‘Yet it does not excuse the cruelty of the lie.’
‘The strange thing is,’ said Maude, ‘that all these years, I have blamed Ranald Begg. For I thought that it was his bitterness to me that made my body weak, and that it was his cruelness caused my bairn to die. And I hated him after, and pushed him away, and mebbe if I had been kinder to him, he would not have been so cruel to me.’
‘You must not think like that, Maude, for you were ill-used,’ Hew objected fiercely.
‘Aye. And yet I think that Ranald Begg was blameless of that hurt to me, whatever he did after. I think he thought, with me, that my wee boy was dead. For it was only then he showed a moment’s kindness – putting out his great thick clumsy clummock of a hand, to stroke my hair, and I blamed him, in my grief, for our common helplessness, and pushed his hand away. Then he was wraith and ragit, and stamped and stormed and roared, and yet he did not vent his wrath on me, but turned instead on Ruth. He ordered her to go, and quit his house. And so she did. And neither I nor James Edie ever saw her again, for shortly after she left Scotland with her man, and they went to Ghent.’
‘I do not know if it can bring you comfort, now,’ said Hew, ‘yet I can tell you, truly, that they loved that child.’
‘It does,’ admitted Maude. ‘And James was right. I do not know what might have happened to him, had the bairn remained. For Ranald Begg and I were never friends thereafter; he was cold and cruel.’
‘Then what of Lilias?’ wondered Hew.
‘Lilias was forced upon me,’ Maude concluded quietly. ‘She is the bairn of Ranald Begg, and Lilias had the worst of him. And yet, you will allow, I did not love her less for that.’
‘And all this you found out, tonight?’
‘Tonight,’ accepted Maude.
‘And so it was for that, you took your knife and stilled the baxter’s heart?’
‘No, sir, as I telt you, it was not for that,’ insisted Maude. ‘It was not because he took my bairn, and told me he had died. And it was not because of Ranald Begg. It was because . . . James was in the room with me when Jacob Miller died.’ She did not call him Edie, noticed Hew. ‘He watched me take him in my arms, where I felt still the flutter of his heart and whisper of his breath. And he and I together saw our lost son die, not knowing he was ours, that God had brought back home to us. He came here mad with joy tonight, with avarice, and greed, to have his heart’s desire, and in his joy forgot, that he had lost a son.
‘James Edie let glimpse to me the colour of his soul, and that was something he had never done. His soul was blackened, through and through, like Jacob Miller’s hands. All I had to do was swear before the coroner that Jacob was our son, and the windmill would be his. He did not care for Jacob, or for the men that died, for all that he had done, to have it in his grasp, he did not need to do it for it was his, all along.’
‘Did he confess to you, the things that he had done,’ Hew urged, ‘to have it in his grasp. Did he tell you, Maude?’
‘He said no more than that. “Imagine, Maude! For all that I have done, she always had been mine.” I was mad with grief, and James was mad with joy. He bid me come out to the mill, to see what he had won. And so I brought my knife and stopped his wicked heart. And he saw what I had done, for he said Maude! reproachful, soft, and vexed – for he was never cruel to me – as if to say, you silly wench, I cannot help you now, and then he died.
‘And so you see, sir, what they said was true, for Jacob did die twice. I lost him as a bairn, and God returned him home to me, that I might see him die again.’
‘He died here, in his mother’s arms,’ Hew concluded fiercely. ‘And in his heart, he knew it, Maude.’
He walked towards the window looking out, towards the moonlit shadows of the mill.
‘I think, sir, it is time,’ said Maude. ‘I pray you, do not let the sun break on this fear. Be quick, and kind, I beg you, call the watch.’
‘In a moment.’ He was thinking. ‘Suppose there were another way to put the matter right? Suppose we did not have to call the watch?’
‘There is no other way, for I have sinned, and so I must atone for it. Yet do not pity me, for I am not afraid to die. My fear is but for Lilias, that she will be alone,’ considered Maude.
‘She will not be alone,’ insisted Hew. ‘Do you have guests tonight?’
‘Aye, sir. They are all asleep. The harbour is awake before the dawn, and men do not sit drinking through the night, but save their spirits for the waking hours.’
‘And Elspet, too?’
‘Sleeping, in the lassies’ sleeping loft. She works hard, and she is glad enough to find her rest at night. But why, sir, do you ask?’
He took her by the hand. ‘If you will trust me, Maude, then I will find a way to put this matter right. And I will find a way for you to make your peace with God.’
She looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘And how will you do that?’
‘As it began with water, let it end with fire.’
Hew took with him spirit and light; a lantern of glass and aquavitae in a little flask, tapped from the keg at the inn. The spirit he sprink led on James Edie’s clothes, the slit in his jacket now stiffened and black, and let the drops follow the course of his blood. The residue he poured onto the wooden floor, diluting the spots where the dark blood had pooled. Hew broke the baxter’s grip, and twined the fingers close around the empty flask. It must look as though James Edie had passed out from the drink, for he could not shape the corpse to mimic self-defence, as though the baxter had attempted to escape the creeping flame. Outside the windmill, not a breath of air stirred, to ripple the reflection of the clear light of the moon. The flame would catch the spirit that had laced the baxter’s clothes, and catch the wooden windmill like the flaring of a match; the baxter’s heart of flint would set alight the tinderbox and burn away the trace of Maude’s small fillet knife, that found its way so easily, into that blackened heart, that turned out after all to be but flesh and blood. As Hew held out the flame it caught the wink of gold, the small sheaf of wheat pinned to James Edie’s hat. It was, considered Hew, the one small mark of vanity that showed the baxter’s soul, that lifted him above the commonplace, and likely would survive the fierce heat of the fire. And at the last, or so he hoped, the little pin of gold was all that would be left, to notify the coroner how its owner died. He watched the flame ignite the baxter’s cloak, and lap around the trail of spirit, seeping deep and pale into the baxter’s heart. He let the lantern drop, and kicked it on its side, and watched it lap and smoulder, taking hold. The baxter’s eyes were open, like the smooth eye of the fish. Hew did not allow himself to look upon the face, but he thought instead of Maude, of Lilias, asleep, and turning like the whirligig; and Gavan Lang, his blue cheek punctured by the eel; of Henry Cairns the miller weeping on his knees; of Sandy Kintor’s smile, carved with Henry’s spade. He heard again James Edie asking, ‘What has happened to his face?’ All pity for the baxter fled, as Hew made fast the door. He stood a little back, to watch the blaze take hold, and let the flames engrave its outline on the sky. The wind itself rose up, and wrought its last revenge upon the wooden mill.
Chapter 25
A Welshman’s Hose
‘So,’ said Andrew Wood, ‘this conflagration brings an end to all our hopes of a windmill for the town.’
‘I fear it does,’ acknowledged Hew. ‘Yet as I understand, the burgh council has resolved to purchase one, to serve the common good. It may take some while to raise the funds.’
‘Then if it concentrates the common mind upon the common good, it may not be a bad thing after all,’ the coroner reflected.
‘As I think too, if it is to be come by honestly.’
‘Then to come back to your report,’ Andrew Wood said critically. ‘You say that you met James Edie on the night that he died, and that you saw him go into the windmill, with a bottle and a lamp, and that you found him in a wild and frantic state of mind?’
‘I did,’ accepted Hew. ‘And had
I understood the meaning of it then, I should have stopped him. Yet I did not understand it, which were a dereliction that I do regret.’
‘We cannot be called to account, for what we do not understand,’ observed the coroner.’
‘I suppose not,’ answered Hew. ‘And I thank you, for that is some comfort.’
‘Is it?’ said the coroner. ‘It is not meant as one. And James Edie told you that he laid claim to the windmill, for he was Jacob Adams. What did you think to this?’
‘I thought he was delusional, through overuse of drink. For there was no doubt, in my eyes, that he was both excessively drunk, and in a high state of excitement.’
‘Indeed. And so you gave no credence to his claim that Jacob was his son?’
‘I thought, sir, that it was something that James Edie had made up, in the hopes of securing the windmill, either to himself or to the baxters’ gild. I did not then understand the full force of his delusions, or the lengths that he had gone to, to fulfil them.’
‘A second matter, that you did not understand.’
‘As I do fear,’ said Hew apologetically.
‘And there exists no evidence that Edie ever was the father of a bastard child?’
‘None at all,’ said Hew. And this was very true, for James Edie had taken great care to cover up his tracks. The evidence that he had had, the only hope to prove his claim, was Maude.
‘And I suppose he gave no intimation who the mother was?’
‘How could he, sir?’ said Hew. ‘When he was not the father of the child?’
The coroner considered this. ‘Yet whatever had persuaded him, in midst of his delusions, that he could press his claim to be Jacob Adams?’
‘I am very much afraid,’ said Hew, ‘that it was Bartie Groat, who pointed out that to him that Adams and Edie are cognate. Coincidence, perhaps, but scarcely an uncommon one. It seems I share my surname with the millstone at the mill, yet I do not suppose myself the miller’s son. Yet it was enough, in his madness, to persuade James Edie of his right to have the mill.’
‘Bartie Groat, again! Tis time a bit was put under his tongue, and he went out to to pasture,’ Andrew Wood declared. ‘Then I suppose, James Edie had no sister, Ruth?’
‘Not as I have heard.’ As Hew had heard from Maude, Ruth Edie was a half-sister, and older than her brother by some twenty years, and since another twenty years had passed since she had died, her life had passed unmarked. Except, of course, by Bartie Groat.
‘And he made some wild intimations to you, in passing to the mill, that had he known all this before, then he need not have acted as he did – is that correct?’
‘Something of the sort,’ conceded Hew. ‘Yet his words were slurred, and far less carefully expressed.’
‘Which after, you did take to be confession of his guilt, that he was at the least, complicit in these crimes, yet at the time, you say again, you had not understood?’
‘That is correct. For he was very drunk, and swaggering, I took small notice of him in his cups, other to suggest he should go home.’
‘Which now, of course, you do regret?’
Hew conceded with a smile.
‘And then – if I have understood you well, you went to see Maude Benet in her inn, and stayed to talk with her – how long, would you say?’
‘An hour, perhaps? No more,’ suggested Hew.
‘And coming out, you saw the windmill was on fire, whereupon you called the watch, and tried to put it out?’
‘I did. I had no notion, then, that he was still inside.’
‘And how do you suppose this conflagration came about?’
‘A dry mill wrought of wood, a drunk man drinking spirits, and an uncovered lamp,’ said Hew. ‘It is not so very hard to see, how it might come about.’
‘Quite so,’ said Andrew Wood. ‘Then may I ask, why you had come so late, to speak to Maude.’
‘In truth,’ said Hew, ‘it was never my intent to stay late to speak with Maude. I came down to the shore, looking for James Edie, for so I had been told that I might find him there.’ The closer to the truth, he thought, the easier the lie, and the less the risk that he would be found out.
‘And why to speak to him?’
‘For I had learned from Bartie Groat the silly stuff that turned James Edie’s head, and so I had resolved to offer some advice. But finding him so deep in drink, that he knew little sense, I left him in his cups. I saw the inn was open still, and since I had a gift for Maude, I stayed to give it to her.’
‘Aye? What was this gift?’
‘It was a gift of Flemish lace, that Jacob’s wife had sent her, for the comfort she had given when her husband died. And Maude, as women do, had many questions, and she would hear about the beguinage, and Lotte, and the Flemish nuns; and so an hour did pass, before I could depart from her.’
‘When you did see the windmill up in flames?’
‘Aye, sir, as I said.’
The coroner stood thoughtful for a moment. At length he said, ‘You give a clear account.’
‘That is my intent,’ acknowledged Hew.
‘Quite so.’ Sir Andrew smiled. ‘And yet I have another version of events. I think you will not like it, Hew.’
‘Pray tell me, what it is?’ Hew asked, afraid that he would not like it at all.
‘I think there was a magic in the windmill after all, and that when James Edie crossed it, it did wreak revenge. For I care little for your nuns, your beguinage in Ghent. The windmill brought dissension from its first day in the town, when first it was discovered, miraculously unharmed, it blighted and destroyed. The mill was evil, through and through, and never meant for us, Sickness, madness, slaughter, fire, death by drowning, pestilence! What others horrors were in store? Thank God that she is gone!’
‘I . . . I had not thought of that,’ admitted Hew. He felt a little weak about the knees.
‘I know that you had not. For you are philosophical, and neither you nor Doctor Locke will ever willingly admit that you were wrong. The windmill is no longer, and there the matter ends.’
‘Though I cannot agree with you, I cannot help but think you may be right,’ said Hew, who found himself equivocal from sheer force of relief.
‘I know that I am right,’ the coroner replied. ‘And to conclude the case, there is but one thing to be done. The corpus must be given to Giles Locke, to ascertain the cause of death.’
‘Oh!’ Hew stammered, with a jolt. ‘It was so badly burned. Do you think that necessary?’
Sir Andrew answered shrewdly, ‘Oh, I do think so. Don’t you?’
There was now no time to waste, and Hew returned to Kenly Green at once, where he found Robert Lachlan playing chess with Nicholas, a curiously incongruous sight, that brought a brief distraction from the trouble that they faced. He took Nicholas aside.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think that he plays well.’
‘He has a chequered past.’
‘Have not we all? He has seen horrors, Hew,’ Nicholas said quietly.
‘He does not speak of them,’ said Hew.
‘Nonetheless, he has seen them. He will not settle here.’
Hew called Robert out, and took him privately to walk in Meg’s walled garden, where the branches now were bare. ‘Has the factor offered you a piece of land?’
The soldier nodded, ‘Aye.’
‘And a house?’
‘He has offered me a house,’ Robert answered glumly.
‘And yet, it seems, they do not suit?’
‘The land and house are fine. Tis only that . . . it is the wintertime, and there is nothing left to do upon the land. And it is that . . . you do not need me here. I had not thought the life would be . . . bare fields and books, and playing chess.’
‘That is your retirement, Robert,’ Hew said with a smile. ‘I think, perhaps, you are not ready for it yet.’
‘I have made a mistake, sir. I am not ready quite, for giving up the soldiering. Will you not rele
ase me from my bonds?’ Robert asked.
‘What bonds? You are a free man, Robert, to go where you will. This land I give you as a gift. Tis not meant as a prison. Tis possible that one day still you may be glad of it, and it will then be here for you; go then, where you will. Yet I would have you do a service for me, one last thing, before you go. It is a lot to ask. I wish you to return to Ghent.’
‘To Ghent!’ Robert groaned. ‘From where we have just come!’
In spite of his objections, he did not seem too displeased.
‘I beg you, do not question it. I want you to take Maude.’
‘Maude Benet, from the inn?’
Hew nodded, ‘And her little lass. I cannot tell you why. But I will give you letters for the beguinage. Tis there that you must take them, and leave them with the nuns.’
Robert shook his head, ‘I beg you, not the nuns, for now you ask too much!’
‘Patience, there is more,’ warned Hew. ‘I fear you will not like it.’
‘I do not like it now,’ the soldier grumbled.
‘It is a lot to ask. But if Maude is to travel with you, she must be your wife.’
Robert stared at Hew. ‘You’re asking me to marry her?’
‘I trust you do not have a wife already?’ queried Hew.
‘I am forty-four, and have never had a wife.’
‘Then that is fortunate.’
‘Is it? There are reasons for it.’
‘Keep them to yourself,’ said Hew. ‘And think it, as a marriage of convenience.’
‘And supposing it is not convenient?’
‘I will make it so.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Robert. ‘In truth, she is a comely wench. And I could well be settled in an inn.’
‘That is not the plan. They will go with you to Ghent. And you will see them settled at the beguinage.’
‘A pity. It is just my luck, that I must be married to a nun!’ said Robert gloomily. ‘Still, I doubt that it might not work out. The daughter, too, is skeich. Suppose that I should want to settle down, and take another wife,’ he suddenly objected.
‘It would prove no impediment. The marriage will be null, for want of consummation; and you may be assured, that it will not be consummated,’ answered Hew.
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