
Colonel Manners, the year of our Lord, 1707, November.
I am in receipt of your letter having taken up the post in Markinch not over a week past. On the surface, all appears to be in order, the main distillery, Deoch-an-Dorus, keeps tidy records and is running at full capacity. The other smaller still at the Turret is no longer in production and has not been for several weeks. The reason behind this halt is a cause of concern for the English, as it may have to do with the previous post holder, one Mr Turner of Somerset.
I glanced up at the kn
ot in the rope Mr Turner had used to end his life. It hung motionless, without pride or threat. I studied the intricate way it clung to the beam and how high the noose must have hung. Mr Turner could not have fixed the rope without a ladder. Someone else was involved in his death. Someone in this town, did the McKinneys have more to do with it than being victims? Questions frustrated my thoughts, I railed against Colonel Manners for not detailing Mr Turner’s tenure here in Markinch. For not mentioning the worrying circumstances of his death, this information must have been important. I wanted to write my angry thoughts onto the paper, however, I knew Colonel Manners’ character well enough to guess his less than cooperative mood should I try to scold anything out of him. I needed to remain aloof and use my wits.
It appears the man created a local scandal with his interest in the Turret distillery, believing they might be responsible for operating an illegal still or running Scotch, though he found no proof of these crimes. According to my sources the two men who ran the still, Mr Rupert McKinney and Mr Everett McKinney, disappeared on the same night as Mr Turner’s demise, leading many in the area to believe he was involved in the men’s disappearance. I could not discover any proof Mr Turner might be involved in the men’s vanishing, although Mr Turner’s obsessive nature gives credence to the accusations. The discovery of Rupert and Everett’s corpses out on the fens in recent days has only led to further speculation over Mr Turner’s involvement in their demise. I made a cursory search of the place where the men died and of their bodies, finding wounds consistent with shots fired at close range. I searched the cottage where Mr Turner lived and found no such weapons. The lack of the murder weapon does not make Mr Turner innocent or a knave, it only reinforces the mystery surrounding all three men’s deaths. I will be continuing my inquiries into the matter and I will present any further information to you as soon as it becomes available.
Scotch Rising Page 12
