Rubbing my hand over my face, I squeezed my eyes. This journal entry appeared a few weeks before the McKinneys’ murder and Mr Turner’s suicide. Whether or not Logan was directly involved, he knew more than he was divulging. After discovering his possible link to the mystery surrounding the men’s deaths. I watched him carefully. I wanted to question him in private, yet he always appeared to be with one person or another. I needed to keep my enquiries quiet. I did not want to risk inflaming the village sentiment against me by singling out the man who spoke openly of his dislike for the English. I needed evidence and justification before accusing him of any wrongdoing, especially murder.
Sighing, I tried to turn my mind from these complex musings before they took control of my life. Christmas Eve arrived today with little fanfare from myself. I studied the green trim Freya assembled on the low table with mild disinterest. At least her decorations smelled nice, however I remained at a loss as to why a gentleman living alone would have any need of them. It remained unlikely I would receive any visitors except perhaps Beathan, his sister since giving up my company after our recent row over Scots-English tensions.
Stray thoughts of Phil penetrated into my preoccupied studies of Mr Turner’s diary. Even though I remained sufficiently busy to forget eating meals and neglect my own correspondence. There was something in her manner I could not forget. Perhaps her enthusiasm in helping with the diary cipher or the way she neatly fell into place on the sofa that afternoon sparked my attention. My writing case perched on her knee. Her brow furrowed in concentration. Whatever the case, our falling out over her not understanding where the Scots position in politics lay on our fair isle acted as a burr stuck under my coat. Until it felt as though it would remain there forever unless I took steps for its removal.
Unfortunately, as with my Freya appeasement strategy, making amends with Phil had not been as easy as I anticipated. Growling with frustration I stood and swept away the dishes from morning tea and carried them through to the kitchen. I had insisted Freya take the holidays for her family, as she had her boys to look after. I did not make the gesture based purely on goodwill. After spending days listening to Freya murmur over Phil’s virtues and why the lass might leave in such a rush. I needed some peace. Otherwise I could not trust my thoughts to be my own. I tried several times in the village to engage Phil. Whether strategic or by chance, she always walked with a companion, or her business was too urgent. All of this left me with the feeling I might be losing my way with women.
In honesty, I did not have much experience with the fairer sex. My mother’s early death created a gap never quite filled with nannies and maids. All of who were friendly in their own efficient way, yet not loving. My experience with women before my posting with the army in Boston came in the ballrooms and parties of the social set. For the most part, interactions between men and women in society followed prescribed rules. Only to be broken if one wanted a certain reputation. Though several rakes roamed amongst my own peers. The desire to become one of their ranks never appealed to me. After joining the army, even though officers often received invitations to parties in the best Boston homes. None of the young ladies ever caught my eye. I preferred to spend my time with the less moral of the lot when needs arose and then I met Onatah.
I recognised her as a great beauty the first time we met. An instant attraction compelled me to seek her out. It took several years before I could build the courage to interact with her without making a fool of myself. She remained patient and wise, waiting for me to make the advance. Knowing I would eventually. Through friendship and camaraderie our love was forged. We survived the hard conditions of the New World. I miss the everyday circumstances, which made up our lives.
I flexed my arm. The gunshot wound healed nicely. Despite my contempt for the barber, he appeared to be a good surgeon. I would suffer no lasting damage from the attempt on my life, or had it been a warning? I played the scene over in my mind, time and comfort made it difficult to be sure of guessing the gunman’s intentions.
Leaving the dishes in the sink, I decided the best way to clear my head would be a walk down to the Thistle. I needed to have lunch and perhaps Beathan or Tavish might be in the tap with a ready ear. After snuffing the oil lamps in the drawing room and pulling on my new winter frock coat, complete with fur lining, recently arrived from Edinburgh. I stepped through the front door and out into the world. Each step away from the cottage took me further from my stale contemplations. I took several deep breaths and convinced myself the invigorating walk would refresh my thoughts and speculations. Upon entering the street of houses and shops, I greeted several people rushing through their business.
The inhabitants of the village rushed to complete last minute tasks before the evening’s Christmas party held at Deoch. A tradition since the Clunes’ expansion into the castle, everyone in the village and surrounding area looked forward to the social event. Including the excise man, despite some of the villager’s stubbornness at accepting my presence as inevitable. There were enough friendly people around to create the illusion of tolerance. I entered the tap to find it empty of my two companions. Beathan and Tavish must be busy with preparations for the evening’s entertainment. I stepped up to the wooden bar, where the innkeeper greeted me with a smile.
“Captain, Freya mentioned ye might be down fur a lunch as she has the next few days fur her family.” He reached for a glass and began pouring ale from a cask behind him. “I hae also received a couple letters fur ye on this morning’s run from London.”
Leaning on the bar I looked over the room. Empty save for a couple of old men sitting near the fire smoking and chatting amiably. I watched as the innkeeper set the beer on the bar in front of me and went to fetch the post.
“Here ye are, Captain.” He handed me two letters. A quick glance showed them to be correspondence from Colonel Manners and Mr Wick. “And it’ll be roast capon this afternoon, with all the trimmings.”
“Thank you.” I nodded to the innkeeper and went to find a comfortable, suitably private seat away from the prying eyes of the old men. I settled at a table opposite them and took a long drink of the ale.
Not for the first time did I think it was a shame Deoch only made Scotch. The beer at the Thistle, brewed by the innkeeper for the village. Could be one of he best I ever tasted. I placed both letters on the battered wooden table. Which would be first, work or family? My military instincts pulled my hand towards Colonel Manners’ missive and I broke the seal with my thumb. I began to read the cursive script marching across the page with increasing alarm. I concentrated in order not to panic in front of the other patrons who might be watching my expression.
Having reviewed your alarming preliminary report on the situation in Markinch, I have grave concerns over whether you are able to handle the Queen’s business on your own. Mr Turner was not my first choice for the post in Markinch, nor would he have been a choice I would make for any post. The administration arm of the military recommended him because of his gift with numbers. He had no field experience and little common sense. However, our lack of experienced fighting men prohibited us from finding an alternative candidate. As you know, I rely on men with gut instincts to inform me of any possible threats to the Crown. Aside from the omission of the fact you found the bodies of the McKinneys on a drunken misadventure, my source also informs me there may be an illegal still operated by local thieves. Your own astute nature can only lead me to believe you have purposely omitted both of these facts for your own reasons and may I remind you of the tenuous position you occupy after your misadventure in Boston. Treason is as easy as taking up a sword against Her Majesty or even knowingly providing fraudulent reports to your superiors. I suggest you bring the situation in Markinch under control. If you do not do this to my satisfaction I will be forced to send a militia to rouse the operators of the illegal still out from hiding as well as forcefully putting an end to the rumours regarding the two men’s deaths and Mr Turner.
Manners’ cursive signature completed the missive, the threat of violence seemed to echo through the taproom and I looked up half-expecting to see the old military man staring down at me with eyes as hard as death. To my relief, the old men continued their conversation in hushed tones, clearing their throats at intervals. The innkeeper disappeared further into the Inn and I sat back and tried to relax. The worst had not yet come to pass. Colonel Manners wrote he would send the militia if I could not solve the problems myself. Which left me some time. Not much, yet hopefully enough to spare Markinch the threat of living under a militia. The soldiers would use force and any means necessary to control the villagers in Markinch. The militiamen came from the lowest orders, mercenaries paid to keep the Queen’s peace, who often used cruel tactics to find their answers.
I folded Manners’ directive with purpose, placing it in the front pocket of my jacket, safe from prying eyes. The news of this potential threat might hit the villagers hard. I knew it would be imperative to avoid mass panic if I wanted to get the truth. Taking another long drink from the ale. I picked up the letter from Mr Wick and a small smile replaced the frown as he described his delight in researching Mr Turner’s equations.
I have found an old mathematics dean willing to take the time to go over the equations; he should have some results early in the New Year. To think you may have found the work of a genius all the way up in the wilds of Scotland, it is simply unthinkable! Of course the gentleman in question was an Englishman.
Shaking my head, I read the rest of the letter. Mr Wick could never believe academic learning might come from anywhere but a college or a society. A picture of him meeting with Phil made me laugh out loud. The men at the other table looked over curiously. I nodded in their direction. I set the letter aside as the innkeeper came through the with roast capon.
As happy as I felt for Mr Turner to have his work potentially realised by his peers. It remained a small victory compared to the impending disaster of the militia descending on Markinch. I needed to put a halt to Colonel Manners’ plans. My gut told me Logan was either involved in the McKinneys’ deaths or he possessed imperative information. He might even be responsible for Turner’s death. He was tall enough to fix the rope on the beam using a chair rather than a ladder. It was time to get more aggressive with him. Where better than the Christmas party this evening at Deoch? He would be amongst friends and neighbours. The potential for him to overindulge through the course of the evening might have him primed to reveal more than he should. I only needed to approach him with the right angle.
His notorious hatred for the English because of their involvement in his family’s downfall remained his biggest weakness. I needed to exploit it cleverly. I might have an early Christmas present for Markinch. Taking a large bite of the capon, I chewed slowly and thought through my plan. I could do this, the people of the village depended on me, whether they appreciated it or not.
&
I stood waiting outside of the malting barn. Every time the door opened I could see the decorations the wives of the workers had set up. Tables laden with food and drink lined the room. I could hear the musicians strumming a merry tune, excited chatter bubbling up. As a boy, Christmas was a time of longing. I spent it alone, amongst servants at the family seat in Pendomer, longing for the company of children my own age or even my uncle. As a painfully well-behaved young man, I attended the Christmas parties chosen by my uncle in London at the most fashionable houses. The entertainment refined, the food exquisite, the wigs ridiculously high and all downright boring.
In Boston, I attended the Christmas Eve parties held by the matchmaking mamas, hoping to snare a title and wealth for one of their offspring. Such events normally meant I dodged to the card rooms as quickly as possible. Even after Onatah and I married, she would go to the winter hunting grounds with her brother, as they had practised all their lives. I would stay alone in Boston, with the rest of the army, looking for entertainment. Here I stood with the rare opportunity to enjoy Christmas with an entire village bent on making merry. I needed to savour it, in spite of my mission with Logan, as I would probably never have another chance.
Straightening my frock coat for the second time. I grabbed the handle to the door firmly, took a deep breath and opened it, letting the light. Laughter and joy roll over me for a minute before stepping through. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the brightness, candles lit the room at intervals and peopled milled around in groups of two or more, eating and drinking. Children dodged through the crowd with Christmas treats, upsetting the older folk and amusing the rest.
“Captain, I began tae worry ye might try and cry off this evening.” Phil came to stand before me. Hands held out, her hair pulled back in its usual bun, yet her eyes held a merriment not seen before.
Perhaps it was the scene playing out behind her, or her warm greeting after our recent disagreement. When I looked down into her face, I thought she could possibly be the most beautiful woman I had ever encountered. I needed to clear my throat before answering. “How could I miss the opportunity to finally see you? Merry Christmas.”
A light blush infused her cheeks. “Well everyone is welcome, Captain. A Merry Christmas tae ye, let me help ye with yer coat.” Phil fussed with the heavy garment and handed it to a girl standing next to her. “Mind, take care of the captain’s coat.”