A Case of Desecration in the West E-Book

Douglas Watt

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 426

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

'All is secrecy. All is lies… Does anyone tell us the truth here?' Scotland, 1691. Hooded figures have been seen in the woods and the dead have been wrenched from their resting place under the cover of darkness and their graves desecrated. A body is found floating in the River Clyde and a Duchess is determined to find answers. John MacKenzie's latest case takes him and his loyal assistant Davie Scougall to Hamilton Palace to discover the truth behind the curious drowning of local woman Bethia Porterfield. The kirk and sheriff have pronounced a verdict of self-murder, but the Duchess is unconvinced, and every soul connected to the case is guarding secrets of their own. Despite mounting pressure to leave the West, MacKenzie and Scougall must navigate the murky waters of the Clyde, where nothing is as it seems, to uncover the truth – was Bethia's death an accident, a suicide, or part of something much more sinister?

Leseprobe

DOUGLAS WATT was born in Edinburgh and has an MA and PhD in Scottish History from Edinburgh University. He is the author of a series of historical crime novels set in late 17th century Scotland featuring investigative advocate John MacKenzie and his side-kick Davie Scougall. Douglas is also the author of The Price of Scotland, a prize-winning history of Scotland’s Darien Disaster. He lives in East Lothian with his wife Julie.

By the same author

Historical crime fiction:

Death of a Chief, Luath Press, 2009

Testament of a Witch, Luath Press, 2011

Pilgrim of Slaughter, Luath Press, 2015

The Unnatural Death of a Jacobite, Luath Press, 2019

A Killing in Van Diemen’s Land, Luath Press, 2021

History:

The Price of Scotland: Darien, Union and the Wealth of Nations, 2nd edition, Luath Press, 2024

First published 2024

ISBN: 978-1-80425-179-9

The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

Typeset in 11.5 point Sabon by

Main Point Books, Edinburgh

© Douglas Watt 2024

To Julie

List of Main Characters

John MacKenzie – advocate

Davie Scougall – notary public

Bethia Porterfield

Arthur Nasmyth

Ann Hamilton, Duchess of Hamilton

James Hamilton, Earl of Arran

David Crawford – palace notary

Patrick Grinton – local laird

Isabella Nasmyth – mother of Arthur Nasmyth

William Drummond – Arran’s man of business

Sir James Turner – retired soldier

Hugh Wood – head gardener at Hamilton Palace

Andrew Wood – son of Hugh Wood

William Corse – Glasgow merchant

Margaret Corse – wife of William Corse

Robert Corse – student of divinity

Archie Weir – friend of Arthur Nasmyth

Jago O’Flaherty – harper

John Timothy – servant

Janet Dobbie – maidservant

Mary Scanlon – prostitute

George Harlaw – warrander

Alexander Cruikshank – regent at the College of Glasgow

Simon Gilly – chaplain in the palace

Margaret Cassie – nursemaid

William Dalziel – dominee

Contents

Prologue

CHAPTER 1 Claret at Holyrood House

CHAPTER 2 A Coach to Glasgow

CHAPTER 3 Hamilton Palace

CHAPTER 4 An Evening Stroll

CHAPTER 5 A Conversation in the Gardens

CHAPTER 6 A Meeting in Gibson’s Tavern

CHAPTER 7 Dinner at the Palace

CHAPTER 8 The Back Close

CHAPTER 9 A Glasgow Merchant

CHAPTER 10 A Meeting at the Mercat Cross

CHAPTER 11 The College of Glasgow

CHAPTER 12 Two Houses in Hamilton

CHAPTER 13 An Afternoon in the Country

CHAPTER 14 The Northern Sugar Works

CHAPTER 15 The Return of Arran

CHAPTER 16 A Dram with Jago O’Flaherty

CHAPTER 17 A Ride in the Woods

CHAPTER 18 A Visit to the Gorbals

CHAPTER 19 A Walk by the Clyde

CHAPTER 20 The Road to Hamilton

CHAPTER 21 A Disrupted Dinner

CHAPTER 22 A Bottle with Robert Corse

CHAPTER 23 Late Conversations

CHAPTER 24 Breakfast with the Duchess

CHAPTER 25 A Gift from Arran

CHAPTER 26 A Meeting with David Crawford

CHAPTER 27 The Warrander

CHAPTER 28 The Nursery

CHAPTER 29 Investigations in Hamilton

CHAPTER 30 The Dominee

CHAPTER 31 Nasmyth House

CHAPTER 32 The Cadzow Kiss

CHAPTER 33 A Coach to Glasgow

CHAPTER 34 A Lonely Resting Place

CHAPTER 35 A Letter from the Carolinas

CHAPTER 36 A Meeting in the Park

CHAPTER 37 Comparing Hands in the Library

CHAPTER 38 Discovery on the Moors

CHAPTER 39 Questions for John Timothy

CHAPTER 40 A Confession

CHAPTER 41 A Conversation with the Duchess

CHAPTER 42 Last Words with Arran

CHAPTER 43 A Letter from Beyond the Grave

CHAPTER 44 Hiding Place

CHAPTER 45 A Loose Thread

CHAPTER 46 Scougall Returns Home

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Edinburgh, 5 September 1691

DAVIE SCOUGALL COULD not be described as a man who was comfortable in his own skin. A shy, nervous individual, he suffered from a list of anxieties as long as the fifth hole on Leith Links. His younger days had been afflicted by acute shyness which still bubbled to the surface now and again at times of stress as a stammer in speech or a sudden, uncontrollable blushing of the cheeks. Even as a grown man in his late twenties, he was crippled by nerves when he had to meet new clients or was summoned to Mrs Hair’s office.

However, the ordeal he now faced was of an entirely different nature and he felt overwhelmed by it – almost paralysed. He hated, above all things, being the centre of attention and here he was in exactly that position. He could feel the sweat dripping from his oxters. His linen shirt clung to his back like a damp cloth. He rubbed his nape with a sweaty palm. He could not stop his legs shaking. His heart pounded inside his chest like a hammer bouncing on an anvil. What made things worse was that he had brought it all on himself. He recalled MacKenzie’s surprise when he had broken the news over a bottle of wine in the Periwig, an Edinburgh tavern frequented by lawyers, a couple of days previously. He was not sure why he had felt compelled to tell his old acquaintance; perhaps he still craved his approval. MacKenzie had looked genuinely shocked by his revelation, before adopting a sneering tone. Why, of all the associations in Edinburgh, had Scougall chosen the one that promised the least fun and involved the most puffed-up poppy-cockery? There were dozens of clubs in the city, some dedicated simply to intoxication, some mixing strong drink with speculation in philosophy, and others of a clandestine nature, devoted to a particular political stance or vice. But the Masons! Annoyed by his mockery, Scougall had replied that his own father was a Mason, indeed a member of the famous Musselburgh Lodge, and had benefitted from the craft by securing countless contracts for the supply of fish from various merchants. For Scougall, joining the Edinburgh Lodge would provide the same boost for his career – there were only a couple of Masons in Mrs Hair’s office, including the lugubrious Galbraith, his main rival for promotion. Joining the craft would aid his rise inside and outside the office. When MacKenzie had pointed out that Mrs Hair’s success had been achieved without shaking a Mason’s hand or uttering the Mason Word, he did not take kindly to it. He had sat sullenly for a few minutes, sipping his wine, until MacKenzie, seeing he had taken his teasing badly, sat back and his expression softened.

‘I only jest, Davie. There cannot be much harm in it,’ he had said finally, before finishing his glass. MacKenzie had then taken out his pipe, filled it with tobacco, and was soon puffing away, laughing to himself. Davie Scougall never ceased to amuse him! ‘You know, Davie,’ he had continued after a short interval, ‘a Highland clan is a bit like a club. It binds folk together for mutual benefit. The craft may do you some good. As a Lowlander, you don’t belong to a clan. The Scougall family is a disparate, ineffectual group, a loose affiliation without glue.’

Scougall did not like the Masons being compared to a clan, which he considered an archaic social association best consigned to Scotland’s past. ‘Are you forgetting Archibald Stirling was a Mason, sir,’ he had said, referring to MacKenzie’s dead friend. ‘I’m sure he would have viewed my initiation favourably.’

MacKenzie had nodded. ‘You’re right, Davie. He was constantly pestering me to join, arguing it would open up new avenues in society. Something always held me back. It’s not that I’m against convivial company – you know I enjoy an evening in the tavern, or a game at the table as much as any man. It’s all a bit too formal for me. There are enough strange, outlandish rituals performed every day by ministers and priests. Why devote your leisure to such business? However, I’m sure it will help you rise in the House of Hair!’

Thereafter the conversation had drifted onto less contentious subjects, such as the new golf club MacKenzie had purchased from Shield’s stall in the Luckenbooths and possible names for Scougall’s child; his wife, Chrissie, was eight months pregnant. They had left the tavern on reasonable terms after a couple more glasses.

Scougall now looked round the men seated before him in the chamber: the Masons were a grim band of worthies from all parts of society, an assemblage of nobles, lairds, merchants, doctors, tradesmen, artisans and, of course, lawyers. He looked up at the large eye painted on the wall above them, the all-seeing Masonic eye. It was somewhat disconcerting. He would have to be careful about how he behaved in public henceforth. But he was canny anyway, hating to offend anyone. Why did he need MacKenzie’s approval? He was his own man now. He was married with a bairn on the way. He was rising well in the office. He was well regarded by Mrs Hair. Joining the lodge would cement his position as a man of consequence. A flash of ambition took the edge off his anxiety – who would take over her business when she was gone? She was an old woman with no heirs. She could not go on forever and Galbraith did not have the gumption to run the business. He, on the other hand, had a good head for matters of finance – ‘Scougall & Hair’ or ‘Hair & Scougall’ had a ring to it! A vision flashed through his mind of his middle-aged self, Sir David Scougall, Esquire, walking down the High Street dressed in a fine silk suit with silver-tipped cane in hand, his head resplendent in an expensive periwig.

Chrissie had reassured him over breakfast that morning it was a mark of honour. Her father also belonged to the Musselburgh Lodge. Being a Mason, she was sure, would do him much good and would not take up much time. ‘What did they do anyway?’ she had asked with a smile. Just a couple of meetings each year. It would allow him to mix with those above him in society. Scougall always felt reassured by her common sense. His doubts had faded and his confidence swelled – what did he have to be nervous about? He had closed his eyes and thanked the Lord, as he did every morning on waking and observing his bonnie bedfellow, for his good fortune in marrying Chrissie Munro. That morning he had placed his hands gently on her swollen belly and let them linger on the taught skin, feeling the little kicks of his unborn bairn. He had to think of his son or daughter. Becoming a Mason would provide security in an uncertain world.

‘Please come forward, Mr Scougall.’ The Master Mason’s doleful words jolted him from his thoughts as if he had been caught sleeping in church. A sensation of terror seized him. He was being summoned to kneel before the gathered throng.

CHAPTER 1

Claret at Holyrood House

MACKENZIE DESCENDED THE turnpike stair at the back of his lodgings and turned into Libberton’s Wynd. He walked the ten yards to the Lawn Market, the broad section of the High Street of Edinburgh nearest the castle, avoiding piles of excrement with every step. Although it had been raining twenty minutes before, it was now a fine evening. The clouds had disappeared and the sky was a radiant blue above the high tenements of the city. The glistening cobbles were slippery underfoot and he proceeded carefully. He was still reluctant to take a stick, seeing it as a sign of decrepitude.

The request from Ann, Duchess of Hamilton had come out of the blue, as unexpected as a summons to the court of King William. It was a demand he could not ignore, or put off for a day or two, like one from a fellow lawyer, a judge or lesser noble. Duchess Ann was the country’s premier noblewoman, the head of Scotland’s most prestigious family (after the King and Queen) and she wanted to speak to him in her apartments at Holyrood House immediately. After more than thirty years in the legal profession, he was rarely taken aback, but this had caught him on the hop. He had put down his book, a collection of Dryden’s poems, on the table beside his favourite armchair, finished his glass of whisky in one gulp, emptied his pipe into the hearth and shouted to Archie, his servant of many years, for his boots and cloak.

As he splashed through the puddles and avoided the piles of muck, he wondered what on earth she could want. He had no direct connection with her family. Indeed, except for a solitary meeting with her husband, the Duke of Hamilton, about twenty years before, he had had nothing to do with them. He wondered if he was simply required for a perfunctory legal request, the writing of a bond or instrument. He could not refuse such business, whatever it was. He had lost his lucrative position as Clerk of the Court of Session almost three years before, victim of the abrupt changes caused by the revolution which had unexpectedly made William and Mary king and queen. As a servant of the old regime, he had fallen from grace like many others. After being sacked, he had decided not to return to plead in court. Instead, he would look after the affairs of a long list of Highland clients. A job for Scotland’s pre-eminent family could not be sniffed at, as long as she did not want to borrow money. He had learned from painful experience that lending to nobles was always a mistake – they never paid a farthing back.

The walk through the heart of the ancient city took about twenty minutes. It was too early in the evening for much rowdiness on the streets; a few hours later and the closes and wynds would be crawling with hundreds of drunken revellers. His mind wandered contentedly. As he passed Mrs Hair’s office on the north side of the High Street opposite the Tron Kirk, he thought of Scougall and smiled to himself. Davie was no doubt already an apprentice Mason. The ceremony would have been an ordeal, but he would put himself through such humiliation. Passing the crowded Luckenbooths, the shops beside St Giles Kirk, he thought of his grandson Geordie. He must buy him a new toy before returning to the Hawthorns. Trips to his Edinburgh apartments were becoming rarer – one day he would sell them to cut costs. He also recalled that he needed new golf balls for a game against Sir John Foulis of Ravelston. He had lost a couple in the gorse on his last round on Leith Links.

As he reached the Canongate, he found himself thinking, as he did almost every day, of his late friend Archibald Stirling. A social creature to the core, Stirling would have relished the chance to meet the highest aristocracy. It was a shame he would never be able to tell him about it. A Gaelic aphorism came to him, bubbling up from his Highland core – a dead friend haunts you every day; he missed him with all his heart.

By the time he reached Holyrood Palace it was getting dark. He remembered that the new incumbents, William and Mary, had not yet visited their northern kingdom. Beyond the gates was the impressive palace façade, restored since being severely damaged during the last frantic days of the previous king’s reign. James Stuart was now in exile in France and his chances of restoration fading. Only a few Highland clans held out for him; the rest had taken the Oath of Allegiance to the new monarchs. In Ireland, Jacobite prospects had been set back at the Boyne the year before and had crumbled after the bloody engagement at Aughrim in July. Despite this, King William’s supporters remained paranoid and smelt a Jacobite conspiracy round every corner.

A palace guard, who was clearly expecting him, allowed him through the gates and led him across the courtyard to the noble apartments. As hereditary keepers of the palace, the Hamilton family’s accommodation was the grandest except the royal suites. MacKenzie recalled the parties he had attended at the palace a decade before, when James, before he was king, held court there. It was a time fondly remembered by the wives and daughters of Edinburgh as an opportunity to show off their figures to a royal prince.

As he climbed the steps to the Hamilton apartments, he reflected that the present heir to the Hamilton patrimony – James Hamilton, Earl of Arran, the duchess’s eldest son – was a very different character from his mother. He was a spendthrift, mentored in debauchery by the poet Rochester, who led the life of a rake in London. Arran had dabbled in Jacobite intrigue, resulting in a year’s incarceration in the Tower of London. How the duchess had bred such a son was remarkable. She was known for good sense and devotion to the cause of Presbytery. But a hedonist fool often sprang from a puritan’s womb.

MacKenzie was shown into a luxurious, high-ceilinged room by a servant dressed in expensive livery. A woman sat alone in a sumptuous chair by the fire. The servant announced his arrival in a cloying English accent. It was a long walk across the room to greet her. As she rose, he saw she was an unusual looking woman. In her late fifties, she was dressed in an opulent black silk dress which would not have looked out of place in the court of Charles I, sixty years before. A pearl necklace graced a long, thin neck. She had full lips, a snub nose and large, bulging eyes; her hair was dyed black and set in curls and ringlets, one descending onto her chest. She could not be described as bonnie, but her face was full of good humour. She told the servant to fetch some wine.

MacKenzie bowed and kissed her hand. ‘It’s an honour to meet you in person, your grace.’ He had long experience of the obsequiousness required when greeting the aristocracy. The chiefs in the Highlands regarded themselves as no less than kings and demanded the same attention.

She nodded curtly and settled back in her armchair, indicating he should sit in the one across from her. She spoke quickly in an English accent, peppered by the odd Scots word. ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Mr MacKenzie. I’ve little time for pleasantries at my age. As you get older, each day is more valuable than the one before, so why waste them. Let me tell you first, you come highly recommended as a man of discretion, a rare virtue these days when few can be trusted on either side of the political divide.’

MacKenzie bowed his head even lower and returned her smile. ‘I’m glad to hear it, your grace. May I offer my services as a lawyer of many years’ standing.’

‘You may have been surprised by my request that you see me. We have lawyers aplenty attached to our family – a flock of notaries, writers by the score, advocates of renown, a few judges who claim to belong to our interest – a gaggle of all sorts. However, I wanted someone unconnected to our kin. Someone outside the family. Someone who can look upon us with a clear, unbiased eye. I want to employ you for a particular task, Mr MacKenzie. It will require the application of sound common sense, a quality which I’ve found missing in most men, although I’m assured you have plenty of it.’ She smiled mischievously.

MacKenzie nodded, returning her smile. ‘I can advise your grace on any aspect of the law of Scotland or represent you in any court, if that’s your desire.’

She shook her head and gave him a hard stare. ‘It’s not concerning a purely legal issue. It’s something of a rather… different sort. A more delicate matter. I require your services in an investigative capacity.’

MacKenzie reflected that an investigation would be a welcome distraction from the run-of-the-mill work which filled his days, mostly procuring money for chiefs and managing their sprawling debts. He had done nothing of excitement since the tragic affair in Van Diemen’s Land the year before.

‘You’ll be paid, of course. My notary David Crawford, will deal with the financial aspects of the business. All your expenses will also be covered.’

The servant reappeared and stiffly served wine. MacKenzie took a sip of claret and complimented the duchess on her cellar. She refused wine but took a glass of water. She dismissed the servant with a nod as if directing a sheep dog and waited for him to close the door before whispering in a conspiratorial way: ‘My husband demands we take southern servants, Mr MacKenzie. A practice common, apparently, among Scottish noble families these days. I’ve little time for them myself. They are usually in an ill humour at being dragged north and look on Scotland as a country inferior to their birthplace. They look down their noses at the local servants and perpetually cry they cannot understand a word they speak. There are continual battles over pre-eminence. They usually last only a few months before running back to London. Employing them is more trouble than it’s worth, but fashion is fickle. Who could have predicted men would wear such absurd appendages on their heads or drink such a vile concoction as coffee?’

She put her glass down on the side table and her face grew serious. She looked down at her thin hands clasped in her lap and turned a jewelled ring round her finger. She inhaled deeply, then began: ‘I must speak to you in the strictest confidence. My husband and children know nothing of what I’m to tell you, nor are they to be told anything, for the moment at least.’

MacKenzie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Please tell me something of the case, your grace.’

She settled back in her chair and stared into the fire. ‘I need to go back many years to explain. Some might advise me to leave things alone. Let a sleeping dog lie. I’ve lived in Scotland for almost fifty years now, so I regard myself as almost an auld Scots lady, although I do not sound like one and, by birth, I’m not Scottish. Like my servant in his fine livery, I was born in England. I cannot help it, as they say. I was born in the year 1632 in Chelsea Palace, my father’s London house – so I’m a Londoner by birth. My memories of that great house on the Thames before the civil war are very happy ones. But the war ended much that was good in this world. You will know the story well. In the chaos of the times, I was packed off to Scotland for my own safety to live with my grandmother, whom I had never met before. I came to Hamilton for the first time in 1642 when I was a girl. It was a terrible shock to be sent north, although not as severe as losing my mother. I had never been to Scotland before. It was a distant, mythical place to me. I’d heard much about it as the centre of our family power. Three young English girls accompanied me north as my ladies in waiting – Marie Arthur, Sara Watkins and Rebecca Kimboll.’ She stopped briefly and looked wistfully away for a moment. ‘I’ve not spoken their names aloud for years. My three ladies – Marie, Sara and Rebecca. It was a long journey, a terrifying one for young girls, over two weeks in a cramped coach because of the distracted state of the country. The four of us forged a close bond. They, like me, had no choice in the matter. They accompanied me because my father requested it of their families and they could hardly refuse the Marquis of Hamilton. It’s a descendent of one of my ladies, the granddaughter of Sara Watkins, that this… dreadful business concerns.’

MacKenzie sipped his wine and recalled that her father had been executed in March 1649, not long after the king himself. He was fourteen at the time, a student at the university of Aberdeen, devoting himself to the study of Cicero and improving his golf swing on the Links whenever he could escape the classroom.

‘The move north was a harder wrench for my ladies,’ the duchess continued. ‘I see that now. I didn’t consider it at the time. I belonged to the House of Hamilton. I had always known I would travel to our Scottish estates someday. However, they had no kin in Scotland and for them it was a strange, foreign land. They were just three young women, girls in fact, the direction of their lives dictated by my family – by me really, for I chose them to accompany me without a thought for their feelings. We all comforted each other on the long journey as best we could. They never saw England or their families again.’

The duchess was lost in thought for a few moments, staring at the fire, a tear appearing like a diamond in the corner of her eye. Finally, she shook her head and continued: ‘My ladies remained loyal to me all their lives. They made Hamilton their home and married local men and, I think, after the shock of the early years away from their families, made good lives in Scotland and were happy. Sadly, they are now all dead. I’ve outlived them all. I commemorate their deaths every year. They all lie in Hamilton kirkyard. They were like sisters to me.’ She paused again and took a sip of water. ‘The case concerns Bethia Porterfield, Sara’s granddaughter. Bethia was the daughter of Sara’s daughter Agnes, who married a local man called Cornelius Porterfield.’ Again, she looked lost for a moment, then took another sip of water. ‘Bethia was orphaned at a young age, her father and mother taken by plague. She was brought up in my household thereafter, before setting up home in her parents’ house in Hamilton about a year ago. She was like a daughter to me. A bonnie, happy girl; she reminded me so much of her grandmother. Then something terrible happened.’

MacKenzie waited patiently for her to continue. He finished his glass of wine.

The single tear ran down her powdered cheek like a raindrop on a windowpane. Her voice broke as she spoke. ‘It was the morning of 14th of June, a few months ago, just after sunrise. I was awakened by shouts inside the palace. I knew from their urgency something was wrong. My maid came into my chamber in a fluster to tell me a body had been found in the river not far from the palace. Drownings in the Clyde are not uncommon, indeed a couple of our servants perished a few years ago during a drunken swim. I presumed someone had fallen in after a night of revelry. Then came word that Bethia had drowned. Her body was taken into the palace cellars. When I looked down on my dear girl, smashed by the rocks in the river, I was overcome by grief. She was only eighteen.’

It was not a simple legal matter after all, reflected MacKenzie. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, your grace.’

‘It’s a terrible loss, Mr MacKenzie. I was responsible for her after her parents’ deaths. She had everything to live for. She was recently betrothed to a young man called Arthur Nasmyth. He has just finished his studies at the College of Glasgow.’

MacKenzie leant forward, his eyebrows dropped and his face darkened. ‘What do you believe happened to her, your grace?’

She shook her head. Another tear appeared in her eye. She took a silk handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed it. ‘It’s said she was with child, Mr MacKenzie,’ she whispered.

‘Are you saying it’s a case of self-murder? Bethia took her life because she could not face humiliation before the kirk session?’ he asked.

The duchess looked away with an expression of anguish on her face. ‘That’s what is believed by some in the parish. However, I heard nothing about her pregnancy before her death. The sheriff’s verdict is she killed herself because she was with child. She threw herself into the Avon Water, a tributary of the Clyde, upstream from Hamilton Palace. The river was in spate after heavy rain the previous day.’ She stopped, then spoke more certainly: ‘Knowing her as well as I did, I cannot believe this to be the case. I don’t believe she would kill her own child, whatever the circumstances.’

MacKenzie thought for a moment. ‘Why did she not just marry Nasmyth? It’s a common enough tale. Lovers cannot wait for the marriage bed. After a few admonitions from the minister and elders, it would be forgotten.’

The duchess shook her head. ‘I’m afraid there’s more. Bethia spoke with me a few days before she died. She came to see me on, I think, the 10th of June. I could tell right away she was not herself. She appeared agitated, the colour gone from her cheeks, her usual cheerfulness departed. I comforted her the best I could and then, selfishly, I forgot about her. I now see she was desperate. I now see she made certain hints that all was not well. I stupidly ignored them.’

‘What hints?’ asked MacKenzie.

‘Hints that something was amiss.’

‘Are you saying you do not believe it was self-murder, your grace? You think there’s another explanation for her death?’

‘I feel something in these old bones. She told me she had learned something she wished she had never known. She did not know what to do. I begged her to tell me what it was. She was adamant she could not tell me.’ The duchess looked up at MacKenzie and spoke forcefully. ‘I want you to find out the truth about what happened to her. Whatever it is, I want to know, Mr MacKenzie.’

MacKenzie nodded, thoughtfully. ‘What’s happened to Nasmyth? What does he have to say about her death?’

‘He’s not been seen since her body was pulled out the Clyde. He fled Hamilton that morning. A search has been made for him across the southwestern shires and in Glasgow, where he was a student until recently. There’s no sign of him. His mother, Lady Nasmyth, is at her wits’ end. She fears the worst.’

‘Fears the worst?’ repeated MacKenzie.

‘Fears he has done away with himself too,’ she said forlornly, ‘unable to face life without Bethia.’

MacKenzie pondered all she had said before replying. ‘It’s a troubling case, your grace. I will, of course, be honoured to help. I must tell you, however, that often the truth is painful. I might uncover things that would cause further anguish for you and your family. Do you understand, your grace?’

The duchess gathered herself and rested her hands on her lap. ‘I need to find out for the sake of her grandmother. If you confirm Bethia was pregnant and killed herself, so be it. I want you to come to Hamilton as soon as possible. A legal matter will provide cover for your investigations, initially at least. You are overseeing the negotiation of a bond. I want the thing dealt with as soon as possible. I’m sure you have many more questions. When you reach Hamilton, you can make a thorough investigation in the palace and town. You can speak with those who knew her and know Arthur. I must return to Hamilton tomorrow morning.’

MacKenzie had not travelled to Glasgow since 1684, seven years before, when he had overseen the negotiation of a marriage contract. Before leaving, he would have to settle some business in town and cancel his game of golf with Foulis of Ravelston. Telling his daughter Elizabeth would be difficult; she would not be pleased. However, there was no question of refusing. ‘I’m honoured you place such trust in me, your grace,’ he said. ‘I’ll pursue the case as vigorously as I can. I only ask one thing, that I may be accompanied by my friend Davie Scougall, notary public in this city, in whom I have great faith. He often travels to Glasgow on the business of Mrs Hair, in whose office he’s employed. I’m sure a detour to Hamilton for a few days will be a welcome change for him.’

CHAPTER 2

A Coach to Glasgow

THE HAMILTON COACH with six black horses was waiting for them at the gates of Holyrood Palace at seven o’clock in the morning. Scougall had never travelled in such luxury before. He was used to the dilapidated public vehicle that made its way back and forwards between Edinburgh and Glasgow. A puff of self-importance made him straighten his back as he took his place beside MacKenzie on the plush leather seat. They took off immediately up the High Street, turned down to the Pleasance and then went through the Cowgate and Grassmarket to leave the city by the West Port. Those citizens who were already on the street thought it was the duchess herself, or members of her close family, leaving the city rather than two dull lawyers.

‘Was Chrissie alright with everything, Davie?’ MacKenzie asked once they were outside the city walls and making their way along the western road.

Scougall smiled sheepishly. ‘She’s not pleased I’ll be so far away with the bairn close. I had to emphasise the request came from the duchess. Her mother is staying in Edinburgh while we’re away. She, at least, is delighted by the prospect of a few days in town with her daughter. How did you find Mrs Hair?’

‘Friendly and sharp, as she always is,’ said MacKenzie. ‘She was going to send you to Glasgow on business in the next week or so anyway, so she needed little persuasion.’

Scougall was annoyed by the demand to accompany MacKenzie coming out of the blue. He liked to know about things in advance. In addition, he did not care for him interfering in his office. But now they were settled in the coach, he began to relax. He would be back in Edinburgh in a few days anyway. He loved travelling to Glasgow.

Once they were deep in the countryside, MacKenzie turned towards Scougall and took hold of his hand, stroking it with his fingers. He could not help chuckling. ‘How did you get on the other night?’ he winked mischievously.

At first Scougall did not understand what he was referring to and removed his hand abruptly. ‘Ah, you mimic the handshake. The initiation ceremony was somewhat daunting, but I think it went well. Obviously, I can’t tell you anything about it. I’ve made a vow of secrecy. I’m now an apprentice Mason,’ he said seriously.

MacKenzie smiled. ‘Come now. I know everything Masons get up to, the handshake, catechisms, rituals. Do you think Archibald Stirling kept his mouth shut after a couple of bottles of wine? I even know the… Word.’ He opened his mouth slowly as if about to utter it, then said, ‘It’s all complete hocus pocus of course, tripe of the first order. But if it makes you happy.’

Scougall was annoyed by the gentle ridicule and could not help showing it. He sat back and looked out the window huffily. MacKenzie laughed and turned to look at the Pentland Hills to the south as the coach sped along the Glasgow Road. He thought of Elizabeth and Geordie in the Hawthorns, nestled beneath the hills. Elizabeth was not pleased he had taken another investigation. ‘I’m sorry, Davie. I only joke,’ he said after a few minutes. ‘I’m glad you’re coming to Glasgow with me. I promise I’ll mock you no more. There, are you out of your little sulk? I’ll not mention the Mason Word again.’

Scougall nodded sullenly.

‘Let me tell you something about the case,’ said MacKenzie, changing to a business-like tone. ‘All in the strictest confidence, of course.’ He described everything the duchess had told him at Holyrood two days before. ‘Attend your business in Glasgow first, Davie,’ he continued. ‘But keep your ear to the ground in case you hear anything about Bethia or Arthur Nasmyth. One of the merchants or lawyers you meet may know something. Her grace has promised a messenger can travel to Glasgow in an hour from the palace. We’ll be able to keep in touch easily enough.’

The coach stopped at the burgh of Linlithgow, about fourteen miles west of Edinburgh, to water and feed the horses and allow the passengers to stretch their legs. MacKenzie and Scougall disembarked and sauntered round the elaborate stone fountain on the High Street of the busy town. ‘How is Chrissie keeping?’ asked MacKenzie.

‘She’s well now, sir. She was badly sick for the first couple of months, but now recovered. How is Geordie?’

MacKenzie smiled. ‘A young rascal, Davie. The best thing to happen to me in years. You may have noticed a change in my mood. The melancholy lapses are less common. There’s little time for dark thoughts with a screaming toddler in the house! I’m glad to say I’m well in mind and long may it last. He’s the apple of my eye, indeed.’ He repeated the phrase to himself in Gaelic, which seemed to amuse him.

‘I’m glad to hear it, sir. And how is Elizabeth?’ probed Scougall tentatively. As an admirer of MacKenzie’s daughter in the past, he was now always hesitant to ask about her.

MacKenzie sighed. ‘It’s hard to bring up a child on your own. She forgets her loss sometimes, but it’s difficult for her. She loved Ruairidh. I’ll never understand why. But I didn’t have to share a bed with him. There’s still pressure from Seaforth.’

‘Pressure, sir?’ asked Scougall.

‘Pressure for Geordie to be brought up in the Catholic faith, like his father and uncle.’

Scougall looked perturbed. ‘I would hate to see Geordie raised…,’ he searched for the right words to express his outrage, ‘in the arms of the Whore of Babylon!’

MacKenzie looked disgruntled. ‘I agree with you, Davie. Belonging to a faith despised by most Scots would not help Geordie’s journey through life. It’s my wish, and Elizabeth’s, he be raised a Protestant according to the rites of the Episcopalian church, like his mother and grandfather.’ MacKenzie shook his head at the hypocrisy of it all. He doubted the existence of God and thought religion a farce, but there were pragmatic considerations to be taken account of which would affect his grandson’s future.

‘Where is Seaforth now?’ asked Scougall.

MacKenzie shook his head. ‘At St Germain in exile, spending his tenants’ money.’ MacKenzie cursed in Gaelic. ‘He could be stuck there for years, the rest of his life even. The cost of keeping him and his entourage in France is bankrupting the clan. Lands have been mortgaged and sold. The MacKenzie patrimony is being fragmented. Pressure is applied to the clan nobles, like my brother Ardcoul, to provide more and more money and, of course, to be ready with armed men if the royal standard is raised for James. It does nothing to encourage good relations between chief and people, indeed, it undermines it.’

‘What right does he have to dictate Geordie’s religion?’ asked Scougall.

‘He believes he has the right as chief. But the world changes. He’s not a powerful figure like his grandfather, the famous MacKenzie of Kintail. He no longer has the respect of his people. He’s not praised by clan poets but vilified as a man who worries more about the make of his periwig and cut of his silk jacket than the sharpness of his sword.’

MacKenzie and Scougall disagreed fundamentally about politics. Scougall supported the government of William and Mary which had come to power at the Revolution in 1688. He did not think a Stuart restoration likely, especially given recent military defeats for the Jacobites in Ireland. However, he did not want to fall out with MacKenzie, who was a Jacobite at heart, so he nodded and said, ‘These are uncertain times, sir,’ and, trying to change the subject, added: ‘I hope the Glasgow merchants continue to prosper despite war with France. It’s disrupted trade and caused the sugar price to fall. We must take account of these risks when we lend money to their ventures.’ He nodded knowingly.

MacKenzie sighed. ‘Mrs Hair hopes to fund the foreign trade despite the war, Davie?’

‘She will provide loans for certain voyages. She says war increases the risk but provides opportunities. We take account of it in the rate of interest we charge.’ Scougall emphasised the word ‘we’ to indicate his involvement in the decisions.

They climbed back into the coach and started westwards. ‘I’ve heard sugar production in the Caribbean now relies entirely on the labour of slaves,’ MacKenzie said. ‘A few decades ago, indentured labourers worked the fields,’ he said, shaking his head in disgust.

Scougall had given the subject little thought. ‘In Barbados the planters follow the same practice as the Dutch and Spanish in the way they obtain sugar using slaves. It’s not peculiar to that island.’

MacKenzie shook his head. ‘I didn’t say it was. How can enslavement be justified? It’s an abomination. Men, women and children are kidnapped, incarcerated and traded for profit. It’s an affront to morality. How does your Christian faith sanction such brutality?’

Scougall could not think of an argument in support of slavery. He had never been to the Caribbean. He had never met a slave. He had never seen a slave ship. He had only ever seen one or two black servants in the houses of nobles, as footmen, and a few in the port of Leith. He was not sure of their exact status in Scotland, whether servants or slaves. At last, he thought of a riposte. ‘The Romans had slaves, sir. Even Cicero possessed some. It’s said it is the natural order on earth that some races of men dominate others.’

‘It’s a stain on our nation! The Scots, you may remember, fought against the bondage of English Kings. The notion of freedom runs through our history. The sugar trade is carried out in the name of filthy lucre. To make money, we justify any sin. If it boosts trade and supplies men with work, it must be good.’ MacKenzie stretched his legs out in front of him, put his head back against the luxuriant leather and closed his eyes. ‘Wake me when we reach Glasgow.’

Scougall was glad the conversation was over. He would ask Mrs Hair about slavery when he got back to Edinburgh, how it affected lending money to merchants trading with the Caribbean, particularly Barbados, the centre of sugar manufacturing. He recalled the words of Exodus 1, 13–14: ‘The Egyptians made the children of Israel to serve with vigour: And they made their lives bitter with hard bondage.’ The Presbyterian faith claimed all God’s creatures were equal and saved by faith alone. It made no mention of skin colour. He forced himself to think about something else. He wondered if Chrissie carried a boy or girl. But this thought caused a wave of anxiety. What if she died in childbirth like MacKenzie’s wife? The thought of life without Chrissie appalled him. He closed his eyes and prayed with all his heart she would be delivered of a healthy child – that was all he wanted in this world. He would give up all the Mason Words and journeys to Glasgow in the Duchess of Hamilton’s coach for a healthy wife and bairn.

Scougall’s mouth lay open like a fish on the quayside and his head bounced gently against the window. He was slavering down his cravat and shirt. Suddenly he was being shaken awake by MacKenzie.

‘I thought you were to wake me, Davie!’ MacKenzie scoffed. ‘You’re dribbling on your jacket, man!’

For a moment, he could not remember where he was. He blurted out something about the sea. He had been dreaming of an expedition to a distant land, sailing on a mighty ship. Then he remembered they were on their way to Glasgow. Through the window on the right, he could see the steeple of the High Kirk as the coach trundled down the Gallowgate. He pulled himself up and wiped his cravat with his handkerchief. Glasgow was a pleasing place to the eye with many fine town houses and buildings. It was a smaller city than Edinburgh, about a third of the size. The River Clyde was on the left, sparkling in the late afternoon sunshine as they turned right onto the High Street and stopped outside a tavern. The tenements of Glasgow were smaller than Edinburgh ones – everything in Glasgow was on a more intimate scale. It was a place where you could relax, a pleasant escape from the frantic bustle of Edinburgh.

‘Here you are, Davie,’ said MacKenzie, pointing out the window. ‘Gibson’s Tavern. Await my instructions tomorrow. I’ll write as soon as I have anything to tell you.’

An anxious landlord emerged from the inn. Expecting to see the duchess appear from the coach, or at least a member of her family, he was relieved to see Scougall descend in an ungainly fashion. ‘Ah, it’s you, Mr Scougall. I didn’t expect you to arrive in such style. You’ve moved up in the world! The business of Mrs Hair clearly prospers.’ He gave an exaggerated bow to Scougall and chuckled.

‘I’ve accompanied Mr John MacKenzie, advocate. He’s heading for Hamilton Palace in the duchess’s coach. She provided us with transport to your good city.’

Gibson peeped his head inside. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr MacKenzie. May I commend my humble establishment whenever you’re in Glasgow,’ he said looking up at him. ‘We have a fine selection of wines and good fare at reasonable prices.’

‘I look forward to enjoying your hospitality, Mr Gibson,’ said MacKenzie, closing the door. A single knock on the roof informed the coachman to continue to Hamilton.

CHAPTER 3

Hamilton Palace

MACKENZIE CLIMBED DOWN from the coach and took in his surroundings. Hamilton Palace was an impressive building at the edge of the town of Hamilton set in extensive meadows and parklands. At either side of the three-storey structure was a tower surmounted by a balustrade. Over the principal doorway was a wooden balcony decorated with round wooden balls. The top half of the palace windows were made up of diamond-shaped pieces of glass.

A servant ushered him through the main door. Another servant, a black footman, was waiting inside a huge entrance hall. The walls were covered with a vast array of deer skulls and antlers, a testament to the family’s love of the hunt. MacKenzie reflected that a few Scottish nobles now owned black servants, purchased from Caribbean merchants in London, aping the fashion of English aristocrats. He nodded pleasantly at him. ‘John MacKenzie to see the duchess.’

The black servant, a tall man dressed in bright blue livery, smiled formally and bowed his head. ‘This way please, sir,’ he said in an unusual accent.

MacKenzie followed him up a wide staircase to the first floor and across a landing into a sitting room. Light streamed through three large windows giving a pleasant view of the woods to the north. The duchess was sitting at her desk, head down as she concentrated on her correspondence. MacKenzie was surprised to hear the music of the harp in the room. A grey-haired harper, dressed in a bright tartan jacket and trews, sat in a corner plucking a clarsach in the style of the Gaelic west. The music reminded MacKenzie of his boyhood in the Highlands fifty years before.

The duchess raised her head and smiled, offering him a seat in front of her desk. She put her quill down and finished sealing a letter. MacKenzie bowed his head and sat opposite her. The harp player, dismissed with a nod, rose stiffly and left the room like an old stork. The duchess turned to the black servant who remained standing, statuesque, at the door. ‘Thank you for now, John Timothy.’ He bowed his head and left, closing the door behind him. She turned to MacKenzie. ‘Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr MacKenzie. A room is prepared for you in the east wing which should prove comfortable. You must have further questions.’ She sat back and looked him in the eye.

‘Is there any news about Arthur Nasmyth since we last spoke, your grace?’ asked MacKenzie.

She shook her head. ‘Still no word of him.’ She thought for a moment then continued, her expression growing more serious. ‘There’s one thing I should mention. I only heard about it when I returned to the palace. An awful incident occurred when I was in Edinburgh. My notary David Crawford did not want to spoil my time away by telling me.’

MacKenzie waited for her to continue.

‘It concerns Bethia, or rather, her body. We hoped to bury her close to the kirkyard. She could not be buried in hallowed ground because she was judged a suicide. She was laid to rest just over the wall. However, this infuriated the religious enthusiasts in the parish. One night a great stir arose. I’m sorry, indeed, disgusted to say her body was dug up, tied to the back of a horse and dragged through the town. She was hung from a gibbet on the High Street and all manner of ordure thrown at her. She was cut down, hauled back through the town to be thrown into a pit beside the river where she still lies. At times like these, I do not like to call myself a Scot. I remember I was born in London.’ She shook her head and closed her eyes.

MacKenzie reflected that such treatment of a suicide’s body was rare but not unheard of. It suggested a world devoid of empathy and reason. The same world which accused women of being witches, garrotting them and burning them at the stake. He nodded grimly. ‘Emotions run high at the moment, your grace.’

‘It’s a great worry. The unscrupulous take advantage of such times. I thought the anger of livelier Presbyterians was assuaged since the Revolution. But the discontent continues. There’s talk of heretics and blasphemers and, of course, witches. Bethia’s suicide has inflamed passions.’

MacKenzie shook his head. ‘I’ll tread carefully in my investigations, your grace. I’ll begin in earnest tomorrow.’

‘You should visit Bethia’s house where she lived with her maid, Janet Dobbie. David Crawford will provide keys. At dinner tonight you’ll meet my neighbour Patrick Grinton, a distant relative of Bethia’s, and Lord Basil, my second youngest child and the only one left in the palace.’ She stopped speaking to rearrange the objects on her desk. ‘First, let me show you something of the palace. It’s time I had my walk. I’ve had enough of business for today.’ She rose and came round to MacKenzie briskly. ‘My husband and I plan to make major alterations to the palace. Transform it into a building fitting our status. There’s much to be done. The duke leaves all communications with the architects and builders to me while seeking advancement at court in London.’ She gave him her thin hand, which he took, and they walked out of the room together.