Hue and Cry

by Shirley McKay

  Nicholas did not reply. He muttered, almost to himself. ‘I will go and see Tom, aye, I’ll see him, and find out. For there must be a reason to it. Aye, there must be something more.’

  ‘I cannot think that wise,’ objected Hew. ‘There is a curfew on the college, and your interest must seem strange. And you are far from well. I wish you would make yourself known to my friend, Giles Locke. He is expecting you.’

  Nicholas wiped his hand across his face, and Hew saw that he was sweating, on this chill September morning in the coolness of the kirk. ‘I have no need of physic,’ he demurred. ‘It is my mind that is in flux, without I know the truth. This horror has polluted all my dreams. I may not be at peace until the matter is resolved. I thank you for the news; now leave me to pursue it as I will.’

  ‘When did you last eat?’ Hew demanded suddenly.

  Nicholas stared at the ground. ‘I find that these events depress the appetite,’ he replied at last.

  Hew persisted, ‘Aye, but before? You will forgive my bluntness; we were friends as boys, and I know your circumstances. For the sake of that friendship, would you accept a small purse of coin?’

  Nicholas coloured. ‘I would not be in your debt.’

  ‘No, and I protest there would not be a debt. Have they paid you for your teaching yet?’

  His friend conceded in a whisper. ‘We are paid only in termtime. As for Alexander, I can scarcely ask it now.’

  ‘Then take the money, as a token of our friendship.’

  ‘I cannot think it worth much,’ Nicholas said oddly.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Ah, tis nothing. I confess, I am in a sad darkness, and cannot see clearly. But I accept your money, and I thank you. Understand, I do not want it for myself, but to buy the way to Tom.’

  Hew handed him his purse. ‘If you won’t be dissuaded, then I shall come with you,’ he offered reluctantly. He was relieved when Nicholas refused. His baggage had been taken on to Kenly Green, his family was expecting him, and restless at the ostler’s stood a sleek, dun saddle horse, itching to be ridden. The mists were clearing as they spoke. The day promised to break fair.

  Dyeing

  Nicholas bought a bannock from a baker in the street, still warm and crumbling in his hands. He walked along the south street to avoid the Strachans’ shop. The bustle of the markets drifted through the lanes. Carts rumbled over cobbles. Hawkers cried their wares before a flux of people streaming in and out of church, but Nicholas remained oblivious to all. He passed the New College of St Mary and the house of the Dominicans, then crossed towards the Holy Trinity and on to the tolbooth through the Burgher Close. There was a gaol of sorts below, a narrow chamber open through a grating to the street. He walked over it now without looking down. Two Flemish merchants argued in the courtroom over confiscated goods. A clerk sat in the doorway scratching minutes in a ledger. Nicholas approached him cautiously. ‘I’ve come to see Tom Begbie in the gaol.’

  Squabbling broke out in the room behind him. A group of Dutch sailors had started a fight. He had to shout to be heard.

  ‘You’ve surety for him?’ The town clerk reached hopefully for his cash box. ‘Indict and accusit of murderous slaughter. I’ll just compute the cost. What did you say your name was? Are you his friend?’

  ‘I am a friend. But I don’t have enough for his bail. I’d simply like to talk to him.’

  The town clerk sighed. ‘Can’t be done, friend. He’s accused of murder. If you were his brother now—’

  ‘Then I am his brother. Here’s something for his keep.’ He emptied all Hew’s shillings on the desk in front of him. The burgess scooped them up with expert hand.

  ‘Why did ye no’ say? He’s in the black hole. There’s a man watches over the top of the stair. Tell him Davie Meldrum said to take you down. Bid him lend his candle, for you’ll find it dark down there.’

  The gaoler, such as he was, led him moodily down to the vault. ‘He’s in there. I’ll be back for ye.’ He slammed the door.

  Nicholas held out the flame. Little daylight filtered through from the street. He heard a rustling in the straw, and gradually, a face emerged.

  ‘Do you see me, Tom? I brought you bread.’ He spoke softly, to disguise the tremor in his voice. His hands were shaking too.

  ‘Are you the dempster, sir?’

  The dempster read the doom or sentence of the court. The clerks had had their fun with Tom. His cheeks were black with tears.

  ‘No, I’m not the dempster. It hasn’t come to judgement yet. There’ll be a trial. Don’t you know me, Tom? I was Alexander’s tutor.’

  ‘Master Colp?’ Tom emerged from the shadows, blinking in surprise, to squint into his face.

  ‘I didn’t kill him, sir,’ he pleaded.

  Nicholas said carefully, ‘Why do they think it, then?’

  Tom took the bread and nibbled at the corner. After a while he began. ‘Because . . . because I couldn’t touch the body. I was feart. And because we found him in my bed. And because they say that no one else was in the shop that night. But I swear it isn’t true. I wasn’t even there.’

  Nicholas sighed in the darkness. ‘Did you not tell them?’ he asked.

  The boy dropped his eyes. ‘I cannot, sir. It’s where I was.’ He swallowed the bread and spoke thickly. ‘My master keeps a flock at Kincaple, two or three miles to the west of the town. He sometimes sends me out to help if we’re quiet in the shop. There’s a lass there, Katrin. Her father Davie Fyffe’s the drover. You’ll have seen him in the town on market day. They have a cottage in the fields, scarcely even that, but a roof for their heads. And Katrin . . . well, her mother’s dead. She lives a bit wild, I suppose. She helps out with the sheep. She doesn’t like to come to town. My mistress Ford is kind to her. She sends them things – a pair of pigeons from the doocot or old clothes of Tibbie’s. Katrin brings us herbs and brambles in return, perhaps some butter if the ewes have milk to spare. She’s proud. I bought her ribbons from the market once.’

  ‘You’re saying that you passed the night with her?’ Nicholas said shrewdly.

  ‘We’re handfast,’ the boy flushed, ‘so she does not count it wrong. I intend to wed her. Only no one knows. The Strachans think I mean to marry Tibbie, but I won’t.’ His tone was petulant. ‘Tibbie’s just a child. On Saturday I walked out to the fields and made my tryst with Katrin. We met in the lane after dark. My master trusts me to lock up the shop, but instead I leave it open, take him up the keys and slip out to the farm till dawn. In the morning he comes down through the house with the keys and asks me to open up again. You see, he never knows it has been left unlocked.’

  ‘Then anyone might enter from the street?’

  ‘Aye, and someone did. I knew it when we came back from the fair on market day. I feared they’d stolen Master Strachan’s cloth and it would all come out, but it was worse than that. For there was Alexander lying killed. I couldn’t touch him then. How could I? It’s my fault. I’m to blame for his death. They call it art and part slaughter, the coroner says, as sure as if I’d done it myself. But, sir, I didn’t kill him. I would never wish him dead. I wasn’t there.’

  Nicholas considered this. ‘If what you say is true, it is not art and part. You were derelict in duty, to be sure. And your master may discharge you from your bonds. Yet you cannot be committed for the slaughter, if you did not mean to let the killer in.’

  ‘Then you believe me, sir?’ the boy asked tearfully.

  ‘You give a plausible account. And Katrin will confirm it, I suppose?’

  Tom slumped further to the ground. ‘I fear that I’m a dead man, sir.’

  ‘You don’t think she will back you?’

  ‘I will tell them it’s a lie. I’ll not see them shave her head and set her on the cutty stool for all the folks to gawp. She wouldn’t understand, she thinks we’re wed. She hasn’t been brought up to fear the kirk.’

  ‘Well then, Tom, she need not fear, if you’re prepared to take her part.
But you know you ought to marry her?’

  ‘Aye. And so I will. But do you think the likes of George Dyer will leave it at that?’

  ‘Who is George Dyer?’ Nicholas asked cautiously. ‘What is this to do with him?’

  ‘A most officious elder of the kirk,’ the boy said miserably. ‘He’s always watching us.’

  ‘Then do you think he knew of this affair?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘I cannot think he did, else the wrath of Hell were already wrought upon us. We have ay been careful. For certain, he would like to know. And when he does, he’ll have us both before the kirk for the sin of fornication. The session will demand it, handfast or not, for there’s none to defend us. I’ll never make a burgess now; we’re nothing in the town. I care little for myself, but I won’t see Katrin shamed.’

  Nicholas nodded. ‘Aye, I understand. Have courage now. I hear the turnkey’s footsteps on the stair. But I’ll come back tonight. I will speak to the girl – patience, for I will not fright her. And if she will confirm your tale, then something may be done to help you both.’

  ‘Why, sir, would you help us?’ The boy gazed at him doubtfully, a faint light of hope through the tears.

  Nicholas said softly, ‘For Alexander’s sake.’

  The long walk to the cottage sapped his strength, for Nicholas was worn and hungry, and the poison in his thigh began to spread. The drover’s daughter brought him oatmeal and a bowl of broth, thickly blackened with brambles and prune. He drank it gratefully. She was birdlike, slighter than Tibbie, light on her feet with grey solemn eyes. She opened them wide as he tried to explain about Tom. ‘To be sure he was here. I’m his wife. For why should he not be?’

  She listened gravely as he told her, warming broth and water, flitting through the lamplight. She asked no questions, but quietly wept.

  ‘Do you know George Dyer?’ he concluded.

  ‘Aye,’ she stared into the fire. Her voice came oddly through the smoke. ‘He watches us.’

  ‘How so, does he watch you?’ Nicholas demanded. ‘Did he know what you were doing?’

  Katrin shook her head. ‘I know not, sir. He watches us.’ She whispered, ‘I did not know what we did was wrong.’

  ‘I understand. Do not fear the dyer, Katrin, I will speak with him.’ He tried to force a smile.

  ‘And for myself, I do not think that what you did was wrong.’ He winced a little. ‘I am weary. May I rest awhile?’

  The lass was standing at his side with a basin of warm water, watching him curiously. She had scrubbed away the tears with her fists.

  ‘I think you are not well, sir. Are you wounded? May I see?’

  He could not lift his shirt to her, and so he shook his head. ‘I am a little tired,’ he murmured, ‘Aye, tis all.’

  ‘My father won’t be back before dusk. You may stay until then.’ She put down the bowl. ‘But I must go to him now to help with the sheep. He expects me. I’ll leave you, sir. There’s feverfew here for the pain.’

  He seemed not to have heard her, for his eyes had closed. Katrin wrapped a woollen plaid around her shoulders. It had once belonged to Tibbie, heather grey with scarlet trim. A fold of grey wool cowled her face. Softly she closed the cottage door behind her, leaving Nicholas to sleep. She did not join her father in the fields among the ewes but turned instead to walk the narrow lane towards the town.

  It was almost four o’clock when Nicholas awoke. Katrin had blown out the lamp and the house was in darkness, acrid with smoke. He pushed open the door. Outside he heard only the voice of the wind, the farm boys at work preparing for harvest, an occasional whistle or cry from the gulls. The sheep roamed wild among the barley. Circling, black crows scoured the skies. Of Davie Fyffe or Katrin he could see no sign.

  The Dyers lived apart, by the Kinness Burn south of the town, close to the edge of the water. Their cottage was marked by a barrel of piss, a great tub of lye left out by the door, thickly putrid and rank. On summer days it hummed with flies. The towns-people seldom came by. When they did, plaids muffled round their mouths, with a faded Sunday shirt, a fleece or length of cloth to colour for their lass, the menfolk held their breath and pissed into the bucket as they left. It was the proper, the politest thing to do. It helped the litster make the mordants for his dyes. The women sometimes took a vessel in the house and voided more discreetly where the stench was fouler still. Rotting cakes of lichen, piss-soaked, smouldered by the fire. For weeks on end they hung there drying into dyes or painters’ colours, mouldering in the damp or gently crumbling into dust according to the season. The children played outside in the air by the burn. They came indoors to hold their breath and use the pot. At night they never slept beside the fire.

  No one used the house by day. The dyer simmered his pots on smoke piles at the back. He had three vats, almost four feet deep, copper-bottomed, rimmed with iron. They had been left to him by his father. Because of them, his hair and clothes were perfumed like a piss pot, his children were despised and his fingernails were blue. His eldest boy Will had a feel for the work, knowing just how much would give the deepest hue, when best to gather lichens, squeezing out the sap, which dyestuffs should be bought in from abroad. He chased the most elusive shades of yellow, red and purple, the most fugitive of colours, fading from the light. But George Dyer loathed the trade. He struggled for a place upon the burgh council and a voice within the gilds. He was an elder of the kirk who tirelessly bore witness against his neighbours at the sessions and spent his Sabbath rooting out delinquents from the alehouse, chasing truant farmers into church. Yet still he knew the merchants sniggered at his clothes. He bit his nails and tried to hide his hands.

  He was working now on a great vat of purple, stirring up the embers of the fire. This was a delicate shade; based on violet orchil. He was afraid a little lye left in the yarn might turn it crimson or a spot of oil would stain it dirty blue. He ought to have left it to Will, but for once he was working alone. He had sent both his sons to help at the Strachans’ shop, for it was well to keep in there. With Tom in the gaol he hoped for a place for his younger boy James. His wife and bairns were by the river, scraping grease from sheepskin, laying out fleeces to dry in the sun. They would be gone for several hours, the baby asleep by their side in her crib. Far off he heard the laughter of his favourite daughter Jennie as she danced on the stones. The afternoon was clear. The pelts should be dry before dawn.

  He picked up a stick to stir the dark depths of the pot. Though the waters looked black the hooked strand of yarn that emerged was a deep speckled plum. He draped a little on a frame to test for fastness to the light. The deepest shades fled from the glare of the sun. There was room in the pot for more yarn. He had a stack in the cottage, newly spun, from tawny grey sheep that should take the shade well. Collecting it, he thought he heard steps and called out, but there was no reply. Perhaps the children played outside the house, or a passer-by felt the need to make use of the piss pot. It had happened once or twice. They did not like to be disturbed. He shrugged and returned to his work. The liquor had begun to cool. It was time to stoke up the fire. Lifting the yarn, he knelt over the pot. The waters lay still, like blackberry wine, lichens crusting round the edge.

  The crust was the last thing he saw before the blow fell. He staggered forwards, falling, flailing in the vat. As he opened his mouth to cry out, the lye stripped the voice from his throat. Purple dye streamed through his lungs.

  The killer stepped aside and wiped his fingers on his cloak. A pity, he had spoiled the dye. But a presumptuous colour nonetheless.

  It was Will, the dyer’s son, who found the body. On his way home he stopped by the burn. His mother looked weary and hot, and he offered to fetch her a cup of fresh milk. Janet was heavy with child. He skimmed a stone or two with Jennie across the surface of the water and tickled the baby, dangling her legs in the stream. His brother James was still in Strachan’s shop, but Will had left early to test out the strength of his dye. He had been working on the violet shade for s
everal days. He hoped that it might please the king. Returning to the house, he found the door wide open. Beside it, on the ground by the great stinking pot, as if caught short and overtaken by the fumes, lay the figure of a man. Will dropped down beside him, lifting the hair that shrouded the face. The features were narrow and pale below a light shadow of beard. He’d met the man before in Strachan’s house, where he had tutored the dead boy. His name was Nicholas Colp. He could not take him into the house, where the air was even fouler, so he dragged him clear onto the grass and called to his father for help. When the dyer did not come he returned to the burn to send his sister Jennie running into town. His mother brought cold water from the well. They waited for some time, until the college servants grumbled down the bank and made a cot to carry him. The children watched wide-eyed. It was only then that Will remembered to tend to his pots. He frowned to see the colour splashed around the sides. And in the bramble-coloured dye he found his father drowned, his face grotesque and swollen, bobbing like a plum. He was mauve to the roots of his hair and the whites of his eyes.

  The hue and cry came slowly, distant as the weeping of the gulls as word began to whisper in the street. It began to grow dark in the town. On the Mercatgait, the weaver dimmed the lamps and closed the shutters of his shop. He settled in a chair to count his coins. Business had been brisk. Women came to stare but left with handkerchiefs and scarves. A woollen shawl was worth a glimpse, a mantle cloth a banquet with the corpse. He had even had enquiries for that shade of bluish-grey and had sold off half a length to make a dress. He could market it as Alexander Blue. He slipped the purse into his sleeve and hugged it close, alone among his profits and his thoughts.

  In the darkness of the gaol a little further down the street, Tom Begbie wept. Nicholas had not returned. Outside he heard the bailies turn the locks, debtors calling down through open windows, footsteps running through the court. He did not see the small procession passing through the town. There was not enough light to look out through the grating. By night the streets were almost still. A woman’s voice came coarse across the passage, then the sound of laughter dying back; a man said ‘shush!’ He crouched down in the straw and waited for the dawn.