1588 A Calendar of Crime

by Shirley McKay

  ‘You did not hurt him at all?’

  Robert grinned at him. ‘How should I dare, after that blast you gave the Kintor boy? He might have had a slap, on his riddled airse, to set him on his path, but I couldna hurt the man. He was jelly on a plate. There was no more fight in him than in one of Bella’s custards.’

  Hew and Robert Lachlan parted at the mill, where the crownar’s guard stood watchful by the burn. ‘You and your colleagues are welcome,’ Hew told him, ‘to join us tonight at our feast.’ When the man looked uncertain, he said, ‘Where better to watch, than where we will be?’ It would be a simple thing, he thought, for Robert to disarm most of Andrew’s men, through the failsafe method of the demon drink. But it would not be fair to them. And the result would be yet more blood on his hands.

  The family at the mill received him with humility and a desperate gratitude. John Kintor’s mother had been weeping copiously. She was an old friend from Hew’s father’s time, and Hew had no doubt his sister would be there to hold her hand and comfort her, as soon as she had quelled the terrors of her son. For the moment, he felt an awkwardness, for while they looked to him for hope and reassurance, he also had to question them on matters that were delicate. He must know the truth, whatever his resolve. And he must convince the mother that whatever was the truth, she would not lose her son.

  In the event, his questions were pre-empted by John Kintor himself, who approached him bravely, and asked if Hew wished him to give himself up. ‘For I will admit to it, if you want me to.’

  ‘I do not wish you to, if you did not do it,’ Hew said, and was persuaded quickly that the boy was innocent.

  ‘Oh, but,’ John Kintor said, ‘it is all my fault. If I had never shot at him, I widnae be suspected now, and you wid not have said that you wid take my place, and you wid not be hanged. So I should be hanged now, instead of you. I am resolved.’

  He looked at his mother, who wept further tears, confirming, ‘He is resolved, sir. He is.’

  Hew told him firmly that it was his intention that no one would be hanged. ‘Or at least, not you or I, for both of us are blameless.’

  ‘But I shot his arse. So I am the more to blame than you,’ John Kintor said.

  ‘In truth,’ said Hew, ‘you are the less to blame.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘It is a question of degree. And I am of degree and a higher rank than you. So I will put to rights the trouble we are in, and you will sit there quietly and do as you are told.’

  The assertion of authority worked to reassure him, as it was meant to do, and Hew was able then to continue with his questions, and to be fairly sure of the response. John Kintor had not retrieved the slinger from the library, or been up to the house. He had not seen Alan Petrie since the day before. But his brother had. He had seen him sitting by the burn, while he was at the mill. That was not so long before they found him dead. ‘I swear that he was well then. He was on a hummock, wiping off his shoes. As if he’d trod in something.’

  ‘Did you speak with him?’ Hew asked.

  The miller shook his head. ‘Ah didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I wis at the mill, on a Sunday, dae ye see?’

  ‘Why were you there?’

  ‘Bella thocht ye might be running short of flour. She has it in her head that the king will stay. Havers, I should think. Ye hae enough flour in the house to feed a hunerd kings. But she was on at me last night, an I thocht I’d run a sack off while ye were at kirk.’

  ‘You did not hear him fall, or cry out?’

  ‘I widnae if he did, for the workings of the mill.’

  John Kintor and his mother had not heard a sound. But the mill house was a little further off.

  John Kintor said, ‘He must have had his mouth open wide enough, for someone to have lobbed the pellet in. Singing, or screaming, perhaps.’

  ‘Or yawning,’ said Hew. ‘For that makes no sound.’

  John Kintor looked doubtful. ‘How long is a yawn? He had some aim on him, that shot the ball into his open mouth. I’m no sure I could dae it, if I tried.’

  ‘I do not think,’ said Hew, ‘we will put that to the test. It may have been a happy – or unhappy – accident. We will find out when we find out who removed the sling. For I am satisfied it was not one of you.’

  He told the family they should dress in all their proudest finery, and come up to the house for the Yuletide feast, where they would find good cheer, and solace from their woes. And he convinced himself that he must do the same.

  Matthew opened his eyes again, to find his uncle Hew looking down at him. His uncle smiled at him. ‘May I?’ he asked. When Matthew nodded, he sat by him on the bed. ‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that you might be asleep by now.’

  ‘I tried to,’ Matthew said. ‘I want to be. But when I close my eyes, they are full of things. It is like a battle in my brains.’

  ‘Mine, too,’ his uncle said. ‘There are days like that. This one has been hard for you. Are you cross with me still?’

  ‘Not very.’

  ‘Not very.’ Hew repeated. It seemed to make him smile.

  ‘Minnie telt me what you did. You have saved John Kintor. I am glad you did. For I do not think John Kintor killed that man.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Hew.

  Matthew found a comfort in his words. He could feel his body settle, closing into sleep. ‘Will you find who did?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Hew. ‘I will be in trouble if I don’t.’

  ‘If you don’t, the king will put it right.’

  ‘That is what I came to talk to you about. Our secret of the king,’ said Hew.

  ‘Should I not have said?’

  ‘It helped me that you did. But I think we should not mention it again, until Uphalyday. For only you and I know what will happen then.’

  ‘Only you and I,’ Matthew echoed sleepily.

  ‘That is right.’

  ‘My father says that you and I are alike. He says it sometimes, when I have been bad. Is it not a good thing?’ Matthew asked.

  His uncle laughed at that. ‘It is good, and bad, I think. Your daddie is not wrong.’

  ‘I can help you, if you like. For I think I might know who it was.’

  ‘Who what was?’

  ‘Killed the man. It was the bad groom. The bad groom in your stable here. The one who likes to say all the sneering things.’

  ‘I know the man,’ said Hew. ‘Why do you suppose that it was him?’

  ‘He is not kind to Dun Scottis. Dun Scottis has an auld grey blanket, while all the other horses have good new coats. He is neglected, like the Yule yald in the poem.’

  ‘I think that we can find a new coat for Dun Scottis. He is my old friend. He is the first horse that I ever bought, and ever since has proved to be the worst. But I too have neglected him. Did I give him to you, when I gave you the mill?’

  ‘No. But you loaned him, when you were in London.’

  ‘Then I give him to you now. He is yours, to care for here or at St Andrews as you please. I am only grateful he has had your protection, to save him from the cruelty of neglectful grooms. But though the man you mention is not always kind, that does not mean that he would kill a man.’

  ‘But he hates John Kintor. He is jealous of him, because he will be factor, and the bad groom won’t. And when I asked for the rope, to carry to John, he said he could have it to hang himself with.’

  ‘If he said that to you, then I will have a word with him.’

  ‘You should. If I were you, I would look in his bed. That’s where I hide things. Under the pillow is a good place.’

  ‘That is sound advice. I will think on it.’ Matthew felt Hew’s kiss, soft upon his forehead, as he fell asleep.

  IV

  In the morning Hew renewed his old acquaintance with the dun horse Scottis, who spent his summers grazing in a peaceful pasture, and his winters lazing in a stable bed. The horse showed no respect or recognition for its master, responding to his overtures with su
spicious gloom.

  ‘Do not fret, old friend. I have not come to exercise you. You are Matthew’s now.’

  Dun Scottis had a blanket and a fine wool coat, both of which were clean and warm and serviceable. He had fresh hay and water. His tail and mane were brushed, and he was well shod. In a pail by his stall were apples and grapes from the display in the hall. He had also a halter, for leading him out on his daily ambles round the yard. The halter was made of a long plait of cord. Hew removed it carefully, and took it to the library. He stayed there for a while, in reflective mood. He did not return to look around the stable, to question the bad groom, or to search his room. He did not have to, for it was not long before the bad groom came to him. The groom set before him the little pouch of pellets that was hidden in his bed. He was puce with rage. ‘This is someone’s trick, to mak me swing for him.’

  Hew said with a sigh, ‘They were under your pillow, I suppose.’

  ‘How devil d’ye ken? Did ye put them there?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘To save your silly skin. Well, it will not work.’

  ‘Peace,’ said Hew. ‘For no one is accusing you.’

  ‘If it is not you, then it is John Kintor. Both of you should hang!’

  The groom damned them all. The worst of it, he said, was that bloody bairn; there would never be a let from his endless questions, now that Hew had given him the horse. Hew thanked him for his help, and said that he was sorry that he had to let him go. There would be, he thought, no trouble with the guard. ‘For you are not one of us.’

  At dinner, he asked Matthew if he could come a moment, to help him in the library. Matthew came expectantly. He saw the sling and pouch. ‘Oh. You found the things. Was it the bad groom?’

  ‘Dun Scottis had the sling, and the bad groom had the pouch.’

  ‘Then it was just as I said.’

  Matthew’s uncle asked him to sit down. ‘It was remarkably just as you said. The groom has gone away. He will not be unkind to you again.’ Then he said some other things that were sad and serious. He said that it was wrong to try to conceal the truth, but far worse to accuse a man falsely, of a crime for which he had not been responsible. Suppose the man was hanged, because of Matthew’s lie? Then Matthew cried, and asked if Hew would have to tell his father. And Hew said that he ought to, but probably would not. And he promised that whatever happened next, Matthew must not fret, for he would make quite certain John Kintor would be safe.

  Once the sling had been recovered, Hew found no further evidence. He had established that Alan Petrie had returned to the house on Christmas morning, in the hope of gaining access while the family were at kirk. He had been discovered in the act of inquiry in the pantry, and despatched from there by Bella Frew. Robert Lachlan had sent him on his path, and John Kintor’s brother had seen him by the mill, sitting on the river bank as though to take his rest. The pellets and the sling, as he now supposed, had remained in the library until Matthew took them, thinking in his childish way to conceal the evidence, and so had no place at all in the inquiry. But as to what happened in the brief space of time after John Kintor’s brother saw him sitting by the burn, and before they came upon him lying in the grass, he could find no clue.

  For the rest of the Yule, he concealed his fears. He embarked upon a cheerful, reckless kind of holiday, laughing with the bairns, and reading songs and verse. He played cards and chess, listened to the lute, and put on a play, casting John Kintor in the leading part. He drank with Robert Lachlan long into the night, and ate more than his fill of brightly coloured tarts. On handsel day, he gave out lavish gifts, and money to the farms. He encouraged Frances in her firm belief that the king would come at last to save the day, and occupied his family in a dizzy merriment, that kept them all at bay.

  Only Giles suspected him. On New Year’s Eve, he said to Hew, ‘I feel we should perhaps prepare for the sad contingence that things may not turn out as we would like them to.’

  Hew said, somewhat vaguely, that the matter was in hand.

  ‘The matter, I suspect, is quite out of hand. Can you tell me, truthfully, that it is resolved?’

  ‘Not, precisely, resolved,’ his friend admitted.

  The doctor sighed. ‘I thought as much. And I do believe this business of the king is made up as a screen. Please tell me I am wrong.’

  ‘You have been talking to Matthew.’

  ‘I have indeed been talking to Matthew. But I have had no reason from the bairn. He has become, I may say, somewhat close and secretive since we came to stay here. It is not a good trait in a child, and one that I attribute to your evil influence.’

  Hew said, ‘He has a good heart.’

  ‘That I do not doubt. My trouble is with you.’

  ‘Oh, do not be severe with me. I am trying, Giles.’

  ‘You are. Well then, the truth.’

  ‘The truth is that I am no closer to solving this crime than I was when I began. And, you are right, the king is a panoply. It came up by accident. It served my purpose to allow the lie to spread. If Andrew Wood believes I have a secret worth the telling, he will let me live until he worms it out of me. That will buy me time, even after January.’

  ‘Do you think so? He will see through it in a heartbeat, Hew. He knows your mind as you know his. I think we need another arrow in our sleeve.’

  ‘What do you propose?’

  ‘That we send a letter to the king, where he holds his court, and invite him here. It will be hard, but not impossible, to slip it through the girdle Andrew Wood has tied.’

  ‘What? You think that he will quit his court and Christmas cheer, and come here at our call to sample Meg’s fruit tarts?’

  ‘Why not? They are very good tarts. He is doubtless weary of the Yule by now. He will want adventure.’

  ‘He will not want adventure. He never does. Do we even ken where he keeps his court?’

  ‘That,’ admitted Giles, ‘is a small impediment. It is hard to ken, when we are pent in. And we can hardly ask it of Sir Andrew Wood.’

  ‘Even if we kent, and even if we could, and even if he would, it could not be done in the space of six days,’ said Hew.

  ‘You should have faith. For strange things can happen.’

  ‘Not this.’

  Giles, for all his will, had to concede the point. ‘Ah, perhaps. What, then?’

  ‘We must be still, and wait until the seventh comes.’

  ‘Hew. You know that when it does, you must give up the boy? You cannot go yourself.’

  ‘I will not give up the boy. He did not commit the crime.’

  ‘Nor did you.’

  ‘Andrew Wood will hold me to my oath. We both know that. But I will offer to defend John in a court of law, in the king’s court if he will.’

  ‘He can hang the boy, without further trial, on the existing evidence. That is his prerogative,’ said Giles.

  ‘True. But you forget I gave myself, in John Kintor’s place. My hope is he will hesitate to hang me so precipitate as would hang the boy. He has not long to go before he leaves office. This may be his last case. He will want his conduct to be held beyond reproach, to snuff out my life without a stain on his.’

  ‘I do not care for the language you choose. Snuff you out, indeed!’ said Giles. ‘But you argue well. The king may well have wind of it, and hearken to your cause.’

  ‘He will never learn of it. He will be in Denmark, long before tis heard. And the case will be lost, for I have no defence. Do not tell Meg, for I have not told Frances. Let them believe that the king is to come.’

  Giles shook his head. ‘This is desperate, Hew.’

  ‘They will find out soon enough. Do not let it cloud the last days of the Yule.’

  Twelfth night came at last. Matthew could not contain himself at the breakfast board, though the rest of the family were listless and subdued. They had worn out their chatter and their appetites over the long days of Yule. As soon as he finished with his bread and butter, he dema
nded cake. His parents frowned at him, with a jointly vexed and anxious bafflement, as though they had forgotten he belonged to them. His mother said, ‘Later, perhaps.’

  ‘No, Minnie, now.’

  His father cleared his throat, while his mother said, as if he were not there, ‘This is what I mean. I do wish you would talk to him.’

  His father said, unreasonably, ‘It is your brother’s fault.’

  Frances said, ‘The twelfth cake, he must mean. Remember that you made one, just for the bairns. He has been looking forward to it. Let him have a piece.’

  Matthew did not stay for another invitation, but jumped down at once, and ran into the kitchen. Frances called after him, ‘It is in the pantry, on the second shelf, covered with a cloth. Cut a slice for Martha, too.’ The little girl climbed down.

  Meg glowered at Giles, who said feebly, ‘Twelfth day, my love.’

  The adults sank once more into a weary lull, which was broken by the sound of wailing from the kitchen.

  ‘Bella Frew has caught them in a mousetrap,’ said Hew. ‘Then they are lost, for she keeps no prisoners.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Meg.

  ‘Bella went out to the mill,’ Frances said. ‘Perhaps we should see.’

  For once, it was not Martha at the centre of the storm. Meg found her dizzy child standing thumb in mouth at the very edge of it, dumb and bemused at the sight of her brother, howling on the floor. Scattered all around him were clumps and crumbs of cake. He could not, at first, articulate his grief. Gradually the words came out, and they understood. There was no bean.

  Meg was the first who made proper sense of it. Then she felt ashamed, and protective, of her child. ‘That was wrong and silly of you, to spoil all the cake. You are not a babbie now. Look at Martha, here. She is not in tears.

  ‘He wanted the bean in the cake, so he could be king for the day,’ she explained to the others. ‘I did not know he could be such a wilful boy. It is not like him. He was ay the steady one.’

  ‘Did I not tell you,’ said Giles, ‘the dangers of fruits out of season? This will not do, Matthew. Stop it, at once.’

  ‘The bean must be there,’ Frances said, ‘for I saw your mother put it in. And the cake was folded up inside the dough. It could not have fallen out.’