The Road to Rowanbrae (9 page)

Chapter Nine

Wondering why she was lying on the floor instead of on her bed, Mysie tried to sit up, but there was a weight holding her down and the slightest movement was agony. Had she fainted? Had she banged her head as she fell? Oh, God, no! She remembered now – Jeems had been trying to mutilate her and she must have lost consciousness. Jeems? Was he still lurking somewhere, waiting to spring on her as soon as she came to? Turning her head warily from side to side, she could see no sign of him and gave a shuddering moan of relief. He must have gone out to let his temper simmer down.

She thought at first of lying there until she felt able to stand, but realised that she should try to get out before Jeems came back. She could hardly see, she'd been badly beaten up and felt very weak, but after frantically levering with her hands for several minutes, she did succeed in getting into a sitting position. Then she discovered why she had had so much difficulty. Her husband's legs were lying across hers, his trunk at an angle away from her and his head resting on a leaf of the overturned table. He must have fallen and knocked himself out.

Feeling her senses slipping away again, she struggled not to give in. She had to get away from here before Jeems came round. In an effort to get his legs off her, she bent over and gave his backside a push, then drew back in alarm as he rolled over, not realising, at first, that it was her push that had caused the movement. Her fluttering heart almost stopped in the next instant at what was now revealed, and she covered her face in horror. Great God! She hadn't done that, had she?

Slowly, she lowered her hands to make sure that she hadn't been imagining it, but it was true. The knife that he had been using on her was now stuck firmly in his own side, and what must have been a fountain of blood – judging by the amount on his linder – had dried up. She couldn't tear her eyes away, and her panic increased when she remembered that blood only stopped flowing when the heart stopped pumping. He was dead. He hadn't just knocked himself out – he was dead!

At last, as if drawn by some unseen force, her eyes travelled up his body and came to rest on his right hand, still holding his rabbit knife. His rabbit knife? She glanced down again, hopefully, but a knife handle was definitely protruding from his side … another knife! Her head swimming and her ears ringing with a deafening noise, she closed her eyes. She was going mad and she wouldn't fight it. Gradually, however, she became aware of ordinary sounds; the ticking of the clock, the movement of the dying embers in the fire, the creaking of the thatch in the wind. Opening her eyes and mustering every last ounce of her strength, she staggered to her feet. She felt something trickling down her legs, but knew that however badly she was cut it would have to wait. She would have to think before she did anything.

Stepping back uncertainly, she stood with her right hand on her heaving chest, desperately trying to organise her confused thoughts. In her hysterical struggles, had Jeems let go of her long enough for her to get that second knife from the table drawer? But the cutlery had scattered over the floor when the table fell and he wouldn't have let her crawl around looking. Even if she had managed to get it, he wouldn't have given her a chance to use it. Oh, God, what had she done? She must have got the knife and thrust it at him, though she had no recollection of it, and surely nobody could do a thing like that and not remember? In any case, she couldn't have plunged it in right up to the hilt like that when she'd been at the point of unconsciousness herself.

But there was no one else it could have been – unless Jake Findlater had come to the house and seen what Jeems was doing to her? But he would have hit Jeems, not stabbed him. Could it have been Doddie Wilson? Had he come to get his own back on Jeems and arrived at the height of the quarrel? In the heat of the moment, he might have snatched up that other knife and … no, Doddie wouldn't have come here – would he? Forcing herself, she looked down at the rather pathetic body of her husband. She couldn't leave him lying there, and she wasn't fit to move him by herself, so what was she to do? She couldn't think properly, that was the trouble.

She'd forgotten her own injuries in the horror of the past few minutes, and now the pain struck her with the impact of a sledge hammer. Her nose was throbbing and so swollen that she couldn't see out of one eye, every inch of her was aching, her brain was spinning, her … Lifting her skirts, she felt around for the cut. It wasn't as bad as she feared – another fraction of an inch and it would have been a lot worse – but she would feel better if she cleaned herself.

Tearing off a bit of her apron, she dampened it with some hot water and held it to her nose, the heat helping a little, though it would be days before the swelling went down. She treated the rest of her face in the same way and dried it with a towel, then dabbed gently around the area of the cut in her groin and wiped the congealed blood off her leg. Slightly more composed now, she filled the kettle from the pail in the corner of the porch, set it on the fire and lowered herself gingerly on to a chair to wait until it came to the boil.

Twenty minutes later, she poured herself a third cup of tea. Her brain was addled, all she could think of was that Jess had said to come to her if she needed help, and even if it was only advice she gave, it would be something.

It was quite a while before Mysie stood up, keeping her eyes off the figure on the floor when she went to check that Sandy was still asleep.

Her son was lying as he always did, his body curled up, his head hanging over the edge of the bed, so peaceful that she thought for a moment that she had imagined the awful row there had been, but Sandy could sleep through an earthquake. Closing the door, she lifted her shawl from the hook on the front door and placed it round her shoulders. The frost nipped her tender face as soon as she went out, but, holding her head down, she stumbled along the unmade road, praying that the Findlaters would still be up. She had no idea of the time, though it felt like hours since supper, and crofters usually bedded early, for they had to rise betimes in the mornings.

There was no sign of a light when she reached Downies. She banged frantically on the door with both her hands, but it was a few minutes before Jake, in his underclothes, eased it open and held up a candle to see who had roused him from his slumber. ‘Mysie! What brings you here at this time o' nicht?'

The deep voice comforted her. ‘Oh, Jake, let me in so's I can speak to Jess.'

The agony in her low plea alerted him that something was far wrong, and he shouted behind him, ‘Jess, come ben, will you? It's Mysie.' Taking her arm, he led her into the kitchen and touched the candle to the lamp on the table, then turned round and saw her face properly. ‘Great God Almighty! Did Jeems dae that to you?' At her nod, he exploded. ‘The bugger o' hell! I've a good mind to go an' gi'e Jeems what he deserves.'

Mysie grabbed his sleeve. ‘No, Jake, no! He's got mair than he deserved already.'

Jess took charge now. ‘Jake, go an' get your claes on, for me an' Mysie's got things to speak aboot.'

Understanding that she wanted him out of the way, Jake went into the other room. Jess guided the distraught woman to a chair, then pulled a stool over to sit beside her. ‘Noo, lassie, tell me what happened.'

The gentle, coaxing voice snapping the fragile hold Mysie had been keeping on her emotions and she sobbed out her story. Although Jess's mouth fell open when she heard why Jeems had turned on his wife, she made no judgement and allowed Mysie to babble on. ‘When I ken't I was goin' to ha'e a bairn, I was near oot o' my mind, for Jeems hasna … for a lang time … nae that I minded aboot that for I didna like … an' Larry Larry was gentle an' … och, I'm makin' excuses, an' there's nae excuse for what I did.'

She was too overcome to continue, but Jess said, ‘An' how did Jeems find oot?'

Mysie gulped. ‘I tell't him, for I thought he might put me oot, an' Larry's due back the morn, an' he'll tak' me awa'.'

Jess looked at her pityingly. ‘Oh, Mysie, he'll likely say it's nae his. His kind tak' their fun, but they dinna provide for the poor lassie that's left to ha'e the bairn.' Waiting until Mysie wiped her eyes with her skirt, she said, ‘Tell me, lass, do you love the man?'

‘No, no, naething like that. Oh, Jess, I wish I'd jumped doon the quarry after Jamie, an' nane o' this would ha'e happened.'

Thinking it best to ignore this remark, Jess said, ‘It's nae surprisin' Jeems lost his temper, Mysie, but he'll get ower it. Did he throw you oot after he struck you?'

‘No, I come oot mysel'.'

‘Weel, that's a good sign. Noo, you can bide here the nicht, an' I'll tak' you back in the mornin' an' try to mak' him see reason, for I'm …'

‘No, no!' Mysie screamed. ‘I havena tell't you the rest.'

Something clicked in Jess's brain. ‘You said he'd got mair than he deserved? What happened? What did you dae?'

Even in her present state, Mysie knew that she'd have to be careful. If she said she was almost sure she hadn't stabbed Jeems, Jess might believe that it had been Doddie, for there was nobody else it could have been. She still wasn't sure in her own mind, but she didn't want anyone else suspecting him. ‘Weel,' she began, very cautiously, ‘Jeems got me doon on the floor, an' he took his rabbit knife up an' he said he would mak' sure the packman would never want to tak' me again … an' he lifted my skirts, an' …'

‘Oh, my God, Mysie, he didna cut you there?'

‘He near did, but when the blade touched me … I got some strength … I dinna ken … but we was strugglin' an' I got the knife oot o' his hand an' …' She stopped, appalled at what she was saying, but it sounded better than trying to make out that she had had time to get another knife. The horror on her friend's face made her carry on. ‘I thought my last minute had come … an' I rammed the knife in him … an' he's lying dead on the rug.'

Jess's hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, God, Mysie, you dinna mean to tell me you've killed him?'

‘Aye, it was me that killed him.' The peculiar wording was to come back to Jess later, but she was too shocked to think anything of it at the time. ‘Are you sure he's dead?'

‘Aye, I'm sure.' Mysie looked at the other woman with deep appeal in her sunken eyes. ‘Will you tell me what to dae?'

‘Oh, lass, I canna tell you – I've never ken't o' …'

‘You're the only ane I could ask. You'll ha'e to help me.' Staring at each other hopelessly, they both jumped when Jake came through, rubbing his cold hands together. ‘Ha'e you got things sorted oot? I'm near frozen ben there.'

Jess sighed noisily as she looked up at him. ‘Aye, Mysie's tell't me the whole story, an' I think we'd better ha'e a wee drap o' whisky. Me an' Mysie need it, an' you'll need it as well, when you ken what's happened.' While they fortified themselves, Jess gave an account of what she'd been told – it sounded worse when somebody else said it, Mysie thought – and by the time his wife finished, Jake was looking as thunderstruck as she had done earlier. He turned it over in his mind for a little while, then shook his head. ‘I aye ken't Jeems Duncan was a coorse bugger.'

Mysie, however, wouldn't let him slander the dead man. ‘He'd good reason the nicht.'

‘He'd nae reason to hit you like that, nor try to carve you up like a side o' beef.' Running his finger idly round the rim of his cup, Jake glowered into the fire, obviously trying to think of a way to deal with the situation, and the two women watched him anxiously. At last, he said, ‘We'd best come hame wi' you, Mysie, an' shift Jeems oot o' the kitchen afore Sandy gets up an' sees him.'

‘Aye.' She drew her shawl closer round her shoulders.

‘You'll need to wait till I get on some claes,' Jess pointed out. ‘I'll catch my death o' cauld in my goon.'

Holding on to the back of the chair she'd been sitting on, Mysie wondered, irrationally, if dying from the cold would be as bad as dying from the thrust of a knife and let out a high hysterical laugh. Jake grasped her shoulder firmly. ‘You've had a helluva time, lass, but we'll dae what we can for you.'

When Jess was dressed, she and Jake led Mysie out, sweeping her along the road so quickly that she thought her lungs would burst and she had to fight for breath. When they approached her house, she felt herself shrinking back. ‘I canna go in,' she panted. ‘I'm ower feared.'

‘If he's dead,' Jake said, ‘he canna hurt you nae mair.' With these not altogether comforting words, he strode on ahead, and, Jess dragging her, Mysie tottered into her own kitchen a few seconds later. She had been half hoping, half fearing, that she had been wrong, that Jeems had got up after she went out, but he was still sprawled out on the hearthrug.

‘He's dead, right enough.' Jake rose from his examination of the body and rubbed his chin, his fingers rasping against the dark stubble. ‘We'll ha'e to bury him, Mysie. If onybody finds oot what you did, they'll tell the bobbies an' you'll be hung for murder. I'll ha'e a look roon' ootside for the best place.'

‘Aye,' she agreed, her teeth chattering, her body shaking like a leaf in a gale.

Jess made Mysie sit down. ‘Jake'll sort things oot. Dinna worry yoursel', lass.'

It wasn't long before Jake appeared again. ‘I just minded. We canna put him in ony o' the parks, for he could be turned up wi' the ploo.'

‘He finished the plooin' the day himsel'.'

‘Somebody else'll ha'e to dae it again in the spring, though.'

It was only just into January, Mysie thought, and spring was a long way off, but Jake was right. Burying Jeems in one of the fields would only put off the day of discovery.