CHAPTER 11

Mrs Hair’s Office

MACKENZIE AND SCOUGALL left the morgue and made straight for MacPherson’s Land across the High Street from the Tollbooth. Mrs Hair’s office on the first floor was reached through a warren of small rooms and passageways, some rented to artisans, merchants and writers, others crammed with writers working for her. Scougall estimated she must employ twenty people. It was a considerable concern, the house of Hair – it must be one of the largest in Edinburgh. Galbraith showed them into her chamber. Scougall was intrigued to observe her business first hand. He had heard so much about her, but had never visited her premises, and was surprised by her small, Spartan office. It was a plainly decorated room with a desk, a few chairs and a wooden press. He had expected one of the wealthiest moneylenders in the city to have something grander.

‘Take a seat please, gentleman.’ Mrs Hair indicated they should sit on the two chairs in front of her desk. They were little more than stools. Scougall felt like he was sitting on a child’s chair. MacKenzie, who was a tall man, looked ridiculous perched on his. Scougall watched Mrs Hair’s thin, rat-like face as she sat behind her large desk. She had tiny, darting eyes behind round spectacles. Her eyes burned with life, alert, observing everything.

MacKenzie took in his surroundings as Mrs Hair tidied away some papers into a drawer. The room, from his perspective, was calm and serene. The only items on the desk were a quill and ink stand, and a large leather-bound ledger which was closed and on which she rested a territorial arm. What was recorded in it obviously meant a great deal to her. MacKenzie noticed two portraits on one wall, each depicting a middle-aged man dressed soberly in black. They were probably her husbands, he thought. On the wall facing her desk was a landscape of a house and gardens with hills in the background.

‘Can I provide you with some refreshments, gentlemen?’ she asked in a friendly manner.

‘We are fine, Mrs Hair. Thank you. Let me get straight to the point, if I may.’ MacKenzie smiled warmly. ‘You know MacLeod’s body was found at Craigleith Quarry?’

Mrs Hair sighed and turned to look out the window. ‘Indeed, Mr MacKenzie. He was a promising young man, most exact in all his work in the office. He was a writer of exemplary style, destined for great things in business. We were, of course, very worried when he disappeared without word. We reported it to the authorities and made our own search for him around the city and sent word to his father in the Highlands, in case he had travelled home. What on earth do you think happened to him, Mr MacKenzie?’

‘That is what we intend to find out, madam. Let me explain. I’m acting for his father, MacLeod of Rhenigidale, who is travelling to Edinburgh as we speak to retrieve his son’s body for burial. MacLeod of Dunvegan himself, Aeneas’s foster father, wants to get to the bottom of the murder. They’ve lost a promising agent of the clan, an important cog in the machine. They view his killing as a direct attack on the clan MacLeod.’

‘Was he murdered?’ she asked. ‘I’ve heard rumours on the street suggesting he was.’

‘We must suppose he was, madam, until evidence suggests otherwise – unless he slashed his own throat and arranged for someone to throw his body in a pit.’

Mrs Hair closed her eyes. ‘It’s so terrible I can barely think about it. He was so… full of life and so young… a promising young man, a true Highlander...’

‘I’m sorry, madam. I must be blunt in what I say. But a murder is no time for niceties. We must call a spade a spade, if we’re to get to the bottom of it.’

‘It’s all right, Mr MacKenzie. I’m not squeamish. I’ve seen many terrible things in my life. It’s a dreadful loss for his family. It’s also a loss for the office of Hair. Of course, my loss is tiny compared to his clan’s.’

‘I want to ask you a few questions about him, madam. We need to build up a picture of him. It will help us find his killer and hopefully determine why he was killed. Mr Scougall, my assistant, will take notes in shorthand, if that’s all right with you.’

Mrs Hair nodded approvingly at Scougall. ‘A most useful skill for a notary.’

Scougall gave her a nervous smile. He felt strangely fearful before this diminutive woman. She looked small, wrinkled and ancient. But she ruled over a prosperous business empire. She was more successful than most merchants in the city and they did not like her for it. He knew rumours circulated about her: she had poisoned her husbands, she had killed her children, she was a witch who used magic to divine the future. Thus, she was always on the right side of a transaction. She was the only buyer of property during the stop in affairs when news of William’s landing in Torbay reached the city and prices dropped like a stone. She was the sole buyer and prices rebounded quickly. How could it be right that God rewarded her in this sphere of life while turning against her natural role as mother?

Mrs Hair sat forward on her chair, straightened her back and brought her tiny hands together as if in prayer. Removing her spectacles, she folded them and put them down on the desk. ‘Let me see. I first heard about Mr MacLeod from the notary Alexander Carmichael. He recommended him to me. Carmichael has worked for me on and off for twenty years. I often seek him out when I require a writer. It was about three years ago. I’m always looking for talented writers with an eye for business.’ She turned to Scougall as she said this. He wondered if her office would be a good place to work. ‘He told me he wished to gain experience of the world of trade, so he could serve his clan in the future,’ she continued. ‘I took him on in that capacity. I had my own reasons for recruiting a Highlander. I believed some connection might do my business good. I’ve little knowledge of the Highlands and no influence there. I’m a Lowlander through and through. I anticipated there would be plenty of business to be done with the chiefs. Their finances were in disarray. There would be need of order in the management of their debts. Many chiefs are dragged down by financial woes. You can buy their bonds at a very low price – as low as a few pence in the pound. Why should they be so cheap? I keep asking myself. Does the price reflect their true value? I thought there might be good business to do with the chiefs. MacLeod was a way into this new business for the House of Hair. And I am pleased to say he helped me complete a few transactions with Highlanders which delivered a good profit. Other deals are left to be completed.’ She tapped the ledger on her desk, almost affectionately.

‘Was he reliable?’ asked MacKenzie, adjusting his position painfully on the tiny chair.

‘He was, certainly, in matters relating to work. He was early at his desk and often still there when I left the office. He was conscientious and precise in all the writing he did for me. He had a good hand and a sharp eye. As I’ve said, he advised me wisely about the financial condition of certain chiefs: the quality of their lands and how likely they were to pay interest and principal. I had little to reprimand him for… in his work, that is.’

‘But you had reason to reprimand him for something else?’ MacKenzie probed.

‘I must be honest with you, gentlemen. After all, we are concerned with his murder. He was keen to promote his own business interests outside my office. I was happy for him to do so, as long as he worked hard for me. It does a man no good to be suffocated by his daily work. It makes him unhappy and rebellious and he will soon leave as your enemy – the years he was employed in the office would be wasted. A busy man delivers much more than a frustrated one, who will only hate his imprisonment. I had nothing to complain about his legal work.’

‘What complaints were there about him then, madam?’ repeated MacKenzie.

Mrs Hair hesitated for a moment, as if she was looking for the right words. ‘One was the kind I have dealt with often in this office. It came from one of the office lasses. MacLeod had eyes upon her. She’s a bonnie thing. She refused his advances. It was settled with little disruption to the office.’

‘She left your employ?’ asked Scougall, looking up from his notebook.

Mrs Hair gave him a sharp look. ‘Of course not, Mr Scougall. She remained in my employ. I warned MacLeod his behaviour was unacceptable. If he persisted, if he continued to pester her, if he tried to put his hands on her again, I would get rid of him. He took the warning seriously and stopped pestering her. She still works here.’

‘What is her name?’ asked MacKenzie.

‘Betty McGrain. She’s a good girl. She manages the affairs of the office. She makes sure everything is in order, paper and quills ordered, the place kept clean and tidy, the kitchen well stocked with victuals. I’ve great hopes for her in the future.’

‘And the other incident you referred to?’ She hesitated again. MacKenzie saw she was cautious in everything she said, weighing up what she was about to say, as if pondering a financial transaction.

‘The other incident was of a rather different nature,’ she answered. ‘It was a more serious one. It was a sensitive matter at a time when everything was up in the air, politically. It came to my attention that MacLeod held mocking views towards King William. Reflecting this stance, he had produced certain etchings. I believe they were drawn by him in the office during moments of leisure. These crude pieces of art circulated around the chambers, from floor to floor, causing hilarity or great offence, depending on the leanings of the viewer. You see, gentlemen, folk on both sides of the political divide work in my office.’

‘What were they of, madam?’ Observing her, MacKenzie was sure he detected a slight smile on Mrs Hair’s serious face.

‘They were caricatures of some of our politicians, in particular those associated with the Presbyterian faction of the government. Men like the Chancellor and the Advocate.’

‘Are you saying MacLeod was a Jacobite, Mrs Hair?’ asked Scougall.

‘I’m saying no such thing. I’m only saying he drew etchings of the Chancellor and the Advocate. I was quite clear with him on this point, when I found out there had been a stir in the office. His politics was his own business. If someone asked me about my own position, I would say I veered more to the side of William, but I have done good business under King James and his brother Charles. I am first and foremost a business woman. I’m not committed in the political sphere, unlike other merchants in the city who despise the old King. I know some in my office favour the old and some the new. I must be careful at a time of such disagreement across the nation. I need to make sure that whatever way the wind blows, my business will not suffer too much. One writer in the office, however, was incensed by MacLeod’s etchings. He came from the opposing faction to MacLeod. He was a supporter of William and Mary and a great hater of the old King. He despised James and was not reticent at expressing his views, no doubt to the annoyance of those who supported the other party, like MacLeod. He took great offence at the etchings as insulting to the men who formed William’s government. There was a fracas in the office. He left my employ by his own volition shortly after the incident, decrying my house as one that favoured Jacobites, and making a lot of noise about it all, screaming and shouting on his way down the street. I believe I am well rid of him. He now struggles on his own account as a solitary writer in a booth. He’s perhaps just a young fool, I wish him no ill will, but he was too much of the fanatic to make a career in the House of Hair.’

‘Did you keep the etchings by any chance, madam?’ asked MacKenzie.

She rose from her seat and crossed the room. Scougall saw she was about the height of his own mother. He was reminded of a nimble bird moving across the chamber, a thin wiry thing dressed in an old-fashioned black frock, slightly stooped, no doubt caused by years at a desk. She removed some papers from a press and handed them to MacKenzie who had taken the opportunity to change his position again on the uncomfortable stool.

‘Scurrilous nonsense,’ she said. ‘Keep them if you like. I don’t know why I still have them. Although I must admit MacLeod did have a modicum of artistic talent, though not much. There is humour in them. There is no doubt about that. They hit the nail on the head.’

MacKenzie looked down at a caricature of King William with his breeches round his ankles, revealing enormous flabby buttocks from which he defecated onto a map of Scotland, under the title ‘Our New King Loves the Scottish Nation’. He could not help smirking as he handed it to Scougall. The second one was of a group of men, clearly members of the government, a couple of individuals could be identified by characteristics of dress, being driven into the flames of Hell by the Devil. A Latin caption suggested they had taken bribes and sold Scotland down the river. MacKenzie chuckled. Scougall, coming from the opposing political faction, did not see the funny side, but refrained from commenting. MacLeod was an ardent Jacobite, he thought, a follower of the Whore of Babylon. He could expect nothing good from such a man. He said nothing of this to MacKenzie, however.

‘What was the name of the man who left the office?’ asked MacKenzie when Mrs Hair had returned to her desk.

‘Adam Scobie,’ Mrs Hair answered. ‘He hails from Ayrshire in the western shires. His family are deep in the Covenanting fold. Some were followers of the fanatic preacher Renwick who challenged the authority of any King. His relatives swarmed into Edinburgh to hasten the end of King James – a lot of fanatics, as far as I’m concerned. He rents a chamber in Niven’s Close and now earns his living by serving Presbyterian clients, a species not known for generosity when paying fees.’

‘What exactly happened between MacLeod and Scobie, Mrs Hair?’

‘It was all foolishness. MacLeod showed the etchings around the office. They passed from desk to desk, accompanied by bellows of laughter. Scobie was disgusted. In full hearing of everyone, he decried MacLeod as a Papist-loving dog, an inveterate Jacobite and other terms of abuse. It might have gone no further, but he launched an attack on him. They were soon brawling on the floor of the office like a couple of curs. They had to be restrained by colleagues. That was not the end of the business. Another argument broke out in a tavern later. More kicks and punches and threats. There was talk of a duel and other such nonsense. I was ready to get rid of Scobie as everyone told me he landed the first punch, but he saved me the trouble. He resigned the next day, saying he could no longer work in a den of iniquity and other overblown nonsense. I did nothing to keep him. I saw his continued presence would be toxic to the smooth running of the office. I try to encourage a modicum of tolerance, gentlemen. Scobie has struck out on his own, working from the Luckenbooths. He must be struggling to make ends meet.’ She did not look particularly concerned by this. It was as if such troubles were a normal part of business.

‘Do you think he could have killed MacLeod?’ proposed Scougall, hesitantly. He had learned first-hand how the fanaticism of some Presbyterians might drive them to commit atrocious acts.

‘I don’t think so, but it’s possible,’ she replied. ‘He had a volatile character. He was very quick to anger. His passions inflamed by ministers of the Presbyterian persuasion who thunder from their pulpits every Sabbath against the Whore of Babylon. But would he kill MacLeod? In my opinion, I think it unlikely.’

‘Can you think of anyone else who might want to kill him? Could Betty McGrain have been driven by revenge?’ asked MacKenzie.

Mrs Hair shook her head. ‘No. There was no debauch of the lass. She’s a gentle creature. I believe MacLeod left her alone after I had words with him. Why would she risk so much?’

‘You mentioned MacLeod’s other business interests. Could you tell us what they were?’

‘I was aware of some of them. He was following the path I’ve taken in business. Money is best made from money and borrowing is always in fashion, those are the two maxims I hold. I knew MacLeod was lending money on his own account, building up a book of debt, as we call it. I’ve been told he also bought and sold goods, importing them from abroad. That was his business, as far as I was concerned. I’ve heard he dealt in those goods favoured by the Highland gentry. You will know what I mean, Mr MacKenzie. Items such as tapestries and paintings and furniture and books, indeed all the luxuries which flood into the Highlands, which the chiefs and gentry cannot afford and which they must borrow to pay for, mostly from Edinburgh lawyers and merchants. He also advised clients in Edinburgh and in the Highlands, no doubt mostly members of his clan. He was often seen with Highlanders in taverns, although, of course, I don’t frequent such places, as a respectable woman. I hear that he did. Like you, Mr MacKenzie, MacLeod was prone to complete deals in the Irish tongue. Such is the nature of good business, gentleman. Diversify your interests, diversify your interests. At some point his work for me would have become burdensome to him. Then he would’ve left my establishment to establish his own. Then, I may have offered to share an interest or two with him, perhaps in a boat to the Caribbean or a consignment of furniture for a castle in the Highlands. I’ve done so with other talented men who’ve left my office to establish their own concerns. They maintain good relations with me, rather than competing against me. I’m sure he would’ve been successful and looked after his father’s concerns and that of his chief. I hoped he would have continued to provide me advice on the finances of other chiefs.’

‘Do you think his politics had anything to do with his death?’ asked Scougall.

‘It’s possible… politics is often a man’s… undoing. In my opinion, he was too attached to the cause of the old King. But who can look inside another’s heart and know what they have suffered. Supporting the old King might be construed as running counter to sound business sense. We must see which way the wind blows, Mr Scougall.’

‘Were there any others who did not look kindly on him in the office?’ asked MacKenzie.

‘I’m sure there are many. He liked to provoke a reaction in folk. You must ask around yourselves. They will know more about it than me. Men like MacLeod always make enemies among their contemporaries. He was loquacious. He had the gift of the gab. He told jokes at others’ expense. All feigned to like him to his face, because they were scared his sharp tongue might be turned on them. With me, he was all politeness, but I’m sure he mocked me behind my back. It’s the usual way of the creature called man.’

MacKenzie smiled. ‘You are an observant student of the male sex, madam. Do you yourself have any particular enemies?’

She hesitated for a moment, removing her spectacles again and placing them carefully on the desk. ‘What exactly do you mean, Mr MacKenzie?’

‘Could MacLeod have been killed as a way of getting at you? As a way of damaging your interest? Were there any particular transactions he was helping you with at the time of his death?’

Mrs Hair’s face broke into a smile. ‘He was only a junior writer in my office, Mr MacKenzie. He was hardly a vital cog in the Hair empire. Regarding my enemies in this city, where can I start? How many pages do you have in your notebook, Mr Scougall! During every one of the last twenty years I’ve been in business, I’ve faced men who have cursed me, who have tried to rob me and who despised me just because of my sex. So, go and stop any merchant on the High Street and ask them what they think of old Mrs Hair, or Mary Erskine, as some still call me, and, if they answer truthfully, they’ll say they despise me as a disgrace to my sex. All the men in this city are my enemies, every last one of them. Every man in Edinburgh!’ She squealed in laughter. ‘But killing MacLeod to get at me? I don’t think so. I cared little for him, really.’

‘I understand, Mrs Hair. You are unusual in this day. You are a successful, independent woman,’ said MacKenzie, moving forward on the uncomfortable stool. ‘But of the hundreds of rogues who go by the name of merchant or writer or anything else in this city, are there any who bear a particular grudge against you?’

‘Let me think. Legal cases over the years, money lent and not repaid, properties seized from bankrupts. Many are unhappy with me. I would not know where to start – doctors, merchants, lawyers, nobles, soldiers, ministers. A few have tried to destroy me over the years! Most of them are now dead. I’ve had to live by my wits!’

‘Are you willing to provide any names?’

‘There are so many, gentlemen, so many. Start with the council of this city, all of them, then the merchant guilds. If you forced me to name a few candidates, I might suggest the names Dunlop, Slight and Cant. Dunlop and Slight are dead. Cant is decrepit and bed-ridden. And before you ask, I did not have any of them blown up in the Canongate! I’ve simply outlived them all. The younger generation are not so difficult to deal with. They have a little respect for me.’

‘If anyone else comes to mind, please let us know.’ MacKenzie felt that she was not telling them all she knew.

‘I’ll inform you of course, Mr MacKenzie. Let me ponder the matter more deeply.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us about MacLeod? The places he frequented, particular associates, anything that might be useful. Anything he was working on before he died.’

‘I believe he was often a customer in the Targe Tavern and establishments like Gourlay’s and Maggie Lister’s. Of his associates, I’m not entirely sure. I think the lawyer David Drummond was a close friend. At the time of his death he was preparing instruments for the purchase of Henderson’s Land and working on a series of transactions concerned with debts of the Earl of Dewarton. He was also advising me on the purchase of a small bundle of debts on the estate of Fraser of Lovat. Apart from that, there’s little else to say. Is it not likely he was robbed and killed for a few pounds?’

‘It’s possible, madam. We just do not know why he was killed. But one way or the other, we’ll find out. I’ve just one last question, not directly related to MacLeod. The recent explosion in the Canongate which killed Dunlop and Slight and others. What do you make of it?

She sighed again. ‘Why would a merchant store powder under his own house? It is madness. It’s a complete mystery to me.’

‘And now the tenement is up for sale?’

‘It will cost a small fortune to rebuild after such devastation.’

‘Will you be a bidder for it?’

She did not reply immediately, but placed the palm of her hand on the ledger and gave it a gentle tap. Her face opened into a broad smile. ‘I expect I will be, depending on the price, of course. Property is a good asset, gentlemen. It’s the best you can own, especially Edinburgh property.’

‘You would be a beneficiary of a terrible explosion!’ spluttered Scougall, then immediately regretted what he had said. His face turned crimson and he dropped his eyes back on his shorthand.

Mrs Hair’s chirpy demeanour disappeared. ‘I would rebuild the tenement with my own money, Mr Scougall. The city would benefit from that. Surely you cannot be insinuating I was involved in such a thing? An old maid like me a conspirator in a powder plot! You do amuse me, sir.’ Scougall wanted the floor to eat him up.

‘Mr Scougall did not want to suggest that, madam. I’m sure. What is your opinion of the explosion?’

‘No sane merchant would store powder under his own residence.’

‘So, it was placed there by another?’

‘I would say that is the most likely explanation.’

MacKenzie rose stiffly to his feet. ‘Thank you for answering our questions. With your permission, might we examine MacLeod’s desk and speak to others in your office?’

‘If you insist. Mr Galbraith will show you round. I believe there’s nothing of interest in the desk. Galbraith has examined the instrument book already. Everything appeared to be in order. Everything was up to date. It was as if MacLeod knew he would be leaving. Perhaps he planned to do so. His instrument book is still on his desk.’

‘May Mr Scougall peruse it? Just in case something has been missed? He has a keen eye.’

‘I grant you permission. Please inform me if you find anything. I must seek out the services of another writer for my office. I would prefer one with Highland contacts, if possible. Perhaps you, or Mr Scougall, can recommend somebody?’

Scougall wondered again if his own interests would be served by working in Mrs Hair’s office. She could teach him a thing or two about money and trade. It would be a change from the dry business of the notary public. Foreign trade interested him, particularly. He longed to see foreign shores like the West Indies. When the case was over, he might seek a meeting with her to discuss the opening. He hoped, slightly nervously, that his previous comment had not damaged his chances.

As they rose to leave, MacKenzie pointed to the landscape painting. ‘What is the picture of, madam?’ She got up from behind the desk and came over to stand under it.

‘Garlet House in Clackmannanshire with the Ochil Hills beyond. It’s where I was born many, many years ago! I return when I can, when I want to get out of the city, when I’m fed up with the world of business. It’s a place where I can clear my head. It’s full of happy memories of my childhood. It’s where I lived before I married Mr Kennedy.’ She was lost in thought for a few moments, staring intently at the painting. She turned to point at one of the portraits on the other wall. ‘That’s him. He died in 1671, leaving me a poor relict, a poor relict with nothing in my kist but sad memories and a pile of debt. I learned a lot about business from him. I learned what I should not do. I still think of him each time I sign a deed. What would Mr Kennedy do, I ask myself? If the answer is sign, I do not do it! I married Mr Hair a few years later. He was my choice, not my father’s. He served me well, at least that’s what they say on the street, is it not, gentlemen?’ She smiled, beckoning them with outstretched arms to leave. ‘I’m a simple soul, really. I do business for myself and for those who serve me. I regard the loyal ones who stay more than a couple of years as my family. I hope by my business to leave the world a little better than when I entered it, especially the poor sex of women who suffer so much in this world at the hands of men.’ She turned to Scougall who was embarrassed to feel her gaze upon him: ‘I do hope it’s not the same order of things in the next world, Mr Scougall!’

Galbraith showed them into a small chamber at the back of the tenement just down the corridor from Mrs Hair’s office. It was plainly decorated with wood panels and contained two small desks, back to back. Galbraith remained at the door, while MacKenzie and Scougall entered.

‘What was your impression of Mr MacLeod, Mr Galbraith?’ MacKenzie asked him.

‘He was friendly enough, sir. He worked hard. He could be a bit arrogant. He had no time for fools like me. He was quick of tongue. I usually let him be. I laughed at his jokes. He was younger than me anyway. He was ambitious. I’m happy to serve Mrs Hair.’ Galbraith had a lugubrious, staccato way of speaking in short sentences.

‘What do you mean, Mr Galbraith?’ asked MacKenzie.

‘I mean his tongue could be sharp, if you got on the wrong side of him. He regarded himself as a cut above the rest of us. I don’t know why it should be. Perhaps it was his upbringing in the household of a chief. He kept going on about how he was the foster-son of MacLeod of Dunvegan. He never stopped telling you that. You would see him in the tavern or the coffee house speaking away in Irish with his cronies, looking quite the man about town, quite the dandy, lording it over everyone. God knows what he said about us all!’

MacKenzie smiled and said something in Gaelic which only he understood. Galbraith returned the smile sheepishly. MacKenzie looked through the sash window onto the black stone of the tenement behind. He suddenly felt annoyed. They were making little progress in the case. His mood darkened. From the time his own father had died when he was a child he had experienced sudden shifts of mood. They were like the appearance of dark clouds on a summer’s day. His face would suddenly assume a brutal seriousness, causing consternation in some and fear in others, as if he had taken grim offence at their very existence. This natural predilection he had used to his advantage in his chosen profession of advocate, lulling those he questioned in court into a false sense of security with his affability before glowering down at them like a demented minister. It was a tactic which could disarm an opponent and encourage them to say things they did not intend. When he turned back to Galbraith, the expression of playfulness was gone from his face. ‘Why do you think he was killed?’ he asked sternly.

Galbraith was surprised by the abrupt question and the change of expression on MacKenzie’s face. ‘It wasn’t me, sir!’ he exclaimed defensively.

‘I didn’t suggest it was you, Mr Galbraith,’ MacKenzie replied bluntly.

‘If you ask me, I think he was mixed up with some stuff. I’m sure he was mixed up with something bad. I’ve seen him in conversation with…’ Galbraith did not finish the sentence.

‘In conversation with whom exactly?’ asked MacKenzie.

Galbraith looked behind him to make sure there was no one in the corridor. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘George Gourlay and Captain Stein. Why would he be speaking with the likes of them? Why would a lawyer want anything to do with them?’

‘Why indeed?’

‘They are the kind of men I avoid in a tavern. They have a reputation for getting what they want from people. MacLeod appeared to seek out that kind, to court the company of men who would be described as criminals. I don’t know why Mrs Hair had anything to do with him.’

‘You would describe the Captain of the Guard as a criminal, Mr Galbraith?’

‘It’s only what I’ve heard about him. He’s a man who leans on people, but I’ve never spoken to him myself.’

‘Why would MacLeod have anything to do with these men?’ asked Scougall who had grown used to MacKenzie’s sudden shifts of tone. He could sense that Galbraith was uncomfortable to be questioned.

‘I don’t know. It was said he had business dealings with them. But the nature of the business, I don’t know.’

MacKenzie moved closer to Galbraith, emphasising his height over him. Galbraith tried to back off into the corridor. ‘What about MacLeod’s relations with Scobie?’

Galbarith continued to reply in a terrified whisper. ‘Scobie was a young fool. He was lazy. He was slow. He was prone to making stupid mistakes. He blamed others. MacLeod considered him an oaf. He was always the butt of his jokes. Scobie took offence at some stupid drawings. I believe it was just an excuse for attacking MacLeod, for getting back at his cutting comments about Presbyterians. They brawled in the office and again in a tavern. It began to get serious. Scobie challenged him to a duel. MacLeod just laughed it off.’

‘Do you think Scobie could have killed him?’

Galbraith looked away. ‘I don’t think so, sir. Scobie is quick to anger but I believe he has a good Christian soul.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I’ve seen him in the kirk on the Sabbath. I’ve seen him praying. I’ve watched him in the pew in front of me praying with all his heart, beseeching his Maker, fervently. I’ve seen the expression on his face as he prays. He’s a fool, but no killer. Scobie is a God-fearing man.’

MacKenzie turned on his heels and wandered back into the room to look out the window. When he turned back to Galbraith his tone changed again. The storm had passed. ‘Who uses the other desk?’ he asked affably.

Galbraith appeared to relax. He came forward himself into the chamber. ‘Farquharson, a junior writer, an apprentice in the office. MacLeod was overseeing his work for a few months. He was given to different writers to spread the burden of teaching.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He’s been transferred to another room, now that MacLeod is gone.’

‘Thank you, Mr Galbraith. That’s all, for now. I may want to speak with you again,’ said MacKenzie smiling.

When Galbraith had disappeared down the corridor, MacKenzie shut the door behind him. He looked around the sparse interior. There was little of anything remarkable in the office. A lawyer’s writing chamber like any other. Two desks and two chairs, barely room to swing a rabbit.

Scougall stood sheepishly at the window. ‘What do you make of Mrs Hair, Davie?’ MacKenzie asked, lowering his voice to a whisper.

Scougall chose his words carefully. For some reason he felt that he had to speak well of her in her own premises. ‘She appears to be a remarkable woman,’ was all he could think of saying.

‘We must find out who her enemies are.’ MacKenzie paced around slowly deep in thought. He remembered MacLeod’s instrument book on the desk. ‘I’ll leave you here, Davie. Note anything of interest you find. We might not get the opportunity again. Then, seek out Betty McGrain. I’m going to visit MacLeod’s lodgings.’

Scougall spent a dull couple of hours in MacLeod’s chamber reading his instrument book that recorded his legal work. He made a series of notes about recent transactions itemised and then spoke to the other writers in the offices off the corridor. They all provided a similar picture of MacLeod. He was a cocky Highland lawyer. He was then directed by Galbraith to the basement where he found Betty McGrain in a small chamber off the kitchen. She was writing in a ledger, deep in concentration, and startled when he put his head round the door.

‘Are you Miss McGrain?’ Scougall asked hesitantly. He was uncomfortable interviewing young women.

‘You gave me a fright, sir! Who are you?’ She looked perturbed by his appearance, as if she had remembered something unpleasant.

‘My name’s Scougall, Davie Scougall. I’m a notary. I’ve a chamber of my own just up the High Street.’

‘That’s very good, Mr Scougall,’ she said in a faltering voice. ‘But you’ve taken a wrong turn. The writers are all on the first floor.’

‘I’ve been there already, thank you. It’s you I’m looking for, Miss McGrain. I’ve been directed here by Mr Galbraith. I’m sorry to bother you. I can see you’re busy.’ Scougall moved into the small room and stood opposite her. She was a small woman of about twenty years, bonnie enough, he thought. He did not know if he should take the chair opposite her at the table. Would it be too forward? He decided to remain standing. ‘I’m working with the advocate John MacKenzie. We’re investigating the killing of a man who used to work in this office. Aeneas MacLeod.’

At the mention of the name, she put down her pen and straightened her back. Her face grew dark and she closed her eyes for a moment.

‘We’ve spoken to Mrs Hair already. She’s told us, how can I put this, that MacLeod was someone… who was known to you.’ Scougall was looking for the right words which did not come easily. He began to splutter nervously. ‘That he was… that he was…’

‘I had no time for the likes of him!’ she replied angrily, her reticence disappearing. ‘What right did he have to put his hands on me? Just because I’m only a maid in this office? Why did he presume he had rights over me? Thank God I work in an establishment run by an honourable woman like Mrs Hair. If it had been the office of a man, I would’ve been cast out on the street.’

Scougall found himself on the defensive after her outburst. ‘I’m sorry, Miss McGrain. Please forgive me. I’m sure it’s difficult for you to talk about him. We’re just trying to find out what happened. MacLeod’s family want to know why he was killed. Do you know… do you know anything about it?’ Scougall winced at the choice of his own words.

She closed the book and looked up at him. There was anger in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry he’s dead, sir. It’s terrible for anyone to have their throat cut and be buried alone without family in attendance. But I’m glad he does not work in the office any more. I prefer it here now he’s dead. He can abuse me no longer.’

Scougall nodded knowingly. ‘Could you describe him to me, Miss McGrain?’

‘Why do you need me to describe him?’

‘Mr MacKenzie told me to ask you these questions.’ Scougall was struggling for the right words. He felt his cheeks warm. He would be glad when the interview was over. He preferred it when MacKenzie asked the questions and he noted down the answers. ‘Mr MacKenzie is most exact in all he does in such cases. He demands to know as much as possible about the victim. In this way, we’ll be able to find out the identity of the killer and the reason for the killing. Every little detail might be important to us. On its own, a single fact may appear trivial, but when combined with others, a fuller picture emerges. The picture comes into focus like light through a lens.’ Scougall was trying to remember exactly how MacKenzie had put it to him many times over the years they had worked together.

She crossed her hands over her chest, defensively. ‘I don’t like even thinking about him.’

‘It’s very important that justice is done – in the eyes of God.’ Scougall tried to smile to put her at ease.

She gave a nervous smile in return. She had realised that he was more nervous than her. ‘Very well, Mr Scougall. If you insist, I’ll tell you what I know about him.’ She closed the book and sat back in her chair. ‘He was nice enough to me to begin with. He was friendly enough. He chatted away about this and that. He told me about his home in the Highlands and what it was like being fostered by a chief and living in Dunvegan Castle. I thought we got on well. I thought we were friends.’ She paused for a moment gathering her thoughts.

‘Then what happened?’ asked Scougall, looking up from his notebook. He was recording every word carefully.

‘Then things suddenly changed. One evening I was tidying up in his office. I thought everyone had gone home for the night when suddenly I felt a presence behind me. There was the sound of footsteps, then the smell of wine. Before I could turn, a man was feeling me, squeezing me, pushing me against the wall.’

Scougall looked up again. He could not hide the expression of disgust on his face. ‘What did you do?’

‘I managed to get loose somehow. When I was able to turn at last, I was shocked to see it was him. I tried to strike him on the face. But he grabbed my wrist tightly, painfully. He said, swaying with the drink, something like: “I’ll have you soon enough Betty McGrain, be sure of it, I’ll have you. I’ll have you over my desk here. You’ll beg me for it. I’ll take you here soon enough.”’ She stopped for a few moments, closing her eyes and breathing out. ‘There, I did not want to say it,’ she continued. ‘But that’s what he said. And he spewed out other things with his wine-breath in the Irish tongue in a lascivious way.’

‘How did you get away from him?’

‘I ran away to the kitchen to get a knife but he didn’t follow me. I escaped out the back door and went home. I cried all night. I dreaded going back to the office the next day, but it was as if nothing had happened. It was as if he had forgotten it ever happened. Perhaps he had. He was very drunk, I said to myself. Perhaps it will never happen again. Perhaps it was a one-off. Perhaps he’s not a bad sort.’ She looked Scougall straight in the eye. He was struck by their piercing blue colour.

‘For a few weeks I saw little of him,’ she continued. ‘He didn’t seek me out and things settled down again as I went about my business. I was happy enough. I’d almost forgotten about the incident. Then one night I was making my way home through Jake’s Vennel. It was in the gloaming. You know, it’s a dark narrow passageway when the sun sets behind St Giles. As I was about to come out onto the High Street, someone grabbed me from the shadows. I thought I was going to be robbed. I tried to scream but a hand was thrust over my mouth. A face came up close to mine, stinking of liquor. I realised it was him again. This time he was more forceful. He took me by the throat. I could hardly breathe. He said if I did not treat him kindly in the office he would take me by force anyway. He swore at me and said many hateful things. He stood looking at me for a minute or so, still holding my throat, before staggering off drunkenly. I caught my breath and ran home, locking my door. I was terrified. I could not sleep a wink all night. It is painful for me to recall it.’

‘Just take your time, Miss McGrain,’ said Scougall, appalled by the picture she was painting of MacLeod. The man surely deserved to die if he prayed on women in this manner.

‘The next morning, I summoned up the courage to speak to Mrs Hair. I told her everything that had happened. She listened attentively to me. She said I was not to worry. She would speak with him. I didn’t stay late in the office on my own after that. I made sure there were always folk about. For a long while, perhaps a couple of months, I had no bother from him. He didn’t come down to the basement, as he had done before. He sent one of the boys for drink or victuals and hardly looked at me when I had some business in the writers’ chambers. I thought Mrs Hair must have reprimanded him severely. I thanked God for her. My life returned to normal for many weeks. I thought my ordeal was over. But sadly, it was not.’ She stopped to adjust a lock of her hair which had appeared from her bonnet.

‘It happened again?’ Scougall asked tentatively.

‘One night I found myself alone in the kitchen. I heard footsteps in the corridor outside. Then he appeared. I could tell he’d been drinking again. He leapt towards me and tried to fondle me. He started saying vile things. I screamed as loudly as I could. I think he believed everyone had gone home for the night. He smiled lasciviously at me and began to pull up my dress. But, thank God, Mr Galbraith appeared at the door. He had heard me screaming. MacLeod was forced to stop his debauch. As he left the kitchen, he whispered in my ear that if I went to Mrs Hair again to tell her what had happened, he would have me done away with. He would kill me. He would have me drowned in the Nor Loch or pay a friend to have me dealt with. No-one would hear anything of me ever again. I was terrified out of my mind. I didn’t know what to do.’

Scougall was reflecting that his initial feelings about MacLeod had been correct. He was a rogue of the first order. ‘What did you do, Betty?’

‘I hatched a plan to flee the city with the little money I had and make for London. I thought of talking to Mrs Hair again. But I feared if I did so, he would carry out his threat. Again, I spent a sleepless night in despair, thinking I would not go into the office the next morning. I awoke in a fever. I sent a note to Mrs Hair that I was ill. She sent a doctor to see me. I was not able to return to the office for ten days. I did not want to go back but I did not want to disappoint Mrs Hair. Finally, I forced myself to return.’

‘What did he do when you went back?’

‘There was no sign of him in the office, Mr Scougall. He had not been there for a few days, I was told. He did not appear the next day. I was so relieved. And then another day and another day. I rejoiced in my heart. I prayed to God he was gone for good, perhaps abroad or to the Highlands, as some in the office said. I even prayed some mischief was done to him, God forgive me. I wondered if Mrs Hair had decided to get rid of him. I said nothing to her about it. The days passed. I heard nothing. I heard they had searched his apartments and over the town. Then there was news a body was found. When I read the lines in the Gazette, I’m sorry to confess, God forgive me, I hoped it was his body discovered at Craigleith. When I heard it was him, I rejoiced he was no more.’ She paused for a moment. Her tone was gentler when she said: ‘There you have it, Mr Scougall. That is the fine gentleman folk in the city mourn. The Highland gentleman who is foster-son of a great chief. He was nothing but a common brute. I will not mourn his passing, although the man who killed him is a sinner in the eyes of God, just like the man he killed.’

Scougall was moved by her account which he considered was entirely believable. But he knew he had to remain sceptical. MacKenzie would question him about whether she was telling the truth. It was possible she could have killed MacLeod or paid someone to do it. She certainly had a strong enough motive. He wondered what question to ask next. He knew MacKenzie would have put her on the spot. But there was an uncomfortable silence as he tried to think of something to ask. He did not want to upset her any further. Suddenly a figure appeared at the door behind them, providing the opportunity for her to excuse herself with a slight curtsy. She removed her apron and left the kitchen before he thought of anything else to say. A thin youth of about fourteen wearing a white shirt and black breeches with shoulder-length hair deposited a pile of dishes on the work bench in the kitchen. He had a friendly open face.

‘Good afternoon, sir. I’m Billy Farquharson, apprentice to Mrs Hair.’

Scougall recognised the name. ‘You were working with Aeneas MacLeod?’

‘That’s right, sir. I’m an apprentice. I started here five months ago.’

Scougall smiled warmly, relieved that the interview with Betty was over. He found it much easier to speak to the youth. ‘We share the same profession, Mr Farquharson. I’m a notary too. I remember fondly my years as an apprentice with Hugh Dallas. You may have come across his work on conveyancing in your studies.’

‘I’ve a copy of his mighty tome. It is surely our Bible. You know, Mr Scougall, being a notary is much harder work than I thought it would be. After spending a day copying a document I’m exhausted. It requires much concentration and Mr MacLeod was difficult sometimes. He was furious if I made the slightest mistake.’

Scougall was delighted that the boy was answering his questions before he had asked them. ‘Were you articled to him?’

‘No. He was overseeing my work for a period.’

‘How did you find him as a mentor?’

‘At first, he was fine enough, but he began to treat me… badly, you know, bully me. Picking over all my work. He would find mistakes everywhere. He would laugh at them and criticise me. Then the next minute it was completely different. He was my best friend. He was taking me out for drinks in a tavern, all paid by him. Then he was angry again when I came into the office late the next morning with a hangover. I would say, I didn’t take to him. Although I’m sorry he’s dead. No one deserves such an end.’

Scougall reflected that MacLeod made enemies of everyone. ‘Why do you think he was killed, Mr Farquharson?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I’ve heard lots of stories about him in the office. He was always talked about when he wasn’t there.’

‘What kind of stories?’

Farquharson paused for a moment, as if he was wondering if he should continue to be so open about MacLeod, but then continued: ‘It was said he was a Jacobite, devoted to the cause of the old King. That he had business interests of his own, outside the office. That he lent money on his own book. Also, that he was involved in illicit trading and on good terms with criminals in the city. He provided them with money. I don’t know if these stories are true. If you ask me, he seemed to be the kind of man who made enemies.’

Scougall nodded. ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?’

Farquharson looked like he was enjoying himself. Was he relishing the opportunity to get back at a cruel mentor? He moved closer to Scougall and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I would not, sir. I was not keen on him, I’ve said that, but I would not do such a thing…’

‘I was not suggesting it was you, Billy. But can you think of anyone else?’

The boy thought for a few moments. ‘I don’t like speaking ill of my colleagues, but Mr Galbraith bore a particular hatred towards him.’

‘Why was that?’ Scougall wondered why Mrs Hair had not mentioned any antipathy between Galbraith and MacLeod. Perhaps she did not know about it.

‘I don’t know, exactly, sir. I’ve heard it was about what MacLeod said about his wife and the identity of the father of her child. MacLeod joked that Galbraith was not the father… that he was not a true man… that he was… I think the word is impotent. When Galbraith overheard him, he was very angry. I’ve never seen him like that before or since. You could tell he was trying to control himself. I could see him shaking and flexing his fists. Thereafter, I believe he bore a grudge against him. He was always saying: one day, MacLeod will have his come-uppance.’

Scougall was pleased to have discovered something new to give MacKenzie. ‘What about the fight between MacLeod and Adam Scobie?’

‘It all happened before I came to the office. I’ve heard about it though. I do not know Scobie myself. He was another who hated MacLeod. I think MacLeod mocked his religion.’

‘What about Betty McGrain?’

The boy looked blank. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

‘It’s nothing, Billy.’ Scougall realised he might not know anything about what happened between them. ‘If you think of anything else please let me know. It’s time I was on my way. Perhaps you can show me out?’