The Royal Burgh

by Steven Veerapen

‘You don’t approve of jest books?’

  ‘I have no grievance with jesting,’ said Danforth, annoyed the implication. He didn’t like to think of himself as a religious fanatic, the type that called for moral reform at every turn. ‘I do not think a poor likeness of a bare breast shall bring upon us the wrath of God. Yet I find these things foolish and vain. They are a devilish trick used to make men waste time. They lead to … to disordered action, to committing adultery in the heart, to focusing on the pleasure of the self.’ He was aware that his face was reddening furiously, his collar itching him. He grasped around mentally for more secure ground. ‘False, villainous fellows use books such as this to mock their betters. In England, filth was written of the king’s concubine, Anne Boleyn. And you recall the verses written against the Cardinal and his … his friend, Mistress Ogilvie?’ Cardinal Beaton’s mistress, by whom he had several children, now legitimised by the Pope, was an open secret in Scotland. ‘It is not just that they revel in lewdness, Arnaud. Such things at these aim at a higher mark than simply amusing bored gentlemen.’

  ‘Where does one get these, though?’

  ‘Books filled with vulgar and libidinous images?’

  ‘Aye – where do you find them?’

  ‘Where else, sir – France.’ This time Danforth gave his own cold smile. Martin waggled his head from side to side, miming silent, sarcastic laughter.

  ‘Do not turn to Eiron, sir.’

  ‘A poor jest, when this lady lies hard in her great sleep,’ said Martin.

  ‘No jest, but a jesting figure.’

  ‘I don’t follow your meaning.’

  ‘I do not expect you to. Yet I spoke true. The world knows that these books come from the continent.’ In better days, one of the jobs occasionally thrust on Danforth by Cardinal Beaton was the procurement of rare books and manuscripts. In the course of such enjoyable pursuits, he had all too often come upon those who would make money by selling cheap, illicit, immoral texts brought in from abroad.

  ‘Perhaps, then, because we haven’t the wit to make them.’

  ‘But the money to purchase them, it seems. Someone does. These items are worth a great deal to base men.’

  ‘Och it’s only a small thing,’ said Martin.

  ‘A small thing found by a woman who has had the very life crushed out of her.’ Chastised, Martin looked down at Madeleine Furay, and Danforth followed his gaze. Only the day before she had been sitting by Alison. She was young enough still. She might have done a lot in her life yet. Now she would not laugh, or smile, or bear children. He crossed himself.

  ‘The poor lady. I’d have justice for her. Do you think her killer left the book and coin, in his haste to be gone?’

  ‘I think it passing likely.’ Danforth paused to bend again, lightly brushing closed Madeleine’s green eyes. ‘And yet there is another possibility.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Who might gain passage easily to the lady’s bedchamber? Who should, indeed, have the right of it?’

  ‘Only her husband, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Mr Furay, with whom she claimed yesterday to have an appointment. Mr Furay, who was to bring her fennel from his business out of the burgh. Mr Furay, whom we now hear was from home last night.’

  7

  Outside, the Tolbooth struck eleven. Danforth pocketed the book and the coin, wiping his hands on the side table’s towel after handling them. Martin led the way downstairs, Danforth pausing to cast one last glance back at the body of Madeleine Furay. The woman should not be dead. Though she might have been a vain, proud creature, she was yet a living, breathing person, who could not have expected some monster to attack her. He was glad that defiance was the last message printed on her features. She had died fighting, likely beating at her killer like a wild cat.

  The baillies had departed, leaving the maid alone and weeping. She sat in the hall, hiccoughing fitfully – not on one of the good chairs, but on a stool. A soiled handkerchief was pressed against her lips.

  ‘What’s your name, lass?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Morag, sir. Are you … the men the baillie said was lookin’ after the mistress?’

  ‘Yes, Morag. My friend Mr Danforth and I have charge of her.’

  ‘Mr Martin and I shall find her killer,’ said Danforth, in an effort to be helpful. Fresh paroxysms of grief threatened, and Martin gave him an exasperated look.

  ‘You know what’s passed, Morag,’ he said. ‘Your mistress has … departed this world … and someone bears the blame of it.’

  ‘Aye, aye, it’s true – I saw her. Aw, she was a good woman.’ Danforth was surprised. He would have imagined the dead woman to have been an exacting employer, hard on those who served her.

  ‘Yet we must have the truth of it,’ he said. He was irritated at being outdone by Martin, who always seemed to know the right way to handle people – especially unhappy young ladies, for whom he had a special sympathy. ‘Your mistress’s death has struck me, and I shall not rest until the … the nature of her passing is discovered.’ Morag nodded understanding. The girl was shocked, not stupid. She wiped her nose with the handkerchief, sat it on her lap and then tightened the loose bow under her chin. ‘Do you live here, Morag?’

  ‘No, sir. I get myself home at dusk.’

  ‘Where is home?’

  ‘Down the Hiegait, sir, the bottom end, near to St Mary’s.’

  ‘I see. And so you left this place at dusk yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where are the other servants? Do they dwell within the house?’

  ‘There is only me, sir, and Taylor.’

  ‘Taylor?’ asked Martin.

  ‘The steward. I come in the mornings, I cook and that, and I leave supper for the master and the mistress before I go.’

  ‘Where’s Taylor?’

  ‘He’s the master’s groom, sir. He away wi’ him.’ Danforth wrinkled his brow. A maid for the mistress and a groom for the master. For a merchant, it wasn’t much of a household. Madeleine Furay would never have been able to boast about the service given her.

  ‘And you saw nothing of Mr Furay yesterday?’

  Morag nodded vigorously. ‘I did, sir, aye, in the morning and after dinner.’

  ‘Yet you said he is from home.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Morag, looking at them as if they were fools. ‘He and Taylor went off after noon. I cannae say when, I was so busy.’

  ‘And they took their horses?’

  ‘I cannae say, sir. I’m nothing to do wi’ the stables. But … aye, I think they must’ve taken them, else how could they leave the burgh?’

  ‘How, indeed,’ said Danforth. He let the words hang. Often the murderer in domestic cases was the husband. He could a man in London who had hired another to kill his wife, the woman’s body beaten senseless by a desperate vagabond. Still another had struck his wife in the morning, then left her bleeding by the hearth all day as he went smiling to his trade in the nearby smithy. Both had tried to cast the blame elsewhere: on some stranger; on some accident. Both had hanged, neither smiling then. Men – and women – frequently conceived some grievance against their spouse, some imagined wrong, and struck out in vengeance. Horror at their actions usually made them run, either out of the sight of the world or into the street in terror. Yet for each one who ran crying into the street in horror at what they’d done, five more would try and bury the evidence. ‘Morag, did you inform the baillies and the Provost that the master was from home?’

  ‘Yes, sir – well, the baillies. The Provost wouldn’t give the likes of me the time o’ day.’

  ‘Thank you. And one final thing. Do you know of any other man who might have come here after you returned to your home? Some man of trade, or the like?’

  ‘I cannae say, sir.’

  ‘Very well. You might now go home. We shall seek you out if we need you again. Oh,’ added Danforth, raising a finger to his lips, ‘you might take a message to the baillies that they can send some men to retrieve the body, to g
et it into some coffer or other until services for burial are restored. We have done with her.’

  Morag nodded and dropped them a curtsey, as though pleased to be released and to have something to do.

  Once she had gone, Danforth knuckled his temple. A headache was beginning. He wanted some dinner. Martin began to circle the room, picking things up and putting them down: a cushion; a candlestick; a spoon. There was nothing of interest. Neither could imagine Madeleine Furay sitting sedately in such a room, her remarkable green eyes narrowed in concentration as the needle thrust in and out of fancywork. Something didn’t fit.

  ‘So the husband did it?’ said Martin at length.

  ‘That would be hasty, yet his absence is strange. Item: he was here yesterday. Item: he left on business. Item: his wife claimed to be expecting him. These things signify something amiss, but whether guilt or some other thing, I cannot say.’ As he spoke, Danforth moved between stools and chairs and strode to the empty grate. It was not a grand affair, but any fireplace was a thing of status. He leaned his forearms on the mantle, breathing in the smell of soot and years of fires. ‘Someone was dishonest. We might visit the stables, if we can find the passage to them. Perhaps some common stable houses the street’s horses – there we shall see if Mr Furay left on a long journey. Either he told his wife he would return in the evening, and did not, or Mistress Furay lied.’

  ‘A great storyteller, my mother said,’ said Martin to Danforth’s back.

  ‘Perhaps. Yet I should like to speak to this husband, damn the man.’

  ‘And here’s your chance, sir.’

  ‘Who in the name of Christ’s bloody wounds are you?’

  Danforth spun, his boots nearly catching on his cloak, and stared across the room and into the suspicious, pinched face of Walter Furay.

  ‘Well, sirs, who are you to be in my house?’

  ‘Mr Furay … you know what has occurred here?’

  ‘My wife is slain, it’s said in the street. It cannae be so. I willnae believe it. False flyters shall suffer for reporting vicious shite.’

  ‘I am afraid,’ said Danforth, ‘it is true. Your wife lies upstairs, dead. We have been invited by the Provost to take–’ But Furay had raced for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  ‘Where’s this Taylor?’ asked Martin, his voice low.

  ‘Attending to the horses, I should think.’

  A keening moan sounded from the direction of the bedchamber, and then Mr Furay reappeared, his face the colour of wet chalk. He was a slight man, with a fashionable long, thin, straggling beard. More rat’s tail than beard, it did little to lessen his similarity to a rodent, but a lot to emphasise it.

  ‘Is she slain, sirs, or is this some unhappy accident?’

  ‘Slain,’ snapped Danforth. He disliked the man, and distrust found dislike a sturdy throne. There was something strident and cocky about him.

  ‘Yet this cannae be, I cannae have it. How am I to live without her?’ He looked plaintively at Martin, whom he appeared to recognise, if dimly.

  ‘Uh … you will, Mr Furay. You’ll find a way.’ Martin’s face turned placid as he spoke.

  Danforth said nothing, though the image of his own wife drifted through his mind. How had he taken that dreadful news? He didn’t care to recall. But he thought it had been with concern for Alice and his daughter, Elizabeth’s, souls – not for himself.

  ‘Nae comfort, nae comfort,’ moaned Furay. ‘I saw her only yesterday.’

  ‘Before your business took you from the burgh?’ asked Danforth, his tone acid. Furay looked up. Suspicion had returned to his face, as though he had suddenly remembered that the men in his hall were investigating his wife’s death.

  ‘Aye, before that. I was away frae home this last evening and night and know nothin’ to help you catch this fiend.’

  ‘In what business are you engaged, sir?’

  ‘Spices.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Linlithgow, Edinburgh, Tullibody, Alloa, anywhere there’s a market to be had. Goods come tae the harbour here or are brought by pack horse from the bigger harbours. I dae well.’ Cockiness again, thought Danforth. Rehearsed.

  ‘Spices are a fine business, indeed. I must ask, sir, if you have any enemies, or have lately had any trouble in your affairs.’

  ‘Naw.’ The inflection in his voice was sharp, almost petulant. He crossed his arms over his chest in a defensive little gesture.

  ‘Tell me,’ continued Danforth, reaching into his cloak, ‘have you seen this thing before?’ He produced the book, held it up and opened it, the pages facing Furay so that only he need look at them. Danforth trained his eyes on the man, hoping that his face might reveal something before his will could override it. Furay’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘Naw, indeed, whit d’ye take me for, sir? It’s no’ mine. I know nothin’ of it.’ Danforth snapped the cover shut neatly and slid the book back into the inner pocket of his cloak. A sly look crossed Furay’s face. ‘Or is it that ye’d try and sell me such filth? Is that yer game?’

  ‘My error, sir, forgive me,’ said Danforth, fighting a rising surge or rage and embarrassment. ‘Have you any children, Mr Furay?’ Martin looked at Danforth oddly. They both knew the Furays were childless.

  ‘No children,’ he said. ‘None. She couldnae bear them.’

  ‘That is sad, sir. For what use is a marriage but to bear issue.’

  ‘I’ve already said I cannae help you, gentlemen. I was away frae the burgh.’

  ‘So you have said, sir. Away on business to find a market. At night. And now returned in the morning from … where was it? Linlithgow or Edinburgh, some days’ ride away, or from the harbour and river, from which you might easily have returned before now.’

  ‘What is this?’ said Furay. ‘Who are you men? Why’s the Provost given you any hand in this matter? It is my wife’s been killed.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘I need tell you nothin’, nothin’ at all. You’re no’ baillies. I don’t know what the hell either of you are. Get out of my house. Get out! I’ll speak tae no man save a true man o’ the law to advise me, and a priest tae take my poor wife. Get out!’

  Danforth and Martin allowed themselves to be ushered out, passing a flustered young man who must have been Taylor. Danforth had time to register that he was carrying nothing, none of his master’s belongings. The door slammed behind them.

  ‘He’s a shifty fellow. Always was. Never liked him. He did seem sad enough about the lady’s death, right enough.’

  ‘Yes. As any accomplished player might. I found him more exercised by fear that he might stand accused.’

  ‘You can’t hang a man for that.’

  ‘No. More is the pity.’

  They took the stone steps down to the Hiegait. It had turned cold, and Danforth tightened his cloak around him. He felt the sordid book bump against his chest and recoiled from its touch. The crowd had dispersed, probably melting away at the angry orders of the Provost as he had left. At the bottom of the stairs, Danforth turned to look up at the house, sandwiched between its neighbours. From the outside, it was impossible tell where one house ended and another began. One wall of grey and brown stone ran along the length of the upper street. His eyes travelled upwards, to the roof, drawn in stark relief against the lighter grey of the sky. He turned left, down towards the Tolbooth, and then right, up the slope of the Castle Wynd, snaking its way up the enormous rock. He had never realised before how oppressive it felt dwelling in a burgh sheltered by such a thing. The grounds of the castle were open and airy, for it surmounted the clifftop. Underneath, one felt like a little insect, warily scratching around beneath a boulder.

  ‘What now, Simon?’ said Martin, interrupting his thoughts. ‘You can’t be thinking of going to the castle? The Provost wouldn’t like it, although I reckon that guards armed with partisans and halberds might help us force a confession.’

  ‘You think the husband guilty, then?’ Danforth had turned away from the cas
tle rock, and instead looked levelly at Martin.

  ‘I think he’s a dirty little liar. You struck upon it yourself, sir – he wasn’t booted for travel, nor could business have taken him from the place for one night. If he didn’t do it, there’s no place he could have gone, laid his head, and returned so quickly.’

  ‘There is,’ said Danforth. ‘And not so far from here.’

  Danforth set off across the Hiegait, Martin trailing him. The snow was now almost gone, the mud road wet and sludgy. As they walked, stepping over the sewer, small twigs lodged in the muck crackled and crunched underfoot.

  Danforth opened the doot to McTavish’s inn, pleased at the look of respect on Martin’s face. They found the place empty save for the owner, humming under his breath. Danforth cast a glance down at the rushes, skirting them as best he could as he crossed the room.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said McTavish, breaking off. ‘A visit again, and so soon. You’ll be wanting some ale? Mistr-’ Danforth cut off his low shout.

  ‘We need not trouble your wife, sir. You are aware of what has befallen the burgh in the night?’

  ‘The death of poor Mistress Furay? Oh, yes, sir, yes. Very sad, very terrible. Some thief, I don’t doubt. The people in the lower Hiegait and the wynd must feel they’ve liberty to thumb their noses at the law, sir, with the old king dead. This dark lord of theirs rising up now, you know the rumours, very terrible. And this burgh so wealthy and fair since the reign of the fourth King James. I don’t know, sir, but the times are hard. It’ll be like the north before long, pickpockets and wild men killing us in our beds.’ He rubbed his hands together as he spoke, agitating them.

  ‘When did you hear of this news, sir?’

  ‘Me? This morning, sir, when the hue and cry went out.’

  ‘You said last evening, Mr McTavish, that you had guests in the inn.’

  ‘Did I, sir? Yes, so I did. We did, at that.’

  ‘Who were these guests?’

  ‘Gentlemen, sir, fine gentlemen, such as this house commonly lodges.’

  ‘Their names?’

  ‘I shouldn’t like to say, begging your pardon, sir. Their lodging here is their business.’