This meeting tonight. He had to be there, but it would be dangerous if he were spotted

Lips pursed, Ewan turned to the sergeant, his eyes questioning. The man nodded. “Aye, sir, she’s dead all right. If you turn her over you’ll see the head wound. She’s been shot at close quarters.”

Ewan rose to his feet, his mind racing. Dimly he heard the sergeant’s question. “Aye,” he replied, “I know her. Her name’s Jean Forbes and she was Lady Catherine Gray’s maidservant.”

“A shame it is, sir. Such a young lass.” The sergeant shook his head dolefully. “Where will we take her? To her ladyship?”

“Heavens, no!” Ewan exclaimed. “Is there not a resting place in the Tolbooth where she can be laid?”

“Aye, though her relatives must claim the remains quickly or she’ll be placed in a pauper’s grave.”

“So be it.” Ewan stood impassively as Jean’s body was lifted and carried off. He did not wish to go back to Lady Catherine’s and rouse the woman. It could wait until morning, though the pale grey streaks of dawn were already in the sky.

His main duty was to seek out Colonel Crawford and acquaint him with events. Ewan had no doubt that the madman Mclean had killed the girl, possibly to prevent her from gossiping about their relationship.

From what old Mclaurin had said earlier, Ewan judged the colonel knew of this man and what further threat, if any, he might be. He hurried the few yards down to the Grassmarket, there to commandeer a horse and ride to the Jacobite encampment.

Excited

In the Mission House the occupants were too excited to sleep. Sandy and Malcolm had escorted the girls home and then gone their separate ways, Sandy to the army camp and Malcolm to his parents’ house since Ewan had assured them it was safe to return.

Captain Marshall had lost interest in the Porteous family, it seemed. Kirsty roused her father from sleep as she’d promised she would; he’d wanted to hear how things had gone.

Over cups of hot milk the girls – Alison and Ellie having joined them – regaled Duncan with a minuteby-minute account of the evening’s revels. At last he put up a protesting hand.

“Enough, my dears! I lack your youth and must return to bed. I’d advise the three of you to do likewise and you can tell me the rest when we’re all refreshed.”

Bidding them farewell, he went upstairs, leaving the girls to their giggling. Soon it was Kirsty’s turn to yawn. “I’m away to bed, too, for I’ve had enough of ‘Sandy this’, ‘Ewan that’ for the present.” She smiled at their happy faces. “My, but it looks as if Malcolm and I had better decide on a date or you’ll be at the altar before us.”

Alison and Ellie nudged each other delightedly. They waited until Ellie had snuffed out the lamp, then all three trudged, with rising weariness, upstairs. As Kirsty lay in bed she remembered Sandy’s message.

“What do you think this meeting at Duddingston is for?” she called softly to the others. “Father was quite taken aback when I told him he was to attend, too.”

“So was I,” Alison’s sleepy voice replied, “but Sandy wouldn’t tell me anything more.”

“What about you, Ellie?” Kirsty persisted. “Don’t you think it’s all very strange?”

The sound of gentle snoring was the only answer and, smiling to herself, Kirsty turned on her side, welcoming sleep.

Good spirits

Monday dawned and, for once, Thomas Mclean was in fairly good spirits. Weeks of patience had brought reward and matters were drawing to a close.

He felt no remorse about Jean Forbes’s death. The girl had served her purpose and would only have proved a liability. From her frightened protestations he felt sure she hadn’t told anyone about their secret liaison but, that said, he couldn’t take chances.

This meeting tonight. He had to be there, but it would be dangerous if he were spotted. It was to commence at seven, the girl had said, which meant he would have to get there earlier. Much earlier.

Accordingly he found himself alone in the kirkyard at five o’clock. The gate was open and the kirk doors unlocked. Entering by the front door, Mclean climbed up the stone steps to the gallery above. There it was dark but dry, though he frowned at the sound of little scampering feet that greeted his arrival. He hoped it was mice. He couldn’t abide rats.

Carefully lowering himself to the floor, he made himself as comfortable as possible. A two-hour wait loomed, but he wasn’t worried. What were a few hours compared with the years he’d waited so far?

Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, he settled down. Ewan arrived promptly at six o’clock. As he dismounted from his horse he saw the faint flicker of candlelight through the chancel window.

Striding through the dark kirkyard, he reached the heavy door and entered the shadowy building. An ornate pulpit loomed above his head to the left and he mounted its steps to take his place at the lectern.

Below, he saw the tiers of boxed pews, while at eye level were deserted galleries. From his position he was satisfied he could see almost every nook and cranny in the kirk. As he leaned against the pulpit rail he heard the door open. Two figures entered. “Major Ogilvie?”

“Yes,” Ewan replied and the two men advanced. “Privates Johnson and Bell, sir,” the taller of the two said. “Reporting as ordered.”

“Good,” Ewan said. “You’ve been given a list of those you’ve to admit?”

“Aye, sir,” the soldiers chorused. “See to it that none save those enter. I want you both at the kirkyard gate and no nearer, understood?”

“Sir.”

“To your posts, then,” Ewan commanded, “but first ensure no-one is skulking in the galleries.”

Confident

Knowing he had almost an hour before the others arrived, he sat on the narrow seat within the pulpit and studied his notes as best he could in the dim light.

As he sat he was aware of his men searching the gallery areas and heard their muttered curses as they stumbled on the stepped tiers, unable to see in the gloom. Private Bell had emerged into the small gallery to his right.

“All secure there, Bell?” Ewan asked. He saw the man scan the pews and nod. “Good,” he murmured and resumed reading his orders.

Outside, Mclean waited patiently. Hearing Ogilvie’s orders to search the galleries, he had sped down the steps and hurried into the gloomy kirkyard.

After some time the two guards emerged and walked towards the far gates, ready to take up their positions. Confident they would not see him, he sidled back to the entrance and let himself inside again.

As he edged into the gallery he saw Ogilvie was still in the pulpit. Crawling on hands and knees to keep out of sight, Mclean crouched and waited.

As he lay there he made sure he still had his knife and, for the umpteenth time, checked his pistol was charged and cocked. Not long now, he thought, stretching himself out on the dusty floor; not long at all.

More tomorrow

Glens of Stone was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. There’s more great fiction in The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.