Scotch Rising

by S. J. Garland

  After signing my name and closing the envelope with red wax and my personal seal, I thought back on every word and sentence. My complete omission of my own involvement in the discovery of the McKinneys’ bodies might cause problems if he decided to send further soldiers to investigate the deaths. However, I remained confident Colonel Manners would see no reason to disturb the fragile peace of the village with further soldiers or a militia. Markinch did not appear to be a place of strategic importance to the Scots or the English. I would have time to solve the mystery on my own.

  I should have informed Manner’s of the McGreevys possible involvement with an illegal still. However I refused to convict two men on the basis of no evidence. Once I obtained conclusive proof of their guilt, I could move forward. But until this opportunity arose, they remained two boys, guilty only of disturbing their neighbours with unproven cattle rustling, which did not necessarily fall into my own jurisdiction.

  I set the finished letter complete with direction next to the cold teapot. It would have to be sufficient to keep Colonel Manners appraised of the situation, without causing a panic resulting in an overreaction. After witnessing such instances in Boston. I wanted Markinch to stay clear of any trouble. Often the best policy lay in no policy. My actions based on the presumption I could find some solution to present mess without force. Still the question lingered, why was I bothering to protect Markinch? It must lay in my own apathy towards the military for not preventing Onatah’s death. My trust lay battered on her deathbed. No longer the fool who would believe an army of men could protect anything, only destroy.

  My tired eyes spied the letter from Mr Wick. I had read it several times the day before and once that afternoon. It contained all manner of protestations over his clumsy behaviour in London. He reminded me of his ineptitude at social situations. As a scientist, even as an old man, he often overlooked social niceties. I must please forgive him his trespasses. I had already forgiven him, many times over, as I left the pub, on my way north. I also was not worthy of our friendship, yet pride stayed my hand every time I reached for pen and quill. I loved Mr Wick as a father and it made his feelings over my wife all the more bitter. I wish I could explain to him how the feelings of grief over her death slipped away from me every day with a speed that broke my heart anew. Only in my dreams could I picture her face, smell her skin, feel her touch. Awake she remained out of sight away from conscious thought.

  I closed my eyes and held my head in my hands, grief at her loss no longer as powerful as the grief of my own inconsistency. However much I loved her, all I possessed was my anger at the man who caused her death. Not loneliness or sadness at losing her and my unborn child. What manner of man was I, to put such a beautiful creature aside so quickly? I had hoped to revel in my grief for years to come. I wanted to write to her brother, Hania, who would be living in the winter hunting grounds. Preparing for his first winter without his sister, only his wife and sons to keep him. He could not read nor write in any language, and there would be none to deliver the letter. I could not use him as a source of fresh hurt. I needed to make a choice, to hang on to her or let her go.

  The reply to Mr Wick might have been longer than the one to Colonel Manners, yet it only contained the briefest of apologies for my own behaviour. Instead I told the old man of some of the finds in Mr Turner’s mathematical equations. I tried to copy some them from the slips of paper for Mr Wick’s consideration. Mathematics might be an interest of mine, however, it was not my strongest subject. My intermediate skills could only follow Mr Turner’s equations so far. I would become lost in a sea of variables and could only guess the conclusions were correct. A plea for Mr Wick to find an accomplished mathematician concluded my letter and I folded the paper, and sealed it with my crest. My chores finished for the day, the rest of the afternoon stretched ahead of me with nothing to entertain.

  I stood, stretching out my limbs, needing occupation, pacing to the window. The snow fell thick and fast. It looked set to continue all afternoon, well into the night. Having been out already, I did not feel the need to face the elements again. Nor did I need to invite Freya’s criticism over my actions. My outings over the last few days against the barber’s orders and it appeared the Lord used the old barber as his messenger on earth. I felt I still needed to make amends for upsetting Freya on a daily basis. Turning from the window, I scanned the room. Mr Turner’s opus remained spread on the walls, the chalkboard stood in the corner with a half written logarithm. I was not accustomed to having nothing to occupy my mind. Even less accustomed to not having physical activity to enjoy. I took the tea and plate of uneaten biscuits back into the kitchen. Perhaps if I put everything away nicely I would go up in my thorny housekeeper’s estimation.

  A few minutes later, everything put back into place, I walked out of the kitchen and hesitated before walking directly back into the drawing room. The copy of The Merry Devil of Edmonton Mr Wick had sent me as a birthday present this past summer lay in one of my trunks above stairs. Yet the thought of reading more of Peter Fabel’s adventures as a magician did not summon much interest. I did however have Mr Turner’s diary, the answer to all of the recent deaths in Markinch could be contained in those coded pages. I took the steps two at a time, as I had as a boy to irritate my nanny and quickly found the diary in the table drawer beside my bed. Tucking it under my arm, I raced down the stairs and grimaced as I stumbled to the bottom. Thinking of Freya’s downturned mouth at my antics.

  Sitting back in my chair by the fire, my writing case on my knees once again. I opened the diary to a random page and thought of where to begin. The numbers did not reveal any pattern to the untrained eye. Sighing and scanning the room, I felt the equations mock my efforts. The cipher could be anything. Using the same methodical approach as the other night. I wrote out the alphabet on a scrap piece of parchment, remembering a cipher described in one of my history books, I shifted the number of the alphabet down three spaces. Caesar used such a cipher to encode his own correspondence, hiding his deepest thoughts. This did not save him in the end, his best friend and ally holding the weapon of his demise. Now under the first letters of the alphabet, A, B, C, D, and E I wrote the numbers 1, 2, 24, 25, 26. I proceeded to write out a half page of letters corresponding to the cipher numbers underneath.

  I could not make any sense out of the numbers. I tried to form words from groups of letters, yet nothing meaningful appeared. I tried to further the Caesar cipher by shuffling the numbers down the alphabet by four, five, six places and still could not form any coherent sentences. The frequency of numbers used in each line led me to an interesting conclusion. Perhaps some of the numbers corresponded to more than one letter of the alphabet. This could be the breakthrough I need to solve the puzzle. It meant the cipher could be anything from an important date to a randomly selected group of numbers. I studied all of the pieces of paper stuck to the surrounding walls. I truly hoped the cipher was in a date rather than one of these calculations. Otherwise I would never find it.

  While studying at Magdalene College, I was privy to a major scandal whose discovery rocked the foundations of academic spirit at Cambridge as a whole. An old professor who conducted various chemical experiments began to believe some of his students might be stealing ideas from his work. He tried to protect himself accordingly by encoding his workbooks. He used a code based on the date of his beloved wife’s death, an event so far in his past he believed his students might never guess. Unfortunately for the old man, his son, an aspiring chemist himself and lacking any scruples, worked out the cipher as the day his mother died and stole his father’s ideas. When the old man accused his son of misconduct, he locked the old professor away. The son’s actions came to light after he could not thoroughly explain how some of his experiments worked through rigorous testing. Sadly the revelation came too late for his father, who had died of a broken heart.

  Setting the writing desk aside, I began looking through all of Mr Turner’s papers. He must have left something around the
cottage with his birthdate, parents’ wedding anniversary, the day of his acceptance letter to College. I opened the drawers in the desk to search through each one and I found papers on recent discoveries made by mathematicians, but little else of a personal nature. I stood and carefully turned on the spot, looking for places where Mr Turner might have kept his correspondence. Even if he did not have regular contact with his kin, he would have received and written letters to Colonel Manners.

  Blowing air forcefully out my mouth in frustration, I walked back over to my seat by the fire. I heard whistling from the front hall and stopped before sitting and waiting for Freya to come bustling into the room. A refreshed teapot in hand, the same biscuits displayed on a plate.

  “Here ye are, Captain.” Freya set the tea things onto the same table they had occupied before by my elbow and glanced around in the room. “I hope ye hae gotten some work done. Captain, although I dinnae see how with all this nonsense going on around the place.”

  “You could help me.” I used my most charming smile. “I am looking for Mr Turner’s private correspondence, anything from London or family members.” Gesturing to the desk. “I looked through the obvious places and could not find anything.”

  A placid smile on her face, “Och, well, Beathan came down after the accident.” Freya glanced at the rope and made a studied effort not to look back again. “He went through tae search fur family or relatives, wrote tae the official in London.” Freya unconsciously wiped her hands on the apron around her ample waist. “Nae family, nothing.”

  My hopes of finding anything on Mr Turner sank and I wanted to kick out the leg of the low table in the middle of the room. “Right, thank you for your help. I hoped to find something with his birthdate or parents’ anniversary, something with information concerning the man.”

  Freya’s forehead wrinkled in thought, she smiled and I knew an idea struck her. “There is this wee book.” She went over the mantelpiece, and lifted a silver candlestick, underneath a worn black book rested and she carefully picked it up in one hand. “I cleaned even though he forbade me from coming in here. I found this once.”

  She held out the book, the cover indicating the most popular form of reading material the world over. At least in the civilised parts, I took it carefully. The cover worn with age and gently opened it to reveal neat script from another time. “The illuminations are so tiny, yet beautiful. I have never seen such a beautiful bible.”

  Frowning, Freya avoided my face and looked down at the pages as I turned them carefully over. Someone, a monk probably, had taken great pains to carefully write out all the Bible’s passages, even covering the edges in gold in some places, others with scenes of peasants and animals. “Maybe if he read it more often.” Freya let the sentence fade. “I hae looked through many times, nae sure what tae dae with it. I couldnae bear to have it sent tae the wrong direction.” Freya sighed. “I let it rest there, if you look on the back pages, ye will find many different dates.” She patted my arm and left me to look over the bible alone.

  Scarcely aware of my surroundings, I sat back in my chair and studied the dates on the back cover. James Turner’s birth written in clear script the last entry, above him his parents’ wedding day and above this his father’s birth and death dates. His father predeceased him by several years. The death of is mother was written as a side note beside his father’s in the same year and month. Mr Turner’s parents must have passed while he attended classes at College. Searching for living relatives above his parents, I only found names and dates of deceased aunts, uncles and grandparents. He had been truly alone in the world.

  I took up my travelling writing case. A fresh enthusiasm guided my hand as I wrote out the alphabet carefully once again. Underneath, I first used Mr Turner’s birthdate. I knew the letters and corresponding numbers must have a short cipher. His birthdate, his parents’ wedding anniversary, the dates of their deaths, after an afternoon of work, none appeared to be the cipher. I banged the small illuminated bible down with force and immediately regretted the action when the binding became loose.

  “There is a nice coney stew on the fire.” Freya’s voice sounded from the hallway. She did not step into the drawing room, her face pinched. “I hae a pretty good idea where the wee beast came from, mind, and he should know better,” she nodded her head. “Hae a pleasant evening, Captain.”

  I stood, not wanting to appear rude. I knew she watched me and made comparisons with my behaviour to Mr Turner’s. Perhaps she could see the same feverish light. I knew the answer to the mystery lay in these neatly scrawled numbers. “Please watch your step in the snow, Freya, and no need to hurry over tomorrow morning. I can manage.”

  She snorted as she turned, disappearing from view. I frowned. I could take care of myself perfectly well. I had done so for numerous years, even in the army. I might be on campaign for weeks, not seeing any servants until I returned to Boston. I looked around the room. The answer to the puzzle lay here. I needed to put my mind to it and return to my uneventful life in the Highlands for the rest of the year. After which lay the freedom to choose any path I desired.

  I looked up at the ceiling and closed my eyes. I tried to imagine myself as Mr Turner, ensconced in the familiar room. Musing over his day, writing his innermost thoughts in his diary. Information so private he could not bear to have anyone else read it. What could possibly act as the cipher? Barely registering the knock on the door. I thought of all the maths written around the place and the equations I transcribed for Mr Wick. The answer must lie in one of them. The amount of work involved in trying to find which one would be daunting. I ignored the noises coming from the hall. Freya must have forgotten some task or other. I needed to think, which of the equations held his interest for the longest? Was there another scholar’s work he admired?

  “Captain, I hope I am nae intruding. I met Freya on the way from the village and she assured me you wouldnae mind a quick visitor.” Phil’s quiet voice from the doorway of the drawing room focused all my attention. I opened my eyes and found her hesitating on the threshold.

  A sudden embarrassment infused my thoughts. I stood staring at Phil. No words came to mind. The drawing room would look a mess to anyone who lived in the impeccably clean castle and along with all the papers stuck to the walls, could only cause alarm.

  “Please allow me to beg your pardon.” I scooped a number of stacked papers from the low couch and invited her to sit with a wave of my arm. “I did not expect visitors this afternoon.” Sighing I mentally checked myself, as she sat and arranged the folds of her tartan primly. “Even if I had been expecting you, the drawing room would still be unprepared for visitors.” I put a slightly maniacal smile on my face as she looked around frowning at the rope still attached to the beams in the ceiling. Her slender shoulders shuddered slightly and she closed her eyes. I could not explain clearly why I left it there and spying the teapot. “Shall I go out and boil some water for tea?”

  Philomena caught my eye. Her determination in not looking away steadied my nerves. “The weather being what it is, perhaps something stronger might be called upon tae warm my toes. It is past the evening hour and perfectly acceptable for a lady tae indulge.” She gave a low, throaty laugh, appearing to have no notion of the effects the sound could have on a man.

  Stamping down a blush, I was no green schoolboy, enchanted by the attentions of any female. Not one with a permanent ink stain on her fingers. I replaced the teapot on the tray and went to the sideboard where the Scotch bottle and glasses kept company.

  I handed her one of the glasses, half full. “Miss Philomena, please enjoy.” I took my own seat. It did not feel as comfortable as it had before her arrival, sitting with my back straight. “I think you might recognise it as your own. Not as good as the Scotch we shared over supper, however.”

  “Call me Phil.” She took a long sip of the liquid. Let it rest in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. I sat mesmerised by the play of emotions crossing her face as she enjoyed the Scot
ch. Here a true connoisseur sat. “Philomena is the name my mother insisted upon and every time I hear it, her disappointment in me grows.”

  “Beathan told me she passed several years ago. I am sorry for your loss.” I added while Phil gave me a strange look. “I know what it is like to lose one’s family. My own parents died while I remained a lad.”

  A wry smile played around Phil’s lips, she appeared amused, yet a hint of sadness creased her brow and she sighed. “I can only assume Beathan did nae mention the cause of her passing and I am impressed with the inhabitants of the village fur nae spreading gossip, they are more loyal than I can imagine. I am nae sure if Beathan mentioned my mother came from an auld and distinguished Scots family?” She placed her empty glass on the table and gathered her thoughts. “A poor yet noble family. Her father lived the life of a dissolute drunk and gambler. By the time she entered society everyone knew she possessed nae dowry.”

  The situation was not uncommon. I felt uncomfortable as Phil made to continue with her mother’s story. She held up her hand to prevent me from speaking. “Please, Captain, let me continue. All will be revealed.” She smiled. “She did possess an incomparable beauty and wit, these two things would save her father from debtors’ prison. He made sure everyone in Edinburgh knew she could be bought fur the right price, tae gain entry intae his illustrious family as well as becoming the owner of such a lovely jewel.”

  I tried to imagine Beathan and Phil’s mother as an incomparable beauty. Studying Phil’s face closely. Details of her mother’s face in the set of her eyes, her slim figure remained veiled by her father’s heavy features. Phil could never be a great beauty, yet she was certainly far from ordinary.

  “My faither, Magnus, went tae Edinburgh the same year. The fortunes at Deoch greatly increased with the purchase of the Markinch holdings and after losing his parents. He realised the importance of keeping the Clunes tradition of Scotch-making in the family. He naively went tae find a bride amongst the elite.” Phil grimaced. “He possessed money and a few connections. He never thought tae aim so high as an Earl’s daughter. Yet he fell in love with Lady Lindsay at first sight, though she would hae naught tae do with him. In the end, he bought her from her faither and she never forgave him fur it.”