Ayrshire Murders

by E R Dillon

  “That’s good to hear,” Sir Ross said. “Hew’s a decent sort, even if he does have a lot to learn.”

  Kyle rolled the stem of the silver goblet between his thumb and forefinger, his brows drawn together. “Can you tell me,” he said, lifting his gaze to his host, “anything about how my father died?”

  Sir Ross spread his elbows out on the table. “I heard he was killed in the ambush at Loudoun Hill in ’ninety-two,” he said. “The Southrons fell upon a band of rebels there in the pass and massacred every one of them. Left the bodies lying in the road to rot, they did. The incident stirred up such a furor against the officer who led the attack, the castellan of Ayr transferred him to a garrison in some northern shire. That didn’t do much good, because no one around here is likely to forget him or what he did.”

  Kyle leaned forward, his pale blue eyes intent on the older man. “What was his name?” he said in a controlled voice.

  “Fenwick.”

  Kyle’s blood ran cold at the mention of the officer’s name, for the knowledge of it brought him a step closer to finding his father’s murderer. It was a name he, too, would never forget, burned as it now was into his brain, as if with a red-hot branding iron. He already knew the answer to his next question, yet he felt compelled to ask it anyway. “Were the rebels betrayed, do you think?”

  “Of course, they were. Such a thing could not have taken place unless somebody informed the Southrons exactly when those rebels would be riding through that pass.”

  “I don’t suppose you know where my father is buried.”

  Sir Ross shook his head. “I wish I could be more helpful.”

  “You’ve been more than helpful,” Kyle said. He drained the wine in his goblet and stood up. “I enjoyed our visit, Sir Ross, but I must no longer trespass upon your kind hospitality.”

  “Sorry ye came all the way out here for nothing,” Sir Ross said, rising to his feet.

  “Hew would not consider my finding him innocent as nothing,” Kyle said.

  “That’s for sure,” Sir Ross said, starting for the door. “Good luck in yer search for the murderer, though it doesn’t seem fitting somehow to hang the man who rid the shire of a pestilent fellow like Sweeney.”

  “I share your opinion,” Kyle said. “Unfortunately, it is my duty to hunt such felons, not to judge them.”

  Prior to his departure, Kyle sought out the gatekeeper. The man not only confirmed the time of Hew’s return on Monday night, but he also swore that no one left the keep on his watch, which ended at sunrise on Tuesday morning.

  Kyle hardly spoke a word to Upton or Vinewood during the ride back to the garrison, preoccupied as he was with Fenwick’s part in his father’s murder. The castellan prior to Sir Percy would have kept correspondence and other documentation concerning the incident at Loudoun Hill. He needed to get his hands on those records without arousing suspicion as to his motives for doing so.

  The hollow clop of hooves on the wooden bridge leading into Ayr Garrison roused him from his reverie. As he rode into the courtyard, he spied Ewan and Gib, from the village of Harefoot Law, sitting cross-legged in front of the sheriff’s office, with a small gray bundle on the ground between them.

  When the two boys saw Kyle, they leaped to their feet and ran to meet him.

  “We found it,” Gib said, quivering with excitement.

  Kyle reined in and dismounted. “What did you find?” he said, looking from one boy to the other.

  “Abigail’s other shoe,” Ewan said. He held out a small bundle of gray wool cloth tied round with a cord.

  “Well done,” Kyle said, taking it from the boy. As he hefted it in his hand, he heard the faint clunk of solid objects bumping together inside. “There’s more than a shoe in here.”

  “Aye,” Ewan said, with a sad expression on his face. “We found the bundle close to where we found the shoe. I saw no harm in opening it. When I saw it were hers, I put the shoe inside so as not to lose it before we brought it to you.”

  “Can you tell me exactly where you found the shoe?” Kyle said.

  “I can,” Ewan said. “It were under the old holly that leans over the track. We passed by there on the way to see her grave in the wood the other day. Ye might remember the place, seeing as how the ground is high and dry along that stretch.”

  “I do recall ducking under a low-hanging branch that almost swept me from the saddle,” Kyle said.

  “That’s the tree,” Ewan said. He then frowned, puzzled. “I don’t know how we missed seeing the shoe earlier. It was right there in the middle of the track.”

  “Perhaps some critter dragged it out into the open,” Kyle said. He dug into his coin purse for a couple of halfpennies and gave one to each boy. “Here you are. You’ve earned this. Now, off you go.”

  After the boys scampered away, no doubt headed for the marketplace to squander their money on sweets, Kyle tied the gelding to the rail in front of the sheriff’s office and went inside. He laid the bundle on the table and loosened the cord. He unrolled the gray wool cloth, which turned out to be a garment like the one Abigail wore on the day she was killed.

  Besides the soft leather shoe, there were two other articles in the folds of the material: a wooden comb and a small oval mirror of polished metal. There was nothing fancy about the comb. It was a serviceable item carved by hand from hard wood. The mirror, though, was another matter. Its edges were filed smooth and buffed to a high gloss like its face. It was too costly for someone of little means like Abigail to afford, so he surmised the mirror must have been a gift.

  He gazed down at the meager collection of Abigail’s worldly possessions. Vanity was cause enough for a girl to carry a comb and a mirror around. On the other hand, the only reason she would take clothing with her was because she meant to leave home. Was Abigail planning to run away with her lover since she was pregnant? Or did she meet her end at the hands of her lover because she was pregnant? Who was her lover, and more to the point, was he the father of her unborn child?

  There was much to think about, but he found it difficult to reflect on such weighty matters on an empty stomach. After feeding and watering the gelding, he went over to the main hall for the midday meal. He later returned to the sheriff’s office to sit on the bench in the front room, his back against the wall with his booted feet propped on a stool, to ponder the village girl’s death and how the random pieces of that puzzle fit together.

  Chapter 9

  Kyle woke with a start as the bells of St. John’s rang in the hour of vespers. Although he’d really meant to stay awake, he did need the rest. Now refreshed, he washed and dried his face before going out into the fading dusk. He mounted the gelding and headed for St. John’s to attend the evening service.

  The interior of the church was gloomy, illuminated only by beeswax candles around the altar. From his position at the rear, he could see most of those standing ahead of him. He recognized the baker with his hat in hands that were large and strong from years of kneading bread dough. The tinsmith, a stout balding man in his forties, was there, too. He noted with interest the devout woman, veiled and kneeling, who still prayed with such ardor.

  John Logan was also present and seemed mindful of the devout woman as well, in that he cast a furtive glance in her direction every so often. His attentions did not go unnoticed, for the instant the service ended, the gargoyle woman, who was apparently the devout woman’s constant companion, hustled her by the elbow through the doorway and out into the night.

  Kyle stepped back to let those in attendance file past him as they headed for the double doors.

  John paused on his way out to speak to Kyle in the vestibule. “Come back to the shop with me. I’d like yer opinion on my latest brew.”

  “Still experimenting, are you?” Kyle said.

  The corners of John’s green eyes crinkled in merriment. “But of course,” he said with a smile. “I spoil a batch now and again, but most turn out quite well, if I do say so myself.”

  “C
ount me in, then.”

  The two of them left St. John’s and walked over to the rail to mount up. They rode down darkened streets to Tradesmen’s Row, guided only by the faint illumination that seeped through the chinks in closed shutters along the way.

  When they arrived at John’s shop, they found Macalister out front with Fergus on a lead rope and his gray horse tied to the rail. They exchanged a greeting with him as they dismounted.

  “Go on in,” John said, unlocking the front door. “I’ll join the pair of ye after I put up the mule.” He led the docile beast down the wide alleyway alongside the shop and disappeared around back.

  Kyle tied the gelding to the rail beside the gray and followed Macalister and Fergus into the herb-scented darkness inside. A tiny glimmer of light came from a brazier standing in the corner.

  Macalister fumbled around for a moment to locate a couple of candles. He brought them over to the brazier, where he blew on the banked coals to bring them to rosy life. He touched each wick in turn on the glowing embers to light it, after which he set the candles in clay holders on the table.

  Kyle took one of the lighted candles with him to examine the jars and pots on the shelves against the side walls. When he was satisfied that no single container stood out from the rest, he joined Macalister already seated at the table with the dog lying on the floor at his feet.

  Macalister cocked a curious eyebrow at his companion. “Looking for something in particular?”

  Kyle shrugged his shoulders, reluctant to divulge the reason for his examination.

  Apparently used to intrigues that necessitated discretion, Macalister tactfully changed the subject. “Have ye caught up with the fellow who stabbed Lucky Jack?”

  “Not yet, but I aim to do so soon,” Kyle said with an optimism he did not feel.

  “John told me about the village girl’s murder. Any leads to go on?”

  “I’m working on that, too. By the way, how sharp is your dog’s nose?”

  “Better than a sleuth hound’s,” Macalister said with pride. “Once Fergus picks up a scent, he sticks with it.” He leaned over to scratch the dog behind the ears. “Do ye plan to go a-hunting?”

  “I do, but not for the usual quarry.”

  At that moment, John walked through the curtain separating his sleeping chamber in the back from the shop in the front. He carried a clay jug in one hand and three mugs in the other. “This will get us started,” he said, setting them on the table. He removed the cork from the jug and poured foaming amber liquid into each mug.

  Kyle chose the mug closest to him and lifted it to his mouth. The effervescence tickled his upper lip. Though slightly bitter, the brew was pleasing to the palate. “Not bad.” He glanced over at Macalister, who nodded in agreement after taking a tentative sip.

  Macalister gazed into the depths of his mug. “It’s neither ale nor mead,” he said, raising his eyes to John. “What is it?”

  “It’s called beer,” John said, looking from one to the other to observe their reaction. “I got a list of the makings from Father Ian.”

  Kyle drained his mug and held it out for a refill. While John obliged, he told them about his recent acquisition of the murdered girl’s belongings. “I want to take a look at where the boys found her things. Something around there might indicate what happened to her.”

  “The wounds on the back of her head suggested a struggle with someone,” John said. “Perhaps she dropped the bundle when she fell.”

  “Maybe,” Kyle said. “But the killer would have seen it and disposed of it at the same time he got rid of her body.”

  “Maybe it fell unnoticed into the brush,” John said.

  “That is what I need to ascertain for myself,” Kyle said. He then related the gist of his visit to the Ross keep earlier in the day. “As it turned out, Maize’s brother didn’t kill Sweeney.”

  “What will ye do now?” Macalister said.

  “I plan to question Brodie further,” Kyle said. “So far, he’s the only one with a compelling motive for murder.”

  John and Macalister exchanged a meaningful glance.

  Kyle’s pale blue eyes flicked from one to the other. “Is there something I should know?”

  “Lucky Jack’s been raiding the countryside for years,” Macalister said. “He did it in broad daylight in the Southron king’s name, and on the sly at night, which ye witnessed with yer own eyes. Besides that, he was responsible for so many floggings and hangings executed in his king’s name, every soul in the shire had cause to hate the very sight of him.”

  “What’s more,” John said, “he dallied with any woman who let him and forced himself on some who did not, which left many an irate father besides Brodie out to get him.”

  “He also ran the gaming at the Bull and Bear,” Macalister said. “He rarely played, but he did like to squeeze payment from those who reneged on their debts. I believe he was rather fond of hurting people.”

  “Ye can be sure there’s many a victim,” John said, “who can point the finger at Sweeney, but none so foolish as to make such an accusation in public.”

  “So,” Kyle said. “Aiden Ross was right to call him a pestilent fellow.”

  “Indeed,” Macalister said. “Neither Scot nor Southron will grieve his passing, apart from his own men, who profited from their association with him. I doubt if even Jack’s wife sheds a tear over his demise.”

  “Perhaps the raiding will cease now that he’s dead,” John said in a hopeful tone.

  “Surely the raids generated a hefty profit for everyone involved,” Kyle said. “I would assume that Inchcape or Archer or Weems will carry on in Sweeney’s place.”

  “Those oafs lack the wit to plot and plan such an undertaking,” Macalister said. “I pray John is right. Folks hereabouts need a respite from those Southrons.”

  Kyle stared into his mug for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. “I recall that Sweeney was stationed here when I last lived in the shire, though I’m not certain about his men. I wouldn’t mind laying my hands on the billet list from six years ago.”

  “Why six years ago?” Macalister said before John could stop him.

  “That was when raiders burned my holding,” Kyle said, lifting his eyes. A cold hard glitter flashed in their pale blue depths. “That was when I lost all I held dear.”

  “Ah,” Macalister said, enlightened.

  “What ye seek can be found in the registry in Neyll’s keeping,” John said. “He would know where to find it. He’s privy to everything that goes on in the shire.”

  “I noticed,” Kyle said, remembering his last encounter with Sir Percy’s clerk. “He knows too much about other people’s business to suit me. I’ll bide my time asking after those records, so as not to appear too eager to see them.”

  “Good thinking,” John said. He emptied the last of the beer into his own mug and rose to fetch another jug from the back.

  On his return, John topped off all three mugs before resuming his seat at the table. “I don’t know if ye are aware,” he said to Kyle, “that Robert Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow, stands in opposition to Edward of England in support of our cause.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Kyle said. “So, the good bishop is an advocate of the rebels, is he?” He chuckled. “I should have guessed that was what Father Ian meant when he mentioned friends in high places.” He added with good humor, “Let’s have no talk of rebel activities within my hearing. As deputy, the less I know of such things, the better.”

  “It’s the raiders I’d like to know more about,” Macalister said. “For instance, where do they dispose of the booty?”

  “I’ve often wondered that myself,” Kyle said. “They must ship the goods out from a quay along the coast.”

  “Not from any place near here,” Macalister said. “We would have heard about it by now. Too many in the shire have lost too much to keep that sort of thing quiet for long.”

  “What about Leith?” John said by way of suggestion. “The French
king’s embargo on Southron ships does not affect Scottish vessels at all. They come and go at will from the harbor there and can easily reach Flanders and beyond without hindrance. Who’s to say how many of those shipmasters would take on questionable cargo if it profited them to do so?”

  Kyle sat upright at the notion. “You might have something there. The raiders dare not use the port of Ayr due to the risk involved. Embarkation from any other harbor along the western coast would entail a lengthy voyage around the northern isles to get to Flanders.” He contemplated the matter for a moment, swirling the amber liquid in his mug. “The only way to be sure is to take a look at some of those outgoing cargo manifests.”

  “That means going all the way to Leith,” Macalister said, a dubious expression on his bearded face. “It’s a fortnight’s trek there and back.”

  “I still think that’s how they’re doing it,” Kyle said. “How else can they send goods out of the country with no one the wiser that the stuff was stolen?”

  In celebration of resolving such a vexing problem, they toasted each other for the next couple of rounds.

  The beer was stronger than Kyle expected. “There is something wrong with the floor,” he said, gripping the edge of the table. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, and he had difficulty forming his words.

  John cast a bleary gaze around his shop. “What’s the matter with my floor?”

  “It’s moving,” Kyle said.

  Macalister laughed as he gave Kyle a good-natured shove to keep him from sagging off the bench.

  “Thanks,” Kyle said, making an effort to focus his eyes on Macalister. “I met a woman, you know. A real beauty.” He turned to John. “Don’t you think she’s beautiful?”

  John shrugged his shoulders. “Never saw her.” He seemed to be having a problem with his lips, for he kept fingering them as though to make certain they were still there.

  “I met her in the marketplace,” Kyle said. “Twice.” He heaved a deep sigh before lapsing into a brooding silence. “No use longing for her or anyone like her,” he said after a moment. “It’s just not for me.”