The Counterfeit Madam

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘I never laid a finger on any sic thing!’ protested the prisoner. ‘I never saw any purse o blue velvet!’

  ‘So how d’ye ken it was blue?’ demanded Andro.

  ‘Who was the other man?’ Gil asked. ‘Was it you stepped into the old woman’s chamber and slew her, or was it you kept her talking while he took a mell to her?’

  The manacles clanked again as Campbell first crossed himself and then made the horns against the evil eye, staring wildly at Gil.

  ‘I never,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It wasny me, I never!’

  They got no further answers from the man, only continued denials, and after a few more attempts Gil ordered him back down to the cells. He thought a look of surprised relief crossed the prisoner’s face as he turned away with his escort, as if he had expected other questions which had not been put, but it was too fleeting to be certain.

  ‘And bring up the right Campbell this time,’ recommended Andro.

  Neil Campbell was a great deal more civil and more forthcoming, but provided little useful information at first.

  ‘Any time I am in Glasgow,’ he said earnestly. ‘There is room for two in that loft, and little enough in my cousin’s house.’

  ‘And when are you in Glasgow?’ Gil asked. ‘I’ve not seen you that often.’

  The gallowglass shrugged. He had not been manacled, perhaps having been a more biddable prisoner, and stood easily now between the two men of his escort, lanky and dark-haired, innocence shining on his high cheekbones.

  ‘Now and then, just,’ he said.

  ‘On what errands?’

  ‘Any I can find. It is my calling, Maister Gil, you ken that, my sword is at anyone’s service that will pay me for it.’

  ‘So what errand are you about now?’ Gil asked. Neil looked wary.

  ‘I am thinking maybe it is not—’ he began. ‘Maybe I will not be completing it.’

  ‘Why?’ Gil asked bluntly.

  ‘Och, it is not possible.’

  ‘Because? What’s changed, Neil?’

  ‘Because of all that is happening.’

  ‘Dame Isabella’s death, you mean?’

  The gallowglass considered this question.

  ‘No,’ he said at length. ‘I would not say so.’

  ‘Were you working for her? Or was your brother?’ Gil added quickly, recalling previous attempts to interrogate these two. ‘Philip Sempill thinks you were.’

  ‘Strange, it is, the way these ideas gets about.’

  ‘So what was this errand that you might not complete?’

  Neil appeared to make a decision.

  ‘It was for McIan,’ he explained. ‘McIan of Ardnamurchan, that is, that dwells in Mingary Castle and is lord over all the West.’ This was not wholly accurate, Gil knew, but he let it pass. ‘I was to take a leather sack of money to him, but it is not in the hands of those that—’

  ‘The leather sack of coin that the Provost holds?’ Gil interrupted. ‘That was taken from one of Dame Isabella’s servants the other night?’

  ‘I would not be knowing of that,’ said Neil. ‘But it is certain it is no longer with those that were to give it to me.’

  ‘And those were?’

  ‘My cousin,’ admitted the gallowglass. ‘Or maybe my other cousin, that is Barabal, the wife of the man Saunders.’

  ‘Likely they had it in the house, one or other,’ said Andro, ‘and planked it in the woman’s bundle when they saw our lot coming.’

  Gil, who had long since concluded the same thing, merely nodded.

  ‘Have you done this before, you or your brother?’ he asked. ‘Taken money from here to Mingary, I mean.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Neil cautiously.

  ‘How many times? Last month? The month before?’

  ‘I was carrying a good sum last month,’ admitted the gallowglass. ‘And before that at the New Year, which was a great trouble, as you might know, what with the weather we were having at that time.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Gil. ‘So who ordered you to fetch this coin to McIan? Was it the man himself, or another?’

  ‘Och, no, it was my kinsman who called me in,’ said Neil easily, ‘saying he was to send it to Mingary and I would be well paid for the journey. And I was well paid indeed,’ he added. ‘Sword, helm and hauberk I’ve had from McIan’s own hands, one time or another.’

  Gil rubbed at his eyes, considering what he had learned.

  ‘Do you know aught about Dame Isabella’s death?’ he asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘This old dame that’s slain on the Drygate,’ said Andro. ‘You must ha heard o’t, the whole of Glasgow’s buzzing wi the tale.’

  ‘Has your cousin mentioned it?’ Gil asked. Neil shook his head.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘They would never mention the like in front of me.’

  ‘Why not?’ Gil asked casually. The gallowglass opened his mouth to answer, and closed it again, visibly thinking better of his reply. ‘So they are involved? Did your kinsman slay her, or was it another man?’

  ‘I would have no knowledge of that,’ said the prisoner flatly. ‘Why would my kinsman slay her, that was—’ he stopped again.

  ‘That was what?’

  ‘That was a stranger to him, so far as I ken,’ said the prisoner. Gil did not think this was what he had started to say. He studied the lean dark face before him, wondering how to get past the man’s practised evasion.

  ‘Did they say aught about Dod Muir?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I – only that they had not seen him yesterday or the day before since.’

  ‘Were you no blate about lying in the man’s house, if he was away?’ demanded Andro.

  ‘I had lain there afore. My kinsman said he had spoken to Dod.’

  ‘Had he, now?’ said Gil. ‘When was that?’

  Neil shrugged.

  ‘He was not saying. I wondered, mind you,’ he admitted, ‘when I saw that all his gear was lying out, and he had never washed his porridge-pot.’

  ‘Ah, was it you cleaned the crocks?’ Gil asked.

  Neil nodded. ‘Though I would not be touching another man’s working graith,’ he said earnestly, ‘so I never moved any of his knives and that.’

  ‘How tall was Dod Muir, would you say?’

  ‘How tall?’ The gallowglass looked startled. ‘A wee sprout of a fellow. Well shorter than me.’ He looked at his two guards, who were showing signs of boredom. ‘No taller than your man here, maybe even a handsbreadth less.’

  ‘As short as that?’ Gil considered Jimmy, fully half a head shorter than the gallowglass. ‘An easy enough target then, for a bigger man.’

  ‘It was him that was in the kist right enough?’ asked Neil. Gil nodded, and the man crossed himself and bent his head briefly, muttering something in Ersche. ‘He was quick tempered, so my kinsman said, but he was aye friendly enough to me, and hospitable,’ he said after a moment.

  As epitaphs go, thought Gil, you could do worse. ‘What does your kinsman say about the man Miller?’ he asked. ‘Does he call him Dusty to his face?’

  ‘To his face? No him!’ said the gallowglass, and stopped, mouth open, looking dismayed. There was a short pause, into which Andro said,

  ‘What Miller is that? You’re no talking o Maister Millar at St Serf’s, are you?’

  ‘No,’ said Gil, without taking his eyes off Neil Campbell. ‘It’s another man entirely, isn’t it, Neil? Have you met him?’

  ‘Never,’ said Neil firmly.

  ‘Don’t you want to? How is he involved in all this?’

  ‘How would I be knowing that?’

  ‘Does he strike the coin? Is that where it all comes from?’

  ‘I have no knowledge of that,’ said the gallowglass. ‘All I did was carry the coin, Maister Gil. There is no knowledge at me of where it came from nor how my kinsman is in the matter.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Gil sceptically. ‘He never speaks of it in front of you, he and his wife never discuss it in your h
earing?’ He considered the man’s blank expression. ‘Neil, you ken the penalty for making counterfeit coin. It’s treason, because it’s falsifying the King’s image. False coiners are condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered, and by the time that happens they’re like to be glad of it. Better to tell me what you ken, so I can speak for you.’

  The narrow face was intent, as some inward battle was fought. Finally the blue glance slid sideways to meet Gil’s gaze and the gallowglass said,

  ‘There is little enough that I know.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Andro. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere!’

  ‘Tell me it,’ Gil encouraged, ignoring him.

  It was little enough, indeed. Neither Neil nor his brother had set eyes on the elusive Miller, though both had heard him named about the toft.

  ‘Feart for him, they are,’ said Neil. ‘The least wee word fro him, they act on it immediate.’

  ‘Why?’ Gil asked. ‘What hold does he have over them?’

  ‘I would not be knowing that. But my cousin and his woman were arguing when I came to the house yesterday,’ expanded Neil, unstoppable now he had decided to talk, ‘and Bethag was saying the same, asking at Noll why was he bound to the man, and Noll bade her close her mouth, she knew nothing of it. He is dwelling down the Gallowgate, I am thinking, maybe outside the port, and they were saying he had been in Clerk’s Land on,’ he paused to count on his fingers, ‘Thursday, would it be? and he was enraged for something, carrying on like Herod so Bethag was saying, and frighted the Saunders’ bairns, and wanting Dod Muir to see to something for him, that Dod wouldny, so he … killed … him,’ he said, grinding to a halt as he realized what he had given away. Gil eyed him steadily, and he swallowed in some alarm. ‘There was only what the woman was saying,’ he protested, ‘I never saw it, nor spoke of it with my kinsman! And she never said no more than that, for they saw me at the door and left off their arguing.’

  ‘So you kent he was dead,’ said Gil.

  ‘I see why they might be feart for this Miller,’ said Andro drily. ‘We never lifted the two women, maister, seeing there was all those weans. Will I send out and fetch them in?’

  ‘I’ll go out there, I think,’ said Gil. ‘Likely they’ll talk better in their own place. And Neil may come with me to translate if it’s needed,’ he added kindly. Neil threw him a hunted look.

  ‘Maybe I should staying here,’ he said, without much hope. ‘No doubt that the captain here would be wishing me still under his eye.’

  ‘Will you no wait for the quest on the old dame?’ Andro asked, ignoring this. ‘The women will have been cited for the second quest, they might come out to see the whole show, bring the weans and all. We’ll ha folk selling hot pies and gingerbread in the court here afore we know where we are.’

  ‘Send one of your men round the crowd wi a hat,’ recommended Gil. ‘That ought to keep the numbers down. I’ll go now, then I might be back in time for the quest.’

  Clerk’s Land was oddly silent. Even the screaming children were absent, the lorimer’s workshop was shuttered, there was no smoke rising through the thatch of Saunders’ house. Two passing apprentices stopped when they saw Gil at the top of the muddy track.

  ‘They’re all away,’ said one, a spotty youth with a scar on his brow. ‘Up at the Castle.’

  ‘Getting put to the question, maybe,’ said the other gleefully, ‘getting all their fingernails pullt out and their teeth broke. There’s nob’dy there.’

  Gil thanked them and looked about him, waiting until they had gone reluctantly on downhill.

  ‘Maybe they’ve all went elsewhere,’ said Neil hopefully.

  ‘Maybe,’ agreed Gil. He moved forward, alert for anything stirring. Beyond the lorimer’s shack where the path opened out the place was still quiet. Dod Muir’s house was understandably deserted, and rats scurried away from his woodstore as they approached.

  ‘They’re all away, maybe,’ said Neil. ‘Will we just be going back to the Castle now?’

  ‘Quiet,’ said Gil. He stood still, listening, and after a moment heard it again, the low murmur of women’s voices. It came from the whitesmith’s house.

  It took some persuasion before the gallowglass would step up to the door. Gil watched from a little way behind the man, as he rattled at the tirling-pin on the doorpost and then stood looking uncomfortable while the voices inside turned to hissing whispers.

  ‘They’re maybe not—’ he began, half turning from the door, just as it opened. The woman on the threshold gave him one quick glance, and Gil another, and said in Scots,

  ‘It’s yourself is it then, Neil Campbell? And what are you doing here? How is it you that’s lowsed, and no my man or my brother? And you,’ she said, with another hard look at Gil, ‘prowling about here again. What are you after?’

  ‘A word wi yourself, mistress,’ said Gil politely, raising his hat to her. ‘And wi Mistress Bethag and all.’

  ‘Well, we are wanting no words with you,’ she retorted, ‘so you may take yourself away, whether to your wife or the hoors next door I carena!’

  ‘It’s talk wi me now, or talk wi the Provost’s men at the Castle,’ Gil suggested, ‘and I think you’ll find I’m more civil than they are.’

  The younger woman appeared at the door behind her sister-in-law’s muscular shoulder, her baby clasped tightly to her.

  ‘An caisteal?’ she repeated in alarm. ‘Let them in, sister, we not – we never—’

  The other children were not visible. Barabal, when asked, said sulkily that they were with her man’s sister.

  ‘And where does she dwell?’ Gil enquired, seating himself in the whitesmith’s chair.

  ‘Yonder.’ She jerked her head vaguely northwards.

  ‘Is that where Alan and Nicol are lodged and all?’

  Her eyes widened, but she said nothing. The younger woman, laying the sleeping baby in its cradle, began to move about the hearth, finding oatcakes and cheese and a bottle of something, clearly taking comfort from obedience to the laws of hospitality. Gil, hoping it would not be usquebae, said,

  ‘I’ve heard a bit about Thursday morning.’ Barabal scowled at him. ‘How come Miller was here? He dwells down the Gallowgate, does he no?’

  ‘He was discussing matters,’ said Barabal, while the other woman crossed herself at the sound of the name.

  ‘What was he so angry about? Frightened your weans, I think, mistress?’

  ‘There is no knowledge at me of that,’ she said. ‘The man was in a great rage, but it was not my business what angered him.’

  ‘I hope the weans never saw him killing Muir.’

  ‘No, they were down the back, thanks be to Our Lady,’ she said, ‘I was keeping them there out his way, and I waited till he had hid the—’

  ‘You kent he was in there?’ demanded Neil Campbell. ‘You kent he was in the kist, and you never said?’

  ‘You would never jaloused it,’ she retorted, ‘if this lang drink o watter was not powterin where it was none o his business!’

  ‘Where did Miller go after he hid the body?’ Gil asked. She shook her head, the ends of her linen veil swinging against her massive bosom.

  ‘Off down the burn, likely, to his own place. He is not one that welcomes being spied on, you will understand.’

  ‘And after that the three men came looking for help. They’re kin of yours, are they?’

  ‘On her mother’s side,’ said Neil hastily. She threw him a very ugly look.

  ‘That Billy is no kin of mine,’ she objected, ‘you will never say so.’

  ‘He must be kin to somebody,’ Gil said. ‘So far as I can make out everyone in this is related. How is the man Miller your kin?’

  She checked, staring, then shook her head again, looking alarmed.

  ‘No kin to any of us, that one!’ she said. ‘They are all in the guild thegither, just.’

  Her sister-in-law came forward with a beaker in one hand and a platter in the other, and offered them to Gil with the g
raceful curtsy he had seen other Ersche women make. He accepted, concealing reluctance, and sipped at the beaker. It was usquebae, and new stuff at that, the raw, fiery spirit biting at his throat. Neil said something in Ersche, and the young woman tightened her lips and set about preparing food for him too.

  ‘Then later,’ said Gil, ‘the woman Forveleth was here. I think she’s your cousin, Mistress Bethag?’ She looked round, and nodded shyly. ‘So it was hardly friendly of your man when he exchanged the bag of coin for the package of apothecary goods in her bundle, and gave it to Mistress Barabal.’

  Barabal made the sign against the evil eye.

  ‘You are knowing too much a’thegither!’ she said, glowering. He smiled, and raised the horrible usquebae in a toast to her.

  ‘And where is the purse of blue velvet?’

  She shook her head. ‘I have seen no purse of blue velvet, and so I was telling the soldiers when they were here.’

  Neil translated the question at Gil’s nod, but the other woman made the same answer. No purse of blue velvet had been on the toft since the day they moved in, no matter how hard the Provost’s men had searched.

  Gil paused to eat one of the oatcakes. It had been smeared with green cheese, and was rather tough. He had heard Maggie say that the cook’s mood affected the baking. Small wonder, then, he reflected, and took another sip of usquebae, hoping the one would cancel out the other. The combination was even less palatable.

  ‘What brought Miller back that evening?’ he asked. ‘The Provost’s men found him in the forge out here wi a parcel of scrap metal on him. What was he looking for?’

  ‘Old metal, I am supposing,’ said Barabal before the other woman could speak. ‘He takes the old stuff, the broken pieces—’

  ‘The scrap,’ he supplied. ‘What, you mean he buys it in from other hammermen?’

  ‘Hah!’ she said bitterly, and Bethag in the shadows shook her head.