by Pat McIntosh
‘You think it is the wrong barrel?’ asked the mason in disappointed tones. ‘But it has your mark.’
‘Aye, it does.’ Maister Morison went to the door and opened it wider, to let in more light. ‘I’m wondering . . .’
‘You’re wondering if it’s an old mark,’ Andy prompted him.
‘One never cancelled, you mean?’ asked Gil. ‘Does that happen?’
‘Oh, it happens,’ said Morison, nodding earnestly.
‘So whose barrel is it?’ demanded the mason. ‘I suppose one of these other marks must be the right one, but I do not know them. And what is in it?’
‘It’s gey heavy,’ said Andy, ‘whatever’s in it.’
‘Books weigh heavy for their size,’ said Gil.
‘It must be the right barrel!’ said Morison. ‘I convoyed this shipment from Blackness myself. There was only the one puncheon. The rest was just the two big pipes out of Maikison’s ship. They’re in the barn now, and the men unpacking them. Go on, Andy, lift the head out of it.’
Andy, wielding mallet and hook expertly, began coaxing the end hoop upward off the top of the staves. It was slow work, tapping round the hoop and round again, but by the third circuit it could be seen that the withy was rising up the curve of the stave.
Maistre Pierre, peering closely at the rocking barrel, exclaimed something, at the same moment as Andy, setting mallet and hook for another blow, snatched his hands away, wiping his left hand on his doublet.
‘What is it?’ demanded Morison.
‘Wet,’ said Andy. ‘My hand’s wet.’
‘Wet? How can it be wet? The books will be spoiled!’
‘Your books canny be in here, maister,’ said Andy. ‘Look at it. That’s a stout wet-coopered oak barrel, and the outside’s dry as a tinker’s throat. The wet must be inside, and right to the top. It’s full of something.’
‘Wine?’ said the mason hopefully. He touched the trickling damp patch where two staves met, and sniffed his fingers. ‘No, not wine, nor vinegar.’ He tasted cautiously. ‘Salt. It is brine.’
‘Brine?’ said Gil.
‘Herrings, maybe,’ said Morison. ‘I never ordered anything in brine. And where are my books? I must have got the wrong barrel somehow.’
‘Not herring,’ said the mason, sniffing his fingers again.
‘We’ll have to open it now,’ Andy said, ‘and top up the brine, or it’ll spoil, whatever it is. Will I carry on, maister?’
‘Aye, carry on.’
Andy, tucking the hook in his apron, produced another implement and began screwing it into the tarry planks of the barrel head. When it was fixed to his satisfaction, he stepped on to the platform to get a better leverage, rocking and twisting expertly.
‘It’s like drawing a cork,’ said the mason, watching him.
‘It is,’ said Andy. ‘Could one of you steady the barrel, maisters?’
Maistre Pierre stepped forward and gripped the puncheon between his big hands. Andy, with a final heave, dragged the head from its lodging and staggered backwards. The mason peered into the depths of liquid in the cask.
‘It is mostly brine,’ he reported, ‘but I think there is something at the bottom.’
‘Use this,’ said Andy, handing him the metal hook.
Gil glanced across at Augie Morison, who was watching with a kind of puzzled dismay as Maistre Pierre trawled the puncheon with the barrel-hook. Beyond him there was movement, and Gil realized that the two little girls were staring round the door.
‘Augie,’ he said, and nodded towards them.
Morison turned, and tut-tutted in exasperation. ‘I told you to stay with Ursel,’ he said, going to the door.
‘Mall’s back,’ said the younger one, ‘so Ursel sent us away.’
‘Well, go and stay with Mall now,’ said Morison, making shooing motions. ‘Get away, the pair of you! Take your sister to Mall and tell her I said you were both to stay with her.’
They clopped away on their wooden shoes, the younger one glancing back just before they vanished out of Gil’s sight to see if her father was watching her. Morison stood at the door a little longer, apparently making sure he was obeyed, and returned to the group round the barrel.
‘What is it, then?’ he asked.
‘A sheep’s head, maybe.’
‘A sheep’s head?’ Morison repeated.
‘Maybe.’ The mason showed hairs caught between the tines of the barrel-hook. I try again.’ He rolled back his sleeve and stabbed the depths once more. ‘Ah!’
Something came up out of the salt water and hung briefly suspended from the barrel-hook. They had a glimpse of a tangle of dark hair which floated and clung, then as the mason’s free hand collided with Andy’s the object evaded both of them and slid back into the dark.
‘That was never a sheep’s heid, said Andy grimly.
‘Then what?’ said Morison, with a dawning horror. Maistre Pierre exchanged a glance with Gil, crossed himself, rolled his sleeve back further, and reached into the puncheon.
‘Ah, mon Dieu, oui,’ he said as his hand made contact. ‘Most certainly it is not a sheep. It’s a man.’
He hauled it out with a firm grasp of the dark wet hair, and Augie Morison whimpered as the pale brow, the half-shut eyes and slack jaw emerged to view, brine pouring from between the bloodless lips.
‘A man’s head,’ said Gil.
Maistre Pierre set the thing on the platform, where the water ran from its hair in a spreading pool. He drew out his beads, crossed himself again, and began a familiar quiet muttering.
‘It was . . .’ Morison began, his eyes starting. He pointed from the head to the barrel and then at the oblivious mason. ‘It was in. And you. You tasted . . .’
He turned and stumbled out of the hut, and they heard him vomiting in the yard.
‘Anyone you know?’ said Gil to Andy over the mason’s pattering prayers.
The small man, staring morosely at the head, said, ‘Hard to say. Most folk I know’s taller than that.’
‘We need light,’ said Gil, grimacing at this, ‘but if we take it into the yard the bairns might see.’
‘Aye,’ said Andy. ‘It wouldny trouble that Ysonde, but if Wynliane takes one of her screaming fits we’ll have none of us any sleep the night. I’ll fetch a light, Maister Gil, if you’ll have a care to my maister? He’d aye a weak stomach, but he’s no been himself since the mistress went,’ he confided. ‘Bad enough when the bairns have frichtsome dreams, without him starting and all.’
Gil followed him into the yard, where he set off for the barn, remarking to his master in passing, ‘First barrel I’ve ever seen wi three heads, maister. You canny say Andrew Halyburton doesny give good value.’
Morison, leaning pallidly on a huge rack of tin-glazed pots, grimaced faintly and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
‘Forgive me, Gil,’ he said. ‘I was just stamagasted. St Peter’s bones, what a thing.’
‘Aye, he’s not a bonnie sight,’ agreed Gil. ‘Augie, we’ll need to look at it closer. Andy’s gone for a light. And you’ll need to decide what’s to be done with it.’
‘Me decide?’ said Morison helplessly. ‘But it’s not mine!’
‘It was somebody’s. And it’s in your yard.’
‘But what needs done?’
‘He deserves a name, if it can be found,’ said Gil, ‘and his kin told. Serjeant Anderson’s the man to see to that, since it’s an unknown body turned up in the burgh. He’ll call an inquest.’
‘Not a body,’ said Morison, and shivered. ‘Just the head. Christ preserve us, I’m as bad as Andy. Aye, we’d best send to the serjeant. Do you suppose he’ll want to keep it? I don’t want it in the yard, Gil. It’s one thing if someone dies in the house, you lay them out and shroud them decently, but that – I don’t want the bairns to see.’
‘Then send one of the men to the serjeant now.’
Morison shivered again, but nodded and shouted a couple of names at the barn. Some
of the banging stopped, and a lean-faced, dark-haired head appeared round the door. Morison flinched visibly, but the gangling body followed almost immediately.
‘Aye, maister?’ said its owner. ‘These yellow dishes has travelled fine. We’ve got the most of them out not even chipped.’
‘Leave that a wee while, Jamesie,’ said his master, ‘and step down to the Tolbooth for me. Bid Serjeant Anderson bring one of the constables and come here. I need him to look at something.’
Jamesie nodded, and set off obediently, but another man, stocky and sandy-haired, appeared in the doorway in his place.
‘Bit trouble, maister?’ he asked casually.
‘None of your mind, Billy Walker,’ growled Andy, passing him with a lantern and a bundle of rags. Billy thumbed his nose at the smaller man’s retreating back.
‘Just go back to your task, Billy,’ said Morison, ignoring this.
‘Oh, aye, I’m away.’ Billy hitched up his sagging hose and turned away. ‘Trouble wi this place,’ he muttered as he retreated into the shadows. ‘A’body knows everything, except the folk that does the work.’
‘I saw,’ said a small familiar voice. The two children emerged from beyond the rack of yellow pots, each carrying an armful of broken crocks. ‘I saw you spewing, Da.’
Seen by daylight, the younger girl had a pinched, sharp little face, and a penetrating grey scowl. The taller one, who seemed never to speak, had inherited her father’s blue eyes, but gazed timidly at the stranger from behind her fall of dust-coloured hair. In both girls Gil recognized a strong likeness to their father and uncle as children.
‘Not to stare!’ ordered the scowling child. ‘Wynliane doesny want you to stare!’
‘Ysonde, where are your manners?’ said her father sternly.
She shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’
He tightened his lips and stared at her a moment, then said, ‘Go to Mall, as I bade you. Go now, Ysonde,’ he added, as she opened her mouth to argue, ‘before Da gets angry. Take your sister, and stay with Mall until dinnertime.’
Ysonde took a deep breath and snorted down her nose, tossed her head at her father, and clopped away across the yard towards the stone-built kitchen at the end of the domestic range, her sister drifting after her.
‘I don’t know. Maybe I should beat them,’ said Morison doubtfully as they went.
‘I’m no judge,’ said Gil, ‘but I think you need a better nurse for them.’
Maistre Pierre had put his beads away and was peering at the unpleasant relic in the light from the lantern, which Andy had set down beside the pool of water.
‘Did you tell the men, Andy?’ asked his master from behind Gil.
‘I did not. Time enough to let the word out when we canny keep it in. I fetched some rags and all, we can dry him off a bit, make him more lifelike.’
Morison threw one glance at the loose-mouthed leering face in the lantern-light and turned away, but Gil got down on one knee and looked closely as Andy performed his charitable task.
‘Can we tell how long he’s been in there?’ he asked.
‘When he died, you mean?’ said the mason. ‘No, I would say not. The brine, you see, would preserve all as it was at death. If he did stiffen, it has long since worn off, the jaw is quite slack –’
‘I’ll wait for the serjeant,’ said Morison. ‘Out in the yard.’
‘You do that, Augie,’ said Gil. ‘You can keep the bairns away, if needs be.’
‘Was he heidit?’ Andy asked, smoothing the short wet hair.
‘Is that how he died, you mean? I cannot be sure, but I think not. There is very little blood present. I think by that he was already dead, maybe from a smaller wound to the body, before his head was cut off. There is a bruise below his eye, but that would not have killed him.’
‘It’s more than a bruise,’ said Andy, moving the lantern. ‘Someone’s blued his ee for him, and it’s had time to fade.’
‘Andy,’ said Gil sharply. ‘Hold the light closer.’
‘What is it?’ said the mason. ‘Do you know him, after all?’
‘I fear I do,’ said Gil. ‘What colour are his eyes, would you say?’
‘Blue,’ said Andy.
‘Brown,’ said the mason at the same moment.
‘One blue, one brown,’ said Gil from directly in front of the blank gaze. ‘Pierre, do you mind that musician that was in the burgh in May? He talked like a Leith man, but he called himself Balthasar of Liège, if I remember. He’d one blue eye and one brown like this.’
‘There cannot be many such in Scotland,’ said the mason doubtfully. ‘I thought that man wore his hair longer. And an earring.’
‘Hair can be cut.’
‘This one’s worn an earring at some time,’ said Andy, feeling at the earlobe nearest him. ‘Or is it two?’
‘This is a fighting man’s style of barbering,’ pursued the mason, ‘fit to go under a helm of some sort. I can think of reasons to kill a travelling lutenist, but why, having done so, should someone cut off his head and put it in a barrel? And that man was no fighter, I should have said.’
‘Besides, his music wasn’t that bad. What worries me,’ said Gil, ‘is when this was exchanged for our barrel of books. And where are the books?’
A small commotion at the yett proclaimed the arrival of Serjeant Anderson. His voice carried without effort across the yard.
‘Aye, Maister Morison. Jamesie here says you want me.’ Morison mumbled something. ‘What, in the shed? Show us, then, maister.’
He proceeded into the shed, large and red-faced, thumbs tucked in the expansive belt of his official blue gown, and came to an abrupt halt as his gaze fell on the head, so that his constable collided with his broad back.
‘Look where you’re going, Tammas,’ he said in annoyance. ‘Well, well. Good day to ye, Maister Cunningham, Maister Mason. And what have you been doing here? ’
The constable, catching sight of the relic over his shoulder, shut his eyes and grimaced. Behind him, the man Jamesie stood in the open doorway and stared, then suddenly turned and hurried off towards the barn.
‘This was in that barrel,’ said Gil.
‘Instead of some books,’ supplied Morison from the doorway, ‘which is what we were expecting.’
‘Books?’ said the serjeant. ‘So instead of one worthless shipment you got another, hey?’ He laughed at his own humour, and bent to peer into the leering face. ‘And where did the barrel come from, Maister Morison? Once we ken that we’ll ken who he is, I’ve no doubt.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Morison helplessly. ‘I fetched the whole shipment from Linlithgow myself. It came across from Middelburgh in Thomas Tod’s ship, and I saw it unloaded at Blackness shore and set on the carts. Then I convoyed it to Glasgow.’
‘Ah-hah,’ said the serjeant. ‘And does any of you gentles recognize him?’
‘I wondered if it might be Balthasar of Liège,’ said Gil. ‘The lutenist, you mind?’
‘Oh, him. No, he left the burgh in May. I wouldny say it was him.’ The serjeant considered the head. ‘Would you just call your men, maister? I’ll have a word with them too while I’m here.’
‘I don’t want –’ began Morison, and got a sharp look. ‘I don’t want the bairns to see this.’
‘Two wee lassies, isn’t it no? No a sight for wee lassies,’ agreed the serjeant weightily. ‘So if you’ll call your men, then I can get this out of your way.’
‘I’ll get them,’ said Andy. He stepped to the door, but paused there, saying with disapproval, ‘Oh, you’re all here, are ye? Well, ye might as well come in. The law wants ye.’
He stood aside, and half a dozen men pushed into the shed, eyes agog for a sight of the horrors Jamesie had obviously described to them.
‘St Peter’s bones!’ said someone. ‘Did that come back on the cart, Billy?’
‘How would I ken?’ retorted Billy. ‘I never opened any barrels!’
Slightly to Gil’s surprise, the serjeant estab
lished quickly and without argument which of the men had not been near the cart or the puncheon since it came into the yard. These two he dismissed, and they went reluctantly, with sidelong glances at the head on its dais, and hovered out in the yard near the door.
‘Now you, William Soutar,’ the serjeant continued. ‘What do you know?’
William, it seemed, had helped Andy take the puncheon off the cart this morning.
‘Which we needed to do, maister,’ he continued, ‘since the other two big pipes needed to come off and all, and this wee one was just at the tail. But it wasny open, serjeant, for I’d have noticed that.’
‘And it was this barrel?’
‘Oh, aye, it was this barrel. I mind the marks on it.’
‘You’re certain, are you?’ the serjeant pressed.
‘Aye, I’m certain!’ retorted William. ‘I’ve marked enough barrels mysel, maister.’
‘Aye, right,’ said the serjeant, his tone combining acceptance and scepticism. ‘And then what did you do?’
‘Went back to my work, and the laddie helped Andy handle it over here to the shed.’
‘And had you seen it afore that?’
‘Just when it came into the yard last evening, serjeant. On the cart. Which it wasn’t me drove it, for I was left here at the yard while Andy and Billy and Jamesie went with the maister.’
‘And you, John? Had you seen it afore?’
‘No, serjeant,’ said the laddie, a scrawny fourteen-year-old with a strong resemblance to Andy. ‘No till my uncle bid me help him with it.’
‘Right,’ said the serjeant, tucking his thumbs into his belt. ‘Now, Blackness, I think ye said, Maister Morison?’ Morison nodded, still standing by the door where he need not look at the head. ‘Who was it put the barrel on the cart? Was it you, Billy Walker? Our Mall tells me you’re carter here.’
‘Aye, it was,’ agreed Billy. He came forward reluctantly when the serjeant bade him, and eyed the head, biting his lip.
‘And it’s the same barrel?’
‘There was only the one this size. I canny see that we’d have got it by mistake.’
Anderson grunted, but forbore to press him on this point. ‘And does any of you ken who he might be?’
