“Aye, I think so,” began Tom uncertainly. “I had a guid look at Mr Cunningham’s desk, tae see if I’d remembered it richt, an’ I definitely didnae see his paper knife. He used it for opening letters an’ peelin’ apples an’ it aye sat on his desk. It was a fancy Italian knife wi’ a gold jewelled handle. I couldnae find it; it wasnae in the drawers either.”
“So it might hae been used on him an’ the murderer took it awa’ efterwards. Ocht else?”
“I couldnae fathom Mrs Cunningham’s game. She helped me escape, in fact she saved my life, but she’s in cahoots wi’ Kennedy and his gang.” Tom grimaced, remembering the cold rasp of steel at his throat.
“Maybe she has been all along, or maybe they’re forcing her tae go along wi’ them.”
“I dinnae think so,” said Tom, thinking of Isabelle Cunningham’s imperious ways. “She’s the one callin’ the shots. They sent for the watch, an’ if she hadnae helped me I’d be back in the Tolbooth. What’ll happen noo?” he added fearfully.
“Depends. The watchmen could come here for ye, but if they’re busy they’ll likely wait till Saturday. Either way, ye’ll need tae gang awa’.”
“Awa’?”
“Aye. Ye mind I went tae Ayr on Tuesday?”
“Aye. Ye wouldnae let me gang wi’ ye.”
“Weel, I went tae see a merchant I ken, wha owes me money for defending him in court an’ never paid me. He has a cargo leavin’ for Ireland the morn’s nicht an’ there’s a place for ye on the ship.”
Tom was dumbfounded. His father, the most upstanding and incorruptible lawyer of his generation, was going to break the law for him. Sir Malcolm had given his word to deliver Tom to the Sheriff on Saturday. If the truth were known, and it surely would be, it would end his career and probably ruin the family.
“No, faither. I cannae let ye dae that.”
“You will, Thomas,” said his father in a tone which brooked no argument. “I cannae let ye be hanged for something ye didnae dae. It would break your mither’s heart . . . an’ mine tae,” he added quietly.
Tom was silent as he considered the implications. He wouldn’t hang, unless they caught him, but he would be an outlaw with a price on his head. He would have to live in exile, never seeing his family, or Alison, again.
“No, faither,” he said again. “I cannae dae it. It would be the ruin o’ ye, an’ I’d never see ye again. I’d rather face things here.”
“Thomas, my boy, we’ve had a week an’ we’re nane the wiser. If they try ye, they’ll surely hang ye. This way, ye stay alive an’ we still hae some hope.”
“Ye say ye arranged it on Tuesday, but you’ve never said ocht aboot it till noo.”
“I still hoped we could find wha killed Mr Cunningham, but it doesnae look like we will, noo. So the morn’s nicht ye’ll gang tae Dunure tae get on the ship.”
“Dunure?”
“Aye. It’s ower risky for ye tae gang on board at Ayr. There’s aye a wheen o’ folk on the quays – including your friends frae Cunningham’s – an’ the watch’ll be lookin’ for ye, so ye’re tae gang tae Dunure. The ship’ll lie off for half an hour after midnight. Ye’ll need tae signal frae the castle an’ they’ll send a wee boat for ye. If ye dinnae show up by half past twelve they’ll sail withoot ye, so mind ye get there on time.”
“Is that why we went tae Dunure yesterday?”
“Aye. I wanted tae remind mysel’ o’ the lie o’ the land.”
“Does my mither ken?”
“Aye, but naebody else. There’s time enough tae tell them later on.”
Tom spent the next few hours coming to terms with the possibility that he would perhaps live beyond the following week, but would never see his loved ones again, or at least not for many years. Above all, he longed to see Alison just once more.
The McFadzean aunts had been invited for tea at four o’clock, a prospect which did nothing to raise Tom’s spirits. Bob fetched them by carriage and when they arrived, in a flurry of gay silks and nodding plumes, it was obvious they were in a state of high excitement.
“My dears!” exclaimed Miss Effie. “Ye’ll never guess . . .”
“Sic a to-do! I’ve never heard the like!” added Miss Letty.
Lady Margaret managed to persuade them to postpone telling their news until tea had been served, and as the weather was fine, the tea-table was set up on the lawn behind the house, where Jeanie and one of the maids served scones and pound cake to the assembled family. Kate was banished, under protest, to the kitchen, where she would be allowed extra cake to compensate for being excluded from the family discussion. She comforted herself with the knowledge that whatever juicy gossip her aunts had to impart would be well known to Jeanie, who would lose no time in telling her, and likely include some extra details.
Once Kate had gone, the sisters embarked with relish on their tale.
“It’s a’ ower the toon!” said Miss Effie.
“The mercat’s fair buzzin’ wi’ it,” added Miss Letty.
“Of course, ye dinnae want tae believe a’ ye hear…”
“But when ye hae a reliable source, as we have, ye have tae gi’e it some credence.”
“This is fascinating,” said Sir Malcolm, “but what exactly are we talkin’ aboot?”
“Mr Cunningham . . .” began Miss Effie.
“Mr James, the kirk elder, no Mr Richard, who was murdered ….” added her sister helpfully.
“ . . . was called tae see the minister!”
“Is that unusual?” enquired Lady Margaret.
“Oh aye, the minister’s maid heard everything . . .”
“ . . . and she tellt Maisie!” added Miss Letty, naming their own maid.
“Of course,” sniffed Miss Effie, “I ken better than tae aye believe servants’ gossip . . .”
“ . . . but in this case it seems tae be true. An’ him an elder o’ the kirk. Wickedness!”
Tom began to see what they were hinting at.
“What has Mr Cunningham done, Aunt Effie?” he asked.
“Twa lassies went to see the minister yestreen…..” began Miss Effie.
“ . . . and accused Mr Cunningham of . . .” here Miss Letty looked around, and dropped her voice dramatically, “fornication!”
“But surely the minister wouldnae believe them!” This from Lady Margaret. “More tea, Effie?”
“In a minute. Weel, ye’d think sae, but one o’ the lassies was Bessie Gibney . . .”
“ . . . an’ she took her twa black-haired weans wi’ her. The minister had never seen them afore, an’ he had tae admit there was quite a resemblance tae Mr Cunningham.”
Miss Letty took up the tale.
“But what really convinced the minister was the ither lassie . . .”
“Wha was that?” asked Tom, thinking he probably already knew the answer.
“Mistress Alison Fleming!” pronounced Miss Effie with relish. “She said he’d tried tae . . . force her, on the Sabbath, in her ain back shop! I must say I’ve nae reason tae think the lassie’s lyin’, I’ve aye found her decent and honest, but it’s hard tae believe Mr Cunningham would dae that.”
“He did, though,” said Tom mildly.
“Aye,” said his mother, “we kent that already. How brave of Mistress Fleming tae gang tae the minister.”
Miss Effie was disappointed that her juiciest item of gossip seemed to be known by her listeners already, and briefly wondered how they had come by this knowledge. She soon recovered however.
“So it seems it’s true,” she said. “Mind you, I’ve aye thocht there was something no’ quite right aboot yon man.”
“Aye, I mind him looking at my ankles mair than once,” added her sister with a satisfied shudder.
“What’ll happen noo?” asked Tom.
“Weel,” said Sir Malcolm, “nothin’s been proved; there’s only the accusation. He’ll have to answer for it tae the Kirk Session.”
“I expect Alison’s testimony will carry a lot o’ weight,�
�� said Lady Margaret. “She has nae reason tae lie.”
And I could back her up, as a witness to the attack, thought Tom, then remembered that he would be far away long before the case came up.
Just as finally the talk was turning to other subjects Bob appeared from the back of the stables to announce the arrival of Alison Fleming herself. Miss Effie and Miss Letty practically bounced with excitement, making Tom think of two parrots on a perch.
Alison crossed the lawn and sat down, gratefully accepting the offer of tea. Tom, who had thought he would never see her again, drank in the sight of her, thinking how cool and lovely she looked in her simple blue dress and muslin fichu, her hair bound up in an Indian silk scarf. Alison, for her part, was casting round for a reason to explain her uninvited visit. She could hardly say she just wanted to see Tom one last time.
Tom was trying hard not to stare at her, remembering that she had parted in anger from him at their last meeting. Just then she looked up, and her quick smile reassured him.
Greetings over, the Misses McFadzean could contain their curiosity no longer.
“Mistress Fleming, is it true what they say?”
“Did ye gang tae the minister?”
“Did Mr Cunningham . . .?” here Miss Effie stopped, at a loss for a suitably polite word to describe what she meant.
“Effie, Letty,” said Lady Margaret, “these are personal matters.”
Alison seized the opportunity.
“It’s quite alright, ma’am,” she said, “I understand that everyone is shocked and they want an explanation for these events. In fact that’s why I came; tae tell ye myself what happened, rather than have ye learn it through hearsay.” She took care not to look at the Misses McFadzean.
“Ye dinnae owe us ony explanation, my lass,” said Sir Malcolm. “We’re just pleased tae see ye, as always.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like tae explain.” She quickly recounted how she had befriended Bessie Gibney and how, knowing that Alison too had been attacked by him, Bessie had reluctantly decided to name James Cunningham and had enlisted her help. They had gone together to the minister, who had listened patiently to their tale but had made no comment other than sighing deeply and assuring them that he would look into the matter. Alison had heard later that James Cunningham had been interviewed by the minister and summoned to appear before the Kirk Session the following week.
The Misses McFadzean, disappointed that Alison’s account had not included graphic details of how Cunningham had tried to ravish her in her own workroom, turned to speculation.
“Will ye have tae attend the session, Mistress Fleming?”
“Will ony mair lassies come forward?”
“Dae ye think they’ll find him guilty?”
“He’ll be disgraced.”
“Will he have tae stand in the kirk? I’d like tae see that,” said Miss Effie with relish.
Tom thought that he, too, would like to see that, although for different reasons, but he was grateful for Alison’s sake when Lady Margaret steered the conversation into other, safer waters. He had been hoping that he would have a chance to speak to Alison in private and when she rose to take her leave he quickly offered to accompany her to the gate.
They walked around to the stable yard in silence. Alison untethered her donkey and by unspoken agreement they went through the gate into the walled garden.
“Sorry . . .” began Tom.
“I’m sorry . . .” began Alison simultaneously.
They both laughed and the tension eased.
“We didnae part on the best o’ terms last time,” said Alison, “but I understand why, an’ I’m sorry I was angry. How are things wi’ ye noo?”
Tom found himself relating his encounter of the previous evening with Isabelle Cunningham and the Kennedy gang. Alison listened quietly but her face grew more and more anxious as he spoke. When he had finished, she sighed deeply.
“Ye were daft tae dae it, Tom. They could hae killed ye.”
“I’ve no’ a lot left tae lose,” said Tom. “We’ve found oot naethin’ mair.” He told her then about Bob’s adventure on the docks and his suspicions that the gang had killed Richard Cunningham.
“I cannae believe Mrs Cunningham’s involved,” said Alison. “It disnae mak’ sense. She lives her life her ain way, and she’s no’ a saint, but she’s hardly a Jezebel. I cannae see her having a hand in her husband’s death and gi’ing up her position for the likes o’ Adam Kennedy.”
“Maybe he has some kind o’ hold over her.”
“But what? From what ye say, it sounds like she ca’s the shots in their relationship.”
“Aye, an’ a guid thing for me, as it turned oot,” said Tom ruefully.
Alison thought for a moment.
“James Cunningham,” she said at last. “Could it be him that killed his brither?”
“I’ve thocht an’ thocht aboot this. He came on the scene very quickly, him that normally never gangs near the office. But why would he dae it?”
“Maybe Richard threatened tae expose him. They grew up thegither an’ Richard kent his character. He must hae kent he was a fornicator.”
“But why noo? James has been daein’ it for years.”
“Maybe he’d just seen him defile ower mony lassies, an’ Bessie Gibney having tae stand in the kirk again was the last straw.”
They fell silent. After a week of investigation all they had was speculation and it was getting them nowhere. Tom was aware of time passing, of how little they had left.
“Alison . . .” he began.
She looked up at him, her grey eyes full of concern.
He told her about his father’s decision, about the ship he would take from Dunure the following night.
“I’m glad there’s a way oot for ye,” she said simply.
“But I’ll be an exile. I dinnae ken if I’ll ever be able tae come back.”
“So this is goodbye?” She tried to keep her voice steady, but he could hear the despair in it.
“It seems so. I’d gi’e onything for it tae be otherwise.”
“We could write. Would ye write tae me, Tom?”
“I will. I promise I’ll write, even if my letters never reach ye.” “I will too.”
A moment’s silence.
“Alison . . .” he said uncertainly.
“Aye . . .?”
“Could . . . could I hae a kiss from ye afore I go?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
She stood on tiptoe and reached up. He felt the cool sweet touch of her lips on his, all too briefly, and the salt tang of tears, though whether they were hers or his, he could not say.
“Fare thee weel, Tom,” she whispered.
A long last look, then she pulled her reluctant donkey through the gate, mounted and rode away.
As he came out of the garden, his heart heavy and his head full of thoughts of Alison, he bumped into David and Mungo coming back from the fields.
“Hoo are ye, Tom? Enjoyin’ yer last days o’ freedom?” asked Mungo. Tom tried not to be resentful, for he knew now to take such clumsy remarks at face value. Mungo really was enquiring after his welfare, not meaning to remind him how short a time was left to him.
“Aye, we’ve just had the McFadzean aunties here for tea an’ a gossip. Maybe I’ll no’ miss that,” he added with an attempt at cheerfulness.
*
After supper Sir Malcolm and Tom outlined to the family their plans for Tom’s escape. They did not go into details in case the family were questioned later; the less they knew the better. All were relieved that Tom had a chance to escape the gallows, but the thought of his being an outlaw was hard to bear, especially as his escape would be seen as an admission of guilt. No-one mentioned the possible ruin of the family; one look at Sir Malcolm’s face convinced them that argument was useless, even had they wanted to raise it.
Later, as Tom made his way back to his room, he was waylaid by Mungo.
“So ye’re runnin’ awa’,�
� he began with his usual lack of tact.
“I dinnae seem tae hae a choice.”
“But if ye didnae dae it . . .”
Tom sighed and said nothing. He had had this discussion so many times before.
“What aboot me?” cried Mungo.
“You? But ye’ll be fine. Ye like the farm work, ye get on fine wi’ David and Kate, ye’ll be able tae stay here. An’ ye’ll can see yer mither when ye want tae.”
If only I had that luxury, he added to himself.
“Ye dinnae understand,” said Mungo. “I’m in mortal fear a’ the time.”
“The smugglers? If they were gonnae dae onything tae ye they’d hae done it by noo. Ye just need tae keep yer heid doon an’ no gang near Cunningham’s.”
“They’re just bidin’ their time, maist like.”
In vain Tom tried to allay the other man’s fears. Finally Mungo burst out, “Can ye no’ see, Tom. I cannae spend my life in fear. I need tae gang awa’, far awa’. Tak’ me wi’ ye . . . please.”
Tom had little enough relish for the future as it was; the thought of a lifetime in exile with Mungo dogging his steps was too much to bear. He tried to think of a diplomatic way out.
“Whaur would ye gang?” he asked.
“I dinnae ken. What aboot you?”
“Weel, Ireland first.” Perhaps he could lose Mungo in a peat bog in the wilds of Kerry. “Then I thocht I might gang back tae France.”
“France. I’d like that fine. I like tae hear ye talk o’ it . . . and Madeleine.”
Tom realised that he had not thought of Madeleine for a long time.
“Or maybe the Americas if . . . when . . . the colonists win the war.”
“Aye,” agreed Mungo, “We’d be safe there.”
Safe? thought Tom. In a wild unknown country where the British weren’t welcome?
“So ye’ll tak’ me wi’ ye?”
“I havenae said that. Are ye sure ye want tae gang sae far awa’?”
“The further the better. I cannae stand aye lookin’ ower my shoother in case there’s a gowk ahint me wi’ a knife.”
“But ye’ve seemed a lot happier these past days.”
“Aye, I’ve liked workin’ wi’ Davie. Fresh air, sunshine, physical work. I’m mair at peace then.”
On Carrick Shore Page 14