Fate and Fortune (7 page)

Although Hew had turned his back on St Andrews, he did not forget the dead girl. As he began his journey south, he resolved to make his way along the coast, inquiring at each port and harbour whether they had lost a lass. For someone missed and mourned her, looking out each morning on the grey unfolding sea, waiting for their loved one to come home. He did not know what he would say, if ever he found them. But he hoped to bring her back among her friends.

Nonetheless, though Hew did not forget the girl, he was anxious to put the town behind him and forget his own responsibilities. The breath of warmer air upon the late spring frosts had left an early haar upon the water that the bluster of the sunlight threatened to blow off, promising a sky of cloudless blue. Hew was wearing fine new clothes, in deference to the capital, trunk hose and doublet made of cream embroidered silk, with a plum coloured coat beneath a matching gown. Clean linen shirts and nether hose were packed into his saddle bag, and a smaller backpack slung across one shoulder held his father’s manuscript, folded in its wrappers and sealed with sealing-wax. In a pocket was a letter to the Edinburgh goldsmith, proving his claim to Matthew Cullan’s estate.

It was Hew’s intention to keep to the line of the shore, where the paths were well worn and less hazardous, and he was less likely to fall prey to beggars or thieves. He planned to come to Largo Bay by dusk, and to stay a night there at Strathairlie, the house of an old friend, setting out for the ferry at Kinghorn the following day. The small towns and villages along the Fife coast were safe and sheltered landing places, where he meant to rest his horse. Against all odds, and the predictions of the groom, he had chosen once again to ride Dun Scottis, a
sad-coloured
ambler of uncertain temperament. The dun horse had mellowed in his master’s absence, or perhaps was growing old, for a sweet bed of straw and persistent gentle exercise had calmed his wild recalcitrance into a placid stubbornness. Hew remained attached to him. Since his business held no urgency, he was content to amble on across the countryside. Therefore he allowed the horse to set the pace, and explored the cool awakening of the land and sea. The farmers pulled the plough across the fallow fields, and the crows began to gather at the turning of the earth, in anticipation of seedtime. Winter oat and barley crops, lately deep in snow, were blown like sheets of water in the wind. Some of the farmers were Matthew’s old tenants; the fields that they furrowed were Hew’s. The slow and heavy
dragging
of the oxen through the soil felt deeply satisfying, as the earth renewed its natural cycle, and Hew arrived in Crail contented and fulfilled, as though he had himself been labouring on the land. He paused on the Marketgate, to traffic with the blacksmith and to hear the news, while the smith hammered out a new shoe for Dun Scottis. But among the gossip and report, he heard nothing untoward. In the harbour the boats had put out to sea, and the bairns scrambled
barefoot
over the rocks. No one had known the dead girl.

In Anstruther and Pittenweem, the story was the same. The horse trotted on while Hew kept his eye on the track and followed the line of the shore. They made good progress, passing by the ruined kirk of St Monan’s, so close upon the water’s brim that Hew felt certain he would trace the fisher lass, where the world came tumbling to the edges of the sea, but the minister received him with a puzzled
kindness
: no lass was missing from here.

Hew hurried on through Elie and Earlsferry, and turned the corner into Largo Bay. By now, he had almost lost hope of placing the dead girl. Nonetheless, he did not take the track towards Strathairlie House but rode down to the harbour, in Seatown of Largo. Women and girls sat outside the cottages, tying hooks to lengths of cord, long lines for the white fish that lay flat on the bed of the sea. They formed a fierce and jagged group, and Hew felt shy of approaching them. He led Dun Scottis further to the shore, where two boys came by with a barrel of mussels, collected as bait from the outcrop of rocks that lined the shallow bay. He guessed they were brothers, for both had a crop of muddled red hair. Once again, he asked the question, ‘Is there a lass gone missing from here?’ and was startled by its effect. The older boy glowered and glared, while his brother hopped excitedly from foot to foot.

‘Aye, sir, there is, Jess Reekie.’

‘Haud yer tongue,’ his brother cautioned, ineffectually. The
excitement
of a stranger, with fine clothes and a horse and a full fat purse, was too tempting to persuade the boy of danger, and he babbled on, ‘Big Rab Reekie’s daughter, that was sweet on Davey here.’

The boy Davey blushed. ‘Away and piss,’ he suggested, though whether to the smaller boy, or Hew, was far from clear.

‘She
was
though,’ his brother insisted. ‘And she begged you take her to the fair.’

‘You shut your mouth.’

‘’Cept her daddie wouldna let her. Wee hoor that she was, ye’d take her richt enough, save you were feared of big Rab.’

‘
Shut
yer mouth.’

‘Who is Jess Reekie? Is she missing?’ Hew persisted.

Davey shrugged. ‘And if she is, it’s nought to do wi’ me. You’re deid, son,’ he informed his brother, who continued undeterred.

‘That’s her mammie, Jeannie Muir, jangling with the fisherwives.’

There was nothing for it but to broach the women, and Hew did so with a sense of trepidation. Already, they had noticed him, and paused their gossip to admire the stranger, brave and fair and dainty in his fancy coat. As he came closer, one of them called out, coarse enough to make him blush, for though he scarcely understood her, he had caught the drift. The others stood cross-armed. They did not suspect him. Death did not come over land, bonnily clad and on a dun horse. It came from the sea, and they were used to it, focused on a point beyond the waves. Therefore Hew was a welcome
diversion
, a toy for them to stare upon, gross and mocking in their gaze. It did not seem likely, after all, that such a fragile girl could have come from such stock, or from anyone known as
Big Rab
. Hew’s courage almost failed him. He did not want to have the telling of it, now the trail had come abruptly to its end. He did not want that lass to have her ending here, in these bitter-weathered women, their faces filled with scorn.

He cleared his throat. ‘Which one of you is Jean Muir?’

There was a moment’s consternation, before a black-haired woman stepped out from the rest. ‘I am Jean Muir,’ she answered warily. The women stood alert and watchful. Jean stared blankly, eyes dark with dread. He knew then that he had found her, though he tried to tell himself it was some other girl.

‘There was a lass found dead on the beach at St Andrews, a day or two past.’ Hew kept his voice low, out of reach of the fisherwives,
gathering
like crows. Nonetheless, they cawed in chorus, ‘I
telt
you, she’d went to the fair.’

Jean Muir did not waste glances, she did not waste words on them, but pursed her lips tightly and pulled close her shawl. ‘The dead lass,’ she whispered. ‘What was she like?’

And what could he tell her?
No one, the coroner said
. He answered her bleakly, ‘Slender, and small. The doctor thought she might be sixteen years of age. She had on a strippit blue gown, and a white linen cap. Her hair …’ He trailed off. He could not tell the colour of her hair, made dank and dark by the sea.

‘Fifteen,’ Jean said, vaguely.

‘What’s that?’

‘She was fifteen,’ Jean Muir murmured, walking on past. ‘I’ll go an’ fetch my bairn.’

She walked as though asleep, sure and heavy in her trance. And Hew had no doubt that she could, that she was fierce enough and strong enough and proud enough, to scoop up the lass in her tight muscled arms and shake off the sea-water, shaking off death, to carry her home. The crow women scattered, scowling at Hew. And one of them – sister, mother, friend? – stout and braver than the rest, called out, ‘Wait, it’s almost dark. The men will fetch her home tomorrow in the boat.’

‘And lose a day’s fishing?’ Jean Muir scoffed. Even in grief she was scornful, thought Hew. But perhaps more especially in grief. It was a hard little core of defensiveness, gathered inside her, gathered around like a shawl, all of her close-set and weathered grimly, fierce and hard and small. She said, ‘Whisht, Nancy, whisht. Let me go.’

‘Mistress … it’s twelve miles … and soon it will be dark. And likely they have buried her … and still, it may be possible, that this was not your daughter after all,’ Hew reasoned hopelessly.

‘It’s Jess,’ Jean replied, with a dull complacency, and tramped on, no longer seeing him.

He cried out, ‘Wait, let me help you. What can I do?’

‘What you can dae,’ the stout Nancy snarled, ‘is let us alone. You telt her. Now let it be.’ She hurried off in pursuit of her friend.

Hew did not escape so easily. The other women circled, hungry for gossip, to pick over the scraps of his news. Digesting, they assessed and were reassured. Their own weans were safe, and their own daughters blameless, hard-working, tucked up in bed of a night. Jess had been an
unco
’ lass, bonny and too trusting, wanton as a hoor, and willing as a bairn, and like as not to find herself in trouble with a man. And so she had.

When at last Hew had disentangled himself, Jean and her fierce friend Nancy were long gone. He pictured their dull trudge across the fields to a town they would not come to before dark, to fetch home their dead lass, already lying cold beneath the ground. The boys had gone from the shore, and the boats lay sombre, empty in the bay. Hew continued upwards from the beach. He followed the course of the burn to the lands of Strathairlie. The burn began to bulge and leach upon the land, flooded by the recent thaw, or perhaps it was the dam that served the mill. Hew felt raw as he approached the house, a little worn and
shadowed
in the gloom of dusk. The bright, congenial welcome of the country house no longer seemed to fit. His friend, Andrew Lundie, was away on business, and Hew was almost glad to find him gone from home. In his absence, he was met by Andrew’s father John, as attentive a host as ever he could wish for, yet Hew felt uneasy with his hollow talk and comforts, that did not match the darkening of his mood.

‘Andrew is married, did you hear?’ John Lundie informed him. ‘And he has a son, my grandson, you know. But you, Hew, are not married, I suppose? And no sign of any heir?’

‘Not yet, sir, I’m afraid.’ Hew admitted, smiling weakly. They were settled in the great hall, to a spring supper of boiled eggs and pullets, with white manchett loaves and sweet yellow sack. John Lundie sat toasting the bread on the fire, for sippets to soak up their wine.

‘Tsk, tis a pity,’ he remarked, turning the toasts on their fork. ‘Since everything settles on you. It is essential to consider and consolidate one’s property, and keep it close to home. I have hopes that our family may have possession of this whole estate before too long. Then as to Andrew, you see, and his little son John, I may settle on him, and die well. As I have no doubt, your father did, though without the solace of a grandson to ensure his line. Now then, as I understand, you are apprenticed to Richard Cunningham, the advocate.’

‘
Do
, you, sir?’ retorted Hew, startled from his manners. ‘Who told you that?’

John Lundie looked nonplussed. ‘Why Master Cunningham himself, was it not, Agnes?’ he appealed to his wife, who looked up from her cup and smiled vaguely.

‘Well then, I dare say,’ Master John went on, ‘Master Cunningham was present at the recent circuit court, at which I was obliged to serve as witness, a most wretched venture, to be sure; I dare say it was then I heard it. Or was it from the crowner? Can it be a secret, though?’

Hew shook his head. ‘A misunderstanding,’ he muttered.

‘Truly? How very singular.’

After supper, John proposed a game of cards, and with the lady Agnes and John’s second son and daughter, they made up a five at maw. Hew felt ill at ease, and could not settle to the game. At last, when he had missed his turn a second time, and lost his stake, Agnes remarked somewhat archly, ‘I fear that Master Cullan is too much the scholar to approve our game. I dare say tis the hazard that offends him.’

‘Ah, not at all. Forgive me, I am distracted tonight.’ Hew set down his cards, showing his hand, and John Lundie frowned. ‘Perhaps you would prefer a game of chess?’

‘I confess, sir, my mind is elsewhere.’

‘Indeed?’ John looked a little perplexed. It was plain, he very much wanted to pick up the cards, and conclude the game, in which he had been poised to take the third trick. He hesitated, merely, out of
politeness
, debating whether he must now invite his young friend to confess what troubled him. Before he could give way to better judgement, Hew confided, ‘Indeed, sir, there is a service you can do me, if you will.’

‘Aye, then?’ John proceeded cautiously, ‘And what is that?’

‘It is a wretched tale. There has been a murder in St Andrews. I pray you, send word to the coroner that I have found out the poor girl’s name. She is Jess Reekie from Seatown of Largo, and her father is Big Rab the fisherman.’

The lady Agnes set down her cards and let out a faint little cry. ‘Is it possible, John?’

Her husband frowned. ‘Hush, a moment, Annie. Now,’ he said sternly to Hew, ‘have a care. Speak softly, that you don’t upset the ladies, and explain yourself. What’s all this?’ He was wearing
spectacles
, for his eyes were not what they had once been, and in the fading candlelight he could not tell the clubs from spades. The change in his expression had dislodged them from his nose. Impatiently, he snatched them up and put them in a pocket.

Hew continued recklessly, ‘It is as I say, on St Andrews shore was found the body of a fisher lass that had been raped and killed.’

At the word
raped
, the lady Agnes gave another squeal, and her husband rose abruptly to his feet.