Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Ah, the monks,’ answered Danforth, crossing his arms. ‘I understand you have cause to do business in their brew-house, sir. Mr Martin and I visited the Abbey, and I confess myself surprised that you do not recall us.’ Logan’s face turned from pink to a deeper crimson.

  ‘Whit do you mean, young fella? Ma business is ma own. I pay ma way. If ye think to make trouble wi’ me, sir, ye’ll be the one that’s the worse aff for it.’ Again, his hand hovered towards his blade.

  ‘I have no desire to make trouble in a burgh that has troubles enough for a century, and such men as you to handle them. Where is the corpse?’

  ‘Ye want a look at it?’ asked Logan, his teeth showing in a sneer. ‘I should warn ye, gentlemen, it’s no’ a goodly sight, though the wee jade was a damned fine thing when she lived. I wouldnae have minded takin’ her masel, but ye’d no’ know why, to look at her now. I’ve had some fiends already this mornin’ begging sight o’ it, for a fee. Looky-loos. An’ this will be your only chance, gentlemen. It’ll be put to the soil directly.’

  ‘She is to be released for burial?’ asked Martin, getting close to Logan’s face, his fists clenched.

  ‘Certainly, sir, before it brings foulness to the burgh.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t care. St Nicholas, if Abbey servants can be found will haul it up the wynd. The Abbey shan’t want it, though it’s their property. Yet their good hearts and rich purse will see it planted. No’ that she deserves Christian burial, the daft wee harlot. The likes o’ her are the worst type o’ women, always trying to tempt men intae inconstancy. Now, to the matter o’ that fee.’

  ‘You shall have nothing more by us,’ said Danforth, drawing his eyes away, ‘but if you refuse us access you shall be reported for obstructing the king’s justice.’ Thankfully the gaoler looked confused and doubtful enough to frown and nod his acquiescence. ‘As ye list. It lies beyond the kailyard in the back. I warn ye again,’ he added, smirking, ‘she’s nothin’ to look at anymore, if ye hope to peep.’

  He led them through the postern of the Tolbooth, where he stopped. ‘I’ll come no further. The reek’s unsavoury. She lay in the river some days.’ Across the rain-blasted grass was a small wooden outbuilding, low-roofed and ugly. To the right stood an old gallows, weathered and without a rope. As they crossed to the shack, Danforth became conscious of Martin falling behind. He turned.

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ said Martin. ‘I ... find I don’t wish to see her. To see this ... Kate.’ An expectant little pause drew out between them, before Martin spoke again. ‘I never saw ger, but she lived in my mind, I confess, a stolen girl awaiting rescue, you know? And all along she lay slain.’

  ‘It is no matter,’ said Danforth, cutting the air with a hand. ‘I have no great desire myself. But the condition of the corpse may tell us something. You might wait here, where the air is fresher. Somewhat.’ Martin nodded his gratitude, and Danforth turned to the flimsy wooden door.

  When he had begun in the service of the Cardinal he had hoped mangled corpses were a thing of the past, and yet now he found that he had a hunger to know, to see the truth unmasked. But there was always a thrill of terror prior to viewing a body. It would, he knew, dissolve when more scholarly senses took charge. It was the anticipation of horror that was sharpest and most keen. He did not want to step through the door. Before he had become a green young coroner’s man, before he had even considered such an office, his father had always told him, ‘what a gentleman has to bear he will bear, because he has no choice.’ It was useful advice, even if the old man had not taken it himself.

  He swallowed one last gulp of cold air and entered. The smell inside hit him like a cruel wind – the stench of water and rot, mingled with the unforgiving, bitter tang of a tannery. To the right of the barn a sheep was penned, its back to him. Closer by, he forced his eyes to a low table. A filthy sheet, raised here and there in crags, sat on it. With one swift movement he yanked it back and threw it aside.

  He drew back, his stomach lurching. The whisper of the sheet had cast up a concentrated wave of the foul air, and he drew a hand before his nose to protect himself. The girl’s body had been beaten beyond recognition. Cringing from the touch, he gently turned the head to one side, finding the killing blow. She had been struck in the back of the skull with something heavy, something sharp. He pulled the head back so that what must once have been a pretty face looked upwards again. Whoever had done the deed had not been content with striking her down – they had used their weapon to smash in her face, hacking and chopping wildly. This was a person of strength, or of supreme hatred and fury. Bit of shattered skull glinted in the dim light, mingled with jellied grey matter and strands of blonde hair. There was little blood. It must have been washed away by the river’s current, leaving the corpse even more denuded.

  He looked away from the desecrated face. The swollen arms and legs were mostly bare. He narrowed his eyes. The tattered remains of clothing were odd. The girl had been dressed in men’s breeches and a blousy shirt. The breeches were as drained of colour as the body was of blood. In places the had been shredded by rocks, revealing more mottled grey flesh. He felt bile rise, attracted by the stench. Bending down, he picked up the sheet and replaced it.

  A familiar, unwelcome feeling washed over him. Deep melancholy. It always came when he looked upon brutal death, at the wreckage of humanity. This place, this burgh, had been created to provide protection to its denizens. Yet this woman had found only violence and death. Why, he wondered, should it be that man grasps for fellows, for comfort and community and then, on finding them, resorts to violence and enmity? He crossed himself returned to life beyond the decaying walls.

  Martin was waiting for him, chewing on a thumbnail. ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Our man,’ he said, surprised at the choke in his throat, ‘is a wicked fellow indeed. This was not some robbery, nor any murder of opportunity. This was done by one known to her, one who hated her enough to desecrate her body in some fit of passion. I could see no marks of defence.’

  ‘The father, then, after all,’ said Martin, looking towards the Tolbooth.

  ‘I think not. What do you think of the condition of the man?’

  ‘Most sorry, sir. He’s an imbecile, if you ask me, a weak waste of breath and skin.’

  ‘And our killer is one of strength and fury. Do you think yonder fellow could wield an axe, or the like, and strike from behind one taller than he?’

  ‘I rather think yonder fellow might be blown clean away by a fart.’

  ‘Apt,’ said Danforth, arching an eyebrow. ‘Of course, he might have struck her whilst she kneeled. She was dressed as a man,’ he added.

  ‘The better to make her escape, I should think. Might it be,’ volunteered Martin, hope lighting his face, ‘that she fell in the river when trying to make a run for it, and died without any pain, just her body striking the rocks?’

  ‘No, sir. I do not see it. Her extremities would not escape the violence of nature, and they bore no marks. And then the mule might have been found.’

  ‘God damn it. I always think of death by accident being painless.’

  ‘Aye, I meet you in that. It is a strange thing. Death comes so easily by accident. By design, it is harder. A person fights, struggles, rages against it when they see it coming. But one can fall from a great height, or stumble on a flight of steps, and give way to it unprotestingly – unknowingly, even. Like Aeschylus by falling turtle, or the French king Charles, who hit his head on a door lintel, and fell down dead many hours thereafter. Murder is hard; accidents are easy. But this was not an accident.’

  ‘Could you say where she entered the water? I mean, if she entered by the Abbey, or nearer where she was spat up, or –’

  ‘She did not sit up and speak!’ snapped Danforth. ‘My apologies,’ he added, kneading a brow. ‘I ... no, I cannot tell that much.’

  ‘And so we have murder.’

  ‘I fear so. Yet, Martin, the killing blow app
ears to have come from behind, as I said. I do not doubt that she felt little, suffered little, at least in the manner of her death. A rare kindness if it was the lamentable creature in the Tolbooth. He admits freely that he wielded the rod against her with license.’

  ‘A feeble father, indeed.’

  ‘A detestable brute. But that is no reason to be hanged. Someone battered that lassie to death. Someone hated her, wanted her silenced. Why might that be?’ Martin said nothing. ‘It might be that she offended someone, or she knew something that our killer did not wish her to repeat. Martin,’ he asked, giving him a curious look. ‘Of what nature was your father?’

  ‘My father, sir? The old Frenchman? A jolly old gallant, to be sure, and an adventurer to the bones of him.’

  ‘And how did he come to be in this kingdom?’

  ‘For a time he was a merchant. Wines. He was in Scotland when he heard of France being attacked by that leopard Henry, who hasn’t changed his spots. He joined the old king’s forces to fight against the English at Flodden, when the present king’s father was slain, and was more fortunate than most. And then, of course, he met and married my mother, and got seven of us on her before God took him. He left her quite a fortune, mind, from his trading after the war. And now she is alone.’

  ‘She lives?’

  ‘Lives? My mother? She reigns, sir. Holds court in grand style in one of the finest houses in Stirling. Until lately,’ he said, a cloud crossing his smooth brow, ‘attended upon by the baby of our house, my little sister, Christian.’ He pronounced the name in the French fashion. ‘She died when I was abroad with the Cardinal in the summer. She was always a timid little thing. Gentle. Now maman lives with only her maidservant and the others as companions.’

  ‘I am sorry for it, Mr Martin.’ Danforth felt a little ashamed. How easy it was, he thought, to wrap oneself in a veil of sadness, to make oneself blind to those worn by others.

  ‘Thank you.’ He brightened. ‘And your own father, sir, since you are disposed to conversation?’

  ‘A good and grave man. Now in his own grave. But let us not dwell on the past – it is an unhappy enough business in which we find ourselves. It seems we were luckier in our fathers than that poor young bairn.’

  ‘Shall we question him again?’

  Danforth, raised his face skywards. The clouds were low, streaked with dark greys and blues. He wanted above all to be out of Paisley. His holy place, his pilgrimage, had become an unpleasant imprisonment; the sensation of being locked in a charnel house was strong. But he had now looked upon the worst of it. He was involved, and would receive no rest, nor dreamless sleep, until he had seen order restored. ‘No, I have nothing more to say to the creature at present. Nor do I wish to hear him rant and rave against the monks. Alas, the task which must befall us now is no more pleasant. Now, I think, we must have the truth of these Brodys from one will know, though I am not cock-a-hoop about it. That tedious old neb Mistress Clacher.’

  Danforth rapped on the polished door. They had found Mistress Clacher’s home in the Prior’s Croft with ease; when they asked at the market cross, their request was met with amused glances and directions to the broadest mansion house on the left side of the road. A dishevelled serving girl answered. Two voices drifted towards them, one querulous and the other boisterous. Before she could ask them their business, the reedy voice called out from behind her. ‘Who is there, Madge, who calls? Bid them enter and return to your work. You’re all behind today, like a hog’s tail.’

  The girl stood aside, before putting her back to the wall and trying to appear invisible. Mistress Clacher was sitting at a desk in a cosy drawing room, writing letters. Leaning on the side of the desk was Mistress Darroch, her prominent bosom shelving out. Unlike the Kennedy inn, this house in the upper High Street was a study in modern luxury. The trestle table was stacked with plate, polished serving bowls and trinkets, all arranged neatly on a clean tablecloth. No fire sat in the middle of the room, but instead one was housed in a grate, some good cooking utensils lined up on hooks above it. Its cheerful blaze illuminated a gaily painted ceiling, all blues and reds.

  ‘The king’s men,’ she said, moving a chunk of rock on the desk to weight down her papers.

  ‘The Cardinal’s men,’ said Martin, whilst Danforth’s tapped clasped his hands, turning them white.

  ‘Oh yes, and here on the matter of the war.’

  ‘On the matter of slanderous writings against the Cardinal,’ said Martin, and the old woman’s eyes gleamed.

  ‘Oh, is that the purpose?’

  ‘We are here on pilgrimage, Mistress,’ cut in Danforth. Already he was weary of the little crow. He could almost envision her pecking at carrion, blood dripping from her furry, pointed chin, her watery eyes shining with malice. ‘And we would speak with you.’

  At that moment, the maidservant stuck her head forward. ‘Do ye need anything for the guests, mistress?’

  ‘No, Madge. Go away.’

  ‘Ah’m Janet, no’ Madge. Madge ran away; that’s why Ah’ve started.’ She gave Martin a brief shake-and-smile, as though to suggest her mistress’s mind was slipping.

  ‘Shut up! You’re whatever I call you, slave,’ snapped Clacher. ‘Get out.’ The girl obliged, dragging her feet as she disappeared through a low archway and into the back of the house.

  ‘She’s new?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Yes. Our last girl left us, ungrateful little traitor. Can’t get good help from the young these days.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why,’ said Martin.

  ‘Why indeed. They’re all rebellious, the young ones, all know everything and none want to give an honest day’s work. No offence meant to you, young sir. Well, the jade won’t work for any good Paisley family again.’ Colour rose in the thin skin of her cheeks. ‘Anyway, what brings you to me?’

  ‘Is it news o’ the war, gentlemen, the battle?’ Mistress Darroch gripped the desk with chubby fingers.

  ‘No, we have not had news of any battle. We have some questions about the burgh,’ said Danforth.

  ‘I recall,’ said Clacher. ‘You are staying with Mistress Caldwell. You would like to know perhaps about her husband abandoning her for the widow Blackwood? Or perhaps you wish to know about the laxity of the Church, allowing vice to prosper?’

  ‘Och, Grissell, whit are ye like. Like as not they want tae know aboot wee Kate and the men who abused her.’

  ‘Wilza Darroch, you’re in my house and you’ll let me speak.’

  ‘Then speak sense, hen, ‘o the times, o’ the real rottenness.’

  ‘I’ll speak,’ said Clacher, sitting back, ‘to my visitors privately. You can find someone else to do your little scribblings.’

  ‘Oh, it’s like that, is it? Well, Ah willnae stay where Am no wanted.’

  ‘Peace, ladies,’ said Danforth, but Mistress Darroch was already flouncing for the door, fixing her mob cap with affronted fingers.

  ‘Naw, gentlemen. Ah see how it is. Good day.’ She swept out of the room. The front door slammed.

  ‘Mistress Clacher, we have no interest in gossip,’ said Danforth. She looked disappointed. ‘You said that you have seen much in the town, that you have resided here long.’

  ‘Past seventy years,’ she said, smiling her gummy smile.

  ‘And you mentioned also that the Brody girl had a ... a difficult life. “A sad little jade”, you called her.’

  ‘She was at that. Oh, but I can’t remember the last time we had a murder here, even with all the dirty gypsies and beggars and poor country folk who infest the place on market day. Even with all the drinking the young ones do. And all the business that leads to arguments, and arguments to fighting. No murders. Accidents, many; fires and drownings, aye. But no murders. What do you wish to know?’

  ‘Was she a pretty girl, mistress, likely to inflame the passions and intemperate lusts of a man who might then regret it?’

  ‘A married man, can you mean?’ she asked, batting her eyelids. Danforth sh
rugged noncommittally. ‘Aye, she was a rare beauty, unlike to spring from such a glaikit father. Though Brody was not always the shipwreck that time and a love of the drink has made him. Some malady of the humours must have brought him to more outrage than usually he visited on her.’ Martin and Danforth exchanged glances.

  ‘It is true he beat her often, then?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Aye, he did that. They were nothing, of course, mere chattels of the Abbot. But that girl would not have said boo to a goose, and let him do it, though he went beyond what Christian correction requires, as the town knew. Black and blue she was, always, poor jade.’

  ‘And was she a good girl,’ pressed Martin, ‘was there ever any bruit of her dallying with anyone?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Mistress Clacher, waving a hand in the air. ‘Yet I cannot think what you drive at.’

  ‘Plainly, Mistress Clacher, you can. Was there any bruit of the young girl meddling with any from the brotherhood of the Abbey?’

  ‘Ah, there it is. As it happens, gentlemen, there was. Though,’ she added, ruefully, ‘I never had a name. It was mere rumour that she had lost her honour, and cast her bonnet after a monk. Not that that would bother a monk, eh? The things I have seen over the years, gentlemen, would turn your hair white.’

  ‘Your friend, Mistress Darroch, spoke freely about “queans” riding about the burgh under cloak of darkness.’

  ‘Pah!’ said Clacher, her wrinkled face turning sour. ‘Wilza Darroch is no friend to me. Her husband’s great-grandfather was but a villein who bought his freedom. No quality to her, as common as a cock-crow, and not a scrap to her own name. I’ve brought property of my own to every marriage. There have been Clachers in Paisley for centuries, master masons who were art and part of the construction of the monastery. To our eternal credit and fame. My father was granted the old Abbot’s second-best alb, a token of his Grace’s esteem.’ She raised her little nose.