On Carrick Shore

by Alex J. Wright

  “Could ye smell onything?”

  Tom thought back. He closed his eyes and pictured the scene.

  “Blood,” he sighed. “It smelled like a butcher’s shop.” He shuddered. “Yon rusty smell. Tobacco – Mr Cunningham smokes a pipe whiles.” He hesitated.

  “Ocht else?” prompted his father.

  “Perfume,” he said slowly as the memory came back. A faint, elusive scent. Into his mind came a memory of mocking dark eyes and shapely hands on his arms as helped the lady dismount.

  “I think it was Mrs Cunningham’s. It was quite faint, but I’m sure the scent was there.”

  “So Mrs Cunningham probably did gang tae the offices at some point in the evening. Weel remembered, Tom. Noo, yer friend Mungo. What dae ye make o’ him?”

  “Weel, he’s a queer fish a’ right. Alison says he treats his mither shamefully, but he says Annie was aye a hopeless drunk, half oot o’ her mind, best left tae hersel’. Says he’s tried tae help her but there’s naethin’ tae be done. He has tae work, so o’ course she’s left on her ain.”

  “Dae ye think he could hae killed Richard Cunningham?”

  Tom hesitated. Finally he said, “It’s possible but I dinnae think sae. His moods shift like the tides, an’ his imagination runs away wi’ him, but he’s aye been loyal tae Mr Cunningham. He kens his livelihood depends on him an’ forbye, he seems genuinely fond o’ him. Mungo’s aye feart o’ something – he’s in a panic because he thinks Adam Kennedy’s oot tae kill us.”

  “An’ you’re no? In a panic?”

  “That or the hangman,” said Tom ruefully. “However ye look at it, I’d say my prospects were dim.”

  He sounded calm, but was aware of mounting despair within him. “Can we stop noo, faither?”

  “Aye, son.” Sir Malcolm sighed. They were not much further forward. “If ye think o’ onything else, mind ye tell me richt awa.”

  As his son left the room, Sir Malcolm heaved a great sigh. He had to remain practical for Tom’s sake, but he could see no way out, either.

  *

  Feeling the need for exercise, Tom went out in the gloaming to take a turn round the gardens. As he passed the walled orchard he was surprised to hear voices from within and more surprised to see Katie, in her favourite seat on the swing, engaged in earnest conversation with Mungo, who sat crouched in the damp grass. His young sister had been excluded from the family discussion earlier but had learned what she could from Jeanie and Bob and was now quizzing Mungo. Tom had been about to interrupt them but some instinct made him draw back behind the wall to listen.

  “It must be interesting tae work for a wine importer,” Kate was saying, copying her mother’s best “social graces” manner. “Do tell me mair.”

  Involuntarily, Tom smiled. He could picture Mungo torn between his desire to tell the child to mind her own business and his natural boastfulness. Boastfulness won.

  “Well, I’ve been chief clerk – accountant ye might say, for some years now. The work is very interesting and varied,” – Tom smiled again, remembering Mungo’s frequent grumbles about the repetitive tasks his job entailed – “and of course I hae considerable responsibility, or I had, until the recent unfortunate turn of events.”

  Kate wisely chose not to question him further about that at this stage. Instead she said, “And ye work wi’ my brither. What’s that like?”

  “Weel, of course I had tae spend a lot of time showing him the ropes. He’s a mite slow on the uptake” – Tom suppressed an indignant splutter – “but I think my hard work and patience hae paid off. He’s able tae work independently maist o’ the time noo.”

  Tom, remembering his mother’s warnings that eavesdroppers get their just deserts, tried to see the funny side of this.

  “And on a personal level?” enquired Kate.

  Good grief, thought Tom, where does she get it from? Probably from a lot of eavesdropping during their mother’s tea parties, he realised. He knew about her favourite spot on the landing by the sitting room door.

  “A personal level? We get along fine, maist o’ the time. He’s a pleasant enough lad, but awfu’ vain. I dinnae think spendin’ years in Paris was guid for him. He thinks he’s the bees’ knees, swannin’ aboot in his fancy blue coat.”

  Tom had heard enough. He gave a warning cough, then stepped through the gate in the wall. If he had hoped to surprise them, he was mistaken.

  “Ah Tom,” said Kate. “We were just talkin’ aboot ye.”

  “I heard,” muttered Tom.

  Mungo burst out laughing.

  “The look on yer face, ye daft gowk. We heard ye comin’.”

  “We kent fine ye were there,” added Kate. “It was just a bit o’ fun.”

  Tom grinned through gritted teeth. He wasn’t sure Mungo had been joking.

  “I think supper’s ready. Let’s go in,” he said.

  CHAPTER 16

  Sunday September 2nd

  The rain clouds had moved in again overnight, shrouding the narrow streets in Sabbath gloom. Alison and her father set off for the kirk in a persistent, soaking drizzle. The lowering grey skies matched the sombre mood of the congregation as they gathered to remember Richard Cunningham, so cruelly snatched from their midst in the prime of life.

  The Boyd family pew was nearly empty. Lady Margaret had wanted to attend, but Sir Malcolm had decreed that it was better to stay away. The only occupants were the Misses McFadzean, sombre for once in dress and demeanour, and Alison blessed them silently for their decision to represent the family. Looking around, she noticed that Isabelle Cunningham was also absent.

  After the opening hymn and the Lord’s Prayer came the Old Testament reading. Alison started when she saw James Cunningham rise and make his way to the lectern. He opened the Bible and looked round at the curious faces of the congregation.

  “The reading,” he said, “is from Deuteronomy chapter 32.” He cleared his throat, and his harsh voice thundered, “To me belongeth vengeance, and recompense; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste.” His black eyes glittered in his gaunt white face as he stared at the Boyd pew, where the Misses McFadzean sat. A frisson of fear went round the congregation and Miss Letty McFadzean let out a low groan while her sister trembled uncontrollably. Alison noticed however that they did not drop their eyes before the elder’s venomous stare.

  The minister’s sermon, likewise on the theme of vengeance, did nothing to alleviate the gloom and Alison was relieved when the service was over and they could leave the church.

  The rain had let up and a pale watery sun was trying to penetrate the clouds. Alison, shivering in her thin shawl, would have dearly loved to go straight home, but aware of her promise to Tom’s family she clutched her father’s arm and joined the line of people waiting to offer words of sympathy to James Cunningham. As the line shuffled nearer she began to tremble, remembering her last encounter with the man.

  When it was their turn she braced herself and held out her hand. She could not look into those hooded black eyes but with as much dignity as she could muster she mumbled, “I’m truly sorry, sir. Please accept my condolences.”

  There was a moment’s silence, an eternity to Alison. Cunningham ignored her outstretched hand, said loudly “I’ve nothing tae say tae ye, mistress,” and turned pointedly to the next well-wishers. The exchange was not lost on the congregation. There were a few hisses of indrawn breath and somewhere, someone sniggered. Alison was momentarily at a loss, conscious of inquisitive eyes on her, but she straightened her shoulders, took her father’s arm again and they moved off towards the yett, followed by many a curious stare.

  *

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Alison smiled gratefully as she accepted a cup of tea from Lady Margaret. The evening was chilly and a fire had been lit in the sitting-room where the family had gathered to hear Alison’s report, but the fire, the tea and the warmth of the welcome did nothing to dispel her
feeling of gloomy foreboding.

  The family listened in silence as she described the scene in the kirk and her encounter with James Cunningham.

  “He just ignored me,” she said ruefully. “There was nothing I could dae. I felt heart-sorry for your sisters,” she added, turning to Lady Margaret. “Tae have thon man’s ire directed at them in the Lord’s hoose, an’ a’ the mutterings afterwards, but they didnae flinch.”

  “Aye, they were brave,” said Sir Malcolm. “Mair nor we deserved, maybe.”

  “Ye were right, though,” said his wife. “We couldnae hae gone tae the kirk, in the circumstances. My sisters kent that.” But she was glad to hear her husband praise them for once.

  “Was Mrs Cunningham no there?” asked Tom.

  “No,” replied Alison, turning towards him. She hesitated, knowing her other item of news would dismay the family further.

  “I . . . I did try tae call on her afore I came here,” she admitted, “but she wasnae receiving visitors. The servant shut the door in my face. They say she’s prostrate wi’ grief.”

  There was a silence. All were reminded that a woman had lost her beloved husband but also that they had drawn two blanks in their investigations.

  “I’m truly sorry,” said Alison. “I thocht I could help, but it seems I’ve done mair harm than good.”

  “Ye’ve done nae harm, my dear,” said Lady Margaret, “and we’re grateful tae ye for trying. It couldnae hae been easy.”

  “No,” said Alison, remembering the hatred in James Cunningham’s eyes and the stony face of Isabelle’s maid, “it wasn’t.”

  “Pity it did nae guid,” muttered Tom bitterly.

  Another silence. They had all heard.

  Tom and Alison stared at each other for a moment, then Alison, red-faced, stood up abruptly.

  “I’d better go,” she said, and as Lady Margaret rose too, “please, I can find my ain way oot. Thank ye for your hospitality.” And with that she hurried from the room, head held high.

  “Thomas, how could ye?” cried his mother as Tom too headed for the door. She got no reply. The door banged behind him and they heard his angry steps climbing the stairs to his room on the next floor.

  “Lovers’ tiff,” opined Mungo with a grin. No-one answered.

  *

  Some time later, when it was already dark, Lady Margaret knocked tentatively on her son’s door. There was no reply. She knocked again, a little louder, and called, “Tom, are ye all right?” Eventually she heard a movement and the door was flung open. Tom stood there, but couldn’t look her in the eye. Raising her candle, she was shocked by her son’s dishevelled appearance and the signs of tears on his face.

  “Oh, son.” She set the candle down by the bed and reached up to hug him as best she could, then pulled him down beside her on the bed and cradled his head in her lap as she had done when he was a child. He was still only twenty, she reminded herself, not quite a man yet. She stroked his thick black hair as he sobbed out his grief, murmuring soothing words until the crying subsided and he sat up.

  “Sorry, mither,” he muttered. “I’ve soaked yer dress.”

  “It’ll dry,” she replied. “Dae ye want tae talk?”

  Tom heaved a great sigh. “I’d gie onything tae tak’ back what I said. Alison did mair tae help nor ony o’ us, an’ a’ I could dae was moan. And noo I’ve lost her.”

  “It was rude, Tom, but when Alison thinks aboot it she’ll understand ye were disappointed. She kens your situation.”

  Both were silent, seeing the hangman’s noose in their minds. Margaret reached for her son again and they clung together for a few moments. Then, gently freeing herself, she said, “We have tae be strong, and hope and pray for a way out. We still hae time.”

  “Aye, but if I’ve lost Alison, they may as weel hang me noo.”

  “So he loves her,” thought Lady Margaret. “My puir bairn.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Monday September 3rd

  The next day brought no change. The rain started early and seemed to have set in forever, the steady drizzle finding its way through layers of garments to chill the wearer to the bone. Tom stood in the orchard, oblivious to the rain, glad to be out of the house but all too aware that his home was his prison now. His father had shut himself in his study just after breakfast, David was in the fields, shaking his head in despair at the corn which would not ripen. His mother’s looks of loving concern had begun to weigh on him and he was irritated beyond measure by the playful banter between Mungo and Kate, so he had escaped from the house and come to stand here in the rain. He wondered what Alison was doing. She would be busy at her work; did she spare a thought for him at all, and was it a kind one? Not much chance of that, he thought. The minutes dragged by, and he almost wished the end of the week would come, so utterly hopeless did he feel.

  “Come on, cheer up,” said a voice at his elbow. “It’s no’ the end o’ the world, at least, no’ till Saturday.”

  “Mungo . . .” said Tom wearily.

  “Thocht ye might need some company.”

  Tom groaned inwardly.

  “Anyway,” continued Mungo blithely, “I’m fair grateful tae yer family for takin’ me in. It’s a load aff my mind. An’ yer wee sister, she’s great. Sharp as a tack, an’ bonnie wi’ it.”

  Tom bit back an angry reply. He could not begrudge Mungo her friendship – he had few enough friends – but his words had brought home to Tom that his wee sister was growing up, and was at a vulnerable age.

  “Nae sign o’ Alison the day,” went on Mungo.

  “Dinnae speir efter her. I doot she’ll want tae see me again,” said Tom, too forlorn to be angry.

  “Och, it’s no sae bad. What ye said wasnae that bad, an’ she’ll understand when she thinks on it. She’s kind, an’ she’ll come roon. The lassies aye dae.”

  Tom felt a little better.

  “Just as long as she does afore Saturday,” went on Mungo. “It’ll be ower late by then. Whaur are ye gaun, Tom?”

  *

  As the family gathered for a late supper, David took Tom aside. He’d just come back from Ayr, where he’d met Rab Burns at the livestock market. From him he had learned that on the Friday evening Rab had left Mungo at the end of Mill Street.

  “He said it was the back o’ eight when he left him, an’ he seemed cheerful enough. Said he was gaun tae see his mither was comfortable an’ then turn in himsel’. Rab saw nae reason tae doubt him.”

  “It’s true, I cannae see him as a murderer; he’s feart o’ his ain shadow these days. What’s the talk in the toon?”

  David sighed. “It’s a’ aboot you an’ Mr Cunningham, I fear. I’ll no’ repeat it, ye dinnae need that.”

  “So I’m condemned already?”

  “It’s just that folks are lookin’ for a culprit; they dinnae ken ye like your family does, an’ they’re ready tae believe onything. Ye ken hoo rumours start.”

  “They’ll be sayin’ next I learned fornication in the stews o’ Paris, I’m Isabelle Cunningham’s secret lover an’ I killed Mr Cunningham so I could marry the widow an’ tak’ ower the business.”

  David hadn’t the heart to tell him that that was exactly the kind of wild rumour he had heard.

  “Dinnae be daft. Come on, supper’s ready; it’ll dae ye guid tae eat an’ tak a wee dram.”

  *

  Once the mutton stew and bannocks had been served, David turned to Mungo.

  “I hope you’re no bored hangin’ roon the hoose, Mungo,” he said.

  “I am, a bit,” said Mungo, “but I cannae gang oot while Kennedy’s efter me.”

  “You could help me a bit wi’ the farm work. We could aye use another pair o’ hands.”

  “Weel, maybe. Aye, I’d like that fine. What aboot Tom?”

  “Tom’s welcome an’ a’, but he’s no’ that bothered aboot manual work, an’ he’s a bit haundless forbye,” he added, turning to his brother.

  Before Tom could reply, Mungo chipped in.r />
  “Aye, Tom’s mair o’ an intellectual, a friend o’ the philosophes. Forbye, he’d need tae tak’ his coat aff, an’ he might need a surgeon for that.”

  There was good-natured laughter around the table. Tom did his best to join in.

  “Dae ye think I could hae some mair stew, ma’am?” asked Mungo. “It’s delicious.”

  “Of course, Mungo,” said Lady Margaret warmly. “I’m glad tae see you’re settling in wi’ us.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Tuesday September 4th

  The next day, David took advantage of a break in the bad weather to start mending the fences in the biggest cornfield. Mungo volunteered to help and showed an unexpected aptitude for the work and a growing interest in farming so that Davie, somewhat to his surprise, was glad of his company. When Kate brought them cheese, bannocks and ale at midday the three of them enjoyed a happy half-hour of banter and laughter while Tom brooded in his room.

  At two o’clock Sir Malcolm, who liked to take daily exercise, had his horse saddled and set off for Ayr. Tom wanted to go with him but his father refused, saying he had business to attend to and besides, it was not safe for Tom to show himself in the town.

  “Be reasonable, laddie; I cannae tak’ ye wi’ me,” he said. “There’s a new Scots Magazine come. Dae some reading.”

  Tom tried, but the magazine contained too much gloomy news from the American colonies and the many accounts of murder trials and retribution nearer home echoed all too closely his own situation. He wondered, despairingly, how many other innocent souls had been unjustly executed.

  At five o’clock the rain came on again.

  *

  That evening, Bob Balfour pushed open the door of the Anchor Inn by the docks, pausing to shake the rain from his plaid and let his eyes adjust to the dim, smoky interior. Loud voices, raucous laughter and the sound of fiddle music had drawn him to this tavern, the third he had tried. It was a long time since Bob had been out drinking – Jeanie saw to that – and he was aware that he was an unfamiliar figure to the revellers within. For this he was grateful; even regulars from Ayr were unlikely to connect him to the Boyd family.