Mathew's Tale (16 page)

He knew the gamekeeper also; they had been classmates at the parish school. As he approached, he beckoned to him. Grose looked surprised, but he came across. ‘Mr Fleming,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘For me, nothing,’ he replied, quietly. ‘For yourself . . . you might be well advised to seek alternative employment very far away from here.’

The man stuck out his chin, in a truculent gesture. ‘And why should Ah do that?’

‘If you do not know, then you have become an even bigger idiot than you showed yourself to be in the classroom.’

Grose flushed; he frowned. ‘I did what Ah was telt tae do by my master. Your friend McGill had just kilt his brither. His family belang in the street, and that’s where we pit them.’

‘And broke their belongings with hammers? Did your master tell you to do that also, or was that your own idea?’

‘Ah told you; we did as we were telt. Sir Gavin was righteously angry.’

‘So you obeyed his order to persecute your own wife’s kin.’

‘Lizzie McGill doesna acknowledge her folk.’

‘And you know why that is. I can see you, man, for what you are. You took pleasure in what you did last Sunday. You are a bully, Grose, a weak man and a rogue. Even so, until I heard what you did, you were nothing to me. Now you are my enemy; see how well that suits you, then take my advice. Go away from here, never come back, and never let a day go by without reflecting on the harm you did to an innocent woman and her children. You might tell your fellow cowards to do the same, for I will find out who they are and come after them.’

‘And how would ye dae that?’

‘With the full force of the law. As soon as David McGill has been cleared of this false accusation, I will have you and your cronies before the Sheriff. Are you so stupid that you think it legal to evict a family without a warrant or to destroy their property? It will probably be classed as robbery with violence, an offence that my friend the Sheriff hates. Whatever else your sentence might be, you can all expect to be baring your arses for the birch.’

Mathew’s smile was mocking. Ewan Beattie thought that he might be trying to provoke Grose into striking him, but the gamekeeper was not so foolish, or so brave, as to try. Instead he slunk back towards his wife, a voice calling after him, ‘Far away, remember. It will not stop me coming after you, but it is your best chance of keeping your hide intact.’

‘Would the Sheriff do that, sir?’ the coachman asked, quietly.

‘Be sure of it. When I saw him last Monday, it was his proposal that we swear a complaint against the men who forced Lizzie from her home.’

‘Cleland too?’

‘No. He would only plead that his rabble were over-zealous. He may also have had the right to order the eviction. I admit that I did fantasise to an extent, to gain Master Grose’s full attention.’

‘Ye succeeded, sir. Yon’s a frightened man now.’

As he spoke the hearse came into sight, an ornate affair drawn by four black-plumed horses. The two men entered the church, which was little more than half full; this was to Mathew’s pleasure. The people he recognised all had estate connections, but he saw no one who was a friend of David McGill. Peter Wright was there, though, beside his daughter and Grose, who refused to meet his gaze.

Leaving Beattie at the back of the kirk, he took his place in the elders’ pew, at the front. The organist was playing as they waited; the instrument was in good condition, since Mathew had paid for its refurbishment the year before. After a minute or so, John Barclay entered from the vestry door and stood facing the congregation. He looked strangely ill at ease, as if he wished his task done with, and quickly.

‘All rise,’ he said, motioning with his hands, and as he did so there came the sound of shuffling feet as the pall-bearers turned into the aisle.

Sir Gregor Cleland’s coffin was an ornate affair, of dark mahogany, with polished brass screws and handles and draped with red cords. The six men who carried it were all strangers to the village; Mathew wondered whether they were simply the undertaker’s assistants or whether the new Laird had thought it prudent to hire bodyguards, against any popular reaction to David McGill’s arrest and trial.

Gavin Cleland walked behind the coffin, pausing, and giving a respectful nod as it was laid on trestles before the altar, then slipping into the family pew, the front row to the right, beneath the pulpit; in it, he was alone. The factor Armitage and his wife were in the row behind, but no others sat close to him.

The service was formal; it began with a hymn, followed by prayers and after them the Twenty-third Psalm. Then John Barclay climbed slowly and laboriously into the pulpit. He had gained considerable weight since Jessie’s death, through a stodgy diet and probably, Mathew guessed, because there was no longer any restriction upon his consumption of Madeira wine.

‘Dearly beloved,’ he began. ‘We are gathered here on this most sad occasion to pay our respects to our young Laird, Sir Gregor Cleland, and to commend his blameless soul to God.’

Mathew’s one eye narrowed.

‘The Cleland family have been stalwarts of Carluke Parish for many generations,’ the minister continued. ‘They have blessed us with their munificence, they have been easy landlords and they have been generous employers. It is a very short time in the affairs of man since we gathered here to bury the good Sir George, yet here we are again, come together in grief to say farewell to his older son, and to extend our deepest condolences to his brother, who sits with us today as Sir Gavin Cleland, master of Cleland House and its estate. May God grant him comfort in his hour of despair over his great loss, and may He show him the way forward to guide his community.’

A spluttering cough came from the back of the kirk; Mathew thought he recognised Ewan Beattie’s familiar manner of clearing his throat when it was tickled by dust from the road.

With only the briefest of frowns Barclay went on. ‘It is not for me to comment on the manner of Sir Gregor’s death. The matter is in the hands of the highest court in the land and we can only wait for it to dispense justice, in all its majesty, and if it is so determined with all its final severity. Make no mistake, God demands that the guilty be punished, even if that should strike at the very heart of this congregation.’

The old cleric bowed his head. ‘There is no comfort for Carluke today. A terrible sin has been committed in our village, and we all sit in its shadow; it will only be expiated when the sinner himself rests in the ground to which we are about to commit his victim. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, amen.’

He moved on to the final hymn, and then a benediction, before instructing the congregation to remain standing while the coffin was raised once more on to the shoulders of its bearers, to be carried outside, to the Cleland plot, for burial.

Mathew was obliged, as an elder, to attend the committal, and he was at the head of the group that followed the bearers, with the three other members of the Kirk Session. As they reached the graveside, Gavin Cleland turned and approached him. ‘Fleming,’ he said, his voice clear enough to carry to all those present, ‘there are eight cords on the coffin, but only seven of us. You will oblige me, sir, by taking the eighth.’

‘If you wish,’ he replied. He could have refused, he knew, but that would have been a public display of antipathy that he felt it would be better not to make at that time.

‘Thank you,’ the baronet murmured. ‘I will be at the head; you will please take the cord at the feet.’

The eight men took their positions, John Barclay intoned the words of committal and steadily, slowly, they lowered the coffin into the ground. As they did so, Mathew could read the inscription on the polished brass plate; ‘Sir Gregor Cleland, Bt., foully murdered, by David McGill.’

As their burden reached the ground and the cords lost their tension, he looked up and along, into Gavin’s eyes. They shone, with what could only have been triumph.

He tossed the end of his cord into the grave and stood, then walked round past three of the pall-bearers, to the new Laird. ‘Your ladies are not here, I note,’ he murmured.

‘No. My brother’s fiancée . . .’

‘Fiancée? I had heard of no betrothal.’

‘It was to be announced this very day. Poor Charlotte is distraught, too grief-stricken to attend. It was a terrible experience for us all, Fleming. I was taken completely by surprise by the suddenness of McGill’s attack and by its ferocity, I had no time to defend myself before my pistol was seized and the fatal shot fired.’

‘Aye, sure,’ Mathew replied. ‘And who is the beneficiary of this mindless violence, Sir Gavin? Not David, only you. We will see what view the court makes of it . . . if it gets that far.’

‘I am confident that it will, Fleming, and I do not fear its verdict. Within the next week, I expect to see your friend swinging, and off on his way to the anatomist’s table. Perhaps when they look at his brain they will find whatever it was that made him act so madly.’ He smiled. ‘Good day, sir. I look forward to our next meeting, under the kindly auspices of Lord Bellhouse.’ He turned on his heel and strode off towards his waiting carriage.

For his part, Mathew strode towards the minister. ‘Your eulogy, John,’ he exclaimed. ‘What the hell was that about? You know David is innocent, yet you damned him!’

‘No, Mathew, I did not,’ Barclay countered. ‘My words were very carefully chosen. The matter is with the court, and like you I have to trust that it will reach the correct verdict. As for what I know . . . well, what I know is what David told me, and that is what you know too, for you were not there yourself. You were not a witness to what happened. The only thing that you and I have seen for ourselves is that young Matt was whipped, for his face bears that out. For the rest, I have a man dead by violence, and my first duty, God’s first duty, is to him. Can you not see the truth of that?’

Mathew took a pace back, and looked him up and down. ‘All that I can see, old friend,’ he murmured, ‘is the uncomfortable fidgeting of a man who is sitting on the fence.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

‘I
AM DISAPPOINTED IN
our minister, Mother.’

Mathew had said nothing to Lizzie or Matt about the service, or about his encounter with Gerald Grose, but Hannah had recognised the worm that was gnawing at him and had asked him what was wrong as soon as they were alone in the garden summer house.

‘Mak’ allowances for him, son,’ she responded. ‘Ah never took him for a strong man. He’s spent most o’ his life in a quiet village wi’ nobody tae bother him but God, and wi’ old Jessie tae bolster him when he needed it and keep him off the fortified wine when he didna’ need any more o’ that. Now something terrible’s happened, almost in his front parlour, and he finds himself wi’ a duty tae both the dead and the livin’, wi’ a conflict between them. From what ye say he did indeed choose his words carefully in the pulpit, but that may have been more out of fear than what you see as disloyalty.’

He sighed. ‘You may be right. All the same, I am glad that we will not need him to stand as a character witness before the court, with the defence we propose. The last thing we will need there is any show of ambivalence.’

‘Ach,’ she laughed, ‘you and yer big words. Ah suppose it’s tae be expected, given the folk ye mix with. Deputy Lord Lieutenant Fleming, indeed; it would never do for ye tae be speaking Scots tae the King, would it?’

‘I doubt if I will ever get the chance to speak any language to him. There are many deputy lieutenants across the land, and remember, our function is to represent him in his absence.’

‘Then let’s hope there’s nae more o’ that Jacobite nonsense. Ma granny used to tell us about the forty-five rebellion. There were heids on spikes after that, she said.’

Mathew smiled. ‘I think mine is secure,’ he said. ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie died a drunk in Rome, and any new pretenders are likely to speak Italian, hardly the language in which to rally the clans.’

‘That’s better,’ Hannah chuckled, ‘mair like your usual humour. So,’ she continued, ‘ye feel the next few days will go well for David?’

‘That is our lawyers’ hope and belief, and I am guided by them.’ He rose. ‘Now I am off to my bed, for I want to get back to Edinburgh at a civilised hour tomorrow.’

He, young Matt and Beattie arrived in the capital half an hour before four. The day had turned chill, and the coachman drove the horses along at good pace. Before leaving, the four, Flemings and McGills, had attended morning service in Carluke. Lizzie had insisted on going.

‘I must, Mathew. If I was not seen there some might say it was out of shame, and I cannot have that. Matt and I must be there with our heads high, in support of David. The number of folk who speak to us afterwards, that will tell me how the village really feels.’

That number was considerable, although it did not include her cousin Daphne, who sat at the back of the kirk, and left as quickly as she could once the service was over. Grose, her husband, was nowhere to be seen, and the Cleland family pew had been empty also.

John Barclay’s sermon had ignored the death, and David’s predicament, entirely. Instead it had been a prayer for a summer of good weather and a bountiful harvest, always sure to be well received by a rural congregation. From the minister’s first brief glance at the empty front row below the pulpit, Mathew had sensed his relief that at least one of the protagonists in the dispute over Gregor Cleland’s death had chosen to avoid further confrontation.

His mother had been right, he thought. Events were too much for him; the old man was afraid.

Barclay’s farewell to Lizzie and Matt at the door of the kirk had been effusive. ‘I am pleased that you both felt able to come today,’ he said. ‘My prayers go with you for the resolution of your terrible situation.’ He clasped Matt’s hands. ‘I want you to know that the entire congregation holds you blameless for what has happened.’

‘That is not so, Mr Barclay,’ the young man retorted. ‘Sir Gavin Cleland swore the opposite in his statement to the Sheriff.’

‘I am sure he misunderstood,’ the minister murmured.

‘There was no room for misunderstanding. His statement says that I scared thon horses on purpose and that I was insolent. I never was; it was an accident, as I told you right after it happened.’

‘I have high hopes that he will think better of it,’ Mathew intervened, quickly, to cool young Matt’s quick temper. He looked down at Barclay. ‘John, if our advice holds good, we will not need you as a character witness this week. If we do, I will send for you.’

A quick flash of apprehension ran through him as he stepped down from the carriage outside the Waterloo Hotel.

‘It is going to be all right, Mathew, isn’t it?’ The boy’s question was quietly spoken, but there was anxiety in it.

‘Of course it is, lad,’ he replied. ‘You heard what the lawyers said; James Douglas’s reputation is built on knowing when to play his hand and when to throw it in. He knows that our defence is serious, and his ambition could not suffer a public defeat.’

Mathew’s optimism was boosted even higher when he registered the party, and found a message waiting for him in a sealed envelope, at the reception desk. He tore it open there and then, and saw that it was from Paul Johnston, and had been written on the previous Friday. He read it quickly and then for a second time, aloud.

Dear Mr Fleming,

I have received a summons, from the Lord Advocate himself, written in his own hand. Mr Douglas commands us to meet with him in his chambers in Parliament House, on Monday, at ten o’clock in the morning. He requests that Mr Irvine and I be present, and also yourself, Mr Fleming. He says that he understands that you are the principal figure in the preparation of the prisoner’s defence, and wishes to make the acquaintance of such a forceful person.

I propose that the three of us meet in Parliament Hall, at ten minutes before ten.

Yours
 . . .

‘There you are, Matt,’ he exclaimed, ‘the news is good. The great man wants to see us.’

‘Why not me too?’ the youth asked.

‘Because like it or not, you are a minor, and this is men’s business.’

Matt grunted, but said no more.

When Mathew arrived in Parliament Hall, five minutes before Johnston’s meeting time, he found the two lawyers already there and deep in conversation.

‘Well then,’ he exclaimed, ‘you were right enough, Innes. It seems that your bold strategy has worked.’

‘Indeed,’ Johnston agreed, ‘it seems so. But Mr Irvine is nervous nonetheless. He is, remember, the most junior member of the Faculty, and for him to be called before its foremost figure is a daunting prospect. Worry not, Innes; I’ve seen Douglas in action. He won’t bite you. More likely he will offer you a position in the Crown Office.’

‘You say so,’ the advocate replied, ‘but why is he doing this, when all that was needed is for him to advise the court that the indictment is deserted
simpliciter
, and that our client should be released?’

‘Who knows? He may wish to toast our success.’ He glanced to his right, past Mathew. ‘We shall soon find out, I think.’

As he spoke a court usher joined them. ‘Gentlemen, if you will follow me.’

They did as he asked, following him out of the great hall, along a maze of corridors and up a flight of stairs. ‘One second,’ he murmured when they reached the top, disappearing through a door then stepping back out little more than that single second later. ‘The Lord Advocate will receive you now.’

James Douglas was seated in a huge red leather chair that served to underline the shortness of his stature. When he rose and looked up at Mathew, there was almost a foot in height between them. He was dapper, in ordinary rather than legal clothes and wigless, with dark oiled hair that shone in the light from the lamps on his desk, and from the window. He extended his hand and when the two men shook, it seemed to disappear into his visitor’s.

‘Mr Fleming,’ he began, ‘I have heard much of you; you are a power in the new world, beyond a shadow of a doubt.’ He looked at the lawyers. ‘Johnston, I admire your work too; welcome. And you will be Mr Irvine, advocate. When the Dean appointed you to present McGill’s defence, he knew what he was doing. You and I must have a conversation later; this office is always in need of advocates with boldness and courage. Sit, please, all of you.’

He climbed into his own chair, then looked at his visitors.

‘Courage, I said, Mr Irvine, because while your gambit is bold and within the law, it was not without risk, not only to your own reputation but to your clients and even to those instructing you. Mr Johnson is a fine solicitor, but he relies on the goodwill of the Faculty, and of the courts, for his living. Mr Fleming is, as I said, a coming man in the new world . . . indeed he has arrived already . . . but he is also still part of the old. Deputy lord lieutenancies can be removed as quickly as they are conferred, and those elements of his business that rely on commissions from the state . . . how many saddles do you sell to the military annually, sir? . . . they would also be at risk if he offended the wrong people.’

Mathew frowned. Something was wrong, the man was amiable and yet his words carried a huge underlying threat.

Douglas looked at Irvine directly. His eyes seemed to grow slightly, and become hypnotically piercing.

‘I admire your defence, Innes, I really do, and in ordinary circumstances, I would yield to it. However,’ he paused, ‘this is not an ordinary case. The indictment alleges the murder of a baronet, a landowner, by a former employee, a man with a score to settle. There is an order in our society, gentlemen, and it must be preserved. The indictment demands that the panel be tried for his life.

‘And then there is your defence. It avers that the murder was committed not by the panel, but by the victim’s own brother, his twin no less, the chief witness against him. Is it convincing? Perhaps. But all trials are matters of whose word the jury believes, and so its success is not assured.’

He sighed. ‘Before we get that far, though, it is a matter of what I believe, as prosecutor; and frankly, I believe Sir Gavin. I cannot conceive of a man murdering his own twin, and I cannot concede to a defence that implies that he did. I cannot concede,’ he repeated, ‘and yet if I proceed to trial, your witnesses will take to the box and give their evidence. Even if your defence failed, as I believe it would, Sir Gavin’s name will still be blackened, and he will carry a weight around his neck as heavy as Mr Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner.’

Douglas looked around them all again, and as he did his eyes seemed to change. Suddenly it was as if they were slitted, those of a snake.

‘So this,’ he seemed to hiss, ‘is what I propose, Mr Irvine. If you proceed with your defence I will desert the indictment. But not
simpliciter
, sir, as you expect; no, I will desert it
pro loco et tempore
 . . . that meaning “for the time being”, Mr Fleming. It will then be amended; while that happens, Mr McGill will remain in the Calton Jail but he will not be alone. The new indictment will aver that his son, Matthew McGill, provoked the incident deliberately, and thus is as guilty as his father. They will stand trial together, they will be convicted together, they will be sentenced together, and be sure, Mr Fleming, whether the boy is fifteen or not, he will be liable to hang on the same scaffold as his father.’

The Lord Advocate sighed again, and some of the menace left him. ‘It is possible that a benevolent sovereign might commute his sentence on my advice, rather than risk public outrage at the execution of one so young, but the very least he could expect would be transportation for life. Either way he would be lost to his mother, for ever, and to his loved ones, who include you, Mr Fleming. I know your whole story, and how the boy might have been yours.

‘Well, Mr Irvine, what is it to be? Do you withdraw your impeachment?’

The young advocate held his ground; his voice was cold and steady.

‘You must be aware, sir, surely,’ he replied, ‘that I must take instruction. The decision is not mine. May we confer alone?’

Douglas shook his head. ‘You may confer, but not alone. The decision is simple.’

‘Then I will make it,’ Mathew declared. ‘First, though, I will tell you some home truths, my Lord Advocate. You speak of the new world and the old. You may believe that you have the power to threaten me, and within this building you might. But beyond Edinburgh, you are impotent; you may speak for Scotland in Westminster, but very few listen to you. You barely know the people with whom I do business, and be assured they have no regard for you. You are a power in Edinburgh, no doubt, but do not try to flex your muscles beyond its boundaries, or you will find that I am much stronger than you.

‘I will give testimony in defence of my friend, regardless of the decision we make now, be sure of that. If I left that decision to his brave son, he would call your bluff, sir, he knows what happened, and so do I. However, I cannot do that. I gave my word to his father that I would not put him in danger, and I must keep it. The impeachment will be withdrawn, the plea will be “not guilty” and we will proceed to trial in the normal way. You have seen the mettle of Mr Irvine, so you will realise it may not be as easy as you think.’

The Lord Advocate rose, indicating that the meeting was over. ‘I have indeed,’ he replied, ‘but you may still be certain: I will hang your friend.’