Pilgrim of Slaughter

by Pilgrim of Slaughter (retail) (epub)

  ‘I fear I’ll be suspected as the murderer, sir.’

  ‘I will ask Stirling to post guards nearby. More suspicion will be raised if you don’t attend. You must continue to play the role of fervent Presbyterian. That will not be difficult,’ he said with a wry smile.

  Scougall wanted above all to prove himself worthy of his friendship, so he reluctantly agreed. After a meal in his lodgings, he took himself to Milne’s Court on the north side of the High Street. As he entered the square, he saw the gaunt figure of Grimston. Summoning up courage, he followed him into a tenement where Lammington’s man directed him to a small chamber. Guthrie was sitting, head bowed in prayer, an arc of stools in front of him, half of which were already taken. Scougall sat beside Grimston who nodded gravely without saying a word.

  He realised the time was set aside for prayer, so he closed his eyes and begged God to provide him with a sign of the killer’s identity. He did not know if Guthrie knew yet about the letter. Rosehaugh was supposed to inform him, but he would surely pay little attention to a warning from him.

  As he tried to concentrate on prayer, he heard the door open and close several times. Nothing was said and he kept his eyes shut.

  At last Guthrie rose with Bible in hand and began to read with great expression. He was burning with raw passion as he expounded on the justness of their cause, the necessity of rising up against the tyrant and fighting Antichrist to the last.

  Scougall’s mind drifted. He wondered if MacKenzie was correct in his belief that the killer was among them. If that was so, it could not be Guthrie. He stole a look to his left as the minister began to read from the Book of Job. Grimston was staring stonily ahead. He was a brutal figure, ambitious for a leading role, vehement in his hatred of Lammington. Was he the killer?

  Over his shoulder on the left he caught sight of Morrison’s large head. He was the man he hoped to call brother-in-law but he was not the pious character he had first imagined, or the poor exile returning to his native land. He was hungry for success in business and fond of gambling. He could not believe, however, that he was a cold-blooded killer. He was dedicated to trade, although there was something suspicious in his relations with Guillemot. There was also the outrageous request he made in the gambling den.

  Beyond Morrison was Guillemot. He recalled the bony hands on his neck, lingering in an unsavoury manner. But what was his motive to murder?

  To his right sat Craig, the fat clerk who was capable of anything in the service of Pittendean. There was his connection to Cathcart and his request to assassinate Rosehaugh.

  Beyond Craig was Quinn, another incomer to the city. He was a hypocrite: pretending to be a devout Presbyterian while supplying vile etchings.

  He recalled the image of Glenbeath trying to recover his prints in panic. Was he pulling the strings off stage? Had he killed his brother or was he taking revenge on his father? Why was he on good terms with Dundee, a loyal servant of the King?

  On the far right sat Lammington, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. He was the most charismatic of the group and appeared the most reasonable. Black and Thirlsmuir were rivals, but Johnston was not. There were accustaions of usury and hints of debauchery, as well as his presence at Maggie Lister’s on the day Black was killed.

  He wondered if the others were thinking similar thoughts. What they would make of him, a hesitant clerk dragged into the association by a boyhood friend who was a colleague of the hated MacKenzie? Did they think Morrison and he plotted together as secret agents of the Papacy, playing a deep game of obfuscation? It was all a network of deceit, rather than an association of the Godly.

  Guthrie closed his Bible. ‘Thank you aw for coming at such short notice, gentlemen. The killing of Johnston is an atrocious act. Just as God’s work is near completion we are provoked by Antichrist. We must stand firm as we did at Drumclog. If God lets Satan slay us, we should nae run like cowards. God will shine his light upon the killer in his own guid time. Stand firm! Hold steady! The tyrant will be dispatched!’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Guthrie.’ Lammington’s tone indicated he thought the minister had said enough. ‘There’s important business to attend to. Things are moving at a pace in the south, much faster than any of us anticipated. We need tae choose someone tae represent our interests in London at this critical juncture. Our views must be communicated tae the Prince of Orange.’

  ‘You are the man to do so, Lammington,’ said Guthrie. There were murmurs of agreement.

  ‘I should be the one!’ Grimston suddenly bellowed, rising to his feet. ‘I’ve earned the right. I’m senior in years. I fought at Rullion Green and Drumclog. I’ve spent years in exile. I’m forthright in argument.’

  ‘We need a man with diplomatic skills, nae one who will shout the roof doon,’ replied Guthrie.

  ‘I will do nae such thing!’

  ‘You’re well known for your temper, Grimston,’ said Lammington, a slight smile on his lips.

  ‘I should be the one to go. I’ve earned the right. I’m trusted by aw the brethren.’ He pointed at Lammington. ‘He’s of… questionable moral character.’

  ‘What are you accusing me of, sir?’

  ‘I accuse you of cohorting with whores.’

  ‘You had better watch that tongue of yours…’

  ‘As we’re divided, we must put it tae a vote,’ intervened Guthrie.

  Scougall felt his uneasiness grow.

  ‘All those in favour of Grimston representing us in London,’ said Guthrie.

  Scougall recalled the conversation on the Castle Hill and the image of his brains smeared on the rocks. He reluctantly raised his hand. He could not bear to look round to see if any others did likewise.

  ‘I count only two votes. All those in favour of Lammington?’

  The rest raised their hands. ‘Carried in favour of Lammington.’

  ‘He’s a vile sinner!’ roared Grimston. ‘How can such a man represent the Godly? I want nae mair part in this… association of the Godless. I’ll fight on myself!’ He shouted as he stormed out the room.

  Scougall caught Morrison’s questioning look. He would have to explain why he had voted against Lammington. He felt the eyes of the others boring into him. Guillemot believed he had bought his vote. He had saved himself from Grimston, but made enemies of the rest. He wanted to be gone, but before he could make an excuse Lammington stood over him.

  ‘We’ve a few questions for you, Mr Scougall, just as your friend MacKenzie has sought tae question us,’ he said sharply.

  ‘What do you make of Seaforth’s brother?’ Scougall saw he was now Lammington’s enemy. He felt his face redden. ‘I’ve heard he’s a fine soldier but misguided in religion, sir.’

  ‘I believe he’s known to you?’

  ‘I’ve met him once or twice. He’s betrothed to MacKenzie’s daughter.’ Scougall immediately wished he had not mentioned Elizabeth.

  ‘Where did you meet him?’ asked Guthrie.

  ‘At The Hawthorns – MacKenzie’s house.’

  ‘Did he talk of religion with you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did he try tae turn you frae the true faith?’

  Scougall did not answer. He was to be smeared as an associate of Papists.

  ‘Have you ever heard the Mass, Mr Scougall?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Have you ever celebrated the Mass?’

  He shook his head again.

  ‘How close are you tae the Clerk of Session?’

  ‘I’m his writer. I help him with cases.’ Scougall was distraught. He closed his eyes and prayed to God, asking Him to release him from his vows to such an unholy group.

  ‘The MacKenzies are Erastian scum!’ thundered Guthrie.

  ‘They’re vile hypocrites,’ echoed Craig.

  ‘MacKenzie is an honourable man,’ Scougall whispered.

  ‘Where does he stand at this juncture?’ probed Lammington.

  ‘I believe he takes no strong position.’

 
‘But he’s a kinsman of Rosehaugh and Seaforth.’

  ‘He’s no supporter of Bishop or Presbytery or Pope.’

  Lammington’s tone softened and he smiled. ‘We’re fortunate that you are his… friend, his associate. We must hunt down those that slayed Kingsfield. It’s good that he’s on their trail. Anything that resulted in Ruairidh MacKenzie being found would be viewed favourably by those close tae the Prince.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Scougall, a wave of regret washing through him. Politics was a dirty business which he wanted no part of it. But was that not hypocrisy? Did he not want bishops banished from the realm as much as the rest of them?

  37

  Turkish Baths

  THE TENEMENT LOOKED ordinary enough from the outside. After passing through an unremarkable vestibule they went down a long passageway. Another door took them into a small chamber where a man sat behind a counter. He let them through another door into a huge room. Scougall had seen nothing like it before. It was the hottest place he had ever been in. Steam was rising from a floor of red tiles and pagan paintings decorated the walls. A few men sat on benches in a state of undress while others rested in bathing pools scattered about the place. Scougall could not believe such a place existed in the heart of Edinburgh – another immoral incursion like the introduction of Papist priests.

  He followed MacKenzie towards a figure sitting alone, only realising it was Lord Glenbeath when he spoke. He did not recognise him without coat, wig, jacket and breeches.

  ‘You may want to take off some garments, gentlemen,’ Glenbeath laughed. He appeared little bothered by his nakedness, making no effort to cover his chest, which bore a striking resemblance to a woman’s. He beckoned them to sit on the stone bench across from him.

  MacKenzie removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and took off his wig. Scougall unfastened his jacket but left his periwig on. He felt sweat dripping down his back.

  ‘I told you everything already,’ Glenbeath began. ‘I presume you’re still looking for my brother’s killer.’ He spoke in a slightly mocking manner, not meeting their eyes.

  ‘There are a few points I wish to clarify, my lord,’ began MacKenzie. ‘You’ve not been entirely honest about relations with him. We’ve learned you were not on good terms at the time of his death.’

  ‘Brothers will argue; some will fight. Surely you’re not holding to the view that I’d anything to do with his killing.’

  ‘What caused your disagreement?’ MacKenzie nudged Scougall, reminding him to take out his notebook and record what was said.

  ‘I admire your persistence, just like good hunting dogs. If you must know, we disagreed on political matters. My father has painted a slightly false picture. I’m not like my brother, as you see. I enjoy food and wine and… I’m something of, how do they say in France, le bon viveur. I follow the Epicureans in philosophy. When I’m in the country, I hunt. When at court, I spend. When in Paris, I fornicate.’ He said this with a lascivious smile. ‘But I’m not devoid of political ambition. My brother was devoted to that side of life. I’m devoted to… life itself, in all its flavours, but I still have political views. They were seldom the same as his. My father took his side on such matters.’

  ‘What did you argue about, my lord?’

  Glenbeath was silent for a moment as he readjusted the towel wrapped around him. He stretched out his hairless legs towards Scougall. ‘I must be careful what I say when so many of our countrymen are in such a frenzy. It’s well known my brother supported the Prince of Orange. My father is more canny, although he’ll be happy with developments. On the other hand, I’m loyal to the King. He did me great honour when I was at court in London. I saw much of him when he was Commissioner here in Edinburgh. Some might say he was placed on the throne by God.’

  ‘Are you on good terms with Dundee?’ asked MacKenzie.

  Glenbeath hesitated. He looked down and swept an imaginary crumb from his towel. ‘He’s a loyal servant of the King and a… brave soldier. I’ve met him… a few times in society.’

  ‘So you differed substantially on politics.’

  ‘My brother held his views more strongly. He despised what he saw as my cynicism. He thought I took nothing seriously because of my devotion to pleasure. He grew angry when I questioned the wisdom of steering the family too close to the Presbyterian side. I thought we should maintain links with both parties, just in case the wind blew back towards King James, as it may still do. He cursed me. I cursed him back. But there was no violence between us, only silence. We didn’t speak in the weeks before his death.’

  ‘There was jealousy between you?’

  ‘How do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Everyone describes his eloquence in Parliament. You’re not gifted in that way.’

  ‘You refer to my awkwardness, my strange posture, Mr MacKenzie. I was thrown from a horse as a boy. My spine was badly damaged. In my youth I could not stand straight like him. I’ll admit I hated him. But I would never kill my own flesh and blood. How would I benefit from such an act? It was only a stupid argument. Within a few weeks we would’ve been on speaking terms again, if some Papist fool was not loose in the city.’

  ‘Thank you for being so blunt, my lord… I’ve something to show you.’ MacKenzie rummaged in his pocket. ‘Do you recognise this crude piece of art?’

  Scougall felt his skin crawl. As Glenbeath examined it carefully, a smile spread across his face. ‘I hadn’t put you down as a connoisseur of such pieces, MacKenzie. I thought you were the dull lawyer. I’ve seen many of these; most drawn better than this. I’ve a small collection myself which I’d be willing to show you sometime, if you’re so inclined.’

  ‘I’m not inclined, my lord. Can you buy these easily in Edinburgh?’

  ‘You can buy them wherever there is money and men and most places have both, although I fear our country has more men than money. To build up a collection of quality you must purchase pieces in London or Paris or Italy. There you can find art of the highest quality.’

  ‘Who do you buy from in Edinburgh?’

  ‘There are a few dealers. The merchant William Smeall is an importer and George Cairnes and…’

  ‘Andrew Quinn, perfumer, previously of Dublin,’ added MacKenzie.

  ‘Yes. I’ve bought a few pieces from him. He draws some himself.’

  ‘How did you come to know him?’

  Glenbeath pulled himself up on the bench, took another towel and wrapped it round his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. I must’ve met him in a tavern.’

  ‘Was it through your brother?’

  He was silent, looking perturbed for the first time, as he rubbed his fat thighs with the palms of his hands and continued to address the wall rather than looking them in the eyes.

  ‘Quinn and your brother were known to each other,’ Scougall found himself saying.

  ‘Yes. I believe it was through my brother.’

  ‘He was also a collector?’ asked MacKenzie.

  ‘No. He was influenced too much by our preachers. He worried about sin. I was introduced to Quinn one night.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I believe it was at Law’s.’

  ‘Law’s gambling house.’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘I asked this question before, my lord. I would be grateful if you would answer it this time. Who are the principal usurers in this city?’

  ‘You don’t give up, Mr MacKenzie. Let me think a little harder. There’s a man called Smith who provides funds at short notice. But his rates are high.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘The Lamb has been active in recent months. That’s what he’s known as. His name is Baillie of Lammington. He’s an exile returned from Holland.’

  ‘Have you borrowed from him?’

  ‘I have. It’s much faster than securing a bond from a lawyer.’

  ‘How much do you owe him?’

  ‘That is between us, Mr MacKenzie. All I will say is that the sum is large.’r />
  ‘Did Lammington lend to your brother?’

  ‘I’m sorry for misleading you before. I didn’t want to draw attention to my own indebtedness. Yes, he owed significant amounts to the Lamb.’

  ‘How large was the debt?’

  ‘I believe it was substantial.’

  ‘But why would Lammington kill him?’ Scougall could not help asking.

  ‘Was it done to frighten you, my lord?’ asked MacKenzie. Debt was corrosive, eating away at the fabric of society, he thought.

  ‘I’ll say this. It’s made me more diligent in my repayments, but I’ve no idea if Lammington was responsible for his death. Now, you must excuse me, gentlemen.’

  On leaving the baths, they passed straight to Quinn’s shop in Niven’s Wynd. Scougall was relieved when MacKenzie asked him to wait outside. Quinn was behind the counter preparing a perfume. When he raised his head, MacKenzie was reminded of his sister. They shared the same pointed features. He introduced himself and said he was acting on behalf of Stirling.

  ‘I don’t know any of those concerned, but I’m sorry to hear of their demise. They were all stout Protestants.’

  ‘I’m told you’ve recently come to Edinburgh. Tell me something of your history, sir.’

  Quinn placed a cork in a tiny green bottle and returned it to a shelf behind the counter. ‘I followed the trade of perfumer successfully in Dublin for over twenty years. I had a shop on Castle Street where I lived with my wife and sister. My wife was taken by plague a few years ago. Many fear another rebellion like ’41 when we were slaughtered by the Papists. I knew a couple of Scottish merchants who imported my goods. They provided an introduction to the Privy Council so I could obtain a licence to trade in Edinburgh. I’m very grateful for all that the Scots have done for me.’

  MacKenzie nodded in a friendly manner. ‘Are you known to Pittendean or members of his family?’

  ‘I’m not well known in Edinburgh yet, sir. But I hope to extend my list of clients.’

  ‘Are you acquainted with the Earl’s eldest son, Lord Glenbeath.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Have you ever borrowed money from a man called Lammington?’