Chapter 2

Chapter II.

The officious but not quite stately wood panelling in the Sheriff’s office was familiar to Barclay, it was his own work. The sun had long gone down and the windows were now sheets of jet. He stood uneasily, thinking about the unworked timber in his shop, as he waited to be gestured to a seat. Henderson had already helped himself to one and was lighting his pipe. Neither men spoke, waiting for Sheriff Muir to finish assaying both Barclay’s and Henderson’s account which he had insisted on receiving in writing. Must be a quiet week for the lawyers, thought Barclay. Without looking up from the papers, the Sheriff commenced speaking.

“Mr Barclay. So … he just appeared in your doorway, hm?”

“Oh, ah, aye your honour.”

“And you struck him.”

“Aye your honour.”

“Because he approached you, holding what you percieved to be a blade.”

“Indeed.”

“Indeed.” He looked up at Barclay, his scintillating and accusing eyes set in a crumpled face like highly-polished buckles on a carelessly discarded satchel.

“Mr Barclay.”

“Aye, your honour.”

“Sit. You stand there like a brick wall in a shirt. I prefer the view of my door.”

Barclay sat as the Sheriff addressed Henderson.

“Ephraim, you’ve been in the wars, if the state of your waistcoat is anything to go by.”

“I should say so, Robert. The bloody great halfwit launched me with one hand. Jail him and leave him there!”

“Calm yourself. And might I remind you that within these walls my name is either ‘Sheriff Muir’ or ‘Your Honour’. Now, rest assured, everyone will get their just deserts, to coin a phrase. It seems to me we are dealing with a simpleton who has gone somewhat feral for want of a role model.”

Henderson snorted derisively.

Barclay coughed.

“Mr Barclay?”

“Aye, um, there is also the matter of his fit and the words he spoke during the episode.”

“Not really my area, is it? I suspect we need to employ either a clergyman or a surgeon for that. Exorcise him or trepan him. Possibly both. Either way it doesn’t affect his legal status.”

“And what is his legal status?” interjected Henderson.

Sheriff Muir leaned back in his seat and pointed those bright eyes to the ceiling. “He’s a vagrant, to be sure. He has no visible means of support. He is most likely your thief, although the evidence is circumstantial.”

“Circumstantial?” blustered Henderson.

“Aye, circumstantial, Ephraim. No-one has seen him steal, have they? He entered an open doorway into Mr Barclay’s workshop, no crime in that. He may or may not have threatened Mr Barclay, either way, when Barclay saw the knife he was entitled to defend himself. You, on the other hand, attacked him without provocation.”

“Without pr…”

“Mr Henderson, calm yourself, you’ve gone quite red. You’ll do yourself an injury, you know.”

“Oh, that reminds me, Mr Henderson,” interjected Barclay as he handed over the small blade. “Here is your fruit knife - the one you were mourning the loss of earlier.”

“Right. Well … thank you, Barclay.” Henderson avoided eye contact as he took the knife and awkwardly looked for somewhere to put it. He eventually laid it on the arm of his chair and puffed agitatedly at his pipe. Within a few puffs Henderson’s expression changed with a new realisation. “A-ha!”

“A-ha? What is on your mind now, Ephraim?” The Sheriff had been watching the merchant’s face, waiting for this dawning.

“Evidence!”

“Really?” asked the Sheriff, in mock incredulity.

Henderson grabbed the knife and shook it first at the Sheriff then Barclay then back at the Sheriff.

“That … that beast took my knife. Had it in his hand during the fight with Barclay. And you say ‘circumstantial’!”

Ephraim. Dear fellow. Of course, you are right. But a court case would prove costly and wasteful. If we have the culprit then we should see no more thievery. If we do not, it will most likely continue.

“Now, I propose that this … ‘Jordy’ … be taken in by someone charitable and with the means to socialise him and turn him to some use. His form seems, from what I saw of it when I passed the jail earlier, to be robust in the extreme. He would make a very serviceable labourer I think, a lifter and layer of great prowess, given the proper guidance.” This statement was delivered with a chromed glance shuttling between the tradesman and the merchant.

“Well, good luck with him, Barclay.” Henderson rose and made to leave. Barclay raised a finger and opened his mouth to speak but the Sheriff got there first.

“Mr Barclay surely cannot be expected to shoulder this Christian burden alone.” It was much more than a suggestion. “A good neighbour and pillar of the community would stand with him in this enterprise, would he not? Eye of a needle and all that. Eh, Ephraim?”

“This is going to prove expensive,” said Henderson.

“For a man of your ample means … a little.” Sheriff Muir afforded himself the tiniest of smirks at his friend’s discomfiture. Barclay, seeing this, felt a little relief but his over-riding thought was what on earth is my wife going to say?

Henderson was still facing the door and wanting desperately to leave. The sides of his wig dangled like the ears of a forlorn hound as he examined the floor round his feet and gently shook his head.

“I cannot pay him.” Henderson returned to his seat.

“Of course not. Not straight away. Firstly you are going to educate him and show him the ways of the civilised world. Don’t worry, I will assist in my way. Once we have a measure of his capabilities and faculties we can make a place for him in our community. Or perhaps he will make such progress that he is able to seek his own destiny.”

“Your honour,” interjected Barclay, “where will Jordy stay? My cottage is barely big enough for me and my family. And my workshop is only one room full of tools and materials.”

“And he is not setting foot in my house. He’d wreck the place. He'd make off with my silver!”

“Ephraim, he is not going to live in your house or Mr Barclay’s cottage. There are plenty of nooks and crannies at the castle that can be made comfortable and civilised for our new acquaintance. I suspect he has one already furnished to a degree if the inventory of missing items is anything to go by.”

“Very well, your honour,” yielded Henderson, “we will give ‘Jordy’ the benefit of our Christian charity and do as you suggest. But I put this to you. Itinerants and vagrants pass through here quite often. The ships bring all manner of weird characters and we shun them and they move on. Why are we doing this, other than for the good of our immortal souls?”

“Firstly, because he is one of us, Ephraim. He is from here and, up to now, he has not had the benefit of being part of our community. Secondly, he is a MacSuail. Potentially, he has noble blood and I’m sure you have no wish to see his line descend any further into penury and ignorance. ”

Jordy sat on the straw-filled sack in the corner of the cell he’d been asked to go into by Barclay. He liked Barclay, despite the bang on the head. As well as the ham, Barclay had given him bread and cheese to eat in the cell while he waited for him and the others to return.

Sheriff Muir appeared through the bars of the cell door, holding something in his left hand, covered by a cloth. Jordy stood up and backed away to the far corner of the cell.

“Don’t panic, my boy. We’re friends, you and I. Or, at least, I hope we will be.”

“Eh?”

“May I come in?” Muir pushed the unlocked door and entered the cell. Jordy dropped his eyes to the floor in trepidation. “My name is Sheriff Muir. Mr Barclay and Mr Henderson have told me all about their adventures with you today.”

“I never…”

“Oh, don’t look so worried. Everything’s fine,” cooed Muir, waving his free hand emolliently. “You are not a prisoner here, you are my guest. At least for tonight. I hear you have an impressive appetite. Would you like a small bite to eat?” Muir lifted the cloth to reveal a plate on which was a large slice of meat pie.

“Eh … aye.”

Muir offered the plate and Jordy swiftly grabbed it and started to devour the treat, fearing it would be taken off him again.

“I’d like to talk to you, Jordy…”

Maggie Barclay sat by the remains of the fire in her small cottage, watching the dying embers turn from glowing red to grey and white. She knew Iain was working late tonight, but surely not this late, she thought. The distant harbour clock chimed eleven o’clock. She heard footsteps. She knew those footsteps well. They were Iain’s and she could almost tell his mood from them. They sounded … slow, heavy, almost apologetic. The expression on his face as he came in backed this up.

Barclay approached his wife, stroked her braided light brown hair, kissed her head and slumped in the chair opposite her.

“You look like you could use a cup of tea,” said Maggie Barclay.

“Use one? I could murder one.” Barclay rubbed his face.

“Here you go.” Maggie passed a cup to her husband and poured the tea. “Rough day? Another run-in with Henderson?”

“Not exactly. I’ve been at the offices of the Sheriff. I caught the mystery thief.”

“Oh, but that’s excellent news! Well done,” she beamed. “So why is this a bad thing?”

“The thief is a man called Jordy.” Barclay stared into his tea, exhausted. “Turns out he’s probably one of the MacSuails and he’s been living in and around the castle all his life and no-one in the village knew a thing about it. He seems to be, in the words of Sheriff Muir, ‘a simpleton who has gone feral and needs a role model.’ Muir wants me and Henderson to take him on. Educate him and make him, well, employable, I suppose.”

“Well, that is the Christian thing to do … he’s not staying here, is he?” she said, suddenly straightening up in her seat.

“No, love, no, that’s all taken care of. He’s staying where he is, we’ll just make sure his surroundings are a bit more civilised.”

“So what’s Mr Henderson’s role in this? And how are you supposed to get any work done, running around after an idiot?”

“I’ll find out tomorrow. It’s clear Henderson wants little to do with this and I don’t know if Sheriff Muir will involve himself anymore. Although … there’s something else.” Barclay’s brows knitted and furrowed as he spoke. Maggie leaned forward.

“What is it, love?”

“After our wee altercation and Henderson had put his tuppence-worth in, Jordy collapsed and had a fit. He spoke some strange words. They made no sense. I jotted them down, here.” He handed his wife a scrap of paper with his own messy handwriting on it.

 “This is jibberish. I can’t see any meaning in it.” Maggie read the words swiftly and handed the scrap back to her husband.

“Well, that’s partly the point. He doesn’t speak like this normally, there’s a good deal more to Jordy than I first thought. I suspect Sheriff Muir thinks so too, but he didn’t let on directly, he only gave very solid, respectable reasons why we should help the poor wretch. The other thing is this last phrase, the rising sun will die in the west.”

“Well, the sun sets in the west, so I suppose it makes sense.”

“No, it’s not that. The job I’m doing at the moment. It’s fittings for a vessel coming from Amsterdam. It’s called the Rising Sun.”

“Iain Barclay,” said Maggie as she leaned across. She took her husband’s hand and looked deep into his eyes and through a teasing smile said, “have you been breathing varnish fumes? Look, you’ve had a long, long day. Come to bed, get a good night’s sleep and we’ll take a look at this ‘Jordy’ of yours in the morning.”

Ephraim Henderson paced his dining room, swirling the claret in his goblet. The candle-light and fire in the large, ornate hearth created flitting, dancing shadows which only made his mood more uneasy and suspicious.

Why is Muir doing this to me, he thought. I don’t buy all that ‘Christian’ talk for one second. I know my old friend, he’s up to something. He’s a fly bugger - it’s one of the reasons I like him.

He tried to recall the words spoken during the idiot’s fit. Something about a horse. With horns? A red lion. A grinning fish. Flies and morass.

It was no use. I need to speak to Barclay. First thing tomorrow.