The shop was an oasis from the stinking city, suffused with an overpoweringly sweet smell, completely at odds with the reek of the streets outside. It was like stepping inside a rainbow as the light from three large windows was reflected through a myriad of bottles and phials. Scougall was relieved to see a woman serving behind the counter, a thin creature wearing spectacles.
‘May I help you, gentlemen?’ She spoke in an Irish accent similar to Quinn’s.
‘You’re a citizen of Dublin, madam?’ asked MacKenzie. ‘I’d recognise that voice anywhere.’
‘I’m a Dubliner born and bred, as is my brother.’
‘What brought you to Edinburgh?’
‘My brother wanted to leave Ireland. Why do you ask, sir?’
‘We work for Crown Officer Stirling.’
She hesitated for a moment, eyeing them suspiciously before continuing, ‘Andrew’s worried about the future of Ireland. The Papists and Protestants are at each other’s throats. It’s different in Scotland where only a handful of zealots follow the Whore. In Ireland we are outnumbered. The Papists take every opportunity to abuse us. He thought we would be safer in the country of our ancestors. There’s no future for Presbyterians like us in Ireland.’
‘Now you bring your sweet-smelling liquids to Edinburgh. You’ll find our city in much need of perfume!’ replied MacKenzie.
Scougall remained silent, praying that Quinn would not appear.
‘The city’s been very kind to us. We bring you golden vials full of odours.’ She beckoned them to look round.
‘May we speak with your brother?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘A fever has taken him. It should burn out in a few days, hopefully. He rests above us.’
She pointed to the ceiling.
‘Then, may we speak to you, madam…’
‘Helen Quinn.’
‘I’m John MacKenzie and this is Davie Scougall. We’re helping the Crown Officer investigate the death of Lelsie of Thirlsmuir. Niven’s Wynd is full of newcomers to the city. Your neighbour Guillemot is a refugee from France.’
‘Yes, Mr Guillemot is a Huguenot.’
MacKenzie’s demeanour lost its playfulness. ‘Thirlsmuir’s body was found in his storeroom at the bottom of the wynd.’
The woman nodded gravely. ‘A terrible business.’
‘What’s your opinion of Mr Guillemot?’
‘I’ve only shared a few words with him, but he keeps a pretty shop. I’ve heard he’s suffered much; lost his wife and daughter in the persecution. My brother tells me he’s a good neighbour. Surely you don’t think he’s responsible?’
‘We must leave no stone unturned. Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary in the wynd of late? Has anyone unusual visited your shop or Guillemot’s over the last few weeks?’
She was silent for a moment, before raising her hand to her mouth. Scougall noticed red lipstick was thickly applied. What was this profession of perfumer? Was the natural odour of women not good enough, must it be covered up? It was another thing his mother disapproved of. Folk should smell like folk, not flowers. But Quinn and his sister were good Protestants. He wondered if Agnes used perfumes. Elizabeth applied them often, always smelling sweet. But the odour could be overpowering in a confined space. He began to crave fresh air, still feeling fragile after the overindulgence of the night before. And her brother who had sat near him at the club was ill with fever. He wanted out of the place. It could be plague, after all.
‘I can’t think of anyone in particular,’ she continued. ‘Customers come and go. I can’t spend my time gawping at the window. There’s so much work to be done preparing our perfumes. I’ll ask Andrew if he’s seen anything suspicious. Where may I contact you, Mr MacKenzie?’
‘Libberton’s Wynd, Madam Quinn. Even the smallest thing might be important.’
Scougall was pleased to see him head for the door.
‘Just one more thing, madam. Where was your brother on the evening Thirlsmuir was killed?’
‘We spent the night together here. He was suffering from the first signs of fever.’
Scougall knew she was lying, but why would she not. None of those who attended the association would admit to being there.
‘There’s something I’ve just remembered, sir. I’ve seen an old whore in a scarlet dress lingering outside Guillemot’s shop a few times. She was maybe just looking at the wigs. But I do remember thinking, there she is again, I wonder what her business is.’
The next morning, Scougall worked methodically through Stuart’s papers in his office. They were mostly dull accounts, bonds and invoices, only a few of which were not settled. He carefully examined each, observing the florid hand which had written them and thinking about the young man’s terrible fate. At eleven o’clock he stopped for a break, leaving his office briefly to buy a couple of venison pasties in the Luckenbooths. He was feeling ill-at-ease and returned quickly to the task at hand.
As he picked up the next document, a sheet of paper dropped onto his desk. He was surprised to see a letter; the only one he had found in Stuart’s papers. It was written in Latin. He translated it to himself slowly.
A few seconds later he was running down the High Street. After looking in Ninian Parker’s and Mrs Kendall’s, he found them in the Serpent Coffee House.
MacKenzie was pleased to see him. ‘Archibald was keeping me abreast of developments, Davie. Glenbeath was at home in Fife as he claimed. There are a score of witnesses. However, the latest news from the south is disturbing.’
‘I’ve found something, sir.’
‘Take your time, Davie. Catch your breath first.’
‘I must apologise to you both. I found this letter in Stuart’s papers.’
‘What is it?’ Stirling’s eyes glanced across the epistle. ‘It’s in Latin.’
Scougall whispered. ‘It’s from Thyrus Gonzalez de Santalla to Alexander Stuart.’
‘Who?’ Stirling looked perplexed.
‘I’ll give him his full title, Mr Stirling. The Superior General of the Society of Jesus – Praepositus Generalis, the leader of the Jesuits! He’s the most powerful Papist in the world after the Pope himself!’
‘A letter from the Superior of the Jesuits to Alexander Stuart,’ Stirling repeated.
‘The letter orders him to kill Kingsfield!’ Scougall looked round furtively lest anyone overhear them. ‘Stuart had orders from the highest authority of the Catholic Church after the Pope to slay the Duke in broad daylight so that many might witness the demise of an enemy of the true religion.’
MacKenzie’s eyes darted through the text, nodding as he translated the Latin. ‘What do you think, Archibald?’
Stirling examined the letter carefully again. ‘It might be authentic.’
‘But why would the Jesuits want Kingsfield killed rather than Crawford or Melville who are more important figures on the Presbyterian side? And why would the leader of the Jesuits concern himself with such a matter?’
‘I don’t know, John. At least I have something for Rosehaugh – we’ve little else so far. Here’s evidence that foreign Papists were behind the killing, interfering in Scottish affairs.’ He dropped his voice. ‘The release of this information would be incendiary. I must show the letter to the Advocate immediately. We must keep it secret, gentlemen.’
Stirling took his hat and bid them good day. Scougall watched him depart through the smoky interior before handing another sheet to MacKenzie.
‘I quickly made a copy, sir.’
‘Well done for thinking ahead, Davie,’ he smiled.
Scougall was pleased by the praise. He was more convinced than ever that a Papist plot was behind the murders of Black and Thirlsmuir.
25
A Late Sermon
SCOUGALL RETURNED TO his lodgings and sat with Mrs Baird chatting over a bowl of vegetable broth. He made an attempt to read after retiring to his chamber but made little progress with a recent purchase, The Chains of Episcopacy Exposed. His mind kept returning t
o the killings.
At eight o’clock he was relieved to receive a visit from Morrison. ‘There’s an opportunity to meet some investors tonight, Davie,’ he said excitedly.
In a dingy court off the Lawn Market, a battered door opened onto a dilapidated hallway. The sound of clapping and cheering got louder as they approached another door. Scougall recognised one of the guards from the association who nodded at them knowingly as he allowed them into a packed hall. A man was addressing the audience in a refined voice from the stage at the front. Each sentence was met with rapturous applause. Scougall felt his uneasiness grow. He was worried that the association would already know he was working with MacKenzie on the case.
‘It’s the Earl of Glencairn, one of the leaders of the Presbyterians,’ whispered Morrison.
‘Our deliverance comes. God will shine upon us. The Deliverer will be in London soon. Bishops will be banished from Scotland!’ There was a great cheer as he left the platform.
Next on stage was James Guthrie. He began his sermon by addressing the corruption of the government, moved on to the evils of the Papist religion and finished with a prayer that Scotland would be delivered from the Whore of Babylon, ushering in a new age when the Covenant would be proclaimed throughout the realm again. Scougall was used to long sermons, but he soon lost interest in what the minister was saying and let his eyes wander round the hall. Gradually, he spotted all the association: Lammington at the far side beside Quinn who was miraculously recovered; young Johnston close to where they stood among a group of students; Craig at the other side with Guillemot, who was easily identified by his lavish wig. The gaunt figure of Grimston was at the front of the throng, nodding seriously at every word.
After about half an hour, Guthrie brought his sermon to a climax. There was resounding applause, shouts of support and cries of condemnation of King James. The audience coalesced into small groups or drifted off to taverns throughout the city. Lammington nodded to him in a friendly manner. Johnston was speaking to Grimston. Guthrie was gathering his papers together. He decided to take his chance. Excusing himself from Morrison, who was talking to an acquaintance, he approached the old minister. He forced himself to do so, wanting to recover MacKenzie’s approbation.
‘I must compliment you on a fine sermon, Mr Guthrie.’
For a second Guthrie did not recognise him. ‘I ken you, sir. But I can’t recall your name. Where hae we met?’
‘Davie Scougall.’
‘Yes, of course. Scougall of Musselburgh. I meet so many folk these days; so many return tae Scotland awaiting deliverance. The revolution will come, sir. I hae God’s assurance.’
‘It was the night Thirsmuir was killed,’ Scougall added.
Guthrie hesitated, his expression becoming grave. ‘Thirlsmuir was a great loss tae the cause, Mr Scougall. He was a man of great… presence.’
‘Are we all in danger, sir?’
‘How mean you?’
‘Dr Black is also slain.’
‘God smites those who disobey him. Seek forgiveness for thy sins. Prayer will protect you, as it has saved me over mony years of strife. I fought at Drumclog with sword in hand, smiting for the true church. I’ve faced Claverhouse’s dragoons in the field. Now the Papist assassin lurks in the shadows, but God will conquer Satan. Trust in God, sir.’
Scougall forced himself to continue with his questioning. ‘Are you convinced a Papist is behind the killings?’
‘Why would Presbyterians kill each other?’
‘It could be someone in the association.’
‘Are you suggesting there’s a spy in our midst?’
‘Or the killer’s not a Papist.’
‘Come, Mr Scougall. Why would a Presbyterian kill his ain kind? The Papists are responsible. They are everywhere in the city. Although we flush mair oot each night, they take sanctuary in Sodom and Gomorrah at Holyrood. We’ll take it soon with God’s help.’
‘How would they know where we met?’
‘They have spies also. They seek to destroy those who fight Antichrist. Lammington and Grimston attack malignancy with ardour. Thirlsmuir was mair a man of politics, blown sometimes by the wind. He was nae as devout in heart. His faither doesnae proclaim his support yet. He sits on the fence, waiting tae see what becomes of the Prince of Orange. Black was weak, a sinner…’
‘Black was a…?’
‘Black is nae loss tae the cause of righteousness. He moved between the factions, kenning everyone in the movement. But he was a man of dubious… moral character. It was nae surprise he was found with a knife in his back in a bawdy-house. He was a great fornicator and abuser of women. We must be as a shining light. We must cleanse the nation of sin. The association is stronger without him. Trust in God.’
Scougall felt Guthrie’s burning self-righteousness. Although he sensed the minister wanted rid of him, he tried to move the conversation towards the other characters. He was no doubt an annoying clerk asking piddling questions when great issues were at stake. But he would persevere by flattery.
‘I found your sermon instructive and uplifting. I’ll return to my lodgings and pray with ardour all the longer tonight.’
There was a flash in Guthrie’s eyes. ‘I thank you kindly, sir. The Mass will nae be heard much langer in Edinburgh. We’ll cleanse the streets… with Papist blood.’
‘I’ve heard Lammington was owed money by Thirlsmuir,’ Scougall asked casually, deciding to take MacKenzie’s direct approach.
‘Deep are the bonds that bind the gentry. You must excuse me, sir. I’m tired after my sermon. I must rest.’
‘I’ve heard Lammington will lend to anyone… even Papists.’
‘You’re wrang, sir. It’s impertinent tae mak such an accusation. I see you’re trying tae turn me agin him. Are you Grimston’s creature?’
‘It’s only what I’ve heard in the coffee houses. I’ve been told he’ll lend to anyone at high rates.’ Scougall was aware of a slight change in the way Guthrie spoke to him. There was a hint of respect. He realised Grimston was a man to be feared.
26
Purchase of a Periwig
SCOUGALL OBSERVED HIMSELF carefully in the glass after his ablutions the next morning. He was taking more interest in his appearance since meeting Agnes. He was not pleased with what he saw. His jacket was threadbare, his shoes worn through and his coat had served him since he was an apprentice notary. He decided it was time to visit a tailor.
In William Kellie’s shop he spent thirty pounds Scots on a new suit. He had never spent so much on one before, but was very pleased with it and agreed to call later in the week to collect it. He visited a cobbler in Warrender’s Close where he purchased a pair of leather shoes with silver buckles. He would soon be a man of business if the company was launched successfully. He must dress like one.
As he stood outside the shop looking at the wigs in the window, he was surprised to see Morrison inside arguing with Guillemot. He knew they were acquainted from the association, but was surprised by the heated nature of their debate. Morrison was shouting, while Guillemot gesticulated wildly. He would have crept away had his friend not spotted him through the glass; his angry expression melting into a smile.
Scougall entered the shop and greeted them apologetically.
‘I wish to purchase a wig, Mr Guillemot.’
‘Watch yourself, Davie. Monsieur Guillemot drives a hard bargain,’ laughed Morrison, his anger seemingly dissipated. ‘I’ll leave you to make your purchase,’ he said giving Guillemot a sharp look. ‘Drop in tonight to see us, Davie.’
Guillemot waited until the door was shut. ‘He wants me to sell at no profit. He doesn’t understand the quality of my goods.’
Ushering Scougall towards a chair in front of the glass, he took up position behind, looking down at his headpiece with disgust. ‘It’s time this was replaced, Monsieur Scougall. It’s not fit for a gentleman.’
Disappearing through the back for a couple of minutes, he returned with a box, from which h
e removed an impressive wig.
‘I can’t afford such a piece,’ said Scougall.
‘But you’ve not tried it on yet.’
He removed Scougall’s wig carefully and replaced it with the one from the box, adjusting it gently into place with spindly fingers. Scougall caught the unpleasant odour of his breath, a common affliction of the French, he thought. Once it was secured in place, Guillemot’s hands remained on his shoulders. Scougall did not care for such intimacy. It struck him that if the merchant was the killer, he could easily take the opportunity to attack him.
‘Come, Monsieur Scougall. Look at yourself. Behold the wonderful craftsmanship of Tippendale! C’est bon, n’est pas?’
The extravagant wig put his humbler bob to shame. In the glass he saw himself transformed from humble clerk to a gentleman. He imagined what he would look like in his new suit and shoes. The folk of Musselburgh would not recognise him. He would no longer be Davie Scougall clerk, but David Scougall, secretary of the Indian Company of Scotland. But did he have the confidence to wear such a wig in public? He saw himself walking down the High Street laughed at as a buffoon, an inflated pudding, puffed up with his own importance, the street boys shouting: ‘Davie Scougall, Davie Scougall, wig as lang as an apple strudel!’
‘I can’t afford a Tippendale, sir.’
Guillemot’s hands caressed his shoulders. This was perhaps an affectation of a wig merchant, he told himself. A fear flashed through his mind that the Frenchman was a sodomite. The sin was common in the land of King Louis where the King’s brother was said to be afflicted by the perversion.
‘For you, I’ll make a special price… as you share my… political views. We’re brothers fighting the good cause.’ This was the first time he had referred to the association. ‘How does one pound sterling sound to you?’
‘I’d expected to pay closer to twenty pounds.’
‘I choose to make no profit on the transaction for a special friend.’
Scougall surmised he would be making a substantial loss. But he would need a new wig if he was to be a man of business, if he was to become a gentleman. He could wait until the requisite moment before wearing it; perhaps keep it for a special occasion – his engagement party for instance!
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