by Douglas Watt
Under the ryss I red.
The merle melit with all her micht,
And mirth in morning made,
Throw solace sound and seemly sicht,
Alswith a sang I said.
He fell silent and they both gazed at the river.
At last he spoke.
‘We must not do anything hastily, Ann. Speak with your mother and brother when you reach Glenshieldaig. Convince them I do have reasonable prospects. I will get an income from the Army and some progress is being made in paying off the family’s debts. At least we no longer have to deal with your father. He was a very difficult man. I cannot believe Hector will have such a cold heart.’
Ann kissed him again, long and passionately.
‘Farewell, Geordie,’ she breathed. ‘Hopefully I will return to Edinburgh with good news. If not, we must make more desperate plans!’
CHAPTER 24
A Strange Meeting in Perth
WHEN THEY ARRIVED at the gates of Perth it was already growing dark. To Scougall’s eyes the town appeared fairly unremarkable but as they made their way up the High Street he became aware that many of the inhabitants were speaking in Gaelic. The sound of this alien language filled him with foreboding. On reaching the Fair Maid, one of the burgh’s more comfortable inns, they left their horses at the stable. MacKenzie greeted the innkeeper in Gaelic and introduced him to Scougall. The old man laughed as he heard the story of their journey and taking the young notary’s hand, addressed him kindly, in English.
‘You are most welcome here, Mr Scougall. Your rooms are ready but first you must take some food and drink. Before I forget, Mr MacKenzie, a letter was delivered for you this afternoon.’
MacKenzie took the letter and they sat themselves at a table by the small window.
‘A note from Mr Stirling?’ asked Scougall.
‘No, Davie! From Campbell of Glenbeg! Read it for yourself.’
MacKenzie handed him the letter and Scougall read out:
‘Dearest John, I will be in Black’s Tavern tonight at eight. Your humble servant, Campbell of Glenbeg’.
‘As usual, a man of few words,’ remarked MacKenzie. ‘Come, Davie, we have no time to dine. It is almost eight!’
‘But, sir, how did he know where we were staying?’
‘Glenbeg has many kinsmen in these parts. One of his clan probably spotted us on the road and informed him. Cha nigh na tha dh’uisge sa mhuir ar càirdeas. All the water in the sea won’t wash out kinship! It is well known I usually spend the night here on my journeys north and south.’
‘Surely you do not intend to meet with him? It is highly possible he is the murderer.’
‘I doubt he will risk killing us both in Black’s Tavern. We will visit our rooms quickly and I’ll see you here in a few minutes. I will not wait – be hasty,’ said MacKenzie.
The advocate seemed more animated than usual. Scougall wanted to go straight to bed and wished that he felt as excited about seeing Glenbeg again.
A few minutes later they were both outside the inn with MacKenzie leading the way along the High Street, down a gloomy vennel and into an even darker and grimier courtyard, where Black’s Tavern was to be found. It was a filthy drinking den, lit only by a few, flickering candles.
‘Black’s is not one of Perth’s most salubrious taverns,’ MacKenzie commented unnecessarily. Scougall’s expression held back none of his disgust. The fetid air was filled with a stench that seemed to burn his nostrils; he couldn’t make out what the smell was, but reflected that the reek of simple beasts was far preferable to the odour of debauched men.
At one end of the small, low-ceilinged room sat Campbell of Glenbeg. His morose face, long white wig and tattered clothes depressed Scougall further. They had to pick their way over the body of a drunkard lying in a pool of vomit at the entrance of the howf. Scougall almost tripped over the crumpled figure; the man groaned, rolled over and resumed his slumber.
‘Archibald,’ MacKenzie began, ‘we have only just arrived in Perth.’
‘I would have waited for you, John. Come take some wine. Two more glasses!’ Glenbeg shouted to the innkeeper. ‘You will surely have a glass tonight, Mr Scougall?’
Scougall was too fearful to say no and accepted the large glass when handed it. He noticed Glenbeg’s spidery fingers, their skeletal quality, the back of his hands covered in small blue veins. He took a large draught of the red wine, not removing his eyes from the strange Highlander in case he was suddenly attacked with a hidden dirk. The wine tasted foul but it warmed his throat and, as it made its way down his gullet towards his stomach, he regained his composure.
‘I will come straight to the point,’ Glenbeg commenced. ‘I must declare first that I had no part in Sir Lachlan’s murder. He was one of my few friends – he understood me like no other, we were creatures afflicted by the same passions. Drink and the table were shared vices, although I have pursued my pleasures with more zeal. At times I have sunk beyond madness to a place where nothing matters – where there is no difference between good and evil. But I talk too much of metaphysics, gentlemen. I played no part in Sir Lachlan’s killing. I owed him some money, that’s true, but I owe another hundred men money, and am I to kill a hundred men? I have evaded the arms of melancholia these last two years, though I am prepared to admit that when I lay trapped in that black crevice, murder seemed like a game and, God forgive me, I have killed… but I say again, I did not slay Sir Lachlan.’
Scougall was appalled that the man had freely admitted to breaking one of the Lord’s Ten Commandments – Thou shalt not kill. The image of Moses calmed the young notary.
‘Then why did you flee from Edinburgh?’ he blurted out. The wine was beginning to give him some courage.
‘My mind played tricks on me. I was certain I would be blamed. And so I left Edinburgh that morning. I have been here ever since.’
‘Are you aware a warrant has been issued for your arrest?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘I have escaped the sheriff and his fools many times before.’
‘You do not fear being seen in here?’ asked Scougall.
‘My clansmen will look after me, Mr Scougall.’
‘I need to find out what you can remember about the night of Sir Lachlan’s death. Did you see or hear anything that might shed some light on this affair?’ MacKenzie enquired.
‘I think not. It seemed like any one of the thousand nights I have spent at the table. Only one thing retains a place in my memory. As I left Hector MacLean told me that when his father died the House of Glenshieldaig would no longer support Campbell of Glenbeg. When he was chief there would be no more loans. His father had always helped me. He was a true friend, never taking me to court when I was unable to meet interest or principal. I now fear that Hector will begin proceedings against me as soon as he can, for he is strong for getting value for money and improving the finances of the estates.’
‘This was all that Hector said to you?’ asked MacKenzie.
Glenbeg nodded.
‘Were you the last to depart?’
‘I was. I had some business to discuss with Sir Lachlan. I hoped he might stand surety for me in a bond I intended to give to an Edinburgh merchant. Even Smith had retired to his chamber. After I left I walked up the High Street and turned into Hackerston’s Wynd to take a nightcap at Maggie Rutherford’s. I spent a couple of hours there and then retired to my lodgings in Craig’s Wynd. A messenger arrived in the morning to tell me of Sir Lachlan’s death and requesting I report to Mr Stirling at Smith’s house. My memory of the previous night was dim. Stirling and I go back a long way. I saw that it would suit him and the Lord Advocate to place all the blame upon my head.’
‘Have you any idea who might be responsible for killing our old friend?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘That I do not know. Like me, Sir Lachlan had many enemies. I have been fortunate to escape a number of attempts on my own life. Once, after a successful night at the table, a man I’d fleeced waited for me down a
close and attempted to take me from behind, but I had sniffed him out and as he launched himself on me I raised the hilt of my sword to his face – he lost all his front teeth, top and bottom.’ Glenbeg gave out a chilling laugh. ‘Perhaps someone from Lachlan’s past caught up with him, or a neighbouring chief decided to reignite a dormant feud. Now, gentlemen, I must leave. Be kind enough to tell that buffoon Stirling that he is chasing the wrong dog. I will travel to my clan lands, which I no longer possess but where I still have a few kinsmen who will protect their chief.’
The wine continued to work on Scougall.
‘I have received intelligence that you dispatched a letter to Mr Smith which has cast the family into great distress,’ he said boldly.
‘I fear your intelligence is wanting. I have written no letters since I fled Edinburgh, except the small note I dispatched to you this evening,’ the Highlander said with a menacing glare.
Glenbeg pulled himself up and readjusted his wig with his bony hands. Scougall caught sight of the baldness beneath. The Campbell offered his hand to them both and departed into the night.
‘Some more wine, Davie?’ MacKenzie filled his young friend’s glass.
Scougall was on the verge of declining, but there was something about the taste that appealed to him. He liked the effect it was having: all kinds of questions were rushing into his mind.
‘Do you believe Glenbeg, sir?’ he began.
‘I am not sure.’
‘He admitted to other heinous crimes. Is it not conceivable that he lost himself in a drunken trance and killed Sir Lachlan?’
‘I think that unlikely, Davie. Sir Lachlan’s murder was carefully planned. Poison was administered. A search was made of his documents. The evidence suggests that Glenbeg played no part in Sir Lachlan’s murder, but such men are never to be entirely trusted. They can never quench their thirst and may justify any deed to themselves.’
‘Then he has provided us with little else to go on. We already knew that Sir Lachlan and Hector were on bad terms and he denied sending any letter to Smith.’
‘Perhaps, Davie, perhaps.’ MacKenzie was lost in thought for a few moments. ‘Drink up, my boy, we have an early start in the morning and a long ride ahead of us.’
CHAPTER 25
Caterans
MACKENZIE AND SCOUGALL left Perth early the next morning and passed through Dunkeld, following the River Tay northwards. They were now truly in the Highlands. After a brief stop for a meal at the tiny settlement of Ballinluig on the River Tummel the weather turned; the blue sky disappeared, dark grey clouds rolled in from the north-west and it became much colder. When they entered the pass late in the afternoon Scougall was struck by the wildness of the scenery. The mist was soon descending.
‘You are very quiet,’ said MacKenzie.
‘I was just thinking how lonely this glen is, sir.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll soon be through to Blair, where we can spend the night.’
They stopped beside a small burn, where MacKenzie dismounted and examined the embers of a fire and the carcass of a sheep. Mist now enveloped the glen in a cloak of white silence.
MacKenzie was sure he heard something. The wind picked up now and again to an eerie howl and as it died down there was a gentle pounding – a rhythmic sound. But tricks could be played on the hearing by the wind. No, again he could hear something, he was sure, but the mist obscured visibility beyond about half a mile.
‘Davie, can you hear anything?’
Scougall dismounted and held his horse steady while he listened. He could make out nothing but the sigh of the wind.
But there it was again! The sound was coming from the direction of a copse of stunted trees about a hundred yards away on their left. A horseman suddenly appeared, followed by another, and another – six in total, heading towards them.
MacKenzie tried to remount, but was not as agile as he had been in his youth and by the time he had heaved himself into the saddle they were surrounded. Scougall’s worst nightmares seemed to be taking flesh. Why had God forsaken him? The six Highlanders were a hellish sight with their matted hair and ragged plaids. The beardless one bore a huge scar on his neck. The thought passed through Scougall’s mind that the man had survived the gallows.
‘In God’s name, who are they?’ he whispered in terror.
MacKenzie said one word:
‘Caterans!’
The harnesses of the lawyers’ horses were quickly secured and the scarred man spoke to them in Gaelic. MacKenzie replied in his language, removed the pouch from his belt and indicated they might take the contents if they wished.
The conversation continued between MacKenzie and the scarred cateran. At last he translated the essence of what had been said for Scougall’s benefit.
‘They are broken men, Davie, men without a clan, who wander the glens seeking what they can find to live off – they will follow anyone who pays – and they have been paid to kill us.’
Scougall’s heart froze. He closed his eyes and began to pray.
‘They are willing to let us go if we can provide them with a larger sum. I have offered them all the cash in my possession, thirty pounds, but I don’t think it is enough. Is there anything you have of value?’
Scougall shook his head.
MacKenzie then addressed the leader, again in Gaelic. Scougall was desperate to know what he was saying. The odd English word seemed to slip into their conversation: Court of Session… clerk… notary public, among a flood of impenetrable ones. MacKenzie was trying to convince them that the murder of a clerk of the Session would be a very serious offence and was not worth the sum of money they had been paid. But would they regard dispatching a lowly notary in the same light?
The scarred cateran gave orders to the others; his five comrades dismounted and slowly walked towards them. Scougall noticed their filthy legs – they wore plaids which left a significant part of their thighs exposed. He was pulled from his horse and he fell to the ground, expecting to feel the sharp thrust of a sword at any moment. One of the caterans grabbed him by the collar, pulled him up and, turning him round, raised a knife to his throat. Scougall felt the cold metal against his skin. His nostrils were infected by the foul smell of the Highlander’s breath. His mind filled with a prayer that was more like a scream of despair.
MacKenzie was also being held at knife point, but the advocate was not calling on God, rather, he was trying to think of some argument he could employ to save their lives. A vision of his wife on their wedding day came to him, and with the image, bittersweet longing; the desire to touch her again, feel her flesh – was there an afterlife? Behind her were kinsfolk from both clans – Chisholms and MacKenzies – and in their midst his own chief, the Earl of Seaforth. He decided to play his only remaining card.
He raised his voice and began what was possibly the final pleading of a long and distinguished career, telling them in Gaelic he was a great-grandson of MacKenzie of Kintail, the grandson of the Tutor of Kintail, and a noble of Clan MacKenzie. They would provoke the wrath of the entire kindred if they killed him and his young colleague.
MacKenzie’s declaration appeared to have some effect. The caterans began to speak to each other and within a couple of minutes an argument had broken out which was only halted by the sound of horses approaching through the mist. Scougall continued with his prayers, for he thought that others were arriving to aid their murder.
About twenty horsemen emerged from behind a small knoll at the other side of the burn and crashed through the water. Mounted on fine horses, they were dressed in resplendent plaids. At the front was a big red-haired man who Scougall presumed was the leader of their assailants.
‘MacGregors!’ shouted MacKenzie.
Scougall took a sharp intake of breath. From the hands of caterans into the clutches of the most feared and despised Highland clan. God had certainly abandoned him now. His sins must have been grave! He wondered how he had transgressed.
The MacGregor chief spoke a few word
s of Gaelic and the knives were withdrawn from their necks. He turned to the scarred leader and the flow of Gaelic continued. Within seconds the six caterans were back on their horses. The chief moved from horse to horse collecting silver coins from each disgruntled man. Then he shouted a sharp command and they took off, vanishing into the mist.
He dismounted beside MacKenzie and taking him by the hand, greeted him warmly in Gaelic. Scougall was now on his knees, his whole body shaking at their close encounter with death.
‘This is my assistant, Davie Scougall,’ said MacKenzie, some calm restored to his voice. ‘Davie, we have been most fortunate. Alistair MacGregor is a noble of the Clan MacGregor and an old friend. I have carried out much legal work for him over the years – often of a most delicate nature!’
Relief brought Scougall’s hands to his head and he stumbled to the ground. It was astounding that MacKenzie was on friendly terms with a MacGregor chief and he was at a loss to know what to say to the man who had just saved his life.
‘I can see you are both in a state of shock,’ MacGregor said. ‘I suggest you accompany us to our camp, where we can feed you and provide some comfort for the night.’
CHAPTER 26
A Late Drink in Ord’s Tavern
HOPE, PRIMROSE AND Stirling sat at a table in a corner of the howf in Dunkeld; their black, tailored clothes contrasting with the grey, green and brown plaids of the other drinkers, who were mostly incomers to the small burgh – drovers, clansmen and other wanderers. Hope surveyed the scene and raised his large tankard to his companions:
‘To a safe journey and a quick return to the Lowlands!’
The two lawyers held their glasses up to make the toast. Primrose was smartly dressed as usual, but he was suffering from a cold and was continually withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket to blow his nose.
‘I may be forced to resort to one of your remedies, Hope,’ he spluttered.
‘A sprig of rosemary, a few beads of sage and five small balls of horse dung added to some white wine and drunk at leisure. A most efficacious cure for all ailments of the throat. But I pray that it will have a more beneficial effect on you than it did on our old friend Sir Lachlan,’ said the minister.