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The fire had been accidentally sparked into life in one of the grain stores, where piles of dry wheat, barley, and rye, as well as sheaves of thatching grass and bales of hay, went up in smoke in a matter of seconds. It had spread with lightning speed to the buttery, where all the fats and oils in the foodstuffs had added fuel to the flames.
After the fat had spread over the floor, there was no stopping the fire, which had turned into an inferno, and soon the cellar where vegetables and dry fruits were stored was threatened. Fortunately, the alarm was sounded by an alert stablehand before then and scores of men from the palace guard as well as man servants and maid servants came to form a chain of buckets to extinguish it. The chain led all the way from the moat, crossing the courtyard to the stores where the fire had started. Buckets and buckets of water were thrown at the flames, but the fire did not seem to be diminishing.
Murdoch Holmes, Captain of the Guard, was one of the men who threw their bodies into the flames. He had been sleeping peacefully in his bunk beside the rest of his comrades in the castle keep when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and he was rudely shaken awake. He opened his eyes drowsily and glared at the owner of the hand, Donny McVey, one of the night watches. Murdoch had been enjoying one of his few precious nights off and was not happy to be rudely awakened while he was enjoying pleasant dreams.
“Quick, Captain!” Donny said urgently. “There is a fire in the grain stores, an’ we must put it out. We need your help.”
“Coming!” Murdoch leaped out of bed and threw on his tunic and breeches. “Has much damage been done?”
“An awful lot,” Donny replied, his voice grim. “It has burnt a’ the grain. You know that stuff is tinder dry.”
“Was it an accident?” Murdoch asked, puzzled.
“I think somebody dropped a candle,” Donny answered, shrugging. “But we might be able tae find out once the fire is put out.”
As he spoke, they were descending the stairs to the stores, and the further down they went, the thicker the smoke became. By the time they reached within ten yards of the fire, both of them were coughing convulsively, almost unable to breathe. It was impossible to see anything except the tongues of flame licking the building and the thick choking fog, and their eyes stung so badly that tears ran down their faces.
Murdoch received a bucket of water from the person on his left, then passed it to the person on his right, who in turn passed it to the next person, and so on.
It was exhausting work because not only did they have the heat to deal with, but the suffocating smoke which belched from the fierce flames. The sound of coughing was everywhere.
Murdoch had once dreamed about a vision of hell, and this was it. Smoke, flames, darkness, and noisome fumes were choking him even now, and he was covered in a thick film of sweat. Many of the firefighters were turning away and leaving, unable to cope with the foul conditions any longer, and Murdoch could see that after the fire was extinguished there would be many casualties.
However, at last, by the sheer courage and determination of the firefighters, the inferno was beaten back, and they were victorious. They stumbled outside into the fresh night air and stood trying to breathe in lungfuls of it while coughing uncontrollably. The hacking, rasping sound sullied the peace of the night, but when the crowd of firefighters had expelled the smoke from their lungs, wet their throats, and quenched their thirst, all was quiet.
* * *
Murdoch was not having a very good time. The sight of Laird McTavish turning purple with rage was not an edifying sight, and the foul, disgusting words spewing from his mouth were making him growl with rage inside. The man could not seem to be able to say ten words without swearing. Having been brought up in a household where such behavior was not tolerated, Murdoch found it difficult to endure, but he swallowed his revulsion and listened patiently.
“I want to know who started the fire,” the laird said furiously, thumping his hands on the table before he tipped most of a goblet of whiskey down his throat. His grey-blue eyes were flaming with rage as he took in the men sitting around the table. Some were studying its scarred surface intently, some drinking ale, and one was drumming his fingers on the table, much to Murdoch’s annoyance.
“Is anybody listening to a word I am saying?” he demanded. “I asked if any one of you knows who started that fire? And what were they after? They would not have deliberately burnt food when they are always whining they have none.”
Andy Grey sighed. “M’Laird, do ye no’ think we would tell ye if we knew?” he asked patiently. “I think they might have been after the candles an’ the honey, but many o’ our food stores were destroyed in that fire. An’ although our tenants have wee stores o’ their own, it will no’ be enough tae tide them through winter.”
“I will worry about the tenants later,” the laird snapped. “They will have enough after the harvest, and if not, I will sort things out in my own good time.” He turned to Murdoch. “Holmes, you have always been a good bloodhound to me.” He grinned at his own wit. “You are usually able to sniff out secrets. Remember when you helped me to find the servant who stole my mother’s necklace? That treasure was worth a fortune, not to mention the sentimental value, of course.”
“Yes, M’Laird,” Murdoch said meekly, fisting his hands under the table.
He was trying not to let his fury show on his face as he thought of the incident. For the crime of trying to feed her family, the maid had been exiled to America, and she would never see them again. Laird Archie McTavish’s mother had been an irascible old tyrant who could have spared the necklace. It was just another trinket to her. He was sure he was not the only one who did not mourn her passing.
Murdoch would never forgive himself for the injustice which had been done to the poor girl and was determined never to be put in that position again. However, this mission was different. This had not been a deliberate attempt to steal the bread out of people’s mouths. This had been incidental damage that would hurt the rebels more than the laird. Their aim had been to steal necessary items, not destroy them.
“So, I would like you and Dougie Prentice to go and sniff out this criminal,” the laird ordered grimly. “You can use your charm and good looks.” He pointed at Murdoch. “And this man can use his cunning and sense of humor.”
He looked at Dougie, a tall, sturdy redhead with sparkling blue eyes who always looked as if he was up to mischief. He was usually sent to help Murdoch in whatever task the laird needed to be done, and the two of them had become good friends over the years of their acquaintance. Murdoch trusted Dougie implicitly. In fact, he would have trusted him with his life.
“I am sure between the two o’ us we can dae it, M’Laird,” Dougie assured him. “There are many skellums in these parts, but there are plenty o’ boats tae America, eh, Murdoch?” He nudged his friend with his elbow, wondering why he looked so miserable.
Murdoch pasted a smile on his face and agreed. “Indeed,” he answered. “It will not take much time to hunt down these criminals.”
“You think there are many of them?” the laird asked fearfully.
“I do,” Murdoch answered. “It seems to me that this, the livestock theft and the thefts from your barns in the outlying fields, are all part of a pattern. Someone is trying to sabotage you, M’Laird, and I will find out why.”
The laird grinned at him and handed him a cup of spiced ale, then looked around at the rest of the men. “I want the rest of you to keep your eyes open as well since this person is not only stealing my property but trying to make fun of me at the same time. I do not want them disrespecting their laird like this. He must be made an example of because I do not want any others to get the same idea. I have kept this estate in good order since my father died, and I do not want to see it crumbling into dust now.”
