Authors: Gian Bordin
"Andrew, don’t talk like this, not on our wedding day. I don’t want your
money, I want you."
"It’s better to plan and be prepared, hoping the worst will never happen…
Come, let’s drink to a happy, long life together!"
* * *
It was early afternoon before they found their way back to The Good
Shepherd. As they entered the small reception hall, the innkeeper came
rushing to Andrew, grabbed him by the coat, and lamented: "What have you
done? A constable has come to my reputable establishment looking for you.
This has never happened. You have cast shame on me and my house."
Andrew pulled the man’s hands from the lapels of his coat and exclaimed
with his impeccable English accent: "I have done nothing, my good man.
Show me to the constable. I am sure this must be a misunderstanding that we
can clear up quickly."
Although his voice sounded calm, underneath this veneer his mind was
racing wildly. What could be the cause? Dougal MacGregor and his little
band could hardly have caught up with them already, and even if they had,
it was too late—Helen and he were married, nor would Dougal summon the
law to apprehend him. He was convinced that Mary MacGregor hadn’t told
anybody else that she believed he was her son. It would have stripped her of
all her dignity and pride. His days as a brandy smuggler were well in the past
and no law enforcement officer had ever seen him anyway. So what could it
be? He looked at Helen. Her rosy cheeks had turned ashen white. She held
on to his arm, and he felt her hand tremble.
He had to repeat his request before the innkeeper finally recovered his
wits and showed him into the parlor. Helen stayed at the door. The constable
rose immediately when he saw them enter.
"Good afternoon, sir. I am Constable Fraser. Are you the owner of the
black stallion in the stable?"
"Good afternoon, constable. Yes, I am. May I ask about the purpose of
your inquiry?"
"This animal has been reported lifted in a daring daylight robbery from the
property of Sir Hugh Stafford some weeks past."
"Oh? … I purchased this stallion for twenty guineas from James Drummond of Balquhidder three days ago."
"Do you have any papers to certify that, sir?"
For a moment Andrew looked at him dumbfounded and then answered:
"No, I have not. We shook hands to seal the deal." It had never occurred to
him to ask for a receipt. He recalled Helen’s warning that the horse might
have been stolen, either by the Drummonds or another MacGregor. Why had
he been so dumb and not suspected anything when he bought it. It should
have been so obvious to him that a Highlander would hardly care to own
such a striking and expensive horse when cheaper alternatives could equally
well transport him where he needed to go. Why hadn’t he smelled a rat when
James had been willing to let that exceptional animal go for such a paltry
price?
Like through a thick fog, he heard the constable repeat: "Sir, I have to ask
you to accompany me to the magistrate in the tolbooth." He noticed that the
constable used the word ‘magistrate’, rather the local term ‘bailie’, expecting
him to be English from the accent he had carefully maintained.
"Yes, certainly. I would though just like to have a few words with my
wife, constable."
The constable followed him closely. Only when Andrew turned and
looked at him sternly did he keep some distance, so Andrew could talk to her
in privacy.
"You heard what he said?" he asked in a low voice. "What a fool I was!
You were so right. I should not have bought that horse."
"Oh Andrew, will they now put you in prison?" There was panic in her
voice.
"I hope not, … but if I don’t come back by tonight, find a solicitor
tomorrow to look after my interests."
"Andrew, I don’t know how to find a solicitor!"
"Go to the House of Jarvis and Sons, you know, the agents of my London
bankers. They’ll help you."
"Andrew, I’m afraid." She held on to him with trembling hands.
He took them into his and whispered: "Helen, remember, you’re a
MacGregor!"
A nervous chuckle escaped her.
"I love you." He squeezed her right hand and then turned abruptly away,
nodding to the constable. The latter opened the door for him and then led the
way. After two hundred feet, Andrew quickly looked back. Helen stood at
the entrance of the inn, watching them.
While walking down High Street, he attempted to milk the constable
about the robbery at Sir Hugh Stafford’s estate, but without success. The
taciturn constable was not forthcoming with any details, simply repeating
that the magistrate would instruct the gentleman of all the necessary details.
This only increased his apprehension. Being accused of stealing a horse, and
possibly even more, was not a trifling matter. If convicted, he was liable to
be transported to the colonies. This wasn’t the way he wanted to go to
America. He cursed himself again for having been so gullible to buy the
beautiful stallion. Why had he been so blinded by his beauty? He knew the
reputation of the MacGregors of Balquhidder, he should have suspected that
the horse had been stolen. At the least, he should have insisted on getting a
receipt. This would have gone a long way toward proving his innocence. He
racked his brain to discover another way of proving that he wasn’t the thief,
but only another of his victims. If he could find out when the robbery had
occurred, he should be able to establish his innocence by showing that he had
been nowhere near the scene of the crime. But to find witnesses who would
remember him and willing to provide sworn statements or even get them into
Glasgow could easily take two or three weeks. What would happen to him
and to Helen in the meantime? Her father might be able to track them down
by then. And how did the authorities find out about the horse being back in
town? Who denounced them? The innkeeper? His ruminations were cut
short when they reached the tolbooth.
The constable briefly conversed with the clerk in the entrance hall. The
latter ushered them into a sizable office and instructed them to wait for the
provost, the chief magistrate of the burgh. An impressive oak desk,
intimidating by its very size, stared at Andrew, the blinding light of the
windows reflected on its polished surface. The constable stood on guard to
his left.
The wait became interminable. The provost himself would see him! That
didn’t augur well. It did nothing to sooth his anxiety.
Finally, a tall, gaunt man, a yellowing peruke carelessly thrown on his
head and a magistrate’s cloak covering his shoulders, entered the room
through a door at its back, followed by a younger man of medium height.
With the light of the two windows behind the provost, his features were
difficult to discern. He could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy. Only
his slight forward stoop hinted that he might be closer to seventy. Without
acknowledging Andrew or the constable, he seated himself behind the desk.
The clerk placed an open, leather-bound book in front of him and then sat at
a small table next to the desk, opening another book and looking expectantly
to the magistrate, quill in hand. The latter scanned the open page for several
minutes and then raised his gaze, fixing two piercing eyes on Andrew for a
few seconds, as if to read his mind directly without the need for questioning.
"What is your name, young man?" His voice was dry and brittle. A small
cough accompanied his question.
"My name is Andrew Matthew Campbell, your Honor."
In comparison to Andrew’s impeccable English accent, the provost’s
broad manner of speech sounded uncouth. The clerk began to write busily.
A slight raising of his eyebrows was the old man’s only sign of acknowledgment, his eyes boring even more intensely into Andrew. "And where do
you live?"
"I have no fixed abode currently, as my wife and I are on our way to
England, your Honor."
"Where did you then live before?"
"I have traveled greatly these last four years in England and studied on the
continent, your Honor." Without waiting for the obvious next question, he
continued: "I grew up in Argyle, your Honor, and studied four years at the
university in Edinburgh." He hoped that this last fact would duly impress the
magistrate, but the latter’s expression betrayed nothing.
"Since you claim to be a Campbell, are you not from Balquhidder?"
"No, your Honor, I never lived there, nor are the Campbells of the
MacGregor clan of Balquhidder any relations of mine. I am a Campbell from
Argyle, Inveraray, to be precise." He did not add that he was the son of the
Duke of Argyle. But that fact reminded him of his rights. "Your Honor,
before I answer any further questions, I humbly beg to know what I am
accused of and by whom."
The magistrate scrutinized him intensely for several seconds. "You stand
here accused to be in possession of a horse that was stolen from the estate of
Sir Hugh Stafford at Balmore. You were seen riding the horse in question
through Balmore yesterday by the stable master of Sir Hugh who had you
followed to The Good Shepherd… How did you come into possession of this
horse, Mr. Campbell?" He put a sneering emphasis on the name.
Andrew vaguely remembered noticing another rider a few hundred feet
behind them as they had ridden toward Glasgow. Trying to remain composed
and calm, he answered: "Your Honor, I purchased this beautiful horse from
James Drummond of Balquhidder just three days ago, so that my wife and
I could travel faster. I paid twenty guineas for it."
And then came the question Andrew was afraid of. "Do you have any
proof of this? Did you get a receipt for the purchase?"
"No, your Honor. As is the custom in the Highlands, the deal was sealed
with a handshake."
"So you have no proof?" It was more an observation than a question. The
magistrate conversed with his clerk in a low voice, nodding, and then
continued: "There is thus only your word that you purchased it. Under these
circumstances, I have no choice but to detain you in the tolbooth until your
guilt or innocence can be declared."
He doesn’t believe me,
went through Andrew’s mind. "Forgive me,
your Honor, but it should not be difficult to establish that I purchased the
horse from James Drummond," he interjected, realizing immediately that
if Drummond had stolen the horse, which he now thought was a
certainty, he would also deny selling it to him. Getting close to panic, he
tried to think of other ways to prove his innocence. "I traveled through
Scotland these last seven weeks and people I stayed with can testify that
I was nowhere near Balmore at the time the theft was perpetrated, your
Honor."
"Then tell the clerk the places and people you stayed with, so that they
may be contacted."
Andrew began to recount the dates and places he had visited, but was
promptly interrupted by the magistrate.
"You say that five weeks ago you left Edinburgh on your way to Perth,
Mr. Campbell?" Again the disparaging emphasis of his name.
"Yes, your Honor."
"So you could easily have made a small detour through Balmore and
that would place you exactly at the scene of the crime when it was
perpetrated. Young man, this does not look good. Statements from the
people you visited will not be of any help to you, except to confirm that
you were in the area at the time of the theft."
Ignoring the magistrates raised hand to silence him, Andrew exclaimed: "But your Honor, if I had stolen the horse, I would hardly be so
foolish as to bring it back into these parts and ride it past the estates of
Sir Hugh."
The color of the provost’s face turned dark at this bold impertinence
to speak out of turns. Again, he bored his eyes into him and retorted
scornfully: "We know all about the arrogant brazenness of the Campbells
of Balquhidder…"