Julia London 4 Book Bundle (135 page)

He was debating whether or not he should ride on to Dunkeld and search there when he happened upon an inn he had not previously seen. From the street, he could hear the loud commotion in the common room. It appeared to be a popular gathering place, and Arthur thought that he might try one last time.

At the very least, he could use a dram of good Scottish whiskey.

He walked into the common room, ignored the looks
he inevitably received—the Scots, he had discovered, could sniff out an Englishman at one hundred paces—and walked to where the innkeeper was standing.

“Whiskey,” he said simply, and tossed two coins on a scarred barrel that served as a counter of sorts. As he waited for the innkeeper to pour his whiskey, he glanced around, his eyes scanning the crowded tables. Laborers, mostly, one or two gentlemen in the lot.

“Yer whiskey, sir,” the innkeeper said, and Arthur swung around, reached for the heavy glass, was lifting it to his lips when he saw him.

Jamie Regis.

Arthur glanced heavenward, said a silent thank you to God for giving him this gift, and sauntered forward, a smile on his face.

There were times that Jamie Regis wished he could turn his cousin into a fish, or some other object that could not talk. Propping his head against his fist, he fought to keep his eyes open as his cousin droned on about something to do with the shoring of an old barn he had recently engaged in. Blair had begun the fascinating discourse on the exact size of the truss he had lathed himself, when Jamie was jostled awake by someone seating themselves at their table. Not that Blair would notice, he thought, marveling at how his cousin continued to talk, and lazily lifted his head to have a look.

He jerked upright when he saw the smiling Englishman. “Good
God!
Here now, milord, I believe my work is done—”

“And a good day to you, too, Mr. Regis,” the insufferable Sassenach said, his smile broadening.

At the very least, his clipped English accent shut Blair up. “All right then, how do you do,” Jamie said testily. “As I was saying, my work is done.”

“Naturally. And settled quite nicely, thank you. But
I’ve another matter about which I should very much like to speak with you.”

Blair looked at Jamie. “Aye then, who is ’e?”

“No one,” Jamie muttered. “A former client.”

“Ah, Mr. Regis, you wound me.
A former
client? And here I a sit, prepared to offer you a princely sum.”

Jamie grabbed his ale and took a long swig, eyeing Christian over the rim of his mug. The one redeeming quality the man had was that he did indeed pay quite well. Jamie carefully set his ale down again, cocked his head to one side. “And how exactly did you find me?”

“Now you see, there’s the beauty of it. If you believe in divine guidance—”

“I doona put much stock in it—”

“Well then, let’s just say we have a situation of uncommon coincidence. I just happened to see you sitting here and could not believe my grand fortune—”

“Grand fortune,” Jamie repeated suspiciously.

“—nor
your
grand fortune.”

“Go on then with ye, Jamie. If ’e’s got the coin to spend, ye should at least listen to the man,” urged Blair.

As he was in no need of the addlepated Blair’s help, Jamie glared at his cousin. He shifted his gaze to Christian again. This was a bad idea, a very bad idea, he thought. “All right then, let’s have it.”

And then he proceeded to question his own sanity as the imperious Christian explained what he needed. While Christian did not give him all the details, Jamie surmised from his brief description of the legal services he required that a friend had inadvertently murdered a Scot in what Christian claimed was an act of self-defense. Right. The friends of Arthur Christian did not seem to make very intelligent choices.

“I am not a barrister, sir,” he said at once.

“Really, I’ve always wondered after the difference between a solicitor and a barrister, haven’t you? Nonetheless, you are as close as I am likely to get to a
barrister in the next few days. Time is of the essence, Mr. Regis.”

“That may be, milord, but there is not enough time in all of Scotland to turn me into a barrister, or an advocate as we know it here. I would think you could find a suitable one in Edinburgh.”

“There is no
time!
” Christian said sharply, then caught himself and took a deep breath. “The truth is, Mr. Regis, this matter is one that is very, ah … dear to me. It is imperative that I get help before it is too late.”

Jamie shook his head. “I canna help you. I am not an advocate and I am not familiar with criminal law. For what you need, you must understand that my counsel would be insufficient. I urge you to go quickly to Edinburgh.” He stood up, preparing to take his leave, but Christian surprised him by lunging across the table and grabbing him by the lapels. Jamie grabbed his wrists and yanked at his hands. “Unhand me, sir!”

“Listen to me, Regis!” Christian said roughly. “I
need
you! You are my best and last hope, do you understand me? I will pay you a bloody fortune for your assistance if that is what you want, but I will not allow Kerry McKinnon to
hang!
” he exclaimed desperately.

Jamie froze. He blinked, struggling to absorb the image of the fair Kerry McKinnon hanging from the end of a noose. His hands fell away from Christian’s wrists; Christian let go of his lapels with a slight shove and quietly straightened his clothing as Jamie stared at him. “Kerry McKinnon? Fraser McKinnon’s widow?” he asked, incredulous.

“Along with her cousin Thomas.”

Jamie sank into the chair he had just vacated and drained the last of his ale. Christian resumed his seat, watching him closely. “They say he murdered her.”

“Now they say the two of them conspired to murder Charles Moncrieffe,” Christian said.

Jamie sucked in his breath. “You canna be serious!”

“I am deadly serious.”

Jamie could hardly believe it. His memory of Mrs. McKinnon was a fond one—a lovely woman, dedicated to her ill husband and the little enclave of clan she lived among. His memory of Moncrieffe was less favorable. Through the years, he had had occasion to run across the man on various matters. He despised Cameron Moncrieffe, because he, more so than any other baron Jamie had known, pushed plain folk from their land with no regard for their welfare, all so that he could put more sheep on the land and make himself an even richer man. He hardly needed to do so—Moncrieffe was a wealthy, powerful baron, possessing of a tremendous amount of influence among the elite of Scottish society and lawmakers.

Jamie glanced up at Christian. “How did it happen?”

He sat very still, listening to Christian explain, his mind spinning with the fantastic story. He did not flinch when Christian told him of his part in her escape, nor did he move when Christian explained that Moncrieffe likely knew what his son was about. He did not even speak when he learned that Mrs. McKinnon had returned to Scotland to free Thomas McKinnon, giving up her own liberty to save her cousin.

When Christian had finished, Jamie knew the request was difficult to refuse. A man could not leave a woman like Mrs. McKinnon in such straits. He sighed, raked both hands through his hair. “I am not an advocate,” he repeated. “I doona know that the justice will even entertain my advocacy.”

“He cannot refuse it, can he? The woman has no one to speak on her behalf.”

Jamie supposed that was true. The legal system guaranteed some sort of advocacy in situations such as this. “There’s an awful lot of work to be done. I’ve got to study the law, and we must find someone who knows what happened to the McKinnon clan.”

Christian eagerly leaned forward, nodding. “I shall look from sunrise to sunset if I must.”

Still, Jamie shook his head; this was lunacy. What he knew of criminal law could be put on the head of a daisy. “I can offer you no guarantee. It may do more harm than good—”

“Nonsense, man! She cannot possibly do worse than she does now in that tower prison where he holds her!” He leaned forward farther still, the piercing hazel eyes for once beseeching. “I’ve nowhere to turn, Mr. Regis! I will bring all my power to bear in helping you, I will pay a highwayman’s rate, but I
cannot
do this alone!”

That much was obviously true, and Jamie frowned. Alone, this vainglorious English aristocrat would certainly hang her. Bloody hell, he
was
all Kerry McKinnon had! He groaned. “All right, then, I will help you, but on one condition. You
must
do as I say, do I have your word?”

Christian beamed at him, his relief and joy apparent. “Naturally! Whatever you say, Mr. Regis,” he exclaimed, and offered his hand to shake on their agreement.

“We’ll need a place to work. I reside in Stirling—”

“I have just the place,” Christian said, still grinning. He gripped Jamie’s hand tightly. “We’ll be quite the pair, you and I.”

Oh yes, Jamie imagined they would be
quite
the pair.

The place Arthur had in mind was the scene of the alleged crime. Regis thought he had lost his mind, and had no qualms about saying so. Arthur could hardly argue. But his instincts were right; the place was deserted, save a few hundred grazing sheep. Regis complained that they were trespassing and were sure to be caught, but Arthur wrapped a friendly yet firm arm around the man’s shoulders and forced him to walk into the white house while trying to convince him that it wasn’t
technically
trespassing. After all, the papers settling Phillip’s debts had not yet been signed.

Regis remained unconvinced.

They spent the evening chasing two sheep from the interior of the house and shaking the two mattresses that had been left behind to ensure no other creatures had taken up residence. After a frosty night—no thanks to Regis, who adamantly refused to allow a fire to be built, lest they alert the glen and signal Moncrieffe—the two men rose with the sun, washed in the cold stream, and dined on cheese and bread hard as stone.

They began work in the room Kerry had once occupied. It was practically empty now, except for the ugly, dark stain of blood. The bed was gone, as was the vanity—to what fate, Arthur did not know. Nothing but a wooden chair remained, a small rug, and a wardrobe with one door missing. There was also a tin box and a scattering of papers in one corner. With the toe of his boot, Arthur nudged them so that he could read what was written. One was a letter from Alva Tavish, another from Mr. Abernathy of Dundee. He stooped down, picked up the letters, and put them in his pocket while Regis measured the room with his stride, then made some notations on a paper.

They milled around the small room far too long to suit Arthur. Much to his great irritation, Regis insisted that he repeat the sequence of events as he knew them over and over again. After the fourth telling of it, Arthur had reached the limits of his patience. The longer they stood there, the longer Kerry languished in that godforsaken medieval tower. It seemed to him that there was something they ought to be doing—such as reviewing the bloody law—instead of discussing where Charles’s body had lain when Arthur found them. When Regis asked for the hundredth time where exactly Kerry had been standing, Arthur lost what was left of his patience.

“I have told you, Regis! She was standing just there!” he snapped, waving his hand in the general direction he had indicated earlier. Regis paused in his examination of the floor and bestowed a look of pure tedium on him. Arthur bristled; he was unaccustomed to being treated in
such a … 
common … 
manner. He was about to make issue of it, but Regis spoke first.

“I thought you wanted my help.”

“Bloody hell!” he groused, rolling his eyes. “Of
course
I want your help! But I hardly see the point of repeating over and over again who was standing where!”

“I am attempting to ascertain exactly
how
this happened so that I might effectively argue self-defense on Mrs. McKinnon’s behalf! If he were lying inside the room facedown, and she at the door, then it would not be quite so easy to argue, would it? Every detail, no matter how small, can only help us, sir! And while you may not have realized it, you have added some new detail to each telling of it!”

Regis had a point there.

Arthur sighed, glanced around the filthy room again, made a supreme effort to get hold of his emotions. “You are right, of course. What was your question?”

It was the afternoon before Regis was finally satisfied with his copious notes. His forehead furrowed in a frown, he walked slowly into the kitchen, Arthur on his heels, and sat down at the scarred table that had been left behind. With his arm, he brushed off a place where he could lay his paper, then ran his palms over his notes to flatten it before bending over to study it further.

Arthur fell onto the bench across from him and pulled out the letters he had found. Using his thumb to break the wax seal, he opened the first. In handwriting sharply angled, the missive began with a curt salutation and moved directly into a demand for Kerry to come to Glasgow, where she could apparently repent her evil ways and seek mercy from God by teaching the heathens of His Word. The letter continued in that vein, and when he reached the signature, a cold little shiver ran up his spine.

Kerry had, of course, alluded to discord with her mother. And he remembered vividly her hysterical reaction to his suggestion that she go to Glasgow. At the
time, he had attributed it to the trauma of what had happened to her, but had he known her mother was this … 
rabid
, he never would have suggested such a thing. He glanced at the letter again and noticed that it was dated 18 July 1837. He had found Kerry standing over Charles Moncrieffe’s body on 29 July. Eleven days later.

“How long do you suppose it should take a letter to arrive here from Glasgow?” he asked.

Regis did not glance up from his work and answered distractedly, “Ten days, perhaps a fortnight.”

Kerry must have just received the letter around the time of the unfortunate incident with Moncrieffe.

He forced the ugly image from his mind and picked up the other letter. This one was from a Mr. Abernathy of Dundee. When he broke the seal, he discovered that Mr. Abernathy was an agent of the Bank of Scotland. He had written to inform Kerry that her time had come to an end, and as much as it pained Mr. Abernathy to do so, he would be forced to foreclose on her property to settle her husband’s debts. This meant, naturally, that the bank would take possession of her assets, and unfortunately, the pearls she had given him to secure a portion—albeit a very
small
portion—of the debt.