‘I believe it did. Did you note the marks upon his neck?’ Martin nodded grimly. ‘The poor wretch was held under the water. He did not fall upon it, and did not strike rocks. And as he was drowning, I fancy he struggled and fought with his hands, likely to remove himself.’ Again, Martin whistled a sigh. ‘And so I think we still have a murderer. But the question now is who might profit from his death. Who might find benefit in the matter being closed?’
‘The Abbey. The Prior. The Town Council. There’s more who wish to see the matter closed, and neatly, than otherwise.’
‘This is true. Or that it might be the fellow was killed in revenge, by one who believed him responsible for killing the girl.’
‘Her lover, this Brother Hector?’ Martin arched an eyebrow. ‘You think he might remain somewhere in the burgh, waiting for his chance? I can’t see it, even if he was led to believe that Brody killed Kate.’
‘In truth, I do not know; I must think on it. If Brody is innocent and yet was killed by one who believed him guilty, then we have two unknown murderers at work. And that I cannot fathom. Not in a small burgh.’
‘Then we return to the same person killing both daughter and father, in the hopes that their silence would put an end to something not wished known.’
‘It is possible, but I can go no further. Come – it is so cold. That wink of sunlight was as mocking as Dolos, and of the substance of Zeus visiting Danaë.’ He paused to observe the effect. His father had had great learning, a vast wealth of classical knowledge. He liked to feel that he matched it; or, if not, that others at least would think it of him. Satisfied with Martin’s confusion, he started across the courtyard. Already the day was giving way to night, though the Abbey and Tolbooth were only beginning to chime three o’clock.
They left Logan with instructions that Brody could be buried whenever and wherever the baillies saw fit. He received them with neither gratitude nor interest; he had returned to cracking his knuckles in a groaning wooden chair. Out on the packed market cross Danforth looked up at the sky. That strange, autumnal smell was again heavy in the air: bonfires, frost, dead leaves and wet ground. It was comforting. Even the hubbub of folk at business and trade was regular and soothing.
‘Ho!’ said Martin, breaking Danforth’s thoughts, ‘our young friend Jardine has lost his place. He stands outside the draper’s playing the apprentice.’
‘Then his father is returned,’ said Danforth. His mind turned. ‘Yes, I wish to speak to this travelling merchant. I have awaited his arrival.’
‘On what matter, sir? Your shirt’s not falling apart already?’ He looked down at his own cuffs, and then struck a pose, one hand splayed on his breeches.
‘Only on the matter of some business in which Mistress Caldwell has engaged me,’ he said laconically.
‘Ooh, the lovely Mistress Caldwell, ooh,’ said Martin. He smacked his lips, making kissing sounds. ‘Seriously, you pity that old crone.’
‘I ... well ... you pity her little slave.’
‘Archie? Give yourself peace. This is not a tournament.’
They passed the younger Jardine, who in any case had given up on being courteous now that he had been returned to minor duties, and strode into the shop.
Jardine the elder was a massive man, his stomach swollen and his features jolly. Immediately they came through the door he rounded on them, the buttons on his doublet straining. ‘What news, gentlemen. And what fine gentlemen.’ A little gleam of greed came into his eyes; a good nature could not quite efface the ingrained mercantile outlook. ‘But alas, for such fine fellows to be in such poor shirts. It is a crime. It is a scandal. I know you have come here to purchase the best quality, and that is all we have to offer. I am recently come back from the west coast and have fine silks and linens. The finest. Young Tammy Toory Tap here,’ he said, pointing at Martin, ‘would suit a fine silk.’
‘We are not customers, sir. Or rather we were. We purchased the material for these shirts from your son,’ said Danforth. Jardine seemed to deflate, his face reddening. ‘I would speak with you, Mr Jardine, but it is not of the quality of your wares, which satisfy me.’
‘Oh?’ Jardine seemed torn between mortification and curiosity. Natural good humour voted in favour of the latter. ‘Then pray, my friends, what is your business? Tom Jardine lets no man leave this place without satisfaction.’ He swept off his cap, revealing a pink scalp laced across with some dun-coloured stragglers.
‘You are recently come, your son informed us, out of the far west.’
‘Aye, out of Ayr, Troon, Irvine, up as far as Largs. I do business everywhere, and would have been back sooner if the rain hadn’t made such short shrift of the roads. There is not a man on the coast that doesn’t know the name of Tom Jardine. There’s a fellow down Mauchline way–’
‘Peace, Jardine. We are secretaries to his Grace Cardinal Beaton, Lord Privy–’
‘A fine man.’
‘Quite. Yet we have come to be engaged in another business, helping our hostess regain rights that have too long been lost to her. First though, I must attend to the Cardinal’s affairs. Is there any word in Ayr of libellous writing against his Grace’s good name? Have any seditious verses been pinned to market crosses anywhere in the west?’
‘No, sir,’ said Jardine, scratching his head. ‘No, all talk is of the war and how it might affect our trade.’
‘And no little notes, poor and railing things, have been scattered in the streets, bringing the Cardinal’s name into the hatred of the people?’
‘No, sir. Most definitely not. There is little appetite for blasphemies or slanders against the Church in the west. The only mention I heard tell of his Grace was some doubt about his love of France, sharply reproved. You know, gentlemen, the usual common gossip and prating about great men. Nothing of substance. Idle sporting talk for the dull witted.’
‘Good. This news pleases me, as it will please the Cardinal. Tell me, do you know of a woman, Blackwood, in Ayr?’
Jardine whistled through his teeth. ‘You mean the Blackwood lassie that took off with Tam Kennedy?’
‘Yes. I believe so.’
‘Aye, she dwells outside Ayr now, or so I hear. She has never bought anything from me, right enough. Keeps to herself, they say, on some fine lands outside the burgh itself. She wouldn’t set foot in Ayr; too feart people might find out about her history. They say she killed her husband to make room for Tam.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Danforth, nodding, ‘but does she dwell there still?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir. As I said, she doesn’t come to town.’
‘And Kennedy, that they say she ran off with – did he dwell with her in Ayr?’
‘So it’s true he’s not for speaking then. Oh aye, I heard he’s back in Paisley. It’s been the talk of the place. Well, that and the other, the bootless father of that Brody girl dying, since she has made for Ireland.’
‘What?’ shouted Martin. ‘What is this about Kate Brody?’
‘Gone off. I saw her myself. Pretty little thing – always was.’
‘Where? When did you see her?’
‘Oh, it must be over a week ago. I tarried in Ayr – it’s a fine burgh – though I’m but a draper, you’ll want for no wines or salt as long Tom Jardine pay visits to Ayr. Just don’t be telling the deacons. She must have followed in my wake, though I’ve been out that way a good space. I didn’t know she’d fled Paisley when I left. But there she was, as large as life and twice as pretty, with the sorriest mule that ever I’ve seen. Turned as white as snow when she saw me see her.’
‘And so you say that the girl lives,’ said Martin. ‘Kate Brody lives still.’
‘Unless her ship is wrecked, taking her and her young man to the depths.’
‘Who was the young man?’ asked Danforth. ‘Of what nature was he?’
‘Oh, a lusty youth, handsome, leading the mule. His head had been shaved. Were I a suspicious man, I might think him a monk. But then,’ he smiled, ‘I’m a friend to the Church. I
shan’t say anything. Young Kate Brody fled Scotland alone, as far as Tom Jardine knows.’
‘Have you told the baillies of this? Do they know that it is not Kate Brody lies in that grave?’
‘I have not, sir. If the girl wishes to be gone, let her be gone.’
‘That means letting a murderer run free.’
‘How is that, sir? From the bruits, old Brody murdered and confessed. If it was some other wench that was murdered, it’s for the lass’s kin to claim her.’
‘Kate Brody lives,’ said Martin, a little reverently. ‘I don’t know why, never having known her, but the news pleases me. Pleases me a whole hell of a lot.’
‘Is that so?’
‘I take my victories where I can find them,’ shrugged Martin, smiling.
‘And yet,’ said Danforth, ‘a girl is still dead.’
‘Who, but? If Kate Brody is alive?’
‘Some other lass, obviously. Some lass who has run away, a maidservant or some such, whose flight no one cared enough about to report. You have grown attached to the image you have constructed of one girl, Mr Martin, but this other deserves justice in her place. We shall report this properly, Mr Jardine. We shall deal with it discreetly. You give us your pledge, though, that you shall say nothing of this young monk? Though we owe loyalty to his Grace the Cardinal and not the Abbey, yet we have good Christian respect for the honour and reputation of so holy a place.’
‘Which young monk is that, sir? I know of no monks save those who worship in the Abbey. And I’ve heard no word of one of their company being lost. But as long as we speak of loss, sir, what of he who is found? You made mention of Kennedy.’
‘I did. Kennedy is dying, and is like to become another loss. Did he dwell long in Ayr with this Mistress Blackwood? I would know how he came to be in his current condition before I commit myself to giving aid to his wife.’
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. I never heard tell of him dwelling with the jade. Actually,’ he said, his brow furrowing, ‘I think there was some talk a year or two back that Blackwood bought a house for two, and kept horses for two. Bought clothes for two, too, though as I say she never did business with me. But beyond that I cannot help you, I’m afraid.’
‘It is no matter, Mr Jardine. You have been a help.’
Jardine smiled at them without guile, his rosy face gleaming. ‘Then the truth it is that no man leaves Tom Jardine unsatisfied. Come again when you require new clothing. Though you shan’t be in need of shirts for a long space. Those,’ he said with a grin, ‘are of the best quality.’
They left the draper’s, Martin giving young Jardine a tip of his cap. In return, he received only a blank stare. When they had walked away, Martin asked, ‘what was that, sir? Why do you take on the business of old Caldwell? I might start to think you really do lean towards the old dragon. And she has turned soft towards you since you paid for her blood-letter.’
‘Why do you, sir, frame your mind so closely to the Brody wench?’ Martin only offered a sour look in return. Then his elated expression returned. News of the girl’s survival, the news that she had run away with her fellow to begin her new life, seemed to have made him buoyant. Danforth felt a little pity for him. Had he not known better, he would have suspected young Martin had fallen a little in love with this girl of reputedly great beauty and a tragic life. The boy seemed to have a softness for tragic maidens.
‘Well, keep your own counsel, if you will. For my own part, I cannot say why this girl has affected me. It is not simply some feeble memory of my lost sister, who was a good girl, virtuous and chaste – though I confess that drew me at the start. Some tales, some crimes, simply capture the imagination and refuse its release. Some months back I could not sleep for thinking about King Henry executing his pretty young Howard queen. But by all means, sir, keep your own mind close.’
‘That is generous of you, Martin. For myself I am minded to put an end to something.’ Martin’s eyes lit up.
‘Then we are to go to the Abbey, sir? It appears we yet have a murderer running free.’
‘I fear we must. But a little later. It might yet wait until tomorrow. I should like to sleep on it. Unless you have had some revelation of your own?’
Martin did not have time to answer. Tottering up the street as quickly as his bandy legs could carry him was the chaplain of Our Lady. He was heading towards the Oakshawside, his head bent against the wind. Dancing around, bidding him to hurry, was Archie. Nodding at each other, Martin and Danforth took off in pursuit.
On entering the upper High Street, the chaplain was waylaid by Grissell Clacher, a black shawl wrapped around her scrawny shoulders. ‘What news, Father?’ she cried into the wind. The priest made as though he did not hear her and kept his pace. When Danforth and Martin passed, she pressed upon them. ‘You, gentlemen, what news? Is it the war? Has there been another death? You live with Kennedy; has he given up the ghost? Has he repented his sins? What news?’
‘Perhaps, mistress, you might return to your house before that tiresome, prating tongue of yours turns black and gives up the ghost itself,’ said Martin, smiling. Mistress Clacher, her mouth hanging open, stood her ground as she watched them continue towards the last house at the end of the Oakshawside.
19
Death was leading Tam Kennedy a merry dance. He had lain bound to his bed for days, reeking of his own waste and the medicines designed to stave off his end. When Martin and Danforth arrived, they found a weeping Mistress Caldwell attended by the doddery old chaplain. Both stood by the flock bed in the inn’s private room. Kennedy had been unloosed, his breathing the barest whisper. The priest, half blind, was dithering over the last rites, splashing the body and making the sign of the cross on various parts of it.
‘Per istam sanctam unctionem,’ he trilled, ‘et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per visum, audtiotum, odorátum, gustum et locutiónem, tactum, gressum deliquisti.’ He stepped back, almost catching on his robes. ‘He may die in God’s mercy and love.’
As though to be difficult, Kennedy continued to breath for a quarter of an hour, his wife, the priest, Martin and Danforth waiting in silence. Archie had returned to his lair. Eventually the chest stopped rising, and each person in the room felt that they could again breathe normally. It was strange, felt Danforth, that they had almost stood in solidarity with the dying man, holding their own breaths as he fought for his last. It was Martin who stood forward and wrenched the sheet from the dead man, drawing it over him.
Mistress Caldwell began wailing, the priest giving her admonitory glances as he tried to comfort her. Danforth set about hunting the room for something to offer him. He stepped into the garden, where he inhaled some more fresh, living air. He looked around for Archie, and over the low wall at the horses. Woebegone was defecating; the Cur was slurping from the trough; the grey palfrey was watching both without much interest. He returned to the house. All he could find was a bottle of wine. He opened it, found some cups, and passed it round, the priest taking a long draught.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Come back a shadow of himself, it looks. But he has been forgiven.’
‘His burial,’ said Mistress Caldwell, her wails having died to a sniffle. ‘He must be buried in consecrated ground.’
‘That he will be, have no fear. I will alert the burgh. He might be buried tomorrow, if you don’t wish him to be visited upon. Do you, mistress?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘Tam has been gone so long. We have no kin. No one will wish to say a farewell to him. What a bootless marriage we made, eh? Ah, but our parents were living, and would join the Caldwells to Kennedy, and now no kin I know of remain. Have him put to rest with speed.’
‘At once, my child.’ The old priest took one last look at the body, made one last sign of the cross, nodded at Danforth and Martin, and attempted a stately exit. Danforth waited until he had gone and then took Mistress Caldwell by the arm. ‘There is nothing more you can do, mistress. All is at an end. I will write a notice o
f your widowhood and my witnessing of your husband’s will tonight, and have it ready for you in the morning.’ She looked at him with hope in her eyes, and he felt his heart wrench. He released her, unable to meet her eyes.
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll rest here for the night, in the chair by him where I slept in his last days.’
Danforth and Martin climbed the stairs in silence. ‘I’ll join you for a spell, if it doesn’t trouble you, sir. But first I’ll fetch something.’ Danforth nodded, grateful for the company. Unpleasant thoughts were swirling in his head, as they always did when he looked upon death. His dreams would again be crowded. There would be no peace. Already an idea had formed in his mind, too strange to be believed. He would have to ponder it, make sure it fit.
Martin joined him with a treasure trove of salted beef, smoked bacon and a dusty bottle of wine. ‘You see, I mean what I say. You must eat.’ Danforth was not sure that the food would sit well on his stomach, but he did as he was bid, and for a while the two sat working their way through it. They spoke little, and only of light things. What a fool fat Jardine had been, not to recognise his own wares; the garderobe at the end of the hall outside had finally seen a change of water. If Mistress Darroch was not a friend to Mistress Clacher, then it was apparent that the irritating old neb had none, and would make an end chattering her maidservants to death; Brother David was a good old soul. Martin’s observations even managed to draw some reluctant laughter.
When they had finished, Martin looked up at him. ‘You’ve softened a little, sir.’
‘How is that?’
‘Your handling of Caldwell. She’s nothing – an old trout. Yet you show her kindness. You are not so hard a man as you think.’
‘Or perhaps it is you that have misjudged me.’
‘Still, I think that our coming to this place has been good for you. Though it would be better still if we resolved matters. My mind’s waxing strange. The only new man to this town, save for ourselves, sir, is an old man: Kennedy. Two people are dead and this man returns. And the Prior eager to bury all talk of the missing lovers. It’s a mystery. We must have some answer to it.’
Fire & Faith Page 19
