“Beathan, have you found anything of importance since this morning?” I did not think I missed anything, yet a closer inspection might bring a clue. I remained unconvinced of Logan’s guilt and suicide.
The other man shook his big head and let out a long breath before answering. “The only new circumstance is someone spreading a tale the English Militia are coming from the south tae enslave us. We need tae band together with the rest of our Highlands folk tae repel them. I can nae stress how bad this rumour could be fur business.”
“I heard on my way here, and all I could do is reiterate what I said the previous evening. With this new development.” I paused because I knew the story behind Logan’s death could not be true somehow, yet I could not prove it. “Markinch should be safe with the killer dead,” I heard the flatness in my tone.
“Right, well, once the men get back tae work tomorrow, all will be well. Too much idle time breeds trouble.” Scratching his chin, he went on. “Perhaps we will shorten the break next year.” He eyed my clothes. “Are ye off somewhere, Captain?”
“Yes, I am going up to the hermit’s cave.” Beathan frowned in disapproval, and I continued in order to explain myself. “I have a lead I need to follow. It is important.”
“I dinnae know who would send ye on an errand all the way up there at this time of year.” I could see Beathan tried to be persuasive. “They are nae friend tae ye, Captain. It is dangerous. I dinnae even know a body from Markinch who might walk all the way up there.”
Tired of everyone telling me what I could and could not do in Markinch, using my various near brushes with death as an example I bit out. “Someone tried to kill me last night and a couple of weeks ago. I know it could not have been Logan last night and I will have it from the McGreevys’ own lips if they are responsible. Justice will be served.” I turned on my heel, walked out of the room and slammed the door, unmindful of any watching eyes.
Chapter 16
Striding through the main doors out of the church. I bullied my way around the men standing in groups. They might have nestled under my skin upon entrance, however my black look sent them scurrying out of the way with quick steps. A couple even doffed their caps at me. I did not think I normally acted the bully. I will admit to being secretly pleased with the deference. An action I had yet to experience in Markinch, respect for my position and abilities. My crimes may have been great in Boston, yet none doubted my skill at fighting and tracking. Here I remained only another southerner, a Sassenach who could not make it in the wilds of the Highlands.
I walked briskly out of the gate, ignoring Tavish as he came up the road. Turning on my heel, I made my way towards the castle. Searching for a road or path leading around the stone building. I would not ask for anyone’s help. Upon reaching the gates of the castle, I looked around the road on both sides. Snow and ice covered most of the ground and in frustration I chose a side and began to walk over the uneven ground. The moccasins might be quiet and warm. But they did not have the grip of my riding boots and I slipped several times. Cursing under my breath each time, hoping none were watching my haphazard progress.
Reaching the left side of the castle, I turned and followed the wall. The snow remained much more shallow on this side. Probably due to the wind commonly blowing from the other direction. I made quick progress to the rear of the castle. I spied the midden heap rising from the ground in a large conical shape. The castles refuse pile. I wrinkled my nose and gave it a wide birth while looking for signs of a trail leading north.
I found a door in the wall on the other side of the rubbish. I made an assumption a trail might lead from there. I scanned the ground for any signs of footprints or animal prints leading away from the castle. The place between my shoulder blades itched. I was conscious of the many windows looking down on the rear of the castle. Anyone could be watching from those castle windows, mocking my efforts. I kept going, pride fuelling my feet.
More by chance than skill on my own part. I found a bridle path, wide enough for a person or a horse to walk in single file. I followed it carefully, scuffing snow from it every now and again in order to make sure I did not stray too far. After a mile or so, the terrain became much steeper. I could see the edge of the forest, where the fens ended. I made haste to the cover. As I felt exposed on the fens. With the first of the trees, I stopped and turned to survey the route from the castle. It winded through the marshland, the castle in the distance. I calculated I must have walked for at least an hour and a half, making good progress.
Slipping a waterproof bag from over my shoulder, I scanned the forest ahead. The trees grew fairly densely, yet the trunks were not nearly as thick as those I had encountered in the New World. It would take skill and patience to hide among these skinny obstructions. Under the trees where the snow fell lightest, the trail continued north. I pushed the stopper into the water container. Took a deep breath and began to climb through the woods. A feeling of safety and comfort stole over me, the trees comfortable companions, enclosing me within the space of the forest, rather than the harshness of the fens. Which gave a feeling of infinite wasteland, where every step could be fraught with danger.
I worried I might have taken the wrong path when the sound of water caught my ear. I followed it to the edge of a steep embankment. The edge soft with lose dirt and exposed tree roots. I tried to keep away from the lip, while inspecting the stream. The water around the edges made shelves of ice on either side. The stream flowed too quickly for it to become completely frozen. Chasing the water up the canyon, it appeared to follow a path deeply cut into the earth, the banks remained high on either side with no trail.
Cursing under my breath, I rejoined the footpath. I hoped to use the stream as we did in the New World. As a path leading us around the known trails, hiding our passage. I did not want to take the only route up to the hermit’s cave, if the McGreevys happened to be waiting for me, a flintlock in hand. The way became even steeper until the trail turned into a switchback and my breath became more laboured under the stress of effort. Aware I needed to try and conceal my presence for as long as possible. I crouched as I turned blind corners, hoping to catch anyone waiting off-guard.
The incline began to even out and I stopped, my back resting on one of the large boulders. Taking out a couple of paper cartridges. I primed both of the flintlocks. Whatever met me at the hermit’s cave. I would be ready. I might go down, yet I hoped I would not be alone. I took the first corner and jumped around, legs braced and pistols primed and found another corner. With a sigh of disappointment, I walked to the end of the visible path and waited. Heart thumping with excitement. I felt the familiar rise of nervous anticipation infuse my body. It made a lump in my throat. I once again launched myself around the wall of rock, to find success, the entrance of a cave.
None stood in the opening. I would not take any chances. In one move, I crouched and turned pressing my back against the wall on the right side of the cave, clearing my throat. “Come on out, boys. There is only one other way out of this cave and it involves a drop and a bath.”
Nothing, not a single noise to indicate another person’s presence. I waited a minute more and peered inside the gloom of the cave. I could make out stationary shapes, however the only way to prove my lack of company meant exploring further. I remained in my crouched position, better to make a smaller target. I replaced one of the flintlocks with a tomahawk. It had much more use in close quarters than hand-to-hand fighting, as well as being a weapon neither of the boys would have come across.
The cave smelled dank, as did most others I had explored in my time. Another smell pervaded the clammy air. Something I knew every well. After walking through the four yards of the cave, to the end. Where water fell in great icy sheets. I realised I remained alone, for the moment. Weak light filtered through the water and I stuffed the flintlock into the front of my belt and used the tomahawk to pry open the lid on one of the wooden crates. The cave was too dark to read the writing printed in black paint along the sid
e.
Letting out a low breath, I searched through the faintly damp hay inside the box until my fingers found what my mind did not want to believe. I pulled a flintlock musket from the box and, from a quick inspection. I could see it was new. I smelled the flintlock ignition, never been fired. I set it back into the box, fixing the lid back into place. Each casket might carry a dozen or so weapons. I looked around the cave and counted at least thirty boxes of guns, enough to arm a highly trained force that could carry out highly effective raids.
A sick feeling filled the pit of my stomach, much more than an illegal still operated in Markinch. I may have uncovered a true conspiracy to aid Francis Stuart to the throne. Someone in Markinch with money and resources lay behind this scheme. I stumbled to the entrance of the cave. My head felt light and I needed some air. On the way, I passed several stacks of smaller boxes. From the smell I knew they carried the new paper cartridges, enough gunpowder and ball to arm a secret militia.
At the cave’s entrance, I took several deep breaths. Hoping to dispel the feeling of stupidity now closing in on my consciousness. This scheme appeared to have been in operation for months, and I never realised. The conspirators would have been operating under my nose. How many were involved? Could I trust anyone in the village?
The sound of a lock clicking into place made me freeze for a moment. With as much speed as possible, I brought my own flintlock up to face the new arrival. A second of relief passed when I realised Beathan stood in the narrow entrance to the lane. He did not lower his weapon, and military instinct drove me to keep my own held aloft until the danger passed. Whether it came from friend or foe.
“Ye shouldnae come up here, Captain.” Beathan’s voice grinded out. He looked hard. None of the previous friendliness I had come to expect from him lit his features. “Now we hae a problem.”
Cold realization gripped my heart. It felt as if I could not breathe for a moment. Betrayal from strangers I knew well, however, the same from someone I considered a friend, inconceivable. “Beathan.” I gave a short bark of nervous laughter. “I think we must have stumbled into a situation requiring explanation. Surely not everything is as it appears?”
“Ye know fur an army captain. A highly decorated one, I made inquiries ye might be interested in knowing.” Beathan half-smiled without warmth, remaining cold, calculating. “Ye are a naïve fool when it comes tae folk. Ye really hae nae clue.”
Concentrating on Beathan’s stance, the way he held his weapon. I knew I needed to keep him talking. “Tell me you know nothing of the weapons in this cave. You mean to destroy them, for all your talk of Logan being a fool for supporting the Stuarts. I cannot believe it of you.”
“I suppose ye can nae believe it, someone born tae privilege. Yer own uncle, though ye dinnae say a word, is a very wealthy and powerful peer. Did ye believe ye could ever escape it?” Beathan frowned at me. “The belief in yer superior breeding infuses everything ye do and why ye do it. Just as it did the lads when I attended college.”
“Come now, Beathan. We are friends. I make no secret of my past.” The lie did not fall easily from my lips and Beathan sneered. “I have never played Lord of the Manor with you. I am here as the tax collector. A lowlier position in any village could not be held, or more hated.”
“A runaway lordling, disgraced soldier come gauger. I suppose we hae more in common than I previously thought.” Beathan levelled his weapon at my head. I did likewise, at his heart. “I hae powerful friends, Captain. Men counting on me tae support Francis Stuart when he makes his triumphant return tae Scotland and conquers England. There is nae going back fur me.”
“Everyone has a choice.” I said slowly. The fanatic look in Beathan’s eye struck me as the same I saw in Logan’s eyes the night he died. What was this strange loyalty the old pretender conjured? “We could destroy the weapons and inform Colonel Manners of the conspirators. You might be dealt with leniently.”
“It is far too late fur comprises and promises, Captain.” Beathan’s grip on the flintlock remained steady. His voice shook. “I hae committed terrible deeds fur these weapons, fur my loyalty tae Scotland. Who do ye believe killed the McKinneys and Turner? Logan Markinch? The man full of bravado and words, I am a man of action. Someone who has done something fur the cause.”
Intent on saving my own skin, any shock over his admission was lost. A part of me acknowledged it as a mundane reality. “Why did you kill the McKinneys?”
“Daft buggers wanted out.” Beathan sighed for the first time and regret passed through his eyes for a moment. “I knew the Turret struggled tae meet its debts. They made guid Scotch however. They never sold their entire product. I came in and offered them a deal. I would pay fur their grain, in return they would operate a portable still and nae ask any questions.” He sighed. “They soon realised I traded the Scotch fur weapons. They felt the noose around their necks. I took them out tae the fens and killed them both.”
I listened to the hardening of Beathan’s voice. He may not have come to his decision to be a murderer easily, yet he became accustomed to it over time. “Why Turner? Surely a clerk turned taxman could not endanger you. He spent most of his time puzzling over maths equations.”
“Someone put a bug in his ear over the McKinneys’ new grain suppliers,” Beathan shook his head. “He asked tae many questions and came tae close tae the truth. In the end he gave me nae choice, damned fool, as ye give me nae choice now, Captain, ye know tae much.”
I blinked several times. “It was you out on the fens when I went to investigate the explosion. You followed and shot me, you bastard. I would guess it was also you last night. If not for slipping on the ice you would have killed me. As you did Logan.” The hand holding the flintlock never wavered.
The grim smile Beathan wore turned into a grimace. “Yer a damned lucky man, Captain. I only wanted tae scare ye, give ye a warning, yet for all the trouble ye kept up yer pursuit. Last evening after returning from yer cottage with Turner’s diary, I knew I had the perfect opportunity tae rid myself of yer damned nosy presence. Foiled again, how many lives could one man hae? I guess we shall find out now.”
Thinking frantically, I spoke. “The death of the second tax man in as many months will bring the English down on your head, Beathan. Do you think you can escape their wrath?” Calculating a moment, I used the one piece of information I knew of which he must not be aware. “You killed their spy and they will come looking for answers.”
Beathan searched my face, confused. “Spy fur the English in Markinch? I do nae believe it. Everyone has lived here fur more years than I can count, we hardly hae any newcomers. Ye are only trying to spin this confrontation out longer. I can nae blame ye in wanting live fur a few more short moments.”
“I am not lying, someone has been feeding my superior information from the happenings of Markinch. Someone who I now realise knew what you might be up to and reported it to him.” With no idea if it might be true or not. I spun the lie. Logan might have shared his suspicions with Manners.
“Logan.” Beathan spat the other man’s name out. “Should hae guessed he would be a traitor. His whole family were traitors. Trying tae profit from the English. It is nae matter.” He straightened. “We are at a stalemate, we shall each fire. Perhaps we will both be killed.”
Lifting my chin, I forced a smile. “Death for me would be as comforting as falling into my mother’s arms.” I trained the flintlock on his chest, my hand never wavering.
I watched the other man hesitate. I could take him now my rational mind thought. There remained a small chance of escaping a life threatening injury. After all Beathan revealed, I needed to give him another chance. I opened my mouth to speak and he cut me off abruptly.
“I am nae a coward, Captain. I am a businessman. Perhaps there is something or someone I might offer ye in return fur yer loyalty?” Beathan’s insinuation brought a sickening feeling to my stomach. “Ye hae nae love of the English Militia, yer practically a traitor already after attacking
them. Join us, we will need experienced military men tae fight, and perhaps my sister could be persuaded intae yer arms.”
“You would sell Phil to me for my loyalty?” I spat the words out, my honour affronted. Phil’s respectability lay bare between us. Here Beathan proved he could never be the man I thought he was. I sniffed. “You are a great actor, sir, however I am not. I may not have much respect for the English and their methods. I would never betray them. As for Phil, I would never do her the dishonour of forcing her to be my bride out of some traitorous deal with her murdering brother. You are not the man I thought you.” I took a deep breath. “Prepare to test your mettle,” I clicked the lock back, ready to strike the flint.
Phil came barrelling around the corner in the next instant. Another second and I would have pulled the trigger and Beathan his, our stalemate over. However, Phil looked around Beathan’s shoulder with wide eyes fixed on the flintlock. “What the devil! Put down yer weapons!”
The demand went unanswered, I could tell by her rosy cheeks and heavy breath she must have made the journey as quickly as possible. I could not fathom any reason bringing her up here. Now I only wanted her gone, my stomach tightened at the thought of standing over her lifeless body. The image almost brought me to my knees.
“Get the hell out of here, Phil.” I shouted the words, infused them with as much authority as I could. “This is none of your affair. Leave this place and do not look back, you understand me?”
Unfortunately her years of bucking all authority made her oblivious to my demands and she tried to step around Beathan. Who saw his opportunity, reached behind him with his free hand and grabbed the front of her tartan, pulled her in front of him.
“Are ye going tae let another woman die under yer watch, Captain?” Beathan smiled grimly and pointed his flintlock at Phil’s temple. For a moment she remained shocked into stillness.
Scotch Rising Page 23