by Pat McIntosh
‘Mistress Lithgo, that everyone calls a good woman,’ he said as he fastened the strings, ‘is as likely as any of them to have done it, and if she didny, she likely supplied the stuff.’
Chapter Nine
The Hamiltons’ steward at Bonnington, a Hamilton himself, was quite unable to take it all in.
‘Two dead, you say?’ he repeated anxiously, as if the number might have changed since they first told him. ‘And lying as long amid the wild beasts – dreadful, dreadful. I canny credit it. You’ll take another stoup of this ale, sirs, it’s good to clear the throat and settle an uneasy wame.’ He poured generously, and Michael leaned forward to take his. He was still a pearly greenish colour, and had hardly spoken since they left the forester’s cottage and its dismal lodgers.
‘Two dead,’ Gil confirmed.
John Hamilton shook his head. ‘And to learn such a thing of Andro, the bonnie lad, the good worker he’s aye been. Oh, maister, it’s hard to credit, so it is. And taking a collier lad for his catamite and all – dreadful, dreadful! Are ye certain it’s Andro?’
‘It seems most likely,’ said Gil. ‘The body’s well past knowing, as you’ll imagine, but the height and the colour of the hair are right and it’s hard to see who else it might be, in the man’s own house. When did you see him last?’
‘Likely at the quarter-day,’ said Hamilton, shaking his head again, ‘I canny think. For such a thing to happen on our land, and me not know it! But he’s aye been a fellow that kept himsel away from the house,’ he added. ‘Good at his work, he is, for all he’s no from hereabouts. Came to us from Ayrshire, he did. So what wi’ having no kin in the neighbourhood, and the way his work takes him all across the place, you’ll understand, maister, we seldom set eyes on him, and times we lend him out to other landholders forbye. Sir James your father was asking me afore he went to Stirling, Maister Michael, about getting a laddie taught his craft by working wi’ Andro. And he’s aye preferred to go home to his own roof-tree and get his own supper, rather than come up to eat wi’ the household.’
‘Well, it’s a good couple of mile from here to the cottage, which is reason enough for that,’ said Gil. ‘So you think you saw him at the quarter-day. That would be just over four weeks since. Did he collect his quarter’s fee? What was it?’
‘A wee bit coin and a sack of meal,’ supplied the steward promptly. ‘I can check the accounts, maister, if you’d wish it. I still canny credit this. Such a bonnie lad, all the lassies about the house has a notion to him. And poisoned, ye said? Was it an accident? A bad mushroom, maybe? These workers on the land often have a liking for mushrooms, the unchancy things, and it would be a judgement on the two of them –’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gil. ‘The rats and the beasts had cleared the cooking-pot and never suffered from it, though it’s a good thought, Maister Hamilton. I’d say it’s been a deliberate poisoning, and in something they drank, though it’s possible it was meant for the other man rather than Syme.’
‘For the collier? Oh, what a wickedness!’ Hamilton crossed himself. ‘Who would do such a thing, to slay a man in that way and never care who else it took wi’ him?’
Gil nodded, and took another pull at his ale. ‘A wicked deed, maister. Can you tell me if the forester had enemies? Any of the lassies feel slighted, or their men maybe jealous?’
‘What, you think it was my household? Why would anyone here wish to slay the collier? He doesny come to this house, we get our coals across the river in Cadzow parish, from my maister’s own coal-heugh.’
‘I agree, if it was meant for the collier, it’s no more likely to be anyone here than elsewhere,’ agreed Gil in placating tones, ‘but if it was meant for Syme, it could well have been one of your household.’
‘Oh.’ Hamilton threw him an uncertain look, and peered into the ale-jug. ‘I’ve no a notion. I wouldny say any of our folk would poison a man. They’re no saints,’ he qualified, ‘we get squabbles and fists thrown and hair-pullings same as any household ye ever kent, but to procure poison and minister it in secret like that, well, I wouldny say so, maister.’ He set the jug back on the table before him, where it clunked emptily. ‘Now, I’ve bidden the men get a couple hurdles and a bolt of canvas, and lay them on the big cart, but how we get that down to the forester’s house is more than I can tell. We’ll maybe need to use his own handcart to bring him out. And then I suppose the Provost or the Sheriff will want to call a quest on them and raise the hue and cry, and all. Oh, my, what a thing to happen on my maister’s lands!’
‘It might be wiser to coffin them afore you move them,’ said Gil doubtfully. ‘If you’ve the stomach for it, you’d best come down yourself and look at the state they’re in.’
‘Oh, I’ll do that, sir.’ Hamilton rose. ‘Syme’s our man whatever his sins, I’ll see to his needs.’
‘And the accounts,’ Gil prompted. ‘Maybe you could check those afore we leave, make certain of whether Syme collected his fee at the quarter.’
‘Oh, aye, indeed!’ The steward bustled to the door of his chamber and opened it. ‘Will! Where’s Will Thomson? Send to him I want the last quarter’s account.’
Someone answered distantly, and he plunged out into the next chamber with a brief word of apology. Michael finished his beaker of ale and said, ‘Will you need me back at the cottage?’
‘We left two of your men there,’ Gil reminded him. ‘No need to enter the place. Or you could ride into Lanark for me and get a word with the Provost. I think my mother said Archie Hamilton the Sheriff was away just now, so it goes rightly to the Provost as his depute.’
‘I’ll do that, and wait for you at Juggling Nick’s. I’d as soon not go back to the forester’s place. The whole clearing was fit to turn your wame,’ Michael admitted. ‘What wi’ that great owl sitting in the yew tree watching the house. I was near enough taking a stone to it, save that my head was whirling by the time we came away.’ He paused, and grimaced resignedly. ‘Then I’ll need to get up to the Pow Burn, to break it to them. I take it you’d wish to be present?’
‘I do,’ agreed Gil, once more aware of being favourably impressed by his sister’s seducer. ‘I have things to ask them.’
Maister Hamilton hurried back into the chamber, a stout black-gowned clerk following him with a leather-bound roll of parchment open in his hands.
‘Here’s a thing, Maister Cunningham!’ the steward exclaimed. ‘Syme never came for his fee at Lady Day. Will here has it all writ down clear as day, he can show you in a moment.’
‘All writ down,’ confirmed his clerk in a squeaky voice. ‘All but four of the outside men had their fee on the itself, and the remaining three we paid out on the Tuesday following, when maister steward here came back from Edinburgh. But Andro Syme’s never been up to the house.’ He ran his finger down the lines of crabbed writing. ‘And to tell truth, sir, it had slipped my mind, or I’d ha’ been out to his place to mind him o’t myself. It makes the accounts untidy, you’ll understand, sir, when a man’s fee gets left lying like that.’
‘It does,’ agreed Gil. ‘But in this case I think we’ll have to forgive Syme. I think he was dead afore Lady Day.’ Both the Bonnington men stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘The last time the other fellow was seen alive was March twentieth. I think they were both dead by sunset that day.’
‘They were no further help at Juggling Nick’s?’ said Michael.
‘Only in the negative,’ said Gil. ‘So far as Bessie or any other could recall, Murray was just as usual the last time they saw him. He left his horse and said nothing to the stableman or anyone else that suggested he wouldn’t be back for it in a week as usual.’
‘That’s much what she said to me when I first tracked the beast there,’ agreed Michael. He looked about him, and turned his horse off the road on to a narrow stony track. Gil followed, and the two Cauldhope men at their backs clattered after them. ‘This will take us to the Pow Burn. Maister Lockhart the Provost was no great help either. I had to be fir
m about it being murder before he’d agree to call a quest. Seemed to feel it was either Bonnington’s problem or Carluke’s, and none of his.’
Gil grunted. They rode in silence for a while, the pee-wits calling above them, a lark’s song carrying in shreds on the wind. Gil found himself thinking of the way Beatrice Lithgo had appeared over the flank of this same hillside among the cottars of Thorn, her hands bound, cap askew, bearing herself with dignity and composure. And there were the other Crombie women: Joanna, sweet and lovely, troubled and fearful; Phemie full of angry intelligence, her sister overflowing with words she could not speak. And Arbella Weir, as dignified as her daughter-in-law, her transcendent pride in the coal-heugh glowing in her blue eyes. One of these, most likely, had poisoned Thomas Murray. But why?
‘I still don’t see why he was killed,’ said Michael suddenly. Gil recalled himself to his surroundings, and made a questioning sound. ‘Murray,’ Michael qualified unnecessarily. ‘He was good at his trade, he brought money in to the coal-heugh, he was no worse a husband than many you hear about, he –’
‘He quarrelled with Mistress Weir,’ Gil pointed out. ‘He was difficult to work with, kept himself superior to the men. Joanna feared his sharp tongue, it seems he’s free with his hands among the women, he had slighted Phemie and made fun of the younger one.’
‘Are those reasons to kill someone?’
‘I’m learning,’ Gil said, ‘that people will kill for very strange reasons.’
‘But does anyone gain by his death?’ Michael persisted. ‘I’ve felt angry enough to slay someone if I’d only had a knife in my hand, who hasny? But cold poison, ministered in secret like this, that’s a different matter altogether, and you’d surely need to be sure of a great gain to plan and carry out such a thing. Or was it vengeance? Did his wife – Joanna – did she guess what he was?’
‘Those are things I’ll have to find out.’ Gil nodded at the muddle of buildings coming into view over the flank of the hill. ‘I’ve learned a lot about the coal-heugh folk and their business, I may already have the answer in my hand, but I’ll have to ask more questions before I can be sure.’
‘They’ve seen us,’ said Michael after a moment.
‘They have,’ Gil agreed, studying the group of women gathering at the near corner of the house by the stillroom pent. He had picked out Alys immediately, in her light-coloured riding-dress. Beside her Beatrice Lithgo and her elder daughter were easily identified; Joanna’s white apron was conspicuous, the household servants were just joining them from the outlying kitchen building. The kitchen must be empty, he thought. I hope the supper doesn’t burn.
‘This will be difficult,’ Michael said grimly.
‘I think they know already,’ said Gil. ‘Alys must have said something.’
Under the gaze of many eyes, they rode down the track to the house, and dismounted. Michael handed his reins to one of his men, stepped forward, removed his hat, swallowed once, and said, ‘Is Crombie no here?’
‘He rode out to Forth this morning,’ said Beatrice Lithgo. ‘He’s no back yet. Have you aught to tell us, Maister Michael?’
Michael nodded. ‘Mistress Brownlie?’ he said. Round the corner of the house Jamesie Meikle appeared at a run, then checked on the edge of the group and stood tensely, his gaze fixed on Joanna, who floated forward almost as if she was sleepwalking.
‘What is it?’ she said, on a gasp. ‘What do you have to tell me?’
‘Mistress Brownlie, I believe we’ve found your husband,’ said Michael awkwardly.
She stared at him, all the colour leaving her face. ‘Is he – is he –?’
‘I believe Thomas Murray is dead,’ he said, more gently. ‘We’ve found the corp of a red-haired man, dead since about the quarter-day.’
She made a little whimpering noise, and put her hands up as if to push the words away. Gil looked beyond her and caught Alys’s eye; they both started towards her, but it was Jamesie Meikle’s arms which were just in time to receive her slender form as she wilted and fell, boneless as a hank of wool.
‘You wee fool!’ he spat at Michael. ‘To break it that way!’ He gathered her up, and swung away from them towards the exclaiming women.
‘Aye, bring her in the house, Jamesie,’ said Beatrice Lithgo from among the group. ‘You’ll come within, maisters, I hope,’ she added with her usual faint irony, and turned to lead the way round the corner of the building. Alys touched Gil’s hand, gave him a quick smile, and hurried after the others. Phemie, left behind, looked from Gil to Michael.
‘Is he really dead?’ she demanded. ‘You’re sure of it?’
‘As sure as you can be of a five-week-old corp,’ said Gil.
‘His clothes? His knife? What about his hand?’ She demonstrated the shortened fingers.
‘All the evidence we’ve got suggests it’s Thomas Murray.’
She drew a deep breath, and stared at the sky, her eyes glittering.
‘I’m glad,’ she declared. ‘I’m right glad of it!’
‘Might we go in the house, as your mother bade us?’
Phemie turned that suspiciously bright stare on him.
‘Oh – I suppose,’ she said grudgingly after a moment. ‘Come round to the door. And your men, and the horses.’
Within Joanna’s own apartment there was disorder and confusion. Joanna herself was laid on the bed, Jamesie Meikle standing grimly by her pillow. Beatrice was bent over her, and Alys was directing several women who ran to and fro exclaiming, their wooden-soled shoes clattering on the floorboards. As Gil entered behind Phemie, two of the younger maidservants began a ritual-sounding wailing in a corner. Phemie dealt with this sharply, ordering them to move the cushioned bench from the bed-foot to the window and then be off to the kitchen, to fetch some refreshment for the guests and see to the two Cauldhope men.
‘You might as well be seated, maisters,’ she said, pointing to the bench. ‘There’ll be nobody but me to talk to you till Joanna’s back in her right mind, seeing my dear brother’s no returned from whatever mischief he’s got up to.’
‘I’ll be happy to talk to you,’ said Gil, while Michael stared anxiously at Joanna. ‘But where is your grandmother?’
‘Resting, most like,’ said Phemie indifferently. ‘She rests a lot now. She’s spent a lot of time sleeping this past week. Bel’s set by her wi’ her spinning, I’ve no doubt.’ She sat down, looking from one to the other of them. ‘Is he really dead? Where? How? What happened? And why,’ she added, the idea obviously only now occurring to her, ‘has it taken this long to find him, if he’s near five week dead? He must ha’ been well hid.’
‘I’ll go over all that when Joanna can hear me,’ said Gil. She looked at Michael, whose expression was giving away more than he realized, and nodded reluctantly. ‘But I need to ask all of you more questions about the last time you saw the man. Can you mind what order things happened the day he left here?’
‘What, after this time? Why d’you need to know?’ Her gaze sharpened. ‘Was it no a natural death, then?’
‘Try,’ said Gil, ignoring this. ‘Cast your mind back.’
She considered him briefly, then shrugged. ‘We broke our fast as usual, I suppose, him and Joanna in here, the rest of us in the other great chamber, the one where we sat the first time you were in this house.’ Gil nodded. ‘There would be porridge and bannocks and small ale, the way there always is. Then the horses were brought round, and the Paterson lads wi’ them.’ She paused, thinking. ‘Then Murray would have come through the house and spoke to Arbella, looking for any last instruction she had for him. Aye, that’s right. And she bade him mind her birthday.’
‘What did he say to that?’
Phemie curled her lip. ‘He said something like, Oh, I’ll not forget, madam. It would be a great feast wherever I was.’
‘Did you see the flask she gave him?’
‘Flask?’ said Phemie blankly. ‘She wouldny give him the time of day, save it was in his contract of labour.
’
‘Did she have any other instructions for him?’
‘None that I recall. Then he said farewell to Joanna, and we all went out to the horses, and Arbella gave them her blessing the way she does, and they rode off.’
‘And all this was just as usual?’
‘It was. Even the way he said farewell to her.’ Phemie jerked her head at the bed, where Joanna was beginning to stir.
‘How was that? What was usual about it?’
Phemie hesitated, apparently at a loss.
‘Just the way he spoke. And the way she backed off as if he’d struck her. She’s a poor thing,’ she said quietly, but her mother looked round at the words.
‘Phemie, if Maister Cunningham’s finished with you, you may go and tell your grandmother what’s to do here.’
‘I suppose,’ she said ungraciously. ‘Since she’s clearly no jaloused it for herself.’
‘Phemie!’
By the time Arbella Weir entered the chamber, supported by a granddaughter at each elbow, Joanna was sitting up, sobbing quietly and sipping at the omnipresent cordial, her beads clutched in her other hand. A woman sate weping, with favour in her face far passing my reson, Gil thought, looking at her across the chamber. Beatrice was still at her side, but the women had been dismissed to the kitchen, and had gone with some regret, until one of them had recalled that Michael’s men would be there with all the information one could wish for. Jamesie Meikle stood by the head of the bed, as still as a stone evangelist in a niche, and stared at Joanna. Alys had come to sit at Gil’s side; he found her very presence comforting, and the warm pressure of her arm tucked into his seemed to clear his head.
‘Oh, my poor lassie,’ said Arbella in the doorway. She paused, took her stick from Bel and made her way to the bedside. ‘The troubles we women have. And what an end to all your waiting, my wee pet.’
‘Oh, Mother!’ Joanna wailed, and dropped the beads to reach out to her. ‘I never thought he was dead!’
