Scotch Rising (11 page)
“Thank you for inviting me in.” I greeted Beth after settling Tasunke and taking another cursory glance around the yard. “I know it is dangerous to invite men into your home when you live alone up here.” I sat in one of three wooden chairs around a table, one leg shorter than the others, making it tough to balance on the cobbles.
Beth smiled, enjoying my discomfort. She put two glasses on the table and filled each one with Scotch, pushing one in front of me. The glass greasy with finger-marks made my stomach protest at the thought of putting it to my lips. She did not notice my reluctance and downed her glass in one. I took a tentative sip.
“Dinnae get any visitors up here, except the law of course, falsely accusing my boys of all sorts of trouble.” Beth took the chair opposite and settled her spindly frame, though without a cushion I could not imagine her being comfortable. “Dinnae run a still, never hae. I suppose ye are going tae accuse my boys of murdering the McKinneys.”
The accusation hung in the air, I never thought of it, mostly because of the rumours around Mr Turner’s involvement. His connection planted itself in my imagination and now little else occupied my thoughts. “How well did your boys rub along with the McKinneys?”
“Och, well enough, I suppose.” Beth poured another draught into her glass. “We are distant relatives, mind, from back when the auld Laird died. Though the McKinneys hae always been a bit tae big fur themselves. Even though we come from the same place, think they are better than us.” Beth thought for a minute, cleaning under her fingernail with a bit of splintered wood. “Rupert was the same age as my youngest, Levy.”
Stomach turning at the sight of the small pile of debris building on the table from Beth’s nails, I looked around the kitchen. Hard to say whether the boys were living here. The meagre contents could service one or three. “When was the last time you saw your boys, Mrs McGreevy?”
“Few months back,” Beth wiped the pile of black dirt from the table with the sleeve of her gown. “They went down south tae find some work after the lambing season up here. Brought me more wool tae spin. Should be home in a week or so tae take my work tae market. I dinnae leave the cottage unattended. There are brigands around.”
None bigger than you, I thought to myself. Tavish would not have mentioned them to me if he did not believe they might be around, nor would Beathan be quick to accuse them. “I have to ask you if either of your boys has been operating a still. An explosion occurred on the fens the other night, not far from this cottage and there has been some speculation your boys might be involved.”
“Lies,” Beth slammed a surprisingly strong fist onto the table. It shook the glasses and the bottle of Scotch pitched perilously. I reached out to steady it. “Bet ye heard it from those ingrates down in Markinch. Well, I will tell ye they hae it out fur my boys. They worked at Deoch. Then some lads accused them of theft. Tavish fired my boys. But they were innocent. Now they go and find work where they can. I spin wool. If the two of them hae learned tae operate a still, we could be as rich as the bloody Clunes.” A fire lit Beth’s eyes and she appeared feverish. “They could stay home all the time, but I tell ye, Captain, I dinnae think they hae the brains. I love them, but stills are a complicated business.”
She was lying. I could not prove it, however I felt it in my guts. Instincts warning me of her duplicitous nature, the only truth she spoke was her belief her boys could not run a still. This did not mean they were not trying. “Madam, thank you for taking the time to answer my questions. I should be off, back to the village. When your boys do turn up. I will be looking to question them myself.”
“They are normally home fur Christmas.” Beth stood and eyed my half-empty glass between narrowed eyes. I clenched my stomach, forced a smile and downed the rest in one swallow, breathing heavily to stop from heaving. She continued speaking, satisfied. “Nae much work around in winter for two lads.”
Grimacing on a hiccough. “I shall perhaps see you in the village.” I bowed smartly, pulled the fur around my shoulders tighter and headed out the door without a backward glance. Tasunke stood watching me with a baleful eye. He looked ready to slumber back in the warm barn, with a bucket of oats by his side.
I could feel Beth’s eyes on me as well as someone in the barn. Out in the open and alone I could easily be taken down, the best way to take down an opponent was through surprise, it’s the reason we used raids to harry the French. I climbed into the saddle, and saluted the occupants of the barn. I wanted them to know I sensed their presence. Tasunke’s clever hooves managed the path and we met the road. Another foot of snow had fallen in the time I spent with both women. I let Tasunke have his lead. He knew the way back to the barn and warmth.
I thought falling snow magical as a child. It drifted from the sky, swirling, as light as air, and it covered everything in cold drifts of ice. Such a simple instrument of chaos, roads shut under its weight, accidents befell the unwary traveller and all remained quiet, sleeping under its heavy silence. Relaxing into thoughts of spending the afternoon working through ciphers for Mr Turner’s diary. I remained convinced the answers to his actions before his death would be revealed along with his involvement with the McKinneys. The lack of any other occupation in Markinch fuelled my need to solve the mystery.
The sound of a dry branch snapping echoed out onto the road. I immediately leapt from the saddle and loosened the weapons on my belt. Tomahawk in hand, I led Tasunke to the side of the road and waited for the cause of the noise to reveal itself. It may have only been a deer or it might be the McGreevy brothers following. Hania taught me the importance of stillness. We spent many autumns hunting together. He would teach me, sometimes with painful consequences, the true abilities of a hunter and a warrior. Those lessons saved my life in the New World. I never thought to have to use them here in Scotland.
Minutes passed, the cloud of white breath emerging from my chapped lips the only sign of my presence. I could wait for hours, crouched in this position, in the summer, in a comfortable temperature. Unfortunately the fast falling snow building up on my shoulders and head reminded me my clothes would begin to leak in time. Exposing me to another chill. The thought of spending any more time in bed with a fever, relying on the feminine ministrations of Freya, spurred me into action. I decided to shout out and take a stand when a small voice emerged from the woods on the opposite side of the road, a few feet judging by the slight echo.
“Captain, it’s only me.” Kieran’s voice shook with shivers and I immediately stood up. Tasunke lifted his head, studied my profile and fell still again. “I went around tae check my snares before the weather turned worse and I saw ye go tae the McGreevys’.” Kieran stepped out onto the road, a brace of conies over his shoulder. He shivered so hard I was surprised he could speak at all.
Quickly striding over to him, I took his frozen hands in mine, looking over his clothes. “For a lad who spends most of his time out of doors. I’m surprised to see you so ill prepared.” I lifted him up and carried him over to Tasunke, placing him on the front of the saddle. Taking the hares, I slung their frozen bodies across my back.
“McGreevys are dangerous folk.” Kieran chattered through his teeth as I tried to get comfortable in the saddle behind him. Pressing his small frame into the warmth of the wolf furs. “I know Roth and Levy are up there. They dinnae show themselves often and probably wouldn’t tae a stranger. Thought ye might need my help again.” I heard the grin on his face.
“You’re a good lad with a good heart.” I signalled for Tasunke to move forward again and we plodded at a slow pace. I could not risk Tasunke becoming lame with Kieran in such a state. “If you knew the weather would close in, you should not have stayed out. You must always have a plan to get home, lad.” Laughing under my breath. “I would hate to know what your father might do to me if he knew you fell ill while chasing after me.”
“He does nae hae a mind for such things, might nae notice if I took ill.” For the first time Kieran sounded like a small boy. It was hard to think of him as vulnerable. “He wishes he lived in another time and place. Maybe fur things tae go back tae the auld days. He wants his rightful life.”
I let the silence grow. The warmth from the furs began to work their magic, Kieran’s scrawny shoulders eased from shivering and he leaned back. Tasunke dutifully trudged along in the deepening snow, needing to break the silence. “And what do you want, Kieran?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders. He remained quiet for so long I thought he was either not going to answer or had fallen asleep. “I suppose I would keep everything as it is now. Faither working at Deoch, Tavish teaching me how tae make Scotch and always having time tae check my snares or look for fish. I would wish tae remain in Markinch. Except when I am fighting in the New World, as ye did. I shall be away from Markinch and Scotch. I will be having stoatin adventures and be like my great-great-grandfather, the auld Laird.”
Hoping to make light of his desire to become a soldier, I said. “I for one would be terrified to come across such a fierce small thing in battle.” Kieran sat up taller when I used the word small. “Size is not everything in a fight. There are many ways to take down a larger opponent, and not only with your fists, using your wits and playing to your own strengths.”
The boy sniffed. “I dinnae believe it, Levy McGreevy is the biggest man around. They say he is the meanest fighter. He never, ever loses.” Kieran leaned forward and patted Tasunke’s neck and ran his fingers through the horse’s ice-crusted mane. “Besides, Jimmy’s the largest lad in the village and he has never lost a fight, nae ever.”
It sounded as if the lad might have some experience with the latter of the two village bruisers. I did not want Kieran to think I might be singling him out. “Tell me of Jimmy, does he pick on all the village children?”
“He’s the landlord of the Thistle’s son. So he can get intae the beer and Scotch,” Kieran shrugged. “He only shares with his friends and if anyone threatens tae tell his mother, they get a guid bop on the head. I’m nae a snitch. I tried trading a couple covies fur a taste, dinnae tell my faither.”
The houses of the village finally began to appear as dark shapes in the falling snow. We would soon be safe, out of the elements. “I assure you I am not a snitch, either. However I would warn you over the dangers of alcohol.” Thinking quickly, “I have heard a few scientific studies on the effects of alcohol on size, and I believe it may cause men to stay small their whole lives.”
“You never say.” Kieran’s voice sounded worried. “I’ve only ever taken sips, nae much. Dae ye think it might affect my size? The auld Laird was as big as a bear, folk say. I need tae be at least the same size as him.”
Legends tended to grow larger in people’s minds with time. “I think the odd sip is fine. It might be best if you leave the drinking to old men such as myself. No more growing to be done, you see.” The lights from the village windows shone weakly through the snow and we turned into the main road, not a soul moved on the street.
Kieran slid from the saddle before I turned Tasunke into the inn’s back courtyard. I handed him the brace of rabbits and he snapped one off the braided sticks and handed it back. “It’s still foul weather. I can take you all the way back up to your cottage at Deoch.”
The boy slid a hand longingly over Tasunke’s wet, icy neck. “Nae, I better make my own way home, never know what mood Faither might be in. Best tae keep him couthy. After all, I’m still on my punishment fur my last adventure with ye.” He doffed his cap and stepped lightly through the drifting snow. I watched until he disappeared.
Without prompting Tasunke turned into the narrow passage and did not stop until we stood in front of the barn doors. Dismounting, I spoke. “Well, old man, I think we have had an interesting morning. Let’s stay inside for the rest of the day, shall we?”
Chapter 9
I relaxed into my favourite chair in front of the fire in the drawing room, a plate of half-eaten oat biscuits and a pot of tea at my elbow, as I drowsily contemplated the falling snow through the front windows. Kieran would have made it home safely, yet I worried for the boy. He was far too adventurous for his own health. I resolved to report back to Colonel Manners, his letter prompting news from me aside. I needed to be sharp in order to present recent circumstances in a respectable light. The current mysteries in Markinch did not warrant a whole militia, the less military involvement the better for everyone.
Finishing the cup of tea, I took up my travelling writing case. The battered wood as familiar to my eyes as my own hands. I ran my thumb over the small brass plate with my father’s initials, JD, carved into the metal in script, as I had hundreds of times before. Opening the lid on paper, ink and goose quills. Using a small knife, I sharpened the end of one of the new quills. I closed the lid of the wooden box, set my paper in place and stared at the blank sheet.
One of my last letters had been to Mr Wick, informing him of my purchase of a great swath of land to the north of Boston. I had told him of my plans to settle there. Have a family and never return to London, finally at peace with the world. The minutes ticked past in mechanical succession, the clock on the mantelpiece reminding me of time lapsing. I put the quill to paper several times, only to discard my words and think anew of an opening. I questioned my motives for protecting the people of Markinch. They would hardly thank me for my efforts. Previous experience taught me. Better to write something than nothing at all, and I wrote across the page in halting script. Hoping to see my thoughts in order to organise them.
Colonel Manners, the year of our Lord, 1707, November.
I am in receipt of your letter having taken up the post in Markinch not over a week past. On the surface, all appears to be in order, the main distillery, Deoch-an-Dorus, keeps tidy records and is running at full capacity. The other smaller still at the Turret is no longer in production and has not been for several weeks. The reason behind this halt is a cause of concern for the English, as it may have to do with the previous post holder, one Mr Turner of Somerset.
I glanced up at the knot in the rope Mr Turner had used to end his life. It hung motionless, without pride or threat. I studied the intricate way it clung to the beam and how high the noose must have hung. Mr Turner could not have fixed the rope without a ladder. Someone else was involved in his death. Someone in this town, did the McKinneys have more to do with it than being victims? Questions frustrated my thoughts, I railed against Colonel Manners for not detailing Mr Turner’s tenure here in Markinch. For not mentioning the worrying circumstances of his death, this information must have been important. I wanted to write my angry thoughts onto the paper, however, I knew Colonel Manners’ character well enough to guess his less than cooperative mood should I try to scold anything out of him. I needed to remain aloof and use my wits.
It appears the man created a local scandal with his interest in the Turret distillery, believing they might be responsible for operating an illegal still or running Scotch, though he found no proof of these crimes. According to my sources the two men who ran the still, Mr Rupert McKinney and Mr Everett McKinney, disappeared on the same night as Mr Turner’s demise, leading many in the area to believe he was involved in the men’s disappearance. I could not discover any proof Mr Turner might be involved in the men’s vanishing, although Mr Turner’s obsessive nature gives credence to the accusations. The discovery of Rupert and Everett’s corpses out on the fens in recent days has only led to further speculation over Mr Turner’s involvement in their demise. I made a cursory search of the place where the men died and of their bodies, finding wounds consistent with shots fired at close range. I searched the cottage where Mr Turner lived and found no such weapons. The lack of the murder weapon does not make Mr Turner innocent or a knave, it only reinforces the mystery surrounding all three men’s deaths. I will be continuing my inquiries into the matter and I will present any further information to you as soon as it becomes available.
After signing my name and closing the envelope with red wax and my personal seal, I thought back on every word and sentence. My complete omission of my own involvement in the discovery of the McKinneys’ bodies might cause problems if he decided to send further soldiers to investigate the deaths. However, I remained confident Colonel Manners would see no reason to disturb the fragile peace of the village with further soldiers or a militia. Markinch did not appear to be a place of strategic importance to the Scots or the English. I would have time to solve the mystery on my own.
I should have informed Manner’s of the McGreevys possible involvement with an illegal still. However I refused to convict two men on the basis of no evidence. Once I obtained conclusive proof of their guilt, I could move forward. But until this opportunity arose, they remained two boys, guilty only of disturbing their neighbours with unproven cattle rustling, which did not necessarily fall into my own jurisdiction.
I set the finished letter complete with direction next to the cold teapot. It would have to be sufficient to keep Colonel Manners appraised of the situation, without causing a panic resulting in an overreaction. After witnessing such instances in Boston. I wanted Markinch to stay clear of any trouble. Often the best policy lay in no policy. My actions based on the presumption I could find some solution to present mess without force. Still the question lingered, why was I bothering to protect Markinch? It must lay in my own apathy towards the military for not preventing Onatah’s death. My trust lay battered on her deathbed. No longer the fool who would believe an army of men could protect anything, only destroy.
My tired eyes spied the letter from Mr Wick. I had read it several times the day before and once that afternoon. It contained all manner of protestations over his clumsy behaviour in London. He reminded me of his ineptitude at social situations. As a scientist, even as an old man, he often overlooked social niceties. I must please forgive him his trespasses. I had already forgiven him, many times over, as I left the pub, on my way north. I also was not worthy of our friendship, yet pride stayed my hand every time I reached for pen and quill. I loved Mr Wick as a father and it made his feelings over my wife all the more bitter. I wish I could explain to him how the feelings of grief over her death slipped away from me every day with a speed that broke my heart anew. Only in my dreams could I picture her face, smell her skin, feel her touch. Awake she remained out of sight away from conscious thought.
I closed my eyes and held my head in my hands, grief at her loss no longer as powerful as the grief of my own inconsistency. However much I loved her, all I possessed was my anger at the man who caused her death. Not loneliness or sadness at losing her and my unborn child. What manner of man was I, to put such a beautiful creature aside so quickly? I had hoped to revel in my grief for years to come. I wanted to write to her brother, Hania, who would be living in the winter hunting grounds. Preparing for his first winter without his sister, only his wife and sons to keep him. He could not read nor write in any language, and there would be none to deliver the letter. I could not use him as a source of fresh hurt. I needed to make a choice, to hang on to her or let her go.
The reply to Mr Wick might have been longer than the one to Colonel Manners, yet it only contained the briefest of apologies for my own behaviour. Instead I told the old man of some of the finds in Mr Turner’s mathematical equations. I tried to copy some them from the slips of paper for Mr Wick’s consideration. Mathematics might be an interest of mine, however, it was not my strongest subject. My intermediate skills could only follow Mr Turner’s equations so far. I would become lost in a sea of variables and could only guess the conclusions were correct. A plea for Mr Wick to find an accomplished mathematician concluded my letter and I folded the paper, and sealed it with my crest. My chores finished for the day, the rest of the afternoon stretched ahead of me with nothing to entertain.
I stood, stretching out my limbs, needing occupation, pacing to the window. The snow fell thick and fast. It looked set to continue all afternoon, well into the night. Having been out already, I did not feel the need to face the elements again. Nor did I need to invite Freya’s criticism over my actions. My outings over the last few days against the barber’s orders and it appeared the Lord used the old barber as his messenger on earth. I felt I still needed to make amends for upsetting Freya on a daily basis. Turning from the window, I scanned the room. Mr Turner’s opus remained spread on the walls, the chalkboard stood in the corner with a half written logarithm. I was not accustomed to having nothing to occupy my mind. Even less accustomed to not having physical activity to enjoy. I took the tea and plate of uneaten biscuits back into the kitchen. Perhaps if I put everything away nicely I would go up in my thorny housekeeper’s estimation.
A few minutes later, everything put back into place, I walked out of the kitchen and hesitated before walking directly back into the drawing room. The copy of
The Merry Devil of Edmonton
Mr Wick had sent me as a birthday present this past summer lay in one of my trunks above stairs. Yet the thought of reading more of Peter Fabel’s adventures as a magician did not summon much interest. I did however have Mr Turner’s diary, the answer to all of the recent deaths in Markinch could be contained in those coded pages. I took the steps two at a time, as I had as a boy to irritate my nanny and quickly found the diary in the table drawer beside my bed. Tucking it under my arm, I raced down the stairs and grimaced as I stumbled to the bottom. Thinking of Freya’s downturned mouth at my antics.
Sitting back in my chair by the fire, my writing case on my knees once again. I opened the diary to a random page and thought of where to begin. The numbers did not reveal any pattern to the untrained eye. Sighing and scanning the room, I felt the equations mock my efforts. The cipher could be anything. Using the same methodical approach as the other night. I wrote out the alphabet on a scrap piece of parchment, remembering a cipher described in one of my history books, I shifted the number of the alphabet down three spaces. Caesar used such a cipher to encode his own correspondence, hiding his deepest thoughts. This did not save him in the end, his best friend and ally holding the weapon of his demise. Now under the first letters of the alphabet, A, B, C, D, and E I wrote the numbers 1, 2, 24, 25, 26. I proceeded to write out a half page of letters corresponding to the cipher numbers underneath.
I could not make any sense out of the numbers. I tried to form words from groups of letters, yet nothing meaningful appeared. I tried to further the Caesar cipher by shuffling the numbers down the alphabet by four, five, six places and still could not form any coherent sentences. The frequency of numbers used in each line led me to an interesting conclusion. Perhaps some of the numbers corresponded to more than one letter of the alphabet. This could be the breakthrough I need to solve the puzzle. It meant the cipher could be anything from an important date to a randomly selected group of numbers. I studied all of the pieces of paper stuck to the surrounding walls. I truly hoped the cipher was in a date rather than one of these calculations. Otherwise I would never find it.
While studying at Magdalene College, I was privy to a major scandal whose discovery rocked the foundations of academic spirit at Cambridge as a whole. An old professor who conducted various chemical experiments began to believe some of his students might be stealing ideas from his work. He tried to protect himself accordingly by encoding his workbooks. He used a code based on the date of his beloved wife’s death, an event so far in his past he believed his students might never guess. Unfortunately for the old man, his son, an aspiring chemist himself and lacking any scruples, worked out the cipher as the day his mother died and stole his father’s ideas. When the old man accused his son of misconduct, he locked the old professor away. The son’s actions came to light after he could not thoroughly explain how some of his experiments worked through rigorous testing. Sadly the revelation came too late for his father, who had died of a broken heart.
Setting the writing desk aside, I began looking through all of Mr Turner’s papers. He must have left something around the cottage with his birthdate, parents’ wedding anniversary, the day of his acceptance letter to College. I opened the drawers in the desk to search through each one and I found papers on recent discoveries made by mathematicians, but little else of a personal nature. I stood and carefully turned on the spot, looking for places where Mr Turner might have kept his correspondence. Even if he did not have regular contact with his kin, he would have received and written letters to Colonel Manners.
Blowing air forcefully out my mouth in frustration, I walked back over to my seat by the fire. I heard whistling from the front hall and stopped before sitting and waiting for Freya to come bustling into the room. A refreshed teapot in hand, the same biscuits displayed on a plate.
“Here ye are, Captain.” Freya set the tea things onto the same table they had occupied before by my elbow and glanced around in the room. “I hope ye hae gotten some work done. Captain, although I dinnae see how with all this nonsense going on around the place.”
“You could help me.” I used my most charming smile. “I am looking for Mr Turner’s private correspondence, anything from London or family members.” Gesturing to the desk. “I looked through the obvious places and could not find anything.”
