Julia London 4 Book Bundle (136 page)

A peculiar wave of disgust and regret rolled over Arthur. Had he known, had he understood, he would have settled the debts at the bank for Phillip and Kerry. He looked again at the letter; it was dated 21 July.

What a burden Glenbaden must have been for her, he thought sadly, and unconsciously ran his thumb over a deep groove in the table. He despised her dead husband—it was unfathomable to him that a man might leave his wife with such monumental matters such as loans and accruing interest and collateral.

“Well then,” Regis abruptly said, yanking Arthur back to the present. “I believe our course is clear. First, there is the matter of Thomas McKinnon. I should think there is someone in Perth who could swear to his being there on the day of Moncrieffe’s death. We need a
credible witness to that effect. I suggest you go to Perth and find one.”

“Me?”
Arthur blustered. “And what of you? Am I not paying you a bloody king’s ransom to gather evidence of their innocence?”

“I will be gathering evidence of Mrs. McKinnon’s innocence, sir.”

“I will help you—”

“You can help me by finding a credible witness in Perth who will vouch for Mr. McKinnon’s whereabouts. Look here, Christian, we’ve not much time. We must divide the work, and I think I am better qualified to develop the critical evidence we need to convince the justice of Mrs. McKinnon’s innocence. If you prefer to waste time arguing—”

“All right, all
right
,” Arthur snapped. “I will go to Perth and find the fellow who was fortunate enough to speak with the congenial Thomas McKinnon!”

“Excellent,” drawled Regis, and for the first time Arthur could recall, the man smiled.

In Perth, it seemed that no one, from the markets to the public inns, had noticed a wiry Scot with a dozen head of sickly cattle. It was as if Thomas had never existed. But he
had
come to Perth, he had told Arthur so, had sold the cattle and waited for Kerry as they had previously arranged. When the appointed meeting time came and went, and two days more, he had gone looking for her. That was when Moncrieffe apprehended him.

After a full day and a half of wandering about, a dejected and exhausted Arthur stepped into the Dog and Duck Public Inn, an establishment he had been in more than once to inquire after Thomas. He fell into a rickety wooden chair and asked a barmaid to bring him a dram of Scottish whiskey. Defeat was not a familiar sensation to him, nor was the feeling of the lack of power to do anything. He stared morosely at the small glass the
barmaid set in front of him, not really seeing it, his gut churning with his inability to affect a bloody thing.

“Bless me, sir, ye look so sad. Can I naught put a smile on that handsome face?”

Arthur gave the girl a weary smile. “I would that you could, lass, but unless you can bring me someone who saw my friend—”

“Who be yer friend then?”

He thought about waving the girl away. Too exhausted to speak, it seemed hopeless to engage her. But she smiled at him so prettily and twirled a thick strand of red hair around one finger that he could not help himself. Pure male instinct kicked in, and he smiled back. “Thomas McKinnon—”

“Tommy?” she interjected, and brightened considerably.

Arthur’s heart skipped several beats. “You knew him? Thomas McKinnon of Glenbaden?”

The girl flushed. “Aye, I knew the lad,” she said, and giggled shyly.

That old dog … 
Arthur smiled broadly and moved his chair around, pulling another one up beside him. “Please, sit … what did you say your name was?” he asked, and patted the chair next to him.

“Penny,” she said, falling into the chair, and began to talk of “her Tommy.”

And Arthur began to feel as if he had found his way again.

R
EGIS WANTED
A credible witness? Well Arthur had brought him one, and it was no small feat.

It seemed that the barmaid Penny was the daughter of the rather blustery innkeeper, Mr. Newbigging, who remembered Thomas quite clearly, having tossed him out of Penny’s room on more than one occasion. But in the mornings, when Mr. Newbigging was of a clearer mind, he had occasion to speak with Thomas man-to-man.

Newbigging had not wanted to come, of course, and had been rather loudly adamant about it—he had a thriving business to manage, after all. Why, the common room alone of the Dog and Duck Public Inn brought him twelve hundred pounds per annum.

Twelve hundred pounds later, Arthur had his credible witness, and was all smiles when the two of them rode across the barley field at Glenbaden.

Regis met them in front of the white house, his expression grim. “You are late,” he said.

“Well good
God
, Regis, it’s not as if witnesses to Thomas McKinnon were springing into the streets of Perth to greet me! Look here,” Arthur tried to reassure him, “Mr. Newbigging has come to testify on Thomas’s behalf!”

Regis nodded curtly to the man, swung his gaze to Arthur. “Justice Longcrier has come,” he said simply.

His jovial spirit drained rapidly; a cold vise seized his heart. He turned to Freedom, stroked his nose. “How many days have we got, then?”

“None. He would hear the accusations on the morrow.”

The earth seemed to shift under Arthur’s feet. It simply could not be—they had no time to prepare! One look at Regis did nothing to reassure him, and Arthur lifted his gaze to the pinkening evening sky, squinting at the first strand of blue mist stretching across the horizon. He thought of Kerry in that cell, imagined her standing on the gallows, her long unruly hair flying wildly behind her, and the cold vise reached further, gripped his entrails. “This justice, do you know him?”

Regis nodded, looked at Newbigging. “Longcrier has a reputation for punishing the guilty accordingly, but he’s also of a reputation for being fair.”

“There’s nothing fair about this ordeal,” Arthur muttered. “Come on then, we’ve not much time.” He turned abruptly toward the innkeeper. “Mr. Newbigging, meet Mr. Regis, our advocate. I am sure the two of you have a lot to discuss. I’ll tend to the horses,” he said calmly, and took the reins of Newbigging’s horse as the man heaved himself off and vigorously rubbed his broad bum with the palms of his hands.

Regis grabbed Newbigging’s beefy arm. “A pleasure, Mr. Newbigging.”

As Regis hustled Mr. Newbigging into the white house, Arthur was unable to see the bridle he had lifted from Freedom’s head, unable to focus on anything except the image of Kerry swinging from the end of a rope.

And somewhere in the distance, out near the loch, he could have sworn he heard Phillip calling her.

They worked long into the night. Arthur must have fallen asleep at some point; Regis was shaking him out of
a deep slumber. He pushed himself up from the kitchen table, ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Four o’clock.”

Arthur focused, looked around him. Newbigging was sitting by the fire, fussing with a boot.

“We’ve enough to set Thomas McKinnon free, I think,” Regis announced.

Mr. Newbigging nodded. “Aye, my dau wasna the only one to have seen his sorry hide. He played his hand at cards, spent the better part of that day under me roof, taking two hundred guineas for ’is trouble.”

“What of Kerry?” Arthur asked.

Regis looked down at a leather-bound volume of Scots law he had managed to obtain. “I’m struggling a bit with that.”

Arthur did not ask more—he could not bear to know more. He helped Regis gather his things, cleaned himself up as best he could, then tried to choke down some of the biscuits he had attempted to make last evening while Newbigging barked the instructions at him. But he could not make himself eat—he felt strangely ill, nauseated by his own roiling emotions.

The three of them were en route for Moncrieffe’s estate before the sun was up. When they started the descent down Din Fallon, they could see the wagons and horses and groups of people gathered around the old tower where the justice would hear the charges against Kerry and Thomas.

They could scarcely squeeze into the crowded bailey. They passed by the newly erected gallows, at which Arthur refused to look.

The crowd in the bailey was nothing compared to the number of souls gathered in what was once the great hall. People stood shoulder to shoulder, moving like a sea as dogs and children dove between their legs. A dais had been raised against one wall; two crude boxes stood on
either end of a long table between them, marked by two ornate leather chairs.

With Newbigging at his back, Arthur pushed Regis forward through the throng and toward the dais where a group of official-looking men milled about. Regis reached the first one, removed his hat. Arthur strained to hear what was said, but the din was too high. The man removed a piece of paper from a sheaf he was carrying and scratched something onto it while Regis looked on. When he at last turned around, Arthur was quickly on him. “What have you learned?”

“There are a number of common matters to be heard this morning by the sheriff. The High Court of the Justiciary will be convened upon conclusion of the common matters to hear the cause of Kerry and Thomas McKinnon in the matter of the murder of Charles William Edgar Moncrieffe.”

“Do you mean to say that we must
wait
?” Arthur demanded.

“This is hardly the House of Lords, sir!” Regis snapped irritably.

Obviously not. Bloody fabulous—they would be forced to stand idly by while a variety of inconsequential matters were heard. It was not to be borne. He could not possibly endure it.

He could endure it.

The interminable morning began with a protracted wait for the justice and the sheriff. The incessant shuffling and movement of the crowd forced Arthur, Regis, and Newbigging to one side of the hall. From his vantage point, Arthur could watch the bailey as more adults and children and various genre of livestock squeezed inside, and eventually, into the great hall, all wanting their petitions to be heard. Somehow, he managed to pace restlessly in the throng while Regis reviewed his book on Scots law. Mr. Newbigging disappeared for a time to take in the sights, he said, as if this were some sort of festival.

The crowd, the stench of animal and man, and the increasing delay only made Arthur’s anxiety increase, and it nearly exploded into a fit of murderous rage when he saw Cameron Moncrieffe enter the gates of the bailey on a steed fourteen hands tall, two men riding at his flanks. He nodded imperiously to the people around him as the steed trotted into the midst of the crowd. He reined to a halt, swung down, and handed his reins to a young man without even looking at him. Arthur nudged Regis as Moncrieffe strolled into the great hall and disappeared through a dark door leading into the tower, his entourage behind him.

Regis shrugged as Moncrieffe disappeared into the tower and turned back to his study. But raw rage boiled in Arthur’s veins. He pivoted sharply on his heel, resumed his pacing, knocking against people as they tried to move past him. The weight of his hopelessness, his
uselessness
, hammered away at him, destroying him piece by piece. There was nothing he could do, no influence he could exercise, no task he could perform to change a goddamn thing.
Nothing.

The justice and the sheriff at last sauntered into the hall. Justice Longcrier was round and squat and wearing a purple robe and powdered wig; the sheriff only slightly taller, just as squat, wearing a black robe and powdered wig that sat rather crookedly on his head. Towering over both of them was Moncrieffe, who walked casually behind them, as if he owned the bloody tower.

The crowd began moving forward, all of them wanting to be heard first as the two situated themselves at the makeshift dais—there seemed to be an initial disagreement over chairs—then thumbed through a sheaf of papers that looked inches thick. Moncrieffe positioned himself directly behind the two men. Once they seemed fully satisfied that they had the right seats and the right stack of petitions, the sheriff called the first of what was to seem like dozens of injured parties.

What followed was a parade of disputes over such
matters as pigs, a leather harness, a bushel of hay owed for blacksmith services. As the petitions continued on—there seemed no lack of disputes in Perthshire, to be sure—Arthur’s anxiety gave way to despair. The more he was forced to contemplate their chances, the more he became convinced there was no way out of this mess. Regis was hardly reassuring him—he seemed so intent on his law book that Arthur began to fear he had made a terrible mistake. The man had no more knowledge of criminal law than Newbigging.

But when the last of the common petitions were heard and the High Court of the Justiciary was convened, Regis suddenly jerked upright. He anxiously fished his glasses out of his breast pocket, stuffed them onto the bridge of his nose. “Newbigging?” he asked.

“Here,” Arthur said, glancing at the rotund innkeeper, who was propped against the stone wall, napping.

Regis nodded, looked at Arthur again. “Best start your prayers now, Christian,” he said low, and started pushing his way through the crowd toward the dais.

It was too late for that. Arthur swallowed the rising lump of trepidation in his throat as he urged Newbigging to pick up his pace a bit in following Regis, and fell in behind the mountain of man.

When they reached the dais, Regis conferred with a frumpy little man with the neck of a goose, then paced anxiously, his head down, his hands behind his back as the little man read aloud the names of the fifteen men selected to hear the charge against Thomas McKinnon and Kerry McKinnon of Glenbaden. When he had finished, the man asked, “Who advocates on behalf of Thomas McKinnon and Kerry MacGregor McKinnon?”

Regis lifted his head, called out, “I do, if you please, my lord commissioner.”

“Who speaks?” Justice Longcrier asked, not bothering to look up from his papers.

“Mr. Jamie Regis, Esquire.”

“Continue on,” the justice said to the clerk.

“Who advocates on behalf of Charles William Edgar Moncrieffe?”

“If it pleases the court, I do,” Moncrieffe said. “Baron Cameron Moncrieffe.”