Free Classic Scottish Murder Stories by Molly Whittington-Egan

public relations exercise, taking with her as witness to her solicitude a farmhand named Sandy Muir. She informed him that, as the master refused to see a doctor (a proposition dubious in itself) she was going to consult her uncle, Robert Robertson, at Paisley. Since that gentleman had not seen his niece for four years, andscarcely recognised her, her choice of adviser was somewhat artificial. She did not turn to her own parents, but to someone removed, not likely to interfere. He did offer to send over his own medical man, Dr McKechnie, but she temporised, saying that she would be happier if her uncle would make a visit first, to see if her husband would agree. She did confide in him the unhappy truth (as she had done to her maid) that she was in a situation not of her own choosing, and that she had really preferred John Anderson. The uncle launched like a parson into a mini-homily on the sacred duties of marriage, concluding with the realistic reflection that many folk had not got the one they liked best. Christina received this wisdom meekly.
    Meanwhile, back at the Town of Inchinnan, John Muir was feeling suspicious about the black silk bag, and he went in cautiously to see his master, who was alone and in great pain. ‘Jock,’ said he to John Muir,
‘this is an unco thing!’
These words would appear to be the very epitome of the plight of the poisoned husband on his death-bed. With permission, John Muir, and a lad, set off to fetch a Dr McLaws, of Renfrew, but it was a poor choice of medico, because, not to put too fine a point on it, he was drunk. They met him by chance at Inchinnan Tollhouse at nearly midnight. Christina, returned from her uncle to find the doctor’s horse at the door, attended the bibulous consultation, which was singularly ineffectual. No-one (he said) told him that there had been vomiting, and he diagnosed ‘inflammation’, bleeding the patient with an unsteady hand, horribly to relate, and ordering him to be rubbed with turpentine, as so cleverly prognosticated by the attentive wife.
    Next morning, a Saturday, early again, after a bad night, at 8 o’clock, Christina acquired a third remedy for her unhappiness. This time, as she must have done on her second sortie, she proceeded under a false name, telling Alexander Wylie, druggist of Renfrew, that she required arsenic for rats in the field. She was ‘Miss Robertson’ acting on behalf of a farmernamed John Ferguson, but as she was a newcomer to the district, she regretfully could not remember the name of his farm. The oldest local inhabitant, brought in to advise on all possible farms by the slightly suspicious chemist nearly scuppered her, but her mild and fetching manner prevailed.
    On the Sunday, Dr Robert McKechnie, the uncle’s choice, was called in, and found the patient very feverish, with a pulse of 112, and extremely thirsty. As so often in these poison cases, his diagnosis was of a bilious condition, and he prescribed accordingly – calomel, tartaric acid, soda powders, and a blister. John Muir kept quiet about the black silk bag. The uncle, making up for four years’ distance, acted as night-nurse to relieve the exhausted wife. Christina again confided in him her aversion to her marriage, and seemed to be ‘brooding’ about it. It is as if she would have relented (although it was surely too late) if the uncle – a relative in a position of authority – had said that he understood her pain, and released her.
    The doctor asked for vomit and excreta to be preserved for his inspection, but Christina evaded his request. By now, John Gilmour was fast slipping away, and relatives and servants were constantly at his bedside. His wife helped to administer the prescribed powders. He begged to be ‘opened’ – an ambiguous request. They heard him utter two statements, almost dying declarations: ‘Oh, that woman! If you have given me anything... ‘and ‘Oh, if