by Pat McIntosh
‘Who was it you were looking for?’ demanded the spokesman.
‘A man that sells sweetmeats from a stall, and has an enamel buckle to his belt,’ Gil said hopefully.
‘That’s—’ began one of the smaller boys, and was elbowed by his neighbour.
‘And who else?’
‘Aye, but that’s—’
‘The other one might be called Miller.’
‘Miller? Naw,’ said the spokesman quickly, ‘we never seen neither o them.’
‘Aye, but Jamsie,’ protested the smaller boy who had spoken. Jamsie turned and seized him by the ear.
‘Shut yer gub! Come on, the lot o yez, we’re away out o here. We never seen them, maister,’ he added to Gil, ‘and if you’re wise, you never seen him neither.’
‘Well!’ said Lowrie behind Gil, as the boys scattered. ‘That’s interesting.’
‘It is,’ agreed Gil. He looked about him. St Mungo’s stood a short way from the East Port, beside the road which led out to Bothwell and Cadzow, surrounded by the undisciplined huddle of small houses which lurked at the gates of any sizeable burgh. Those who could not afford to live in the burgh lived outside it, as did a few tradesmen wealthy enough to ignore the rules about indwelling of burgesses, their bigger properties set back from the road and the middens. Off to their left a track ran past the west end of the chapel, down to cross the Poldrait Burn. ‘If we cut through here, we come out at the back of—’
‘At the back of the College,’ Lowrie agreed, ‘or we could go on up the mill-burn to the Drygate.’
There was a great deal of coming and going at Canon Aiken’s house, but Maister Livingstone came down to the door himself as they crossed the yard.
‘How far have ye got?’ he asked without preamble. ‘Lowrie, where ha ye been all the morning? They’re saying now we canny put her in the ground till there’s been a quest on her, and her murderer named.’
‘Till there’s been a quest, at least,’ Gil agreed. ‘Has Otterburn told you when it might be?’
‘The morn’s morn, he said, and he’d his men here asking all kind o questions. What like was this purse that’s missing, and where was her comb, and the like. I’m no her tirewoman, I said, ask at her women. If Marion canny tell them, Annot will.’
‘And did she?’
‘Did she what? Oh, tell them? I’ve no idea, they spoke wi her in yonder,’ Livingstone nodded towards the black-draped range where Dame Isabella was clearly still lodged, ‘but they went away satisfied, I suppose she had something to say. I was dealing wi Andrew Hamilton for a coffin.’
‘Greyfriars will take her, sir,’ Lowrie put in.
‘First time in her life she’s been welcome, I’d say,’ said the older man. ‘Come up and have a glass of Malvoisie, maister, if you’ve the time.’
‘Gladly,’ said Gil, with a feeling that the day might improve slightly now, ‘but I want a word wi your man Attie. Is he about? And maybe Annot and all.’
‘Oh, he’s about,’ said Livingstone, ‘for all the use he is, and the house going like St Mungo’s Fair, what wi folk coming to pay their respects and see what she died o. Come away up and I’ll see if they can find him.’
One of Livingstone’s green-liveried servants bore a tray with a jug of Malvoisie and three glasses into the hall. Attie followed him, looking like one going to his execution, and while Livingstone served out the wine and waved Gil to a seat by the hearth the man stood against the wall, mangling his velvet bonnet and trying to be invisible. He came forward reluctantly when ordered.
‘Attie, I’ve spoken to Maister Syme,’ Gil said bluntly. ‘How long were you and Alan together yesterday morning, in truth?’
‘Well,’ Attie licked his lips. ‘Well. Aye, well, no very long, to say right, maister. We went – we gaed – see, there’s this lassie serves Fleming the weaver, and, and, and her and me had got talking the day we cam into Glasgow, and I seen her again the other nicht, and here she was at their back gate in the morning, so, well, Alan went on by the path to the High Street, see, and I stayed daffing wi the lassie, and it wasny but a moment afore Alan came back,’ he assured them earnestly, ‘for we’d no more than tellt each other where we came from and who we served, and then I had to go back along wi Alan.’ He ground to a halt and looked in apprehension from Gil to Livingstone, who was inflating slowly with anger.
From the door Lowrie said, ‘What’s the lassie’s name, Attie?’
The man turned towards the calm voice with relief.
‘Bess Wilkie, Maister Lowrie, and she’s eighteen year old and comes fro Partick, and she likes serving Maister Fleming in cause of she’s learning all sorts of weaving and how to work wi wool and all sorts, and he’s a good maister,’ the words tumbled out. ‘She’d tell you hersel, maister, I’m sure, or Maister Cunningham, you’ve only to ask the lassie!’
Further questioning gained little more information. Attie had stood at the gate talking to the girl Bess for what had seemed to him a short time, while Alan went to the High Street along the path by the mill-burn and returned with the apothecary’s package tucked in the folds of his plaid.
‘I’m right sure it was the package,’ he said earnestly, ‘you ken the way a potyngar wraps things, that way they have o folding the paper.’
Returning to Canon Aiken’s house they had taken up their position in the outer chamber of their mistress’s apartment, to wait until she should call for them. But the next to enter her chamber had been Annot, and she had found the old woman dead.
‘I’d swear to that,’ he assured them, wringing his bonnet in sweating hands, ‘I’d swear on any bones you set afore me, and the True Cross, and you could take me into St Mungo’s and I’d swear it afore the saint hissel. It’s the truth, maisters.’
‘But why should we believe you now,’ Lowrie asked, ‘when you’ve lied already?’
‘No to mention the delay you’ve caused to learning who killed your mistress,’ said Livingstone, ‘so we canny get her in her coffin. Here, what’s the right story about the other two lads? Where did Billy and Nicol go, tell me that?’
‘I wouldny ken, maister,’ said Attie miserably, ‘for I never saw them till they cam back here and waited along wi Alan and me.’
‘Were you talking about where you’d been?’ Gil asked. ‘Did they say aught about their errand?’
The man stared at him, obviously applying some thought to the question.
‘Aye,’ he said after a moment. ‘They did.’
‘Well?’ prompted Gil.
‘They said it hadny been a pleasure. I mind now,’ he produced, ‘they were saying one they cried Dusty was a right cross-grained fellow, Billy had naught but a sweering off him when he took some word to him, and Nicol said, Aye, the man Campbell was the same.’
Lowrie met Gil’s eyes across the hearth, and said to the servant,
‘That sounds as if they were separate errands.’
‘Aye, it does,’ agreed Attie, in faint surprise.
‘You told us yesterday,’ said Gil, ‘that these men, Nicol and Billy, had been sent to ask when the Campbells would be home.’
‘I did that, maister,’ agreed Attie. ‘That was what she bade them do.’
‘What Campbells are these? Are they the same as the man Campbell that Nicol spoke to?’
Attie shook his head warily.
‘I wouldny ken, maister, it wasny my errand, see, and they never said aught about that, just what I recalled the now. But it seemed to me,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘as if they kent a bit more about it all than I did, when the mistress gied them their orders.’
‘Can you mind what her words were?’ Lowrie asked. ‘Was there any sign they were to go different ways?’
Attie applied more thought, but shook his head.
‘I canny mind, Maister Lowrie,’ he said. ‘All I mind her saying was, You two, go and find out when the Campbells will be back in Glasgow. And she called them a few names and all.’
‘What did she call them?�
� Gil asked, wondering if the names might be significant. A signal of some kind, an indication of where the men should go?
Attie looked anxious.
‘Just the same as ever, maister. Billy Blate, Nicol Runsch, ca’d Nicol a useless weed of a fellow and Billy a spiritless fool. None of it true, neither.’
‘I’ve heard her use both those by-names,’ Lowrie said. Gil nodded, discarding the idea, and gestured to Livingstone, who set down his glass and led Attie from the chamber, his expression grim. ‘Where will you go next,’ he asked diffidently.
‘I need a word wi John Sempill,’ said Gil with resignation.
‘Is Eck Livingstone finished wi that parchment yet?’ demanded Sempill. ‘I need it back, Maidie needs to show she’s—’
‘John.’ Magdalen Boyd turned to Gil, closing her book and laying it in her lap. Today she was wearing another gown of undyed wool, this one of light soft brown; it gave her pale skin some warmth. ‘Maister, I’m sure you’ll see, I’d sooner that parchment was back in our keeping, so long as we can be certain the land’s mine.’
‘It’s yours all right, no question!’
‘I’ve no knowledge of the matter,’ Gil said truthfully. ‘I’m here about your godmother’s death.’
‘Nothing to do wi us,’ said Sempill. ‘And if the Living-stones couldny keep the old termagant safe, why should that concern us?’ He glanced at his wife’s expression and swiftly changed attitude. ‘Mind, it’s vexed Maidie. If it’s no an apoplexy, like Eck says, then the sooner you get someone taken up for it the better we’ll like it.’
‘Then someone’s to hang for it,’ said Lady Magdalen quietly. ‘How should that please me, John?’
He looked at her, baffled, and Gil seized the opportunity.
‘Did either of you ever set eyes on her purse of silver?’ he asked.
‘Purse of silver?’ repeated Sempill. ‘What purse? Where did she keep it? No, I never saw sic a thing,’ he added belatedly.
‘Never,’ said Lady Magdalen simply. ‘I knew she was well to do, but we never spake of money, only of land. Is it missing, sir?’
‘It is. What’s more, it’s missing out of her jewel-box, and the rest of the contents left untouched.’
‘That’s all Maidie’s now,’ said Sempill, possessive and inaccurate.
‘Perhaps she gave it to someone herself,’ suggested his wife.
‘Who could she have given it to?’
‘How would we ken what the old beldam was up to in Glasgow?’
‘John.’
Does he know it went missing in Glasgow, thought Gil, or is he simply making an assumption?
‘Maister,’ said Lady Magdalen, turning her gentle smile on Gil, ‘I wasny close to my godmother, but I held her in regard. She met a sorry end, and I’d like to ken why, and see the miscreant given time to repent. We’ll help any way we can, the both of us.’
‘It would help if I could speak wi the two of you separately,’ Gil said. She looked at him attentively, but said,
‘I’ve no secrets from my husband, sir. Ask what you will of me, then I’ll leave you and John thegither.’
‘I’ve no secrets either,’ began Sempill. She put a hand on his wrist.
‘You can speak plainer without me, I’ve no doubt,’ she said.
Nor have I, thought Gil. In fact he had little to ask Lady Magdalen, and she had less to tell him. They had met in Glasgow three days since at Dame Isabella’s instigation, and the old woman had learned only then of the plan to disinherit small John in exchange for the two plots on the Drygate.
‘I think she only thought of bargaining with you after that,’ said Lady Magdalen. ‘She’d promised me the other property in Strathblane more than once.’
‘Aye, she had,’ muttered Sempill.
‘I think she aye intended I’d get that and your sister would get the one by Carluke. I suppose she’s maybe settled it all in her will.’
‘Have you inspected either property?’ Gil asked. She shook her head, the dark wool of her veil swinging by her jaw.
‘The rents come in on time, no need to worry the tenants. John sees to all for me.’
Gil glanced at Sempill, who tucked his thumbs in the armholes of his leather doublet and looked back rather defiantly.
‘And one other thing. Yesterday after I left you, when I was inspecting the toft on the Drygate, I was struck down and thrown in the Molendinar.’
Sempill guffawed.
‘I heard about that. And rescued birk-naked fro the bawdy-house, weren’t you!’
‘A dreadful thing,’ said Lady Magdalen, and her husband subsided. ‘I hope you took no lasting harm, maister?’
‘I’ll live,’ he said. ‘Have you any idea what they might be up to, that they took exception to a stranger?’
‘They’re half of them wild Ersche on that toft,’ said Sempill. ‘No saying what they’ll take exception to. Was you robbed? I’d take it on and double the rents if I was you.’
‘I don’t know why they would attack you, maister,’ said Lady Magdalen. ‘I was shocked when I heard of it. Young Lowrie, that was waiting on my godmother, he told me of it when we,’ she bent her head, ‘when we went to pay our respects.’
Sempill crossed himself in a perfunctory way, then looked quickly at his wife. She was smiling sadly at Gil.
‘If that’s all you’ve to ask me, sir,’ she prompted. He rose politely, and she made her farewells and left, her feet sounding lightly on the stair. Gil sat down again and looked at Sempill, who had not moved.
‘Well, John,’ he said. The other man eyed him warily. ‘Tell me where you went yesterday morning, then.’
‘I went to see,’ began Sempill, and stopped as the thought quite visibly reached him that Gil must have spoken to the Livingstone household. ‘Nothing to do wi you,’ he finished.
‘Well,’ said Gil, ‘you said you went to see Dame Isabella, you didny see her that morning, and now she’s dead. What’s more,’ he persisted as Sempill opened his mouth, ‘I ken fine you had words wi her the night before through her window, and she threatened you. So where did you go yesterday? Did you set out to find someone who’d nail her for you?’
‘If you ken so much,’ said Sempill, ‘you can find out for – no, I never did!’
‘You’d not rather tell me your version first?’ Gil suggested.
‘It’s none o your business. What’s it to do wi the matter, any road?’
‘So it was you that hired someone to kill her, then?’
‘I never said any such thing!’
‘And what was it she threatened to tell your wife? What have you been at, John?’
‘I’ve done naught against the law!’ Sempill said, bristling. ‘Just because I disobliged the old witch, she was threatening to tattle to – any road, it’s naught to do wi her death, I tell you!’
‘So where were you, if it’s that harmless?’
‘Nowhere you need to ken.’
‘The bawdy-house?’
‘No! I’ve no need to frequent sic places now,’ said Sempill, making a recovery, ‘no like some of us.’
‘And Lady Magdalen kens all about Euphemia, does she?’ Two could play that game.
‘Aye, she does!’
‘Well, was it the other toft, the next one?’ Gil persisted, unconvinced.
‘What would I go there for?’
‘And what about these two properties in Strathblane? What are they like, anyway?’
‘As to that,’ said Sempill disobligingly, ‘you can ask at Eck Livingstone, seeing he made claim to them both. Likely he kens the tenants’ birthdays and all.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Gil. ‘And I’ll be back, when I’ve other questions. You’ve been a great help, John.’ He got to his feet, enjoying the faint look of alarm on Sempill’s face. ‘Oh, one other thing. You mind those two gallowglasses you had working for you? Neil and Euan Campbell, I think their names were. Have you seen aught of them lately?’
‘Them?’ Sempill stud
ied the question with suspicion.
‘Them. It was Euan brought me the boy’s keep at the quarter-day, so I ken you’ve seen him at least this year.’
‘Aye, so he did. No, I haveny seen them since then. They’re not working for me, any road, just I saw Euan and I kent he would find you. He was glad enough for a bit extra work.’
‘What were they doing when you saw Euan? Who are they working for, if it’s not yoursel?’
Sempill shrugged.
‘I didny ask,’ he said.
‘You’d no need to,’ said his cousin Philip, coming into the hall from the screens passage. ‘They were under your hand, coming and going for Dame Isabella.’
‘Oh, so they were,’ said Sempill, glaring at him. ‘But mostly they were going, which is why I’d forgot.’
‘For Dame Isabella?’ Gil repeated in surprise. So were those the Campbells that her men were to ask after, he wondered. And yet Attie did not seem to know them. ‘Going where?’
‘No idea,’ said Sempill. ‘And now if you’re about done, Gil Cunningham, I’ll see you out of my cousin’s house.’
‘No need to trouble,’ said Philip, ‘I’ll do that.’ He waited politely for Gil to step out of the front door and followed him down the fore-stair. Pausing at its foot he said conventionally, ‘A bad business this.’
‘Very,’ said Gil.
‘You won’t have had a chance to look at the land in Strathblane? The one that might go to your sister?’ Gil looked at him, startled, and Philip caught himself up and went on, ‘No, that’s daft, it’ll never happen now. Unless the old lady made a will, I suppose.’
‘Not the portion out by Carluke?’
‘There’s no argument about Isabella’s right to that,’ Philip said, ‘no other interest in it, and it’s been in her family for years, or so she said. Whereas the other patch, well …’
‘You think an inspection would be worthwhile. Why?’
‘I just wondered about it. It seems to be gey profitable, it’s remarkable that the old dame would let it out her hands.’
Their eyes met. Then Philip glanced away, up at the sky, and shook himself.
‘No point standing out here in the drizzle,’ he said. ‘Will you be at the quest? It’s called for the morn after Terce.’
