Once he stepped closer and I was positive none near might hear my words. “I gave my thanks yesterday when you came to see me. You saved my life, not the Lord. I have seen and done too many things to know there is no higher benevolent force guiding our lives.” Looking into the boy’s face, “We must make our own paths, understand.”
Wrinkling his nose and adjusting the rake over his skinny shoulders, “ye speak like my faither.” Sighing loudly he continued, disgruntled. “I’m still paying my penance fur being out of bed the other night.” The boy’s attention riveted on a spot in the distance. Fear in his features. I immediately looked for danger.
Logan watched my conversation with his son intensely, propped on the large wooden doorframe to the still barn. One of us would have to break eye contact and I put a casual smile on my face as I resumed speaking with Kieran. “I will see you again soon, take care when you’re out on your own.” Patting the top of his cap for affect I strode lazily away from Deoch. I did not find the boy’s father intimidating. I did find him curious. He railed over the presence of Sassenachs in Scotland on my arrival, yet aided in saving my life the night of the accident. His presence out on the road while all others took to their beds or hearth raised questions over his motives.
I resolved to make a closer study of Logan. The displaced Laird of Markinch. My gut told me he could not be all he seemed. My fever and accident may have fuelled my suspicions. Either way, as a soldier I learned to trust instincts. They had played a part in saving my life on more than one occasion and I would not ignore them now. A mêlée of boot prints, donkey hooves and cartwheels marked the spot in the road where Kieran and I had emerged from the fens. I closed my eyes for a moment and could hear the voices yelling to one another. Phil’s murmured encouragement as well as Logan and Beathan’s whispered conversation.
Beathan must have used several men to remove the McKinneys from their temporary gravesite. I could easily follow the path they took through the clumps of heather, boots stamping down the grass, any evidence left behind by the killer probably destroyed as a consequence and a rush of frustration pulsed through me. Part of the drive to solve the murders came from my natural instinct to believe there was an explanation for everything I could know and understand. The other part came from my position as an English officer taking over the post from another officer widely accused of these men’s murders.
I needed to inform the English authorities if Mr Turner was indeed a murderer. The widow was entitled to compensation. If the trail led to another, they must pay the ultimate price for the McKinneys’ deaths. I would see justice served either way. This conviction had woken me from my sleep that morning and stayed with me all through breakfast. Not even Freya could break its hold over my mind with her idle talk. I needed to see justice done. I could not have any for my wife, however I would do my best for these men.
A firm grasp on my newly acquired principles. I turned north and headed for the stone church built next to the castle. Freya had mentioned she’d paid her respects to Rupert and Everett McKinney there the previous evening. Even in daylight, the path from the main road was not easy to spot. I did not notice it on my journey to or from supper at the castle. The small church stood isolated. A low stone fence protecting it’s walls and gravestones keeping watch over its parishioners.
Hesitating for a moment at the gate, I rubbed a hand over my face. What I had told Kieran of my beliefs surrounding God was true. I committed acts of barbarism fighting in the Americas I knew no fair being could forgive. I also thought He might have punished me with Onatah’s death. Now I entered His sanctuary not seeking redemption, only justice. I closed the gate harder than I intended and walked past the grave markers. Many hewn from stone of various sizes and shapes, a few of the larger markers carved with beautiful scrollwork, lovingly polished year after year, the purple heather grew in tufts, unmindful of the sanctity of the soil.
Two large plain wooden doors stood closed. I tried the handle on one and found it opened easily into a cavernous nave. I set the door closed quietly behind me and scanned the interior, row upon row of benches stood two by two down the length, an altar lit with candles at the end. A woman sat on the bench directly in front of the altar. Her head bent in prayer. A priest by the look of his robes counselled her. While behind them a wooden carving of Jesus hung from the wall, looking down on them both with baleful arms outstretched. My shoulders twitched at the sight and I looked for where the McKinneys might lie.
Spying a room off the side of the main chapel, I walked as quietly as I could in order not to disturb the confidence of the priest and his parishioner. Unfortunately my boots were of made of stern stuff, bold and unrepentant. They struck the cobbles underfoot with a confident clip, rather than a shy scuffle. The whispered conversation at the front of the church halted.
“My son.” The priest stood, though he could not make out my identity from the front of the church. The windows set high in the wall let in only meagre light and not many candles burned at this time of day. “If ye would take a seat. I will be with ye in a moment.” He called and I immediately picked up the pace.
I turned to wave, acknowledging his assistance, yet not pausing in my stride. The priest grew agitated as I went to open a side door. “My son, it is perhaps best I be with ye. When ye pay your last respects.” I heard the other man’s hurried steps rush down between the pews as I opened and entered the small room quickly, closing the door.
Walking slowly towards the table where the two men lay, peaceful and in a wretched state. I groped around in my frock coat pocket and I found a silk kerchief, which I pressed to my nose to ward off the sickly smell of decaying flesh. An unfortunate post-dinner conversation between soldiers after downing several cups of ale normally included a lively debate on which odour the more hideous, burned or rotting flesh. I remained firmly on the decaying flesh side of the argument.
The door opened as I reached the side of the corpse with the bullet wound in the head. It had entered the temple and, leaning down to examine it closely. I could see without touching the body it had passed through, blowing the back of the man’s skull to pieces, instantly killing him. The shot must have been from close range, shot from arm level.
The rest of his body appeared to be unharmed. Any flesh exposed to the elements, such as the hands were badly decomposed. I needed to search for clues. I raised my hands and went to carefully open the man’s pockets. A horrified gasp reminded me of my unwanted visitor. I looked up into the face of a middle-aged man, hands fisted at his sides, face barely concealing his gathering outrage.
“Those bodies have been shriven.” The man squeaked. “This is the house of God, sir, and I pray ye respect the last remains of these two poor men before they are buried forever and can enter intae heaven.” His stern gaze took in my coat and shaved head. “Ye must be the new gauger. The Sassenach, I suppose there must be some thanks tae yer presence. Ye did find these two poor souls.”
“Your right, Father.” I tried to keep my tone neutral, the man appeared agitated and I needed access to these two bodies and information. “I wanted to pay my respects and perhaps have a look for any information leading to whom may have done this to them.” Both reasonable requests, I used my most humble tone.
“Seeing as how ye recently almost met yer own death after finding them. I suppose I can nae deny ye the right tae make yer peace.” The priest crossed himself. “Though as I said before, you can nae touch the bodies or risk angering God. Besides I watched Beathan go through each of the men’s pockets, Agnes McKinney is in possession of their belongings.”
I nodded, and walked over to the second body, leaning in to inspect the bullet wound. “This is the younger of the two, so I assume it is the body of the son, Everett.” Without lifting him, I could not tell if the round went straight through, but the information did not matter much. A careful look through the rest of his clothes indicated only one shot took the life of this man. His blood-crusted clothes implying a shot near the heart.
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“Och, aye, ye are correct.” The priest tripped over the word gauger and cleared his throat. “Captain, I dinnae see why ye need tae make an inspection. Yer nae the magistrate and folk know who killed these fine men and the good Lord punished him by ensuring he would never be buried in hallowed ground.” I looked curiously at the priest. “Mr Turner of course, and his suicide, it goes against the laws of God and nature,” the man chortled.
“Good morning, Father Tadgh.” The priest and I glanced at the door and found Logan smiling at both of us. “I thought I heard yer voice in the chapel, giving one of yer sermons again?”
“I am reminding the Sassenach captain it is a sin tae take one’s own life.” Father Tadgh stood up straighter and adjusted his frock under the scrutiny of Logan. “It is comparable with the taking of a human life. So Mr Turner must be damned tae hell at least three times fur his terrible crimes. Nae court on earth or in heaven can save his soul from burning.”
Logan peered in my direction, a look of mild interest on his face. “I think the captain is well aware of the consequences after death fur sinners.” Pausing he scrutinised the priest with a hint of malice. “He was, after all, a member of Her Majesty’s army, committing unmentionable acts of barbarity in the New World in the name of God and country.”
A part of me, the soldier, ingrained and moulded into the English Army clamoured to protest Logan’s unspecified yet malicious accusations. Duty, a part of my old life, demanded satisfaction, however I was too old and tired to rise to the bait. Instead, I endeavoured to change the direction of conversation away from dangerous topics such as Mr Turner and my time in the army. “Have you come to pay your respects, Logan?”
“In fact, Beathan mentioned yesterday ye might hae some skill with inspecting corpses and discovering the method of death, even identifying the murderer through this evidence.” Logan ignored the sceptical snorts from Father Tadgh, focusing his entire attention on my person. “As these two men were my friends, and technically members of my clan. I would like tae know if ye made any progress.”
Or if I might have found evidence pointing to you as the gunman, “Beathan overestimated my knowledge. I told him I aided a doctor in Boston with such scientific queries, yet the progress in this science is slow and unreliable at best. It will be many years of research before it commences giving consistent answers.”
“A terrible ghoulish thing tae dae tae a man after he is dead.” Father Tadgh’s face turned red once again with his outrage. “It is witchcraft, the thing of nightmares, only a truly horrible and depraved man wants tae fiddle with a corpse. It is disgusting and if this is the reason ye hae come, Sassenach, I suggest ye depart before I bring the heavens down on ye!”
“There is no need for the heavens to be out of countenance, Father Tadgh.” I tried to placate the old man, Beathan had warned me of the priest’s devotion to his God. “I have paid my respects to these men, any evidence from their bodies has been noted without disturbing their rest.”
The mention of evidence made Logan inspect the bodies closer. I walked past him to the door. “A good day to you, gentlemen.” I needed to make a quick escape, something in Logan’s behaviour made me uncomfortable. I could be imagining it, yet I needed time to think, unfortunately Tavish’s friendly face turned towards mine.
“Captain,” the old man’s voice rang through the stone church, a broad smile on his face. “I hae been meaning tae check on ye, thought ye still needed a few more days’ rest.” I shrugged uncomfortably, not willing to reveal my escape. He appeared to sense my reluctance and pressed on. “I need tae speak tae Father Tadgh, after that I’d thought perhaps I could get a couple of words in?”
Nodding, “I will wait for you outside, Tavish.” One look at the priest’s face speeded my surrender from his church. I walked with quick steps to the large front doors, made an exaggerated sign of the cross for my audience and stepped out into the flat light.
Logan escaped from the church and, as I found a spot to sit on the stone fence. I watched him wearily from my perch, waiting for another confrontation. Yet he did not break his stride to acknowledge my presence, only opened the gate and continued on his journey. Whatever his true purpose in coming, he never said. I did not think it to pay his respects. I tucked my hands into the pockets of my coat. I would walk down to the village today. My trunks should have made the long journey from London by now. I needed my wolf fur coat if my soft hide wanted to survive through the whole winter. I briefly wondered if the Highlanders wore a variety of stocking when the cold became unbearable.
Tavish waved from the church and I stood up. We went through the gate. “I am heading down tae the Thistle fur an early lunch. I’ve got the mashing tuns to deal with this afternoon and it will go well intae the night.”
“I am heading in the same direction. I need to run some errands and try to get my affairs in order after my illness.” Grimacing after the last word, I let my steps match the old man’s. We walked in silence for a few minutes. He appeared to be gathering his thoughts, waiting until we cleared Deoch. Waving away workers and enquiries. He began to relax as the red buildings disappeared behind us.
“You’ve only been in Markinch a short time,” Tavish laughed grimly. “And an accident has befell ye, and fallen ill fur half the time, I think this does nae bode well fur yer chances up here in the Highlands.” He glanced at my profile and gave me a hearty punch in the kidneys. “You’ve got a strong constitution, only time will tell.” Tavish removed the cap from his head and scratched around his ears before replacing it, tucking stray wisps under the rim, away from his eyes. “I think you’re a decent enough fellow, fur a Sassenach. I’ve got a good judge of a man. I wanted tae tell ye. I dinnae think Mr Turner had naught tae do with Rupert and Everett’s deaths. He might have been eccentric, but he was nae killer.” Tavish huffed a few times before continuing. “And as fur the explosion, though I can nae confirm a still made it. I reckon and so do the villagers, the McGreevy boys caused it.”
“I want to thank you for your trust, Tavish, I think it is something in short supply up here when it comes to Sassenachs.” I tried to make light of the difficulties I encountered with the likes of Logan and Father Tadgh. “I have to say, however, even I cannot be sure of Turner’s guilt or innocence in regards to the McKinneys’ deaths. There is no real evidence either way.”
“Here ye hae burst upon why I believe ye tae be trustworthy.” Tavish beamed his approval. I could only stare in confusion. “Yer looking fur proof of the murderer’s identity; he could be a Sassenach, could be a Scot, but you’ll decide when ye hae the proper confirmation.”
Grimacing at the other man. “I can hardly do any more.” I let frustration colour my tone. “Unfortunately, unless someone in the village knows more than they are currently divulging, the McKinneys’ deaths will remain unsolved and Mr Turner will remain the lone suspect.” Not wanting to dwell on the matter further. “Please tell me more of the McGreevys.”
“Nae too much tae say, the McGreevys are relatives of the McKinneys from down south ways.” Tavish furrowed his brow. “Several families came after the Laird Markinch died and his daughter was evicted from the castle. They wanted tae take advantage of the fact there was nae law around the place without a formal laird. Its nae uncommon and can be dangerous, however Magnus’s faither saw the problem and bought up the castle, as I said before.” Tavish looked at my cottage as we passed, a smile on his lips. “Still remember when the Clunes lived there,” clearing his throat. “The McGreevys came and squatted on the edge of the fens, across from the McKinneys. There’s a road leading up tae both families’ dwellings beyond the village a ways, Magnus and his faither tried several times tae evict them. They always come back. I think as long as they bide the law in Markinch, Magnus leaves them alone.”
I nodded at the old man, not sure where this tale might lead, he continued. “Some might think I’m a traitor fur saying this, there’s only Beth and her two sons, Roth and Levy, up there these days. The b
oys are always up tae some mischief, mostly cattle rustling, though they keep from stealing folk in Markinch’s sheep. They tend nae tae bring trouble tae the village. I’ve never heard of them working a still, it’s possible they caused the mischief the other night.”
Halting, I waited for Tavish to turn and wait for me before continuing. “Do you have any proof the McGreevys even own a still or are in the area? Has anyone from the village been up there?”
Tavish fidgeted for a minute under my hard stare, taking a deep breath. “Couple of folk reckon they saw them out in the woods before ye came tae Markinch. They tend tae stay away from the village. There are a few folk around who would like tae hae a less than couthy word tae them. If ye want tae find them the best option is tae talk tae Beth. Ye will need tae be mighty persuasive though.”
Nodding at Tavish to continue walking, I thought for a few minutes. “Thank you for telling me of your suspicions. Tavish, I know it can be hard to trust strangers when you have lived in a small community your whole life.” My wife’s tribe remained insular for protection and, considering the devastation my presence allowed. I cannot blame them.
“Nae all folk in Markinch hates the Sassenachs, Captain.” Tavish waved to a middle-aged woman standing in front of the first cottage as we walked into the village. “Some of us, the Clunes included, benefited from the Sassenach civil war. I think we would rather excel in enterprise than dabble in politics, the latter brings nothing but misery and disappointment, look at Logan.”
“Politics is power.” I opened the door to the Thistle and Tavish walked smartly through. The taproom looked the same as the other night, with fewer patrons before noon. “The world is changing, even the lowly barber practices politics in Boston and everyone seems to have a say in the papers. Soon England and Scotland will be the same way.”
“Ordinary men politicking, and making decisions fur the whole country.” Tavish laughed and slapped me on the back. “Nae say it, we best leave our betters tae decide our fates and leave the rest of us tae get on with what we know. Like making the finest Scotch in all of the Highlands and consequently the world.”
Scotch Rising Page 10