The Stolen Voice

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘Och, no, he was a right good friend,’ protested Maister Gregor, ‘you could never take offence at what he said –’ He subsided as his master looked at him again.

  ‘Now, the day he vanished, Stirling went out to see about the rents as you bade him, my lord.’ Brown nodded, his mouth tightening. ‘Then he saw his own tenants, and then he went out to the dog-breeder’s yard, looking for Doig himself rather than Mistress Doig. I think you’d given him no errand there, my lord.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Brown. He bent and scooped up his dog to set it on his knee. ‘I sent him out about the rents, he’d no errand to the dog-breeder that day. So what had he to do wi this man Doig?’

  ‘Doig,’ said Gil carefully, ‘seems to run a regular messenger service to the Low Countries. It was Doig called away the singer that’s gone missing from Dunblane, though I’ve no proof he spoke to the two men here in Perth. He’s good at shifting information, and I think now he’s shifting people as well.’

  ‘I knew it,’ said Currie in deep regret. ‘I feared it. So Jaikie was –’

  ‘Hold your peace, Wat,’ said the Bishop, still caressing Jerome.

  ‘I thought so too,’ said Gil. At his tone Brown looked up from his dog. ‘In Mistress Doig’s yard, Stirling met Canon Drummond, who was also looking for Doig. They got into conversation, which the woman described to me as being like two dogs circling one another with their fangs showing. Stirling made some of his clever remarks, and the two of them ended up going off to the Ditchlands to talk the whole afternoon.’

  ‘So was it Drummond?’ said Brown. He reached for his tablets. ‘I’ll send to Dunblane and have them summon him –’

  ‘He’s in Balquhidder,’ Gil said. ‘No, my lord, I think it wasn’t Drummond. I’ll come to why not in a wee while.’

  ‘So what came to him?’ asked Brown. ‘Maister Cunningham, I ken you’re a busy man, and so am I. I’d be grateful if you’d get on and tell me what I’m needing to know.’

  Gil nodded, but continued in the same measured tone.

  ‘I’ve asked Drummond what they spoke of, and he claims the secrecy of confession – that each of them confessed to the other. I’ve learned from one or two other sources that they spoke of betrayal and forgiveness.’

  ‘Betrayal!’ said Currie. ‘Who had he –?’ The Bishop glanced at him, but said nothing.

  ‘Drummond,’ pursued Gil, ‘went on into Perth and likely had a bite to eat, found Doig and had a word wi him, then spent the rest of the evening in St John’s Kirk afore St Andrew. I’ve a good witness for that.’

  Bishop Brown nodded his understanding, but Maister Gregor said, ‘Oh, no, surely no, if he’d just slew –’

  ‘Hold your tongue, Rob,’ said Brown.

  ‘Now,’ said Gil carefully, ‘Stirling had been accompanied on his errand. One of the household servants had gone with him.’

  ‘Very proper,’ said Brown, ‘but if that’s so, why did the man no come forward after, when Jaikie never returned home? Or is that –?’ He turned an appalled gaze on his steward. ‘Wat, has one o our men –?’

  ‘I’d vouch for all of them, my lord,’ said Currie.

  ‘He’s made his confession,’ said Gil ambiguously. ‘It seems Stirling sent him back to the house, saying he’d walk on the Ditchlands for a space.’

  ‘You mean you’ve spoke wi him? Who is it?’ demanded Currie.

  ‘A man called Mitchel MacGregor,’ Gil replied.

  ‘Mitchel?’ exclaimed Currie, with a faint echo which must have been Maister Gregor. ‘Christ preserve us, what’s he done?’

  ‘I thought he was in Dunkeld,’ said Brown.

  ‘He was,’ agreed Gil. ‘He is now in the care of the Blackfriars.’

  ‘Oh, what a terrible thing! Will Wat send to the Black-friars, my lord,’ asked Maister Gregor, ‘and get him fetched here? Or will you go out to question him yoursel maybe?’

  ‘Go on, Maister Cunningham,’ said the Bishop rather grimly, ignoring this.

  ‘Mitchel returned here,’ said Gil, ‘and was sent out again with a message for Stirling, bidding him go to the dog-breeder and ask her for some of her soap against fleas.’

  ‘Fleas!’ exclaimed Currie. ‘The wee dog’s never had fleas!’

  ‘And who sent him this errand?’ asked Bishop Brown.

  ‘He seemed very clear,’ Gil said with care, ‘that it was an errand for yourself, my lord.’ Brown shook his head. ‘So Stirling went to the Doigs’ yard, with the man Mitchel, and found Mistress Doig from home walking the dogs.’

  ‘Aye, they’ll need to be exercised,’ agreed Maister Gregor. ‘They get melancholy if they don’t get exercised.’

  ‘Rob, hold your tongue,’ said Brown again. ‘Wat, where are you away to, man?’

  ‘I’ll just send a couple men out to the Blackfriars,’ suggested Currie from the door, ‘the way Maister Gregor says, and they can –’

  ‘We’ll hear Maister Cunningham out,’ said his master, ‘and then I’ll determine what’s to be done. Stay here and close that door. Come on, Maister Cunningham, let’s get this done wi.’

  ‘Mitchel says they waited in the yard,’ Gil continued, ‘talking to the dogs or the like, for a wee bit, and then Maister Stirling fell down dead.’

  Three shocked faces stared at him.

  ‘But he’d been shot wi a crossbow bolt,’ said the Bishop, recovering first. ‘Was it no Mitchel that shot him?’

  ‘He swore it was not,’ Gil said. ‘He said he never saw who loosed the bolt.’ And that’s entirely hearsay, he thought, and would never stand as evidence at law, but it serves my purpose.

  ‘You’re fairly taking your time,’ said the Bishop irritably. ‘I suppose you’re making it clear, man, but we’ve still the two questions. Who killed Jaikie, and how did he get into the tanpit? Was it Andrew Cornton right enough? I’d thought it wasny, but –’

  ‘Maister Cornton spent the entire evening in his own house,’ said Gil. ‘They were moving furniture. His maidservant will swear to it.’

  ‘Aye, but surely a man’s own household will swear for him –’ began Maister Gregor.

  ‘There’s one of my household done me a very ill turn,’ said Brown grimly. ‘Go on, maister. Who was it, then, if it wasny Cornton?’

  ‘I want to check something first,’ said Gil. He bent and drew the kist towards him, startling Jerome as it rumbled across the floorboards. ‘There was a crossbow in this kist when we checked it before, you mind that, Maister Currie?’

  ‘Aye, there was, and a good one,’ agreed Currie. ‘It’s right on the top, next his razors.’ He came forward and helped Gil to unfasten the strap and open the lid. ‘You see, it’s well kept, well oiled –’

  Gil pushed the pup away, lifted the crossbow and drew it out of its linen bag. The weapon was, as Currie said, a good one, and well cared for. He turned it over, admiring the finish and shaping of stock and crosspiece. Not an ounce of spare timber, he judged.

  ‘An arbalest!’ exclaimed the Bishop. ‘I never knew Jaikie had an arbalest.’

  ‘Nor did I, my lord,’ said Maister Gregor.

  ‘Our Lady save you, my lord, it’s no an arbalest,’ said Currie over the old man’s remark. ‘You’d never get an arbalest into thon wee kist. It’s a crossbow, just.’

  ‘It’s a crossbow,’ agreed Gil. ‘Not my weapon, but my brother Edward was skilled with the crossbow.’ He held it up, sighting along the stock, then passed it to Currie, whose hands closed on it covetously. ‘It’s a bonnie thing, but it’s unusable.’

  ‘Unusable?’ said Currie sharply, staring at him. ‘How’s it unusable?’

  ‘There’s no means of bracing it.’ Gil gestured at Maister Gregor’s inventory lying in the open lid of the kist. ‘There should be a belt-hook, or a goat’s foot, or the like.’

  ‘I thought that,’ remarked Maister Gregor proudly.

  Seeing the Bishop’s blank look, Gil explained, ‘It’s the means of bracing the bow so it can be loosed, my lo
rd. The arblaster sets his foot in yon stirrup at the nose of the bow,’ he pointed, and Currie raised the weapon, which he was still cradling. ‘Then he attaches something to the cord, and straightens up, and that draws the cord and lodges it there –’ He pointed to the nut that held the cord braced till the bow was loosed, and the Bishop peered closer and looked away again, shuddering.

  ‘It’s an unchristian weapon,’ he declared. ‘So you’re saying Jaikie couldna loose this?’

  ‘Nobody could loose it,’ Gil said, ‘because nobody could brace it.’

  ‘I thought that too, you ken,’ repeated Maister Gregor. Everyone else turned to him, and he ducked his head and bleated in faint dismay at the attention. ‘When I put all Jaikie’s gear by,’ he said almost pleadingly. ‘I saw there was no means to brace the cord, and I saw there was no bolts to it and all.’

  ‘So why is it in his kist, if he couldny use it?’ demanded the Bishop.

  ‘I think it isn’t his. I think someone hid it among his gear,’ said Gil. Brown met his eye across the chamber, but was silent. ‘Maybe in haste, so that he forgot to lodge the belt-hook and the bolts there too.’

  ‘What use would that be?’ wondered Maister Gregor. ‘He could never use it, whoever it belongs to, while it was in Jaikie’s kist.’

  ‘Maister Gregor,’ said Gil. The old man looked at him, still frowning in puzzlement. ‘Did you tell me you had walked in the garden that evening, the evening Maister Stirling died?’

  ‘I did, I did that, though a course,’ he qualified, ‘I never knew Jaikie was dead then.’ He crossed himself and murmured something. Gil waited till he finished, then went on:

  ‘I think you said my lord was there too, with Jerome.’ The chaplain nodded. ‘Do you recall that, my lord?’

  ‘I do,’ said Brown. ‘Wat, be still. Where are you off to, man?’

  ‘You’ll want a couple of the men –’ Currie began.

  ‘Be still,’ said Brown again, quite mildly, and the stew-ard’s feet were rooted to the spot. ‘I also recall that the supper was late, and I can see by the way you hold it that you know every inch of that dreadful weapon. Wat, why did you kill Jaikie?’

  ‘No!’ Currie fell to his knees, his plump face suddenly glistening with sweat. ‘No, I never, I didny! It wasny me!’

  ‘I’m told you’re the best shot with a crossbow in Perth,’ Gil said, and then with sudden comprehension, ‘and Mitchel named you as he died, man.’

  ‘I never – I never did! I had to!’

  ‘Who was it then?’ asked the Bishop, looking very solemn, his voice gentle. ‘Who killed Jaikie Stirling, Wat, if it wasna you? Or why would you have to? A man never has to kill, Wat, you ken that.’

  ‘Maister Gregor knows why he killed him,’ said Gil.

  ‘Oh, aye,’ agreed Maister Gregor. ‘Er – me? Ken why? Why?’

  ‘Tell me again,’ Gil invited, ‘the crack Jaikie made at Wat’s expense that day at the noon bite. Tell my lord.’

  ‘At the – oh! Aye, it was right comical.’ He recounted the tale of the new way to cook mutton yet again, clearly unaware of what he was saying. Gil met the Bishop’s eye.

  ‘Write it down,’ he repeated, ‘and sell it in the Low Countries. Maister Stirling had realized who was selling information. He had to be killed before he told you.’

  ‘Why did he no tell me first off?’

  ‘I was doing no sic a thing!’ protested Currie, scrambling to his feet. ‘I never – I would have –’

  ‘The man Mitchel?’ said Brown to Gil. Gil shook his head.

  ‘Mitchel is dead,’ he said. ‘My men were attacked outside the town as they brought him to Perth today. But I’ve spoken to Doig, I’ve spoken to his wife, and –’

  ‘Stop him!’ exclaimed the Bishop. Gil spun round, in time to see Currie dive out of the door, fling himself across the next room and on to the stair. He plunged after him, followed by an excited Jerome, as shouting and the sounds of a fight broke out below them.

  ‘Let me pass, you fools!’ howled Currie. ‘I’ve an errand won’t wait! Let me pass!’

  ‘Hold him, lads!’ Gil shouted, swung himself down the newel stair after the steward, and leapt on to the battle at its foot. The two Stronvar men he had posted there, Ned’s henchmen, were having trouble holding Currie. More of the Bishop’s servants were appearing in answer to his cries for help, but with Gil’s assistance they were held off and the man was overcome, his arms pinned at his sides, the point of Gil’s dagger under his chin, while his master came down the stair at a more dignified pace.

  ‘Take and bind him,’ the Bishop said, ‘and send to the constable to come for him. Treason is a plea of the Crown,’ he said to his servant, ‘and by Christ I’ll see you tried and hung by the Crown for this, clerk or no clerk, Wat Currie. And bid the constable release the man Cornton now.’

  * * *

  ‘I still don’t see how Jaikie got into the tanpit,’ said Maister Gregor. ‘And the badges and all, what had the badges to do wi’t?’

  ‘Nor I,’ admitted Bishop Brown. ‘Can you tell us that, Maister Cunningham?’

  After the steward had been removed, still struggling and protesting his innocence, the two churchmen had spent some considerable time at prayer. Gil had occupied himself in searching the man’s own chamber, with two of the Bishop’s men as witnesses. He had found documents sufficient to condemn Currie out of hand, notes of the content of the English treaty, a half-written letter to a Fleming whose name Brown recognized (‘Margaret of Burgundy uses him,’ he said cryptically) and other papers which the Bishop immediately confiscated and placed in his own locked kist.

  ‘The badges have nothing to do with it,’ Gil said, ‘excepting that they led us to find Stirling’s body. He’d given his badge of St Dymphna –’

  ‘That was her!’ exclaimed Maister Gregor. ‘Diffna!’

  ‘To Andrew Drummond, for reasons connected with whatever they confessed to each other that afternoon on the Ditchlands. It was sewn on to the hat, he’d have had to cut it off, and I suppose loosened the Eloi badge at the same time, and that fell off when Doig and the man Mitchel were getting his body into the tanyard.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Bishop. ‘So it’s St Eloi’s doing, or perhaps St Dymphna’s, that he was found and can be given Christian burial.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Gil, taken with this. ‘If – I’ll not speculate what they discussed –’

  ‘No, of course not,’ the Bishop said quickly.

  ‘– but if it’s what I suspect, then it would be agreeable to St Dymphna to have it cleared up and all forgiven. I can see that she might protect him so far.’

  It would have been more to the point if she had prevented his death, he thought, but did not say so in this company.

  ‘If either confessed the other,’ said Maister Gregor, ‘then Jaikie died shriven. Had you thought of that, my lord?’

  ‘That’s a true word, Rob,’ said the Bishop, much struck. ‘And a comforting thought, at that. But the man Mitchel –’

  ‘He was shriven by the Infirmarers,’ said Gil quickly.

  ‘Aye, and sore need of it. He was far from blameless,’ said the Bishop with disapproval. ‘He was Currie’s own servant, I suppose he obeyed him without question, but –’

  ‘And Mistress Doig is his kinswoman,’ Gil said. ‘I suppose that led Currie to Doig, or the other way about.’

  ‘I’ll have the woman out of that yard,’ said the Bishop. ‘She’ll not remain on my doorstep. As for her husband, I want him found.’

  ‘He’s a slippery character,’ Gil said. ‘You may find all he’s done is carry letters, with no certain knowledge of their content.’

  If you can find either one, he thought, recalling the sight of Doig and his wife leaving Glasgow a year since, an hour ahead of the pursuit, with the largest mixed leash of hounds he had ever seen.

  ‘And who is St Dymphna, anyway?’ asked George Brown, Bishop of Dunkeld.

  Chapter Fourteen

 
; Alys, standing with the Drummond girls on the rough grass of the preaching-field, gazed round her at the people of Sir Duncan’s parish. They were still gathering, the stragglers from the far end of the glen, the last few people from Glenbuckie still hurrying over the causeway. They carried crosses, scraps of linen inscribed with ill-spelled prayers, rosaries, anything to protect the sanctity of the occasion. The old man was drowsing now, lying on his bed of sheepskins at the centre of the bowl of ground, but Robert was still tolling that strange sweet bell, and the people watched in a silence broken by the occasional sob, a child’s question, a hushed adult answer.

  ‘Sir Duncan is much loved,’ Alys said quietly to Ailidh Drummond.

  ‘There is not many can recall the man that was before him,’ said Ailidh, equally quietly.

  As the last parishioners reached the field, Robert silenced the bell. Sir Duncan opened his eyes. A murmur ran through the gathering, and he raised one hand and delivered a blessing in Latin. Daughter of a master-builder, Alys recognized how it was some trick of the shape of the ground that made his thread of a voice audible to all. People bent their heads, crossed themselves, said Amen with that strange Ersche twist to the word. The old priest surveyed them, and began to speak, very slowly, in Ersche.

  He spoke for near a quarter of an hour, Alys estimated. After a while, as his voice failed, the aged clerk began to repeat each sentence aloud for him. She had long since lost the thread by then, though the words she recognized told her it was a sermon about love, about duty, about redemption. Instead she watched the people, who were listening to every syllable, many with tears on their cheeks. Most were in the dress of the Highlands, the men in their belted shirts and huge plaids, the women in loose checked gowns, their smaller plaids drawn over their heads; the upper servants from Stronvar and Gartnafueran were conspicuous in their Lowland livery. Next to Alys, Ailidh Drummond gazed intently, chewing a forefinger; Murdo Dubh had appeared beyond her and the younger girls were gathered close. She looked the other way, and found a man in a long homespun gown and faded plaid standing beside her, right at the edge of the crowd, leaning on a long crook and watching the faces in the same way that she was. He was oddly made, tall and broad-shouldered with a small head and greying red hair.