Fate and Fortune Page 7

  He cleared his throat. ‘Which one of you is Jean Muir?’

  There was a moment’s consternation, before a black-haired woman stepped out from the rest. ‘I am Jean Muir,’ she answered warily. The women stood alert and watchful. Jean stared blankly, eyes dark with dread. He knew then that he had found her, though he tried to tell himself it was some other girl.

  ‘There was a lass found dead on the beach at St Andrews, a day or two past.’ Hew kept his voice low, out of reach of the fisherwives, gathering like crows. Nonetheless, they cawed in chorus, ‘I telt you, she’d went to the fair.’

  Jean Muir did not waste glances, she did not waste words on them, but pursed her lips tightly and pulled close her shawl. ‘The dead lass,’ she whispered. ‘What was she like?’

  And what could he tell her? No one, the coroner said. He answered her bleakly, ‘Slender, and small. The doctor thought she might be sixteen years of age. She had on a strippit blue gown, and a white linen cap. Her hair …’ He trailed off. He could not tell the colour of her hair, made dank and dark by the sea.

  ‘Fifteen,’ Jean said, vaguely.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘She was fifteen,’ Jean Muir murmured, walking on past. ‘I’ll go an’ fetch my bairn.’

  She walked as though asleep, sure and heavy in her trance. And Hew had no doubt that she could, that she was fierce enough and strong enough and proud enough, to scoop up the lass in her tight muscled arms and shake off the sea-water, shaking off death, to carry her home. The crow women scattered, scowling at Hew. And one of them – sister, mother, friend? – stout and braver than the rest, called out, ‘Wait, it’s almost dark. The men will fetch her home tomorrow in the boat.’

  ‘And lose a day’s fishing?’ Jean Muir scoffed. Even in grief she was scornful, thought Hew. But perhaps more especially in grief. It was a hard little core of defensiveness, gathered inside her, gathered around like a shawl, all of her close-set and weathered grimly, fierce and hard and small. She said, ‘Whisht, Nancy, whisht. Let me go.’

  ‘Mistress … it’s twelve miles … and soon it will be dark. And likely they have buried her … and still, it may be possible, that this was not your daughter after all,’ Hew reasoned hopelessly.

  ‘It’s Jess,’ Jean replied, with a dull complacency, and tramped on, no longer seeing him.

  He cried out, ‘Wait, let me help you. What can I do?’

  ‘What you can dae,’ the stout Nancy snarled, ‘is let us alone. You telt her. Now let it be.’ She hurried off in pursuit of her friend.

  Hew did not escape so easily. The other women circled, hungry for gossip, to pick over the scraps of his news. Digesting, they assessed and were reassured. Their own weans were safe, and their own daughters blameless, hard-working, tucked up in bed of a night. Jess had been an unco’ lass, bonny and too trusting, wanton as a hoor, and willing as a bairn, and like as not to find herself in trouble with a man. And so she had.

  When at last Hew had disentangled himself, Jean and her fierce friend Nancy were long gone. He pictured their dull trudge across the fields to a town they would not come to before dark, to fetch home their dead lass, already lying cold beneath the ground. The boys had gone from the shore, and the boats lay sombre, empty in the bay. Hew continued upwards from the beach. He followed the course of the burn to the lands of Strathairlie. The burn began to bulge and leach upon the land, flooded by the recent thaw, or perhaps it was the dam that served the mill. Hew felt raw as he approached the house, a little worn and shadowed in the gloom of dusk. The bright, congenial welcome of the country house no longer seemed to fit. His friend, Andrew Lundie, was away on business, and Hew was almost glad to find him gone from home. In his absence, he was met by Andrew’s father John, as attentive a host as ever he could wish for, yet Hew felt uneasy with his hollow talk and comforts, that did not match the darkening of his mood.

  ‘Andrew is married, did you hear?’ John Lundie informed him. ‘And he has a son, my grandson, you know. But you, Hew, are not married, I suppose? And no sign of any heir?’

  ‘Not yet, sir, I’m afraid.’ Hew admitted, smiling weakly. They were settled in the great hall, to a spring supper of boiled eggs and pullets, with white manchett loaves and sweet yellow sack. John Lundie sat toasting the bread on the fire, for sippets to soak up their wine.

  ‘Tsk, tis a pity,’ he remarked, turning the toasts on their fork. ‘Since everything settles on you. It is essential to consider and consolidate one’s property, and keep it close to home. I have hopes that our family may have possession of this whole estate before too long. Then as to Andrew, you see, and his little son John, I may settle on him, and die well. As I have no doubt, your father did, though without the solace of a grandson to ensure his line. Now then, as I understand, you are apprenticed to Richard Cunningham, the advocate.’

  ‘Do, you, sir?’ retorted Hew, startled from his manners. ‘Who told you that?’

  John Lundie looked nonplussed. ‘Why Master Cunningham himself, was it not, Agnes?’ he appealed to his wife, who looked up from her cup and smiled vaguely.

  ‘Well then, I dare say,’ Master John went on, ‘Master Cunningham was present at the recent circuit court, at which I was obliged to serve as witness, a most wretched venture, to be sure; I dare say it was then I heard it. Or was it from the crowner? Can it be a secret, though?’

  Hew shook his head. ‘A misunderstanding,’ he muttered.

  ‘Truly? How very singular.’

  After supper, John proposed a game of cards, and with the lady Agnes and John’s second son and daughter, they made up a five at maw. Hew felt ill at ease, and could not settle to the game. At last, when he had missed his turn a second time, and lost his stake, Agnes remarked somewhat archly, ‘I fear that Master Cullan is too much the scholar to approve our game. I dare say tis the hazard that offends him.’

  ‘Ah, not at all. Forgive me, I am distracted tonight.’ Hew set down his cards, showing his hand, and John Lundie frowned. ‘Perhaps you would prefer a game of chess?’

  ‘I confess, sir, my mind is elsewhere.’

  ‘Indeed?’ John looked a little perplexed. It was plain, he very much wanted to pick up the cards, and conclude the game, in which he had been poised to take the third trick. He hesitated, merely, out of politeness, debating whether he must now invite his young friend to confess what troubled him. Before he could give way to better judgement, Hew confided, ‘Indeed, sir, there is a service you can do me, if you will.’

  ‘Aye, then?’ John proceeded cautiously, ‘And what is that?’

  ‘It is a wretched tale. There has been a murder in St Andrews. I pray you, send word to the coroner that I have found out the poor girl’s name. She is Jess Reekie from Seatown of Largo, and her father is Big Rab the fisherman.’

  The lady Agnes set down her cards and let out a faint little cry. ‘Is it possible, John?’

  Her husband frowned. ‘Hush, a moment, Annie. Now,’ he said sternly to Hew, ‘have a care. Speak softly, that you don’t upset the ladies, and explain yourself. What’s all this?’ He was wearing spectacles, for his eyes were not what they had once been, and in the fading candlelight he could not tell the clubs from spades. The change in his expression had dislodged them from his nose. Impatiently, he snatched them up and put them in a pocket.

  Hew continued recklessly, ‘It is as I say, on St Andrews shore was found the body of a fisher lass that had been raped and killed.’

  At the word raped, the lady Agnes gave another squeal, and her husband rose abruptly to his feet.

  ‘Since Hew does not care to play cards, and the night is clear, we shall take a turn around the gardens.’ He placed a hand upon Hew’s shoulder, with a firmness that allowed no room for compromise, and directed him briskly to the door, where he removed the lantern from its hook.

  ‘Now, sir,’ he commanded, holding it aloft to light their passage through the garden, ‘Tell your tale.’

  Hew explained about the fisher lass. John Lundie star
ed into the blackened trees, and in the glimmer of the lamplight Hew saw him frown.

  ‘Does this crime spell danger to my family?’ he inquired at last.

  ‘No, sir, I am sure of it,’ Hew assured him. ‘Though she came from Largo, the dead girl was a fisher lass, and her killer doubtless known to her. There can be no threat to your daughter or your wife.’

  ‘That is as I thought,’ Lundie answered bluntly. ‘Then I wonder why you thought it fitting to alarm them.’

  ‘To speak truth, sir, I did not think, and I am sorry for it,’ Hew excused himself. ‘These sad events affected me, so that perhaps I lost my sense of decorum.’

  ‘You lost your sense,’ John Lundie qualified. ‘In these lawless times, our womenfolk are fearful. It is our place to reassure them, not to cause alarm. This rape is no business of ours, and, for certain, no business of yours.’

  ‘I hoped, sir, you might think it was your business, sufficient to inform the coroner,’ insisted Hew. ‘Tell him he must question the fishermen, and, in particular, a lad called Davey.’

  ‘Do you not listen? This is no affair of ours. If harm has come to Jessie Reekie, as you say, her father will amend it. There’s no need for us to be involved.’

  ‘But surely, sir, we have a duty to the Crown, to inform the coroner and uphold the law,’ protested Hew.

  ‘You begin to vex me,’ Lundie frowned. ‘I would not hear this from my son, and I will not accept it from you. But, since you have lost your father, and are a guest in this house, I shall excuse it this once. You were always a hot-headed boy, I do believe, a headstrong boy; your father did indulge you somewhat. Nonetheless, you will permit that in the absence of your father I dispense some fatherly advice.’

  Hew felt cornered and enclosed. He stared into the garden, set out like a counterpane. They were walking through the physic beds, planted in neat, knotted squares, where the pansy and primrose in close little buds bowed their shy heads to the light of the moon. The clumps of bay and parsley, sorrel and sweet sage, were measured and constrained. These tight-nipped borders bore stark contrast to the mossy walls and wild untrammelled herbs at Kenly Green. Meg allowed her flowers to grow to glossy fullness, nature nurtured softly by her secret cultivation, a wilful, wild cacophony of colour, shape and scent. Though Hew had not responded, John Lundie took his silence for contrition.

  ‘Well and good,’ he nodded. ‘You should know that I have presently … but presently, mind, been witness at the assize, and a most tedious and irksome business it was. And yet I did this willingly, as my duty to the Crown, that I refused to shirk.’

  ‘But surely,’ Hew countered stubbornly, ‘you were sent a summons, and you had no choice.’

  John Lundie fixed him with a glare. ‘If you believe that, then you really are green, and not at all ripe for the law. You think there is no choice? Most of those called paid bribes to the court clerk to scratch out their names, or sent others masquerading in their place. Thirteen were unlettered, three or four were deaf, one was a natural idiot, and several more excused themselves, by claiming to have died. But I, sir, did turn out, to serve the Crown, and a more flagrant piece of foolishness I have never heard. So do not speak of duty, nor of my responsibilities. If I have a duty to these folk, it is to let them go about their business as they will; as long as they do not impede my family or my property. We do not want these scandals on our doorstep and, for sure, we do not need them brought to us by strangers. This is not what Matthew meant, when he wanted you to follow in the law. If you persist in this, you will bring shame on us, and shame on your dead father.’

  This cut deep, and Hew exclaimed, ‘How can it be shameful to seek justice for a poor dead girl?’

  ‘Look, boy …’ John looked at him helplessly, truly perplexed, and went on a little more kindly. ‘You have been at school too long, and you have lost the proper sense of things. And since you have no father, then I will explain it to you. Each of us must have his place, and if we step outside that place, a line is crossed. And if we cross that line … well, we cannot cross that line. It is not done. Look at my house here. It is a fine one, is it not? And the gardens are quite grand? And our lands’ – he held out the lantern – ‘as far as the burn, and eastwards …’ he frowned, for a moment distracted. ‘When you came up past the burn did you see it flooded?’

  ‘Aye, it was,’ Hew confirmed, ‘but I do not see …’

  ‘That is the dam for the mill, and a thorn in our side, we are damned by that mill that saturates our lands … Nonetheless, now, let that rest. Do you understand what it is that I am saying?’

  ‘Not at all,’ scowled Hew.

  John Lundie gave a sigh. ‘This is where we stand, and our place in things,’ he iterated patiently. ‘Our place is to keep these lands, and the farmers in the fields and the miller in his mill that is their place, and if they do not cross us then we do not interfere with them. And the fisherfolk that fish the seas, that also is their place, and what they do besides is no concern of ours.’

  ‘That is a closed and narrow view,’ Hew answered hotly. ‘Surely, it must be your place to help to keep the peace.’

  ‘That is what I am trying to explain to you. To keep the peace, for sure, then let us keep the peace. But you would cause a hue and cry, and so disturb the peace. Tell me then, who’s hurt by this?’

  ‘A young girl, that lies dead on a beach, and her mother, that has none to speak for her.’

  Lundie snorted. ‘Ah, brave fool! Then answer this. When you told the mother, that her girl had died, did she seek your help, or bid you speak for her? Did she say, “Good sir, prithee, find my daughter’s killer out?”’ he mimicked, mocking Hew.

  Hew hesitated, ‘Well, in truth …’

  ‘In truth, then, she did not. So leave it well alone. Make no mistake, you are not the king’s officer, to seek out and answer for crimes. Your place, surely, is to be your father’s son, and to live upon his lands and produce an heir, or else your place must be to be an advocate and practise at the bar, as your father wished, and if you will do neither, then I do protest, that I am at a loss as to what your purpose is. Enough now. Let’s to bed. And since you are your father’s son, and are most welcome here, we’ll speak no more of this.’

  The household was prepared for bed, and Hew was shown to a small chamber in the loft, at the top of a spiral of stairs. The room was furnished very like his own, with light oak kist and mantelpiece, pewter jug and candlesticks, and a posy of sweet pansies, with their cheerful painted faces, scattered to bring freshness to the sheets. The bed was feathered, soft and warm. Yet Hew could not sleep. He allowed the candle to burn almost to the quick, before he threw aside the sheets and padded to the window, looking out towards the wood and far down to the bay. He heard a fretful cry, the yipping of a fox cub calling for its mother, fleeting through the trees. He saw the moonlight cast its shadow on the distant harbour, where the fisher lass had spent her days, and felt remote and lost, as though he had no purpose and no place. His cream embroidered doublet, laid across the kist, looked yellow, soiled and tawdry in the stump of candlelight, its artifice and glitter worthless in the gloom.

  Rites of Passage

  Hew took his leave early the next morning, yanking at Dun Scottis with unnecessary force. The horse, as always sensitive to mood, did not take quite so lightly to the track, and they both appeared sullen and fretful before the sun began to lift. At Leven’s mouth, they left the coastal path, following the river inland to Cameron Brig, where having made their crossing they turned back towards the estuary. And presently they came upon Muir Edge, a settlement that seemed to edge the world itself, by the smoking wasteland that was Dysart Muir. Dun Scottis pricked his ears and shied away. Hew nudged him, little by little, cautiously around the outer reaches of the moor. Beneath, the Dysart coal beds scorched and kindled, sparking fires that hissed from cracks and chasms in the rock and wrenched the sky at night with sudden bursts of flame. In daylight now, the moor was choked with heavy cloud that stifl
ed and made mute the birds. Clumps of blistered heather smouldered in the scrub. Even at its edge, Dun Scottis kicked his heels against the fierce heat of the earth, tossed his head and snorted, his own breath hot and furious. Beneath its tar-clogged cloud of blackness, Dysart Muir lay hidden from the sun, and from the bright sea breeze, and circling of the gulls, and from the shrieking winds and winter frosts; no snow had ever fallen there. Dun Scottis knew, quite clearly, here was hell.

  Hew, who understood the meaning of the place, was equally unnerved, and as they approached Dysart itself, and the cleaner pungency of sea and salt pans, he was scarcely reassured. For at the entrance to the coal pit by the shore, a little group of devils had appeared, streaming forth and scattering like flies. They were small as children, those devils; or perhaps they were children, lads and lasses burned to black, their faces blank with weariness, imps of Satan spilling from the lapping flames of hell. They were all but naked in the heat, the strips of rags around their waists grimy as the writhing bodies wriggling from the seam. They trundled with them truckle carts of coal, and baskets filled with fish heads, casting green and ghostly light.

  From Dysart, they came next to Ravenscraig, named for the corbies gathered on the rocks, and looked across the water from the castle cliff, where they saw Edinburgh smoking high upon its rock, the backbone of the capital squat between its hills. The skies were beginning to dim, and Dun Scottis, unnerved by the coalfields and the blackening clouds, became fickle and fey at the first gust of wind. At Kinghorn and Pettycur harbours, the ferry boats lurched into blackness, and Hew decided to continue overland, upon the coastal path. Duns Scottis was flaring his nostrils, afraid of the wind and the water, and his master had no stomach for the fierceness of the estuary. They rode on as far as Burntisland, where they declined the crossing once again, and Hew spent a restless night at the ferry inn, in damp and soiled bedding, miserable and cold.