The Fourth Crow

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘If she was, she’ll no be again,’ said Craigie, and clapped his round felt hat back on his head. ‘You’ll ha to forgive me, Gil, I’m turned all tapsalteerie wi this. Sacrilege like that, and in Glasgow. Who’d ha thought it, even after what came to Barnabas.’ He took another deep breath, and let it out. ‘Assistance. Aye, she’d promised me she’d put a word in for me here and there about Ayrshire and Lanarkshire. She’d a wide acquaintance, and a few o them has fine benefices to hand out.’

  ‘Had she now?’ said Gil. ‘Yet I’d heard you had words wi her the day.’

  ‘I did,’ agreed Craigie, after the smallest check, deep regret in his tone. ‘It shames me to admit it, I used language unbecoming a son of Holy Kirk to her. Mind you, the provocation was great,’ he added. ‘The depairtit called me for everything while she was reproaching me.’

  ‘Wantoun of word, and wox wonder wraith? What was it about?’ Gil asked.

  ‘It’s no matter now,’ said Craigie, still with that deep regret. ‘The plans can come to nothing.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Gil, ‘I need to hear all she was involved in this last day or two, anything that might ha gone wrong, that might ha provoked sic a death.’

  ‘Gilbert!’ The other man took a step backwards, raising his hands as if to defend himself. ‘You never— You canny think I’d—’

  ‘Where were you these two or three hours? Since Vespers, say.’

  ‘At John Ross’s lodging, where the lad found me. Several of us had dinner sent in from one o the bakehouses after Vespers was done, and sat down to the cards. Ask at them. Ask at Habbie or John or Arthur.’

  ‘I will,’ said Gil. ‘So what was it Dame Ellen expected of you? What had you planned thegither? Was anyone else involved? I think you hadny completed some task or other.’

  ‘You’re gey well informed,’ said Craigie stiffly.

  ‘Aye, well, if you have your discussion here in the yard, you’ll expect to be heard. So what was your task?’

  ‘Oh, it’s at an end now, no purpose in pursuing it. Poor woman, she’ll do neither hersel nor any other any good now.’

  ‘William,’ said Gil, summoning patience, ‘I need to hear what it was. Would you rather discuss it somewhere private? We could go back in the chapel, if you like, or Sir Simon would maybe let us use his chamber. Did the matter concern Annie Gibb? I think,’ he said, with a sudden recollection of Canon Muir’s ramblings, ‘you’ve been promoting this match wi Henry or Austin Muir for her, am I right?’

  ‘Aye, that was it,’ said Craigie, in a kind of sulky relief.

  ‘So how does that stand the now, wi the lass still missing and no suspicion where she might be?’

  ‘Oh, it’s all in abeyance, o necessity, though my kinswoman would never accept that, kept urging me to carry the matter forward.’

  Interesting, thought Gil, recalling his own interviews with Dame Ellen.

  ‘Where do you think she might be?’ he asked casually. ‘Annie Gibb, I mean. Where did Dame Ellen think she would return from, if she was still on the market to be wed?’

  ‘No telling. No telling.’ Craigie shook his head. ‘I’d not think she’s still in Glasgow, you’d ha found her by now, surely. Our Lady alone kens where she’s got to, let alone who set her free, how she got away.’

  ‘Who could ha done this, would you think?’ Gil nodded at the chapel door. ‘Who’d ha had reason to beat Dame Ellen down like that?’

  ‘Oh, how would I know? You’re Blacader’s quaestor, no me. She was,’ even by lantern-light it was visible that Craigie controlled his expression, ‘she was a steering woman, generous though she could be, it’s likely she ordered the wrong person to do her bidding.’

  ‘What’s ado here?’ demanded a sharp voice. Booted feet tramped on the flagstones of the courtyard, and two dark figures emerged from the shadows. Light from Craigie’s lantern glimmered on gold and silver braid, then showed Henry Muir’s face, irritated and impatient. Behind him his brother grinned vaguely, and a Shaw serving-man slipped away into the hall. ‘Oh, no you again! And you and all,’ Henry added to Craigie. ‘Yon fellow says the auld wife’s found dead, is that right? Wi her head beat in? She wasny forced as well, was she?’

  ‘No, Henry, she—’ began his brother.

  ‘What did I say?’ Henry turned on him, hand raised, and Austin took a step backwards.

  ‘Dame Ellen is dead,’ Gil confirmed, ‘and by violence. Will you see her?’

  ‘No need o that, surely,’ muttered Austin, and flinched at his brother’s sharp movement.

  ‘We’ll see her,’ said Henry grimly, and flung away towards the chapel door.

  Inside the little building, he stared impassively at the grisly sight which Dame Ellen presented in the candlelight, signed himself and muttered a prayer, while his brother peered over his shoulder with a kind of prurient, timorous avidity which Gil found more distasteful than Henry’s reaction.

  ‘She’s crossed someone for the last time,’ said the older brother after a moment.

  ‘Did she cross many folk?’ Gil asked.

  ‘Oh, aye.’ Henry laughed shortly. ‘Easy as breathing. I’ll no speak ill o her afore her face,’ he added, and stepped past Gil to the door. ‘Come on, you.’

  ‘Will you touch her?’

  ‘I’ll no!’ said Austin before Henry could answer, ‘for she’ll get up and ca’ me for all things if I do, same as she did on life.’

  ‘Did she so?’ said Gil. ‘I thought she had a fondness for you both.’

  ‘Never stopped her miscalling me,’ said Austin, watching anxiously as his brother turned back and bent to touch one of the claw-like hands. ‘Mind her, Henry, she’ll up and fetch you a wallop—’

  ‘Haud your tongue, daftheid,’ said his brother. ‘She’s cold and stiffening. Why’s she no been washed and laid out, Cunningham? It’s no decent to keep her lying here in her blood. She’ll be past doing anything with afore long.’

  ‘She could be washed now,’ Gil agreed. ‘And the purification of the chapel can begin.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said Henry in a strange tone. ‘Aye, it’ll take a deal o purifying.’

  They stepped out into the courtyard just as Canon Muir came hurrying in at the hostel door, exclaiming in agitation, wringing his hands, Attie and his own manservant behind him.

  ‘Sir Simon! Good Sir Simon, where is he? Tell me it’s no true? It canny be true!’

  ‘There’s our uncle,’ said Austin unnecessarily. ‘What’s brought him here, then?’

  ‘Ellen Shaw dead by violence, and in our chapel?’ Canon Muir was saying, and laid hold of Gil’s arm. ‘Gilbert, you here! Tell me it’s no true!’

  ‘It’s true, sir, though I’m sorry to say it.’ Gil detached the grip on his arm, aware that the Canon’s nephews had contrived to make their escape, as had Craigie. He hoped they had gone into the hall rather than leaving the place. ‘Bide here, I’ll fetch Sir Simon out to you.’

  ‘But how could it ha happened? Who would do sic a thing, in a chapel, sacred ground!’ The old man was right behind Gil as he opened the chapel door. ‘Is she still in here? Why is she no lifted, can we no start cleansing the place? Sir Simon, how could you let sic a thing happen?’

  Sir Simon rose to greet his patron. Gil stood aside, and the Canon rocked back on his heels as he caught sight of the corpse in the blaze of candlelight, and crossed himself, gabbling a prayer.

  ‘Oh, what a thing to happen! Oh, Christ aid us all, it’s dreadful, dreadful!’ He clutched at Sir Simon’s arm, his other hand waving helplessly. ‘How did it happen? Who’s guilty o sic a crime? They must be excommunicate, whoever they are! Oh, is it no dreadful, dreadful!’

  ‘Come away out, Canon,’ said Sir Simon, edging him towards the door. ‘We’ll get the servants in to lift her, and see to laying her out. Aye, but where?’ he wondered, as the thought struck him. ‘We canny put her in here.’

  ‘The dining hall?’ Gil suggested. ‘I need a word wi the folk still in there, but o
nce I’m done the place will be free.’

  ‘What a thing to happen.’ Canon Muir was wringing his hands again. ‘What will the Dean say? What will Robert Blacader say? Oh, what a thing! Simon, have we enough incense? We’ll need a quarter-stone anyway.’

  ‘They’ll be time enough to order it up,’ said Sir Simon grimly. ‘Come away, Canon, we’ll get a word in my chamber while I set Attie to deal wi this.’

  The women had vanished from the dining hall, but William Craigie was there, speaking solemnly with Lockhart and the serving-men; as the door latched behind Gil, the whole group turned towards the crucifix on the end wall of the chamber, removing their hats, and Craigie began intoning one of the prayers for the dead in his rich voice. Behind them, Henry Muir snorted contemptuously, lifted one of the candles and made for the nearer end of the hall.

  ‘Well, Cunningham?’ he said, hooking a stool out from under one of the long tables with his booted foot. He sat down, set the wooden candle-stand on the table, drew another stool closer to put his feet on it, and stared challengingly at Gil. ‘We’ve been talking wi the old man all this evening, till the last hour or so.’

  ‘And then where were you?’ Gil asked, acknowledging this gambit. He tested the table for rigidity and sat on it, pushing the candle aside.

  ‘We were in an alehouse,’ said Austin, ‘that one at the Wyndheid that has a bishop ower the door. Wishart’s Tree, do they cry it? We kent the ale would be good, see.’

  ‘Where yon fellow found us,’ his brother supplied, jerking his head at the devout group below the crucifix. ‘And you can ask at the alewife. She’ll likely mind us.’ He looked complacently from his own red broadcloth with its silver braiding to his brother’s dark grey velvet trimmed with gilt braid and gold silk brocade.

  ‘A course she’ll mind us,’ said Austin, ‘for you made certain—’ He bit off the words as his brother raised a threatening hand.

  ‘Made certain?’ Gil queried.

  ‘I made certain,’ said Henry, ‘to gie the serving-lass a good tip, since we’d hope to go back there and good service is aye a good thing. So they’ll mind us. Right?’ He eased at the high neck of the red broadcloth.

  ‘So when did you see Dame Ellen last?’

  ‘That would be earlier the day,’ offered Austin. ‘When she was alive, see . . .’ His voice trailed off as his brother turned to glare at him. ‘Well, she was, Henry,’ he persisted, recovering. ‘She was.’

  ‘Afore noon,’ said Henry.

  ‘No, it was after—’ Austin fell silent at the lift of his brother’s hand.

  ‘I think she was wishing to promote a match wi Annie Gibb for one of you,’ Gil said. ‘Am I right?’

  Henry’s expression grew darker.

  ‘Aye,’ he said shortly.

  ‘You wereny in favour?’

  ‘We wereny,’ said Austin, laughing. ‘Take a mad wife that doesny wash? And no even all her dower to sweeten the match? We’re no daft, either o us.’

  ‘Why would you not have all her dower?’ Gil asked, as Henry turned to look at his brother again. ‘It’s considerable. I’d ha thought even the half of it would be worth having.’

  ‘But it wasny the right half, see,’ said Austin.

  ‘Dame Ellen planned an arrangement,’ said Henry irritably. ‘Who do you reckon killed her, Cunningham? When was it, any road?’

  An arrangement, thought Gil. Presumably Dame Ellen herself, possibly Canon Muir, almost certainly Craigie, were to benefit from a share of Annie’s property if the match took place, as well as the fortunate groom.

  ‘It was after dinner, Henry,’ said Austin. ‘That she dee’d.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Gil asked.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Henry off-handedly. ‘Must ha been. Else she’d ha been missed here at dinner, and found sooner. Is this all you wanted to ask, Cunningham? For I’ll need to get a word wi Lockhart there, about where we can plant the old dame, and how this lot’s to get home to Glenbuck, whether they’ll need our escort or can find their own.’

  ‘The Provost will want a quest on her,’ said Gil. ‘There’s no burying her afore that’s seen to, and the party will likely stay here while Sir Edward lives, anyway, so there’s no hurry, I’d ha thought.’

  ‘What, is he no deid yet? I took it he’d passed on by now, it’s days since he was despaired of.’

  ‘Maybe he’s waiting till Annie gets found,’ offered Austin. ‘He’s right fond o her. You said that, Henry.’

  ‘The girls were no help,’ said Alys, leaning wearily against Gil. ‘We calmed them eventually, but I learned nothing from them. Meggot knew only that Dame Ellen was at dinner in the hall with the rest of them and went out after, saying she would go to the chapel. And the St Catherine’s woman, what is her name?’

  ‘Bessie,’ supplied Lowrie from her other side, holding his lantern down so that its light glittered on the chattering Girth Burn.

  ‘Bessie.’ Alys gathered up her skirts in one hand, and set the other in Gil’s to accept his help across the stepping stones. ‘Was in the dining hall putting away the linen and the crocks, and thought none of the party left the hall otherwise, for they were telling stories and singing, pilgrim songs and the like, a family evening while the dame was out of the way. Bessie thought it was to lighten their hearts a little while they wait for the death.’ She shook out her skirts, and moved on towards home. ‘Meggot told me the same, when I asked her.’

  ‘And then what?’ Gil put his arm about his wife and drew her close. ‘When did she find the corp?’

  ‘After she finished her work in the hall, about the time the other household began to retire for the evening. She set out to her own lodging, by the main door, and as she crossed the courtyard she thought to go into the chapel and count the candles, having had no chance to do it before. She stepped in, and she says opened the candle-box, which dwells in the aumbry near the door, to count them by touch, and then smelled—’ She broke off.

  ‘Quite,’ said Gil.

  ‘And lighting a candle, she found – what she found, and began screaming. Poor woman, she is still much distressed. Was it very dreadful?’

  ‘Bad enough. But there was nobody in the chapel – nobody living,’ he corrected himself, ‘when she went in?’

  ‘I think she would have mentioned it.’

  ‘And there’s nowhere to hide,’ Lowrie offered. ‘It’s a wee bare chamber, and it wasn’t full dark by then. Do you think she was killed on her own account, or is it connected to one of the others?’

  ‘No saying, yet,’ said Gil. ‘Did you find the woman on the Stablegreen?’

  ‘Mistress Templand? Aye, she was there. Gown and apron clean, at least no worse than a day’s wear, and her other aprons and her shoes were all free of anything like you’d expect.’ He laughed. ‘She would know what we were looking for, a course, and when we told her she said, It deserves her right, and began praying for her in the same breath. She’d been wi her neighbour the past two or three hours, telling her the tale of the argument wi Dame Ellen, so one way and another she’s clear of the hunt.’

  ‘I’d agree.’ Gil halted before the front door of the House of the Mermaiden, extracting the heavy key from his purse. He could hear Socrates blowing hard at the gap under the door; about them the night was quiet, though away in the distance, outside the burgh, another dog barked. Wings swished above their heads, and a nightbird called a bubbling cry and was answered.

  ‘Time for bed, I think,’ he said. ‘We can fit this together in the morning.’

  The view down the Clyde from Bishop Rae’s bridge was always entertaining. This morning, mild and almost windless with a steady fine drizzle, there were fewer bystanders and casual onlookers than was often the case, but there was still plenty to see. Several small boats were drawn up on the strand, their crews engaged in the mysterious occupations of mariners on land. Sails hung drying under a pent at the top of the bank, several more men were unloading barrels from a larger boat under the watchfu
l eye of a well-upholstered merchant, and two further little vessels were slipping upriver on the tide. Standing on the crown of the Bishop’s stone bridge, Socrates beside him with his forepaws on the parapet, Gil studied these, and concluded that the nearer, well laden with canvas-wrapped bales and boxes, was Stockfish Tam’s Cuthbert. He snapped his fingers at the dog and strolled casually down the slope of the bridge, avoiding an oxcart full of timber and several handcarts, and fetched up on the shore just where Cuthbert nosed in against the sandy beach.

  ‘Good day to you, skipper,’ he said as the mariner splashed ashore bare legged, hauling on a rope. Tam checked, glanced at him over his shoulder, and went on to moor his boat, taking deft turns of the rope about a pair of timbers hammered into the sandy shore. Socrates ambled over to examine his method. ‘I need a word wi you.’

  ‘Nothin’ to stop you,’ said Tam. He was a chunky, fairish man of middling height, weather browned and competent with deep-set hazel eyes, not a man to mix with in a fight Gil reckoned. Now he caught a second rope flung to him by a youngster in the boat, elbowed the dog aside and cast it round another pair of timbers.

  ‘You mind me? Gil Cunningham, Blacader’s quaestor.’

  ‘Aye.’ Tam splashed back into the water and the boy assisted him to hoist one of the canvas packs onto his shoulders.

  ‘You took a cargo down the water night afore last.’

  ‘Did I now?’ said Tam unhelpfully. He tramped past Gil, to lower the pack to the grass well above the tideline. Socrates followed him, and began a thorough inspection of the stitched canvas coverings.

  ‘Wi my man Euan as crew,’ Gil added. This got him a sharp look, but no answer. ‘A sack of grain, two cheeses, a barrel of apples.’ Another sharp look as the mariner passed him on the way back to the boat. ‘All with the St Mungo’s seal on them, to be sold in Dumbarton. What I need to learn from you, man, is who charged you to sell the goods, and who brought them to you the night afore you sailed.’

  Tam plodded up the shore again with a second well-stitched pack, and set it down by its fellow. Turning to face Gil he studied him for a moment.