The conversation roamed over a variety of subjects but Scougall steered it back to the night the Papists were flushed out by the mob. ‘Cathcart must be a fine actor,’ he said casually.
Johnston laughed: ‘He was brought up as a Papist. His real name is nae Cathcart. It’s Robert Pringle. He’s a kinsman of a friend of ours.’
‘Who is that?’
‘He’s a cousin of Archibald Craig.’
Scougall was pleased with himself. Here was evidence linking Kingsfield to Pittendean, via a fool, a spy and a fat clerk. Was Pittendean responsible for killing the Duke? But he could not understand how the assassination might be related to the death of his son and the savage attack on Black.
When Johnston went outside to vomit, he paid the bill. In the tiny lane at the back of the tavern, he slapped him on the back and sent him off in the direction of his lodgings, hoping that the killer was not following him. As he watched Johnston disappear into the darkness, fear crept through him. He sloped back home, turning nervously every few paces.
34
A Summons to the Castle Hill
SCOUGALL WAS DISTURBED to see Grimston’s servant waiting at his office door the next morning. In the light of day he saw he was an ugly stinking brute.
‘He wants tae see you,’ he said gruffly.
Scougall could not think of an excuse and was forced to follow him up the High Street to the Castle Hill where Grimston was standing beside a low wall, gazing towards the Pentland Hills. There was little welcoming about him. No pretence of civility reduced the severity of his expression.
‘Is it not a fine view?’ he said without turning his head.
Scougall observed Greyfriar’s Kirk and Heriots Hospital below them; the Pentland Hills topped with clouds in the distance.
‘I was there in ’66.’
‘Where, sir?’ Scougall was not sure if Grimston referred to the school beneath them, an institution for orphaned bairns, built at the bequest of a rich merchant George Heriot, or the hills in the distance.
‘I was at Rullion Green in November 1666, twenty-two years ago… I left pairt of my arm in those hills!’
Scougall had no idea what he meant until Grimston raised his right arm and brought it down on the wall, making a dull thud.
‘I hadn’t noticed, sir,’ he said apologetically.
‘I was trampled by my horse. The surgeon couldnae save it, but I escaped with my life. Many others were hung or sent tae the plantations. I’ve served the cause lang, Mr Scougall. I’ve suffered much, fought many battles. I’ve killed those who sinned against the Lord. I’m willing tae lay doon my life for Presbytery.’
‘I think we’re very close, sir. I’ve heard this morning that William…’
‘So much suffering caused by Charles Stewart and his Papist brother,’ Grimston interrupted. ‘I hae heard he converted tae the Whore on his death bed – both the spawn of Papist bitches! We should nae marry oor princes tae foreign whores.’
‘Why did you want to speak with me, sir?’
‘Are you a freend of Johnston?’
Scougall was lost for words. Was the boy slain already?
‘Are you a freend of young Johnston?’
‘I met him for the first time at the association,’ he said feebly.
‘He kens we battle with Antichrist. This is nae just a struggle for Scotland. It’s a fight for aw oor souls.’ At this point, Grimston turned directly to him. ‘Scotland must be rid of bishops! They’re the spew of tyrants. There’s naething I wouldn’t do tae free this realm frae Antichrist.’ He turned to the hills again and spoke calmly. ‘I would cut aff ma brither’s airm. I would slit ma mither’s throat. I would kill ony man that stood in my way.’
Scougall felt he was in the presence of a fanatic.
‘I would kill you if I had tae, Mr Scougall,’ he said in a matter-of-fact way, as if telling him the price of a loaf of bread.
A blade of fear shot through Scougall as Grimston edged nearer. He could smell his stale breath and the damp reek of his old clothes. He saw his wig was stained yellow with age and noticed a louse nestling there, and another, and another.
‘You must understand,’ he whispered, ‘if you stood in the way of Presbytery, if you thwarted the battle, I would cast you on tae the rocks – watch your skull smashed tae a thousand pieces, the corbies feasting on your brains.’ He suddenly held his arm aloft, revealing a metal spike at the end below the cuff of his shirt, and grabbed Scougall’s jacket with his good hand. Scougall feared that he was going to be hurled over the rock face but the grip loosened. Grimston took a step back. There was an ugly smile on his face.
‘Dinnae worry, Mr Scougall. I ken you’re loyal tae the cause, despite your friendship with MacKenzie. I want men who I can trust when the time comes.’
‘When the time comes?’ Scougall asked hoarsely.
‘When the struggle reaches a peak, I need to ken who’s with me and who’s agin me. You’re either with me or agin me. There’s nae halfway hoose in the fight between Christ Jesus and Satan. Are you with me, sir?’
Scougall nodded fearfully.
‘Side with me when a vote’s called in the association. Whatever way I vote, follow. That’s aw I want… for now. It’s nae much tae ask, is it?’
Scougall found himself replying: ‘I’m with you, sir.’
‘That’s good. That’s what I wanted tae hear.’
Grimston looked towards the hills again and spoke quietly with a sigh: ‘Lammington’s a sinner. He’s a drunkard, a gambler and a vile usurer. He doesnae prostrate himself before his Maker. He seeks power over others in this kingdom. How can such a man pretend tae lead the Godly? He’s surely nae one of God’s chosen like me. I’ve been promised everlasting life from the start of time. Lammington talks of obedience to God while he seeks the whore to assuage his lust. Oh vile hypocrite! He lusts after power as he desires the body of the scarlet woman.’
Scougall did not know what to say.
‘Dr Black was cut frae the same stane. Degenerates, aw of them!’
He was desperate to be away from him.
‘The things I could tell you aboot the holy Baillie of Lammington, the tales of debauchery. I’ve heard it said that…’ Grimston did not finish the sentence, but a smile spread across his face. ‘When the time comes you’ll side with me. You would not side with the hypocrite. I would have tae seek you oot. I’m the Sword of the Lord! It would be naething for me tae tak you. I’ve ripped oot the black hearts of those who served Satan.’
‘I’m with you, sir,’ Scougall knew he should be using the opportunity to question Grimston about the killings but he could not summon up the courage.
‘Be gone with you, sir,’ were his final words as he turned his gaze to the hills again.
Scougall was relieved to be out of his presence. He made his way quickly down the Lawn Market and found himself in the Luckenbooths. He looked at some new featheries in Shield’s stall and tested the shaft of a scraper. But he was not in the mood to make a purchase. With an hour to spare before meeting MacKenzie, and little work to be getting on with, he turned into Flesher’s Court where Bruce had seen the priest disrobe.
In the courtyard, surrounded by high tenements on each side, the fleshers were hard at work on their carcasses. He watched them hoist slabs of meat onto their shoulders and dump them on the tables. He stood observing the butchery, reflecting that it was a flesher of a kind they sought.
He was on the point of leaving when he saw Quinn enter the court from Merlion’s Wynd. He was about to greet him when Lord Glenbeath appeared a few paces behind. There was so much clamour in the courtyard they did not notice him. He watched them proceed down Dickson’s Close to the west, Quinn about ten paces ahead of Glenbeath, who was clearly following him.
He did not like to spy on a man, but he could see MacKenzie’s angry expression if he let the opportunity slip, so he waited until they disappeared round a corner, before following about twenty yards behind. The thoroughfare was b
usy, so it was easy to mingle with the crowd and not be seen.
The pair passed down Cuthbertson’s Wynd and entered Mitchell’s Entry, a close which led south to the city wall. Scougall peeked down the quiet vennel. There was no one else around, so he let them go ahead, watching them stop in the shadows beside the old wall. He moved into the close and ducked behind a couple of barrels. Quinn removed a bundle of papers from his cloak and handed them to Glenbeath. He looked through them hastily before taking something from his pocket. Scougall presumed it was money. Without saying anything else, Quinn headed off along the wall through a narrow passageway to the west. Glenbeath turned on his heels and began to retrace his steps towards him. Scougall’s heart jumped in panic as he pushed himself against the wall, praying he would not be seen in the shadows. He closed his eyes and listened to Glenbeath’s stick on the cobbles. His footsteps were getting closer and closer. He thanked God when he walked straight past without seeing him.
He waited for about twenty seconds before emerging from his hiding place. Just as he did so, two urchins appeared at the entrance of the close. It was unclear if they meant mischief, but one crashed into Glenbeath, sending the papers into the air. He cursed violently and took a swipe at one with his cane. The boys took flight, speeding past Scougall as he sank back against the wall. There was a hint of panic in the way Glenbeath sought to retrieve the papers.
One sheet blew down to where he was hiding, coming to rest beside a barrel. He would be discovered if Glenbeath came back to fetch it. His mind raced through a series of excuses: he was taking a constitutional beside the city wall; or looking for Quinn; or looking for his lordship. All of them seemed feeble.
Luckily Glenbeath had not noticed. He gathered the rest under his cloak and headed towards the Cowgate.
Scougall waited until he was out of sight. The business of spying did not come easily to him. He looked up and down the vennel a number of times to make sure it was empty, before bending over to pick up the discarded paper. He expected to see a tract or broadsheet of a political nature which were circulating in the city in vast numbers because of the crisis. He was shocked to see a crude etching of two naked men. He felt disgust sweep through him as he realised one was preparing to sodomise the other. He stuffed it in his pocket. A few seconds later he took it out again to have another look. He should surely destroy the vile thing there and then. What if he was found with it in his possession? Sodomy was a capital offence. He was not sure of the punishment for observing the representation of the act. But MacKenzie would be angry if he destroyed a piece of evidence. After all, he had found another link between the family of Pittendean and the association. Glenbeath’s interests went beyond the hunt. He was a gambler and patron of illicit prints. Quinn was supposed to be a religious man who had fled Papist tyranny in Ireland. His perfumery business was a façade for something that smelt foul.
35
Weight of a Body
MACKENZIE AND SCOUGALL plodded up the High Street in the pitch black, summoned from their beds in the middle of the night. It was raining heavily and the wind buffeted them as they slipped on the wet cobbles.
The Weighing House was a large building at the bottom of the Lawn Market which housed the city’s weights and measures. It was frequented by merchants during the day. Stirling was waiting under the lintel of the door.
They followed him inside without saying a word. In the middle of the main chamber, a body was slumped across a weighing beam.
‘Another one,’ said Stirling morosely.
As they came closer, they could see that the body was decapitated, a bloody stump of flesh and bone protruding from the neck, an explosion of blood staining the floor around the beam.
‘Is it Johnston?’ blurted out Scougall.
‘Rosehaugh will be ill-pleased,’ Stirling whispered.
‘As will the family of this poor fellow,’ replied MacKenzie, kneeling beside the corpse. ‘What do you think, Archibald?’
‘The blood loss suggests the head was cut off here.’
‘He’s a fellow of some means.’
‘How so, John?’
‘The ring on his left hand must have a value of a hundred pounds. From the look of his gangly frame, he’s not above fourteen or fifteen.’
Scougall kneeled beside him. ‘It’s Robert Johnston just as the letter predicted. He’s the youth who controlled the rabble. He’s another member of the club.’
‘Are you sure, Davie?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘I recognise his boots. They have a peculiar buckle which I noticed in the Ganton Tavern. I was sitting with him in an alehouse two nights ago!’
MacKenzie rose to his feet. ‘He was beheaded by a stroke of axe or sword. The weapon was skilfully wielded – the head was cleaved off cleanly. Is it left here or taken like the other body parts?’
MacKenzie and Stirling made a search of the chamber but there was no sign of it. Scougall stood trembling, unable to move. Johnston was an arrogant fool, but he was only a boy; a zealot for the cause perhaps, but he did not deserve such a fate. Of the ten who attended the association on the first night, three were slain. He had hoped the murders of Black and Thirlsmuir were unconnected. He could not believe it now. They were being killed one by one.
‘Lawtie’s on his way,’ said Stirling. ‘I found this on the other side of the beam… I’ve not opened it yet.’
MacKenzie grabbed the letter. Although it was addressed to Rosehaugh, he did not hesitate to open it.
I wander the streets. I inhale the reek of middens. I listen to the clamour of urchins, the spew of humanity. The time is at hand, oh my children.
Everlasting sinners must repent. The battle approacheth. The Papists tremble in the Palace as they partake of the blasphemous Mass.
Until all is transformed by Him, I prepare the way. I set the wheel in motion. It will spin until the end of time.
Rise when the time comes. I hear the sighs of the restless. I feel the agony of the incarcerated. I hear the screams of the dammed.
The King is servant of Antichrist. The tyrant worships the Whore in Rome. He is a lover of priests. The people will rise against him.
Hasten the end of the rule of Satan through bloody sacrifice. I will kindle their anger. It will be a rebellion of the righteous.
Glorious land, I kill in your name. I kill for Him.
MacKenzie’s eyes darted through the text seeking out the capitals at the beginning of each paragraph. ‘Guthrie,’ he said handing it to Scougall. ‘We must warn him, although he may not accept our help.’
‘I cannot see Rosehaugh allocating funds to protect a Presbyterian minister,’ said Stirling.
‘All we can do is warn him and hope we can find the killer. Let’s learn what we can before Lawtie disturbs the scene.’
Taking a candle from Stirling, MacKenzie kneeled beside the body again. He removed a pair of tweezers from his pocket and began to prod the wound.
Scougall wandered aimlessly round the room, too shocked to think straight.
‘We’re dealing with a man who mocks us, who plays games with us, treating murder as sport,’ said Stirling in a forlorn voice.
‘I can’t work out if he’s a madman or someone who wants to make himself appear mad,’ said MacKenzie.
‘The case is going from bad to worse. Johnston was a darling of the mob. His killing will take their anger to new heights. I fear a cataclysm awaits us, perhaps for England and Ireland also.’
‘You suffer from lack of sleep, Archibald.’ MacKenzie rose to his feet stiffly. ‘There’s still hope. A settlement may be reached and the King’s position retrieved by a few concessions. We can do nothing about that. What troubles me is the lack of evidence. All we have is a piece of linen from the bawdy-house, a boy’s face in the shadows, a crumpled note and three letters predicting the identity of those killed except Black. We must look at the letters again… there must be more in them.’
Stirling looked aghast. ‘I’m going to make preparations for my wife a
nd daughter to leave the city. They can go to my sister in Fife. I must see to my money. I’ll call in loans and raise as much cash as I can in case we have to leave in haste. The horses must be made ready. I would advise you to do the same, gentlemen.’
‘Are you not forgetting you’re responsible for finding this boy’s killer,’ stated MacKenzie firmly. ‘Think of Montrose. He fought on for what he believed to the end.’
‘The killer mocks me. Rosehaugh threatens me. What am I to do?’
‘We must go over the evidence again after some sleep. There must be something we’ve overlooked. I suggest we meet in the Royal at ten o’clock tomorrow.’
Despite the grim discovery, MacKenzie was feeling enlivened. There was no hint of his malady. His mind was clear; the black bird banished for now. Elizabeth’s marriage and the political situation would work themselves out.
Only a couple of days before, Scougall was elated by the success of the company and the prospect of marriage to Agnes. There was now a shadow across his happiness. He feared for his life.
36
The Association Reconvenes
SCOUGALL HAD NO appetite for breakfast next morning. Johnston’s violent death disrupted his sleep, the severed neck percolating his fitful dreams. In his office, he kept a chair against the door to stop anyone getting in. He only left for twenty minutes to drink a couple of cups of coffee. He was beginning to acquire a taste for the drink which many folk remarked they could not do without as a stimulant to their thoughts. Others thought it a curse upon the nation.
As he sat at his desk contemplating all that had happened, a boy appeared at the door with a note. He recalled the urchin Troon with the harelip. None of his acquaintances on the street had any idea where he was. The curt statement told him the association was to meet again that evening. His heart sank.
He made his way directly to MacKenzie’s lodgings.
‘You must attend, Davie. We must learn as much as possible.’
Pilgrim of Slaughter Page 18