The Fourth Crow

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘Lowrie, you can get over to Vicar’s Close after we’ve eaten,’ said Gil. ‘Talk to Habbie Sim’s man, see if he minds when he last saw that gown, yellow brocade faced wi green taffeta, and the box wi his Tarot cards. Oh, and see if you can make out where Barnabas had the apricots and figs from. I meant to ask them that this morning and all, but it slipped my mind.’

  Lowrie nodded, colouring up. Catherine said, in French,

  ‘I do not think Maister Sim has robbed St Mungo’s. He is a good son of Holy Church.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Gil, ‘but I’m too close to him to handle that part of the matter.’ She inclined her head in agreement. ‘It’s a bit near even to send Lowrie, but I’m no certain any of Otterburn’s men would ask the right questions of his man, and Otterburn himself would simply frighten the fellow.’

  Crossing the outer courtyard of the pilgrim hostel, the dog at his heels, Gil met Sir Simon just leaving the chapel.

  ‘Maister Cunningham,’ said the priest, nodding. ‘And have you aught to report?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Gil. ‘I was hoping you might have news.’

  Sir Simon grimaced.

  ‘None, neither good nor bad, maister. Sir Edward is still wi us, weaker but in his full wits. I will say, that doctor is right clever wi the medicines the way he keeps the old fellow’s pain at bay and yet allows him his mind clear. And there’s no sign o Annie Gibb. Were you wanting a word wi any of them? The doctor’s here, a course, and I believe the women’s come back fro St Mungo’s, but the good-son’s got the men out searching the Stablegreen again.’

  ‘I want to talk to the two men that were guarding Annie that night,’ Gil said. ‘One o them said he’d come from her father’s house.’

  ‘Now, I think that’s the one that’s stayed behind,’ said Sir Simon. ‘In case there should be errands to be run, ye ken.’

  Fetched from the men’s hall, the man Sawney was willing enough to talk.

  ‘Aye, I last had an answer from her just about midnight,’ he assured Gil. ‘She was sounding like hersel, asking me to set her free, though she said she had no cramp nor anything in her feet, we’d bound her wi good attention to that. And the next time, maybe an hour later, I thought she was asleep. I wish I’d gone closer,’ he admitted, ‘we’d maybe ha had a better chance o finding her if we’d kent sooner she was flown.’

  ‘You’d kent her a while,’ said Gil, letting this pass.

  ‘Aye, from she was a wee thing,’ the man agreed. ‘I mind her on her first powny, wi her hair down her back. A bonnie lass, and a loving. I served James Gibb afore she was born, ye ken, maister, and a good man to serve he was and all. Deid now, a course, and Marian Wallace o Crosslee deid and all, Our Lady be thanked, and no knowing what’s come to her wee lassie.’

  ‘Her mother, you mean?’ Gil said, recalling the names in the documents he had seen at Sir Edward’s side.

  ‘Aye, that she was. A good lady, and well dowered, or so I heard.’

  ‘What was her dower? Was it lands, or money?’ Gil asked hopefully, but Sawney shook his head.

  ‘I’ve never a notion, maister. See, I was never out o Tarbolton till we rode to Glenbuck wi Annie. If the mistress’s lands was ever mentioned by name, other than Crosslee where she cam frae, I’d no ha taken any mind, I only heard they was plenty.’

  ‘And it all went to Annie,’ Gil said.

  ‘The whole lot went to Annie,’ said Sawney, ‘no matter what her kin said.’ Gil raised his eyebrows. ‘See, there was some talk o a bit land wi a mill, or a mine, or something o the sort, gey profitable, that James Gibb’s cousin laid claim to, though he wasny even the same surname. Away ayont Cumnock, it was. His man o law tried to serve a bit paper on Annie, the cousin’s man I mean, after her faither was deid, but Sir Edward and his man saw them off. That’d learn them, said Sir Edward,’ he grinned at the memory, ‘to take her for an unprotected lassie.’

  ‘His man of law, you mean?’ That must be land from her father’s property, not her mother’s dowry. Unless it was entailed, James Gibb would be entitled to leave it as he wished.

  ‘Is that no what I said?’

  ‘So her mother,’ said Gil, trying to sum this up, ‘came from Renfrewshire, this place Crosslee, and had lands about there maybe.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldny ken about that.’

  ‘And there was her father’s land in Ayrshire, about Tarbolton and Cumnock.’ Sawney nodded. ‘Had Annie no connection about Glasgow? No land here, maybe an agent, any kin or friends dwelling in Glasgow? Or even in Rutherglen?’

  ‘No that I ever heard, maister,’ said Sawney earnestly. ‘If her mother’s lands was by Crosslee, like you said, that’s ayont Paisley, or so I’ve heard. That’s no so far distant fro’ Glasgow, I suppose.’

  ‘Was any of the people about James Gibb’s house from Glasgow?’ Gil persisted, clutching at straws. ‘Other servants, Mistress Wallace’s women, any like that?’

  ‘No that I can mind.’ Sawney shook his head. ‘Maister, it’s six year since I set een on any o them, and the household was all broke up when my maister dee’d, I’ve never a notion. What’s more, if any o them had a connection wi our Annie, sent her news or the like, the rest o the house at Glenbuck would ha got to hear of it, you can be sure o that.’ He met Gil’s sceptical glance, and jerked his head towards the women’s hall. ‘Dame Ellen doesny let much stir about the place wi’out she has a finger in the matter. Or her whole hand,’ he added rather bitterly.

  ‘Aye, and it’s as well somebody does,’ pronounced Dame Ellen from the doorway of the hall. She advanced on Gil, simpering, her two nieces peering out of the door behind her. ‘I’m sure you’ve more to be about, maister, than let this fellow keep you back from your tasks. Away back to the stable, Sawney, and clean that wheen harness.’

  ‘It’s cleaned,’ muttered Sawney.

  ‘I sent for him,’ said Gil, raising his hat to Dame Ellen and then to her nieces, at which they giggled nervously. ‘He’s been a great help.’ He nodded dismissal to the man, who escaped with something like relief on his face. ‘Did Sir Simon say you’d gone over to St Mungo’s the day?’

  ‘We were there all morning.’ She folded her arms, hitching up her substantial bosom, and jerked her head at her nieces. ‘Away back to your needlework, you lassies, and Meggot can oversee you. Aye, sir,’ she gave him a smile with far too many teeth in it, ‘we were in St Mungo’s, making our devotions at his tomb, praying for an easy passage for my poor brother. I’ve left coin for a couple Masses the day, to relieve his going. They’re a wee bit ower-set the day, even my kinsman,’ she added, her tone souring. ‘Seems as if none o them can think beyond this fellow put down the well. What’s a well doing in a great kirk, anyway? Just asking to have things put down it, so it is. I never heard o sic a thing afore.’

  ‘It’s said to be St Mungo’s well itself.’

  She gave him another of those dreadful smiles.

  ‘So my kinsman tells me. Any road, that’s where we’ve been.’

  ‘I hope it gave you comfort,’ he said conventionally. ‘Tell me, madam, whose idea was it to bring Annie Gibb to St Mungo’s? What prompted the journey? It’s a long road, particularly with your brother in such a sad way.’

  ‘Aye, my poor brother,’ she said again, and crossed herself. ‘Why, it was his idea, maister. Took the notion into his head to see his good-daughter cured afore he departs, and nothing would do but we must all convoy him to Glasgow town in a great procession.’

  ‘And if she was cured? What did he plan for her then?’

  ‘Oh, sir, I’ve never a notion. He never discussed the likes o that wi me.’

  Did he not? thought Gil sceptically. But I’ll wager you discussed it with him, even if you got no answers.

  ‘You never thought o wedding her to one o your Muir kinsmen?’ he asked.

  ‘I did,’ she admitted, with another toothy smile, ‘but the lassie never favoured either o them, even had she no been melancholy-mad. A pity, they’re two bon
nie laddies, and well to do, at least Henry is, but there you are, lassies will be lassies.’

  ‘Is there anyone else that came seeking her particularly?’ he asked. ‘Anyone that might think it worthwhile stealing her away, wedding her by force?’

  ‘Oh, is that what you’re thinking now?’ She stared at him in amazement. ‘Oh, no, sir, that’s never what’s come to her, surely! I fear the only way we’ll find her now is by leaving her to lie under whatever dyke till she’s stinking. I tell you, it’s like to break my poor brother’s heart if he’s to meet his end no knowing what’s come to her.’

  ‘Lockhart’s out searching, so I believe,’ Gil observed. She showed her teeth again.

  ‘If he feels he’s being useful, I suppose. Well, I’ll not keep you back. You’ve enough to do, I don’t doubt.’ She nodded to him, and turned away to the women’s hall.

  As the heavy door swung shut behind her, hasty feet sounded in the passage from the outer courtyard, and Henry Muir burst from the entry, his brother on his heels.

  ‘Where’s my— Oh, it’s you,’ he said, frowning at Gil. ‘Where’s Dame Ellen? Do you ken aught o this new matter at St Mungo’s?’

  ‘New matter?’ Gil raised an eyebrow. Muir shook his head impatiently.

  ‘Another death. One o their vergers, so the Canon told us, bound wi ropes and put down a well. A right strange thing. He said he was strangled and all. Is it aught to do wi Annie? Or this other hoor that was in her place?’

  ‘Aye, but Henry, that wasny—’ began his brother. Muir lifted a threatening hand, and Austin fell silent.

  ‘No connection that I can see,’ Gil said. ‘It seems as if the man was thieving goods from the Almoner’s stores, and I wonder if his death is linked to that.’

  ‘Oh.’ Muir stared at him, frowning, and Gil studied the man in return. He was garbed today in a high-necked doublet of dark red velvet, the breast and stiff collar embroidered with silken pinks and bright green leaves, the cuffs of its tight sleeves turned back with, yes, gold brocade.

  ‘You were out again the night Annie went to the Cross,’ he said. Muir gave him a challenging nod. ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Down the High Street.’ The other man snorted in what seemed to be amusement. ‘There was some kind o prentice ploy on at the Girth Cross, daft laddies all about the place and getting shoved into the burn, we’d to avoid them. We never went near Annie, if that’s what you’re asking. Her own servants had an eye to her, we’d no need to get involved.’

  ‘And yet I heard you’d a notion to wed her yourself,’ said Gil. ‘It would ha been a nice attention, to keep watch for her.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ demanded Muir, but his brother was grinning and nodding.

  ‘Oh, aye,’ he said, ‘Henry’s right inclined to Annie, or he was, till she—’ He broke off as Muir turned to glare at him.

  ‘Till she what?’ Gil asked innocently.

  ‘Till she vanished,’ said Muir aggressively.

  ‘What were you wearing that night?’

  ‘Wearing? Why? D’ye think I have aught to do wi her disappearing?’

  ‘No,’ said Gil mildly. ‘I just wondered what sic a well-dressed fellow as yourself might wear to go out on the town.’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy tellt,’ said Austin irrepressibly, as his brother glanced up and down Gil’s well-worn black garb, ‘for it was your blue brocade, and the satin doublet under it, was it no, Henry, and I had on my grey velvet. Aye, it was the brocade,’ he went on, ‘for you got ale on your good ’broidered shirt, Nory was right displeased at you, though it never went on the brocade.’

  ‘Will you be quiet?’ demanded his brother. ‘Haud yer wheesht and let wiser folks talk. Which is just about a’body in Glasgow,’ he added bitterly. Austin shuffled back a couple of steps, with what might have been meant for an ingratiating grin.

  ‘So what time did you get back to the house?’ Gil asked casually. ‘I wonder if you saw anything that might be helpful.’

  Muir shrugged.

  ‘We were in bed by midnight, so it must ha been afore that.’ He paused to consider. ‘There was the prentice battle, like I tellt you, and a few folk going home from their drinking. Nothing I can mind.’

  ‘There was the man wi that handcart,’ said Austin, ‘that I heard when we went up Rottenrow.’

  ‘There was no handcart, you daftheid!’ said his brother. ‘I tell you, you imagined it, or you’re making it up!’

  ‘Aye, Henry,’ said Austin docilely. ‘But how did I hear it if I’m making it up?’

  ‘Any road, I’m wanting a word wi that doctor,’ Muir continued, ignoring this. ‘Doctor Christian, or whatever his name is. I want to ken how does our kinsman.’

  ‘He hasny long, I believe,’ said Gil.

  ‘Aye, but how long is that?’ he demanded. ‘How long does whoever’s stole Annie away have to keep her hid?’

  ‘Keep her hidden?’ Gil repeated. ‘Are you thinking it’s someone Sir Edward would never contemplate wedding her wi? That he’s waiting till her guardian’s gone?’

  ‘What else would it be, man?’ said Muir contemptuously, while Austin grinned and nodded behind him. ‘And if I’d thought it would work, I’d ha done the same. I just wish I’d kent who it was that was after her, I’d ha dealt wi them aforehand. All that land, to go out o the family!’

  ‘Sir Edward did not wish to see her wedded at all, I thought,’ Gil offered.

  ‘Foolishness,’ said Muir. ‘Leave her property all unstewarded? Sheer waste. And what is this about the second death, then?’ he demanded, with an abrupt reversion to his subject. ‘The auld fool hadny a plain tale to tell, he’s right stonied by it all and makin’ no sense. When was it?’

  ‘Yestreen,’ Gil said. Muir frowned.

  ‘Yestreen. So when was he killed? Who was it? One o the vergers, you said.’

  ‘Aye,’ Gil said. ‘A man called Barnabas. He was found some time after Compline, and had likely been dead no more than a couple of hours.’

  Muir was still frowning, working something out. Austin said,

  ‘Oh, well, that’s no a worry, Henry—’ He stepped back, not fast enough to avoid the swinging backhander, and recovered himself to stand rubbing his mouth and nose, staring at his brother in dumb reproach.

  ‘So no that long afore Vespers,’ said Muir, as if nothing had happened. Gil nodded agreement. ‘But why? It’s a daft thing to do, put a man down a well in a kirk!’

  ‘Daft thing to do, to throttle a lassie after she’s dead,’ Gil observed.

  ‘What d’you mean by that?’ demanded Muir, hackling up.

  ‘Why, that it’s a daft thing to do,’ said Gil. ‘No other.’

  ‘He’s right there, Henry,’ said Austin, ‘the one’s as daft as the other. Here, d’you think it was—’

  ‘Will you haud your wheesht?’

  ‘D’you think it was what, Austin?’ Gil asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Austin, rubbing at his mouth again. ‘Forgot what I was going to say.’

  ‘Henry, Austin, I thought I heard you,’ said Dame Ellen in the doorway of the women’s hall.

  ‘There you are!’ said Muir in the same breath. ‘Madam,’ he added. She gave them both a simpering smile.

  ‘You’re here in a good hour, laddies. You can escort me over to St Mungo’s, till I offer another prayer for my poor brother.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Kittock sent these,’ said Alys, setting the basket of pasties down on the bench in the masons’ lodge.

  This was not strictly true. When asked for a bite to offer the men Kittock had cast her eye about the kitchen and said reluctantly, ‘Well, they’ve aye liked the cheese pasties, mem, and I could make some more for our own supper, you could take them those if you wanted.’ She had then added a handful of parsley in a cloth and a dozen of the little cakes from the day’s baking; Alys herself had drawn a large jug of ale from the barrel in the brewhouse. Jennet set this down now beside the basket and pushed her fai
r locks back over her shoulders, smiling at Maistre Pierre’s man Thomas who had paused in his work to watch them.

  ‘She had no need to do that,’ said Maistre Pierre disapprovingly. ‘We have gone home at noontide in the usual way.’

  ‘An extra bite is always welcome when the men are working hard,’ Alys suggested. She sat down on the bench, looking out at the busy scene beside the lodge. The men she knew, Wattie and Thomas and Luke, were working on what looked like the mouldings for a window tracery, while two more journeymen were blocking out the stones they would need next. The familiar music of chisel and mell competed with the birdsong in St Mungo’s kirkyard, with the crows which swirled about the tall trees adding their own harsh bass. ‘You make good progress. Is that the second window going forward now?’

  ‘It is. Blacader has found some funds, so I begin to hope his new work will be completed in my lifetime.’

  ‘So your marriage has brought you good fortune,’ Alys said brightly. He looked hard at her, and she maintained the smile with a little difficulty. After a moment he grunted, and sat down beside her.

  ‘Perhaps so, truly. Are you well, ma mie?’

  ‘I am, Father. How does my stepmother?’

  ‘She is well too. And your husband? How does he fare with this matter of the missing lady? I have not seen him today.’

  ‘I think he planned to speak to the Provost about it,’ she answered, ‘and then to pursue the death of the cathedral servant. That is a very strange thing. I suppose you saw nothing from here.’

  He gestured beyond the fence which separated his industrious men and the building site which was Archbishop Blacader’s contribution to the fabric of his cathedral, from the path which ran between the kirkyard gate and the doorway of the Lower Kirk.

  ‘Ma mie, there are many people on that path, a dozen, two dozen in an afternoon.’ This could well be true, she recognised; there were three people visible just now, two women heading for the church, their beads in their hands, gossiping happily, and one of the canons pacing the other way. No, not a canon, it was William Craigie. ‘And in any case, I think the man was killed long after we had gone home to our dinner. We talked it over here in the lodge this morning, and none of us can recall even seeing the man Barnabas, much less someone waving a strangler’s cord. I think the man and his killer both went down from the Upper Kirk to where he was found.’