by Pat McIntosh
‘The man I’m looking for had a hat like no other,’ he said, and described Stirling’s collection of badges. This got a more definite shake of the head.
‘No, no, sir, I’ve not seen sic a thing.’ She laughed tolerantly. ‘There’s aye something folk likes to collect, but I’ll wager that cost him plenty in shoe leather and candles, to win that mony badges.’
The boy Malky had said much the same thing, Gil reflected.
‘Did you take the bairns direct to their grandam?’ he asked.
She snorted. ‘You’re right to ask me, sir, for I did not. He bore them off while Niven’s brother that’s a lay-brother walked me out here, and I’d never a chance to say farewell, poor wee souls.’
‘Have you seen them since? Spoken to Mistress Cornton?’
‘I have not,’ she admitted. ‘I never liked – I was feart she’d think I was after a place, and it would never suit. I’ve a good prospect now, and –’
‘I’d think Mistress Cornton would be glad to see you,’ he said. ‘Your mistress was her only daughter, she’d likely welcome hearing of her life in Dunblane.’
‘That’s a true word,’ she said. ‘And I’d like fine to see the bairns. It’s a good thought, maister.’
He walked back towards the Red Brig, thinking hard, then turned aside along the path by the Ditch and sat down with his back against an alder tree to consider this information. It was now certain that he should return to Dunblane and interview Canon Drummond; at the very least the man must have been the last to see James Stirling alive but also, he thought grimly, he might have been the first to see him dead as well. Did that add up? What do I know? he asked himself, and took out his tablets.
Stirling had left the tanyard about four of the clock, by Cornton’s account. He had fetched up at the dog-breeder’s yard, where he had encountered Drummond. That tallied with what the Blackfriars had said of Drummond’s movements. By six of the clock Stirling and Drummond together were walking out here on the Ditchlands, talking about Judas and forgiveness. The next few hours held several sightings of Drummond alone, but none of Stirling until Mistress Doig recognized him at sunset on the track going into Perth. Going towards the town, he corrected himself. Where was he all that time? Where did he find his supper? Meanwhile Drummond had not eaten with the Bishop, and was finally seen on this path by the Ditch, no more than half an hour after sunset, alone.
He looked at the list he had made. That space between sunset and darkness seemed to be the important slot. Was it long enough for two men to meet and quarrel somewhere along here, for one to be slain and hidden so securely that he had not yet been found, his hat left by the path where the boy found it in the morning? I suppose it is, he answered himself, if the quarrel was carried over from their earlier talk together. Would the path be deserted? Perhaps not, but it would hardly be busy. No more than three persons had passed while he sat here thinking, in late afternoon. And where would the body go? The Ditch was the obvious place, and with a current like that, and the depth of water it contained, it would take some dragging to find a corpse, even one two weeks old which should have floated by now.
But what was their quarrel about? What did the reference to Judas imply? Judas the traitor hanged himself, not another. Whose death had one of these men brought about? Or had Drummond accused Stirling of treason? Questions, questions, he thought impatiently, but that one might lead me on a sound trail. Doig had been trafficking in information when he lived in Glasgow, he might well be doing the same here, and James Stirling was at the Bishop’s elbow when he negotiated the last truce with England. There were princes overseas who would pay to learn the precise terms of the truce, not to mention Margaret of Burgundy. Suppose either Doig or Stirling was involved in that, could Drummond have learned of it? And how did Drummond know Doig anyway?
And then there was the matter of the badges missing from the hat. Did it have any bearing on Stirling’s disappearance, or not? I need to speak to Andrew Drummond, and that soon, he told himself. How early can we be off in the morning?
He got to his feet, tucking his tablets back into their pouch. As he stepped on to the path a small figure twenty or thirty yards off waved wildly and shouted his name. He paused, and Maister Cornton’s boy Malky ran up, saying in excited tones:
‘I kent I’d seen you gang this way, maister. My maister’s begging a word wi you. He’s found a strange thing at the back o the yard, he’d like you to take a look at.’
‘What kind of a strange thing?’ Gil asked. The boy shook his head.
‘I never seen it,’ he said regretfully. ‘Just my maister and Rob and Simon, that’s the journeymen,’ he explained, ‘was up that end the yard and came down and sent me and Martin and Ally out to find you. And they’ve both went into the town, but I thought I’d seen you gang along here by the Ditch.’ He turned hopefully, obviously expecting Gil to follow him, and looking exactly like a puppy waiting for a stick to be thrown. Gil grinned, gave him a penny, and obligingly set off towards the tanyard.
Maister Cornton was in his counting-house, seated by his desk and gazing thoughtfully at a small bright object on the green baize. He looked up as Gil tapped at the open door, and nodded.
‘They found you,’ he said. ‘What d’you make of this?’
Gil stepped over beside him and discovered the object of his contemplation to be a pilgrim badge, probably of silver, in the shape of a horse. On its saddle were an anvil and hammer big enough to have brought the creature to its knees. Tiny letters incised on the anvil read S ELIGIVS.
‘St Eloi’s horse from Noyon,’ he said.
‘So it would seem,’ agreed Cornton, ‘though it’s far better quality than other Eloi badges I’ve seen. Is it familiar to you, maister?’
‘It could be one of the two we’re looking for,’ he admitted. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘Put it safe, and I’ll show you.’ Cornton set off out through the drying-loft and into the yard, saying over his shoulder, ‘The bellman was crying two missing pilgrim badges, as well as the question of where my landlord ate his supper the day I saw him last, and who saw some fellow of Dunblane, so when my man Rob found this I reckoned I’d best send for you.’
He picked his way into the further reaches of his domain, past open sheds containing trestles and racks of skins, vats of strong-smelling liquors, reeking stacks of raw skins, the two small carts Gil had seen earlier. Beyond the sheds were a series of pits like the one near the gate, but these were covered by weighted planks. It was easier to breathe out here, Gil found.
‘That’s the tanpits,’ said Cornton, waving at them. ‘See, we do the first soaking and bating down the front of the yard, where it’s under my eye, because the skins needs turned or shifted daily. Right?’ Gil nodded. ‘But once they’re in the tanpits they lie for months – up to a year for your stoutest leathers – and we shift the bark maybe every couple of months, no oftener. So the tanpits is all up here out the road and though I take a look round afore I lock up in the evening, we’re not working in this bit that often. Which means the Deil alone kens how long that badge has been lying here, though I suppose it canny be more than two weeks. Right?’ Gil nodded again, and Cornton led him to the far end of the yard, where one of his journeymen stood by a pit morosely watching the bubbles rise and burst in the scum between the wet planks. ‘Show him where you found it, Robin.’
At the sound of his voice, several dogs broke out in a fanfare of barking, quite near. Gil looked round, startled to realize how close they were to the Doigs’ yard.
‘Is there a reward?’ asked the man, ignoring this. Cornton raised his arm to him, but he said hardily, ‘The bellman said there was a reward. I found it, I should get the reward for it.’
‘We’ll ask at the Bishop’s steward,’ Gil said. ‘Now show me where it was lying.’
‘Just by that stick there.’ Rob nodded at a stick driven into the earth nearby. ‘I marked it, like the maister tellt me.’
They were near the bounda
ry with the dye yard next door; it was marked by a fence perhaps four feet high, of tightly woven wattle hurdles rather than planks like that at the front of the yard. The ground was well trampled here, with small likelihood of picking out any footprints. The marker stake was midway between the fence and the tanpit where the bubbles were rising.
‘It might have been thrown over the fence from the dye yard,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But if so, why not cast further, and aim for the pit itself? It would never be found if it went in there.’
‘Maybe no,’ agreed Rob, ‘but maybe aye. I’m thinking one o these oxhides is on the turn, maister, there’s ower many bubbles and they stink something rotten. We’ll ha to fetch them up, and yir badge might ha come up along wi them. Maybe the ither’s in there yet,’ he added, brightening slightly.
‘They do stink,’ agreed Cornton, sniffing. ‘I don’t like the smell of that. We ought to fetch them up afore the whole lot turns.’
‘No reason why you shouldn’t get on and deal with it,’ said Gil, pacing along the fence. ‘I’ll keep out of your way.’ He bent to peer behind some stained planks which were propped against the fence, but found nothing significant. ‘Is there a gate this end of the yard, maister?’
‘Fetch Simon and the laddies,’ said Cornton to his man, ‘bid them bring the long poles and all. A gate, Maister Cunningham?’ He turned to fix Gil with a sharp stare. ‘No, there’s only the one way in unless you sclim the fence. Which I’m aware bad laddies do from time to time,’ he added, ‘though I’d say we’ve had no damage or mischief in the yard since Hunt-the-Gowk time. Are you thinking someone’s been in here? I took it, like you, the badge had been thrown from over the fence.’
‘It could have been,’ agreed Gil cautiously. ‘Does your neighbour lock up at night too?’
‘He does.’
Gil looked about them. The yard was perhaps twenty good paces across, although much longer, and from where he stood the fencing appeared sound all round; the structure of woven hurdles lashed to hazelwood stakes beside him turned the corner to extend across the narrow end of the property, then changed to sturdy planks at the opposite side. The path to the Blackfriars must be on the other side of the planks, but his view of it was cut off by a small open shed containing another tall rack of skins. Just over the fence beside him a complex system of cords and poles in the dyer’s yard supported bright webs of cloth and hanks of thread. The dyer’s plot was shorter than the tan-yard, and in the angle of the two – yes, that was Doig’s yard, just next to him though it was near ten minutes’ walk by the track. As he stood frowning, working out the twists and turns, Mistress Doig emerged from the house and shouted at the dogs. Silence fell, she glared over the fence at them, and Cornton said:
‘They’re neighbours I could do without, you’ll see.’ Gil grunted, and leaned over the stakes nearest him to look into the dyer’s property. The ground there was as well trampled as that in the tanyard, and the grass and dandelions at the base of the fence showed nothing untoward.
‘If it was two weeks since,’ said Cornton, echoing his thoughts, ‘there’ll be little trace left by now.’
‘How would bad laddies get in here without someone seeing and hunting them out?’
‘Same as I said, over the fence. There’s plenty hideyholes once you’re in the yard. I’m aye feart one will get hissel drowned,’ Cornton confessed, ‘that’s why we’ve as many planks on the tanpits, it doesny need that many to hold it all down.’
Looking along the fence, scanning the woven withies and the vegetation at their feet, Gil was half aware of the men returning, carrying the poles Cornton had ordered and rolling two rumbling half-barrels. The apprentices set to work with buckets, baling out the liquid in the pit and slopping it into the tubs with much splashing, despite the remonstrations of their seniors, who meanwhile dragged the netted stones off the planks and began to raise them. More bubbles rose and broke at this, and the other journeyman, downwind, fell back with an exclamation of disgust.
‘Maister, that’s foul! What’s come to they hides? I never smelled anything like it at this stage!’
‘Eeugh!’ agreed the middle-sized apprentice dramatically. A lively youngster, Gil thought, bending to look at a black mark on the fence. It sprouted legs and hurried off into the hollow of the weaving as he approached: one of those finger-long beetles that only seemed to appear at this time of year.
‘Call yoursels tanners?’ said their master jeeringly. ‘My, you’re delicate the day, the lot of you –’ He broke off and coughed, and then said with more sympathy, ‘Aye, well, I’ll admit that’s strong. Away and fetch a cloth to your nose, any of you, if you wish.’
Nobody took up this permission. Gil crossed the short end of the yard, scanning the hurdles, which were firmly laced to the upright stobs from the other side, none of them sagging as he would have expected if they had been recently climbed. The fence was obviously the neighbour’s responsibility here; the plot was a small one, with a sagging house surrounded by a quantity of short lengths of wood and little heaps of shavings, but there was no sign of the occupier or of anything which might be related to the St Eloi badge. He moved on to the corner by the track where wattle gave way to planks, finding some surprising things in the tufts of grass and willow-herb but still no trace of any recent illicit entry to the tanner’s policies. Wondering how a single horn spoon came to be wedged under one plank, the leg of a wooden horse under another, he looked back round his shoulder and found he could see only the apprentices moving to and fro with their buckets, his view cut off by the same drying-shed. Judging by the directions Cornton was issuing, the journeymen had begun the task of raising the stacked hides one at a time, brushing the oak-bark chips between them off into the surrounding liquor as they went.
He leaned over the fence, but found the track as uninformative as the dyer’s yard had been. At least, he corrected himself, it tells me nobody entered the yard this way. No marks on the fencing, no trampled patch at the foot of the planks, no sign of any recent attempt to climb in. Could he be sure recent included the whole of the last two weeks? he wondered.
There was a horrified yell from the tanpit. The dogs began to bark in answer as he jerked upright and round, staring. There was another yell, but he was already running.
‘What is it, man?’ demanded Cornton’s voice as he rounded the shed. ‘What gart ye skirl like that? Simon?’
Simon was clinging to his long pole as if he was drowning, his face a mask of horror as he stared into the pit. Rob and the older journeyman were gaping at him, but the boy Ally was on his knees by one of the half-barrels, trawling through its contents with his bucket.
‘I seen it,’ he said in excitement, ‘I seen something go in here.’
‘It was a ratton drowned in the pit,’ said the older man. ‘No need for –’
‘It was a hand,’ said Simon, his voice shrill. ‘It – a hand, I tell you!’
‘Aye, and there’s the other one,’ said his master grimly, hauling another layer of partly cured hide towards their feet. ‘Look yonder, under the surface. Hand, arm –’
‘You mean it’s a whole corp?’ said Ally, round-eyed.
‘Is he all in there? Watch, or he’ll come apart!’ said Rob. ‘Who is it, anyway? St Peter’s bones, how he stinks. How long’s he been down there?’
‘I think we can guess who,’ said Gil. Cornton caught his eye across the pit, and nodded. ‘And if so, then we know how long. Is that the head?’
‘Aye, it is.’ Rob reached in with his long pole and prodded the floating mat of hair. It swirled and clung to the hook on the end of the pole, and the head rolled slackly in the water and fell back again. ‘He’s face down, I’d say.’
‘Andro?’ said a voice from among the forest of bright hangings over the fence. ‘Is all well? What was that great skelloch about?’ A lanky fair-haired man emerged between two strips of indigo linen, and set multicoloured hands on the fence. ‘St Nicholas’ balls, man, what a stink! What have you fou
nd there?’
‘Aye, we’re all sound, William, and glad of your concern,’ said Cornton. ‘It’s naught but something unlookedfor in this pit of cowhides.’
‘What would that be, then?’ asked William hopefully. ‘Is it a drowned pig, or what?’
‘It’s a deid man!’ burst out Ally. ‘He’s all drowned in the tanpit and turned to leather!’
‘I’m no certain yet,’ said Cornton, and clapped a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘William, would you do me a kindness?’
‘Anything, anything!’ said William avidly, stretching his neck. ‘Can we help you lift him, whatever you’ve found?’
‘No, no, we’ve enough hands here. If you’d send one of your lads for the constable, we can get on wi this task.’
‘For the constable? What need of him, for a drowned pig? Is the laddie right, and it’s a man, then? Who could it be?’
‘We’ll maybe ken what it is,’ said Cornton firmly, ‘by the time he gets here. I’d be right glad of the favour, William.’
The dyer retreated, with reluctance. Cornton glared at his back as it vanished between the linen webs, but said only, ‘There’s no saying he drowned here, Ally, you ill-schooled laddie, and no saying who it is yet.’
‘But it’s a man rather than a woman,’ Gil said, ‘by the length of the hair. Now we have to work out how to get him out.’
‘A bonny task for a hot August day,’ said the elder journeyman, ‘wi all his fingers dropping off him.’
‘Will he no be half-tanned?’ suggested Ally. The other two apprentices seemed to have vanished. ‘I’d a thought he’d hold together, no fall apart.’
‘Aye, but the bark’s only lying one side o his hide,’ said his master. ‘There’s still all the flesh and the fat within –’ He stopped, and aimed an angry cuff at the boy, who ducked expertly. ‘What am I saying? You don’t tan a Christian soul, you heathen laddie. Maister Cunningham, what do we do here? This is beyond my experience.’
Beyond mine, too, thought Gil. Aloud he said, ‘You’ll need to get all the hides off him, for a start. Then maybe we can get him on to a hurdle or the like, and lift him out of there.’
