“Then why no stay? My family would welcome ye. Kate’s fond o’ ye.”
“Aye, she’s a grand lass.” Mungo’s sharp features softened for a moment. “But I need tae gang awa’. If Kennedy an’ his crew can dae awa’ wi’ Mr Cunningham they can kill me an a’. Please, Tom. I’ll no bother ye once we’re awa’ frae here. Ye can tell me tae get lost then. Please . . . I’m beggin’ ye.”
Tom did not reply immediately. It might be that he would welcome company when he set off; it would be a lonely road to travel on his own.
“I’m no’ sure they can tak’ twa,” he said. “My faither arranged it. I dinnae ken what he’s paid the captain.”
“I’ve got some money saved up. If I can just get tae the ship I hope I’ll can persuade the captain.”
“Weel, maybe. We can try, anyway.”
Mungo’s face lit up. “I’m feelin’ better already. Thanks, Tom. I kent ye’d let me come.”
Tom didn’t know where this certainty came from.
“Let’s get some sleep,” he said. “We’ll need it.” But he knew he’d find it hard to sleep for the last time in his own bed.
CHAPTER 21
Friday September 7th
Tom rose early after a restless night. He washed quickly and tidied his bed, wondering where he would lay his head that evening. He looked round the room which had been his since he was ten years old, thinking it had always been good to come back here after university and then after his time in France. He had his books, some well-thumbed, read and loved again and again, others, such as his mathematics textbooks and some volumes on the law, neglected and gathering dust. He opened a drawer containing some forgotten scrapbooks and his collection of toy soldiers, but a great lump came to his throat and he closed the drawer quickly.
Outside the window the day was bright and sunny, with the heat already building up. It was a shame to be leaving now, he thought, after the dreich wet summer. He pushed such thoughts firmly to the back of his mind and went in search of breakfast. For once, he was not late. The family was gathered in the small dining room where Jeanie was serving porridge and kippers. There was a short silence as he took his seat, before everyone started making determinedly cheerful conversation. Mungo was there too, looking tense; Tom doubted he had slept much either.
“Ye’ll be coming wi’ me tae the farm as usual, Mungo?” asked David. “We can maybe mak’ some hay the day.”
“Weel, maybe till noon. I’ll need tae gang an’ see my mither efter.”
“Oh really? Can it no wait? We’ve a wheen o’ work tae dae while the weather hauds.”
“I thocht I should gang an’ say fareweel tae my mither. I’ll like as no’ never see her again.” Seeing the puzzled faces around the table he added, “Did Tom no’ tell ye? I’m gaun wi’ him.”
“What’s this?” asked Sir Malcolm.
Tom coloured, and explained that Mungo had asked to go with him and he had agreed.
“What? An’ jeopardise the whole enterprise?” roared his father. “What were ye thinkin’, Tom?”
“Please, Sir Malcolm,” Mungo ventured, “don’t blame Tom. He thocht it best tae gang alone, but I persuaded him tae tak’ me. If the captain’ll let me aboard,” he added, quaking a little under Sir Malcolm’s piercing gaze.
Sir Malcolm said nothing, merely continued to stare. Mungo stammered on, “I need tae gang awa’, for the smugglers is efter me. I’m feart a’ the time. I’ve got siller saved up,” he added. “I can pay my way, an’ mair.” His voice tailed off.
Sir Malcolm stared at the two youths for some time, then sighed and said, “Very well, I’ll leave it up tae Tom. But if ye dae ocht at a’ tae harm my son’s chances o’ escape, ye’ll hae me tae answer tae, an’ I doot there’ll be much left o’ ye when I’m feenished.”
Tom spoke up quickly. “I can trust Mungo, faither. We’ve aye managed afore.” He tried not to think of how Mungo had nearly got them both drowned. “We’ll be fine. Forbye, I’d be glad o’ company.”
His father stared at him for what seemed an age before muttering, “Humph, aye, weel . . .”
No more was said.
*
Tom spent the morning roaming around the house and gardens, his mood alternating between impatience to be off and the desire to savour the last bitter-sweet hours in his childhood home.
Noon found him on the main staircase, in front of the portraits of his ancestors. He had never examined them closely; as a child he had always run past them, his gaze averted, afraid of the eyes which seemed to follow him. Now, curiosity prompted him to look more closely and read the inscriptions under each painting.
Sir Edward Boyd (1290-1347), companion of Bruce at the Battle of Bannockburn.
Sir Edward wore chain mail and a long drooping moustache and wielded a battle-axe stained, no doubt, with the blood of Englishmen.
Sir Robert Boyd of Dalmeny (1475-1530), court poet to James IV.
Sir Robert, dressed in fine silks and strumming a lute, gazed out of the frame with an expression somewhere between dreamy and martial.
Lady Mary Boyd (1542-1600), lady-in-waiting to Queen Mary.
Lady Mary was soberly dressed in black, but her fine blonde curls spoke of a flirtatious nature slightly at odds with her simpering expression of patient forbearance acquired through years of suffering the caprices of her royal mistress.
The Reverend Ebenezer Boyd (1605-1679), minister of the Reformed Church.
The Reverend Boyd, stood in his pulpit, his unkempt grey hair trailing on his white starched collar. He held a Bible in one hand and the other was raised to heaven as he railed against sinners in general and Episcopalian bishops in particular.
Sir Nathaniel Boyd (1650-1719), sea captain, about to set sail for Darien.
Sir Nathaniel, a fine figure of a man, stood on the deck of his ship, one hand on the rigging, the other holding a large cutlass. His gaze managed to fix itself simultaneously on the spectator and on the distant horizon vaguely visible in the background.
“So you’re takin’ leave o’ your ancestors,” said his father beside him. Tom started. He had not heard Sir Malcolm approach.
“I’ve never looked at them properly afore,” he confessed. “They’re an interesting bunch. I never realised there was so much history in the family. This yin,” he added, pointing to the Reverend Ebenezer, “looks a lot like you.”
“It is me,” said his father mildly.
“An’ this yin . . . what did ye say?”
“That yin’s me an’ a’. They’re a’ me.”
“Even Lady Mary, lady-in-waiting to Queen Mary?”
“Aye, that was the worst. Thon wig had fleas.”
Looking again, Tom could see that beneath the simpering expression, Lady Mary had a distinctly masculine cast of features.
“Dae ye mean nane o’ these folk existed?” he asked.
“They did . . . in a way. I got the names and dates frae the family Bible, but I made up the rest.”
Seeing that his son still looked puzzled, Sir Malcolm said, “I’d better tell ye the truth, but dinnae tell yer mither. She thinks they’re genuine.”
“So where dae they come frae?”
“When I was a student in Edinburgh, I had a friend, Roddy Crawford, who fancied himsel’ as a portrait painter. He had a bit o’ talent, but he was a great one for the drink. He got a chance o’ an apprenticeship, but he had tae provide some samples o’ his work. He didnae hae onything suitable, so we thocht this up between us. He borrowed some costumes and wigs frae an actor friend an’ I made up the stories. It worked an’ a’. He was ta’en on.”
“I can see noo they’re a’ you, an’ they’re weel done, but how come ye look sae fierce in them a’, even . . .” he looked again at the inscription, “ . . . Sir Robert the court poet?”
“Aye, weel, it took us three weeks. Efter each session my airse was numb an’ I’d a drouth on me like Saint Anthony in the desert. Nae wonder I looked scunnert.”
When
he had stopped laughing, Tom realised that he would miss his father, very much.
*
At five in the afternoon Alison was standing in her workroom, her heart heavy, full of thoughts of Tom and their parting. Any joy at discovering their shared feelings for each other was overlaid by the heavy pall of the knowledge that they might never meet again, or at least not for many years, when they would both be different people.
She was trying to work on Lady Margaret’s gown, thinking that at least it gave her some connection to Tom, but she could not concentrate, always wondering what Tom was doing and thinking at that moment. How would it be in the coming days and weeks when she would still be sending all her thoughts to him, but with no idea where he was or what he was doing. Or even if he was still alive . . . no, she would not think of that.
The sound of the shop door opening roused her from her reverie and she went quickly through to the front, glad of the distraction. On the threshold she stopped in surprise. Isabelle Cunningham was pacing back and forth, dramatic in her elegant black mourning, trailing expensive perfume.
“Mistress Fleming,” she said without preamble, “I believe you came to see me last Sunday.”
“Good-day, Madam. Yes, I did,” replied Alison, puzzled. “I wished only to offer my condolences.”
“And perhaps to question me on young Master Boyd’s behalf.” She held up a hand. “No, don’t deny it. I know you visit his family and I would imagine you have developed some friendly feelings for that young man, especially given his present predicament. Am I right?”
“Well . . .” Alison blushed, tongue-tied for once.
“I think you’ve just confirmed it,” said Isabelle with a complacent smile. “Let me tell you that I share your admiration for Master Thomas, if not quite in the same way.” That smile again, with a hint of mockery this time. “So I have some information which you may be able to use.”
“Information?” Alison felt foolish, having no idea what this information might be. She still suspected Isabelle of complicity in her husband’s death.
“You may have been told that I went to my husband’s office on the night of his death,” went on Isabelle. “Perhaps you wonder why?”
Alison could think of nothing to say.
“My husband sent for me because he had found some errors in the accounts and he wished to ask my opinion. There were indeed some anomalies; bank receipts for sums rather lower than those which appeared in the accounts and which we believed had been deposited. Small differences, hardly noticeable, but this had been going on for some time and taken together add up to a considerable amount of embezzlement.” She looked at Alison keenly. “I believe you keep your father’s books, so you will understand what I am saying.”
“But who . . .?” stammered Alison.
“Not Thomas, certainly; it started a long time ago. For a while, the sums stolen were infinitesimal, but the culprit got careless.”
“So, it would be . . . Mungo?”
“You have named him. My husband and I discussed what was to be done, and he reluctantly agreed with me that we would have to dismiss him. Richard was too soft-hearted for his own good, but it had to be done. He was going to tell Mungo the next day.”
“And . . . did ye leave then?”
“I did. That was the last time I saw my husband,” said Isabelle, shaking her head in sorrow.
The two women were silent for a moment. Then Isabelle said, “I leave this knowledge with you, to use as you see fit. I assure you it is true.” With that she turned and left the shop, leaving Alison speechless and confused.
She went through to the workroom and sat by the table, wondering what to do for the best. Could she trust what Isabelle had said? Perhaps it was an elaborate lie designed to cover her own guilt, or that of someone she was protecting, or perhaps she believed Mungo was guilty of her husband’s murder.
Alison pondered this possibility. Mungo certainly had motive and opportunity if he had gone back to the office that night and learned he was to be dismissed. But was he capable of murder? Her knowledge of Mungo’s character was drawn from her dealings with Annie and Tom; she had had little to do with him personally. She suspected his boastfulness and sharp tongue concealed a deep unease and fear of others, and that his moods swung rapidly between extremes, but could he really have killed an employer he was fond of?
“I’ll go and see Annie,” she thought, and before she could change her mind she had snatched up her plaid and was out the door.
She soon realised she could have left her plaid at home. The day was close and warm, the sky a queer leaden colour, the clouds tinged with coppery red. “Storm coming later,” she thought.
She hurried through streets full of folk making their way home from market or towards the taverns. In Mill Street the stench from the tannery and breweries was stronger than ever, catching at her throat and almost making her retch.
Arriving at Annie’s hovel she knocked firmly, hoping that Annie would be at home and in a lucid state, but afraid too. What if Mungo were there?
There was no answer to her repeated knocks, so she carefully pressed the latch and entered. The air inside was close and clammy and in the dim light she could see Annie sitting on a low stool by the cheerless hearth, nursing a bottle. She was already in her cups; all that Alison had achieved in weeks of patient care and encouragement had been undone.
“Annie,” she said, “what’s wrong?”
“Oh, it’s you, bonnie lass,” mumbled Annie. “Are ye gonnae mak’ me a bite tae eat? I cannae seem tae get the fire lit the day.”
Alison sighed, took off her plaid and set herself quickly to the task. Once the fire was lit, water for tea on the boil and a hasty meal of bannocks and rather mouldy cheese assembled and set in front of Annie, she sat down opposite her and pondered what to do next. Judging by her state, Annie had probably not seen her son for several days now that he was lodging with the Boyds, and worry and loneliness had obviously made her reach for the bottle again.
“Oh Annie,” she thought, “what am I gonnae dae wi’ ye?”
Alison told herself to be patient and wait until Annie was in a fit state to answer questions. Gradually some colour returned to her cheeks and she began to look brighter. Alison rose and began to tidy the room, noticing that at least Annie now slept in the box bed and not on the miserable heap of straw in the corner.
Deciding that she could at least clear out and replace the straw, she approached the heap with some trepidation. As she grasped the first armful of straw she saw something gleam in the dim light and reaching down, discovered a knife; a paper knife with a smooth edge and a wickedly sharp point. It had a beautiful ivory handle inlaid with gold and a single ruby which seemed to catch fire in the dim room, a knife such as Annie or Mungo could never have dreamed of owning.
“Annie,” she said uncertainly, “what’s this?”
Annie looked round. “I dinnae ken. Somethin’ Mungo’ll hae brocht hame. He’s aye bringin’ things frae the office.”
Alison looked at the knife again and her blood ran cold. All along the blade were dull, rust-coloured marks, and there were more traces of the stuff in the stinking straw where it had been hidden. Richard Cunningham’s lifeblood, she was sure. In the midst of her horror, Alison was certain of one thing. It was Mungo who had killed Richard.
Carefully, she replaced the knife where she had found it and pulled the straw over it. “When did ye last see Mungo?” she asked, trying to make her voice sound normal, though inside she was shaking with fear.
“Mungo? Did I no’ say? He was here the noo, just afore ye came.”
That was a surprise. “What did he say?”
“What dae ye want tae ken for?”
“I’m sorry, Annie, I dinnae mean tae pry into your business, but it’s important. How was he?”
Annie blinked, swallowed, then drew herself up on her stool. She had obviously rehearsed what she said next.
“My son came tae tak’ his leave o’ me.
He’s gone abroad tae seek fame and fortune, then he’ll come back for me.”
“Abroad?”
“Aye. He’s takin’ ship the nicht, frae Dunure. It’s a’ arranged.”
Dunure? But that was where Tom would be leaving from in a few hours’ time. Surely Mungo wasn’t going too? Thinking about it, Alison realised it made sense. That was why Mungo had been so frightened. It wasn’t just the smugglers he feared; he was afraid the truth would be discovered. If Tom were hanged for murder, he would be safe, but if Tom escaped abroad, Mungo would live in constant fear. “And rightly so,” she thought, “I have the proof here.” Suddenly it was important to get to Barnessie and tell what she knew before Tom left. She would leave the knife hidden; it could be collected later.
There was no time to lose. Alison stood up and was making for the door when she realised Annie was still talking.
“So I thocht if he went abroad I’d maybe never see him again, so I tellt him wha his faither was. He has a right tae ken.”
Alison paused by the door. Could this be important? A thought struck her.
“Ye said ye were in service wi’ a rich family in Ayr when ye were a lass.”
“Aye, an’ Mungo’s faither was the son o’ the hoose,” said Annie proudly. “He’d hae merrit me an’ a’, if his besom o’ a mither hadnae turned me oot.”
Alison hesitated, but decided to ask.
“Was it the Cunninghams?”
“Aye. Oh, he was grand, my bonnie lad.”
“James Cunningham? Did he seduce you an’ a’?”
“James? Yon black corbie, aye peekin’ roon corners an’ fingerin’ the lassies? Nae fear. Naw, it was his brither Richard, my bonnie laddie.”
Alison held on to the door post for support, scarcely able to countenance the horror. Mungo, all unknowingly, had killed his own father.
“Aye, I tellt him,” went on Annie blithely. “He didnae look ower pleased. Whaur are ye gaun, bonnie lass?”
CHAPTER 22
Alison ran back along Mill Street and through the High Street to the Sandgate, scarcely aware of the curious stares and some lewd calls from the men in the streets. Back home she untethered Jinty and called a quick farewell to her father before mounting and setting off as fast as she could towards the south. She knew she had to get to Barnessie before Tom and Mungo left for Dunure. The sky had darkened and she heard rumbles of distant thunder. The first fat raindrops were falling now; the storm had arrived.
On Carrick Shore Page 15