His Bloody Project

by Graeme Macrae Burnet

  ‘I understand from Mr Sinclair that you do not deny responsibility for these crimes,’ I said.

  ‘I do not,’ he replied. His eyes remained firmly fixed on the wall in front of him.

  ‘May I ask,’ I said, ‘what led you to commit such violent acts?’

  ‘I wished to deliver my father from the tribulations which he had lately suffered.’

  ‘And what was the nature of these tribulations?’

  R­—— M—— then described a series of trivial disputes which had occurred over a period of months between his father and the deceased.

  ‘And you felt justified, in view of these incidents, in doing Mr Mackenzie to death?’

  ‘I could see no other course of action open to me,’ said R­—— M——.

  ‘Might you not have sought out some authority in your community to act as an intermediary in these matters?’

  ‘Mr Mackenzie was the authority in our community.’

  ‘You seem to be an intelligent young man,’ I said. ‘Could you not have sought to resolve these disagreements through reasoning with Mr Mackenzie?’

  R­—— M—— smiled at this suggestion.

  ‘Did you make any attempt to reason with Mr Mackenzie?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘If you had had the opportunity to meet Mr Mackenzie, you would not ask such a question.’

  ‘Did you carry out the killing of Mr Mackenzie at the behest of your father?’ I asked.

  R­—— M—— shook his head wearily.

  ‘Did you discuss your plan with any other person?’

  ‘I would not say that I had a plan,’ he responded.

  ‘But you proceeded to Mr Mackenzie’s house armed with weapons. You must have had it in your mind to do some harm to him.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Then that surely constitutes a plan, does it not?’ I spoke these words in an affable tone, as if we were merely engaged in a friendly discussion of a matter of mutual interest. I did not wish to set the prisoner against me by seeming to attempt to wrong-foot him.

  ‘I went to Mr Mackenzie’s house with the intention of killing him, but I would not say that I had a plan.’

  I feigned some bemusement at the minute distinction he was making, and asked if he could explain what he meant.

  ‘I simply mean that while I had the intention’ – he gave this last word a special emphasis, as if it was he, rather than I, who was conversing with his inferior – ‘to do him harm, I had not formulated a plan as such. I went to Mr Mackenzie’s house thus armed only to discover what would happen if I did so.’

  ‘So, you believe then that you are not wholly responsible for Mr Mackenzie’s death – that it was, to some degree, a matter of chance.’

  ‘You might as well say that everything that happens is a matter of chance,’ said the prisoner.

  ‘But was it happenstance that put a croman in your hand and led you to enter Mr Mackenzie’s house?’

  ‘It was a matter of chance that I happened to have a croman in my hand before I set off.’

  ‘And this second weapon –’

  ‘The flaughter,’ Mr Sinclair interjected.

  ‘It was not,’ I continued, ‘chance that put the flaughter in your hand.’

  R­—— M—— replied in a bored tone, ‘The flaughter was propped against the gable of our house.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ I insisted, ‘you took it up. It was not chance that put it in your hand. ’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because you planned to kill Mr Mackenzie.’

  ‘It is true that I wanted Mr Mackenzie to die by my hand. If you wish to call that a plan, you are free to do so. I merely wished to give my undertaking every chance of success.’

  I nodded sagely at this parody of logic. ‘And were you pleased by this success?’

  ‘I was not displeased,’ said R­—— M——.

  ‘But you cannot be pleased to be incarcerated in this cell.’

  ‘That is a matter of no consequence,’ he declared.

  ‘You understand that your actions and your statements about them will likely lead you to the gallows?’

  To this, R­—— M—— made no response. Whether his diffident attitude was feigned or was the product of some misplaced bravado, I could not say. Nor could I say at this point whether the matter-of-fact answers he had given were entirely ingenuous, or due to some ploy to seem quite out of his mind; that he calculated that by admitting so openly to such brutal acts, he would be pronounced not to be in possession of his reason.

  I then turned to the other victims of R­—— M——’s assault.

  ‘You have stated that you wished to murder Mr Mackenzie and I understand that in your own mind you were justified in doing so, but to kill a young girl and an infant is a quite different matter. Did you also bear some grievance against Flora or Donald Mackenzie?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Then to do them to death is quite monstrous,’ I said.

  ‘I acted only out of necessity,’ he replied.

  ‘Out of necessity?’ I repeated. ‘Would it not have been possible for a powerful young man like yourself to restrain a young girl and a small boy?’

  ‘With the benefit of hindsight it might seem so. Perhaps if I had had a plan, as you call it, that might have been possible. As it was, this was merely the way it transpired.’

  ‘So, in order to carry out your goal of killing Mr Mackenzie, you were willing to murder two individuals who, in even your own eyes, were entirely blameless.’

  ‘It was not my intention to kill them,’ he replied, ‘but I had no choice in the matter.’

  ‘You acted only out of necessity?’

  The prisoner shrugged his shoulders as if he was growing weary of humouring me. ‘If you wish to put it that way, then, yes, I killed them out of necessity.’

  At this point I took from my satchel the medical reports, quite ably compiled by a local practitioner, detailing the injuries sustained by the victims. I then read to the prisoner a paragraph detailing injuries to Flora Mackenzie too obscene to relate in these pages. ‘What is described here seems to greatly exceed the demands of necessity,’ I said.

  R­—— M—— had thus far sat quite motionless on his bunk, his gazed fixed on the cell wall. On hearing this account of the wounds he had inflicted, however, his eyes darted rapidly to and fro, and his hands, which until then had rested on his lap, began to worry at the material of his breeches.

  ‘Can you explain why you felt the necessity to inflict such injuries?’ I asked, maintaining an even and affable tone.

  The colour rose to the prisoner’s cheeks. It is often the case that even inmates who are capable of exercising control over their verbal statements are unable to suppress the physical manifestations of anxiety. R­—— M—— cast his eyes about the cell, as though searching for an answer to my question.

  ‘I do not recall inflicting such injuries,’ he replied after some moments and in a quieter voice than that with which he had previously spoken.

  ‘But you must have inflicted them,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I must have,’ he said.

  I did not feel the necessity to press the prisoner further on this point, having already achieved my purpose in thus confronting him. I returned the papers to my satchel and stood up to indicate that the interview was at an end. Mr Sinclair pushed himself from the wall against which he had been leaning and stood to attention. I indicated that we were ready to leave and he had us released from the cell. I instructed the gaoler to remove the tray of food brought from the inn and was quite sure that he would have no compunction about helping himself to the remains.

  * * *

  Mr Sinclair and I arrived in Applecross on the evening of the 26th of August after an arduous journey.
The inn where we were to stay the night was commendably clean with white-washed walls, simple furniture and a good fire burning in the hearth. We received a hospitable welcome and were served a meal of mutton stew by a well-proportioned girl with a healthy complexion. The local men were generally swarthy and of low stature, but were otherwise robust and did not display any apparent congenital deformities. They conversed in the barbaric tongue of the region, so I cannot attest to the content of their discussions, but despite the large quantities of ale they imbibed, their behaviour was not dissolute; nor did there appear to be any prostitutes on the premises. Our presence did not seem to warrant any special attention and when I questioned our hostess about this, she replied that on account of the great number of people who came to the Big House for the shooting, it was not in the least unusual for gentlemen to stop at the inn. I retired at the earliest opportunity, leaving my Mr Sinclair to his convivial surroundings, and slept soundly.

  We rose early and were served a breakfast of blood pudding and eggs accompanied by a tankard of ale, which my companion drank with enthusiasm. There being no jig to convey us from Applecross, two ponies were provided and we set off for Culduie. The morning was bright and the air crisp and fresh. The village of Applecross was most pleasingly situated on the shore of a sheltered bay and the houses there, though primitive, were soundly built. Despite the early hour, a number of crones were seated on benches outside their houses, a good proportion of them, I would estimate, well into their eighth decade. Some of them puffed on small pipes, while others occupied themselves with knitting. All of them eyed us with curiosity, but none greeted us.

  After a mile or so we passed through the village of Camusterrach, a ramshackle collection of huts arranged around a simple harbour. This village boasted a church of rudimentary construction, a fine stone manse and a school, and these latter buildings lent the place a little propriety. Certainly, neither Applecross nor Camusterrach – primitive as they were – prepared us for the wretched collection of hovels that comprised the domicile of R­—— M——. The short ride between Camusterrach and Culduie afforded, it must be said, a magnificent vista of the isles of Raasay and Skye. The strait that separated these islands from the mainland sparkled agreeably in the sunlight. The contrast when we turned into the track which led to Culduie could not have been greater, and I can only imagine that the unfortunate natives of this place must daily avert their eyes from the beauty before them, so as not to be reminded of the squalor in which they dwell. The majority of houses, if they can be termed as such, were of such rude construction that one would have taken them for byres or pig-sties. They were built from a clutter of stones and turf, and topped with rough thatch, which despite the warmth of the day reeked with peat smoke, so that it appeared that each of the houses was gently smouldering. As we made our way along the track, a man at work on his crops paused and stared openly at us. He was a squat figure, thickly bearded, and quite repellent in his visage. Only the house at the junction of the village boasted a slate roof and looked fit for human habitation. It was here that we stopped to ask directions to the house of Mr M––, the father of the accused. We were greeted at the door, to my great surprise, by a most handsome woman, who, before we had the opportunity to state the reason for our visit, invited us into her home. I admit that I was curious to observe at first hand the living conditions of these people and I was pleasantly surprised by the interior of the house. Although the floor consisted of no more than earth, it was freshly swept and there was a general atmosphere of good hygiene. There were a number of items of crude but serviceable furniture and we were invited to sit in two armchairs arranged by the hearth. Mr Sinclair began to explain that there was no need for us to sit as we had only called to ask directions to the home of the M–– family, but I quieted him and said that we would be pleased to accept our hostess’s hospitality for a few minutes. As we had travelled a great distance to learn something of the community that had spawned R­—— M——, it would be negligent not to take advantage of any opportunities to do so. The study of the criminal class should not focus exclusively on heredity, but must as well pay heed to the conditions in which the degenerate individual exists. Heredity cannot, in itself, account for the perpetration of a crime. The foul air of the slum, hunger and a general milieu of immorality must also be admitted as factors in the manufacture of the criminal. Numerous studies have been made of degenerate offspring who, having been removed from the squalid haunts of their parents, have been brought up to lead, within the limitations of their intellect, quite productive lives.

  I was thus pleased to have this chance to learn a little about the well from which R­—— M—— had issued. Once we had introduced ourselves, Mrs Murchison called two of her daughters to serve us tea and sat with us by the fire. Excepting her plain clothes, I would not have been ashamed to present Mrs Murchison in a drawing room in Perth. She had fine features and intelligent brown eyes. She bore herself with a dignity that suggested she was not unaccustomed to conversing with educated men. Her daughters, whom I judged to be around twelve and thirteen years old, moved with a similar grace and were pleasingly proportioned, both in body and countenance. Mrs Murchison explained that her husband, a stone mason, was that day away from home. I enquired how she had met him and she explained that they become acquainted in the nearby town of Kyle of Lochalsh, where her father was a merchant of good standing. Mr Murchison had thus avoided the great folly of the coastal tribes of Scotland, who through incessant intermarriage to those in closest proximity, perpetuate their physical peculiarities and deficiencies. The tea was served in china cups, along with scones spread with butter. I complimented Mrs Murchison on her well-bred children. She replied that she had four further daughters and I offered my condolences on her misfortune not to have been blessed with a son.

  I then explained the nature of our mission in Culduie and asked her opinion of the accused. Mrs Murchison avoided my question, instead remarking on the tragic nature of the recent crimes and the effect it had had on their little community.

  I noted her use of the word ‘tragic’, and asked why she characterised the events in this way.

  ‘I cannot see how else one might describe such events.’

  ‘I was only curious,’ I replied, ‘as to why you might term such deeds as “tragic”, rather than, say, evil or wicked.’

  Mrs Murchison then glanced at both of us, as if seeking assurance that she might speak openly with us.

  ‘If you wish to have my opinion, Mr Thomson,’ she said, ‘I believe there is far too much talk of wickedness in these parts. The way some people talk, one would think that we existed in a state of perpetual debauchery.’

  ‘I can see that that would indeed be an erroneous view,’ I said, casting my hand about the room. ‘Nonetheless, one must endeavour to find some way to account for the actions of your neighbour.’

  At this point, Mrs Murchison sent her two daughters from the house, telling them to busy themselves with their chores. She then replied that it was not for her to venture an opinion, but she could only imagine that when he had perpetrated his terrible crimes, R­—— M—— could not have been in his right mind. She then begged our pardon for offering an opinion in the company of two gentlemen who must know a great deal more about the workings of the mind than she.

  I waved away her protestations and told her that although I had made a study of a great many criminals, I was a man of science and as such valued evidence over generalisations and speculation. It was precisely because I wished to know the views of those acquainted with the accused that I was here.

  ‘I have no doubt you will find no shortage of people eager to offer an ill opinion of him,’ she said, ‘but I never knew him to wilfully harm another person.’

  ‘You would not have thought him capable of committing such acts?’

  ‘I would not have thought any man capable of committing such acts, Mr Thomson,’ she replied.

  I then a
sked her if she knew of any cause for R­—— M—— to act as he had. She seemed reluctant to answer this question.

  ‘Certainly there had been some disputes between Mr Mackenzie and Mr M­——,’ she said eventually.

  ‘And who, in your opinion, was at fault in these disputes?’

  ‘I do not believe it is for me to say,’ she replied.

  ‘Perhaps you do not wish to speak ill of the dead,’ I said.

  Mrs Murchison looked at me for some moments. She truly was a quite striking creature.

  ‘I can say in all certitude that Flora and Donald Mackenzie were not at fault,’ she said eventually, before commencing to weep.

  I apologised for upsetting her. She took a linen handkerchief from inside her sleeve and dabbed her eyes in perfect imitation of a woman of good breeding. I construed from the concealment of this handkerchief on her person that she was presently frequently given to such outbursts of emotion. When she had taken possession of herself, I asked what she could tell me of the character of R­—— M——. She looked at me for some moments with her pleasing brown eyes.

  ‘He was generally of good character,’ she said vaguely. ‘Generally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But not always?’ I persisted.

  ‘All boys of R——’s age are sometimes given to mischief, are they not?’

  ‘No doubt,’ I said. ‘But to what kind of mischief do you refer?’

  Mrs Murchison gave no reply and I was struck by her strange reluctance to speak ill of a person who had committed such monstrous deeds. I thus thought it better to make my questions more specific.

  ‘Was he given to stealing?’

  Mrs Murchison laughed off this suggestion.

  ‘Did you ever know him to commit acts of cruelty to animals or small children?’