by Pat McIntosh
‘Augie’s cart was here first, if I mind right,’ said Riddoch, pointing with his left hand, ‘so it would lie there, up this end, this corner. Now whose was next?’ he wondered. ‘He was bound for Leith, I mind that. It’ll come to me. That lay in the other corner, side by side wi Augie’s. And last in was a great pipe o clarry wine, off a ship at Blackness and bound for Irvine, though why he never brought it ashore at Irvine in the first place – that’d be down here, near the door. Last in and first out, it was, out on the road so soon as the gates was open, for my lord Montgomery must have his clarry wine it seems. There was just the great pipe on the cart.’
‘I know Montgomery,’ said Gil rather grimly. ‘If it was just the one pipe of wine, our barrel can’t have come off his cart. What about the other? What sort of load was it?’
‘A big load,’ said Riddoch. ‘Mixed. More than a dozen puncheons and kegs, off different coopers, and a hogshead or two and all. Salt fish, the most of them, by what the man said. But how would a barrel jump from one cart to another, maister?’ He led the way to the end of the barn, while the swallows whirred and twittered overhead. ‘See – Augie’s cart lay here, maybe this wide. Robert Henderson’s – aye, I kent it would come to me. He’s a Kilsyth man. Robert Henderson’s lay here, there would be more than an ell between them, and a full puncheon’s no light weight. It wouldny happen by chance.’
‘No,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘And Augie’s man said the fellow he saw never came into the barn?’
‘This does not make sense,’ complained Maistre Pierre. ‘Three thieves who stole nothing, a barrel which vanishes, a watchman who did not see it.’
‘But did it vanish?’ Gil looked about him. ‘Where would you hide a barrel, Pierre?’
‘Maister?’ Simmie’s large ears were outlined against the light at the barn door. ‘Could you call your dog, maybe?’
‘The dog?’ Gil strode towards him. ‘What’s he up to? Socrates!’
‘It’s just he’ll no leave this bit alone,’ explained Simmie. ‘He’s found a scent he likes, and I canny sweep round him.’
‘Socrates!’ Gil stepped out into the sunlight. Shading his eyes he found his dog sniffing intently at the newly swept cobbles by the end of the barn. ‘Come here!’ he said sharply. Socrates wagged his stringy tail, but gave no other sign of hearing. His head was down, his muzzle close to the stones, and the rough grey coat was standing up on his shoulders and spine. Gil seized the animal’s collar to pull him away, and realized he was growling quietly.
‘What have you found?’ he said. ‘Leave it! Leave!’
‘What’s drawing him?’ asked the cooper. ‘What’s he scented? Have we emptied a load o fish there, or what?’
Gil bent to look closer at the patch which interested the dog.
‘There’s something caked between the stones,’ he reported. He rubbed at it and sniffed his fingers.
‘What is it?’ said the cooper.
‘Gilbert!’ called Maistre Pierre sharply from inside the barn. ‘I think you were right. Come look at this!’
He was poking about at the far end of the barn, near the place where Morison’s cart had stood. As Gil entered the barn towing a reluctant Socrates he turned his head, and indicated a shadowy corner.
‘Look here!’ he said dubiously. ‘It has been opened and emptied, but it is very like the barrel we had, the head here has by far less birdlime on it than on the goods beside it, and though the light is bad I think it has both Maister Morison’s own mark, and also Tod’s shipmark. Could this be our missing barrel?’
‘Aye, very likely it is,’ said Gil in Scots, ‘for what the dog wouldny leave out there is a great patch of blood. I’d say it’s no more than a few days old.’
‘Blood?’ repeated Riddoch in growing dismay. ‘In my yard? What’s been going on?’ He looked from one to the other of them. ‘What was in the barrel you had home, anyway?’
‘Let us get this one outside,’ requested Maistre Pierre, ‘and we will tell you.’
Out in the light, the puncheon he had found was indeed very like the one which had reached Morison’s Yard. Gil thought he recognized several of the marks, and the additional brand on head and flank seemed to be a fox’s head, which was presumably Thomas Tod’s mark. It was dry inside, and held a few handfuls of the chopped lint which had padded the contents. Gil shook the barrel so that the lint shifted, and something white showed under the fluffy clumps. Letting go the dog, who immediately slipped back to the interesting cobbles, he leaned in to extract a folded paper.
‘Is that the docket?’ said Maistre Pierre hopefully.
‘It is indeed.’ Gil scanned the small looped writing. ‘Well! He has done us proud – Pierre, we must find this load. Look at this!’ He handed the sheet to the mason, who bent to inspect it.
‘What was in the barrel that went to Glasgow?’ asked Riddoch again, frowning. ‘You’re very close about it, maisters.’
Gil looked directly at him, dragging his mind back to the matters of most concern.
‘Maister,’ he said, ‘what like is your missing laddie?’
The frown drained from the cooper’s face, leaving open-mouthed dismay.
‘Nicol?’ he said hoarsely, and crossed himself. ‘Christ aid us, what’s come to him?’
‘Can you describe him?’ pursued Gil. ‘What colour is his hair? His eyes? What age is he?’
‘Now that I can tell you,’ said Riddoch, licking his lips. ‘He was born the same year as the King’s brother Prince James. He’s sixteen past at Corpus Christi. Sinclair never – I – I beg you, maister, if you ken aught about him, tell me now. He’s my son.’
‘Does he resemble you, maister?’ asked the mason, looking at the neat-featured face before him.
‘They tell me he does, aye.’ Riddoch looked from one to the other of them, not daring to repeat his question. ‘His een are grey. Like his mother’s, God rest her soul.’
‘Then all I can tell you is we ken nothing about him,’ said Gil.
Riddoch clutched at the rim of the barrel in front of him, as if for support.
‘Our Lady be thanked for that!’ he muttered, crossing himself again.
‘Now can you tell us in return,’ said Gil, ‘who found and emptied this barrel?’
Chapter Seven
Seated once more in the cooper’s best chamber, with an offended dog at his feet, Gil repeated the question.
‘Who emptied the barrel, maister?’
‘I’ve no a notion,’ said Riddoch firmly. He had found a new confidence; Gil, eyeing him, regretted reassuring the man about his son. And yet, in conscience, he thought, could I have left him in anxiety any longer?
‘Where has your son gone?’ he asked. ‘Was he alone?’
‘He went into Stirlingshire,’ said Riddoch cautiously. ‘He’s done the journey afore, he kens the road. For withies,’ he added.
‘Where do you get them?’ asked the mason curiously. ‘I should have thought there was a supply closer to hand.’
‘We get them at a good price from his lordship,’ said Riddoch.
‘Sinclair, you mean?’ said Gil casually. Riddoch froze a moment, then nodded. ‘Has the boy been away long?’
‘Aye.’ This appeared to be surer ground. ‘We’ve kin there, he was to visit his uncle.’
‘And you looked for him back before now,’ Gil stated. Riddoch nodded with reluctance. ‘When? How long overdue is he?’
‘A few days now.’
‘How would he carry the withies?’ asked Maistre Pierre.
‘He’d pack them on the old horse. Or if he got a double load,’ qualified Riddoch, ‘they might hire him a cart. And that’s another thing. We’ll need the beast shortly, to take our turn at the carts when we win the hay off the burgh muir. The laddie kens that.’
Gil turned a little to face Riddoch directly. ‘The barrel which should have reached Glasgow,’ he said, ‘the one we found empty in your barn the now, would have held books.’
‘B
ooks?’ Riddoch laughed, with little humour. ‘I’d like to ha seen that!’
‘Seen what?’
‘When it was opened. A right laugh that would be.’ He looked at Gil. ‘And the one you did get? What was in it, maister?’
‘Brine.’
‘Brine?’ repeated Riddoch. He licked his lips. ‘Just brine? I mean – was there aught in the brine? Fish, maybe, or salt meat? Or –’
‘Not salt meat, no,’ said Gil, grimacing. ‘We found a man’s head. And a few shavings of wood, very like what’s blowing about your yard.’
The cooper gaped at him.
‘A man’s head, in one of our barrels?’ said Mistress Riddoch from the door. She came into the room to stand beside her husband’s chair. ‘What like man, maister?’ she asked, her voice high and tense.
‘It’s no the boy, Jess,’ said her husband. They crossed themselves simultaneously.
How long had she been there, Gil wondered. Long enough to govern her countenance, though not her voice.
‘Past twenty but not thirty years, short dark hair, one ear pierced,’ said Maistre Pierre concisely, ‘and odd-coloured eyes. One blue eye, one brown.’
‘Nobody we ken,’ said Riddoch quickly. His wife looked down at him, opened her mouth, closed it again.
‘You’re sure of that?’ said Gil. ‘Mistress? Would you ken anyone like that?’
‘N-no,’ she said. ‘No. Nobody like that.’
‘Nobody we ken,’ repeated Riddoch. ‘Was there aught else with the head?’
‘What should there be?’ asked Gil, and the cooper looked wary.
‘Nothing, maybe. Just I wondered if there was, well, any more of him, or any of his gear perhaps, that might tell you who he was, Christ assoil him.’ He crossed himself again, and his wife and Maistre Pierre did likewise.
‘Maister,’ said Gil, ‘consider what we have found. The barrel that was missing off Maister Morison’s cart has appeared in your barn, empty.’
‘And has been there for no more than a few days, it is obvious,’ put in Maistre Pierre.
‘There is a great patch of dried blood on the cobbles in the yard.’
‘Blood?’ repeated Mistress Riddoch. ‘Where? What –’ She looked down at her husband again, and bit her lip.
‘Under the pile of shavings, at the end of the barn,’ said Gil. ‘Socrates, here, found it when Simmie swept it clear.’ Socrates’ ears twitched at the mention of his name, but he kept his head pointedly averted from his master. ‘And I’d like another word with Simmie, maister,’ he added to the cooper.
‘He’s away an errand,’ said Riddoch. ‘He’ll be an hour or so, if ye can wait.’ His wife turned her head sharply to look at him. ‘Himself wanted a word carried out-bye,’ he muttered, in response to the question in her eyes. She pursed her mouth, and turned to Gil again.
‘A pile of shavings by the barn? But Riddoch never lets the men keep it there, for fear of fire. It’s only sense.’
‘Quite so,’ agreed Gil. ‘So who first moved the heap from its usual place?’
‘It doesny have a usual place,’ she said. Her husband sat silent. ‘The men just sweep up where there are the most scraps.’
‘And the barrel that reached Glasgow,’ pursued Gil, ‘contained a man’s head.’ He studied Mistress Riddoch for a moment. ‘When did you last put up salt fish, mistress?’
She jumped as if he had struck her, and one hand rose to cover her mouth.
‘Tuesday,’ she said. ‘It was late for the quarter-day, but himself had never sent for the rent. I had two baskets of herring off Lizzie Cowan on Tuesday morn, and just in time.’ She lowered the hand, and her husband put up his own to grasp it. ‘I made the brine on Monday, sirs. It stood in the vat in the storehouse overnight, to let the sand settle, and the barrels washed and waiting beside it.’ She looked down at Riddoch. ‘I said I was one short in the morning, Riddoch, didn’t I? I kent we’d washed six.’
‘You did, lass,’ agreed her husband heavily.
‘Was the storehouse locked?’ asked the mason.
‘No, no.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Who’d steal an empty barrel?’
‘Quite so,’ said Gil. ‘And it was Monday night there was the disturbance in the yard.’
‘But Morison’s own man said the thief got away!’ said Riddoch.
‘He did, didn’t he,’ said Gil. ‘I think I need to talk to Morison’s man.’
‘This is not the way we came,’ said Maistre Pierre. He looked out over the low hills towards the Forth and waved an arm. ‘We are going east.’
‘That’s right, it’s the way to Roslin,’ said Gil. Behind them rode the three men, deep in an argument about football. Socrates was ranging round the party, inspecting the scents of the neighbourhood and carefully ignoring his master.
‘And why are we going to Roslin? I thought you wanted to speak to Maister Morison’s carter, whatever his name is.’
‘Billy He’ll keep, I hope, though we do need to question him. We’re going to Roslin because Riddoch paid his rent this morning, in barrels of salt herring.’
The mason eyed him resentfully for a few strides, then continued, ‘And where are your books, do you suppose?’
‘They’ll be at Roslin too, I hope. With Oliver li proz e li gentil.’ Gil turned in the saddle to interrupt the discussion behind them. ‘Did you learn any more in the Black Bitch, Rob?’
‘No a lot, Maister Gil,’ admitted Rob.
‘The ale’s good,’ said Tam, grinning.
‘It’s been quiet since the court left,’ volunteered Luke, ‘but there’s been a wheen strangers in the place just the same.’
‘Would they notice strangers?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘A busy place like this?’
‘Aye, but I just said it’s been quiet, maister,’ Luke pointed out.
‘They noticed us,’ said Tam. ‘Brought out all the long tales. The serjeant’s boar run wild and slain two chickens, three geese and a dog, they said. Show me it, I said, and they said, No, it hasny been seen for days. A likely tale. And the burgh muir’s haunted, there’s been a gathering of corbies over the hill behind the Whitefriars this week past, there’s a black ship on the Forth if you see it you’ll be deid within the year –’
‘Aye, Andro Wood’s Flower,’ said Rob, to general laughter.
‘The corbies,’ said Gil. He shaded his eyes in his turn to peer into the light. ‘I had noticed them. A week, you said? And nobody took thought to look at what they’ve found?’
‘This close to harvest and all?’ said Rob. ‘Naw.’
‘Surely a week is too long,’ said Maistre Pierre.
‘What is it, Maister Gil?’ asked Tam. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking we can take that track we passed a quarter-mile back,’ said Gil. ‘It seems to go the right way.’
‘Where is Socrates?’ wondered the mason.
‘He went off after a rabbit. He’ll find us when he’s forgiven me,’ said Gil confidently.
He turned his horse and rode back the way they had come, whistling now and then for the dog. Behind him the men grew silent; at his side the mason appeared deep in thought.
The crows were clearly to be seen from the road, circling and dropping, spiralling up again, centred always round one particular patch on the hillside. Gil, following the track up through the farmlands and past the stone buildings of the Carmelite friary, was reminded of the pillar of cloud.
‘So what have we learned?’ demanded Maistre Pierre, giving up the contest. Gil turned to look at him. ‘They denied all, the tonnellier and his wife, indeed he was an example of how to be hospitable but taciturn. But did they in fact know all?’
‘Not all,’ said Gil, ‘but more than they admitted. They looked for the boy back sooner than this, they feared it might have been him in the barrel – they must be beside themselves with worry, though they concealed it.’
‘But if Sinclair is involved, had he not told them what is afoot?’
‘I
don’t think so. Or not all of it.’
‘Do you think Riddoch has guessed? Could he have told us his suspicions?’
‘In his place, I’d ask questions and keep my own counsel. He truly feared for his son, you noticed. And he asked what else was in the barrel, as if he expected there to be something.’
‘And where has the boy been? His wife said, when I asked her, they had expected him on Monday. Where is he now? And who were the thieves?’
‘We need to find that out.’
‘I had a word with Maister Riddoch,’ divulged Maistre Pierre, ‘while you were writing down what his wife had seen.’
‘And they were very reluctant to talk to me separately. What did he say to you?’
‘He told me that one had arrived at his yard on Wednesday, asking about the carts that had lain there on Monday.’
‘What kind of a one? And only one? What prompted him to tell you this?’
‘I asked that also. He said, The Axeman, as if he expected me to know who that was. I said, What axeman, did he mean his man who was shaping staves, and he laughed as if I had uttered some piece of bravado. So I asked what this axeman looked like, and he described a big ugly man, wearing black, and carrying a poleaxe maybe,’ he measured with both hands, ‘five foot long. Which I suppose might mean it was four foot.’
‘A Lochaber axe? That’s a fighting man’s weapon – a mercenary, or someone’s man-at-arms. And this man was asking about the carts from Monday night,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘Did Riddoch say what he told him?’
‘I understood,’ said Maistre Pierre, retrieving his reins, ‘that he told him what he has told us. One for Leith, one for Irvine and one for Glasgow, and the names of the owners.’
They rode on, past a small farm-town whose barley was ripening in the field.
‘They’ll be shearing that soon, now they have the hay in,’ said Gil. He leaned down to listen to the grain, then went on in silence for a few minutes, reviewing the conversation they had had with the cooper and his wife. ‘Provided Mistress Riddoch was not dreaming,’ he said at length, ‘we can assume that at least one man arrived at the yard and was attacked by two or three others.’
