Scotch Rising (9 page)

Letting the pages open naturally to the middle. I found row upon row of numbers, without any break, flipping through the half-used book. I discovered all the pages contained the same neat scrawl of numbers. A comparison with the loose pages revealed the same hand must have written it, none other than Mr Turner. The information written in this book was important enough to Turner for him to take the trouble to write it in code. Whether it contained formulae for a mathematical discovery or his personal thoughts. He could only use so many ciphers.

I tore a page from the back of the book and wrote the alphabet along the top lengthwise, underneath I wrote the corresponding number from one to twenty-six, my time as a member of the Royal Society taught me the best explanations remained the simplest. I began to replace the numbers with the corresponding letter of the alphabet under the cipher. I wrote out a whole page. Hoping to make some sense out of the stream of letters, however after trying different letter breaks, using one number as a space and even turning the pages upside down. I could not break the code.

On the opposite side of the torn sheet, I once again wrote out the alphabet, and underneath wrote in the corresponding numbers, this time from greatest to least, twenty-six to one. I worked my way through the same page, scribbling down letters until the page was full. After trying to connect letters to make words into sensible sentences, I gave it up as a fruitless endeavour, unless Turner double coded his thoughts, this did not appear to be the cipher either.

The morning wore on, though by the light of the windows, it would be hard to tell without my pocket watch on the bedside table. The sky only lightened briefly, the dark clouds too dense for the autumn light to penetrate. I lay back and tried to think of the next best cipher. Tucking the torn paper into the back of the book, and turning to a random page, I commenced looking for common groups of letters. Four or five that might be the same word repeated over and over. This way I might find a small key to the whole puzzle.

I worked for hours making hardly any progress until I heard noise coming up the stairs. I quickly hid the pencil stubs and book under the covers, laying back into the pillows and trying my best to appear restful. My mind raced, going over different ciphers and possible solutions.

Freya made enough noise coming into the room to give me an excuse to open my eyes. Her own gaze took in my state and if she guessed I did not spend the morning sleeping. She did not comment on it. Instead she fluffed the pillows at my back. “I’ve brought another tray fur ye, more broth, bread and a bit of cheese. I know ye must be hungry.”

“I’m starving, which is why I think you can dispense with the broth and substitute it for a nice roast leg of lamb or a pork pie.” I waved at the contents of the tray. “This is all very well for an invalid, however I think my chances of recovery will be greatly improved with heartier fare.”

“Ye will eat slowly and what is prescribed fur ye.” Freya placed her hands on her hips. “I truly dinnae think ye realise how close tae meeting the good Lord ye came. Never mind the miracle Kieran performed to save yer sorry hide. I thought the fever would finish ye, you’ve got something strong in ye, Captain.” She patted the bed and turned to leave.

Sighing with irritation and resolution. “Freya, thank you for saving my life.” Taking a deep breath, I continued. “Sometimes I take for granted what a stubborn bastard I can be, the only person I ever tried to accommodate in any way died. I will try to be more cooperative. ” She did not turn around; instead she nodded her head and whistled as she went down the stairs.

A few minutes later I heard soft footsteps on the staircase, I put my spoon down, straining to hear any sound. It could not be Freya or Beathan, though the latter was lighter on his feet than his bulk suggested. These steps were as hesitant as a bird’s. The intruder suffered a slight pause of indecision at the top of the steps. I thought to call out to them before a boy’s apprehensive face appeared in the doorframe, cap in hand.

“I heard Beathan tell my faither ye regained yer wits,” Kieran bobbed a quick bow. I motioned him to come further into the room. He took up the place by the end of the bed, the same place Beathan had vacated in the morning. “I thought I might come down and see fur myself.”

“Thanks to you, my boy. I am hale and becoming more hearty by the minute.” Gesturing to the tray of food. “Have you eaten? I can get Freya to bring something up for you.” The boy’s expression became worried and he shook his head furiously. I smiled. “Does Freya know you’re up here?”

“Nae, I’m supposed tae be up at the castle with the cooper helping him bend the wood fur barrels. My faither says I’m tae stay put, punishment fur my night time wanderings.” Kieran puffed his chest proud of his work. “It’s heavy work fur the rest of the afternoon and he does nae need me. As long as I fetch him a hare from my traps this week, he will keep quiet tae my faither.”

“I will always be grateful to you for saving my life.” I did not want Kieran to think me unappreciative. “However as my own experience must show you, roaming through the fens at night is a dangerous occupation. I would never want to hear of a similar accident befalling such a clever lad. How did you find me?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Kieran half sat on the bed, staring at the floor. “I needed tae check my lines. Darkness provides cover. I saw yer light coming through the fens, following my hare tracks.” An apprehensive look on his face, “I thought ye might be looking fur poachers.” His face turned red. “So I hid. I never thought ye might try tae reach the fire at the other end.”

“Kieran, if you saw the fire and heard both explosions, were you not tempted in the very least to check for the source?” I asked, exasperated. He did not turn his face towards mine. Instead he steadily worked the toe of his boot into the wooden floor. “Is it because you already knew where the fire came from and who started it? You must tell me. It is dangerous for the village to have such goings on in the night. Think of the danger if the fire spread through the fens to the village.”

The lad remained silent. He worried his lip thinking over his options. I could well understand he felt the need to protect whoever caused the incident on the fens. I remained an outsider. A Sassenach, not even a Scots, if I wanted a test of loyalties, I found it in Kieran. He could not betray his own to me.

“I must ask this, as an officer.” I waited until the boy’s full attention finally rose from the floor to my face. “In your previous journeys through the fens, did you ever come across the McKinneys’ bodies before, or have you ever come across anyone who might be trying to hide something?”

My questions remained vague, the sagging of the boy’s shoulders and his attempts not to look me in the eye spoke of his unwillingness to part with any information if it meant he might get in trouble for it. I needed another route to the information. “Did you ever seen Mr Turner out in the fens?”

Kieran looked sharply at me and nodded slowly. “Mr Turner spent many hours walking through the fens and the woods. Said it improved his constitution. Nae sure what he meant by it, but his cough scared away most of the game.” The boy scratched his head. “He would pick different ferns and flowers and press them intae a great book he carried in his shoulder satchel.”

The boy did not seem exceptionally afraid of Mr Turner. If he went mad with his suppositions of the McKinneys’ guilt over an illegal still, it might be fair to say the boy knew of its existence and might be wary of the man. “Did you ever see Mr Turner speak with either of the McKinneys or anyone else out in the fens?”

A sigh and a look at the roof before shaking his head, the boy knew something, however he felt he could not reveal it until he knew me better. I decided to finish my soup and let him look around the room at my belongings for a few minutes. His eye caught the regimental sword I inherited from my father and he went to stand next to it for a better look.

Clearing his throat, he spoke in a small voice. “I would be fond of going to the Americas one day, fight with Indians against the French. I would hae tae go as a foot soldier. I hae nae money tae buy a commission and can nae be an officer.” The boy sighed and traced his finger down the fine filigreed silver and gold workmanship of the sword.

“The New World is a wondrous place. As you enjoy spending time in the fens and woods.” I grimaced. “You would probably feel right at home in the deep, dense forests surrounding Boston, much more than I did at first.” I hesitated for a second. “However, fighting is a terrible thing, war is a blight on all it touches. I hope it might never come here and taint you.”

He turned to look at me, a curious and fierce expression on his face. “Men gain honour and spoils in war. They fight and it means something tae their folk and people drink tae them even after they are long dead.” Kieran thought for a moment. “Men who fight in battles never die. Their stories are told next tae the fire in the evening.”

Kieran might be young, however I knew he did not get his ideas about fighting and honour from haggis out in the fens. It sounded as if Logan’s stories might be influencing his son’s impressionable mind. Some men who died in battles could be immortalised. Apparently his Markinch ancestors kept Logan and Kieran company on more than a few nights. Having already made Logan’s acquaintance. I wondered to what kind of woman might have married him. I remember him telling Beathan she was dead. “Was your mother from Markinch?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Kieran walked back and leaned his hip into the bed once again. “I dinnae know, I never asked my faither. She died when I was young, my grandmother cared fur me until she died too. It’s just me and him.” He grinned. “It’s fine because I dinnae hae tae wash like the other boys and I dinnae hae tae mind my manners.”

“I can see how it might be appealing.” I thought of my own lonely childhood. “I lost my mother as a small child and my father, who fought in many battles against the French and is part of the reason I joined the army.” The contemplation of my own innocence made me cringe inside, yet if I never went to the New World. I never would have married Onatah and my sacrifices even now felt worth the trade.

“It’s getting late.” Kieran announced looking out the window. How he could tell the change in the sun’s position in the flat daylight. I could not judge. “I must go and check my snares. Faither complains about the poaching, but he enjoys the coney stew all the same.” With a wink the lad stuffed his cap on his head.

“Thank you again, lad. I would have died in a murky watery unmarked grave.” I felt a tingle walk up my spine and settle behind my neck. “You saved my life and I owe you a blood debt, as I said on the night. You must come to me with anything, I will help you.”

The heavy weight of the promise embarrassed the lad. He ducked his head and quietly stalked from the room. I did not even hear the door to the front of the cottage open and close. The lad definitely possessed a talent, and it would lead him into trouble if Logan could not keep a better eye on him. The father’s help saving my life not withstanding, I do not think he would take advice on how to raise his son from me, a Sassenach.

Good fortune meant Kieran and I met with Logan as soon as we clumsily found the road. The boy and I were exhausted. We needed a firm hand to take control of the situation. I wondered what he might have been up to out on the road so late at night, looking for his son or waiting near where the McKinneys laid half-hidden for another purpose. I did not know. I believed Kieran when he said he never saw the bodies before the night I found them. Considering his proclivity to roaming the fens it might be hard to believe, however closing my eyes I remembered the look of shock on his face after I forced him to identity the men, his surprise genuine.

My head hurt, I lay back on pillows and tried to get comfortable, closing my eyes, I thought of the events of the last few days, Markinch could turn out to be far from the sleepy village in the Highlands of Scotland portrayed by Colonel Manners in London. Perhaps Turner had warned him, there was definitely a puzzle in need of some attention.

Chapter 7

Checking the road lay empty on either side of the cottage, I stepped into the world once again. With the knowledge Freya needed to run errands for most of the day and she hopefully would not find me gone until my return. Rupert and Everett’s corpses were due to be interred in the evening. The bodies might hold evidence, which could solve their murder. Another slate grey day, the threat of snow oppressive, I walked slowly and evenly, stretching my limbs after the illness and forced rest, the porridge consumed sticking to the sides of my belly, providing a thick coating of warmth. The fens on either side of the road looked as they had on the night of my accident. Beautiful and unthreatening in their rugged expanse, stretching and pulling towards the horizon.

I could hear the workday at Deoch bustling with activity before the red buildings became visible above the rise in the road. The white writing greeting me once again and reminding me where I existed, not in any village or town in the Highlands, in Markinch, at Deoch. As on my previous visit to Deoch, men studiously kept to their business, carrying grain sacks, walking with brooms, some speaking in groups. Today a farmer stood and waited for his grain to be milled, while another with the help of a young man shovelled wort into the back of their cart, presumably to feed their livestock.

Kieran waved furiously alerting the rest of the workers to my presence. So much for passing unnoticed. He shouted and every man turned to look from him to me. “Captain, I hope yer nae heading out intae the fens today.” Turning his face towards the sky. “Storm coming from the north.”

The men quit their occupation to listen to our shouted conversation. Years had passed since I felt such embarrassment over my actions. I berated myself for my lack of foresight in walking through the fens and stared up at the sky. The air remained still, no wind from the north. I looked back at Kieran. “Taking a walk up to the church.”

Several of the men nodded their heads. Kieran frowned and began to walk over, wooden rake in one hand. “Going tae thank the Lord fur saving yer skin?”

Once he stepped closer and I was positive none near might hear my words. “I gave my thanks yesterday when you came to see me. You saved my life, not the Lord. I have seen and done too many things to know there is no higher benevolent force guiding our lives.” Looking into the boy’s face, “We must make our own paths, understand.”

Wrinkling his nose and adjusting the rake over his skinny shoulders, “ye speak like my faither.” Sighing loudly he continued, disgruntled. “I’m still paying my penance fur being out of bed the other night.” The boy’s attention riveted on a spot in the distance. Fear in his features. I immediately looked for danger.

Logan watched my conversation with his son intensely, propped on the large wooden doorframe to the still barn. One of us would have to break eye contact and I put a casual smile on my face as I resumed speaking with Kieran. “I will see you again soon, take care when you’re out on your own.” Patting the top of his cap for affect I strode lazily away from Deoch. I did not find the boy’s father intimidating. I did find him curious. He railed over the presence of Sassenachs in Scotland on my arrival, yet aided in saving my life the night of the accident. His presence out on the road while all others took to their beds or hearth raised questions over his motives.

I resolved to make a closer study of Logan. The displaced Laird of Markinch. My gut told me he could not be all he seemed. My fever and accident may have fuelled my suspicions. Either way, as a soldier I learned to trust instincts. They had played a part in saving my life on more than one occasion and I would not ignore them now. A mêlée of boot prints, donkey hooves and cartwheels marked the spot in the road where Kieran and I had emerged from the fens. I closed my eyes for a moment and could hear the voices yelling to one another. Phil’s murmured encouragement as well as Logan and Beathan’s whispered conversation.

Beathan must have used several men to remove the McKinneys from their temporary gravesite. I could easily follow the path they took through the clumps of heather, boots stamping down the grass, any evidence left behind by the killer probably destroyed as a consequence and a rush of frustration pulsed through me. Part of the drive to solve the murders came from my natural instinct to believe there was an explanation for everything I could know and understand. The other part came from my position as an English officer taking over the post from another officer widely accused of these men’s murders.

I needed to inform the English authorities if Mr Turner was indeed a murderer. The widow was entitled to compensation. If the trail led to another, they must pay the ultimate price for the McKinneys’ deaths. I would see justice served either way. This conviction had woken me from my sleep that morning and stayed with me all through breakfast. Not even Freya could break its hold over my mind with her idle talk. I needed to see justice done. I could not have any for my wife, however I would do my best for these men.

A firm grasp on my newly acquired principles. I turned north and headed for the stone church built next to the castle. Freya had mentioned she’d paid her respects to Rupert and Everett McKinney there the previous evening. Even in daylight, the path from the main road was not easy to spot. I did not notice it on my journey to or from supper at the castle. The small church stood isolated. A low stone fence protecting it’s walls and gravestones keeping watch over its parishioners.

Hesitating for a moment at the gate, I rubbed a hand over my face. What I had told Kieran of my beliefs surrounding God was true. I committed acts of barbarism fighting in the Americas I knew no fair being could forgive. I also thought He might have punished me with Onatah’s death. Now I entered His sanctuary not seeking redemption, only justice. I closed the gate harder than I intended and walked past the grave markers. Many hewn from stone of various sizes and shapes, a few of the larger markers carved with beautiful scrollwork, lovingly polished year after year, the purple heather grew in tufts, unmindful of the sanctity of the soil.

Two large plain wooden doors stood closed. I tried the handle on one and found it opened easily into a cavernous nave. I set the door closed quietly behind me and scanned the interior, row upon row of benches stood two by two down the length, an altar lit with candles at the end. A woman sat on the bench directly in front of the altar. Her head bent in prayer. A priest by the look of his robes counselled her. While behind them a wooden carving of Jesus hung from the wall, looking down on them both with baleful arms outstretched. My shoulders twitched at the sight and I looked for where the McKinneys might lie.

Spying a room off the side of the main chapel, I walked as quietly as I could in order not to disturb the confidence of the priest and his parishioner. Unfortunately my boots were of made of stern stuff, bold and unrepentant. They struck the cobbles underfoot with a confident clip, rather than a shy scuffle. The whispered conversation at the front of the church halted.

“My son.” The priest stood, though he could not make out my identity from the front of the church. The windows set high in the wall let in only meagre light and not many candles burned at this time of day. “If ye would take a seat. I will be with ye in a moment.” He called and I immediately picked up the pace.

I turned to wave, acknowledging his assistance, yet not pausing in my stride. The priest grew agitated as I went to open a side door. “My son, it is perhaps best I be with ye. When ye pay your last respects.” I heard the other man’s hurried steps rush down between the pews as I opened and entered the small room quickly, closing the door.

Walking slowly towards the table where the two men lay, peaceful and in a wretched state. I groped around in my frock coat pocket and I found a silk kerchief, which I pressed to my nose to ward off the sickly smell of decaying flesh. An unfortunate post-dinner conversation between soldiers after downing several cups of ale normally included a lively debate on which odour the more hideous, burned or rotting flesh. I remained firmly on the decaying flesh side of the argument.

The door opened as I reached the side of the corpse with the bullet wound in the head. It had entered the temple and, leaning down to examine it closely. I could see without touching the body it had passed through, blowing the back of the man’s skull to pieces, instantly killing him. The shot must have been from close range, shot from arm level.

The rest of his body appeared to be unharmed. Any flesh exposed to the elements, such as the hands were badly decomposed. I needed to search for clues. I raised my hands and went to carefully open the man’s pockets. A horrified gasp reminded me of my unwanted visitor. I looked up into the face of a middle-aged man, hands fisted at his sides, face barely concealing his gathering outrage.

“Those bodies have been shriven.” The man squeaked. “This is the house of God, sir, and I pray ye respect the last remains of these two poor men before they are buried forever and can enter intae heaven.” His stern gaze took in my coat and shaved head. “Ye must be the new gauger. The Sassenach, I suppose there must be some thanks tae yer presence. Ye did find these two poor souls.”

“Your right, Father.” I tried to keep my tone neutral, the man appeared agitated and I needed access to these two bodies and information. “I wanted to pay my respects and perhaps have a look for any information leading to whom may have done this to them.” Both reasonable requests, I used my most humble tone.

“Seeing as how ye recently almost met yer own death after finding them. I suppose I can nae deny ye the right tae make yer peace.” The priest crossed himself. “Though as I said before, you can nae touch the bodies or risk angering God. Besides I watched Beathan go through each of the men’s pockets, Agnes McKinney is in possession of their belongings.”

I nodded, and walked over to the second body, leaning in to inspect the bullet wound. “This is the younger of the two, so I assume it is the body of the son, Everett.” Without lifting him, I could not tell if the round went straight through, but the information did not matter much. A careful look through the rest of his clothes indicated only one shot took the life of this man. His blood-crusted clothes implying a shot near the heart.

“Och, aye, ye are correct.” The priest tripped over the word gauger and cleared his throat. “Captain, I dinnae see why ye need tae make an inspection. Yer nae the magistrate and folk know who killed these fine men and the good Lord punished him by ensuring he would never be buried in hallowed ground.” I looked curiously at the priest. “Mr Turner of course, and his suicide, it goes against the laws of God and nature,” the man chortled.

“Good morning, Father Tadgh.” The priest and I glanced at the door and found Logan smiling at both of us. “I thought I heard yer voice in the chapel, giving one of yer sermons again?”

“I am reminding the Sassenach captain it is a sin tae take one’s own life.” Father Tadgh stood up straighter and adjusted his frock under the scrutiny of Logan. “It is comparable with the taking of a human life. So Mr Turner must be damned tae hell at least three times fur his terrible crimes. Nae court on earth or in heaven can save his soul from burning.”

Logan peered in my direction, a look of mild interest on his face. “I think the captain is well aware of the consequences after death fur sinners.” Pausing he scrutinised the priest with a hint of malice. “He was, after all, a member of Her Majesty’s army, committing unmentionable acts of barbarity in the New World in the name of God and country.”

A part of me, the soldier, ingrained and moulded into the English Army clamoured to protest Logan’s unspecified yet malicious accusations. Duty, a part of my old life, demanded satisfaction, however I was too old and tired to rise to the bait. Instead, I endeavoured to change the direction of conversation away from dangerous topics such as Mr Turner and my time in the army. “Have you come to pay your respects, Logan?”

“In fact, Beathan mentioned yesterday ye might hae some skill with inspecting corpses and discovering the method of death, even identifying the murderer through this evidence.” Logan ignored the sceptical snorts from Father Tadgh, focusing his entire attention on my person. “As these two men were my friends, and technically members of my clan. I would like tae know if ye made any progress.”

Or if I might have found evidence pointing to you as the gunman, “Beathan overestimated my knowledge. I told him I aided a doctor in Boston with such scientific queries, yet the progress in this science is slow and unreliable at best. It will be many years of research before it commences giving consistent answers.”

“A terrible ghoulish thing tae dae tae a man after he is dead.” Father Tadgh’s face turned red once again with his outrage. “It is witchcraft, the thing of nightmares, only a truly horrible and depraved man wants tae fiddle with a corpse. It is disgusting and if this is the reason ye hae come, Sassenach, I suggest ye depart before I bring the heavens down on ye!”

“There is no need for the heavens to be out of countenance, Father Tadgh.” I tried to placate the old man, Beathan had warned me of the priest’s devotion to his God. “I have paid my respects to these men, any evidence from their bodies has been noted without disturbing their rest.”

The mention of evidence made Logan inspect the bodies closer. I walked past him to the door. “A good day to you, gentlemen.” I needed to make a quick escape, something in Logan’s behaviour made me uncomfortable. I could be imagining it, yet I needed time to think, unfortunately Tavish’s friendly face turned towards mine.

“Captain,” the old man’s voice rang through the stone church, a broad smile on his face. “I hae been meaning tae check on ye, thought ye still needed a few more days’ rest.” I shrugged uncomfortably, not willing to reveal my escape. He appeared to sense my reluctance and pressed on. “I need tae speak tae Father Tadgh, after that I’d thought perhaps I could get a couple of words in?”