The Counterfeit Madam

by Pat McIntosh

  Her quick smile flickered.

  ‘Not sending,’ she said. He waited. ‘I thought you might take me?’

  He suppressed a crack of laughter, and hugged her close, thinking yet again how fortunate he was in this woman.

  ‘I see what it is,’ he said. ‘You want to inspect these naughty paintings.’

  ‘That too,’ she said against his chest. ‘But I should borrow your plaid, this riding-dress is all too conspicuous.’

  He unfolded it and shook it out, swinging it round her. It was a full-sized man’s plaid, two ells long by the full one-and-a-half wide; the pattern was a dark check in the natural greys and browns of the wool, and in this light it disappeared altogether, making her nearly invisible, a patch of shadow crowned by a jaunty hat like a man’s.

  ‘If anyone sees us, they’ll just think I’m selling you into the place,’ he said, and she giggled.

  The House of the Mermaiden was quieter than Gil expected. It could hardly be midnight, but the hall windows were dark. He held the lantern low so they could pick their way round the side of the house, past the kitchen where snores issued through the shutters, to the back door. The window beside it showed light, and quiet voices spoke inside. Gil tapped on the shutter, and they stopped.

  ‘Who’s there?’ said someone sharply.

  He spoke his name. There was an exclamation, quick footsteps, a heavy rattle and thump as the door was unbarred. Light spilled out past the plant-tubs, over the cobbles. Socrates padded forward, tail waving.

  ‘Gil? No, who’s that wi you? We’re closed this evening, sir—’

  ‘No matter,’ said Alys in French. ‘I’ve wanted to meet you.’ She curtsied full in the candlelight, and Madam Xanthe laughed, and replied in the same language.

  ‘And I to meet you, madame. Come away in! You’ll take a glass of wine?’

  The wine was the same rich, fruit-tasting stuff as before, but everything else was different. The little panelled chamber where he had been dried and fed cordial and soup was almost bare, the padded bench and a few stools standing forlornly amid a sea of kists and boxes, and the woman Agrippina was kneeling before another, trying to fasten the straps.

  ‘You’re packing,’ Gil stated.

  ‘Such penetrating observation, I see how you’re made Blacader’s quaestor,’ said Madam Xanthe. ‘Your health, madame. You can see, you’ve caught us just in time. The wagons are ordered for first light.’

  ‘A moonlight flitting?’ Gil challenged.

  ‘Oh, I’ve paid the rent to the end of the quarter, no doubt o that. But we’re done here in Glasgow. Anyway this is the last o this barrel, I could never stay longer.’ She lifted the jug and topped up their glasses again.

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  She gave him that arch smile.

  ‘Who can say, maister? Where my fancy takes me, wherever the oxen stop like St Serf’s wagon, somewhere there’s need of my talents?’

  ‘I can’t imagine where that could be. And the lassies?’

  ‘Nor can I, sir. Oh, the lassies? The most of them’s bound for Edinburgh, for their talents are certainly wasted here, but Cleone and Cato are going to her granny’s house in Renfrew.’

  ‘Are they left yet?’ Alys asked quickly. ‘There was something I wished to ask Cleone.’

  Madam Xanthe tilted her head to look at her. ‘Did you so? Is that what brings you visiting?’

  ‘No, merely a distraction. I wished to thank you for your help to my husband,’ said Alys, smiling into the painted face. ‘And we have just come from the Castle, and a long talk with John Sempill and his wife.’

  ‘A pleasant evening that would be, certainly,’ said Madam Xanthe, her gaze sharpening. ‘As to the other, you thanked us well enough with the basket of sweetmeats. That was a kind thought, and well received. Agrippina, would you go up and see if Cleone is still awake? And how is the charming John?’ she went on as the woman rose, lifted a candle and left quietly.

  ‘Chastened,’ said Gil. The fine eyebrows rose.

  ‘What, by your doing?’

  ‘Mostly Alys’s, I should say. She and young Lowrie found the source of the silver today, out in Strathblane, and the surviving miner claims it was Sempill brought them over to Scotland. Then they captured the man Miller, who seems to have killed the other two miners, and found the renowned blue velvet purse on him.’

  Madam Xanthe’s gaze dropped to her fingernails.

  ‘Dame Isabella’s purse?’

  ‘The same,’ agreed Alys, ‘or so we assume. The Provost will get it identified in the morning.’

  ‘Well, well. And what does he conclude from that?’

  ‘That the man Miller killed Dame Isabella,’ said Gil.

  ‘Ah!’ She sat back, then turned her head as Agrippina returned, with a blinking Cleone in her wake. ‘Och, you silly lassie, could you not have covered yourself decent?’

  ‘She’s perfectly decent,’ said Alys quickly, switching to Scots as Madam Xanthe had done. ‘Cleone, I am Maister Cunningham’s wife.’

  Cleone took this in, smiled broadly, and curtsied as well as she might in her abbreviated shift.

  ‘You sent us the sweetmeats, mem! Thank you, they were right good! C-cato was sick twice wi eating them. And the ribbons was that bonnie!’

  Alys accepted this as it seemed to be intended, and said earnestly,

  ‘I wished to ask you something, Cleone. Do you mind how you saw Maister Cunningham struck on the head?’

  A wary expression came into the blue eyes.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Who was it struck him?’

  ‘Dod Muir, like I said.’

  Alys looked steadily at the other girl, while Gil considered that he had wondered about the same point. After a few moments Cleone looked down at the floor.

  ‘Dod Muir was shorter than my husband,’ Alys observed, ‘by a good span. He’d have had trouble reaching up to hit him on the crown of the head. And in any case, lassie, he was dead by then.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Cleone, ‘but I didny know that, did I?’

  ‘Did he shout at you?’ Alys asked with sympathy.

  ‘No at me, at Col. Cato,’ she corrected herself. ‘He’s no, he’s no – he’s a bit daft, Col, but he’s a good laddie, there was no need to give him a swearing just acause he got in the man’s way.’

  ‘I understand that,’ said Alys. ‘So who was it struck my husband?’ Cleone looked sideways at her. ‘Did you ken him? Was it a stranger, or one of the other men on the toft?’

  ‘It was that stranger,’ she said after a moment. ‘That one that’s aye coming about the place, and they’re all feart for.’

  ‘The one called Miller?’ Alys asked. Cleone shrugged, and the short shift bounced. ‘Can you tell me what the man looked like?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Taller than Dod Muir,’ she offered. ‘He’d a red doublet and good boots, and a blue bonnet.’

  ‘What colour was his plaid?’ Gil asked. Cleone smiled at him.

  ‘Our Lady love you, maister, he wasny wearing one.’

  ‘Thank you, lassie.’ Alys sat back, nodding to Madam Xanthe. ‘I’m sorry to have brought you out your bed, but that’s a useful thing you’ve told me.’

  ‘And more useful if you’d tellt the truth in the first place,’ said Madam Xanthe crisply. ‘Away back up the stair afore you freeze to death, you silly lassie.’ She watched the girl go, and as Agrippina settled to her packing again said, ‘And you’re saying this man Miller’s been taken? After you searched his workshop today, you’ve likely put a stop to the coining. So all’s at an end?’

  ‘All’s at an end,’ agreed Gil.

  ‘Tell me about it, my dears. You won’t mind Agrippina coming and going, will you?’

  They kept the tale short, though Gil had to hear the full account of Miller’s capture, guiltily aware of a wish to display his wife’s talents before someone who could appreciate them. Madam Xanthe listened attentively, and was suitably impressed by t
he drop-dead trick.

  ‘I must keep that in mind,’ she said, and tittered. ‘Though nobody’s likely to take me hostage at knifepoint, I imagine. Well done, madame.’

  She laughed aloud at their account of John Sempill’s crushed demeanour, but heard about the promises Otterburn had exacted without comment or expression.

  ‘Do you think Sempill will get away with a fine?’ Alys asked when they had finished. ‘He has broken the law, after all.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, how can I say?’ said Madam Xanthe, waving a long white hand in front of her face. ‘I’m a simple woman, I’ve no idea how the justiciars will act.’ She paused, looked from one to the other, and tittered again. ‘Do you know, you are looking at me with the same expression, both of you! Positively eerie, I assure you!’

  ‘Can you wonder?’ Gil said. ‘I believe no part of that statement was true.’

  ‘Do three negatives make a negative?’ she speculated absently. ‘So you think your case is ended, maister? The matter of Dame Isabella’s death is concluded?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Gil deliberately. Alys nodded.

  ‘So why did she die?’ The painted face altered somehow and Gil found he was looking at Sandy Boyd’s pale gaze, direct and challenging in the candlelight. Not Who killed her? he thought, but Why did she die?

  ‘A number of reasons,’ said Alys, ‘though the ones Maister Otterburn saw will do for the justiciars.’

  ‘You think so? Both of you?’

  Gil exchanged a glance with his wife.

  ‘I think so,’ he said at length. ‘It’s clear enough how and when the old woman was killed, and Miller had reason enough and was seen approaching just afore she died. Even if he continues to deny that one he’ll certainly hang for Dod Muir, St Giles be thanked, we have witnesses enough for that.’

  ‘I’m right glad to hear it,’ said Boyd. ‘And you, my dear?’

  Alys set down her wineglass and gathered up her skirts to rise.

  ‘Mon mari a raison,’ she said. ‘Madame, I must beg your forgiveness. It is late and I am very weary. I wish you good fortune wherever you are next, and whatever occupies you.’

  ‘Why, thank you.’ Madam Xanthe was back, taking Alys’s cue, rising in a crackle of taffeta. ‘And I wish you the same.’

  ‘And I hope,’ said Gil deliberately, ‘that you will be able to separate personal business from professional next time.’

  ‘But monsieur!’ The pale blue eyes met his direct, but the arch manner was more exaggerated than ever. ‘It’s so convenient when they overlap, you must see that!’

  ‘Oh!’ Alys paused, turning away from the door. ‘Before we go, might we look at this painted hall? I’ve heard great things of it.’

  ‘Oh, and so you should.’ The light laugh, the hand on Alys’s arm. ‘Come away up now, we’ll find candles and let you inspect it at your leisure. It’s caused a lot of comment among our guests,’ she confided. ‘I believe there’s nothing like it in Glasgow.’

  ‘Very likely,’ said Gil with emphasis.

  Walking slowly down through the silent burgh, the plaid wrapped round both of them against a light drizzle which had begun while they were admiring the paintings, Alys leaned her head against Gil’s shoulder and said,

  ‘I should like a longer look at that house by daylight.’

  He had been thinking how good it would be to fall into bed. ‘Hmm?’ he said.

  ‘The paintings are very good. One could put a plate-cupboard in front of the naked lady, though it would be a shame to hide the golden hair. It has how many chambers?’

  ‘Seven chambers, three closets, four hearths under the main roof,’ he recounted. ‘Or so Sandy said, the first time we were there.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully, as they turned in at the pend which led to her father’s house. ‘Smaller than this, but a good size.’

  ‘A good size for what?’ he asked, with a faint feeling of alarm.

  ‘For us.’ She paused under the pend, the beams of his small closet over their heads. ‘This is my father’s house, Gil. You should have your own roof, and when you take an assistant you need to have room to house him.’

  ‘An assistant?’ he repeated in surprise, his voice rising.

  ‘Hush, you will wake John. Yes, you need an assistant. I’d suggest Lowrie, after today, but you will make your own decision of course.’

  ‘Will I?’ he said. And what was I thinking earlier about being managed? ‘He made a good impression, did he?’

  ‘He did. Oh, he is not you, but if you teach him he could be nearly as good as you. His manners are good, he is well read. Socrates likes him.’

  ‘An infallible sign of merit,’ he said, amused. She pushed him lightly.

  ‘No, but think how difficult it would be if you took someone the dog disliked. Where is he, anyway?’

  ‘Waiting for us at the door.’

  The house door opened at that, and as Socrates whisked inside out of the rain Maistre Pierre’s voice, lowered in deference to the hour, said,

  ‘Are you to stand out there till the dawn, or are you coming in?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘I’d not expected you so early,’ said Otterburn with faint irony. ‘How’s Mistress Mason the day?’

  ‘Weary.’ Gil grimaced.

  He had not slept well, despite fatigue and the late night; conversations of the day had replayed themselves over and over in his head, while Alys breathed slowly beside him. This morning she was tired, stiff and cross, and dealing with a crisis in the kitchen. She had shown no interest in explaining to her father and Ealasaidh, who were agog to hear them, any of the details of her day in Strathblane. It had been left to Gil to convey the gist of her adventures and their results, with an account of the midnight interview with Sempill and Lady Magdalen. Ealasaidh had been first amused and then shocked, crying out in disapproval of Dame Isabella’s behaviour. Maistre Pierre had listened more carefully, taking particular note of one or two points, and then frowned at Gil.

  ‘Better this way,’ he said.

  ‘Och, yes, better indeed. But to be stirring trouble in the Isles!’ said Ealasaidh. ‘And her no kin to any of the folk there! That is simple badness, though I suppose,’ she added darkly, ‘it would be all you would expect of an immodest woman like that.’

  Gil nodded.

  ‘I wish McIan was still here,’ he said. ‘He might make me understand how things are out to the West.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Ealasaidh seriously, ‘there is no understanding it, for as soon as it is settled, they are changing what they ask for.’

  ‘But do you think the old woman’s scheme will have had any success?’

  ‘No knowing at all,’ she said. ‘Money is not a thing they are using much, it might have made no difference at all.’

  He had called briefly on his uncle, to give him the end of the tale, though he had skimmed over Alys’s Straunge Aduenture. Canon Cunningham’s reaction had been similar to Maistre Pierre’s.

  ‘We would certainly have had to question everyone in the matter,’ he agreed. ‘Better this way, without letting the light of day into everyone’s inmost thoughts. Indeed, Gilbert, almost one might say the old – dame had been executed ahead of her trial, it comes so convenient for the Crown.’

  ‘So one might,’ agreed Gil. His uncle shot him a sharp look.

  ‘As to this mad scheme of hers, to destabilize the Isles, I never heard of such a thing. Rank treason, at least in intent. I very much doubt whether it would have succeeded,’ he pronounced.

  Now Otterburn was saying much the same thing.

  ‘No saying it would have worked. It’s a barter market out there, little enough coin changes hands.’

  ‘Aye, but the whole chain leaked,’ Gil said. ‘It was the coin getting away every time a purse moved that worried Blacader and the Treasury. It seems as if they kent it was going out to the Isles, but not where it was coming from, till we started digging here in Glasgow.’

  ‘Did they
now?’ Otterburn was shuffling papers on his desk. ‘Aye, here we are. You might like a sight o my report, and then you can have a read at the man Miller’s deposition. Oh, and his Christian name, maister, you’ll never guess, I might as well tell you straight, is Hilary. What were his parents thinking on? No wonder he stuck wi his surname or his by-name! We got a confession off him for Dod Muir, seeing we had witnesses a plenty, and he’s admitted to the two miners wi a bit persuasion, well, one o them, he swears the other was an accident, but him and Noll Campbell both are determined neither of them slew Dame Isabella. How did ye get the blue velvet purse then, I asked him, and he says, She gied me it hersel. For all his hard work, he says. Can you credit it?’

  Well, yes, I can, thought Gil, skimming Walter’s neatly scribed copy of the report to the Archbishop. It was a masterpiece of suppression and suggestion, and would fit neatly with his own; he was glad to see that Alys’s adventure and her part in the arrest of Miller was one of the items suppressed here too. Pride in her achievements was one thing, bringing these to the attention of senior churchmen was another. As for Dame Isabella, better to have her murdered by a passing counterfeiter than to put what really happened onto paper where anyone might read it.

  ‘And I’ve a couple o the lads down the Gallowgate now wi one o the clerks,’ Otterburn continued, ‘asking about among the neighbours to see if they can find out why they were all so feart for the man. We might clear up a couple more matters while we’re about it.’

  ‘So how many have you held, in the end?’ Gil asked.

  ‘It’s in there.’

  ‘What, no others? Miller, Saunders and Noll Campbell. You’ve let the women go? And the miners’ laddie?’

  ‘Oh, him!’ said Otterburn. ‘Aye, young Livingstone came by afore Sext, wi a tale of escorting the laddie out to see his kin put in the ground, so I released him into his hands, for there’s no reasonable charge I could bring against him. The deil kens what Livingstone will do wi him, but he’s no my problem any more. As for the women in the case! Sic a weeping and wailing as you never heard, and that bairn screaming and all, I bade them begone. Likely they were in the conspiracy and all, but it was their men did the work and broke the laws o Scotland.’