The Unnatural Death of a Jacobite E-Book

Douglas Watt

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

It's 1689 and the body of a young lawyer has been discovered near Craigleith Quarry, Edinburgh. Meanwhile, in the Highlands, Bonnie Dundee is at the head of an army in the Highlands looking to crush the government forces and help restore James Stewart. Was the discovered body anything to do with the rise of the Jacobites? Or was it simple the result of an office rivalry? Did the young man perhaps have connections to criminals in the city? Investigative lawyer John MacKenzie and his assistant Scougall search for the truth in this gripping new instalment of Douglas Watt's John MacKenzie series.

Leseprobe

DOUGLAS WATT was born in Edinburgh and brought up there and in Aberdeen. He was educated at Edinburgh University where he gained an MA and PhD in Scottish History. Douglas 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. He is also the author of The Price of Scotland, a prize-winning history of Scotland’s Darien Disaster. He lives in Midlothian with his wife Julie.

Watt conjures up a convincingly dark atmosphere on this cusp of the age of reason.

THE HERALD

Move over Rebus. There’s a new – or should that be old – detective in town.

I-ON EDINBURGH on Death of a Chief

The author vividly brings to life late 17th century Edinburgh

JOURNAL OF THE LAW SOCIETY OF SCOTLAND on Death of a Chief

Exceptionally well written, it reads like a novel. As I say – if you’re not Scottish and live here – read it. If you’re Scottish read it anyway. It’s a very, very good book.

I-ON EDINBURGH on The Price of Scotland

BY THE SAME AUTHOR:

Historical crime fiction:

Death of a Chief

Testament of a Witch

Pilgrim of Slaughter

History:

The Price of Scotland

First published 2019

ISBN: 978-1-912387-53-3

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

The paper used in this book is recyclable. It is made from low chlorine pulps produced in a low energy, low emission manner from renewable forests.

Printed and bound by Bell & Bain Ltd., Glasgow

Typeset in 10.5 point Sabon by Lapiz

© Douglas Watt

To Katie

Contents

Acknowledgements

List of Main Characters

Prologue

CHAPTER 1 Golf on Musselburgh Links

CHAPTER 2 A Summer Storm

CHAPTER 3 The Office of Mrs Hair

CHAPTER 4 An Incident in the Canongate

CHAPTER 5 The Royal Coffee House

CHAPTER 6 The Road to Tyneford

CHAPTER 7 A Request from the Clan MacLeod

CHAPTER 8 Reflections of Mrs Hair

CHAPTER 9 A Conversation with Archibald Stirling

CHAPTER 10 A Body in the Morgue

CHAPTER 11 Mrs Hair’s Office

CHAPTER 12 MacLeod’s Chambers

CHAPTER 13 A Pint at Gourlay’s

CHAPTER 14 Captain of the Guard

CHAPTER 15 A Ride to Ravelston

CHAPTER 16 Reflections of a Jacobite

CHAPTER 17 Discoveries in the Library

CHAPTER 18 A Conversation with Daniel Jabb

CHAPTER 19 The Apartments of Betty McGrain

CHAPTER 20 The Writing Booth of Adam Scobie

CHAPTER 21 An Audience with the Advocate

CHAPTER 22 An Unexpected Visitor

CHAPTER 23 Dewarton House

CHAPTER 24 The Morning After

CHAPTER 25 A Ride to Stirling

CHAPTER 26 News from the North

CHAPTER 27 City of Fear

CHAPTER 28 Latin Nouns

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

THANKS TO MY WIFE Julie for all her love and support, and to everyone at Luath Press.

List of Main Characters

John MacKenzie – advocate

Aeneas MacLeod – lawyer

Elizabeth MacKenzie – daughter of John MacKenzie

Kenneth MacKenzie, Earl of Seaforth – chief of Clan MacKenzie

Ruairidh MacKenzie – brother of Seaforth

Davie Scougall – notary public, MacKenzie’s assistant

Archibald Stirling – ex Crown Officer, friend of MacKenzie

Mary Erskine, Mrs Hair – moneylender

David Drummond – Jacobite lawyer

Betty McGrain – office girl

William Galbraith – writer

Adam Scobie – Presbyterian writer

George Gourlay – Edinburgh tavern owner

John Dalrymple, Master of Stair – Lord Advocate

Andrew Stein – Captain of the Town Guard

Patrick Cranstoun, Earl of Dewarton – nobleman

Prologue

THE HALBERD IS A DIFFICULT weapon to use in combat. You need real strength in your arms to wield it. Without enough power in your shoulders you cannot direct it down at the correct angle and move it swiftly enough to kill your enemy. You’d be cleaved in two yourself before you’d have time to use it. Some say it’s an old-fashioned weapon, a slow and ponderous one. It’s not the weapon of choice of the soldier of today. Other weapons have replaced it, smaller, lighter and more efficient ones. But this is not a battlefield. There is no Papist enemy rushing towards you screaming in blood lust. No deafening explosions of artillery surround you. There is no blind confusion and deafening roars. None of the panic of battle, none of the fear, no desperate cries. There is none of the shit and piss and rambling confessions of men and boys before the attack. No last testaments scribbled by those who can write, preparing to find themselves, perhaps in the next minute or second, in Heaven or Hell, or some other place.

This is not a battlefield. This is a chamber under the city of Edinburgh in the kingdom of Scotland. To wield such a long weapon in a confined space feels wrong. It feels like there is not enough room to swing it properly, despite the vaulted ceiling being a good twenty feet above your head; it’s still constrictive. You must be careful not to strike the roof and upset the weapon’s motion. At least there is no need to judge the distance of the charge. You can take your time down here. You have all the time in the world. The enemy is not a cavalry man bearing down on you, or an infantryman with raised sword preparing to slash you. The enemy is strapped to a wooden chair a few feet in front of you. The enemy is bound and gagged. He cannot curse you or spit on you. But you can see terror in his eyes. You have dragged him from the streets above. A few minutes ago, he was sharing a cup of ale with cronies in a tavern. He was laughing at lewd jokes, discussing a political point or boasting about the conquest of a lass, while he munched on a pie. Disbelief is evident in his eyes. He has no idea what this is all about. He does not know who has ordered his removal from the world above and demanded his presence in the one beneath. He is unable to take in what is happening to him; his sudden descent into the underworld to be faced with a beast, a monster from his nightmares. A monster wielding a halberd. That is the way it must be in this place. The hair mask, the great horns on the helmet, the furs over your shoulders, transforming you into a monster from the world of nightmares. You can smell the piss on his breeks now. The urine pools and steams on the stone floor around the chair. Even the bravest man is brought low by closeness to death. No, it is not your weapon of choice. But it is a weapon of theatre. For in this battle, theatre is everything. You have learned that. You must put on a good show. The other one, the younger one held in the corner, is also gagged. He is a witness to the gore. He will return to the world above. He will spread a story about a monster beneath the city. Most will not believe him, but a few will wonder. A dagger to rip the throat or a sword to open the chest would make more sense. It would be much quicker and easier, but where is the theatre in that?

Do you feel any sympathy for the creature in front of you? Does he have a wife and children? Is he a good man or a bad one? Should he be punished for his sins or was he a saint who should be praised? You know nothing about him. You do not want to know. But if you do not act you will find yourself like this poor creature, despite your experience of killing.

You have waited long enough in the damp chamber. You stand for a few moments more, allowing them to take in the horror, letting them linger in silence. Behold a monster from the deep! It is so far below the city his screams will not be heard above. They will echo through the subterranean labyrinth of this other world, a world dug out over hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, a world you now claim as your own. For few others can claim it. Few others possess the fury to claim it as you have. You stand in a chamber of death under the foundations of churches and manses, where ministers preach and elders pontificate. This is another world in which the kirk session has no power. Here the nobles hold no sway, the King is an ordinary mortal and all the generals in the army are powerless. You are lord in this subterranean country. In this land, you are King.

You can smell his shit now. The creature knows he is about to die. He realises his last moments will be ones of unimaginable horror. The end which you are about to bring to fruition is more disturbing than any death on the battlefield, where a soldier is taken by blade, bullet or shrapnel. At least in battle you die with honour and you leave that honour behind for your family. But this is a time of peace, or at least relative peace. The city is quiet for now, folk above are going about their business; writers writing instruments, merchants making deals, fleshers slashing meat, coopers building barrels. And here you perform your business. The business of killing. It’s a profession few can pursue. You cannot change your work now. You have chosen this path, the route of slaughter. You have chosen the life of gore. There is only one law in this world, in this Hades, in this Hell. You must kill or be killed. You must do everything to survive. It is the simple rule you have followed since you were a boy – all politics and religion and universities and schools are nothing compared to this brutal law which has governed your life since you were left an orphan, starving and alone, but hungry to survive.

It is time to end it. You are godlike in this moment. Whether to wait a minute longer, ten minutes, an hour, suspend time, extend life, prolong the horror of his last pitiful moments. Let him speak a few words, allow him to scream and beg, give him time for a last prayer, one final confession of his sins, perhaps. But not this time. You are tired of waiting. You swing the weapon. You remember the feel of it on the battlefield. The tip of the halberd is only a few feet from the vaulted ceiling at its apex. You are not a creature entirely without sentiment, without some shred of morality. For some dark creatures would have teased him, tempted him with hope, prolonged the agony. They might have tortured him for one reason only – that they were able to do so. But you are not like them. You have a slither of humanity in your black soul. You want to get it done, now. The blade whistles through the air. The blade slices down, thunderously. The blade cleaves straight through him as if he is not there. No need for much pressure, just the weight of the weapon in its arc through the fetid air and the sharpness of the blade. Clean through flesh and bone. An explosion of tissue. An attempt to scream through the gag for an instant. The shudder of death through the body. And it is done. Your work is done. Blood gushes onto the floor, a red burn in spate, surrounding the chair, spreading into a crimson flower. The man is gone to another place, the place some call Heaven and some call Hell, or that other place called Nothing, the place you believe in, despite the rantings of the men of God. The kingdom of mighty Nothing is where all creatures must resort after their days are done. Does it matter how or when you arrive in that place? Does it matter on which day you find yourself there? You do not think it does. The man’s head drops forward as the life fluid seeps from severed vessels, ripped tissue and fractured bones. You always have the same thought when you watch the moment of death on the battlefield or in the slaughter house. One day it will be you. That day draws closer. That day is one day closer. You cannot escape mighty Nothing. It will have you soon enough. But until that day, you will fight it. You will fight with blood, until that day when you, like him, sit on the throne of death waiting for the halberd to fall.

CHAPTER 1

Golf on Musselburgh Links

IT WAS THE FIRST TIME they had all played together since MacKenzie and Scougall had returned from the Highlands two weeks before. MacKenzie stood on the first tee, deep in thought, staring north across the grey sheet of water to Fife beyond. The journey north to MacKenzie clan lands in Ross-shire searching for his daughter had been a complete failure. The trail for Elizabeth had run cold. They had searched back and forward across the Black Isle and round most of eastern Ross-shire from castle to castle and township to township for almost a month. They found nothing, only rumours of sightings a few weeks before, and rumours of rumours of sightings. Everyone was distracted by the war. The whole place was in a state of mayhem; the peace shattered when Dundee raised the standard for King James at Dundee Law. Another armed rising in the Highlands. They saw armed men everywhere and fear on every mother’s face. The taste and smell of war. And God knew how long it would last. Once begun, civil war could last for years, even decades. It spread through the country until it dragged everything into its vortex. The last one had changed everything. It had changed the Highlands for good. It had changed the world, or so it had seemed. The world had been taken up in the hands of strife and thrown back down in another shape.

During the search, he had managed to keep his melancholy feelings at bay. He was focused entirely on finding her and Ruairidh MacKenzie, Seaforth’s brother, whom she had eloped with. The thought that they were hiding out somewhere in MacKenzie lands was reasonable. A letter from his brother told him she had been seen at the house of MacKenzie of Kilcoy, but his brother had heard nothing more by the time they reached him. Elizabeth could have been anywhere by then – off to the west Highlands or as far away as the islands – Lewis was held by the MacKenzies – a much longer journey by boat across the Minch. Without definite intelligence of their whereabouts, it would be a wild goose chase. For all he knew, they could be with Dundee’s army on its progress back and forth across the hills, in the game of cat and mouse with MacKay’s forces. Ruairidh was, after all, a Papist and Jacobite. Dundee was seeking new recruits, making outlandish promises to the clans. It was even possible they had fled to King Louis’s court in France or to Ireland where King James had gathered his forces and where Seaforth had escaped to. The thought of his duplicitous chief angered him and a wave of despair washed through him. The sinking of his spirits. A hatred of life. A desire for it all to end. The terrible thought kept returning, invading his mind. He might never see Elizabeth again. She was taken from him just as her mother had been over twenty years before. And he would be left alone.

Hatred of one’s chief was a terrible emotion for a Highland man. It went against the grain. He should honour, obey and respect Seaforth, but Seaforth had lied to him and Ruairidh had tricked him. He would never forgive them. The fibres of his kinship were frayed. All he could do was keep in touch with his contacts in the Highlands – he had many clients from all parts – surely one would hear something. In the meantime, he must keep busy to curtail the dark feelings which kept rising within him. He had time on his hands since losing his job as Clerk of the Session at the Revolution. All those associated with the old regime had been dropped like stones down a well. The new government had to be cleansed of the stain of association with the Papist King James. Even though MacKenzie was no Papist, by upbringing an Episcopalian Protestant, it did not matter to the government. They viewed Episcopalians as Papists in all but name. And so, for the first time in decades he had time on his hands. There was a paralysis of legal business across the country and the courts were all closed. He would never return to his work at the Session unless there was another change in the government, a counter-revolution. This would only happen if Dundee defeated MacKay in battle and James returned as King.

A troubling question kept coming back to him – was James worth fighting for? James had proved a disastrous King. There was no doubt of that. Even his followers thought him a fool. But whatever the fool had done, he was still the lawful King of Scotland. The Stuart blood line went back hundreds of years. That still counted for much, especially in the Highlands. The Presbyterians might have support in the Lowlands and among the Campbell clans of the south west Highlands and Presbyterian clans around Inverness, like Munros and Rosses, but there were many who despised the Dutch impostor William and especially, the re-emergence of the Campbells as a power to be reckoned with. James could count on all those who opposed the Campbells: MacDonalds, MacKenzies, Camerons and a host of others. If he had been younger, he might have joined Dundee’s army. But there was too much to lose to make a commitment either way. He was too old, anyway, to be useful in the field. There were other things he could do to aid the Jacobite cause. If that is what he wanted to do. He was uncertain. The most sensible policy was to sit on the fence and wait the turn of events.

MacKenzie turned from the view of the firth to watch Scougall address his ball on the first tee. Scougall steadied himself and drove powerfully down the fairway. It was a fine shot, as straight as an arrow from a bow. A beautiful thing to behold – Davie Scougall’s golf swing! There was nothing half-hearted about it! MacKenzie reflected how Scougall had proved an attentive companion in the Highlands, even attempting to learn a few words of Gaelic, and joining a hunt in the hills despite lacking any ability as a horseman. The image of Scougall perched on his brother’s mare with a gun in his hand and a plaid over his shoulder brought a smile to MacKenzie’s face. That went against the grain too – Davie Scougall in the tartan!

The government in Edinburgh was nervous. Suspected Jacobites were under surveillance. He was sure he was being watched himself. A man in the shadows in the vennel across from his apartments or sitting in the Royal Coffee House watching him. He would be suspected as Seaforth’s kinsman. Many of his clients came from MacKenzie septs under suspicion. The MacKenzies were a Jacobite clan in the same way the Campbells were a Williamite one. He knew his letters were being opened. It was all a God-awful mess. King James was an imbecile – his policies had alienated most of his subjects. Never had a King thrown away so much so quickly. Even his unlucky father, Charles, had taken longer to upset the apple cart – twenty-five years on the throne before losing his head. James had taken just three years to unhinge the whole regime. But the Prince of Orange had upset the established order. He could not quite work out why it was so distasteful to have a Dutchman on the throne of Scotland. However much he tried to rationalise that it might be good for foreign trade, he could not support the new regime, especially the vipers who benefitted from the old King’s fall – grasping politicians and the fanatic ministers, Presbyterians and Covenanters espousing the grim tenets of Calvin, who whipped up the people by smearing their enemies as Papist and pulling the strings of the mob. Did he support the use of force to overthrow the new government? Would he provide funds for the Jacobites? There were too many political issues to consider when he should be concentrating on finding Elizabeth. Loyalty to King James burned through his veins when drinking in the tavern. In the cold light of day, he was a Jacobite, a reluctant one, but a Jacobite nonetheless. He knew he would toast the return of James with all his heart.

Stirling was next to play. His old friend had time on his hands too. As Crown Officer in the old regime he had also been swept aside by the new one. Stirling bent over stiffly to place his ball on the tee. He did not look well. He was pale and pasty, worried and distracted. Retirement was not good for him, although he had looked forward to it. Stirling took a hasty practice swing. There was something agitated in his movement. He addressed the ball and swung inelegantly, hooking it into the rough about fifty yards away. Stirling swore violently, cursing the game.

‘You don’t look well today, Archibald,’ said MacKenzie, playfully, as he placed his own ball on the tee. ‘The sea air may do you some good.’

‘I don’t play well either. I’ve been afflicted by a fever for a few days, John. I only recover slowly. I fear it may be something more serious… an ague. I have not felt like myself since retirement was forced upon me. Perhaps I should consult a physician.’

‘Retirement does not suit you? I thought you looked forward to it?’

‘It’s not as congenial as I’d hoped. My health has not been good since the day I left office. Perhaps too much leisure is bad for me. I’m forced to spend hours on negotiations for Arabella’s marriage. And if that were not enough, I must spend time in Margaret’s company. I’m not well suited to that. She’s always on at me to be doing something in the house or round the estate: mend a fence or repair a wall or plant trees in the field by the river or look to improving yields by planting peas instead of oats and other new-fangled ideas. In the past, I left my man in charge of all such business. Margaret will not let a man be. I begin to miss my old work as Crown Officer. I thought I’d never say that, John. What’s worse, I’ve no time for historical work. I’ve barely spent an hour on my History since the day I left office. I was sure it would be finished by now. Instead, I spend all my time marching around the estate or with Dewarton’s lawyers or on shopping trips to buy new clothes for Arabella. My money is disappearing like water down a drain. Perhaps, I suffer from a stone. I’ve a pain here in my side. It flares up. It will not go away, whatever I eat.’ Stirling held his hand against his side and grimaced. ‘I may have to consult that little shit, Lawtie.’

MacKenzie laughed, lowered his head over the ball and concentrated. He hit his shot confidently down the middle. The ball came to rest about fifty yards behind Scougall’s, a good enough first effort. As they set off down the fairway, he remembered the post was due that afternoon. It might bring a letter from his brother. The thought lightened his mood. There might be some news of Elizabeth at last. He watched the clouds moving in the wind over Fife. Strips of blue appeared in the north. The sun burst through and poured light onto the course. He suddenly had the feeling he would see her again. He knew it in his heart. Nothing would stop him seeing her again. He was surprised and pleased to have such an uplifting thought. Golf was indeed good for the soul!

CHAPTER 2

A Summer Storm

THE DELUGE BEGAN late in the afternoon after the round of golf and continued through the evening and all the way through the night. Sheets of relentless rain swept down across the Lothians. The rain swelled the Water of Leith until it burst its banks at Canon Mills and Stock Bridge. It lashed the sash windows of the high tenements across the city. It gushed down the precipitous rock of the castle in rivulets and flooded the Nor Loch, so it was no longer a shallow, stinking marsh, but transformed into a dark sheet of water, a loch proper. It fell on the High Street and the vennels and closes and wynds which led off it, creating huge puddles and pools. It flooded basements and soaked the deep caverns and tunnels under the city.

Scougall looked down from his window in Mrs Baird’s lodgings just off the High Street. He had never seen the like of it in his life, such a relentless downpour in the summer, it was like a winter storm. It was as if God was angry with the realm of Scotland, as if He sought to cleanse the nation, wash away the sins of its depraved inhabitants, of whom there were many. It was a city of sin, indeed. A city full of evil and sin. A realm cleaved unto sin. So much sin. So much evil. He had already seen too much in his young life. But there was also good to balance the bad, he reflected. Men like MacKenzie and Stirling, his mother and father and sisters. He thought also of Elizabeth, but the arrogant features of Ruairidh MacKenzie, the rogue she had run off with, kept appearing in his mind when he did so.

*

At the same time, MacKenzie sat in his study in Libberton’s Wynd with a glass of whisky in hand and his dog Macrae sitting obediently at his side. His thoughts were of his daughter, as he gazed into the flickering flames of the fire. Her absence was a physical pain that the whisky could only slightly numb. He had received a letter from his brother. There was still no word of her in the north, only rumours of armies marching and the price of grain rising and everyone fearful and uncertain about what they should do. He sighed, picked up the earthenware bottle of whisky on the table and filled his glass again. He raised it and gave a short toast in Gaelic before downing it. He closed his eyes, savouring the familiar burning feeling in his throat and gullet, as the wind beat the shutters and the rain lashed the city. He had no thoughts for the weather outside. He cared nothing for wind or rain, thunder or lightning. It was of no consequence compared to the pain in his heart. Grief washed through him like a wave, grief for the loss of his wife years before and a sharper grief for the loss of his only daughter. And the additional selfish thought behind his grief of a long, lonely old age also arose in his mind.

All of a sudden, it was there before him again, as it had appeared so many times over the years since her death: a black speck in the distance in his mind’s eye, becoming a bird against the white sky, flying towards him, growing larger, until the bird was a vortex spinning in his mind and he was aware of a knot in his stomach. It became a sharp pain and nausea flooded through him. The vortex became a pit which opened up around him. The darkness was waiting to take him. He peered down into it. He felt an overwhelming desire to let himself fall. To end his life would be blessed relief. An end to pain. There was a loaded gun in his desk. It was only a few paces across the room. He could turn it on his head and blow his brains out and then there would be nothing. No more pain. But what if Elizabeth returned to find him destroyed? He saw her standing alone at his graveside, alone in the world, an orphan without mother or father. If he died now, he would abandon her. His rational self recoiled from the pit’s magnetic pull. His spirit for action returned. He walked away from it. He could not succumb to it. He must fight with every fibre, for her sake. The whisky was now washing through his blood. He felt a little better. The black bird flew back into the distance and perched on a solitary tree.

The deluge lasted all night. It swelled the rivers and streams and burns and waterways from Linton in the west to Dunbar in the east and as far as Fala in the south. It flooded the low-lying ground and forced livestock up onto higher pastures. It destroyed crops and damaged farm buildings, as well as washing away bridges on the Tyne, Esk and Avon – a sudden summer storm that had come from nowhere and had left just as suddenly. It would be remembered by generations to come and noted by those who kept diaries, as if, in some way, the weather was directly connected to the momentous political events of the time. In the morning, all was calm. The wind dropped to nothing, the flags in the gardens of the city barely moved. The clouds fled to the sea, leaving the sky above the drenched city an ecstatic blue. Everything dazzled in the sunshine. The city was full of vast puddles and pools. Children made rafts and sailed the Seven Seas in fields around the city. Edinburgh was a city of shining light. The people emerged from the sodden night into a beautiful summer’s day, a glorious warm day of calm sunshine.