Death of a Chief

by Douglas Watt

The Nor’ Loch in the Gloaming

  BY THE TIME MacKenzie and Scougall arrived it was already growing dark and the black mass of the Castle Rock cast the water of the Nor’ Loch into shadow. After spending some time wandering along the muddy shore, they spotted Stirling and a small entourage, including the physician, Lawtie, and several lugubrious looking members of the Town Guard, at the bottom of the steep slope which led from the houses on the High Street down to the dank water of the loch. As they approached they saw that the figures stood around a body at the water’s edge.

  ‘John, Mr Scougall,’ Stirling greeted them, ‘I am sorry to have summoned you to this dismal place at such an hour. The body was found by two young boys this afternoon. It was lying face down in the shallows. Mr Lawtie is making an examination. It appears that the deceased is James Jossie, an apothecary in Steel’s Close. I believe his death may be linked to Sir Lachlan’s, for only this morning I ordered my two men to talk with all the apothecaries concerning their supplies of poison. Perhaps Sir Lachlan’s killer obtained his deadly agent from Mr Jossie and then dispatched him lest he was identified.’ Stirling looked pleased with himself.

  Lawtie rose from his examination of the corpse, his small eyes giving him the appearance of an animal emerging from a burrow. ‘This has been a most savage attack, gentlemen. The deceased was stabbed with a blade which pierced the heart. He must have bled to death in seconds. Blood loss has been immense. We must transport the body to a more suitable location for a full post-mortem. Mr Stirling, you will have a report as usual by tomorrow. I expect payment will be as prompt? I am still waiting to be paid for the last one I penned for your office.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Lawtie. You will be paid,’ said Stirling as the physician made his departure into the gloom.

  ‘Did anyone see anything relating to the attack?’ asked MacKenzie.

  ‘No one has come forward as yet, John.’

  ‘May I examine the corpse?’

  MacKenzie walked over and looked down at a face caught in the grimace of death. Scougall could not find it in himself to come closer, and stared instead towards the open fields to the north of Edinburgh. There was just a thin line of light on the horizon. The image of Sir Lachlan under the linen sheet filled his mind. He asked God to give him strength to turn and look upon the old apothecary so that he might be able to aid MacKenzie in some way. But he could not bring himself to do so and his eyes remained fixed on the fading view.

  Stirling looked glumly at MacKenzie.

  ‘Have you any further thoughts about Sir Lachlan’s death, John? My enquiries have as yet led nowhere. As you know, I have a number of detailed narratives. Even taken together, they tell me next to nothing. It remains possible that the chief may have committed suicide and that the death of Mr Jossie is entirely unrelated.’

  ‘I am giving the matter my complete attention, Archibald. Mr Scougall and I will make some more enquiries in the city and then I intend to travel to the Highlands for Sir Lachlan’s funeral. I am confident that by the time he is laid to rest in the family tomb we will know the identity of his killer. Do you have any intelligence of Glenbeg’s whereabouts?’

  ‘Indeed. I have been informed of his presence in Perth, but that he has since left the town, no doubt heading for the mountains, where he is at home. He will be difficult to locate. Orders have been sent to the sheriff for his arrest. I am sure he has played some part in these terrible events. May I suggest we return to the safety of the city, gentlemen, for it growing dark.’

  ‘We will follow in a few minutes,’ replied MacKenzie.

  The town guards, an unshaven crew dressed in ill-fitting uniforms, lifted the corpse onto a wooden stretcher and departed with Stirling eastwards, for taking a direct route up the steep hill that led to the High Street was not possible with a dead body.

  ‘This affair grows blacker by the hour, Davie.’

  ‘Then you think the apothecary’s death is connected with the killing of Sir Lachlan?’

  ‘Nothing can be proved, as yet, but I suggest we pay a visit to the shop in Steel’s Close as soon as we can. Stirling may soon remember to send one of his men and I fear that any evidence left by the murderer may be misunderstood.’

  The two men followed a pathway beside the water, stumbling on loose stones in the darkness. At the foot of the Castle Rock, the path wound its way up the side of the hill. Towering tenements loomed like a cliff of sheer rock, dotted with a few bright eyes, the windows of those who had tallow to burn.

  ‘Tomorrow we must make the most of our time. I have some work to complete at the Session in the morning and I daresay there are a few unfinished instruments that need your attention in your office. I will speak with Kenneth Chisholm about George Scott and I also wish to probe the knowledge of some of our lordships on the bench. They may appear decrepit but they have long memories and I want to glean further information about some of the characters we are concerned with. In the afternoon I have a social engagement. The Earl of Boortree’s eldest daughter is to be married and a celebration is being held at Boortree House near Dalkeith. The Earl is an old friend – I have acted as his legal adviser for many years. The following day we leave for the Highlands to attend Sir Lachlan’s funeral at Glenshieldaig.’

  Scougall tried to conceal the fact that he was unnerved at the prospect of such a journey.

  ‘Why must we attend, sir?’

  ‘Did you not intend to pay your respects to Sir Lachlan’s family at his funeral?’

  ‘I had not thought, sir,’ stammered Scougall.

  ‘It will be an education for you. Put aside your law books and your golf clubs. We travel to Glenshieldaig.’

  Scougall was silent for the rest of the climb, his mind filled with thoughts of the Highlands. He was steeped in tales, told him by his grandmother, which conjured up visions of the Highlands as a savage territory roamed by bands of murderers and in the grip of Popery. But he had no choice, he must do as he was ordered. Despite his apprehension an excitement stirred within him at the prospect of the first real journey of his life. He had never travelled further than twenty miles from Edinburgh.

  CHAPTER 11

  Back at the Apothecary’s Shop

  IT WAS PITCH dark by the time they reached John Jossie’s small shop at the bottom of Steel’s Close. The lane was only about eight feet wide and the walls on either side soared to a height of sixty feet. MacKenzie pushed the door and found, to his surprise, that it was open.

  ‘Davie, go down to John Anderson’s tavern and get some candles so we can see something.’

  MacKenzie entered the shop and stood in absolute darkness. Although he could see nothing, his other senses were stimulated. There was a strange smell, a mixture of chemicals and spices, which he had always associated with such places. He inhaled deeply – the odour of cloves was strongest – he detected a hint of almonds. He listened intently, but there was nothing. He was about to move further into the apothecary’s when he thought he heard a slight noise – the hairs on his neck rose. He sensed that he was not alone, that the sound he had heard was of someone breathing. He stood stock still, his senses taut. But it was gone. Perhaps it had only been his imagination. He began to inch forward into the blackness with his arms stretched out. The sound of his own heart thudding seemed to fill the room.

  He stopped again and did not move for a couple of minutes, standing so still that his legs began to shake. They were still tired after the steep ascent from the Nor’ Loch. Suddenly, there was the same sound again – unmistakeably someone else was there, within a few feet of him! His hand slowly moved round to his belt and took hold of the small dagger he always carried with him. He listened but there was only silence. Then there it was again – he was sure that he heard stifled breathing, perhaps a foot moving on the floor. Should he address the figure? But that would indicate exactly where he was and the intruder might be on him in seconds. Better to wait for Davie to return. Where in heaven’s name was that confounded clerk! No doubt waiting his turn in a
busy tavern, unwilling to push in front of anyone. He must teach that boy how to act more forcefully.

  Time seemed to have stopped. At last a candle appeared through the window. As Scougall entered, MacKenzie shouted, ‘Get down!’ At that moment, a figure thrust into Scougall, knocking him to the floor, and was off out of the door and into the close. Fortunately the candle remained lit. MacKenzie ran to Scougall’s inert form.

  ‘Are you all right, Davie?’ Scougall was shaken but had not received a blow from a weapon. ‘Quick, can you get up, we must follow!’ shouted MacKenzie.

  Both men ran out of the shop only to see a figure turning onto the High Street, fifty yards away. By the time they had reached the street their assailant was lost in the crowds. It was still early in the evening and there was much activity as shopkeepers closed up for the day and the thirsty townsfolk sought lubrication for their throats.

  ‘I have not the speed of my younger years, Davie,’ said MacKenzie, bending over and trying to recover his breath.

  ‘I was always the slowest runner of my age at the burgh school,’ Scougall confessed.

  ‘A sorry pair, indeed!’ gasped MacKenzie. ‘But all is not lost. Let us return and see what we can find.’

  MacKenzie lit another candle from the one Scougall had retrieved from the floor and held it up so he could see something of the shop they stood in. It was but one small room – a door and window on one wall, boxes and pieces of equipment down the left, a bench and shelves on which bottles, glasses and pots rested on the wall facing the door, and bookshelves on the right. The floor was wooden and very dirty with all kinds of debris strewn across it.

  MacKenzie crouched on his hands and knees, holding the candle a few inches from his nose. As he made a meticulous examination, he did not utter a word. Scougall stood holding his candle up so that he could read the labels of the exotic ingredients that made up the everyday materials of the apothecary: rose-water, antimony, mercury, cinnamon. Scougall wondered what it felt like to be poisoned and face the last moments of life in terror, panic, pain… before being swept up into the arms of God.

  After about ten minutes on the floor, MacKenzie broke the silence:

  ‘Now I think it is time for us to retire for the night. I am finished here. Stirling’s men will no doubt inspect the place tomorrow. I daresay they will be very confused with what they find. But I have enough for now. Let us return to our chambers. I wish to reflect on the events of today and what has happened here tonight. I’m sure the hour is already late for you, Davie.’

  Scougall nodded tired agreement. The thought of bed was most welcome.

  CHAPTER 12

  Breakfast at MacKenzie’s Chambers

  ‘AT LAST, DAVIE! I’ve been waiting for you these thirty minutes. It is already 9 o’clock and we have much to do.’

  Scougall had only recently dragged himself from bed and his uncombed hair stood at an odd angle on one side. His eyes were puffy with sleep and his clothes had evidently been carelessly thrown on.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but the exertions of yestreen have taken the spirit out of me and I awoke feeling stiff and sore.’

  ‘Come now, a climb up from the Nor’ Loch and a little scuffle in an apothecary’s shop! Sit yourself down and have some breakfast while we talk about last night.’

  Scougall sat at the table where the advocate had just taken his breakfast. He poured a beaker of milk from a jug and tore off a piece of fresh bread that MacKenzie’s servant Meg had set in front of him. She said something to him in Gaelic. In response he could do no more than smile and nod his head. This was the first time he had been entertained in MacKenzie’s Edinburgh chambers in Libberton’s Wynd. A very modest set of rooms, but homely. The room in which they were eating was where MacKenzie both dined and worked. A large table rested against the wall at one end, where Scougall now sat. At the other was a desk covered with documents. A fire burned in the hearth. Among the bookcases that lined the room, there was space only for a single portrait. Scougall noticed that the subject bore a striking resemblance to Elizabeth. He was sure she had entered his dreams during the night.

  ‘Is that a painting of Elizabeth, sir?’

  ‘No, Davie – that is my wife, also Elizabeth. She died following my daughter’s birth. It was a hard time for me, the hardest of my life…’

  The image of her beautiful dead body came back to MacKenzie and, with it, a wave of nausea. Once more he stood at the edge of the pit. He shook himself. He had no time for such self-indulgence just now. Unaccountably to Scougall, he brought his fist down hard on the desk he was standing beside. The black feelings returned to their lair.

  ‘I must confess I am baffled by the events in Mr Jossie’s shop last night. What did you make of it all?’ Scougall asked.

  ‘I expect Jossie’s killer returned to recover something.’

  Scougall munched on a piece of bread.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Something he had left there by mistake?’

  ‘Or she. What do you make of this?’

  MacKenzie pulled an object from his pocket and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. Scougall identified it as a small piece of jewellery, apparently made from silver. A somewhat crude example of the silversmith’s art, it appeared to be a representation of a herring.

  ‘It looks like a brooch, sir.’

  ‘Very observant, Davie. Have you come across anything like it before? After all, you are a native of a burgh which depends on the catching of fish for its livelihood.’

  ‘Indeed, sir, but I recall never having seen a piece of jewellery like this before. Mr Grave, our minister, has often warned the women of our parish to turn their eyes against such frivolous things!’

  ‘The problem is that we have no way of knowing if this brooch, which I found on the floor under Jossie’s work bench, belonged to him, to a customer, or to the murderer. The killer may have returned to recover it or for some other reason. I examined Jossie’s ledger and found the pages covering the last four days of business had been torn out. Jossie was known as a diligent apothecary who kept a careful inventory noting all the products he bought and sold. Our assailant, it seems, returned to destroy this evidence and has successfully done so, but may have left us with another clue to his or her identity.’

  ‘But why would this person have bought the poison and not sought it elsewhere anonymously, or stolen it? It seems a terrible risk to have walked into an apothecary’s shop and purchased it,’ said Scougall.

  As the young notary took a large draught of cool milk, MacKenzie nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘There were also clear indications that the murder occurred at the door of the shop – bloodstains on the wooden floor and on the door. The killer must have stabbed Jossie through the heart as soon as the door was opened. There was no sign of a struggle or fight. Death or unconsciousness must have been instantaneous.’

  Scougall stopped eating. All this talk of death had killed his appetite. The image of the old apothecary slumped on the shore of the Nor’ Loch came back to him. He wrenched himself away from the thought.

  ‘Do you believe that a woman would be capable of committing such a crime, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘It is possible. Women can show great strength when the moment requires. During my years in court I have witnessed many women who have committed murder. I remember a particular case in 1666, the year of the great fire in London. Janet Webster was found guilty of a series of murders, all committed using utensils from her kitchen. She disposed of the bodies at night, dragging them across her rig to the woods beyond and burying them under the cover of the trees. Women kill less often than men, but we cannot dismiss Ann MacLean on the basis of her sex alone. The apothecary was old and infirm, and most likely caught by surprise. A small dagger can do much damage when wielded swiftly.’

  Scougall’s eyes wandered back to the portrait – he did not believe that a woman could be involved in such atrocities.

  ‘Now, there was another matter which I wanted t
o discuss with you this morning,’ MacKenzie continued. ‘Sir Lachlan’s creditors.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Scougall rummaged in a leather pouch and handed him a document.

  MacKenzie unfolded the sheet of paper and his brow furrowed as he read out loud:

  ‘A list of the creditors of Sir Lachlan MacLean of Glenshieldaig drawn up by Mr Francis Primrose, advocate 12th April 1686. The Earl of Argyll £10,000, (4 bonds), James Sovrack £10,000 (3 bonds), the Earl of Perth 10,000 merks (2 bonds), Sir George Lockhart 10,000 merks (4 bonds), Lord Prestonhall 8,000 merks (4 bonds), Sir Thomas Stewart of Grandtully £7,000 (3 bonds), Alexander Hamilton £6,000 (4 bonds), Sir Henry Ashurst in England £6,000 (3 bonds), Sir William Menzies 5,000 merks (2 bonds), Colin Campbell of Carwhin, Writer to the Signet, £5,000 (3 bonds), Mr Foster in Dundee 4,000 merks (2 bonds), John Smith, merchant in Edinburgh £6,000 (3 bonds), Angus MacLean of Ardloch £5,000 (2 bonds), Major Duncan MacLean 3,000 merks (2 bonds), John MacKenzie, advocate in Edinburgh, £2,000 (2 bonds), Francis Primrose, advocate, 1,000 merks (1 bond), John Gledstanes, merchant in Edinburgh, 1,000 merks (1 bond), Robert Andrew, merchant in Edinburgh, 1,000 merks (1 bond), Captain James MacLean £1,000 (1 bond), Mr Alexander MacLean, writer in Edinburgh, 1,000 merks (2 bonds), Mr John Hope, minister, 500 merks (1 bond).

  ‘An exhaustive list, Davie. Bha iasad a ghabhail’s a thoirt riamh air feadh an t-saoghail, as we say in Gaelic.’

  Scougall waited for MacKenzie to translate his words.

  ‘Borrowing and lending were always in fashion! These debts have brought much trouble to Sir Lachlan and the MacLeans of Glenshieldaig. Did you know that lending with interest was not legal in Scotland until Acts of Parliament were passed after the break with Rome in 1560? Your reformers have much to answer for.’

  ‘It is surely the character of the debtor that is to blame,’ said Scougall indignantly. ‘All the men on the list have lent in good faith and deserve a reasonable return on their money. Surely the responsibility lies with the man who borrows and who cannot repay, and then borrows again to repay his first debt, and then again – especially if it is for superfluous luxuries. I always make sure my outstanding bills are paid in full at the end of every quarter.’