Newbigging had not wanted to come, of course, and had been rather loudly adamant about it—he had a thriving business to manage, after all. Why, the common room alone of the Dog and Duck Public Inn brought him twelve hundred pounds per annum.
Twelve hundred pounds later, Arthur had his credible witness, and was all smiles when the two of them rode across the barley field at Glenbaden.
Regis met them in front of the white house, his expression grim. “You are late,” he said.
“Well good God, Regis, it’s not as if witnesses to Thomas McKinnon were springing into the streets of Perth to greet me! Look here,” Arthur tried to reassure him, “Mr. Newbigging has come to testify on Thomas’s behalf!”
Regis nodded curtly to the man, swung his gaze to Arthur. “Justice Longcrier has come,” he said simply.
His jovial spirit drained rapidly; a cold vise seized his heart. He turned to Freedom, stroked his nose. “How many days have we got, then?”
“None. He would hear the accusations on the morrow.”
The earth seemed to shift under Arthur’s feet. It simply could not be—they had no time to prepare! One look at Regis did nothing to reassure him, and Arthur lifted his gaze to the pinkening evening sky, squinting at the first strand of blue mist stretching across the horizon. He thought of Kerry in that cell, imagined her standing on the gallows, her long unruly hair flying wildly behind her, and the cold vise reached further, gripped his entrails. “This justice, do you know him?”
Regis nodded, looked at Newbigging. “Longcrier has a reputation for punishing the guilty accordingly, but he’s also of a reputation for being fair.”
“There’s nothing fair about this ordeal,” Arthur muttered. “Come on then, we’ve not much time.” He turned abruptly toward the innkeeper. “Mr. Newbigging, meet Mr. Regis, our advocate. I am sure the two of you have a lot to discuss. I’ll tend to the horses,” he said calmly, and took the reins of Newbigging’s horse as the man heaved himself off and vigorously rubbed his broad bum with the palms of his hands.
Regis grabbed Newbigging’s beefy arm. “A pleasure, Mr. Newbigging.”
As Regis hustled Mr. Newbigging into the white house, Arthur was unable to see the bridle he had lifted from Freedom’s head, unable to focus on anything except the image of Kerry swinging from the end of a rope.
And somewhere in the distance, out near the loch, he could have sworn he heard Phillip calling her.
They worked long into the night. Arthur must have fallen asleep at some point; Regis was shaking him out of a deep slumber. He pushed himself up from the kitchen table, ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Four o’clock.”
Arthur focused, looked around him. Newbigging was sitting by the fire, fussing with a boot.
“We’ve enough to set Thomas McKinnon free, I think,” Regis announced.
Mr. Newbigging nodded. “Aye, my dau wasna the only one to have seen his sorry hide. He played his hand at cards, spent the better part of that day under me roof, taking two hundred guineas for ’is trouble.”
“What of Kerry?” Arthur asked.
Regis looked down at a leather-bound volume of Scots law he had managed to obtain. “I’m struggling a bit with that.”
Arthur did not ask more—he could not bear to know more. He helped Regis gather his things, cleaned himself up as best he could, then tried to choke down some of the biscuits he had attempted to make last evening while Newbigging barked the instructions at him. But he could not make himself eat—he felt strangely ill, nauseated by his own roiling emotions.
The three of them were en route for Moncrieffe’s estate before the sun was up. When they started the descent down Din Fallon, they could see the wagons and horses and groups of people gathered around the old tower where the justice would hear the charges against Kerry and Thomas.
They could scarcely squeeze into the crowded bailey. They passed by the newly erected gallows, at which Arthur refused to look.
The crowd in the bailey was nothing compared to the number of souls gathered in what was once the great hall. People stood shoulder to shoulder, moving like a sea as dogs and children dove between their legs. A dais had been raised against one wall; two crude boxes stood on either end of a long table between them, marked by two ornate leather chairs.
With Newbigging at his back, Arthur pushed Regis forward through the throng and toward the dais where a group of official-looking men milled about. Regis reached the first one, removed his hat. Arthur strained to hear what was said, but the din was too high. The man removed a piece of paper from a sheaf he was carrying and scratched something onto it while Regis looked on. When he at last turned around, Arthur was quickly on him. “What have you learned?”
“There are a number of common matters to be heard this morning by the sheriff. The High Court of the Justiciary will be convened upon conclusion of the common matters to hear the cause of Kerry and Thomas McKinnon in the matter of the murder of Charles William Edgar Moncrieffe.”
“Do you mean to say that we must wait?” Arthur demanded.
“This is hardly the House of Lords, sir!” Regis snapped irritably.
Obviously not. Bloody fabulous—they would be forced to stand idly by while a variety of inconsequential matters were heard. It was not to be borne. He could not possibly endure it.
He could endure it.
The interminable morning began with a protracted wait for the justice and the sheriff. The incessant shuffling and movement of the crowd forced Arthur, Regis, and Newbigging to one side of the hall. From his vantage point, Arthur could watch the bailey as more adults and children and various genre of livestock squeezed inside, and eventually, into the great hall, all wanting their petitions to be heard. Somehow, he managed to pace restlessly in the throng while Regis reviewed his book on Scots law. Mr. Newbigging disappeared for a time to take in the sights, he said, as if this were some sort of festival.
The crowd, the stench of animal and man, and the increasing delay only made Arthur’s anxiety increase, and it nearly exploded into a fit of murderous rage when he saw Cameron Moncrieffe enter the gates of the bailey on a steed fourteen hands tall, two men riding at his flanks. He nodded imperiously to the people around him as the steed trotted into the midst of the crowd. He reined to a halt, swung down, and handed his reins to a young man without even looking at him. Arthur nudged Regis as Moncrieffe strolled into the great hall and disappeared through a dark door leading into the tower, his entourage behind him.
Regis shrugged as Moncrieffe disappeared into the tower and turned back to his study. But raw rage boiled in Arthur’s veins. He pivoted sharply on his heel, resumed his pacing, knocking against people as they tried to move past him. The weight of his hopelessness, his uselessness, hammered away at him, destroying him piece by piece. There was nothing he could do, no influence he could exercise, no task he could perform to change a goddamn thing. Nothing.
The justice and the sheriff at last sauntered into the hall. Justice Longcrier was round and squat and wearing a purple robe and powdered wig; the sheriff only slightly taller, just as squat, wearing a black robe and powdered wig that sat rather crookedly on his head. Towering over both of them was Moncrieffe, who walked casually behind them, as if he owned the bloody tower.
The crowd began moving forward, all of them wanting to be heard first as the two situated themselves at the makeshift dais—there seemed to be an initial disagreement over chairs—then thumbed through a sheaf of papers that looked inches thick. Moncrieffe positioned himself directly behind the two men. Once they seemed fully satisfied that they had the right seats and the right stack of petitions, the sheriff called the first of what was to seem like dozens of injured parties.
What followed was a parade of disputes over such matters as pigs, a leather harness, a bushel of hay owed for blacksmith services. As the petitions continued on—there seemed no lack of disputes in Perthshire, to be sure—Arthur’s anxiety gave way to desp
air. The more he was forced to contemplate their chances, the more he became convinced there was no way out of this mess. Regis was hardly reassuring him—he seemed so intent on his law book that Arthur began to fear he had made a terrible mistake. The man had no more knowledge of criminal law than Newbigging.
But when the last of the common petitions were heard and the High Court of the Justiciary was convened, Regis suddenly jerked upright. He anxiously fished his glasses out of his breast pocket, stuffed them onto the bridge of his nose. “Newbigging?” he asked.
“Here,” Arthur said, glancing at the rotund innkeeper, who was propped against the stone wall, napping.
Regis nodded, looked at Arthur again. “Best start your prayers now, Christian,” he said low, and started pushing his way through the crowd toward the dais.
It was too late for that. Arthur swallowed the rising lump of trepidation in his throat as he urged Newbigging to pick up his pace a bit in following Regis, and fell in behind the mountain of man.
When they reached the dais, Regis conferred with a frumpy little man with the neck of a goose, then paced anxiously, his head down, his hands behind his back as the little man read aloud the names of the fifteen men selected to hear the charge against Thomas McKinnon and Kerry McKinnon of Glenbaden. When he had finished, the man asked, “Who advocates on behalf of Thomas McKinnon and Kerry MacGregor McKinnon?”
Regis lifted his head, called out, “I do, if you please, my lord commissioner.”
“Who speaks?” Justice Longcrier asked, not bothering to look up from his papers.
“Mr. Jamie Regis, Esquire.”
“Continue on,” the justice said to the clerk.
“Who advocates on behalf of Charles William Edgar Moncrieffe?”
“If it pleases the court, I do,” Moncrieffe said. “Baron Cameron Moncrieffe.”
“Very well then. Let us hear the evidence of this murder in loto. Bring forth the accused,” the justice decreed.
The first to be brought forth was Thomas, emerging from the dark door behind the dais as the crowd shouted at him. He looked disoriented, almost surprised by the size of the crowd. As he was led to one of the boxes on the dais, the gaoler shoved him into the witness box; Thomas stumbled, caught himself on the rail, then drew to his full height of six feet and faced the justice.
A cry from somewhere, and the body of people swelled, straining to see as Kerry was led out of the tower by a man Arthur recognized as having been with Moncrieffe the day of the roan’s injury. He paraded her across the dais, obviously delighting in the shouts of whore and murderess that were hurled from the crowd. A slow, red-hot burn began to crawl up Arthur’s spine; he wished for the strength of ten thousand men so that he might take every one of them in hand and strangle the vile words from their throats. Regis glanced at him, his expression grim.
As Kerry stepped into the witness box, her eyes swept the crowd; Arthur tried to step forward, but was instantly jostled backward. He realized in a panic that Kerry could not see him. She could not see him! She looked up from the crowd and across the dais to Thomas. The two of them stood gazing at one another as the justice shouted for order, and God bless Kerry, she smiled. In the bleakest moment of her life, she sought to comfort Thomas.
Arthur was moving before he knew it, shoving hard against those who called her names, forcing them apart, struggling to see her, to be seen by her. “I am here, Kerry!” he shouted, lifting his hand and waving it, but she could not see him, not in that mass of hostile humanity.
Above him, someone bellowed for quiet. Justice Longcrier leaned forward; his heavy jowls now propped up by two fists. “Your name?” he asked Thomas.
“Thomas McKinnon.”
“Thomas McKinnon you have been charged with the crime of murder in the death of Charles William Edgar Moncrieffe of Glenbhainn. How do you plead?”
A sardonic smile drifted across Thomas’s face. “Not guilty.”
The justice paused to study Thomas for a moment, then turned his attention to Kerry. “Your name?”
“Kerry MacGregor McKinnon,” she answered, her voice surprisingly clear.
“Kerry MacGregor McKinnon you have been charged with the crime of murder in the death of Charles William Edgar Moncrieffe of Glenbhainn. How do you plead?”
“I … I did kill him, my lord, in self-defense.”
Her admission sparked a jeering outcry from the crowd. Arthur’s heart sank like a weight and he abruptly shoved Regis. “Do something, man,” he demanded angrily.
But Regis shoved right back. “Do not interfere! I know what I am doing!”
Above them, the justice looked at the sheriff, who did nothing to stop the clamor for Kerry’s blood, and with a scowl, he lifted his hands. “All right, all right!” he bellowed, slapping his broad hand on the table until the crowd quieted. With a great sigh of exasperation, he nodded toward Moncrieffe. “The burden of proof rests with you, sir, as the accuser. You may proceed.”
Moncrieffe exchanged a quick look with the sheriff, clasped his hands behind his back, bowed his head. “My son has been murdered, my lord,” he said softly. “Thomas McKinnon conspired with Kerry MacGregor McKinnon in his death.”
He waited, letting that accusation wash over his audience as he strolled to where Kerry was standing. She kept her eyes on the justice, her chin held high, refusing to look at the cretin. The foolish ass smirked at her courage; Arthur’s hands itched to be around his throat.
“My lord commissioner, the late Fraser McKinnon, a dear friend of mine, suffered from a debilitating illness that eventually took his life. In the course of his last years, he was quite unable to oversee his own affairs and his livelihood was considerably diminished. He did everything a man in his condition might do—he sought help from investment partners, but had the singular misfortune of purchasing a sick herd of cattle. The plague took all of the beeves he had hoped to turn to profit.
“Fraser McKinnon turned to me for help then, and again the next year, when the bull he had purchased refused to sire. He found himself unable to pay the bank, and unfortunately, as he neared the end of his life, he ceased trying to appease any of his debts. As he lay on his deathbed, he owed me five thousand pounds, and I shudder to think of the sum he most likely owed the Bank of Scotland.”
A collective gasp went through the crowd at the extraordinary sum Moncrieffe had tossed them.
“My lord commissioner!” Regis called.
“Mr. Regis.”
“What Fraser McKinnon owed the Bank of Scotland or Lord Moncrieffe isna the issue here. The issue is—”
“It is precisely the issue, my lord, as Fraser McKinnon sought to settle his debts from his deathbed, which led to the murder of my son!” Moncrieffe loudly interjected.
“I beg your—”
“Mr. Regis,” the justice interrupted, lazily lifting his hand, “I shall allow Lord Moncrieffe to state his case.”
Arthur felt the roots of helplessness sink farther into the pit of his stomach. He groaned, closed his eyes.
“Thank you, my lord commissioner,” Moncrieffe said, and casually adjusted the sleeve of his coat before continuing. “As Fraser McKinnon lay dying, he summoned me to his bedside, which I naturally attended. It was there that I first heard the rumors of Mrs. McKinnon’s amoral relations with her cousin.”
The crowd released a collective hiss; Kerry visibly stiffened, lifted her chin a notch, but it was the only outward sign she gave that Moncrieffe’s lies affected her. Good girl. Give him nothing.
Thomas, however, snorted loudly at the charge, muttered under his breath.
“Poor Fraser McKinnon explained to me his plan for eliminating his debts and providing for his wife on the occasion of his imminent death. His plan was simple: allow the bank to repossess the land against that which he had borrowed, and deed to me the remaining McKinnon lands and holdings, whose value came very close to covering his debt. And for the portion of his debt that went unpaid, he offered his widow to marry my son.”
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The crowd could hardly contain their titillation at that scandalous arrangement. The justice frowned at Moncrieffe. “A rather unusual arrangement,” he remarked.
“Unusual perhaps, my lord, but not unsound. As McKinnon had lost all the property he owned to debt, it seemed to him the most expedient way to provide for his young widow. I thought it an especially suitable arrangement, as my son was not afforded the usual opportunities for such a match.”
The justice looked puzzled by that; Regis seized the opportunity. “My lord commissioner, I fail to see how the machinations of a man on his deathbed might contribute to the outrageous charge of murder. Charles Moncrieffe was not afforded the usual opportunities for a satisfactory marriage because of his unfortunate condition, which ultimately led—”
“Unfortunate condition?” the justice demanded.
“My son,” Moncrieffe interjected, “was perhaps not as … developed … as other men of the age of thirty.”
“Do you mean to say his growth was stunted?”
“I mean to say he was a bit slow. His was a difficult birth.”
The women in the crowd responded to that with a faint murmur of understanding, and Moncrieffe turned, smiled sadly at them over his shoulder. “I thought it a fair settlement of the debt,” he added, his voice full of feigned emotion.
“A settlement to which Mrs. McKinnon had no say or knowledge!” Regis insisted loudly.
Longcrier nodded absently at Regis, gestured with his hand for Moncrieffe to continue. “When Fraser McKinnon passed, God rest his soul, I did not immediately approach Mrs. McKinnon. I respected an appropriate mourning period. Unfortunately, Mrs. McKinnon used that time to further degrade her husband’s honor in a flagrant affair with Thomas McKinnon!”
“That is a lie!” Regis angrily countered.
“Mr. Regis, you will have your opportunity,” said the justice irritably, and looked at Moncrieffe again. “You can prove this abominable accusation, I trust?”
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