Mathew's Tale (24 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

‘W
HY DID YOU NOT
tell me this before?’ Sheriff Stirling asked. ‘Do you not trust me after what happened in June?’

‘Of course I trust you, Robin. If I did not would I be telling you now, and giving you the chance to warn off my target?’

‘I am not sure it is a compliment to ask whether I might be capable of any partiality, but I will take it as such. Let me consider the situation.’

He sipped his brandy; Mathew and Sir Graham Stockley watched him across the dinner table as he thought, and came to a conclusion. ‘You may find these women,’ he said, once his response was formed in his mind, ‘but you may not. The Crown’s false letter from a false physician might be enough to have the case against David McGill reopened, but not much more, I believe.

‘To have his conviction quashed, yes, that will give some comfort to his family, but I can see that you want more, my friend. You want Cleland on the scaffold.’ He frowned. ‘And there was I thinking of you as a gentle Christian man.’

‘I would like to think that I am,’ Mathew said, ‘but experience has taught me that those who turn the other cheek usually wind up wounded twice. I am not after Sir Gavin out of vengeance alone. He holds the livelihood of many people in his community in his grasp, and he is not fit to do so. I want him removed for that reason alone, as well as the other.’

‘You might be able to do so without seeing him swing.’

‘Perhaps, but I have promises to keep; those I made to Matt, and to Cleland himself.’

‘Mmm,’ Sir Graham Stockley murmured, fingering his port glass. ‘What does Mrs McGill wish?’

‘Lizzie probably believes that hanging is too good for him. His head on the spike above the Tolbooth might satisfy her, but they knocked it down, so she must be satisfied with whatever sentence the court hands down, if we can ever bring him to trial, that is. Can we begin that now, without Smith and Stout?’

‘You think they may never be found?’ Stirling asked.

‘I have tried to put myself in Cleland’s position, an uncomfortable place to be. For his long-term protection, he would have been better killing them than sending them away.’

He paused. ‘But would he have the ruthlessness? I looked into his eyes before the scaffold in the Lawnmarket and I doubt it. I saw a coward in there, an opportunist, but a coward. I believe that in an instant he saw a chance to have the estate for himself, and he took it. But to kill the witnesses once their false statements were sworn? I did not see that in him.’

‘But what if you are wrong,’ the Sheriff countered, ‘or if the pair have been sent abroad, or to Ireland even? You ask if you can make a case without them. Well, first you must precognose those chambermaids and the laundry woman, take their statements formally and under oath. If you have that, you might have your man Innes petition the High Court for an appeal against conviction, but still you would be short of indicting Cleland.’

‘It would be risky too,’ Mathew said, ‘for Cleland has been spending much more time on the estate these last few weeks, since Lord Douglas banned him from Heriot Row, and let it be known that anyone seen speaking to him in Edinburgh would be no friend of his.

‘That meant automatically that his membership of the New Club was revoked. So all he can do in the city is lurk in Albany Street, or go down to Leith and the rough trade there. Philip Armitage’s questioning of the staff was discreet and private. Formal statements would not be so, and would even put the factor’s position in jeopardy. That is something I do not want, for I need the good Mr Armitage.’

‘I did not think you were fond of that man, Mathew,’ Stockley said. ‘Being unloved is part of a factor’s lot, is it not?’

He shrugged. ‘Whether I like the fellow or not is irrelevant, Graham. As I said, I need him, for reasons that will become clear soon, when certain matters have made their way through the Court of Session, as they will, for the Lord President is taking a keen interest in their passage, and also keeping them out of the public eye.’

‘I am intrigued.’

‘So am I,’ Stirling added.

Mathew smiled. ‘Then you can both stay that way, until I have further news for you. In the meantime, Robin, let us hold fire on the estate maids for a little longer at least. I am not without hope that the owners of the blond and red hairs on the Cleland pillows can yet be found.’

Chapter Forty

A
N HOUR AFTER MIDDAY
on a December Monday morning, three days before Christmas, a messenger on horseback arrived at Waterloo House, and delivered an envelope.

Mathew was in Coatbridge on business, driven by Beattie, and Hannah was visiting Lizzie in Carluke, and so the man was received by Miss Liddell, who chided him over the condition of his hard-ridden animal, even as she took possession of an envelope bearing the name, ‘Mathew Fleming, Esq. DL’. It was written in a spidery hand, not that of a professional clerk, and sealed with red wax on the reverse.

‘Who is the sender?’ she asked.

The travel-worn rider shook his head. ‘Cannae tell ye’, for Ah dinna ken. An officer gied me it. Confidential for Mr Fleming is a’ he said.’

‘And where was this officer? Or is that secret too?’’

‘Edinburgh.’

‘Then you’ll have a long trip back. Go round to the back of the house and find the kitchen. Get some warmth in your bones, and some hot food inside you for the journey. The groom will take good care of your horse.’

The letter was on Mathew’s desk, in his private parlour when he returned home, just after six that evening. He turned up the lamps to their brightest, but even so had to use his monocle to make out the detail of the wax seal. He smiled as he recognised it, then slit the envelope along the top with a knife, to preserve it.

Inside was a single page, a note that read:

It is done, decree is granted and the consequent order is issued. The documents will be with Mr Johnston this afternoon for delivery to the pursuer, through you; I imagine you might wish to make the enforcement in person.

In all the circumstances I do not imagine that I will ever be invited to visit, for although I beg forgiveness for my transgression, it is too much to expect that I might receive it. All that I can do is send the beneficiary my humble good wishes, and extend my hand to you, sir, in friendship.

Douglas.

Mathew gasped as he slumped into his chair. The plan had been a wild one, a gamble, literally, but its success had been beyond his most optimistic hopes.

He strode out into the hall, and retrieved his waxed cotton overcoat.

‘Mathew,’ Hannah called after him as he opened the front door. ‘Where are ye gaun? It’s freezin’ the nicht, and ye’re only just hame.’

He stopped and turned towards her. ‘I have to see Lizzie, Mother, and now. It can’t wait. Quickest for me to go myself than tear Ewan away from his dinner.’

‘Aw, son,’ she sighed, sadly, misinterpreting him completely. ‘Ah know this has always been hard for you, but gie the lassie time. Let her see this terrible year oot, and wash her hands of it. She and her weans are comin’ here on Thursday, mind, for Christmas. Ye can talk tae her then about the future, if ye must, although for propriety ye might want tae talk to young Matt first.’

He smiled at her misunderstanding. ‘Mother,’ he chuckled, ‘am I that impetuous? Lizzie and I are not children; we are agreed that if anything happens between us it will be in the fullness of time. Tonight I have to see her on urgent business. It affects her more than me, but I want it done before Christmas and for that to happen, everything must be in place . . . and everyone, including her.’

‘Then tak’ my pony and trap, no’ yer horse. It’s too cauld for that.’

‘That was my plan.’

He went round to the stables, and harnessed one of the horses, rather than Hannah’s pony. She was called Gracie, the second to bear that name since his old friend, who was buried by then at the foot of the hill where David lay, and he was too fond of her to take her out in the dark on a frozen road. He lit the lamps on the carriage and set out, grateful for what little moon there was.

He reached Carluke without mishap, at quarter past seven, and secured the horse, then rapped Lizzie’s door knocker, hard. When he heard footsteps inside he called out, ‘It’s Mathew,’ lest she was anxious.

She opened the door and let him into the warmth, leading him through to her sitting room. She was alone. ‘Jean has a snuffle, so I sent her to bed early. Matt is out visiting Jane Fisher. I encourage that; when he’s with her he can’t be angry.’

‘He still is?’

‘Of course he is. I still am and so are you, but we are of an age to be rational. Don’t worry yourself though; he is under control and he is kept busy. What a worker the laddie is. If I did not have him, I would need three in his place.’

He smiled. ‘Perhaps I should take him to Coatbridge. He would fit in well there.’

She stared at him. ‘Don’t you . . .’

‘Never in a million years,’ he assured her. ‘Sometimes when I go into our foundries, I feel like Satan, it is so damned hot. There may come a time when Matt does work with me, if he chooses, but it will be on no factory floor. He and Marshall will be treated the same way. I hope that my son will go to Glasgow University. That is open to yours too, if he wishes, and he might well once we have flushed out the hatred.’

‘Will we ever do that?’

‘Yes, we will, we will cleanse the anger in all of us when the cause is removed.’

‘Then perhaps you should duel with Cleland,’ she muttered. ‘I have no scrap of doubt as to its outcome.’

‘Your wish is my command.’

‘No!’ she said, at once. ‘That was a bad jest. I would never put you in peril. Mathew, what a thing for me to say. What sort of a woman have I become?’

He wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in his open raincoat. ‘One after my own heart,’ he murmured, ‘as you have always been. And probably a wise one too, if you forbid me. The last fatal duel in Scotland, a few years back, was between a former soldier, a hot-tempered bully of a man, and a coward who was no sort of shot. The coward panicked; he fired too early . . . and he was lucky. His wild bullet hit the marksman in the throat and killed him.’

‘Then you must not give Cleland even that chance.’

He held her a little away from him, so that he could look into her eyes; then he leaned forward and put his lips to her forehead.

‘Right enough,’ she whispered, ‘you missed.’ She rose up on her toes and kissed him, full on the mouth.

‘No,’ he breathed, ‘like a good duellist I was choosing my moment. But let us sit down now, or I might have to lie to Mother Fleming when I get home.’

As they settled on her settee, facing the blazing fire, he said, ‘The fact is, Lizzie my dear, I have been duelling with that weasel Cleland for the last six months, but he has been unaware, as I have been using weapons that he does not understand. Indeed he is mortally wounded, but does not yet know it. When he discovers, I want you to be there.’

‘Me? Why?’

‘Because you deserve to be, simple as that.’

‘When will this happen?’

‘In two days, on Christmas Eve. I want you to be ready for me when I come for you around noon, to pay a call on him. I know the shop will be busy, but Matt can take over.’

She looked at him. ‘I really have to face that man?’

He shook his head. ‘No. He really has to face you, and on his ground at that.’

‘How do you know he will be there?’

‘I know everywhere he is. Anyway, he has nowhere else to go. His Edinburgh house is closed and the small staff dismissed. Now it belongs to the National Bank. He is cornered, like a badger. He has no friends left, not even Philip Armitage.’

‘No,’ she conceded. ‘I do not believe that Mr Armitage has any friends either. Friendship requires a degree of emotion in a person, and it is hard to spot in him.’ She turned half round, to face him. ‘Should I dress in my finest for this encounter on Wednesday?’ she asked.

Mathew gave her question some thought before replying. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not think so. Wear your long shopkeeper’s apron and your cuffs; I want to twist this dagger.’

She grinned. ‘I am intrigued, but I will do as you ask; I might even rub some flour on them. You never come here during the day; you might not recognise me.’

He squeezed her hand. ‘No matter what you wear I would always recognise you, for I know what lies inside.’

‘That is changed since last you saw it,’ she said, quietly. ‘I have had three bairns since then, and another stillborn.’

He threw his head back and laughed softly. ‘I was talking about your heart, my darling lassie. For the rest, I hope to make my own judgement in due course. Perhaps around Valentine’s Day, should you do me the honour?’

‘You ask me now?’ she exclaimed, surprised. ‘I thought we had agreed to wait until the year was out before thinking of ourselves.’

‘I want it resolved before Wednesday,’ he replied. ‘I doubt that David would be concerned about timing, but we can keep the secret until banns have to be called. If you consent, that is. Do you, Elizabeth?’

‘Of course I do.’ She leaned close and kissed him again. ‘There, that is it sealed . . . although not as emphatically as when we were younger. Yet, I do not understand the need for haste.’

‘I will explain, after Wednesday . . . if I have to.’

Chapter Forty-One

H
ANNAH FLEMING COULD NOT
recall ever having seen her son as impatient as he was the next morning. He had arrived home at nine the night before in high spirits that he would not explain, possibly unwisely, as her imagination had not diminished with her age.

Having had nothing but respect for David McGill, his tragedy had hit her as hard as anyone. In its aftermath a new worry had emerged; Mathew and Lizzie had been made for each other from their early years, and after David’s death, she had no doubt, when she allowed herself to think about it, that they would be together sooner or later.

But she had a question in her mind that she knew would occur to others: would they be coming together in the aftermath of a shared loss, or with an element of relief that the way had been cleared.

If David had died of typhoid it would have been no issue, but the fact that he had been taken unjustly by the hangman’s noose would raise any future marriage between his friend and his widow to a completely different level of gossip.

She surmised from his demeanour that a pact had been reached the night before, but his impatience made her wonder what other business they had discussed. Her mind was busy, but her face gave no hint of it. To the entire household, she seemed as calm, as much a stoic as ever.

She was about to call him to lunch when she saw, through the parlour window, a coach approaching, one whose like she had never seen before; it was closed and bore a red insignia on the outside.

Mathew saw it also, and rushed to the front door. When he returned, he was carrying a sealed box, which he carried into his private parlour.

‘What was that?’ she asked him, when he came into the dining room.

‘Business,’ was his brief reply.

‘Business doesna’ usually have ye buzzing like a wasp at a jeelly jar,’ she remarked quietly.

He smiled, but offered no further explanation. He ate lunch quickly, then excused himself to his mother, his son and the boy’s governess, then left the room. A little later, Hannah heard the front door close. She went to the dining-room window and looked out, discreetly, hidden behind the curtain, and saw him stride past, in that ugly waxed-cotton coat he loved so much. He carried the box, and was heading towards the stables, where Beattie and his carriage were waiting.

A hand tugged at her sleeve. ‘Where’s my father going, Granny?’ Marshall asked. ‘I was going to play the piano for him this afternoon. It was going to be a surprise.’

She slipped her arm around the red-haired boy’s shoulder, as they watched him climb on board the carriage without a backward look. ‘Ah’m sure he’ll be back in time for ye tae do that, son. At the moment, Ah’d say he’s planning on surprising somebody else.’