Tom laughed bitterly. His wee sister was innocent of the ways of the world.
“It happens, whiles. If they dinnae find the murderer, an’ naebody but us seems tae be tryin’ tae dae that, I’m for it.”
“Could ye no just gang awa’? What’s tae stop ye?”
Tom admitted that it had crossed his mind. “But then they’d be sure I was guilty. I’d be an outlaw, no safe onywhaur. I’d need tae gang abroad. I could never come back here.”
“An’ forbye,” he went on, “they’d think ye’d a’ helped me, especially Faither. It’d be the ruin o’ the family. I cannae dae that.”
Kate sniffed. Looking at her, Tom saw one big tear rolling down her cheek. He stood up.
“Dinnae worry, wee sister. We’ve still got a few days. Noo, let’s see aboot the blackberries.”
*
In the early evening, David and Mungo arrived back from the fields, weary and content after a long day’s work in the sunshine. Mungo was full of the joys of farming and indeed, as the family gathered for supper, he looked healthier and happier than Tom had ever seen him.
“I could get tae like this farmin’ business,” he said cheerfully as he tucked into a heaped plate of mutton stew.
“Aye, it’s fine when the sun shines,” agreed David. “If the weather hauds, we can maybe get some hay made soon.”
“An’ hoo’s my new wee sister?” continued Mungo, turning to Kate, who was sitting beside him, and patting her arm. “Hae ye missed me the day?”
Kate blushed. “Oh aye,” she muttered, looking uncertainly at Tom. Wee sister was his term of endearment.
Tom told himself not to mind. It was only Mungo’s way; he was as insensitive to others as he was sensitive to his own needs. He meant no harm by it, and Tom tried not to think that come next week Mungo might well have taken his, Tom’s, place in the family.
“We’ll see hoo ye feel aboot farmin’ when ye’re howkin’ tatties in the snell wind an’ the rain,” he said, but with a teasing smile. “It wasnae a pleasure for me.”
“So ye went off tae France an’ discovered mair intimate kinds o’ pleasure,” jeered Mungo with a wicked leer. No-one laughed. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I let my tongue get the better o’ me, whiles.”
“Let’s see what Jeanie’s got for pudding,” said Lady Margaret quickly, “and hope it’s no’ tansy.”
*
A short while later, Tom excused himself and went up to his room to get ready. He dressed in a plain dark jerkin and hose before creeping down the back stairs, tiptoeing past the kitchen where Jeanie was applying another mustard poultice to Bob’s knee, and slipping out through the back door. He tied a rough woollen scarf round his neck and pulled an old felt hat over his head.
Dusk was falling and he reckoned that by the time he got to Ayr it would be dark enough to slip into the Cunningham yard unseen. The sky was clear and the evening still warm; Tom hoped there would be enough moonlight later to aid his task, for he dared not make any light.
He saw no-one in the country lanes as he walked steadily towards the town. All the country folk had finished their day’s work and his only companions were a cloud of persistent midges and a lone whaup calling from the moors. As he reached the first houses of the town there were more folk about, hurrying home or towards the taverns, but no-one paid him any notice, taking him for just another working man heading home.
Before long he was standing in the gathering gloom in Cunningham’s yard, at the foot of the stairs to the offices. He was tormented by memories of the last time he had stood here, a few short days before, seeing the light in the windows above. No light burned there now, and the yard was deserted. If he could go back in time to last Friday, would he still have climbed those stairs?
Tom shook off these thoughts and, ignoring the fear which made his legs tremble, mounted the stairs. The door was not locked. He entered his and Mungo’s old lair. In the gloom, he could make out the door to the inner office, which stood ajar. He quickly crossed the room and went in, half expecting to see Richard Cunningham again, slumped in his lifeblood.
There was no body, of course; his employer’s mortal remains had already been buried. Everything else seemed as it had been the last time Tom had stood here. He looked around, his task aided by the dim light from the quayside coming through the big windows. Some attempt had been made to clean up but the rug, the desk and the walls still bore rusty red bloodstains. Mr Cunningham’s chair had been moved back against the wall, but the desk had not been touched. Tom went to examine it and was struck by the thought that something, normally there, was missing. The heavy onyx inkstand was in its usual place, alongside the neat row of pens and quills; a ledger lay open, showing through the bloodstains rows of figures in Mungo’s neat hand, but there was no sign of the paper knife which had always lain on the desk. Richard Cunningham had told Tom that the small sharp knife, with its gold handle set with a single ruby, had been a present from his wife, and he kept it on his desk as a constant reminder of her.
Tom felt a wave of nausea. Had the knife been used to stab Cunningham? A quick search in the desk drawers confirmed its absence and the likelihood that it was, indeed, the murder weapon.
A sound from the courtyard made Tom start. A man’s deep voice followed by a woman’s low, flirtatious laugh, out of place in this house of death. Tom quickly crossed to a window in the clerks’ office and looked out. Night had fallen but the moon was bright and by its light he could see two figures standing by the warehouse door, locked in a passionate embrace. As he watched, the man lifted his mouth from the woman’s and Tom recognised him at once as Adam Kennedy.
Tom felt disgusted. Kennedy had always been arrogant, but now he was treating the warehouse as his personal domain, bringing his doxy there and God knew what else. He could not see who the woman was but her voice came again, caressingly.
“Attends-moi, Adam. Je reviens.” She turned away and the moonlight fell on the proud face of Isabelle Cunningham as she crossed the yard and disappeared out towards the quayside.
Tom was numbed by cold, sickening rage. “Whore!” he muttered. So much for the sorrowful widow, laid low by grief. She and Kennedy were obviously lovers, and her husband buried only two days before. Another thought struck him. How long had they been lovers? Had they plotted against Richard Cunningham, killed him even? He remembered what his father had said about motive and opportunity. Motive they certainly had, if they were lovers and meant to rid themselves of her husband; still more if she stood to inherit her husband’s wealth. Opportunity too; Kennedy was often hanging around the warehouse at night and Tom remembered that Isabelle had been expected at the office on the evening of her husband’s death. Had she killed him? Tom gripped the window-frame, shaken to the core.
Kennedy had by now disappeared into the stables and the yard was deserted. Time passed. At length the first wave of shock subsided and Tom debated what to do next. There was nothing more to be found in the offices, Kennedy was presumably still in the stables, and Isabelle had said she was coming back. Tom’s instincts told him he should go home but he was determined to find out more, and he would never have another chance. He remembered what Bob had overheard from the McSkimmings. It seemed the smuggling was still going on – another reason to be rid of Richard Cunningham – and perhaps more openly now that he had gone. Tom decided to see if the warehouse held any more clues to their activities. If he could find out exactly what was going on, perhaps it was not too late to clear his name. An inner voice counselled caution. What if he were caught? He would stand no chance against Kennedy and the McSkimmings. Tom pushed the thought firmly away.
He moved quietly down the steps to the deserted yard and made his way round the edge, in the shadow of the buildings. The small side door to the warehouse was unlocked and he slipped through. Not much had changed since he had last been there; the chests and crates were piled as high as ever, their bulk looming over him in the dim moonlight.
Tom walked up and down the ce
ntral aisles then, wondering if goods were still stored in the secret cellar, he made his way over to the far wall where the stairs to the basement were. To his surprise there were no longer any chests hiding the secret door; it seemed that with Mr Cunningham, Mungo and himself no longer there, and the excise men not due to visit for several weeks, there was no more need for secrecy. The door stood open and Tom could distinguish the outline of the stone steps leading down.
Carefully, holding on to the wall for support, he groped his way down to the dark cellar. The weak moonlight coming through the high windows showed that there were still some chests and crates lying haphazardly about, but many had gone. There had obviously been an increase in distributing the smuggled goods over the past week, probably because they could now do it more openly.
Tom was just starting back up the steps when the door above him slammed shut and he heard the scrape of a key turning in the lock. He was caught, like a rat in a trap.
*
How long he had been sitting in the dark, cursing himself for a fool, he had no idea. Hours, it seemed, but it was probably only minutes. He had checked that the small windows high in the wall were too small for him to squeeze through. Had he been locked in accidentally or deliberately? He presumed the latter, which meant they would be coming back for him unless they meant to just leave him there to starve. Either way, he was done for. Tom swallowed hard, trying to beat down a rising wave of panic.
It was almost a relief when the door opened and the flash of a lantern lit up the stairs. Blinded by the light, he could not at first see who was there, but the tramp of heavy boots on the steps and the sound of mocking laughter soon told him it was Adam Kennedy and the McSkimmimg brothers.
“Weel noo, Master Boyd, curiosity gets the better o’ ye again.” Kennedy spoke quietly, shaking his head regretfully. “Tie him up, boys.” A length of rope was produced and Geordie McSkimming, none too gently, tied his hands behind his back.
Kennedy raised the lantern to study his face. Tom could smell spirits on the other man’s breath and the lantern wavered slightly. A loud, giggling belch from Wullie McSkimming confirmed that they were at that stage of drunkenness when men will do foolhardy things with no thought for the consequences.
“What are we gonnae dae wi’ him, lads?” asked Kennedy. “We cannae let him get awa’, he kens ower much aboot the business, it seems.”
“We could chuck him in the harbour,” said Wullie. “I’d quite like tae watch him droon.”
“Naw, that tak’s ower lang, an’ somebody might see,” said his brother. “We could just leave him here an’ forget him. Shame he hasnae got the fancy coat on – it would look guid on a skeleton.”
“Naw, he’d stink the place oot,” said Kennedy. “The harbour, I think, but we’ll need tae be quick. We’ll slit his throat first, an’ put stanes in his pockets so he doesnae float. You twa haud him still,” he added, drawing a vicious-looking long-bladed knife from a sheath at his belt.
Rough hands seized Tom and he felt the sharp blade at his throat and Kennedy’s whisky-sodden breath on his cheek. He closed his eyes and sent his last thoughts to Alison.
*
“Stop, Adam! What is the meaning of this?” cried a voice and, suddenly released, Tom stumbled and fell sharply against the wall as Isabelle Cunningham came quickly down the stairs.
“Untie him,” she snapped. Wullie McSkimming hurried to obey and Tom, released, put a hand to his throat, where he felt the stickiness of blood. It seemed to be only a scratch. He dared not let himself think of what would have happened had Isabelle not intervened.
“This is madness,” she said, in a tone which brooked no argument. “Why kill him now and have his blood on our hands when the law will do it for us in a few days’ time?” She stepped closer to Tom, who was aware once more of her subtle French perfume and her icily beautiful smile. It was obvious that she was in command and that the three men would do her bidding, whatever that might be.
“Mon pauvre Tom,” she said gently, drawing a finger slowly down his cheek and lightly tickling his chin. Beside him, Adam Kennedy muttered an oath and tightened his grip on the knife. Isabelle turned to him. “Ne t’inquiète pas, Adam,” she said softly, “he is nothing to me. We will give him to the hangman. Now let us get out of this foul cellar,” she added, wrinkling her nose prettily as she turned towards the stairs.
As he stumbled up the steps between the McSkimming brothers, Tom could feel waves of hostility and frustrated blood-lust coming from them. He realised he was not out of danger yet.
By the door of the main warehouse, Isabelle Cunningham turned once more to give orders to the men. “We will send to the Tolbooth and have the men of the watch come to take Mr Boyd there. Adam, will you do that? Geordie and Wullie, I want you to go down to the cellar and tidy everything up. It is a stinking mess down there, and I will not have that on my premises.”
“What, an’ leave you here wi’ him?” jeered Kennedy.
She quelled him with a look. “I think,” she said icily, “that unlike some others of my acquaintance, Mr Boyd is an honourable man. However, since you are worried, give me that piece of rope and I will bind his wrists.”
She moved behind Tom and once again he was aware of her perfume and the cool touch of her hands as she fastened the rope.
“Now go,” she ordered.
Kennedy ran out of the warehouse, stumbling in his haste, while the McSkimmings stomped off towards the cellar. Muttered oaths could be heard as they scrambled down the steps and began shoving crates and barrels around.
“Quickly,” hissed Isabelle, “we don’t have much time.” As Tom stood bewildered, she whispered, “I know you did not kill my husband, and before you ask, neither did I. I do not wish to see you hanged, so before they come back I want you to free yourself – the knots are loose – and go before the watch gets here.”
“But they’ll ken if ye let me go,” said Tom, slipping his wrists free of the knots.
“Not if you knock me down.”
“I cannae dae that.”
“You must.”
Tom stared at her. Was there anyone who refused to do her bidding?
“Just one thing,” he said. “Kennedy. I saw ye baith. How could ye?”
“C’est le commerce,” she said with a shrug. “I must survive as I can. Now hit me and go, as fast as you can.”
Tom hesitated, then gave her a half-hearted shove. Isabelle immediately let out a blood-curdling scream and threw herself to the floor.
Below them, Tom could hear the McSkimmings begin to rush up the steps so he ran for the door.
Outside in the yard, he paused briefly to make sure Kennedy was not already back, then he ran fast to the quayside and hurried along towards the bridge, keeping to the shadows by the walls.
Reaching the end of the quay, he heard the sound of hurried, tramping feet and slipped down on to the river bank, seeking what shelter he could under the bridge. He crouched down and held his breath as the armed men thundered across the bridge above him, sure the loud pounding of his heart would betray him. Sure enough, the footsteps paused and the voice of the captain floated down. “I thocht I saw something moving doon there. Bring the torches closer.”
For what seemed an eternity, Tom crouched as motionless as he could, fighting a desire to sneeze.
“Should we gang doon there, sir?” asked one man as he swung his torch back and forth in an effort to see.
“There’s nothing there, an’ we’ve nae time to lose,” came Kennedy’s impatient voice. “Hurry up there.” Tom breathed a sigh of relief as the men moved off the bridge and along the quay.
He made his way back up to the bridge, hurried across and down the vennel to the High Street where, keeping his head down, he moved as quickly as he dared without drawing attention to himself, mingling with the late revellers leaving the taverns. Only when he reached the outskirts of the town did he dare to slow down. His legs were shaking and his heart still pounding as his brain tried to
make sense of all that had happened.
CHAPTER 20
Thursday September 6th
Tom woke from confused dreams of knives, ropes and Isabelle Cunningham’s mocking smile. Sounds drifted up from the courtyard below – the cheerful laughter of David and Mungo going off to the fields, the clucking of hens and the authoritative voice of Jeanie supervising the first jam-making of the season. Tom sighed and went back to sleep.
When he awoke again the sun was high in the sky and there was no noise from below. He quickly washed, dressed and hurried downstairs in search of breakfast. The dining-room was deserted so he headed for the kitchen.
“My, you’re up early,” said Jeanie sarcastically. “Ye’ll be wanting some breakfast. There’s some parritch an’ bannocks; there were eggs and kippers but they were feenished three hours since.”
“Morning, Jeanie,” said Tom, settling himself with a mug of ale and prodding at the now leathery porridge.
Jeanie brought over oatcakes and cheese. “When ye’ve finished, your faither wants tae see ye in his study.”
Tom groaned. If his father summoned him to his study, it always meant trouble.
His fears were confirmed ten minutes later when he took a seat opposite his father, who sat with steepled fingers and a stern expression behind his imposing desk.
“Whaur were ye yestreen?” demanded his sire without preamble.
Tom opened his mouth to deny going out, but something in Sir Malcolm’s level gaze told him it would be useless to lie.
“I . . . I went intae Ayr,” he muttered, expecting an explosion of rage. None came.
“And . . .?”
“I went tae Cunningham’s.”
“And . . .?”
Tom found himself reliving the events of the previous evening as he recited the whole sorry tale to his father. When he finished there was a heavy silence.
“I’m sorry, faither. I shouldnae hae done it.”
Sir Malcolm harrumphed.
“Weel, it’s done noo, an’ at least ye’re hame in one piece. Did ye at least learn onything?”
On Carrick Shore Page 13