Mathew's Tale (20 page)

Chapter Thirty

B
LACKWOOD’S FRIENDS WERE PUNCTUAL
, and the meeting with them was productive. When Mathew showed them out, he found copies of his pamphlet on the table in the salon. He picked one up, casually, and when they were gone, sat down to read it.

The printer had excelled himself. There was a headline that seemed to shout from the page: ‘Innocent yet Doomed!’ and below it an illustration showing the scene as young Matt had described it, a pistol being fired at two brawling men with two women watching from a carriage. The key parts of the text were highlighted in bold type, for maximum effect.

Mathew had stopped short of accusing Gavin Cleland of perjury; instead the text said that he had suffered an ‘imperfection of memory’ as a result of the shock of ‘mistakenly’ shooting his brother. As for the women, it noted that they both seemed to have suffered ‘remarkably’ from the same ‘imperfection’, but that they had been unable to describe it to the High Court in person as they had been mysteriously spirited away.

And as for the Lord Advocate, usually so meticulous in his pursuit of the truth, it concluded that he too must have been overcome by the shock of the incident, as a result of his personal connection to Gavin Cleland, who was ‘linked romantically’ with his own dear daughter.

There was only a single mention of Bellhouse, screaming at the innocent man as he stood before him, ‘I would hang you twice!’

Mathew stepped outside and walked slowly down Waterloo Place, pausing at Register House and looking around. Several pedestrians had stopped their progress, standing transfixed by the pamphlet as they read it. He smiled with satisfaction, then returned to the hotel.

Shortly afterwards, he and Matt left for the prison. Mathew had wondered whether he might have a visit from the Lord Advocate’s officers, but none came. However, when they arrived at the gate he found that Douglas had acted there.

Governor Stevens came to greet him. ‘I cannot admit you, Mr Fleming. The boy yes, but you, no. The Lord Provost has forbidden your entrance, on the ground that he does not want Mr McGill coached in what he called “inflammatory speeches”. The Lord Provost is a figurehead, and as we both know, his order has come straight from the Lord Advocate, but he wears the chain of office and I must obey him.’

‘I understand. Thank you for the care you are taking of my poor friend. Please give his son as much time with him as you can allow.’

Matt looked back in anguish as he was led inside the jail, back at his guardian, catching his face in an unguarded moment and realising that for the first time it was bereft of any sign of hope.

He was allowed to see his father alone, unescorted, but the officers refused to remove his shackles.

‘Worry not, son,’ David told him. ‘Chains canna bind your conscience and mine is clear.’

‘Faither, this is my fault,’ Matt moaned. ‘If I had seen those horses, and not startled them . . .’

‘And if I had never met your mother, you would never have been born, and I would not be here. If you had succumbed to the fever you had when you were two, I would not be here. “If” is something that never happened or may not happen, and has no reality. You’re my precious son and I am grateful for the fifteen years I’ve had you. You are faultless in this, the villains are the Clelands, and most of all Gavin, but fate has a way of rewarding sinners.’

‘I will reward him, in time.’

‘No. You will reward me, by looking after your mother and your sister; Mathew will stand by you. He will be your father from now on, and although he would deny it, you could not have one better. You should look after him too, and keep him safe from himself. He is, after all, a man that was made by war. He should have died, but he lived, and is all the more formidable for it. He is the best friend a man could have, but the worst enemy, as Gavin Cleland will find out. Stop him from going too far, though, for if you lost him too, then you and your mother really would be alone.’

David looked at his son, holding his hands as he sat next to him. ‘Would you like to pray with me?’

‘I have prayed for you, Faither,’ Matt replied, ‘but look, you’re still here. I put no trust in prayer, not any more.’

‘Then you should; faith is important to a man. Faith is absolute belief, in the want of any supporting evidence. Without it we might be entirely alone. Mine is with me now, and it will be with me tomorrow, leading me through to the other side.’

He leaned forward and kissed his son on the forehead. ‘Go on, now, while we are both strong. Give that kiss to your mother and your wee sister, and tell them I will always love them.’

Chapter Thirty-One

T
HE MORNING WAS COLD
and it was wet, as Mathew Fleming rose to face the hardest and most painful duty he would ever have to perform. Sleep had eluded him all night.

‘Be there for me,’ David had asked him. ‘Let me find my strength in yours. But keep my son away from the Lawnmarket if you can . . . though that task may be beyond even you.’

He had no wish for breakfast and in any event time was short. The execution was scheduled for ten o’clock, but Mathew wondered whether it would be brought forward. He had gone wandering in the evening before to try to judge the effectiveness of his pamphlet; in the taverns and houses he had visited, the talk was of nothing else.

He dressed in black, and in a long coat made of waxed cotton sailcloth, that he had found in a shop in Glasgow, then went next door, to the room Matt shared with Ewan Beattie.

The boy was ready for the day; his eyes were red from the sobbing that Mathew had heard through the wall for much of the night. ‘Matt,’ he said, ‘you are to stay here, until I return.’

‘No! I must be there!’

‘It is your father’s wish that you should not see him die.’

‘But I want to be there. I want to see his courage, and I want to see exactly what Cleland has done to him, so that I can keep it in my heart as I make the rest of that man’s short life a misery.’

‘That is a task you can leave to me,’ Mathew retorted. ‘I repeat what you have been told, and told, and told again. Your duty is to your mother and your sister; today you become a man, a little before your time, and you will show that by acting sensibly.’

‘I want to be there,’ Matt muttered.

‘I know,’ Mathew sighed, ‘but would you have me break my word to your father?’ He looked at the coachman. ‘Ewan, lock the door after me and keep him here.’

Outside, he found himself in a crowd of people all heading in the same direction. As he crossed the North Bridge and strode up the High Street, more and more joined, and hundreds became thousands.

The scaffold was a massive structure; it had been set up overnight and was guarded not by constables, as Mathew understood to be the usual practice, but by soldiers. He had passed by a public execution in Newbury and it had been a gala occasion, but the mood of the Lawnmarket crowd was in no way festive. The pamphlet was to be seen everywhere, and its effect was clear. It would be a poor day for the souvenir sellers, that much was certain.

The executioner was waiting on the raised platform, and he was not alone. The Lord Provost, in his chain, and the baillies in their robes stood in line. Legally, the execution was their responsibility, and the court always kept well clear.

The first apple came from the middle of the crowd, and barely missed the Provost, but the next caught one of the baillies full in the face. Within seconds the onslaught had become serious and a fusillade of fruit was flying. A mounted officer shouted an order and the troops pressed forward, but at that moment the confrontation was halted by the arrival of the black prison wagon.

Quickly, Mathew moved forward through the crowd, taking up position directly in front of the hangman. He looked all around, but saw no familiar faces, until his eye fell on a bulky figure, in sodden clothing: the jury foreman. His expression was solemn and he clutched a copy of the pamphlet.

The execution was under way and the men who supervised it were practised. They could read the public mood, and they knew without telling to be quick. David was hustled from his transport and up the steps, as fast as his shackles would allow, then positioned beneath the beam alongside the waiting rope. As it was placed around his neck, his eyes found Mathew, and he smiled.

A moment after the grey hood was placed over his head, covering his face, blocking out the last daylight David McGill would ever see, Mathew felt someone bump into him. He looked down and saw young Matt, with his appointed keeper.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Beattie gasped, out of breath. ‘He’d have broken the door down and me with it.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘His father said the task would be beyond us.’

On the scaffold the Lord Provost stepped forward. He began to read but a roar erupted from the crowd, and nothing could be heard.

Duty done, the civic leader retreated. The crowd fell absolutely silent as the hangman moved in, and words could be heard from the scaffold.

’Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy . . .’

Before the trap opened, Mathew seized his charge with both hands and spun him around, away from the scene, and looked away himself. But both heard the crack, and then the crowd’s collective moan.

Then the sound of applause came from their right. Mathew looked round and found himself staring at Sir Gavin Cleland, whose smile was a mix of triumph and mockery.

‘Hold him,’ he said to Beattie, thrusting Matt into his grasp, although restraint was unnecessary, for the lad had collapsed.

Only a few spectators stood between the two, and Mathew brushed them aside to reach Cleland. He towered over him, consumed with a rage that was far beyond the heat of battle, and seized him by the lapel. ‘You have become my life’s work,’ he snarled. ‘I will finish you, whatever it takes, however long it takes.’

‘It need not take that long,’ the baronet laughed, and Mathew realised that he was slightly drunk. ‘We are both countrymen; I offer you a duel on my estate.’

‘Then you would be a fool. You proved yourself a fine shot when you murdered your brother, but you have never faced anyone with a pistol in his hand. Nor have you faced me. I was a soldier, sir, and I have killed far, far better men than you.’

He pointed up at the scaffold, where David’s head and shoulders could still be seen, turning slowly on the rope.

‘That is the fate I have in mind for you, and when it happens I will be stood right here, watching you foul your breeches when you feel the rope on your neck. Believe me, Cleland, you are as good as dead, and when it happens, this same crowd will cheer the hangman, and throw flowers, not rotten fruit, at the Provost and his friends.’

He pushed him away, so hard that the man tripped and fell, then returned to care for his fatherless charge.

Chapter Thirty-Two

M
ATHEW DROVE THE CARRIAGE
back to Waterloo House that afternoon, with Matt behind him in the closed compartment. The young man had said not a word since his father’s execution.

He ignored the heavy rain that had been falling all day. He was lost in dark thoughts, and once or twice had to restrain himself from pushing the horses too hard. He eased off still further as they came close to home. Half a mile away, just out of sight of the house, he stopped altogether and joined his companion in the cabin.

‘Are you ready for this?’ he asked.

Matt nodded.

‘What will you tell your mother?’

‘That you did everything you could but the court was set against Faither from the very start.’

‘What else?’

‘That he was the bravest man I have ever seen.’

‘Good. There is no denying that.’

They covered the rest of the ground at little more than walking pace. As they approached the house the rain lessened, and by the time they turned into the long driveway it had stopped altogether, and the evening sun was breaking through.

Mathew had dreaded facing Lizzie, but as he approached the great house, the main door opened, and she stepped out. She was dressed in black, as was Hannah who followed her. A small movement made him glance up, and spot the children, Jean and Marshall, with their faces pressed against the glass of an upstairs window.

He drew the carriage to a halt, jumping down from the driver’s bench, just as Matt emerged from cover and rushed into his mother’s arms. He was taller and broader than she, and she seemed to disappear into his embrace. They wept together, for several minutes, their emotions released and uncontrollable.

Mathew stood back, looking helplessly at his own mother.

When they were spent, and had recovered themselves, Lizzie kissed her boy on the cheek and passed him into Hannah’s care. She took him inside, leaving the two alone.

‘So it’s true,’ she murmured, her eyes red and puffy from her tears. ‘Gavin Cleland’s lie has killed my husband.’

‘That, and the weakness of men who put their own interests first. How did you know?’ he asked. ‘I hoped you would not find out until I told you myself.’

‘Uncle Peter came to see me. He was distraught, the poor man; he had heard of the part his son-in-law played in our eviction, and he came to apologise. They are gone, he said, Daphne and Grose, vanished overnight.’ She paused ‘And he brought me this. It came to the shop with the newspapers this afternoon.’

She opened her hand and showed him, folded, a copy of his pamphlet. ‘So you see, Mathew, I know everything,’ She held up the printed paper. ‘I take it this was your doing.’

He nodded. ‘I published it anonymously. It was all that was left open to me. It damn near started a riot at the . . .’ He stopped in mid-sentence.

‘You can say it!’ Her sudden, shrill, bitter laugh shocked him. ‘At the hanging: there are no soft words for it. Will this man Douglas have seen your paper too?’

‘I would be amazed if he had not, but he is committed to Cleland, for reasons of family and of reputation.’

‘And my children and I, we must go on, must we, living close to that man?’ Her voice was low and venomous.

‘For now, but that will be good, for you will see him suffer. I have plans for that murderer. I told him as much this morning. He may think himself impervious, but he is not. You must keep Matt close, though,’ he added. ‘He is dangerous at the moment; young, hot-headed and strong. There is anger burning in him, and you must damp it down with love.’

‘I could feel it there; the lad is like a volcano.’ Her lips trembled. ‘He said his father died well. Does that mean he was there?’

‘I tried my best to prevent it, but if necessary he would have gone through Beattie, and a locked door, to get there. He did not see it, though, Lizzie, I promise you, any more than I did, for I turned his head away and mine.’

She nodded. ‘Had I been in Edinburgh,’ she murmured, ‘you would not have kept me away either.’

‘That I know. How are you now?’

‘Broken-hearted, but it will mend. I will be fine, for the children. I have felt like this before, remember. When Captain Feather’s letter told me you were dead, that was like being widowed too, for in my heart we were man and wife already.’

In mine too
, he thought.
And like a fool I went off to war, starting a chain of events that has led us here
.

‘Mathew . . .’ Lizzie hesitated for a second or two ‘. . . where is David, where is his body? I have heard that they give bodies to the anatomists after execution.’

‘They did, but no longer, I discovered, not since the Anatomy Act was passed a couple of years back. Normally he would have been buried in an unmarked grave, but Mr Johnston, my solicitor, reached a financial understanding with the undertaker. He is on his way back here now, under the guard of Ewan Beattie, who has been with him every step of the way from the Lawnmarket. I never realised till now what a good man he is.’

‘Will I be able to see him?’ she asked.

‘If you wish. When I saw him, afterwards, he looked peaceful. But not Matt, I suggest; he needs no more images in his brain. You go inside now; tend to him, and to the wee ones, even though they will not understand what has happened. Stand the coffin in the hall when it arrives; I have a visit to make, concerning the funeral, and another matter.’

As Lizzie went indoors, he led the horses and their carriage round to the rear of the house, to the stables, and left them under the care of the groom. Then he saddled his own mount, and set off towards Carluke, with his anger beginning to smoulder once again.

Even though it was high summer and the day had brightened, there was lamplight showing in the manse parlour as he arrived. John Barclay came to the door to greet him, recoiling a little as he saw him, unsmiling and fierce in his heavy travel-soiled overcoat.

‘Mathew,’ the minister began, ‘from your expression . . .’

He strode past him and into the parlour. Its curtains were half-drawn, and the dim light made him look even more menacing.

‘How could you refuse me, John?’ he boomed. ‘How could you decline to come and speak for one of your own? Did you think David guilty? Was that it?’

‘It was his word against that of three witnesses,’ Barclay replied, tentatively.

‘His word, the word of an elder of your kirk, and that of his son. And two of those witnesses have disappeared. But even so, even if he had been guilty of the crime in his anger, it was your duty to come forward and speak to his character.’

‘I . . .’

‘Be quiet! When David came to see you, did he have a pistol with him?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Of course not, but you heard a shot?’

‘Yes.’

‘And afterwards when David told you his story, did you look outside?’

‘I went to the place where he said it had happened, and saw nothing but a patch of blood where Sir Gregor had lain.’

‘When you were out, was the well cover in place?’

‘Yes, as always, to keep the children safe.’

‘When the chain that raises it is wound in, it makes a noise. Do you hear it from inside the manse?’

‘Always. It makes a frightful racket.’

‘Between the shot and David’s arrival, did you hear it?’

‘No, but what does that have to do with the matter?’

‘Now, nothing,’ Mathew glared at him as he shouted, ‘for it is too late and David is hanged. But had you done your duty and come to court as I asked, that fact, from your mouth, would have shown Gavin Cleland for the liar he is. And yet you chose not to; you stayed skulking in your big cold house and let your friend go to the gallows.’

Barclay sighed, then collapsed into his armchair. ‘I could not come,’ he whispered. ‘I am an old man, Mathew, and not a rich one. I must be in that pulpit next door until I die, for I have no other choice. As you know, as an elder, the charge in this parish is in the gift of the Laird. He appointed me as the minister and he may remove me at will. You must realise that, surely?’

‘I do, but I’d thought you a better man. You were told to stay away; I guessed that days ago, but I need to hear you say it.’

‘I had a visit from Philip Armitage,’ the minister admitted. ‘He told me that the new Laird would be extremely displeased if I involved myself in the McGill trial, and that I would lose my living if I disregarded his wishes.’

‘And you were a coward.’

‘Like it or not, Mathew,’ Barclay protested, ‘he is my master.’

‘Then I am a fool, because I thought God was your master.’

The old man winced, as if he had been struck.

‘You have one chance to redeem yourself, in my eyes and before David’s widow and son. His coffin will be lying in Waterloo House by now. I want you to conduct his funeral service and to bury him in the churchyard, next to his parents.’

Barclay stared at his hands clasped together in his lap. ‘That I cannot do either. David is a convicted murderer; that is a fact that not even you can alter. I cannot bury him in consecrated ground.’

‘You could,’ Mathew countered, ‘but your fear of Cleland stops you. That man is profoundly wicked, John. He has killed David, as sure as if he had shot him in the back down the road there, and now he has destroyed you. Old friend, you have lost two elders in the one day. I will send my written resignation to the session clerk, and I will not set foot in Carluke Parish Church again while you are in its pulpit. You are a fool, you know. If I had known your loyalty was for sale, I could have outbid Cleland.’