Grandmother and the Priests (34 page)

There were many deer on the great estate, and the servants reported that the young lord would go out in very early morning to watch them, and the birds, and the ‘pesties’, through field glasses. When the hard winters came there was food scattered about for all. It was no wonder, then, that the animals appeared to love him and would graze on the very lawn near his windows or gambol on the broad windowsills and build their nests near the wide oaken doors. Their voices filled all the land with a clamor of sound, which George, Lord McLeod found delightful, far more delightful than the voices of his fellow-men, whom he appeared to fear a little.

It was young Lady McLeod who engaged in festivities, and who invited the guests. Gay, charming and vivacious (“There must be French blood, aboot,” said the Chief Constable, sighing), she became a favorite in almost no time. It was noted that she adored her husband, and that the adoration was returned. In the very midst of a lawn party they would inconspicuously seek each other out for a handclasp, for a smile, and, behind some shrubbery, for a quick kiss. But then, they had been married only a few months and so they could be forgiven for the ‘display’.

Though George would do no hunting, and showed no interest in horses and sports, he was a general favorite, for he was kind, gentle, thoughtful and full of charity. He was also very pious. His young wife possessed these traits, also. The old priest, an obstinate man himself who therefore naturally disliked obstinacy, occasionally fumed at George concerning some of his more unorthodox opinions regarding the lower animals, but had no other complaint. The young lord rebuilt the church ‘from top to bottom’, imported fine Italian bells, and built a new little rectory from the ground up, with a gas stove and gaslights! He paid the salary of the old priest’s elderly sister, who kept his house. He put more fireplaces in the convent, and kept the coalbins filled, and showered fine linen handkerchiefs on the Sisters and other acceptable gifts, and renovated the parish school. There was nothing that the old priest could even hint of that was not almost immediately done, and done lavishly.

But it was reported that Lord McLeod — “and even meself, I thought it blasphemy,” said the Chief Constable — firmly believed that all animals, even the ‘pesties’, had souls, souls unlike those of men, but souls for all that. “Look at St. Francis,” he would say. “He called the birds his brothers and sisters. He was not using fancy; he was speaking a fact.” The animals were totally innocent; only man was evil; only man could fall into serious sin. And did not Jesus love innocence above all things, He so innocent Himself?

The old lord had had a gun-room, filled with every conceivable kind of lethal shooting weapon. George, being a thrifty Scotsman, had the butler, who was an ardent hunter and gunsman himself, keep the guns in fine repair, and oiled. George often hinted that he would sell out the guns one of these days, a remark that shocked the old butler, who had been with the old lord, also. This was all brought out during the inquest —

“The inquest?” asked Father Alfred, sharply.

“Aye. But I was coming to that, sir,” said the Chief Constable, with some reproof.

“Was there some suspicion that Lord McLeod was murdered?” asked the priest, who was a devotee of Sherlock Holmes. The Chief Constable observed him for a few minutes, then he said, “But I was coming to that, sir.” Father Alfred sat on the edge of his chair, impatiently.

The gun-room was always kept locked, and George kept the key and gave it to the butler only when necessary for the guns to be oiled and cleaned and the room dusted. No one else ever entered the room.

The servants, and young Lady McLeod, discreetly did not tell George that there was much illegal hunting, and poaching, on their property during the autumn months. But somehow, he found out. Perhaps he had discovered a wounded deer, or a dead bird with shot in its breast. He expressed the first rage his wife and servants had ever heard from him. The grounds were posted and penalties listed. Carrying a large club, which everyone doubted he would use even on the most flagrant of poachers, he being such a gentle young man, he would walk for miles each day over his property, and sometimes at night, with a lantern, looking for any rascal who would dare defy the posting and dare to kill. Lady McLeod, who always remarked that her husband was of a delicate constitution, approved of the day-walking, and often accompanied her lord. But the night-searches alarmed and then terrified her. Yet the hamlet was a peaceful one; there had not been a single prisoner in the gaol for over five years, and those who had occasionally occupied it before had been men who had looked upon the wine until it was too red, indeed.

So Lady McLeod knew that George was in no danger from any poacher or hunter at night, they being so much more clever in the forests than he, a city man. But she did fear that he would stumble over some rock, or fall into the deep brook that ran through the property, or have his head knocked off by some overhanging branch.

Or, that he would be lost in the darkness. She would go with him on the few nights he ventured out with his club and lantern, but this ended when the doctor discovered she was ‘in an interesting condition’.

“But I thought there were no children,” said Father Alfred.

Indeed and there were not, said the Chief Constable, grimly. The poor young lady had lost her child, a fact not generally known.

Ah, there were such parties at the mansion and such dancing! The young lord and his wife were having a secret celebration, and everyone was curious, and no one was told. It was evident that they were overjoyed at the very thought of a child. The doctor testified to this fact at the inquest. Father Alfred, who loved tales of inquests, moved farther to the edge of his chair.

Last September, early in the month, almost a year ago, George and his wife were sitting together before the fire, he reading, she with her embroidery. They heard a distant shot. George sped out of his chair like a bullet, himself. The old butler had heard the shot — and never had anyone come so close to the mansion as this — and he hurried to his master, who was already pulling on his jacket, his lighted lantern and club on the table beside him. It was a dark and moonless night. His lordship might have an accident in the darkness. The butler and Lady McLeod pleaded with George, but as usual he was obstinate. He would confront the poacher; he would seize him by the scruff of the neck and haul him to the magistrate. He was all fire and resolution, this small, fair and gentle man, his face flushed with anger. “There’ll be no murder on my land,” he said. “Stand aside, Andrew.”

The very thought of George seizing a poacher and dragging him some miles to the magistrate made even the alarmed young lady smile, and the butler smiled. He would not listen to their arguments. He even shouted. This brought Cook, herself, from the upper regions, with her hands under her apron. She was a sensible woman, but George would not listen to her either. He ran out of the house, shouting his threats. Lady McLeod, in her condition and fear, burst into tears. Cook made tea for her and tried to console her. The butler opened a fresh box of biscuits, and stirred up the fire. The master would find no one. He would be home shortly. But the young lady pulled aside the draperies and looked at the black sky and wept about her lord’s inadequacies in dealing with rough terrain. So Cook and the butler remained with her, plying her with tea, and finally, as an hour became almost two hours, with brandy. And they testified to this at the inquest. They had not left the poor girl for a moment.

The clock in the vaulted hall struck midnight. The butler gave Lady McLeod more brandy; Cook pressed her back into the chair. The girl was insisting on going to look for George, herself. She implored her servants to go with her, a shocking thought, in the darkness. And an early autumn wind had arisen, loud and authoritative at the doors and windows, and rain was now falling heavily. There was no doubt that George had gotten himself thoroughly lost and that he was wandering, somewhere, in the dark and cold and wind and rain. Lady McLeod had every window lighted. She commanded the old butler to pace on the lawns, waving a lantern. (He was the only man in the house now.) At three in the morning, overcome with exhaustion, fright, and brandy, the young lady fell asleep in her chair. At five, the butler, drenched and battered, went into the hamlet to gather up men willing to search for the young lord.

Many were willing, including the few policemen. They began to search the forests and every inch of the estate for the young lord, beginning at the very gray dawning. Somewhere, they were certain, he was lying helpless, probably with a broken leg, for there were bad patches of rock and broken ground on the terrain. They shouted in the windy twilight of the morning, rain lashing their faces and putting out their lanterns. They wandered, searched and called for hours. It was nearly noon before they found George, Lord McLeod. In deep brush. Dead. Shot. A pistol from his own gun-room was in his hand and there was no sign about that any other person had been in the vicinity.

The bullet, a single one, had entered his right temple, and his face showed powder burns. He had been killed at almost immediate range. The police and the searchers had already trampled up the ground and had scattered fallen leaves. One of the policemen, the constable, had then gone ahead to ‘warn’ the young lady of the death of her husband. The rest of the men began the dolorous march back to the mansion, carrying George’s soaked and bloody body. When they arrived they discovered that her ladyship, on being informed, had uttered one terrible cry and had collapsed, and a servant was already dashing for the doctor in a pony-cart. She had lost her child a few hours later, and did not emerge from her stupor for twenty-four hours. Her only relative was an aunt in Glasgow, and a telegram had been sent. George had only distant cousins, all female, scattered throughout Scotland. They all eventually arrived. The mansion teemed with them, with the old priest and the Sisters, and the multitude of George’s friends among the gentry in the vicinity.

It was reported at the inquest that Lady McLeod had said, when awakening from her stupor: “Who would kill my George, my darling, so cruelly, so mercilessly?”

She had been very calm and very pale, and she had said to the Chief Constable and the priest, as she lay in her bed, “Who would murder my George, and why?”

They hurriedly assured her it had been a terrible accident, but she had shook her head and repeated over and over, “Murder, murder, murder.”

She never cried after that, but her soft and lovely face became fixed and wild. She came quietly to the inquest and insisted that her husband had been murdered. George could not bear even to look at a pistol or any other firearm, and much less would he touch one. He had run out of the house only with his club and pathetic lantern, to catch the poacher and bring him to justice. He had, she said, been deliberately lured to his death, for everyone knew his habits and his hatred for hunters and poachers.

It was the butler who had discovered that a pistol, a rather ancient one, was missing from the gun-room, and he had reported this to the Chief Constable. No, he had not had the key, but the gun-room was unlocked. He had found all this to be true a few hours after George had been brought home dead. The key to the gun-room was found in George’s pocket.

There could be only one conclusion at the inquest: Death by misadventure. George, unknown to his butler, cook and wife, had stopped impulsively at the door of the gun-room and had taken out a pistol and had forgotten to lock the door afterwards in his haste. He had then gone struggling about in the darkness, threatening and shouting, and had fallen and the gun had gone off and killed him.

“Murder,” said Lady McLeod, steadfastly, looking at the jurors. “George would never have taken a gun under any circumstances. He never even thought of them. You have heard this from the lips of Andrew, himself. The key in George’s pocket means nothing. He always kept it on him, for fear it would be found by the gardeners, or some careless person. He would have preferred to kill himself than to kill another, even in self-defense. George was murdered.”

She sat in the box, wild-faced but quiet-voiced, her gloved hands clenched together, her black widow’s veil falling over her shoulders. “Murder,” she repeated. All thought of her disastrous state, the loss of both husband and child, and looked at each other uneasily, with one thought: that she had become mad.

“But I didna think that mesel’,” said the Chief Constable. “Lady McLeod’s face was wild, indeed, but quiet, and she spoke with absolute authority, as if she knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt.”

So the Chief Constable had questioned her gently. Had Lord McLeod any enemies? No, none that she knew of. A male relative to inherit the title, estates and money? No. Had he aroused hostility in the hamlet, or perhaps even in Glasgow? No, all had loved George. She answered each probing question clearly and without trembling. On what, then, did she base her dreadful suspicions that he had been murdered? She told the jury.

Before recovering consciousness on that terrible day she had ‘seen’ George. He had come to her with blood on his face and neck, and he had been white and stiff. He had told her that he had been murdered, coldly and deliberately, in the forest, but he did not know, as yet, his murderer. She, his wife, must find that murderer and bring him to justice.

“Now,” said the Chief Constable, “it is known that we Scots are fey, and Lady McLeod was a Scotswoman, for all she had had an English education.” The jury listened to her seriously. The Chief Constable had resumed his questions. Not a juryman doubted that she had indeed seen the ghost of her husband and that she had heard his message that he had been murdered. But these were modern days. So the verdict of death by misadventure had been reluctantly given. Lady McLeod stood up, looked slowly at the jury, and had left the room.

It did not end there. Lady McLeod summoned Scotland Yard, itself. An Inspector had come, had inspected the site of the murder, had questioned everyone concerned, had consulted with the Chief Constable and the jurors, the servants and the butler. He listened thoroughly to the tales of George’s eccentricities concerning animals, and his indictments of his fellow-men for their wanton cruelty against the innocent. Could such a man, finding a killed animal, have lost his head and turned on the discovered hunter, who had then shot him in self-defense? The Chief Constable considered this question. No. It was not possible. His lordship could never have threatened anyone with a pistol, not to mention using one. Besides, the butler and cook had testified that he had taken up only his club and lantern and had then run into the night. They had heard the door slam after him, seconds later. He could not have stopped at the gun-room and seized the pistol, even if he had been the sort of man to do such a thing or even think of it. The guns had been cleaned two weeks earlier, and the door of the gun-room locked by the butler, himself, who had then delivered the key to his master. There was no possibility that the room had remained unlocked. So, only one man had had access to that room in two weeks and that man was George, Lord McLeod, who never entered the room.

“The only evidence,” admitted the Chief Constable to the Inspector, “that his lordship had been murdered was Lady McLeod’s insistence that she had seen her husband’s ghost and that he had told her.”

The Inspector did not believe in ghosts. He studied and restudied the evidence, reading for hours. He sighed, shook his head. Death by misadventure. He went to the mansion and repeated this to her ladyship. And she had said, “Murder, murder, murder.”

Her conviction of this was so fixed that she discharged all the servants, including the old butler, and had engaged three grim women from Glasgow and had employed gardeners who did not live on the premises. Somewhere, she believed, lurked George’s murderer, perhaps a servant, perhaps a workman, perhaps one of the gentry, their friends.

Then, astonishingly, with her husband “hardly cold in his grave,” as the hamlet said with shock, she resumed her parties and her festivities, and the mansion was lighted to midnight, and there was dancing, and fiddlers. And, always a man, a different one, who remained behind in her ladyship’s bed. A scandal. For the first time whispers went about that her ladyship knew more about her husband’s death than she had admitted. Her insistence that George had been murdered, her summoning of Scotland Yard, had been ‘a blind’, to divert suspicion from herself. The Inspector, in Glasgow, heard of these rumors and quietly paid several more visits to the Chief Constable. Unknown to Lady McLeod, he had her whole life investigated, and her husband’s former life. Nothing came of it. And the scandalous doings at the mansion continued, and increased in fervor and gaiety.

“And that is all?” said Father Alfred.