What was left of the Scottish forces had to pull away from the field. It was each for himself. Daniel led a ragged band of survivors toward Stirling, cutting back along the whisky trails to hide in the hills. From there they staged stealth attacks bedeviling the British and the butcher Cumberland as they marched south burning farms, killing livestock, and routing families. It was a grim time. There’s not a family in this valley that doesn’t bear the scars of the aftermath of the Rising, including your own. The injured and the homeless fled to the hills and took refuge with the whisky runners.
From the hills above Balfour, Daniel and his men staged raids to reclaim stolen grain and livestock to feed the hungry families in their care. The British grew more and more enraged as the raids became bolder yet still successful. They would drag the men of Balfour into the town center and beat them to try to find the culprits, but the people of the village knew that they must stand together or they would surely perish.
Daniel was a master at weaving tales. He spread the legend of the Beast o’ Balfour throughout the valley. The Beast was said to be a wolf the size of a man with glowing eyes and a demonic howl that stalked the hills of Glenmorrow, seizing livestock and ruining crops. To a man the villagers swore the tale was true and blamed the Beast for the nighttime attacks on the British troops. This infuriated Cumberland’s chief commander, a man named Jack Gordon, more than an out-and-out denial. His men, however, were more easily swayed.
As luck would have it, your grandfather had a hound named Sampson who would howl like a banshee every time he saw the color red. Daniel would keep him close on night patrols, and if the British were about he would lead Sampson into one of the nearby caves and hold a red cloth in the torchlight. Sampson would set to howling and the sound would echo out over the hills like the hounds of hell calling from the depths of the earth. Gordon’s men were terrified. What they ridiculed in daylight loomed large in the black of night and they soon moved on.
To be sure the aftermath of Culloden was bleak, but to make matters worse, the years that followed brought droughts followed by several years of heavy winters. Snow upon snow blanketed the valley, burying livestock and straining the stores of all. Just when we thought the horror had passed, the familiar faces of our tormentors returned, Gordon volunteering once more to scour the hills with his gaugers in tow searching for illicit stills and smugglers. No more than a vicious band of thugs, they destroy property but seldom the product. The whisky they confiscate for themselves. And drink it they did with great vigor.
Now, wee man, distilling is in our family’s blood. It calls to us like a sweet song on the wind. The limestone hills round the valley were once home to scores of underground streams that cut through the rock and emerged in bubbling cascading falls of pure clear water that flowed into the river before it headed to the sea. Water so pure and soft it was the magic that made the whisky from this valley some of the finest in the land. As the underground streams dried up they left behind caves and passageways carved into the stone that were a godsend to a rebellious people seeking safety and cover. But, it was a deadly business and made deadlier by the perpetual shadow of Jack Gordon.
Over time Daniel became more and more creative in the ways he and his men transported our whisky. Many a funeral was held hereabouts with no body, and a coffin full of life-sustaining drink, but it kept the trade flowing and brought in much-needed money and supplies. Back at home Daniel had married a young girl named Cora. She was a woman of rare courage and compassion. The first to come with anything she could spare or scrounge for those in need. Cora lost her father and three of her brothers at Culloden, and she honored their memory by tirelessly sustaining her friends and neighbors.
She often traveled with Daniel and his men along the drove roads to market. The presence of a woman added credence to their journey. She concealed many a skin of whisky beneath her skirts. Safe to market betwixt her legs and on her belly. Too soon it was a common ploy. Gaugers grew callous and heedless.
That last trip never should have been. Cora should have been at home. But Daniel said she insisted as only she could. Brown eyes flashing, hands on her hips, head tossed back, her golden hair blowing in the wind. That is how he tried to remember her, but the vision of her death haunted him for the rest of his life. Cora rode out with them to the market in Dunblane. Daniel’s party was cornered by Jack Gordon and his Red Riders. The Red Riders were a motley band of former British soldiers—vicious, bloodthirsty, and callous, they were known to all by the red waistcoats of their former military uniforms. One of the Riders grabbed Cora and took a sword to the bag strapped to her belly, but this time it wasn’t whisky. The slash killed the child at once, and Cora followed from the loss of blood. Gordon and his men rode away without a backward glance.
Daniel refused to take vengeance on Gordon, though many men begged him to do so. Daniel knew it would merely bring down a reign of terror on the people Cora loved and served all her life. Instead he found another way to honor her.
It was a short step from smuggler to pirate, and Daniel crossed the line without fear or regret. Life he would not take. He’d seen death enough on the fields of Culloden, but he was nae above redistributing the spoils of war. Finding recompense for his men and their families. Angus and I would do stonework alongside Da at the great houses in the countryside. The most lavish of these houses were the ones that had supported the English King. They had been well rewarded for their support with land and gold and silver. Their rewards were plucked from the hands of Jacobite families and rendered up as bounty to the king’s supporters.
Daniel simply sought to return the balance of things. As we worked we would scout out treasures that could be easily removed. Trinkets that would make a colossal difference in the lives of our people. When enough time had passed to dampen suspicion, we would return and reclaim our treasure.
It was a worthy mission but fraught with danger. For many a year Daniel and Jack Gordon played cat and mouse through the hills. Gordon seeking the thieves and Daniel ensuring that no trace remained behind. We knew it couldn’t last, but we prayed that it would.
I was barely eleven on the wretched night, but the memory lingers as though it were yesterday. It was a foul, freezing night. Our mother insisted we remain at home, but Angus and I snuck out the upstairs window and followed the men as they headed for the hills to tend the still hidden in caves above the town. Stonecutters by day and distillers by night, there wasn’t much rest to be had.
Your father and I blended in with the men, carrying bundles of juniper on our backs, and Da didn’t notice us until we were well out of town. He couldnae spare the men to escort us home, so he set us to tending the fire in the southernmost tunnel. In those days it seems God was smiling on our rebellious trade. British gin was cosseted by the Crown while what legal whisky we made was taxed within an inch of its life. But the juniper bushes that made the best gin also gave the best kindling for stoking the fires beneath our stills, and we burned as much of it as we could lay our hands on. Juniper kept the smoke low and made it almost impossible for the gaugers to track. What smoke there was trickled faintly through the vents the men cut in the caves and tunnels and drifted away on the breeze without a trace.
That night, all was still, almost unnaturally so. The red drape was up at the kirk, so we knew the raiders were about. The Moores took a loud party up to the fells to draw their attention away to the east. We would be safe up in the hills beyond Drumlinn. Your father took the first turn tending the fire and I bedded down on a pile of dried heather to rest. There were no stars to be seen through the hole in the roof, and the moon’s light was dimmed by the clouds. Hours passed in stillness before we heard the cry of the lookout. Perched high on the ridge above, the night watch gave four piercing whistles. The Red Raiders were close at hand. I saw Da’s face peering down from above, telling us to douse the fire and follow old Clyde along the tunnels and back to town. He and the others would lead the rogues on a merry chase across the hills.
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sp; But Jack Gordon himself was out that night. He cornered Daniel and his friend Alasdair at the top of the falls. Their only path of retreat would have led them toward the cave where your father and I were hiding. Gordon shot Alasdair in the head and he fell backwards into the cascading water, his lifeblood flowing away into the burn. Daniel took Gordon on hand-to-hand like a man possessed. All the pent-up frustration of the years flooding out like water from a dam. They fought with knives and fists until Gordon laid hands on his pistol once more and shot Daniel at close range. The scene was witnessed by one of Daniel’s runners, but there was nothing that could be done.
The shots echoed around the valley and the sound sent chills down my spine. We could only hope that Da would return. He did, his corpse dragged behind Gordon’s horse. Jack Gordon’s son Russell rode out with him in those days. A foul monster of a lad raised on hatred and war. He helped his father back to the Riders’ camp to tend to his injuries. Two days later the news came back that Jack Gordon had died from his wounds. Russell would have torched Balfour that night but for his promise to carry his father home to England to be buried.
They departed, but we knew that Russell would return to haunt us all. We would have to be ready. From that day on the men of Balfour fought as best they could to protect Daniel’s legacy and ours. As your father and I came of age, we helped to give support to the village and the valley beyond. Each gallon of illicit whisky a victory, each barrel a loving tribute to our father, each ounce of silver a recompense for the pains of old.
Through it all we did our best to heed the lessons Daniel taught us. That vengeance is a never-ending circle that leads to more violence and greater violence and once taken still does not soothe the torment of the soul but simply increases it. He kept to his own words, and yet when pushed he fought back. He killed Jack Gordon not out of spite, though he had cause enough. He killed him to protect your father and me and yet it grieved him to do so. He’d sworn to kill no more after that day at Culloden. Justified or not, to him Gordon’s death was murder. That death, distilled to its finest essence, was still an act of vengeance no matter how it was couched in fair words and fine phrases.
“Death distilled to its finest essence.” There was something about that phrase that spoke to me. The intrinsic nature of man-made death is overpowering passion or hatred or vengeance for wrongs of the past. An eternal pattern of action and reaction.
Daniel Fletcher was willing to let Cora go unavenged. Willing to let Jack Gordon live until his sons were at risk. Then the stakes changed for him, and he lashed out. The killer we sought now had waited a long time to seek revenge against Rory and the Rebels. Had the stakes somehow changed for him, too?
Chapter 13
I gave Oscar his mash and meds before returning to the library to retrieve my index cards. Penrose, Simon, Tina. Was there something we were missing? Had the stakes changed for any of them recently? If so, one of them might have a stronger motive. I added self-serving, unprincipled, and insecure to Penrose’s card. Was his financial situation deteriorating? Had his desire for revenge been heightened by financial stresses? Hopefully Patrick had followed up on his finances. And Simon. I’d heard several people at the concert talking about Rory touring again. Doing all the old Rebels material. Simon had more or less come to terms with being cut out once. Could he not face it again? And Tina, caught in an abusive marriage, and likely financially incapable of walking away—would a fresh stream of royalties from the demise of the Rebels allow her to escape?
Finding answers to those questions was my next step, but first I needed to find a way to let Michaelson know about Penrose being at the concert without confessing that I’d been nosing around. I grabbed my computer and pulled up the file of pictures from the show and started flipping through them methodically. After an hour I was finally rewarded with a side shot of Penrose talking to a young man in a Ravenscourt cap. He had a messenger bag over his shoulder. I felt a slight tingle. Was he carrying a computer? Could he be the hacker? What a jackpot that would be.
Normal people wouldn’t be at work on a Sunday afternoon, but I tried Michaelson’s office anyway. He picked up on the second ring.
“Found something in my photos you might be interested in. I’m forwarding it now.”
I heard the click, click of the computer on the other end of the phone. “What am I looking at?”
“Bruce Penrose. He wasn’t on the backstage pass list for Friday night, but he was at the show.”
“Gate crasher?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe the guy he’s talking to from Ravenscourt let him back.”
“Any idea who he is?”
“No clue.”
“I’ll have one of my guys look into it. And as long as I’ve got you on the phone, why don’t you send along the rest of the photos you took?”
“There are hundreds and hundreds of pictures.”
“We’ll manage.”
I forwarded a copy of the picture of Tina Doyle with her cozy companion. “I’ll forward the rest in a separate file, but I was thinking it might be worthwhile seeing who this guy is.”
“Remember what we said about getting involved with this case? This is serious business, Logan. Taking photographs and interviewing celebrities is one thing, but Hendricks is in something up to his neck, and I can’t guarantee we can protect you if you keep digging into his business.”
“I’m not some maiden in distress,” I growled. “I can more than take care of myself.”
“You can until you suddenly can’t,” Michaelson insisted. “Do I need to remind you that you were left to die in a remote cave less than six months ago by a killer you thought you could handle?”
“This is different.”
“Is it? You’re in over your head, and my boss will flay me alive if he finds out you’re meddling.”
“Don’t think of it as meddling, just think of it as an equitable exchange of information. You get the pictures and I get to ask a question or two.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Where was Bruce Penrose at the time of Ian’s accident?” There was a long pause at the other end of the line.
“He says he was at a business lunch. And yes, it checked out.”
“Where were they having lunch?”
“A Thai place in Covent Garden.”
“Hm. Not exactly airtight.”
“Logan.”
“One more thought. Any chance the bloody video screen was simply a publicity stunt?”
“Why, has Hendricks said something?”
“No, but it could’ve come from the studio. Everyone’s talking about the show now. Can’t buy that kind of publicity.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“You still there?”
“If you weren’t a journalist, you’d have made a first-rate cop.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you might be onto something. Let me know if you hear anything else.”
Michaelson rang off, leaving me feeling foolishly chuffed at the compliment. I sent off a text to Patrick reminding him about Penrose’s financials and asking for anything he could pull from the time of Tina and Doyle’s marriage. A prenup would shed some light on her financial position.
Satisfied with the morning’s work, I pulled on boots and a sweater and headed to the distillery to check in with Cam. The doors to the old stable were wide open, and I found Cam inside sorting through a large pile of boxes. The stone-walled structure with a high-beamed ceiling had been used to house carriage horses in the days when whisky barrels were delivered under horsepower. There were six empty wooden stalls along the side wall, and an old farm wagon took up most of the remaining floor space.
“That’ll have to go, for starters,” I said.
“Aye, it’s a relic, but Ben couldnae part with it.”
Cam reached under the carriage and pulled up on the wooden side bar. It lifted upward and revealed a long thin tray divided into small comp
artments, each containing an old-fashioned glass milk bottle.
“A milk wagon?”
“In more recent years, aye, but it used to be used for haulin’ whisky for sale in the south.”
“A smuggler’s wagon?”
“Exactly.”
“I see why Ben wouldn’t part with it. Let’s see what Hunter can do to refurbish it,” I said. I could already see it sitting out on display in the yard. A tangible piece of the Glen’s pirate history. As for the barn, it would make a charming tasting room and maybe eventually a visitors’ center, but one thing at a time. Grant was only just on board as it was. “Can we remove the stalls and get rid of the hay on the floor?” I asked, following behind Liam as he scrabbled around, sending up clouds of dust.
“Aye, with Hunter’s help they should break down easy.”
“Beyond that a good cleaning, and maybe see if Hunter can pull together some sort of makeshift bar top.”
“You’re sounding like Grant’s wee friend.”
My stomach flipped. “You mean Summer?”
“Full of bright ideas, that one,” Cam said. “Ideas we get to take care of.”
I couldn’t tell if Cam was amused or annoyed.
“Not surprising, though, Grant’s always had an eye for the bonny ones.”
And Summer has an eye for the wealthy ones. Was she thinking that Grant could be the answer to her financial woes? Little gold digger. “What else is Summer having you do?”
“Bit of sprucing up and painting, polishing the brass, and that’s just this morning,” he muttered.
We stepped back out into the courtyard and saw Balfour’s official navy blue police sedan pulling into the yard. Bill Rothes climbed out and made his way toward us.
Death Distilled Page 12