by Douglas Watt
‘I would be most honoured, sir.’
MacKenzie bowed his head, smiled and strode off in the direction of the Court of Session. Within moments, he had disappeared into the busy thoroughfare.
CHAPTER 6
Scougall Takes the Country Air
DAVIE SCOUGALL HIRED a horse from the landlord of the Targe Tavern. Having tentatively accustomed himself to the feel of the beast, for he was a reluctant and uneasy horseman, he rode slowly, through the West Port and out into the open fields that surrounded Edinburgh. He followed the track along the Water of Leith, a small river which wound its way through the Lothian countryside to find the sea at the Port of Leith. The fine weather and the clear blue sky made the journey agreeable. He began to relax and shed the stiff skin he wore in the city.
As his horse climbed the hill above the village of Colinton, he passed two young women who looked up and smiled at him. Thus far in life Scougall had very little experience of the female sex. His energies had been focused on learning the art of the notary public, religious reflection and golf. But something about one of the girl’s smiles and the curve of her figure made the idea of taking her in his arms most appealing. He decided that it was time he devoted some of his energy towards marriage, recalling Ecclesiastes, Chapter 9: ‘Live joyfully with the wife whom thou lovest all the days of the life of thy vanity, which he hath given thee under the sun.’
Scougall lost himself in reflections on the female sex and it was only when his old horse plodded into Currie, a village comprising a few small cottages, that he was stirred from these pleasantly sinful thoughts and remembered why he was making his way towards the Pentland Hills, for Currie was the last village MacKenzie had drawn on the map that had been delivered to him the night before.
Scougall respected MacKenzie’s abilities as an advocate and clerk of the Session and had always found him to be a most affable and good humoured man who had treated him with the utmost courtesy. However, there were aspects of his character that were disturbing. He obviously had little sympathy for the brethren of the Covenant and at times could slip into mockery. Scougall decided to ask him to explain his religious views more clearly so that he could set his own mind at rest. And he found it hard to thole MacKenzie’s propensity to speak in Gaelic – the language of Godless barbarians! Scougall rebuked himself for thinking in this way about a man who had offered him nothing but kindness and who was soon to entertain him in his own dwelling place. Yes, MacKenzie was a most skilled lawyer, he told himself, of that there could be no doubt because of his large number of clients. Mostly from the Highlands, he could not help observing, then reminded himself that they included some from good Lowland stock, and a few at least were Presbyterians. Scougall thought himself fortunate to have been recommended by Hugh Dallas, under whom he had served his apprenticeship. He intended to make the most of the path providence had provided for him and chided himself for having thought so disrespectfully of such an honourable man.
The track eventually came to a small stone brig which led back across the Water of Leith. Scougall stopped his horse to appreciate the panorama opening up before him – a series of undulating fields and in the distance the dark green and brown of the Pentland Hills, the ‘Highlands of the Lothians’, as MacKenzie was fond of calling them. To his left, on the other side of the river, was a wood of birk, oak and fir, and through the trees, a house was visible now and again as the branches moved in the breeze. Scougall crossed the bridge and proceeded down a path which opened into a white avenue of hawthorns.
At the end was a tall wooden gate set in a high stone wall which appeared to encircle the house. He climbed down from his horse and pushed the gate open, then stopped in his tracks, truly astounded by what he saw. He had not imagined MacKenzie would inhabit a dwelling place which far outshone the so-called ‘Palace’ of Sir George Bruce that he had once visited in Culross.
The house was three storeys high, harled in bright white with crow gables and a red pantiled roof. The plain style of the vernacular architecture was offset by a delightful garden. To his left were shrubs and trees. To his right was a huge lawn bordered by flower beds, in the centre of which were four yew trees planted together, each perhaps twenty feet in height. In front of the house was a carved fountain from which water soporifically gurgled. Scougall felt as if he had stumbled upon the Garden of Eden: ‘And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed. And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.’ He noticed a man standing at the door of the house and realised it was MacKenzie.
‘Welcome, Davie! I trust your journey has not been too arduous.’
MacKenzie’s servant took the reins of Scougall’s horse and led it to the stables behind the house.
‘Such a majestic house!’ Scougall gabbled. ‘And what gardens! There can be none finer in the whole kingdom.’
‘Then you have not seen many of the gardens in this kingdom, Davie,’ laughed MacKenzie. ‘Scotland has many fine gardens. Look no further than Eskdale House, a few miles from your own Musselburgh. There you will find a much larger and more splendid park. Indeed, in the years of peace since the Restoration many of our landed men have spent much of their precious time, and even more of their precious money, on horticulture. I must organise a tour of the gardens of the Lothians for you. The art of gardening is a most beneficial occupation for professional men like us. This garden has taken over twenty years to nurture into its present shape. I will take you on the Grand Tour later, but first you must meet my daughter.’
MacKenzie led Scougall through the doorway into the house. As he passed under the lintel, the young notary noticed an inscription. It appeared to be in a language which was not Latin, and did not seem to be French.
‘What tongue is this, sir?’ he asked.
‘Gaelic, Davie.’
‘And what does it say?’
‘Chan fhiach taigh mòr gun straighlich,’ said MacKenzie, and then translated: ‘A great house without noise is worth nothing.’
Scougall looked baffled.
‘Now, Davie, here she is.’
A young woman in her early twenties dressed in a plain linen gown with a laced shift and apron entered the hall. She was not as striking as Ann MacLean but she had an attractive face and warm smile. Scougall could not help admiring her figure.
‘Elizabeth, this is Mr Scougall,’ said MacKenzie, ‘Davie, my daughter.’
For a few moments Scougall was lost for words as he gazed at the auburn hair tied loosely at her neck, falling in ringlets at the back. The dark eyes flashed like her father’s. Elizabeth smiled up at the young clerk, for she was not tall, and Scougall murmured a greeting.
‘I am sure that you must be hungry after your journey, Mr Scougall. Dinner will be ready in a short while. Perhaps, father, you might offer our guest a glass of wine in the library.’
‘An excellent idea, Beth.’
Scougall followed MacKenzie into a room full of books. Two large windows looked out onto a small lawn with a stone sundial at its centre. Behind were shrubs and trees and then the high sandstone wall that enclosed the garden. Scougall’s eyes wandered round the room. On one wall was a large richly carved, wooden fireplace; on the others, bookcases reached from floor to ceiling.
MacKenzie beckoned him to peruse his library. There were works in Latin and Greek, English and Scots, and European languages. In the English section he spotted the names of Alexander, Donne, Drayton, Douglas, King James I, Jonson, Shakespeare – writers he had heard of but not read; in French were Bèze, Bodin, Chassanion, Du Moulin, Marot, Montaigne, Rabelais; in Italian, Ariosto, Boccaccio, Groto, Machiavelli, Ochino, Tasso; in the classical section Aristotle, Cicero, Plato, Ramus and many more – Bibles, commentaries, legal texts, philosophies, medical books, poetry and theologies. Scougall was overwhelmed by the number and the range of subj
ects. There were hundreds and hundreds of books. His hand randomly selected one and pulled it out – John Napier of Merchiston’s Ouverture de tous les secrets de l’apocalypse ou revelation de S. Iean published by Brenouzet at La Rochelle in 1602. He quickly replaced it and thought of his own small library of half a dozen texts – he must broaden his reading. His eyes lit on a work of which he himself was the proud owner – Grundy’s The Mask of Prelacy Removed.
‘Are you a follower of Mr Grundy?’ inquired Scougall hopefully.
MacKenzie smiled. ‘I have read a few of his dull pages! His arguments lost me. I much prefer real philosophers like Aristotle and Plato. Such men can tell us a thing or two about the nature of things.’
‘I fear they were heathens, sir,’ said Scougall seriously.
‘Here, there are studies of human nature made through the ages,’ MacKenzie continued, unperturbed. ‘And it is through understanding human nature that we will determine who was responsible for Sir Lachlan’s death. I believe that the old chief did not take his life.’
‘How can you be sure, sir?’ Scougall was struck by the certitude of MacKenzie’s manner.
‘Each individual who was present in John Smith’s house on the night of the murder, as well as Sir Lachlan’s daughter who was not, has provided an account of events. Combining such evidence with a study of the characters and applying the principles of rational philosophy will enable us to come to an understanding of what happened. The identity of the person, or persons, responsible for this atrocious murder will be revealed. I have always been disturbed and fascinated by my fellow man, the study of whom is infinitely more fruitful than any attempt to probe the nature of God. I regret to say that the more I read of religion’s mysterious texts and tortuous treaties on church government, the less I understand; while as I delve deeper into the study of man, the more I am amazed by his complexities.’ He smiled at his young friend who was finding it a challenge to arrange his features in the requisite contours of respect and intelligent appreciation. MacKenzie ignored his discomfiture, filled two glasses with red wine and handed one to Scougall.
When they entered the dining room, Elizabeth was standing at the table. She had removed her apron and was smoothing down her skirts. Her hair was now tied up and she wore a delicate lace pinner upon her head.
Like the library, the dining room looked out onto the garden. It was decorated with a few oil paintings and some fine pieces of wooden furniture. The table was set for dinner with silver cutlery.
‘My father tells me you are most accomplished with a golf club, Mr Scougall,’ said Elizabeth with a glint in her eye.
‘Yes, indeed,’ began Scougall, ‘although I do not mean to boast.’ He felt his face beginning to flush again. He cursed his fumbling nature.
‘You must reveal to me the mysteries of the game. I am a keen follower of the sport and I have even hit a few balls myself.’
‘I did not realise that women played.’
‘Why, our own Queen Mary was a golfer!’
‘But she was a Papist – and an adulteress!’
‘What I mean is that women are quite capable of placing a ball on the ground and giving it a blow with a wooden stick,’ Elizabeth parried, with no visible reaction to his gauche outburst.
Scougall was on the point of citing a sermon by his local minister on how sport was not a fit pursuit for the weaker sex, when Elizabeth continued, ‘Now – tell me the news from town. Have you heard anything more about the death of Sir Lachlan? I am desperate to hear what you know, since you were one of the last people to see him alive.’
Detecting the potential inference that he could be suspected of involvement, Scougall was most indignant: ‘I can assure you, Miss MacKenzie, that I had no hand in this affair and I am almost certain your father is also innocent!’
MacKenzie and his daughter laughed.
‘You are indeed good company, Davie,’ said MacKenzie. ‘You amuse me more than any lawyer I know. I have already told you I consider myself to be a keen student of human nature and, having made a close examination of your character since we first met a few weeks ago, I am convinced you are incapable of killing anyone. Now, eat up – you’ll not find a more delicate capon in the whole of the Lothians. We also have wild fowl and pigeon pie. I promised to show you my garden. Once we’ve eaten I suggest we take a walk before it gets dark.’
CHAPTER 7
An Interview in the Garden
OUTSIDE, THE SUN was low in the sky and only birdsong disturbed the silence. As MacKenzie and Scougall sauntered over one of the lawns, the young notary paused occasionally to admire a particular plant in the long herbaceous border on one side. Only a few flowers were visible as specks of colour in the rising green, for it was early spring.
‘In the summer my border is glorious,’ said MacKenzie. ‘I must remember to give you a copy of Reid’s Scots Gard’ner to take home with you. When you’ve saved enough money to buy a property, you can plan a garden yourself.’
Under a cluster of trees was a small bench.
‘Now, Davie,’ MacKenzie observed, as they sat down. ‘Is this not a place where men can think in peace?’
‘It is too beautiful a spot to ponder death, sir,’ replied Scougall.
‘Perhaps, but we must put our minds to it. I fear that Mr Stirling has not got to grips with the case. He is a careful and competent lawyer but lacks the motivation that will drive him on to the end. His head is mostly full of history, Davie. For many years, he has been working on a book about the Great Rebellion and that subject has come to dominate his attention. Men who are too concerned with the past often neglect the present. However, I spoke to him at length last night and he showed me notes from his interviews. There is a maze of detail, so I will attempt to pull together what I consider vital strands for you. Tell me – have you formed any opinion as to what actually took place.’
‘Sir Lachlan may have taken his own life, but that seems unlikely,’ Scougall ventured, adding, ‘From our two short meetings, I could see that he was a man of strong opinions who might easily make enemies and he was perhaps not on the best of terms with Hector.’
‘Very good, Davie,’ MacKenzie nodded. ‘I see you are, like me, a keen student of human nature. In his statement to Mr Stirling, Hector admitted he and his father often argued about estate policy. He said that he retired to bed after we had all left, and remembered nothing out of the ordinary. He admits drinking more than was usual. The question is, did he have a motive for killing his father?’
Scougall was still pondering this when MacKenzie continued: ‘Sir Lachlan’s daughter was at the house of her friend Isabella Dunbar and only returned home in the morning. She was on bad terms with her father because she opposed his desire to marry her to a Highland laird.’
‘We cannot blame her for preferring the civilised society of the Lowlands to the barbaric climate of those hills and lochs,’ said Scougall, oblivious to any offence he might cause. He was merely reflecting a view of the Highlands shared by many Lowlanders – one that he felt as instinctively as he knew that Louis King of France was an agent of the Antichrist.
MacKenzie smiled at the younger man, whose essential honesty he regarded as a virtue against which lack of tact faded into insignificance. He saw himself as Scougall’s mentor. In any case, he had always enjoyed a challenge.
‘You have still not made a visit to the Highlands, Davie. I believe you will be surprised with what you find there. Let us, for now, keep our minds on Sir Lachlan’s death and lay aside our prejudices,’ he said kindly but firmly. ‘There is more of interest in the other statements. John Smith attested that he and his wife went to bed immediately after the guests had departed. Woken by a noise, he went out to the staircase and glimpsed a figure turning up onto the next floor. It was too dark to discern much, although he was sure he saw a shoe buckle reflected in the light from his candle. Smith assumed that the man on the stair had been the chief’s son, or one of his men. As he got back into bed, the Tron Kirk bell s
truck twice and he fell asleep. Smith’s wife corroborated his assertion that he only left their bedchamber for a matter of minutes. She, too, heard the kirk bell. As far as I am aware, Mr Smith is held in high regard in the burgh, but I do know from my legal work for Sir Lachlan, and here I speak in strict confidence, Davie, that the chief owed Smith a considerable sum of money. Sir Lachlan had failed to pay interest on two bonds and had built up large arrears of boarding expenses.’
Scougall felt deeply flattered that MacKenzie considered him worthy of being made his confidant.
‘Is it possible that Smith and his wife murdered Sir Lachlan?’ he enquired.
‘Possible, but unlikely. Remember, they would not necessarily receive any payments after Sir Lachlan’s death. And Smith has many other business ventures that are no doubt more profitable than lending money to a Highland chief. However, his description of a dark figure on the stairs is something that we must keep at the front of our minds. Moving on to Mr Primrose, he, like yourself, noticed Mr Hope flirting with Smith’s servant. And of course he left with us. His lodgings are in Borthwick’s Wynd. What is your opinion of Mr Primrose?’
‘I think he is very ambitious to do well in the law and I am sure he will take his place on that most distinguished bench alongside their Lordships one day. I must admit I feel somewhat daunted in his company even though he is the same age as me.’
‘You have painted a very fair picture of him, Davie. He is a gifted young man and aims for the top. There’s nothing wrong with that. But I think he sometimes works at it too hard. You should invite him onto the golf course and bring him down a peg or two. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, Mr Hope’s account concurred with our testimonies, for he left the lodgings with us. Smith’s servant girl shed no further light on the affair. She retired to her chamber on the top floor after the guests had left. Sir Lachlan’s two men gave garbled accounts for they both speak little of the Lowland tongue. It seems that after the departure of the guests Sir Lachlan allowed them to finish a bottle or two of wine – deep slumber followed soon after.’