Highland Justice

by Larry Stuart

  ‘That smells good!’

  ‘I hope you like it. ’Tis ma mother’s recipe for mutton stew, and I no made it before.’

  ‘Ouch,’ he cried, after dipping his finger into the simmering pot.

  Mary grinned at his stupidity.

  ‘Can ye no see the heat risin’?’

  Removing his now scalded finger from the pot, Cameron waved it about in the air before sticking it in his mouth.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, sighing with some relief, while at the same time looking at the

  offending digit as if it had a will of its own, ‘I’ve invited Rob for dinner tomorrow. I hope you no mind.’

  ‘No, that be just fine. Maybe I should ask Annie to come? Who knows? They may just take to each other.’

  In August the weather was unusually warm and dry, and Cameron and Mary spent idyllic days walking and picnicking in the glens surrounding Huntly. One Sunday, they lazed for hours by the river bank, listening to the music of the water as it tumbled over the rocks; and while gazing at the river were almost hypnotized by the sight of salmon leaping and fighting their way upstream to start the cycle again. By mid-afternoon it had become so hot that they furtively stripped off their clothes, jumping into the water and swimming and cavorting until their ardour overtook them. Then, quietly slipping from the water had made frenzied love amid the long grass at the river’s edge.

  But summer was now definitely over, thought Mary, as she wandered down the second floor corridor at the hospital. A sudden bolt of lightning illuminated the dull- grey picture outside the window, and a few seconds later a rumble of thunder could be heard reverberating down the valley leading from Huntly towards the east. Once more, Mary’s mind drifted away, and her thoughts returned to Cameron.

  That morning, he had left at 6:00 a.m. to catch the first train to Aberdeen, and would not be home for three days. That, and the depressing weather outside, was undoubtedly fuelling her feelings of despondency. Still, at least she was on duty with Annie, she reflected, which was normally enough to ensure a little light-heartedness and humour to help her through the day.

  Unexpectedly, Matron appeared from the first doorway on the left. Although she was short and almost frail looking, there was no more formidable person in this establishment. Her piercing, hawk-like eyes never missed a speck of dirt, and her quick, cutting remarks left the strongest of characters babbling in her wake.

  ‘Mary Stewart…would you please join me in my office.’

  Mary hurried along the hallway, trying her best to keep up, while at the same time wondering where she had stepped out of line. The last time she had been summoned it had been for a ‘breach of etiquette’. One of the staff doctors had got just a little too friendly and she had vociferously put him in his place. As it transpired, ‘this one does not do’, and she had left Matron’s office duly reprimanded.

  Ten minutes later, she drifted out of Matron’s office dumbstruck, having just been promoted to Ward Sister. The increase in salary was more than welcome – especially as she and Cameron were desperately trying to save up enough money to buy their own house – and the new position meant she would now have some control over her work patterns. Mary grinned, as she thought about the look of pleasure that would appear on Cameron’s face when she told him about her advancement. But unfortunately, that would have to wait.

  Never mind, she thought, hurrying back down the hallway to give Annie the news. At least now she would be able to arrange her work roster to be at home whenever he came

  back from a trip.

  Cameron sat at his desk almost hidden behind a mass of paperwork. Since the Company had decided to join up with the Highland Railway in the construction of the line from Keith to Inverness, he was under enormous pressure. He knew the GNSR directors were only trying to impress their new partners, by getting him to re-negotiate all their supply contracts. But what he couldn’t comprehend was why all the orders from head office had to land on his desk on Friday afternoons – thus necessitating his presence at the depot every Saturday for most of the day. In the past, Mary had never complained. But last Friday, her acceptance of their lives being totally controlled by the railway had come to an end.

  She had gone out of her way to arrange her work schedule to allow the two of them to go to Dufftown on Saturday, to spend the night with Helen. But, when he came home on Friday and informed her that he couldn’t go, Mary had gone off to bed in a huff; and in the morning had picked up her holdall and slammed the front door on her way out.

  By the time Mary arrived home the following day, she had calmed down, but she had made her point. Cameron listened without interruption, as she told him about her visit: how Helen had tried her best to seem chirpy, and as usual claimed to be fine, ‘apart from the usual aches and pains associated with gettin’ old’. But Mary had not been convinced.

  That, and his guilt at not being able to go with Mary, had gnawed away at him all week. It was now Friday again, and he didn’t care what landed on his desk, because nothing was going to stop him from getting on the train tomorrow to visit his grandmother.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Cameron walked briskly along Balvenie Street leading from the station towards the centre of town. His face was numb and his ears began to sting, exposed as they were to the raw northerly wind. But he was determined that nothing was going to ruin his mood, or the day he had planned for him and his grandmother. He had already made arrangements for them to be picked up at 12:00 and driven to the Highlander Inn for lunch, and had also got a message through to the baker on Church Street, ordering a freshly baked loaf to have with their meal that evening.

  The moment he entered the house, he knew that something was terribly wrong. It was cold – deathly cold. Shutting the front door, he anxiously called out his grandmother’s name, but silence was all that greeted him. With increasing unease he hurried towards the parlour, where upon entering, his legs froze and his brain attempted to block out what lay before his eyes.

  ‘Nan, Nan…Oh, God, no,’ he exclaimed, his legs hesitantly carrying him forward to kneel by her side.

  Helen sat rigid in her tired old chair. Her head was thrown back, her eyes vacant and unblinking. The skin on her face was devoid of colour. Her lips were pale and unmoving. Her right hand was curled into a fist at her chest, while her left arm hung lifelessly over the arm of the chair.

  Cameron lifted Helen’s arm, placing the hand into her lap, and then reached down, picking up the crumpled pieces of paper lying on the floor alongside her chair.

  The doctor said her heart had given out, and there was nothing anyone could have done to prevent it. Cameron already knew her heart had given up, but also knew the reason why.

  Helen had spent her life resolutely overcoming all the burdens sent her way. But Cameron’s sister’s letter had been the final blow. Those creased up sheets of paper that he’d found lying on the floor, had broken Helen’s heart. The news from Margaret about the loss of her unborn baby, and Peter’s death in a drunken brawl outside a bar in Montreal, had been more than she could take.

  Looking back, Cameron now realised he should have paid more attention to how frail she’d become since Morris’s funeral. Work and the never-ending progress of time had conspired to deflect her from his attention. Mary had recognized the symptoms and tried to warn him, but he hadn’t grasped the significance until it was too late.

  Two days later, Cameron and Mary once more found themselves standing in the cemetery at Mortlach Church. No rays of sunlight penetrated the drab, grey skies on this occasion. And the bare trees and cheerless, frozen ground were in stark contrast to the colourful autumnal scene present the last time they were here.

  Reverend Logan stood stiffly, the top of his dark woollen cassock now hidden under a large black cape. Beneath his black hat, strands of long greying hair whisked about in front of his eyes as, with his usual solemnity, he carried out his duty. On this occasion, the finishing touch was added by the Reverend, with his moving homily to ‘O
ur dear friend Helen’; and for the first time, even he seemed to be having some difficulty hiding his feelings.

  Once again, Cameron found himself trying to swallow his emotions; and his grip around Mary’s waist tightened with each passing minute. Helen had been like a mother to him. And as she was lowered into the ground beside her ‘dear Andrew’, Cameron prayed that there truly was a God. Not because he had suddenly become overwhelmed by the presence of the heavenly host, but because she deserved so much better.

  At the end of the service, Reverend Logan looked up at the assembled gathering. All heads were bowed, and most shoulders trembled with emotion.

  ‘Mr Stewart would like you all to know that he and Mary would be pleased to see you for a warmin’ drink at the Fife Arms Hotel, in about thirty minutes.’

  It would have been difficult that day for any passers-by to ascertain who was supporting whom. Cameron and Mary, both nearly overcome with grief, remained at the graveside with their arms around each other until the assembled mourners had departed, before helping each other away from the sombre surroundings.

  ‘Thank you so much for your wonderful oration,’ Cameron said, as he shook hands with Reverend Logan on his arrival at the wake. ‘It was very kind of you and, as I’m sure you were aware, I was no in any fit state to do one maself.’

  ‘It were an honour, Cameron. Your grandmother was a wonderful lady and a tireless member of our congregation.’

  The Reverend’s normally humourless face then brightened, a half-smile crossing his lips.

  ‘My wife be just sayin’ to me the other day that…well…now that you be the last remainin’ member of the Stewart family in these parts, maybe you and Mary might soon be makin’ an announcement confirmin’ the temporary nature of that state of affairs?’

  Mary’s face turned beet red. Cameron on the other hand barely reacted, his mind clearly somewhere else.

  Over the Vicar’s shoulder, he’d caught sight of a face that somehow seemed familiar. The man had glanced up, before almost guiltily looking down at his drink again. Moments later it came to Cameron. It was at another funeral – his father’s – where he’d seen that face. And the face was that of Dougal, his father’s old friend.

  For Cameron, time slowed to a crawl. Suddenly, what his grandmother had told him about his ancestors’ hatred of the interlopers from the south, and her allegations that his father’s death had been no accident, flashed through his mind.

  Later that evening, Cameron and Mary sat near the small peat fire in the waiting room at the station. The flames danced in the grate, spurred on by the wind whistling through the draughty windows, trying its best to eradicate what little warmth there was. Cameron could feel Mary shake, as a shiver flowed through her body causing her to lean towards him and put an arm through the crook of his elbow.

  His mind was once more in turmoil. He was certain that, like his grandmother, Mary would want him to bury the past. But he still needed to know the truth behind the death of his father. He wasn’t sure if it had something to do with his coming of age, or was connected to his increasing frustration at the way some people just accepted the manner in which they were treated. But whichever it was, he felt bound to discover the truth. He needed to talk to Dougal. If the shooting had not been accidental, then all his good intentions of not becoming involved in old feuds or reprisals might need to be reassessed. Apart from this newly-found desire to see justice prevail, it had now become blatantly obvious that nothing in this country was ever going to change as long as the upper class were allowed to run roughshod over the masses. One thing was for certain, though. He would not rush into action, and make the same careless mistakes as had some of his ancestors.

  The following Saturday evening, Cameron and Dougal met in the kitchen at Helen’s house. Six bottles of ale and a bottle of whisky sat on the kitchen table, as Cameron had been a little unsure of how much it would take to embolden his guest’s courage.

  Dougal stepped through the back door like a walking advertisement for the church’s charity, clothes market. The frayed white collar of his shirt showed above his dark-blue jersey – the elbows of which were completely worn-through. Old brown woollen trousers were held up by a cord around his waist. And on his feet he wore muddy calf-high boots, with the sock on his right foot visible through a hole at the toe. His face was ruddy and weather-beaten, while on his upper lip rested an untidy moustache, not quite the match of his bushy mane of dark-brown hair and dishevelled eyebrows.

  Dougal sat down, scrutinizing Cameron with his one dark-blue eye.

  Cameron could tell his guest was uneasy. But after the ales had been downed, and they settled into the whisky, Dougal began to relax; and what followed was a complete history of every person, past and present, who’d ever lived within twenty miles of Dufftown. Cameron soon began to appreciate that sitting opposite him was another of life’s likeable rogues, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at many of his improbable insights.

  Eventually, Dougal’s words began to slur, and Cameron knew the moment of truth had arrived.

  ‘Tell me…what really happened that day?’

  ‘Ye sure ye want to know?’

  After a confirming nod from Cameron, Dougal proceeded to tell the story of Morris’s final day.

  ‘It were misty in the mornin’, when we set off…but, about an hour later, when we’d only half filled our gunny sack, it began to clear. Yer father decided we should leave in case we be spotted. But before we’d even cleared the heath the mist burned off …an ’tis then he were murdered.’

  ‘What makes you think it was no accident?’

  ‘Ah know it wisnae. Yer father was killed by a single bullet from a Snider-Enfield Mark II rifle…fired from a good 1000 yards away. Ah was in the Argyll an Sutherland Highlanders…until our sergeant accidentally ran onto ma knuckles…an Ah know what that rifle sounds like.’

  ‘But the police and doctor said it were an accident?’

  ‘Were nae accident. Listen. Ah were there an Ah know what Ah heard. It were no fowling piece that done away wi’ yer father.’

  ‘Why did you no tell the police?’

  ‘Och…They’re all in Campbell’s pockets. All that wud have done is make sure Ah met wi’ an early accident. Ah’m no sure I shud be tellin’ ye this…but if ye want more proof come by old Hamish Munro’s place... tomorra after dark.’

  As Dougal moved his chair back to get up and leave, Cameron held up his hand.

  ‘Hold just one moment, Dougal. I’ve somethin’ for you.’

  Dougal left Cowie Avenue that night a happy man. Not only because of the whisky he’d drunk, but also because in his pocket was a map drawn by Cameron, with an X marking the spot where he’d buried his father’s traps.

  A pounding in his head like the drums of a highland marching band forced Cameron to open his eyes. Slowly, he rolled out of bed and tiptoed to the kitchen. Six empty bottles of ale and one empty bottle of whisky stared back at him; and the lingering smell made his stomach turn.

  It was only as he drank his third glass of water that the freezing cold floor got through to his brain, encouraging him to retreat to the bedroom and put on his clothes.

  Later that morning, while nursing his second cup of tea, his mind returned to the previous evening. Like most people in town, he’d assumed his father’s death had been an accident. The fact that Helen had been certain from the outset that it wasn’t, he’d originally put down to a mother’s natural desire to have someone to blame for the death of her child. But, if what George had told him was true, then she’d been right all along. Maybe he should stay another night, he mused. After all, Mary was working again that night, and he could still be home before she returned Sunday morning.

  When Cameron stepped out the front door, the air was frosty but windless, and the street glistened with the first snowfall of the year. Closing the door behind him, he carefully made his way up the path towards the rickety front gate.

  He was certainly not in the best of mood
s. Apart from his headache, and the discovery that his father’s death had not been an accident, he was dismayed by the note he’d just found on the floor inside the front door. His grandmother had only been dead for just over a week, and already Mrs Murray was asking about the sale of Helen’s house.

  His boots crunched with each step on the fresh white covering, until drowned out by the cries and laughter of children fighting street-wars with their new-found ammunition. Turning the corner into Fife Street, he stepped out of the shadows. Like the reflection from a mirror, the sun ray’s temporarily blinded him, sending a spike of pain to the centre of his throbbing head. Slowing momentarily, he peered through squinting eyes, desperately seeking protection from the glare. Spotting what he needed, he crossed the street and continued in the shade of the buildings on his way to the post office.