Tom felt curiously detached from proceedings – what was life, after all? Feeling the hangman’s hand on his shoulder, he turned towards the ladder . . .
“Thomas, Thomas,” cried a voice and rough hands shook him by the shoulder. Tom awoke with a start, blinking in the light of a candle held close to his face. Relief that he had only been dreaming was swiftly followed by despair as reality came flooding back and he recognised his father’s voice.
“Get up, Tom, we’re going hame.”
The remnants of his dream still clung to Tom’s consciousness as, dazed, he stumbled after his father through the open cell door and along the grim passageway, past the grinning old gaoler. “Ye’ll be back soon, laddie,” he called as father and son went out into the bustling street where Bob waited with the family coach.
“How...?” he asked his father as soon as they were under way.
“Dinnae speir ower much, my lad. Let’s just say these lodges are handy, whiles. I went tae the sheriff as soon as I heard and he’s released ye intae my custody, for a week.”
“A week?”
“Aye, nae mair, an’ ye’re no’ tae leave hame nor gang oot without a member o’ the household wi’ ye.”
“What guid can that dae? They may as weel hang me noo and be finished wi’ it.”
Tom’s voice rose on a note of despair and he clutched at his neck, where he fancied he felt the noose tighten.
“Wheesht, noo, son,” said Sir Malcolm. “We’ll talk when ye’ve eaten.”
*
That afternoon there was a family conference at Barnessie House. Ranged round the table were Sir Malcolm and Lady Margaret, David, Tom, Bob and Alison Fleming, who had come earlier to discuss Lady Margaret’s new gown and who had stayed to eat with the family. Tom had asked that she be allowed to take part in their discussion and his parents, who were impressed by Alison’s calm wisdom, had readily agreed.
Under skilful questioning by his lawyer father Tom told his tale in detail, including the smuggling and ending with the discovery of Richard Cunningham’s body and his subsequent arrest. The others listened in silence. When he had finished, Sir Malcolm added, “As I tellt the sheriff, my son’s maybe a gormless young gowk but he’s nae murderer. I think he was inclined tae agree, for he’s gi’en us a week tae try and find the culprit.”
“Is that no’ the sheriff ’s job?” asked David.
“Aye, but he disnae ken the folk involved, nor the circumstances an’ he’d be glad o’ oor help, even if we’re biased towards Tom. He says he’ll be the judge o’ what we find, an’ if we’re nae further forward by next Saturday, Tom will be back in gaol. It maybe disnae seem like it, but it’s a big favour he’s daein’ us.”
“But we’ve nae mair idea than the sheriff wha the culprit is,” said Tom.
“That’s why we’re having this discussion,” said his sire patiently. “We need tae consider cui bono? – who stands tae profit from Richard Cunningham’s death.”
“Kennedy and the smugglers,” said David promptly. “They’d ken Mr Cunningham was working late and that the office was open. Forbye, it’s weel kent Adam Kennedy’s a ruthless man.”
“But why noo?” asked Tom. “The smuggling seems tae have gone on for years and Mr Cunningham might even have been in on it. That’s why I went tae see him; tae be clear aboot it.”
“We’ll never ken noo if he was in on it or no’,” said his father. “We’ll say the Kennedy crew had the means and the opportunity and probably a motive, even if it’s no’ a very strong one.”
Tom suddenly remembered Richard Cunningham’s words as he left the previous evening.
“Mr Cunningham said he was staying late because there was something in the accounts that didnae add up.”
“So it could be to do wi’ the smuggling,” said Sir Malcolm, “but I reckon he must hae suspected long since that it went on and turned a blind eye, either because it suited him or because they were threatening him. If Kennedy did it, we need tae find oot what had changed that made him turn tae murder.”
“I’ve just remembered something else,” said Tom. “When we were leaving, he said his wife was coming by later on.”
“Did he noo?” said his father softly. “What time was that?”
“Mungo an’ me, we left at six, an’ when I went back it was near ten o’clock.”
“So she could hae gone there and left again. We’d need tae ask her if she saw anything,” said Lady Margaret.
Her husband hesitated, then said, “Unless she did it.”
There were gasps of shock around the table. The idea seemed monstrous. Tom tried to picture fastidious, elegant Isabelle Cunningham wielding a knife but his imagination baulked at the idea.
“Nevertheless, we have tae consider every possibility,” said Sir Malcolm. “Tom. I ken it’s hard for ye, but could ye describe what the body looked like?”
Tom hesitated. “There’s ladies here,” he muttered.
His mother and Alison hastily assured him that he need have no qualms on their account, and Tom described the position of the body and the wounds, leaving out the part which preyed most on his mind, the blood.
“This then was no cold-blooded murder,” opined Sir Malcolm. “It was a frenzied attack by someone in a towering rage. We cannae rule out a “crime passionnel.”
“But would Mrs Cunningham hae the strength tae dae it?” asked Davie.
Tom remembered helping Isabelle dismount the day of her previous visit to the offices and the surprisingly strong grip of her hands. Yes, she probably was physically capable of the crime.
“A woman in a rage can be gey strang,” said his father, with a glance at his wife. “Ye mind thon time I forgot tae tak my boots off and got glaur a’ ower the new carpet. Ye fairly dinged me then.”
Lady Margaret cleared her throat but said nothing. Alison and she exchanged a sympathetic glance.
“If they’d quarrelled aboot something she could hae done it,” said David. “Wha kens the secrets o’ a marriage?”
“Wha indeed,” said his father. There was a moment’s lull before he went on, “The sheriff tells me they havenae found the weapon. He reckons it was a knife, quite wee but very sharp, used wi’ a lot o’ force.”
Again there was silence as they tried to picture Isabelle Cunningham with a small sharp knife. Tom still couldn’t manage it.
“Wha else?” asked Sir Malcolm eventually.
“Well, there’s Mungo,” said David. “He kent the offices better nor onybody.”
“But he was wi’ us in The Plough yestreen,” protested Tom.
“Aye, but he left wi’ Rab, a while afore us. He could hae gone back tae the yard.”
“I cannae see him daein’ it. He moans aboot the work an’ aboot everybody in the yard, but he’s aye spoken wi’ great respect aboot Mr Cunningham.”
“But he was acting queer yesterday. Ye mind I said that.”
“He’s scared oot o’ his wits,” said Tom. “Ever since Kennedy saw us at Culzean he’s in mortal fear a’ the time.” Like me, he thought, then told himself to pull himself together. His family were trying to help, but he didn’t think there was much they could do. He felt the constriction round his throat again.
“We’ll need tae include him,” said Sir Malcolm. “At least till we’ve had a chance tae talk tae him. Onybody else?”
Bob spoke up for the first time.
“Maybe it wasnae onybody that kent Mr Cunningham weel. Yon’s a gey grim neighbourhood doon by the docks. It could hae been ony skellum that saw a licht an’ thocht there was gowd tae be had. Ye say yersel’ Tam, there’s a’ sorts in an’ oot o’ the warehoose cellars at nicht.”
“It’s possible,” said Sir Malcolm, “but if it was, oor chances o’ ever findin’ them arenae great.”
There was a pause while they considered the implications of this for Tom. Finally Alison, who had said nothing until then, spoke up hesitantly. “There’s one other person.”
“What’s that?” c
ried Sir Malcolm. “Speak up, lass.”
Alison looked round the table, her gaze finally resting on Tom.
“Ye said Mr Cunningham’s brither had ye arrested.”
“Aye, but . . .”
“What was he daein’ there?”
“Weel, he . . .” Tom stopped. “Ye’re right. I’ve never seen him at the warehouse before. He disnae approve o’ his brither’s trade in the demon drink.”
“But he could easily hae wanted tae see Richard on private business,” said Lady Margaret. “What kind o’ man would kill his ain brither? An’ forbye, he’s a God-fearing elder o’ the kirk.”
“Well . . .,” began Tom, then hesitated, with a look at Alison.
“It’s all right, I’ll tell them,” said she reluctantly, and related her Sabbath encounter with James Cunningham and her meeting with Bessie Gibney. The others listened in mounting shock.
“My puir lass,” said Lady Margaret simply.
“I’ve lang suspected yon man was a hypocrite,” said Sir Malcolm, “but tae kill his ain brither. Wha would dae sic a thing?”
“It happens, I fear,” said his wife. “Cain and Abel, and mony since.”
“Maybe Richard had found oot aboot his activities and threatened tae tak it tae the Session,” said David. “It would hae been the end o’ him in Ayr.”
“So he had a possible motive and certainly the opportunity,” said Sir Malcolm. “He could hae done it afore Tom arrived and come back – very fortuitously – when he saw Tom; a handy culprit for him.”
There was a pause while those around the table considered the various possibilities. Tom found it hard to believe that any of those mentioned would have killed Richard Cunningham, but somebody had.
Finally, Sir Malcolm summed up. “We hae five groups of suspects – Isabelle Cunningham, James Cunningham, Mungo, Kennedy and the smugglers, and person or persons unknown. Noo, we’ll need a plan o’ action. We’ve only got a week.”
As if I could forget, thought Tom.
Various options were discussed, and it was agreed that Bob would visit the dockside taverns and question the drinkers there, David would ask Rab Burns about Mungo’s movements and Alison would attend the kirk the next day and try to talk to James Cunningham. This last was objected to vehemently by Tom.
“Ye cannae dae that; after what he did tae you.”
“Dinna worry; I’ll mak’ sure I’m no left alane wi’ him,” said Alison. “If I show due repentance for standing up tae him he’ll maybe talk tae me.”
“Just be careful, lass,” said Sir Malcolm.
“I’ll be wi’ my faither. Cunningham’ll no dare molest me if he’s there.”
“What aboot Mrs Cunningham an’ Kennedy?” asked David.
“Maybe a social invitation?” said Lady Margaret. “I could invite Mrs Cunningham for tea – oh,” she stopped, seeing the expression on the faces around the table, “yes, I see. If she thinks my son killed her husband, she’s no likely tae accept . . .” her voice tailed off in embarrassment.
“Maybe I could help there,” said Alison. “I’ve had some orders frae her that I’ve finished and she’s been pleased. I think I could ca’ on her.”
“Ye’re daein’ a lot for us,” said Sir Malcolm.
“I dinnae like tae see injustice, an’ forbye, I’m no part o’ your family, so it’s easier for me.”
“Weel, if ye can find oot onything, we’ll a’ be in your debt.”
They agreed that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to inquire into the actions of Kennedy and the other smugglers. None of them could enter the warehouse openly and indeed, it was uncertain what the future of Richard Cunningham’s business would be.
Tom, who had been silent for a while, asked, “What aboot me? What can I dae? I cannae just sit around waitin’ for them tae come for me.”
“The sheriff says ye’re aye tae hae a member o’ the family wi’ ye an’ ye’re no’ tae leave hame,” said his father. “Forbye, I doot ye’d want tae show yer face in the toon; it’s ower dangerous.”
There was little more to be said, so Lady Margaret rang for tea. When Jeanie appeared, she brought a message.
“There’s a laddie doon in the kitchen speirin’ efter Master Tom. Red hair, plooks, mouthy..”
“That’ll be Mungo,” said Tom. “Maybe he has some news.”
He found Mungo in the stable-yard, absently kicking at one of the hitching posts. His gloomy expression brightened a little when he saw Tom.
“Tom, thank the Lord ye’re here an’ no in gaol. What’s gaun on, man? I went tae work this forenoon an’ it’s a’ tapsalteerie at the yard. They said Mr Cunningham’s deid an’ you were in the Tolbooth. I went there but they said ye’d gone. What’s happenin’?”
“Did ye come a’ this way on foot?”
“Aye, I’ve been wanderin’ aboot for a while. What’s gaun on?” he asked again.
Tom explained about finding Mr Cunningham’s body, his arrest and his father’s intervention.
“What are they sayin’ at the warehoose?” he asked.
“They’ll no talk tae me. Kennedy has closed up the yard an’ he said he’d slit my throat for me if I showed up there again. What am I gonnae dae, Tom? He looked murderous. I’m in mortal fear, I tell ye, man.”
“It’s me they suspect,” said Tom. “Surely they’ll leave you alone, noo.”
“There’s still the smuggling. I ken ower much aboot that. They’ll kill me an’ dump me in the river if I gang back there again. Please, Tom, can I bide here for a bit?”
Tom hesitated. He could see that Mungo was in an even greater state of terror than before, but on the other hand, he was a suspect. But again, perhaps it was better to have him here, where they could watch and perhaps question him.
“Ye’re no feart I’m the murderer?” he asked.
“Naw,” said Mungo at once. “Ye’d nae reason tae kill him and ye havenae got it in ye; onybody can see that.”
“Somebody killed him, though.”
Both were silent, thinking back to the last time they had seen Richard Cunningham, less than a day before.
“He was a guid man,” said Tom. “He didnae deserve sic an end.”
“No,” agreed Mungo quietly.
At that moment Lady Margaret emerged from the house with Alison, who was taking her leave. Both women paused on seeing Mungo. Tom hastily introduced him and Mungo bowed awkwardly to his mother as Alison, whose first sight of the mysterious Mungo this was, looked on inquisitively.
“Have ye come a’ this way on foot, Mr McGillivray?” asked Lady Margaret. “Ye must be weary. Come awa’ in. We’re just having tea. Ye must join us. Thank you for coming, Mistress Fleming,” she added, turning to Alison, “and for a’ ye’ve done. I’ll leave ye wi’ Tom,” and with a smile, she took Mungo’s arm and led him towards the house.
“She’s a marvel, your mother,” said Alison. “She never forgets the social graces.”
“Aye, she’d be servin’ tea in an earthquake,” said Tom, with a fond smile at his parent’s retreating back.
“So that’s Mungo. I’ve aye wondered what he was like.”
“He’s no sae bad, an’ he’s scared stiff. He cannae gang back tae Cunningham’s noo, either. He was askin’ if he could stay here.”
“Would ye want that?”
“It might be safer for him, an’ we could keep an eye on him here.”
“I suppose that’s true. I still think he should take care o’ his ain mither.” Alison gave a rueful smile; she knew she and Tom would never agree on that score. “I’d better awa’,” she added. “Faither will be worried.” She crossed the yard to where her donkey was placidly chewing a tuft of grass, untethered her and mounted.
“When will I see ye again?” asked Tom, feeling suddenly bereft.
“I’ll gang tae the kirk the morn, an’ see what I can find oot, an’ maybe call here in the evening.”
“Tak’ care, then,” said Tom, with a long look into her fac
e. Alison coloured. “I will. Fare thee weel, Tom.”
She dug her heels into Jinty’s flanks and donkey and girl trotted off in the direction of Ayr. She did not look back.
*
Upstairs, Tom found Mungo ensconced on the brocade sofa in the sitting room, balancing a plate of scones on his knee, blushing furiously as Lady Margaret refilled his teacup.
“Ah, Tom,” she said, “Mr McGillivray has been telling me aboot his situation. I think it would be best if he could bide here for a while. Ayr is a dangerous place for him, from what I gather.”
For some reason, the idea did not please Tom, although he could not think why. Probably because if this was to be his last ever week with his family, he did not want a stranger in their midst. He told himself firmly not to be so uncharitable.
“What aboot your mither?” he asked.
“Och, she’s used tae seein’ tae hersel’,” said Mungo blithely. “Forbye, she’s been lookin’ a bit better lately, drinkin’ less.”
“We can send a message tae her, if ye like,” said Lady Margaret.
“Dinnae bother, ma’am. She kens I’ll likely be here. Could I hae another o’ yer delicious scones?”
*
The rest of the day passed off without incident. In the evening, when he judged that his son’s mood was conducive to it, Sir Malcolm questioned Tom at length about the exact circumstances of the crime. “If ye tell me a’ ye can, afore ye forget, there’s maybe a wee detail that disnae seem important but could be usefu’ later.”
Tom patiently told all he could remember, several times over, but the pain of the telling did not lessen.
“Did ye see a weapon?” asked his father suddenly.
Tom pictured the scene once more – the body slumped in the chair, the gaping wounds, the blood . . .
“No,” he said finally. “It must hae been a knife, but there wasnae one there. At least, nane that I could see.”
“Onything oot o’ place?”
“No. It’s aye tidy in Mr Cunningham’s office.”
“What was on the desk?”
“Just an inkwell an’ some quills and oh aye, there was a book open on the blotter.”
“What kind o’ book?”
“A big ledger; an account book, I think. Mr Cunningham had been working late gaun ower the accounts for the past few months. He does . . . did this twice a year.”
On Carrick Shore Page 10