Scotch Rising

by S. J. Garland

  “You might not be able to hide up here forever.” I waited in front of the wooden bar for the landlord to finish speaking with a couple of men seated at a table in the corner.

  “Every day I pray for two things.” Tavish threw the words over his shoulder as he nodded to two men. “One, the good Lord will give us an honest and true brew and the other is fur nae trouble tae come tae Markinch and change our lives. We are simple folk.”

  I watched Tavish greet the other two men and sit at the table. He was correct. I would not want to see trouble come to the town. Yet the possibility of an illegal still and Mr Turner’s role in the deaths of two men made it impossible not to involve the English authorities. I would have to report my findings carefully.

  After taking Tavish’s order, the landlord stepped back behind the bar. “Captain, a pleasure tae see ye looking well after yer accident.” He smiled and I tried not to look uncomfortable. “Yer trunks arrived from London this morning and I sent the boys up with them. They forgot tae take these with them.” He rummaged through a stack of post.

  “Thank you, I am much obliged, I am going to need my winter coat sooner than anticipated.” I tried to make conversation. The other man only grunted and finally smiled handing over two envelopes, one with the tight, angular script of Colonel Manners, the other the wildly smudged hand of Mr Wick.

  “Ye must be a popular man, two letters in one day.” The landlord thumped the bar and I noticed a broadsheet with the Royal Society banner across the top. “Only the Clunes and Deoch receive two letters in one day.”

  “As these are the only two men in the country who might write to me. I doubt if it will be a regular occurrence.” I did not think any of my army comrades would write after my hasty departure and Hania could not write. I pointed at the Royal Society sheet. “I believe that might be mine too.”

  The landlord inspected the paper and pulled it from another pile, looking up into my expectant face, he frowned. “I dinnae think so, Captain, this definitely has another destination, however if ye would enjoy having a quick look before the owner comes.” He handed the sheet across the bar.

  The door to the taproom opened and closed. I ignored the newcomer and set to reading the headlines from the latest Royal Society news. An extensive article on Antoine van Leeuwenhoek’s single-cell organisms took up almost half the page along with some pretty drawings and a preview of the Society’s next experiment. A working replica of Otto von Guericke’s vacuum pumps, took up the rest.

  “It is good tae see ye looking so well, Captain.” A female voice interrupted my thoughts, lilting in a familiar Scottish brogue, it haunted my feverish dreams. “Hae ye found something of interest from my Royal Society paper?”

  Bright green eyes inspected my face, taking in every line and smudge of fatigue before arching a brow. She must know of my escape. “Your Society paper. I was not aware you had an interest in such matters.” I did not hand the paper over. Instead I brought it closer to my chest for protection.

  “I dinnae think our disastrous dinner conversation revealed much of my interests, Captain.” She took a deep breath. “Only my ignorance, I can only apologise again fur insulting ye at my faither’s table. It was nae well done of me.”

  Sheepishly offering her the broadsheet. “It is I who should be making amends. I was rude. I wanted to have an argument over my late wife and you handed me the perfect opening.” I bowed slightly. “Please forgive my rudeness, anything you may have said after is forgiven as one of my saviours.”

  A light blush stained her cheeks where a row of freckles marched across in quiet unison. She blinked several times. I realised the woman who stood before me must receive few compliments. I smiled down at her and resisted the urge to touch the skin exposed between her glove and sleeve as she reached for the sheet. “It is nae great matter.” She quietly remarked after clearing her throat and staring pointedly at my chest. “Freya is the most skilled at healing, with those four boys, it’s nae wonder. I truly only helped her fur a brief time.” Looking up again, I saw a blush creep into her hairline. “She managed the tough bits.”

  Frowning at her reaction, I let her tug the broadsheet out of my grip. She looked at the innkeeper, who appeared to be just as shocked over her unusual response. He handed her the small pile of correspondence. She fumbled with the envelopes and they dropped to the floor. With a curse, she bent to pick them up. I was quicker, even after my illness. I held them out to her. Her eyes darted and briefly held mine, before grabbing the offending envelopes from my hand, careful not to touch me, dipping a curtsey. “Captain, I bid ye a good day.” She nodded at the landlord and tried to leave the taproom with as much haste as possible, skirts swirling.

  The landlord and I watched the door close with some force. The windows rattled for a moment, he looked pointedly at me, a sliver of suspicion mounting in his brown eyes as he took in my surprised expression. “Never seen the lass behave in such a manner, wonder what it might have to do with?”

  “Female vapours.” I shrugged, who knew the contents of a woman’s mind? Certainly not a man, the landlord eyed me sceptically. “Thank you once again for sending my baggage on to the cottage, please pass on my thanks to your boys.” I turned and tried to catch Tavish’s eye, however he appeared to be having an intense discussion with the other two men.

  “Captain,” he shouted across the room, before I stepped out of the inn. “Hae yerself a good day and mind what I said.” The old man ignored the looks he received from his companions. “Stay out of the fens at night and get a damned guide if ye go venturing through during the day.” The men beside him nodded sagely.

  I tried to smile and be grateful for the advice, ducked my head to escape the rest of the scrutiny. Outside flakes of snow began to fall rapidly from the perpetually slate grey sky. A wind picking up from the north burned its way through my coat and leggings. Kieran had correctly predicted the storm, how he could have possibly guessed was beyond my knowledge. Wrapping myself tighter into the folds of my thin coat. I turned and headed back to the warmth of the cottage, both letters tucked safely into an inside pocket, hopefully Freya would not have missed me and prepared a meal.

  Chapter 8

  I decided to take advantage of a break in the weather. After my investigations yesterday and Tavish’s information on the McGreevys. My recovering body forced me to rest. No need for Freya to harangue me to sleep. I spent the rest of the afternoon dozing in front of the fire in the drawing room. Alternatively reading over my correspondence and making an attempt to decipher some of the mathematical codes Mr Turner had left behind. I made only slight progress, whether the reason lies in its complexity or my ignorance. I can only guess. Feeling stronger today, with at least a foot of snow crunching under my boots, my warm wolfskin over my shoulders. I felt I could take on anything the Highlands could possibly throw at me, satisfied in possessing the right tools.

  The courtyard behind the inn remained empty, people would try to stay inside for as long as possible today. A quick check of the sky determined more snow would be on its way before long. Guilt washed over me as I opened the door to the barn, the air a fraction warmer inside. It looked clean and smelled of sweet hay, a good sign. I had been a poor owner to Tasunke, not checking on his condition since the accident. I walked down the row of stalls. The barn large enough to hold at least twenty horses comfortably, yet only a few of the stalls possessed beasts. I spied my loyal friend at the end of the filled stalls. He bobbed his head in steadfast greeting.

  Removing my glove, I squeezed my hand through the bars, a lump of sugar in my palm, a small peace offering. Poor Tasunke had whinnied and stamped through his passage from Boston, the ocean no place for a horse. He protested and shied away from London’s crowds. Now I neglected him in the wilds of Scotland. He eyed me with a bit of suspicion, before delicately taking the treat with his big lips, good old Tasunke. His nature did not allow him to hold a grudge for long. I gave him a good pat on the side of his neck before searching the stables
for my riding gear.

  I enjoyed the simple pleasure of brushing him down. Removing the burrs from his mane. The smell from the oil used on the leather to keep it supple calmed my nerves. This is something I knew how to accomplish, it did not involve complicated relationships with people, between Tasunke and me, no secrets existed. Leading him out of the barn, a light snow commenced once again. I took a second to rethink my decision. I needed to carry on with the mission. I mounted, turning Tasunke from the yard and down the road, searching for the path leading to the McKinney and McGreevy dwellings.

  The way turned out to be little more than a lane between two houses in the village. I missed it the first time, and needed to turn back after realizing I was heading for Aberdeen. After a few passes, I determined this could be the only path north. It skirted the edge of the fens. Tasunke, sure-footed, longhaired beast, picked his way unhurriedly through the snow. No urgency propelled either of us forward, we enjoyed the lightly falling flakes, the silence, our own thoughts, much time passed since we enjoyed the luxury. After at least an hour the path ended, to the left and right lay further road. I knew from Freya, one led to the McKinneys and one led to the McGreevys. In my haste to be away from the house, I forgot to ask her which side each lived on. I would have to take a guess and be prepared to face either circumstance, the wife and mother of the slain men, or the mother of two outlaws.

  In the end, I took my queue from Tasunke, who sidled to the left slightly while resting, as effective as flipping a coin. A mile or so up another road. Found us standing in front of a small cottage and barn, smoke rising lazily into the snowing sky. At least there might be someone home. I dismounted a few feet from the cottage and led Tasunke towards a hitching post under the eaves of the cottage. When the door opened, a woman wrapped in a tartan came to stand on the front porch. A rifle in her hand pointed directly at my chest.

  “State yer name and business.” The woman shouted, her gaze and aim steady. Unfortunately, from the welcome, I could not guess which of the women this might be. “Dinnae get many visitors up here, nor less strangers, ye must be bringing trouble.”

  Holding up my gloved hands in a sign of surrender, careful not to let the reigns fall through my fingers, “Madam, I am the new excise collector from London, I have travelled up here to ask you a few questions.” I could not add any further information until I could be sure which lady I spoke with.

  The lady blew air out her nose and did not lower the rifle. “Nae many Sassenach around. I suppose, and even less who would admit tae being the gauger.” She looked up at the sky and sniffed. “Ye better come in out of the cold. Try anything I dinnae like and I will shoot ye, I’ve been told I’ve got great aim.”

  Quickly tying the reins and making sure Tasunke stood out of the weather, I slowly stepped into the cottage and closed the door behind me. I found myself in the kitchen and walked over to the stove to warm my cold hands. “Welcome tae the McKinneys.’” The woman’s voice shook slightly, “I am Agnes McKinney. I suppose I should thank ye fur finding my men.”

  I studied the top of the stove for a full minute. The heavy iron solid, this simple machine the heart of this cottage. It would have seen good times and witnessed hard scenes between family members. Now reduced to one. Dread filled me as I turned and looked into the grief ravaged face of Agnes McKinney. To lose one’s family was to lose one’s soul. I studied her profile. Agnes had endured weeks of agonizing nights and days filled with torment. She would have questioned all the small and large things her husband might have said, sifted for clues in her son’s actions, needing to know what might have befallen them. Hoping they might have run away instead of dying on the fens.

  All I seemed to do in this village was make apologies. “Agnes, I hope I can call you by your given name. I have come to extend my condolences, not only as the man who found them, but also as a representative of the English authority in the village.” I took a deep breath. “I did not know them, yet they have my sympathies as I became close in sharing their unmarked grave.”

  Agnes set the rifle on the table, and going to a cupboard. She pulled out a bottle of Scotch, two glasses and a plate of oat biscuits. I took her invitation to sit and she poured me a glass. “Beathan came round tae tell me the news, I was up at the kirk when ye came through.” A sad smile turned one of the corners of her mouth up. “Ye sure know how tae cause a ruckus, Captain. Faither Tadgh remained up in arms fur the rest of the morning.”

  “The father certainly has a way of making his beliefs known.” I took a sip of the Scotch. Made only a mile or two from Deoch, yet I tasted a subtle difference. I studied the amber liquid, trying to gather my thoughts, never being good with delicate situations. “I have also come up here today to ask some questions concerning Rupert and Everett’s last movements.”

  The woman nodded, drank off the rest of her portion and poured another one. Agnes did not appear to have any of the telling marks of one who drank heavily regularly, the alcohol ageing a person. Rather she looked to be clumsily comforting the wounds left by her men’s absence. “I can tell ye what I told Beathan. I know it was Mr Turner. I can feel it in my soul,” her dark eyes burned with fury.

  No preamble, no complex questions to try and coax her suspicions from her, the accusation lay flat on the table. “I have been told by several sources you have some suspicions against Mr Turner. I need to know how you came by them. If he became involved with your husband and son in some way and is responsible for their deaths, the English authorities must be made aware.”

  Her face crumbled slightly and I looked away, uncomfortable in her projection of emotion. I looked back once she began to speak. “I dinnae see what can come of it now. My boys are dead. He is dead, all is fur naught.” She drank down half the contents of her glass and tried to calm her breathing, taking long deep breaths. “Maybe something could hae been done, I dinnae know.” She splayed her hands onto the worn wood of the table. “In the spring, we began getting our grain from another supplier. At first the farmer would bring it intae Deoch fur grinding and we would pick up the sacks there. It worked fine. Until the farmer told us he could get the grinding done fur cheaper down south and bring up the finished product, ready for the malting. We are a small still, as ye can see. We need tae save money where we can and Rupert thought it would be best. So we stopped going tae Deoch. Mr Turner thought there might be something odd going on. He came up and inspected our barn several times. He never found anything, because there was nothing tae find, I would hae known if Rupert and Everett operated another still.”

  If the men kept another still, Agnes McKinney never knew of it. I could tell she spoke the truth, no lie marred her brow or coloured her eyes. “I understand Mr Turner also went through all your books and never found anything either,” I prompted.

  “Aye, went through and wrote down all the buyers in Edinburgh and Glasgow, in order tae make sure they existed.” Lindsay shrugged her shoulders and leaned back in the chair. “Though I dinnae know why he’d bother, the tax is paid on the amount made. We never tried tae cheat him, nae on the amount sold. It’s up tae us tae sell what we make. Who cares who is buying the end product as long as it sells?”

  Her reasoning correct, where could Mr Turner’s enquiries have led after taking down the addresses of buyers? As long as the McKinneys paid their tax on the amount made. How could it make a difference over the amount sold? “I do not want to intrude on your sympathy for much longer. Yet I hope you might give me the addresses Mr Turner was interested in. Perhaps there is some clue we are missing.”

  Sighing, Agnes studied my profile for a full minute, before heavily standing from the chair. She walked into another room and stayed away for long enough I thought she might have forgotten my presence. When she returned, my Scotch glass stood empty. Holding a slip of paper out, she said. “Here are the addresses, dinnae know what help they can be.”

  I accepted the paper with as much graciousness as I could muster. After all, this woman buried her men last evening. �
��I do not want to be indelicate, only I need to know for tax purposes. Will you carry on running the still without Everett and Rupert?”

  “Need tae eat and put a roof over my head.” Agnes watched me stand and adjust my coat, the fur overly warm in the kitchen. “I hae a widow cousin coming up from the south tae help me. I will send word once we hae the still going again.”

  Facing her in front of the door, I gave her a deep bow, far too extravagant for the social encounter and her place in it. However, I needed to convey my sorrow. Her life already one full of hardships would only become a greater burden without her husband and son. “A good day to you and I look forward to seeing you again.” The words swallowed by her grief.

  The door to the cottage shut, I waited a moment or two before pulling the fur over my baldhead, the better to keep it warm. I walked over to where Tasunke stood silently, under the eaves. I wiped cold slush from his rump and dried the saddle before easing my frame into it, now to the McGreevys.

  Concentrating on the landscape, I tried to shake off the rawness of Agnes’s grief. Her feelings were new. My own grief felt faded in comparison, the immediate pain had eased, I realised with shock. I accepted Onatah’s death. A momentary panic filled my heart. Soon I would move on, I could not let go, this grief defined me.

  After passing the main road, I continued to follow the path on the opposite side, the way not as smooth as the McKinneys’. Tasunke’s steps grew more cautious as he slipped in a couple of potholes stumbling. Reviving me from my efforts to dive into the pain of my loss and wrap it around my person. I halted his progress and dismounted, taking the reins. I walked him forward, scuffing the ground with my boots, looking for danger and soon a rustic cottage and barn appeared in a small clearing littered with all manner of refuse.