chapter
~12~
MISS SEETON, THE perfect guest, murmured to Miss Beigg that she would be most interested to learn more, and settled herself in an armchair by the fireplace as Philomena launched into her lecture.
“When King James the Seventh of Scotland and Second of England was deposed in 1688, he fled to France with his wife Mary of Modena and their infant son James, who was to become the Old Pretender; and, though the English may have accepted as king his nephew and son-in-law Dutch William, who’d taken his place, many folk in the Highlands refused to acknowledge William’s right to rule. But Scots have always been canny! They’d drink loyalty to the King loudly enough—but they’d hold their glasses over a bowl of water as they made their pledge, so that everyone knew the real king they toasted was James, away across the English Channel in safety.”
As memory stirred, Miss Seeton nodded. “The King Over the Water—and the Little Gentleman in Black Velvet, of course,” she added, with a twinkle. Philomena nodded.
“True enough, though the mole whose hill tumbled William’s horse wasn’t to play his part in history for some years after the Massacre of Glencoe. William and his wife Mary, James’s daughter, weren’t as sure of their claim on James’s throne as they would like to have been: they insisted that the clans must swear an oath of allegiance, and gave them until the New Year to do it—but MacDonald of Glencoe waited until the very last minute before setting out to swear, because he’d wanted to ease his conscience by explaining to the Stuarts that it was to be for expediency he swore this oath, that he was as loyal to the true king as ever.”
“A promise made under duress is not binding,” mused Miss Seeton, wondering where in the world she could have heard or read this principle before. Philomena’s eyes glittered.
“And so Maclan—the chief of the MacDonalds—thought! But he finally accepted that the oath must be sworn, for the good of his people—only, he encountered bad weather on the way, and any number of delays as he tried to reach the right official, and he arrived over a week late, though he was told this wouldn’t be held against him. So he rode home to Glencoe believing no harm would come to the MacDonalds . . .
“And he still believed it, for he thought the assurances of the government as binding as his own word, when soldiers under the command of Robert Campbell of Glenlyon arrived in the glen at the beginning of February, asking for shelter.” Philomena’s tone intensified. “To a Highlander, Miss Seeton—you knew it yourself—a guest’s place is privileged. Or, as some might say, a sacred trust—the trust even of an old enemy that so long as he remains on your land as your guest, you will do him no harm. The Campbells and the MacDonalds had been enemies for generations, but for ten days the Campbells stayed on MacDonald land, sharing the food and the fire and the roofs of the clansmen—who offered them gladly, as they were duty, and honour, bound to do. But others were not so honourable . . .”
Miss Seeton knew what was coming, yet Miss Beigg’s voice and the words it uttered were so compelling that she felt an uncomfortable chill between her shoulder blades, and part of her wanted to put her fingers to her ears to block out the rest of Philomena’s story as if, in some strange way, this would deny it its place in history.
“On February the thirteenth, 1692, the Campbells rose in the middle of the night to slaughter in cold blood thirty-eight men, women, and children of Clan MacDonald. MacIan was pistolled to death in his bedroom, butchered without warning; his wife was stripped naked, and the flesh bitten from her fingers by beasts in men’s shape seeking to steal her rings. Government orders had been to wipe out the entire clan, as a warning to others . . .”
“Admiral Byng,” murmured Miss Seeton, as Miss Beigg drew breath at the sheer horror of her own narration. “No, not that, perhaps—pour encourager les autres—but how very, very dreadful—when they had been shown such a great deal of kindness . . .”
Philomena was so rapt in her story that she plunged on to its conclusion without pausing to wonder whether it might be upsetting for her guest. A teller of tales wants to move the hearts and minds of those who listen, and it was clear, from her remarks, that Miss Seeton had indeed been moved. Miss Beigg’s torrent of horrified indignation swept onwards.
“Those MacDonalds who had escaped the massacre fled into the mountains—but it was February, and the snow was deep. Another forty people perished during the flight across the mountains to safety—but the clan survived, and Glencoe has become a bitter memory, the Glen of Weeping for all who bear the name of MacDonald. To this day there are MacDonalds who would trust the devil himself before a Campbell, and who can blame them—and yet, Miss Seeton”—Philomena recollected herself with an effort—“even a tragedy like this may have its hopeful side. The soldiers had their orders to wipe out the entire clan, but they only killed directly thirty-eight people: over a hundred MacDonalds survived. It was rumoured there had been a warning given—given by a soldier—by a soldier, some said, who bore the Campbell name. He was duty bound not to betray even a treacherous government by speaking his warning directly, but he took aside a child of the clan to hear him address one of the boulders near his home.
“ ‘Grey stone of the glen,’ ” quoted Philomena in her most solemn tones, “ ‘great is your right to be here. But if you only knew what was to happen this night, you would be up and away.’ That, Miss Seeton, is what the soldier is supposed to have said, and he insisted the child should repeat these words to his father, and so, not all the MacDonalds died.”
As she finished, there was a silence Miss Seeton knew it would be impossible to break for a while. She shivered, and Philomena’s eyes lost their dark, brooding look at once.
“I’ve made you uneasy, Miss Seeton. I can’t say I never meant to, because story-telling’s in my blood. If I apologised for being good at it I’d be a hypocrite. But, as recompense, do let me sign a copy of my book for you—though you’d better not read it until you’re safely home in Kent!”
Miss Seeton’s modesty was once again ignored as she made an attempt to protest that, really, such generosity was not necessary. Philomena opened Grey Stone of the Glen to its title page, enquired of her guest what her full name might be, and inscribed the book “To Emily Dorothea Seeton, in memory of emotions (and coffee) stirred by the Author,” then signed it with a flourish, followed by the date. She jumped to her feet. “We’ll have another cup,” she decided, without asking Miss Seeton’s wishes. “To warm your curdled blood,” she added. “Anybody dealing with Campbells has need of a strong stomach, believe me . . .”
And, as Miss Seeton followed her back into the kitchen, Miss Beigg narrated with relish an earlier tale of black treachery shown by Campbell to MacDonald, during the English Civil War, when the Campbells, supporting Cromwell, besieged the Royalist MacDonalds in Dunaverty Castle. For six weeks the MacDonalds resisted, until thirst drove them outside, to certain death. One young mother was offered amnesty if she would climb a cliff with her baby tied to her back, and she climbed, ninety feet upwards to the summit, until her hands reached out to safety—and a waiting Campbell officer hacked them both off with his sword, so that she fell, with her child, to death on the rocks below.
“And they named it the Cliff of the Falling Woman,” said Philomena, above the cheerful song of the kettle; she seemed quite oblivious to the strange contrast of moods. “The next day, as the victors marched away, the Campbell’s horse bolted with him. He fell from the saddle with his foot caught in the stirrup, so that he was dragged screaming over the ground . . . but not a soul bestirred themselves to save him. They stood watching until it was all over, and said not a single word.”
“Oh,” said Miss Seeton. She knew it was inadequate, but—though some remark was clearly called for—what else was there to say? So much violence, so much bitterness, but . . .
“But surely,” she managed to bring out at last, as Miss Beigg spooned coffee into cups and poured boiling water, “it was all a long time ago, was it not? For which we should b
e thankful,” she found herself adding, with another shudder.
Philomena gave her a strange look, and rubbed the tip of her nose. “You’re staying at the castle, of course, and they’ve been away until recently—I don’t suppose anyone’s had time to mention it yet. But let me assure you, Miss Seeton, that the feuding between Campbell and MacDonald is nowhere near over, in this part of the Highlands at any rate. Not that they were sworn enemies to begin with—far from it, indeed. Ewen and Malcolm went to school together, and were put to sharing the same desk by a dominie with a warped sense of humour—but despite that daft schoolmaster, from the first they were like David and Jonathan. Boys and young lads and then grown men together, never a cross word spoken, in defiance of every tale they’d ever heard told. Why, the two of them went into partnership, and still there was nothing amiss between them, though everyone said it couldn’t last, that it was unnatural . . . And now everyone has been proved right, more’s the pity.”
Philomena sipped her coffee, and shook her head. “I was told, a long time ago, never to do business with my friends or relations, and there are far worse principles than that in life, believe me. Better to give money outright, and be glad and surprised at its return, than lend it and feel hard done by when you lose interest on the loan—not that they lent each other money. Fishing for pearls doesn’t need any great financial outlay.”
She went on to tell Miss Seeton much of what Mel Forby had learned from Hamish McQueest in the bar of the Pock and Tang. “Freshwater pearls are in great demand, you know, and have been for centuries. Mary Queen of Scots, for instance, wore a necklace of Scottish pearls before she was executed. It’s kept at Arundel Castle—I saw it when I was researching a book about the Casket Letters—though that’s by the by, as the book’s not due out for six months yet.” She accepted Miss Seeton’s congratulations in the spirit in which they were quickly offered, then cleared her throat. “Well, Ewen and Malcolm didn’t make their fortunes at the fishing, but they earned enough to live on and to spare—they’d said right from the start that everything they found would be shared equally, which it was, and the pair of them were perfectly happy with that arrangement for years . . . until one day they found one particular crook. Which, Miss Seeton, meant trouble.”
Philomena sighed. Miss Seeton’s sorrowful look mirrored her hostess’s gloom. “When friends fall out, Miss Beigg, it must surely be one of the saddest things . . . and, though I have had little to do with what one might call the criminal classes, I believe I understand . . .”
Miss Seeton, in her own eyes and in the eyes of all when they first make her acquaintance, is a gentlewoman; gentlewomen do not have adventures, or consort with crooks: Miss Seeton, therefore, remains forever convinced that she has had little to do with what one might call the criminal classes.
There are those who would disagree with her.
Philomena Beigg was not one of them. She took the words of her guest at their face value, and smiled. “Oh dear, I’m sorry, Miss Seeton, but there’s more than one sort of crook, and I don’t just mean what shepherds use. But I must apologise for confusing you with a technicality. Pearl fishers call a ‘crook’ any mussel with its shell twisted to one side instead of straight—the sort of deformity which, for some reason, seems to increase the chances there could be a pearl inside. It may not be a good one, though. It could have formed too near the edge and be brown, or black: dark pearls are worthless.” Her voice began once more to sound as if it was quoting. “The colours to look for are blue-white, or heather-purple, or soft pink, or cream, or silver, or grey, and, when you find one, the bigger the better, of course.” She chuckled. “You might guess I researched my book pretty thoroughly, Miss Seeton! And, when all the bother between Ewen Campbell and Malcolm MacDonald started up the other day, I went back to my notes to refresh my memory.”
“It is,” said Miss Seeton, politely, “most interesting, indeed. Do, please, continue.”
Philomena would probably have done so in any case, being intent on her tale, but she smiled absently at Miss Seeton before clearing her throat again. “Malcolm found the crook, and opened it far enough to peek inside, but not too far and kill it. He saw it had a pearl just by the edge—a brown one, more another part of the shell than a semiprecious stone. So he was all set to score it with his knife as a sign he’d already checked it, and put it back for breeding stock the way they always did, when Ewen said he’d a new theory that, given time, a brown pearl might turn white, and he’d like to take the mussel home to set in the stream near his house, and check on it in the years to come. Which Malcolm said was fair enough . . .”
Miss Seeton, whose knowledge of such matters as breeding stocks and depletion of species had been greatly increased by her friendship with Babs Ongar of Wounded Wings, nodded. “One has,” she remarked, “a duty to preserve for future generations the pleasures we ourselves have enjoyed.”
“And Malcolm MacDonald would have agreed with you, up to one week after the day he handed over his find to Ewen Campbell in all good faith—when he learned that Ewen had never taken that mussel anywhere near a stream, but had opened it right up instead, and found a second pearl, buried in a sac well away from the crooked edge, under the meat. And a perfect specimen, what’s more: salmon-pink, absolutely round, and weighing almost forty grains. The largest freshwater pearl ever found, Miss Seeton, only weighed forty-four and a quarter grains—a man called Abernethy, about six years ago—and it’s worth thousands. Malcolm can’t think how he came to miss this one, and now he’s furious with Ewen for cheating him, because, instead of sharing the profits as usual, Ewen is claiming that, as Malcolm gave him the mussel as he was about to throw it away, he also gave away any right to a share in the profit of finding it—and in the glory of the find, which is almost worse . . .
“So you see what I mean, Miss Seeton. Everyone’s saying Malcolm MacDonald could expect nothing less from a Campbell—because history always repeats itself . . .”
chapter
~13~
“I SUPPOSE,” REMARKED Miss Seeton, as Philomena paused, “one might say that it does, unfortunately.” She sighed. “Poor Mr. MacDonald, having his friend behave in so—so dishonourable, I fear, must be the word—so dishonourable a fashion. It seems to me, Miss Beigg, that the advice you were given was extremely wise. Politics,” she said, with another sigh. “Politics, and religion—and money, of course . . .”
The three subjects a gentlewoman learned from birth were likely to cause controversy. Philomena grimaced. “It’s not so much dishonourable as inevitable, I suppose, speaking as an historian. Friendship between a Campbell and a MacDonald will never prosper, Miss Seeton—too much has happened over too many years, and the Campbells seem unable to live their bad name completely down. And now Malcolm’s gone from one extreme to the other. Instead of being Ewen Campbell’s best friend who trusted him completely, he insists he wants a proper accounting of every single pearl they’ve ever found, and he’s hinting this isn’t the first time Ewen’s cheated him, just because the man drives a smarter car and lives in a bigger house—which is plain foolish. Ewen’s wife’s father left her ninety thousand pounds, as everyone knew full well at the time. Malcolm has no logical reason to be suspicious, only a bee in his bonnet over everything to do with the man, and he’ll bear a grudge as easily as swear a friendship. He’s a hot-tempered one, Malcolm MacDonald. Every time he goes to the mussel beds now, he takes a shotgun with him—which is ridiculous—and says if he sees so much as the tip of Ewen Campbell’s nose peeking over the crest of a hill, he’ll blow him to pieces. Which is worrying, because he just might.”
“Surely not. The heat of the moment, no doubt,” suggested Miss Seeton, “and Mr. MacDonald’s—understandable, one must agree—disappointment over the way his friend treated him. It would be only natural to expect the language of a disappointed man to be a little . . . intemperate, in the circumstances, but one can hardly suppose him to mean it.”
Philomena shrugged. “I wouldn�
�t care to bet on that! Ewen’s taking care to keep well out of Malcolm’s way right now, which isn’t too hard, because he’s having to go farther afield to look for new pearl beds, as he’s running the risk of being shot by going near the old ones he and Malcolm used to share. The hills round Glenclachan are lonely, Miss Seeton—no hikers, no campers, because there’s nothing much, apart from scenery, to see—and the maps aren’t as detailed as they might be. Ewen stands a fair chance of finding new beds, though he’ll have to travel in odd places to find them.” She chuckled. “Who knows? He could be lucky enough to find the gold mine that’s been rumoured in these parts for centuries, though nobody knows exactly where it might be. I like to imagine the pearls of Mary Stuart’s necklace are set in Glenclachan gold—a fanciful idea, no doubt, but there’s a romantic streak in even Highlander. Why else”—her eyes twinkled—“did my father insist on giving me such a name?”
When Miss Seeton finally left Philomena’s cottage, the sky was clear, the sun was high, and steam rose slowly from the pavements, after the storm. In one hand she carried her umbrella, in the other her handbag, while, tucked under one arm, she proudly carried the brown-paper parcel containing her inscribed copies of Philomena’s two books. Miss Seeton had never had even one book signed for her by its author, and looked forward to reading these. Miss Beigg knew how to weave a powerful spell with her words: the shivers still ran up and down Miss Seeton’s spine as she remembered her hostess’s description of the Massacre of Glencoe, and the bleak horror of the Tale of the Falling Woman. The shivers reached down to the tips of Miss Seeton’s fingers, and made them itch to capture on paper the images conjured up by the tales she had heard; if only—and she sighed—her talent could be as equal to the task as Miss Beigg’s own talent demanded! But one could only do one’s best, no more than that: everyone had different talents, differing even—her sigh this time was deeper—in intensity. Her own small ability to sketch, Miss Beigg’s undoubtedly great narrative skill, Mel Forby’s skill in writing well at quite another length, for a journalist and an author must surely approach their work in very different ways . . .
Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 13) Page 10