by Pat McIntosh
‘Are they capable of doing so?’
‘I think we should not underestimate the wild Ersche only because they do not speak Scots,’ Gil said. ‘They think differently because their language is different, but Ealasaidh for one is no fool.’
‘Because the language is different,’ Maistre Pierre repeated thoughtfully. ‘And any of these,’ he added, ‘could have stepped aside into Blackfriars yard with that poor girl and knifed her.’
‘Once again, we are faced with the same questions. Why knife her? And why would she go aside to a secluded spot like that with someone like to kill her?’
‘There is no telling what some girls will do,’ offered Maistre Pierre. ‘My friend, if we do not proceed across this bridge and find the ale-house, my tongue will cleave to the roof of my mouth, and it will be too dark to find the door of the place. Let us move on.’
‘Very true.’ Gil straightened up.
Maistre Pierre remained a moment longer looking down at the swirling water of the river. ‘You know, God is endlessly good. Look how he has arranged that the tide reaches to the bridge and no further.’
The Brigend was a sizeable community of mingled wattle-and-daub cottages and tall imposing houses, inhabited by those for whom it was not necessary to be indwellers in the burgh, whether because they were too poor to become burgesses or because they were wealthy enough to ignore the by-laws. Maggie Bell’s ale-house was perhaps a hundred yards beyond the ancient stone-built leper hospital, and was easy enough to find, with its ale-stake thrust into the thatch over the door. Someone had gone to the trouble of painting the likeness of St Mungo’s bell on a piece of wood to hang from the stake. Gil paused below the image and looked along the empty street to where a dog was attempting to round up a handful of hens.
‘It is said to be healthier living here,’ he remarked to the mason, ‘out of the smells of the burgh.’
‘I do not see how that can be true,’ objected Maistre Pierre. ‘There is St Ninian’s, after all.’
He ducked to go into the house, and Gil followed him.
A tavern was a tavern, whether on the banks of the Seine or the Clyde. Inside this one there was firelight, and the smell of many people, fried food and spilled ale. Several girls were hurrying about with armfuls of wooden beakers, jugs, plates of food. The long tables were crowded, people stood in groups near the door and the tiny windows, and from the great barrel of ale in the corner Maggie Bell herself kept an eye on the proceedings and removed the money from her girls as they collected it. She was nearly as tall as Gil, broad-shouldered and grey-haired, and put him strongly in mind of Ealasaidh.
‘We can learn nothing here, surely!’ the mason bawled, his mouth inches from Gil’s ear.
‘It will clear in a while,’ Gil answered. ‘Many of these have yet to go home for supper.’
A girl appeared in front of them smiling hopefully. She wore a greasy canvas apron, but she herself seemed fairly clean.
‘What’s your will, maisters?’
‘Two mugs of ale,’ said Gil, trying not to look down her bodice. She held out her hand for the money, contriving to brush his hip with hers, and slipped away through the crowd. When she returned, Gil said to her, ‘Does Annie Thomson work here, lass?’
‘Why? Will I no do?’
‘I am suited, thanks. I want a word with Annie.’ Gil produced another coin. ‘Can you point her out to me?’
‘She’s out the back the now. Here she comes.’ She jerked her head at a girl just pushing in from the kitchen. Gil, peering in the dim light, thought he recognized the build and movements.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and dropped the coin into the cavity being thrust at him. He got a gap-toothed grin, and the girl slipped away again.
‘Is that the girl you saw with Davie?’ asked the mason.
‘I think it is.’ Gil was watching, trying not to stare. The big-framed girl with the black brows distributed the food she had brought in, a plate of fried meat here, bannocks and cheese there. The bell of St Ninian’s began to ring, and several groups of customers downed their drinks and left.
‘Are these all going to hear Compline?’ said Maistre Pierre incredulously.
‘Probably not,’ said Gil, claiming two stools at the corner of a table. ‘But master or dame will bar the door when the Office is done, and there you are in the street shouting to be let in.’ He frowned, as the girl who had served them paused by Annie Thomson and spoke in her ear, jerking her head towards their side of the room. Annie answered, without looking round, and went out to the kitchen again. Something about the set of her back made Gil uneasy.
Under the other window, a large group began singing. Gil could make out neither words nor tune above the hubbub, but Mistress Bell straightened up, glared at the singers, and rapped on the ale barrel with an old shoe which lay conveniently to her hand. This had no effect, so she tried again, shouting,-‘No- singing!’
The noise receded, leaving the singing isolated like rubbish cast up by the tide. One or two of the singers, realizing what was happening, fell silent, but the rest roared on, oblivious to tugged sleeves and nudged ribs. Mistress Bell, leaving her post at the barrel, stalked across the room in a widening hush, and bellowed, ‘No singing in my house!’
The singing broke off in a ragged diminuendo.
‘Och, Maggie, it’s just -‘ began one of the minstrels. Mistress Bell tucked the shoe behind her busk, removed his beaker and gave it to his neighbour, then lifted him by one arm and the seat of his hose, and carried him without another word to the door. Someone standing by it hastily opened it for her and she stepped out, dropped her burden in the gutter, dusted her hands together and marched back into the house.
‘And the rest of ye,’ she said, withdrawing the shoe in a threatening manner.
Under her eye the rest of the group finished their drinks and left quietly, while the other customers pretended not to watch. Finally, satisfied, Mistress Bell went back to the tap of the great barrel, making shooing motions at the huddle of grinning serving-lasses in the kitchen doorway.
‘Monday!’ she shouted after the last miscreant. He nodded, and slunk out. She nodded at another table. ‘And you, Billy Spreull. Ye’ve had enough the night. Finish that and get away to your bed.’
‘Ah, Maggie,’ said the man next to the red-faced customer she had addressed.
‘Will I cross this floor?’ she offered, elbows akimbo.
‘No, no,’ said Billy Spreull hastily. ‘We’re jush - just going, Maggie.’
‘Mon Dieu!’ said the mason devoutly, as the noise returned and Billy and his friend left.
‘The singers are barred until Monday,’ Gil interpreted. ‘Habbie Sims told me about this place. It’s the only alehouse the Watch never has to clear.’
‘Surely the Watch has no jurisdiction outside the burgh?’
‘They come over occasionally. Probably to drink at Maggie’s.’ Gil peered into his beaker. ‘Maistre Pierre, look into that corner, and tell me what you see.’
The mason turned to cast a casual glance beyond where the singers had been.
‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Two of those we discussed earlier. So Maister Campbell was not meeting them. I wonder what he was doing?’
‘Further,’ said Gil, his back to the Sempills, ‘I no longer see Annie Thomson. She has not returned to watch the house being cleared, like the other girls. Do you need another drink?’
‘My turn.’ The mason crooked a finger at the girl who had brought their ale. ‘Two more mugs of that very good ale, hen, and where is Annie? Has she left? We wanted to ask her a question.’
‘She’s likely out the back again, her belly’s bothering her,’ said the girl, lifting their empty beakers. ‘It’s funny - there’s another two fellows asking for Annie over there, and I never noticed her spitting pearls.’
Another group of customers left. By the time the girl returned with their drinks, the room was half empty.
‘Could you find Annie?’ Gil said. �
�It’s important.’
‘That’s what the other body said,’ she retorted, tossing her head at him. ‘What’s Annie been up to?’
‘Nothing you wouldn’t do, I’m certain,’ said Gil. He produced another coin, and made it slide in and out between his fingers. The girl watched it, fascinated. ‘Find Annie for us?’ he coaxed.
‘Joan!’ shouted her employer across the room.
‘I’ll try,’ she said grudgingly, and hurried off.
‘Where did you learn that trick with the coin?’ the mason asked.
‘Paris.’
‘I must remember not to play cards with you.’
Gil grinned. I don’t cheat at Tarocco. No need.’
Joan came back into the room, a loaded tray of food in her hands. She distributed this to a group at the long table beyond where the Sempills were sitting, to the accompaniment of complaints that it was cold, and began collecting empty beakers. Pausing by Gil’s elbow she announced, ‘Annie’s no there. She was to bring that tray in, and she’s just no there.’
‘Not in the privy?’ Gil prompted, dismayed.
‘Can- ye no understand? I’m saying she’s no there.’
Gil dropped the coin after its fellow.
‘Thank you for looking,’ he said. ‘Where might she have gone?’
‘Joan!’ shouted Mistress Bell again.
‘The deil knows,’ said Joan, and whisked off. Gil turned to look at Maistre Pierre.
‘Another broken scent,’ he said, and felt something nudge at his memory.
‘Perhaps that formidable woman at the tap could tell us more,’ suggested the mason. His eyes flicked beyond Gil, and he sat back a little, so that Gil had a moment’s warning before John Sempill of Muirend said at his shoulder,
‘And what brings you out this side of the Clyde, Gil Cunningham?’
‘I was born this side,’ Gil pointed out unwisely.
‘Aye, but ye don’t hold the Plotcock and Thinacre now. How’s your mother?’
‘She’s well, John. Regrets her sister Margaret yet,’ said Gil, giving as good as he got. ‘Do you know Maister Peter Mason?’
Sempill nodded at the mason, hooked a stool out with his foot and hunkered down, hitching up the hem of his short black gown to avoid sitting on it. Firelight glinted on the jet beads on his doublet.
‘You were at Bess’s funeral. Sit down, Philip, in God’s name, don’t stand over me like that.’ His cousin sat obediently beside him, staring heavy-eyed at the wall behind Gil’s head. Sempill looked at him and shrugged. ‘Gil, I want a word with you.’
‘You’re getting one.’
‘It’s about …’ Sempill hesitated, turning his beaker round, apparently counting the staves of which it was constructed. ‘It’s about Bess,’ he said at length.
‘I’m listening.’
Sempill turned the beaker round again.
‘I know fine,’ he said, picking at the withy hoop that held the staves together, ‘that Bess had a bairn and that it was none of mine.’ Philip turned and looked at him, then faced the wall again. Ignoring him, Sempill continued, ‘I can count as well as the next man, and I’d been at the Rothesay house once in the three months before she left it. At the quarter-day,’ he added. ‘There was rents to collect. But is that right, that in law I could claim the bairn as mine, because it was born within twelve months of her leaving my house?’
‘You were not separated?’ Gil asked. ‘She had not applied for a divorce?’
‘She wouldn’t have dared,’ said Sempill rather grimly. His cousin turned to look at him again. Recollecting himself, he said more circumspectly, ‘Not that I know of.’
‘Then I think that is probably the case,’ Gil said.
‘I need an heir,’ Sempill said, ‘and I need it now. My uncle is making a will.’
‘What uncle would that be?’ Gil asked curiously.
‘Old John Murray, canon at Dunblane. He’s done well for himself, and I’m his nearest male kin, since his sister was my grandam but no Philip’s. If it’s any business of yours. His mind’s going as well this time,’ he said viciously, ‘and if I can show him an heir he’ll leave me the lot. Failing that it goes to Holy Kirk.’
‘You are asking Maister Cunningham to bilk Holy Kirk of your uncle’s estate?’ said the mason. Sempill snarled at him.
‘He’s asking for advice,’ Philip Sempill said, and leaned forward, putting his leather-clad elbows on the table. ‘It could benefit Bess Stewart’s bairn.’
‘I’m asking for more than that. Will you take a proposition to the harper for me? If he will let me recognize the brat as my heir, I’ll see him right after I get the money.’
‘By him, do you mean the harper?’ said Gil. ‘Or the baby?’
‘So it is a boy!’ said Sempill triumphantly, and Gil suppressed a wave of annoyance. ‘I mean the harper, gomerel.’
‘There’s Euphemia,’ said his cousin.
Sempill glared at him. ‘I need a bairn now. This one’s here, it’s a boy, it’s legally mine. Even if I was to marry Euphemia -‘
‘If Euphemia Campbell were to give you a legitimate heir,’ said Gil carefully, ‘it would have to be born at least nine months from now. Furthermore, because she has been your mistress in open notoriety, I am not certain you are able to marry Lady Euphemia in any case, though you would be best to take advice on that.’
The two men stared at him, open-mouthed, for a moment.
‘So I need to recognize the harper’s brat,’ said Sempill, recovering quickly. ‘Will you put it to him? I suppose there’ll be a fee to yourself and all.’
‘For a fee,’ said Gil, ‘I will.’
‘Thank you.’ Sempill slammed his beaker down on the table and rose. ‘Come on, Philip. That lass is not here, and it’s a long way up the brae.’
‘Tom-catting in the Gorbals now?’ said Gil innocently.
‘Just as much as yourself, Gil,’ said Sempill.
Gil caught at his arm, and felt the man tense angrily. ‘Now I want a word with you, John.’
‘What, then?’ Sempill stared down at him.
‘What did you come down the market for this morning?’
‘If it’s any of your business, to get another couple of hides off Sandy the tanner in the Waulkergait, who’s sitting over yonder just now with two of his cronies, and to get a word with them at Greyfriars about the burial. Why?’
‘And to run up a bill for black velvet with Clem Walkinshaw,’ said Philip.
‘Aye. You’d think when we’re cousins he could let me have it at cost, but not him.’
‘And when did you go back up the brae?’
‘Oh, well before Sext. Right, Philip?’
Philip Sempill nodded. they were- just beginning Sext at St Nicholas, at the Wyndhead, when we passed.’
‘Who else of the household was down at the market?’
‘How the devil would I know? Neil and Euan both, likely, but who knows what Marriott Kennedy chose to send down the brae?’
‘What about Lady Euphemia? Her brother? What was her brother doing? And Mistress Murray?’
‘I don’t lead Euphemia out on a chain,’ said Sempill forcefully, ‘and I’m not my good-brother’s keeper. It’s very possible. Ask them. What is this about?’
‘Another lass died today,’ Gil said, ‘and there may be a connection.’
‘Well, it was nothing to do with me,’ said Sempill. ‘And you’d best find who it was, Gil Cunningham, or there’ll be no lasses left in Glasgow. Come on, Philip.’
He tugged his arm free of Gil’s grasp and marched out. They heard him in the street cracking his plaid like a whip.
His cousin hesitated.
‘Who killed Bess?’ he asked quietly. ‘Do you know yet? John’ll not be fit to live with till it’s discovered.’
‘Does it worry him?’ Gil asked, surprised by this image of the man. ‘I never thought he cared a spent docken for her, except as his property.’
‘Exactly.’ Philip Sempi
ll finished his ale and rose, shaking out his grey plaid. ‘And his property’s getting scarce enough, without folk putting knives through it.’
‘Philip!’ shouted Sempill from the street.
‘So you’ll let us know the answer,’ said Philip Sempill ambiguously, and followed his cousin.
Gil turned his head to watch the door swing shut behind him, and Maistre Pierre said, Interesting.’
‘More than that.’ Gil watched the latch click and said thoughtfully, ‘He must be desperate for money. He knows it is a boy - that is my fault,’ he said ruefully, counting off the points, ‘he either cannot find it or knows he cannot reach it, he seems willing to acknowledge it although he knows it is not his.’
‘Why can he not marry his leman? He seems to consider her his wife already.’
‘Simply because she is his leman. His adultery has been publicly recognized while his wife was alive. Canon law is quite specific on that point.’
‘So he must acknowledge this baby which is not his. For how long?’ asked Maistre Pierre.
Gil shrugged. ‘He was a year or two above me at the Grammar School. I would trust him about as far as I could throw him. Until he gets his uncle’s money, I imagine the bairn would be safe.’
Will you put his proposition to the harper?’
‘I will - and whistle for my fee, most likely.’ Gil pushed back his stool. ‘We have a long walk over the bridge too, but first I think there is something we must do here.’
Maggie Bell eyed him with disfavour as he approached her. Ignoring this, he took up a position where he did not impede her view of the room, and said quietly, ‘Mistress Bell, I owe you an apology.’
‘How so?’ she said, startled.
‘It seems I may have driven one of your lasses away.’
‘Annie Thomson.’
‘The same. I came looking for a word with her, and so did the two that have just left, and the girl Joan says she has vanished.’
‘I’m no surprised. My girls are good girls, maister. What they do in their own time’s their own concern, but there’s no assignations made in my house. Four of ye in one evening, michty me!’
