by Pat McIntosh
‘I’ll just need to keep looking,’ said Gil.
‘Did he say aught?’ asked Maister Cochrane from his bench. Gil was reminded of McIan’s portentous question.
‘Aye, he did,’ nodded the boy. ‘He said that was good to hear and he’d be sure and call by before Michaelmas.’
‘Hmph,’ said Maister Cochrane, and turned back to his carving.
‘I take this,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘See, Gil, it is a piece by that Flemish fellow, and printed too. Alys was speaking of him recently. Myself, I prefer Machaut, but she seemed to find his music worthwhile.’
‘Ockeghem,’ agreed the journeyman, mangling the name badly. ‘A good choice, maister. The lady’ll ha pleasure out of that.’
Down on the High Street the men were still gathered round a well with a stone lion perched above the basin, deep in conversation with two maidservants. Gil and Maistre Pierre left them there and set off towards the East Port, and the imposing stone tower-house and its surrounding buildings which the mason had commented on earlier. The two taverns were next to it, one clearly more of a hostel for the knights of the eight-pointed cross and their guests, the other a sprawling structure very like the Black Bitch at the western end of the town. A group of men emerged from it as they approached, to stand in the sunshine with their ale. Light glinted on helmets, and on the chewed crosses stitched to sleeve or breast of their leather jacks.
‘The tonnellerie is up this vennel, I believe,’ said the mason, gesturing up the side of the tavern. ‘Do all these alleys lead on to the hillside?’
The cooper’s yard, as well as being up a vennel, was full of pieces of wood, but there the resemblance to the luthier’s shop ended. Looking out through the open window of the cooper’s best chamber, Gil could see a sloping cobbled yard nearly as big as Maister Morison’s. It held two large open sheds and a barn, and a neat kailyard climbed up the hillside beyond them. Quartered tree trunks lay drying in racks in one corner of the cobbled area, split planks were stacked in another. Finished barrels crowded along the fence opposite the gate, a scrawny journeyman with prominent ears was sweeping up shavings to add to the brazier which was putting up a thin column of blue smoke, and five or six men were working with hammer or knife.
To one side the big gates were open, and a cart laden with puncheons was being handled out to the waiting horses by several men in leather jacks. Another man was just vanishing into the barn. Clearly Maister Riddoch’s business was prospering well.
‘Near as noisy as a stoneyard,’ commented the mason.
‘What’s that you say?’ asked Maister Riddoch, bustling into the chamber. He was small, bald and neat-featured, his expression both anxious and wary. Over leggings and a worn leather jerkin he had put on his good stuff gown to entertain visitors. He flourished the matching hat of tawny wool in a jerky bow and went on, ‘Forgive me keeping you waiting, maisters, a wee bit business wi my landlord. A boneyard? Aye, it’s like a boneyard, now you say, wi the staves there and the puncheons here instead of the legbones and skulls. A good thought, maister!’ He laughed nervously. ‘A good thought. Now, Mistress Riddoch’s to bring a refreshment and you can tell me what’s the trouble. Something wrong with Augie Morison’s last load, you say? I’m sorry to hear that, for he’s a good customer. What is it, was aught damaged? Aught missing?’
‘No so much missing,’ said Gil, ‘as changed.’
‘Strange, you say?’ Riddoch had put the hat on, and it slipped sideways as he tilted his bald head sharply to catch Gil’s words. He pushed it straight, staring hard at Gil. ‘What way, strange?’
‘One barrel had been exchanged,’ said Gil, pitching his voice louder.
‘Never in my yard, surely!’ Riddoch had obviously heard that clearly. He swallowed. ‘One o the pipes o crockware, was it?’
‘The small barrel. The puncheon.’
‘Puncheon.’ The man swallowed again, and and nodded. ‘I mind it. One o my make. He had it lashed on the back o the cart. But his man aye sleeps the night in the barn,’ he averred. ‘How would anything get near the cart without waking him?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Gil.
The door opened, to admit a comely young woman with a tray in her hands, and Riddoch turned to her. Socrates, at Gil’s feet, raised his head, his nose twitching.
‘Mistress, here’s these gentry telling me a strange thing. One o Morison’s last load was the wrong puncheon when he got it home.’
She paused in setting down the tray, to exchange a long look with her husband.
‘The wrong one?’ she repeated. ‘Saints preserve us! What way the wrong one?’
‘It was a different barrel,’ said Maistre Pierre, eyeing the contents of the tray appreciatively. ‘Mistress, what is this you offer us? It looks very good.’
Mistress Riddoch blushed becomingly, and laid the tray on the stool by the hearth.
‘There’s ale,’ she said unnecessarily, indicating the jug, ‘and today’s bread, and a dish of potted herring. Riddoch’s very partial to a bite of potted herring to his midday piece, whether it’s a fish day or no.’ Her eyes met her husband’s again in an anxious smile. ‘And some pickled neeps,’ she added, moving the little dish into sight from behind the ale-jug.
‘Was it marked?’ asked Riddoch.
‘It was well marked,’ said Gil, wishing he had got a list from Andy. ‘Two shipmarks at least – Peterson and Maikison, I think – and several merchants’ marks including Maister Morison’s.’
‘But not Thomas Tod’s,’ contributed Maistre Pierre, ‘though the barrel we expected had been lifted from Tod’s ship on Monday.’
‘Saints preserve us!’ said Mistress Riddoch again, looking from one to another of them. She had a plump, sweet face under her white linen headdress, and now wore a serious expression as she counted on her fingers. ‘Monday, you say? So it lay here on Monday night?’ She turned to her husband again, biting her lip. ‘Who else’s cart lay here on Monday, Riddoch?’
‘But how did Augie’s man not notice it was the wrong puncheon?’ worried Riddoch, not answering her. ‘I mind the man well, he seems a sharp fellow, and helpful enough. Offered to watch the barn on his own last time he was here, let the other carters go drinking round at the tavern. Right enough I suppose that would ha been Monday.’
‘Nobody noticed the exchange, until it came home and we were about to open it,’ said Gil. ‘I suppose they were alike in size.’
‘Then it must ha been another of my puncheons,’ said Maister Riddoch positively. ‘Any that works wi barrels, maister, will tell ye – a barrel out of one yard’s as different from a barrel out of another as kale is from neeps. It’s like hand-write. I’ve heard Maister Abernethy the notary say he kens the hand-write in this document or that. Barrels is the same. Every man has his ain way of doing things.’
‘So also in my craft,’ said Maistre Pierre. He and the cooper exchanged glances. ‘So this puncheon that came home to Glasgow must have been switched for another of your make.’
‘Monday,’ said Mistress Riddoch again. She faced her husband and raised her voice a little. ‘It was Monday night the thief was in the yard, Riddoch. Could that be it right enough?’
‘Monday?’ He counted on his fingers as she had done. ‘Aye, mistress, you’re quite right, it was Monday night. But that canny be the answer – he was nowhere near the carts, whoever he was.’
‘A thief?’ Gil repeated innocently. ‘Did you take him?’
‘No, we never. I heard something fall over in the yard,’ said Mistress Riddoch, concentrating on pouring ale, ‘so I looked out, and I thought something was moving, so I woke Riddoch, and he rose and put his boots on, but he found nothing. I’ve tellt you, husband, whoever it was, they were moving about near the gate.’
‘There was nobody to see when I went out,’ said the cooper. ‘Time I got on my boots, he was away.’
‘You say you saw something moving?’ said Maistre Pierre to Mistress Riddoch.
‘Aye,’
she said, handing him a cup of ale. ‘It was a clear night, and the moon near full, you ken, so the yard was well lit. There was a banging, like something going over, and a kind of shouting, and it woke me, and when I looked out I saw . . .’ She faltered, and glanced at her husband.
‘I tell you, you were dreaming, Jess,’ he said sternly. ‘Better safe than sorry, and you did right to wake me, for there had been someone in the yard, but there was nothing like what you thought you saw. There was nothing taken, and never a great roll of stuff here that night.’
‘I wasny dreaming,’ she said, as if she had said it often already. ‘I was dreaming before I wakened, about the yard and the men working, but what I saw was never part o my dream.’
She handed Riddoch his ale, and began to cut the loaf on the tray.
‘What did you think you saw?’ Gil asked.
‘Movement,’ she said, and paused in her work. ‘Like, maybe, two or three men. There was certainly two in the light, and I thought another moving in the shadows by the barn.’
‘What were they doing?’
She looked at her husband, and back down at the loaf. ‘I couldny see what the man by the barn was up to. If there was one,’ she added, before her spouse could comment. ‘But the two out in the moonlight were bent over some big thing, I couldny make it out. Almost like as if it was someone lying on the ground, it was. So then I woke Riddoch, and he woke the men, and then I had to help him wi his boots.’
‘There was nothing of the sort in the yard when I got down,’ said Riddoch firmly.
‘Aye, for they never waited while you went down and got the door open,’ she responded, and sawed another wedge off the loaf. ‘I tell you, husband, I saw them go when I looked out again.’
‘How many?’ asked Gil. ‘Did they have a puncheon with them?’
‘I never saw a puncheon. One was away up the kailyard. Likely he went out the back yett. And the other – the other went by the barn.’ She paused, biting her lip, and began spreading potted fish.
‘Did you see what he looked like?’ asked Maistre Pierre, watching her hands.
She shook her head. ‘Like a big man in a black cloak,’ she said, and hesitated, with another glance at her husband. ‘And he was carrying something, it might ha been the same thing that was on the ground. I never saw what it was, except it was long and seemed heavy – maybe like a roll of cloth, or a side of meat, or such. Then he stepped into the shadow next the gate, and Riddoch cam back from waking the men, and wanted his boots on,’ she went on with more certainty.
‘This man in the cloak,’ said Gil slowly, ‘was he one of the two you saw earlier standing in the moonlight?’
‘She never saw anything,’ said Riddoch.
‘N-no,’ said his wife, thinking hard. ‘It’s hard to say, maister, but I think the two I saw first were smaller.’ She shut her eyes, the better to conjure up the image she needed. ‘I tell ye what, sir, one of them had a hat wi a feather, it might ha been him that was away up the kailyard, and the other wasny in a cloak.’
‘So there were three men in the yard,’ said Gil. She gave him a serious look, and nodded.
‘At least three. You saw only the one man at the yett?’ asked Maistre Pierre.
‘Aye.’ She shivered. ‘Just the one.’
‘Augie Morison’s man saw nothing of that kind, and so I said to –’ said the cooper, and bit off his words. After a moment he continued, ‘He tellt me – Morison’s man tellt me he woke, and came to the barn door, and saw one man running for the gate. I asked, what was he wearing, and he said he thought just shirt and hose. And right enough the gate was opened.’
‘Aye,’ said his wife.
‘Shirt and hose,’ repeated Gil. Mistress Riddoch handed the platter, and he took a slice of bread smeared with a generous portion of potted herring. Maistre Pierre was already chewing. ‘I’d ha thought a man would dress in darker clothing if he was planning a theft.’
‘Aye, he’d left,’ agreed Riddoch, helping himself as the platter went past him. ‘Whoever he was. And Morison’s man swore he was never near the carts. There was three carts in that night,’ he recalled.
‘Madame, this is excellent,’ said Maistre Pierre with enthusiasm, reaching for another portion. Socrates watched the movement of his hand, nose twitching. ‘Is it your own work? What do you put with the fish? I am sure my daughter would like to know.’
‘The secret’s in the salting,’ confided Mistress Riddoch, dimpling in pleasure at the compliment. ‘I salt my own, ye ken, and I put a chopped onion in the brine to every dozen fish. Will you have some more ale, maister?’
‘And then nutmeg when you pound the salted fish?’ said Maistre Pierre speculatively, and took another mouthful. ‘And is it galangal?’
Gil took his own ale and a second wedge of bread over to the window, thinking about what he had heard. Out in the yard Maister Riddoch’s men were hard at work with hammer or drawknife. In the centre of the open space a man was working with an adze. Lifting a long narrow plank from the stack beside him he trimmed one end, first one side and then the other, with quick even strokes of the adze, then tossed the stave in the air, caught it the other way up and set about shaping the other end. Gil found himself watching, fascinated.
‘That’s David Seaton,’ said Maister Riddoch at his elbow. ‘No a stave-maker his like in the country, I dare say. I’m no equal to cutting staves now, I’m too stiff for it, but I think he’s as good as I ever was.’
‘He’s been well taught,’ said his wife from across the room. Riddoch did not look round, but the corners of his mouth quirked. ‘Is it time for the men’s noon piece, husband?’
‘Aye, call them in, lass,’ he said. ‘We can serve ourselves wi the rest in here.’
‘May we look at the barn, once we have eaten?’ Gil asked, as Mistress Riddoch bobbed to her guests and left. ‘I’d like to understand how the cart was stowed on Monday night.’
‘I can see you would,’ said the cooper, nodding, ‘but it seems to me it’s most likely Augie’s men loaded the wrong puncheon at Blackness. I’ll show you the barn, maisters, and anything else you’ve a notion to see.’
Gil broke the last of his bread in half and gave a portion to Socrates, watchful at his feet. The dog took it delicately and swallowed it whole, and Gil held out the other piece.
‘When you’re ready, maister,’ he said.
They went out through the hall, where Mistress Riddoch presided over the long board, and the men and three maidservants were addressing barley bread and stewed kale. Once in the yard, the cooper showed an inclination to explain the entire process of making a barrel, and Maistre Pierre took this up with interest. Gil listened, looking carefully about him at wood-stacks and benches, the workspace in the two open sheds, and the brazier with its smouldering fire. Nothing seemed to be amiss.
‘You’ll have to be wary of the fire,’ he suggested.
Riddoch nodded. ‘Aye, you’re right, maister, particular when it’s windy. The shavings blow about.’ He looked at the heap of shavings waiting to be burned, and tut-tutted. ‘That lad Simmie! I’ve tellt him and tellt him, and he aye gathers the scraps too close to the barn. Simmie!’ he shouted at the house. After a moment the young journeyman who had been sweeping earlier appeared in the doorway, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Simmie, get this moved, now.’
‘Now?’ repeated Simmie, taken aback.
‘Aye, now, afore you finish your kale. If the wind were to change, and sparks blow into they scraps there, the barn would go up afore we kent what was happening, and then the whole yard, and you’d have no living, Simmie. So get it moved.’
Simmie scowled, but rolled up his sleeves and came across the yard to lift his besom.
‘’S none o my part to sweep the yard,’ he muttered. ‘If we hadny run out of withies I’d be making hoops, no sweeping the yard. When that lazy Nicol gets back, I’ll black his ee for this, see if I don’t.’
‘What was that?’ demanded his master.
‘I never did, you daftheid!’
‘Aye, you did, maister. For it wasny me, nor any of the other men, and the lassies wouldny come out sweeping in the yard –’
‘What are you talking about, man?’ demanded Riddoch.
‘Just the other day,’ repeated Simmie. ‘I cam in at the day’s start, and all the shavings in the yard was swept up, but they wereny where I’d put them the night before, they were here.’
‘They must have blown, you great lump. I’d never put them here. Now get them over where they belong, and stop arguing.’
‘No arguing,’ muttered Simmie, bending to his broom. ‘I’ll get that Nicol for this, so I will.’
‘What day was that?’ Gil asked casually. Riddoch turned to look at him. ‘What day did Simmie find the chips swept over here?’
‘What way?’ repeated the cooper. ‘It must ha been the wind.’
‘What day, maister,’ said Simmie, pausing to lean on his broom. ‘What day? Well, it wasny yesterday.’ He thought deeply. ‘It might ha been Wednesday,’ he admitted.
‘Tuesday? Monday?’
‘No Monday. I’d a heid like a big drum on Monday, I’d no ha noticed a deid ox in the yard.’ He grinned, and mimed pounding on his skull. ‘Might ha been Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday or Wednesday,’ said Gil, and the man nodded. ‘And the chips and shavings were all swept over here?’
‘Aye. Just like this. A neat job someone had made of it.’
‘Well, get on with it, and make a neat job of it now,’ said his master, ‘or you’ll no get your kale.’ He marched past his henchman and pushed open one leaf of the door to the barn. ‘You wanted to see this, maisters.’
The barn was a substantial building, nearly as big as Maister Riddoch’s house, but without the upper floor. Gil stood while his eyes adjusted to the light which filtered under the eaves; over his head swallows darted in and out to nests of shrieking young among the rafters. The floor was packed earth, swept clean; stacks of barrels, bundled staves, folded canvas cart-aprons, spare workbenches, were ranged round the walls
