by Pat McIntosh
‘And you saw nothing that might be useful?’ Gil prompted. ‘No bloodstained dagger-man running across the courtyard?’
‘No,’ agreed the mason with regret, ‘although he was probably not bloodstained. Most of the bleeding will be internal, I would say. No, but I heard something that might be to the point.’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you know Blackfriars kirk?’
‘I was a student here,’ Gil reminded him.
‘Ah, of course. Then you recall the altar of St Peter? Tucked away in a corner beyond St Paul?’ Gil nodded. ‘I was on my knees there, quite unobtrusive, when I overheard a conversation out in another part of the church. It must be one of those echoes you get sometimes,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘where the vault is of just such a shape as to direct the sound, for they were not within my sight.’
‘Go on. Who spoke?’
‘Father Bernard was very clear, the other voice less so. The father wished the other to take some document or other. You recognize the writing, he said. There is nothing there of value, it must be disposed of.’
‘Ah!’ said Gil. ‘So that’s how the meat got into the nut.’
Maistre Pierre glanced at him. ‘Indeed. The other asked, I think, how he came by it, and was told that he did not need to know. Then he said – the friar said – Our intentions are the same in this. Have no fear, my son. Then two of the other friars entered the church, talking about tomorrow’s funeral, and our man went to join them.’
‘Mm.’ Gil considered this. ‘You got no sight of the other party?’
‘I did not. A young voice, I thought.’
‘And having heard this, you still spent time with Father Bernard?’
The mason shrugged. ‘I had already asked him, I could not readily withdraw. I took care, in the circumstances, to raise nothing of great import.’
‘And you were with him until you both walked across the Paradise Yard? Where the apple-trees are,’ he elucidated. Maistre Pierre nodded again. ‘So we can leave him out of the reckoning for Jaikie’s death.’
‘Indeed, we can. Though not for the other, I think?’
‘No.’ Gil stared unseeing at the door of the Principal’s lodging. ‘But if the relationship is as I think, I do not see why he would have killed William.’
‘This is no place to discuss it. I can hear the scholars in the Inner Close. They are coming from their dinner, and we must go to ours. Alys will be sufficiently displeased with me already.’
‘She was very anxious,’ Gil said.
‘I was thoughtless.’
Gil, whose parents and siblings had come and gone without consultation throughout his youth, made no comment, but said, ‘I wish to find Father Bernard. Some points need clarification.’
‘Then we shall see you later?’ Maistre Pierre turned towards the pend that led to the street, and paused. ‘Ah, no, I am forgetting. The yett is barred. I must go out by Blackfriars.’
‘Then we can both look at Jaikie’s body, if he has been washed by now.’
William still lay in the mortuary chapel, his lanky form shrouded but identifiable, with two Theology students kneeling by his head with their beads. As Gil and Maistre Pierre entered the chapel, two more students stepped forward from the shadows to relieve the watchers. Jaikie, as a college servant, was naturally laid out here too, neatly shrouded on a trestle next to William, with candles about him and a small stout Dominican at his feet working his way stolidly through the prayers for the dead. Gil knelt briefly by the trestle, the mason for rather longer, and the brother finished his petition for mercy and got to his feet, saying,
‘Was it you that found him? Do you need to see him?’ He drew back the shroud without waiting for an answer. The theologians around William recoiled, and two of them averted their eyes. ‘His jaw’s well set, or we’d have closed his mouth. There’s the wound. Simple stab wound, nothing fancy but it did someone’s work for him.’
‘I see,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘There would be little bleeding, I think.’
‘Likely he bled within, poor man,’ said the friar. ‘And at the mouth, of course.’
The students going off duty left hastily, and the two remaining knelt with great reluctance. Maistre Pierre prodded at the gash in Jaikie’s chest and nodded.
‘A dagger or the point of a whinger,’ he said. ‘Perhaps this wide.’ He held up finger and thumb an inch or so apart.
‘There can’t be more than two thousand such in Glasgow,’ Gil observed. ‘Was it you that washed him, brother? Was there anything in his clothes we should know about?’
‘In his clothes,’ said the brother, with a sudden lapse in charity, ‘there was nothing beyond himself, an entire company of Ru’glen redfriars, and a peck of dirt. We’d to burn them, gown and all. They were past giving to the poor.’
The mason looked blank, but Gil was aware of the nearer student bedesman withdrawing the skirts of his gown. He too stepped back from the trestle and moved towards the offering-box by the door, saying, ‘God rest his soul. I think that’s all we need to see, brother.’ He dropped a couple of coins into the box. ‘Can you tell me where Father Bernard might be?’
‘I am preparing tomorrow’s quodlibet disputation,’ said Father Bernard, staring at Gil over a rampart of books. ‘I can spare you a little time, I suppose.’
‘Thank you, father,’ said Gil. He drew a stool up to the librarian’s table and sat down. His head was beginning to ache again, and he felt extremely weary. ‘It is merely to clarify a few points.’
Father Bernard ostentatiously closed a volume of St Augustine, with a slip of paper in his place, and folded his hands together on top of the book. Sunshine poured in at the window of the library. In the shadows beyond the chaplain, the ranks of the college theology collection were dimly visible, the shelf-numbers showing black on the pale out-turned fore-edges. Nearer the door, rows of smaller, much-handled volumes showed where the Arts Faculty’s Aristotle and Euclid were shelved.
‘In fact, now I think of it,’ said Father Bernard, ‘I would welcome a word with you, Gilbert, about your own future.’
‘My –’ Gil stared at him. ‘What has that to do with it?’
‘I am responsible for your spiritual well-being, as a member of the University,’ Father Bernard reminded him, ‘and it gives me grave cause for concern to see you about to take a step which can only be detrimental to your future career.’
‘What step is that?’ said Gil. ‘Do you mean my marriage?’
‘I do indeed. It seems a rash step for a man who is widely spoken of as an able scholar and a promising man of law. If you were to enter the Church, I am very sure you would have entry to positions of power and responsibility –’
‘I am training as a notary,’ Gil said. ‘More notaries are married men than churchmen nowadays. Now may I ask you –’
‘But the most successful are churchmen,’ said Father Bernard triumphantly. Gil, lacking facts to argue this statement, hesitated, and the chaplain ploughed on. ‘You see, if your energies are directed to controlling and disciplining that very headstrong young woman, they cannot be directed to your calling.’
‘Headstrong?’ said Gil, staring. ‘Discipline? I shouldn’t dream of trying. She is the most intelligent girl I ever met, and thinks more clearly than many men.’
‘Then, Gilbert, I fear you will have a sad marriage. Come,’ said Father Bernard, leaning forward over his books, ‘admit it. You are led to this union by the desires of the flesh.’
‘If I did not know better, I would think you had been talking to my mother,’ said Gil. ‘I am led to the marriage by the advice of my uncle, who was approached first.’
‘Ah,’ said Father Bernard, sitting back with a faint air of disappointment. ‘I had not realized that. I feared you had allowed yourself to be diverted by a lovely face and figure.’
Gil found himself smiling at the image this conjured up for him, and straightened his expression.
‘Father Bernard, we are taking
up time you can ill spare. As I have said, there are a few points I wished to clarify about William’s death.’
‘About his death?’ Father Bernard looked down at his folded hands for a moment, then up at Gil. ‘I cannot imagine why you should think me able to help you, but I will try. Well?’
Gil gathered his thoughts with an effort. ‘At the end of the play, yesterday, what did you do?’
‘At the end of the play?’ Father Bernard repeated. ‘Why, I returned to the House.’ He nodded at the view from the library window, across the Principal’s garden and into the Blackfriars grounds, cemetery and gatehouse and bell-tower clearly visible.
‘To Blackfriars? So you crossed the Inner Close and the kitchen-yard, and went through the gate.’
‘That is the way to the convent.’
‘Using your key to the gate?’
‘Why, no. I have a key,’ Father Bernard touched the breast of his habit, ‘but I hardly use it. The gate stands open all the hours of daylight. It was certainly open yesterday.’
‘May I see it?’ Gil asked innocently. ‘Is it local work, do you know?’
A wary expression in his deep-set eyes, Father Bernard fished the key out and lifted the cord over his head. Gil took the object from him and turned it curiously. It was as long as his hand, with a substantial shaft and crooked handle, but the rectangular tablet had only two notches in it. Clearly it operated a simple lock. He weighed the warm iron in his hand, and rubbed at the patch of rust near the end of the shaft. ‘It’s local work, so the Steward tells me,’ agreed the chaplain. ‘It serves its purpose.’
‘Indeed it must,’ said Gil ambiguously, handing the key back. ‘And when you crossed the close, did you see anyone? William, for instance?’
The chaplain frowned. ‘A few of the college servants were about, but surely William was still at the play?’
‘He left before it ended.’
‘Oh.’ Father Bernard closed his mouth over the yellow teeth and frowned. ‘Oh.’
‘Does that convey anything?’ Gil asked.
‘No. Why should it?’
‘So when did you return to the college?’ Gil asked after a moment.
‘Almost immediately. I had a lecture to deliver at two o’clock, and I had only gone for some notes which I needed, so I returned to the college to spend some time in prayer in the Theology Schule before my students joined me.’
‘In prayer?’ said Gil. ‘Is that usual?’
‘When lecturing in Theology,’ said Father Bernard, ‘it is my practice. One does not interpret the will or word of God without asking for assistance.’
Gil nodded, and pain stabbed across his temples. ‘Did you see anyone on your return? You came back by the road you went – by the kitchen-yard and the close to the Theology Schule door?’
‘Why should I do otherwise? I may have seen some of the students, but I was about to take a lecture, Gilbert, my mind was not on my surroundings.’
‘I appreciate that,’ said Gil. ‘It’s unfortunate, for it would help me to confirm some of the other stories I have. Someone in your position, who knows all the students in the college, is more likely to be of help than a Master of Arts who left several years ago.’
There was another of those pauses.
‘And you then remained in the lecture-room until after the lecture?’
‘Unfortunately, no,’ said Father Bernard. He looked out of the window, then down at his hands, then at Gil with an assumption of man-to-man heartiness. ‘I was, shall we say, compelled to leave briefly, before I began to speak.’ Gil waited. ‘The Almayne pottage,’ said Father Bernard obliquely. ‘It disagreed with me, rather suddenly.’
‘So you went back out to the kitchen-yard. This could be very helpful,’ Gil said. ‘Who did you see at that point?’
‘I was not paying attention,’ said the chaplain primly. He looked at his hands again. ‘I may have seen Robert Montgomery. On my return across the Inner Close I certainly saw a number of people.’ He thought briefly. ‘There was a group of four men, your age or older. I have been chaplain here less than three years, they were certainly before my time.’
‘That is valuable,’ said Gil, with perfect truth. ‘I know who they were. And in the Outer Close?’
‘Consider, Gilbert,’ said Father Bernard kindly. ‘I was now late for my lecture in the Theology Schule. I had no need to enter the Outer Close. Who knows who was at large there? Not I, for sure.’
‘What a pity It could have been valuable. And after the lecture? What did you do then?’
‘At three o’clock I returned to the House, from where I was summoned at length to conduct a Provisional Absolution for William, along with Maister Forsyth.’
Gil considered for a moment. ‘How well did you know William, father?’
‘You have asked me that before. I knew him as one among the students here, no more.’
‘So he never came in your way when you were chaplain to Lord Montgomery?’
‘I left before he was born.’
‘Why was that? Surely such a position could be yours for life?’
‘My superiors decreed that I should go to study in Cologne.’
‘And you didn’t know William was keeping a dog.’
‘I did not.’
‘Or that he was practising extortion.’
‘Nor that either.’
‘And what about his papers? There was a bundle of papers with William’s writing on them, smouldering in Jaikie’s brazier when the man was found dead just now. How could they have got there? They should have been in William’s chamber.’
‘I’ve no idea about that.’
‘And have you any idea,’ said Gil casually, ‘why he wanted to speak to you yesterday morning? Did he show you his letter?’
‘Our colloquy was brief and uninformative. Now, if you will forgive me, I am a busy man with teaching commitments to fulfil. If all you wish to do is repeat questions I have already answered – truthfully,’ he emphasized, looking Gil in the eye, ‘I must call an end to this.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Gil, ‘I hope you will forgive me. One more question, which I haven’t asked before. If you didn’t know William, you wouldn’t know Robert Montgomery either, but can you tell me anything about him?’
‘I knew his father Alexander well,’ said Father Bernard heavily. ‘He died at Stirling field, like your father, I believe. God rest their souls.’
‘Amen,’ said Gil, with an unlikely surge of fellow feeling for a Montgomery.
‘Robert is very like him. They’re all alike, these Montgomery men. A strong sense of family, a strong sense of property, a hot temper.’
‘You could call it that,’ said Gil. He rose, and bowed. ‘I will leave you, father. So you were not in the Outer Close after the beginning of the lecture?’
‘Not until I left the Theology Schule again.’ Father Bernard half-rose also, delivered a remote blessing, and had seated himself and opened his volume of Augustine before Gil had left the room.
The way back to the Blackfriars gate led across the Paradise Yard, where a few students were talking in subdued groups under the apple-trees. On an impulse Gil left the path and made his way down towards the Molendinar.
Sitting in the dappled sunshine under one of the trees, he leaned back against its trunk and looked up at the pattern of pink blossom and young leaves. Somewhere a blackbird called, and smaller birds chirped and sang in the bushes. The mills clattered along the burn. The voices of the scattered groups of students, the burgh and its problems, all seemed very far away.
Small and clear, images danced across his vision. A man with a sword, who might or might not be Hugh Montgomery. Three armed men, leaping round him in twilight. The lanky, red-haired William, a busy ghost aye flickering to and fro, darted from victim to victim, gowned scholars who flinched away from him under the arched branches of the apple-trees, until he became a victim himself.
‘William’s victims,’ he said aloud, and opened his eyes. T
he blackbird was still singing, but most of the students had gone.
Is that the key? he wondered. The list of those the boy confronted? The names in the red book? And how was Jaikie’s death connected?
And meantime his own problems loomed large. At twenty-six he needed nobody’s permission to marry, though since his uncle was his sponsor into the Law it would be foolish to act without the old man’s approval. He knew he had that, and it had been an unpleasant surprise to discover that his mother held other views.
But what are her objections? What did she say this morning? That there was no more money – well, I knew that – that he was educated for the Church and the Law – but I will still embrace the Law. And that he must pray for his father and brothers.
I wonder, is that the crux of the matter? he thought, and recalled the last year-mind service in the church in Hamilton. The small altar beside his father’s box tomb had been dusty and neglected, and the brocade altar-cloth was so old that mice or moths had eaten it into holes. Beside it the newly painted carving had been bright in the candlelight: the family blazon in the centre of one long side of the tomb, with a kneeling knight on one side, a lady on the other, and their three sons and five daughters ranked neatly behind them.
He could see it now as if he was there. Two of the small male figures were in armour, the third gowned as a scholar. One of the daughters was in her shroud, two had flowing, improbably yellow hair, one wore the same kind of elaborate gold-painted headdress as the kneeling figure of their mother, and the eldest was in the white robes of a Cistercian nun. The image was so vivid that he was quite unsurprised when the nun turned her head and looked directly at him, her long-chinned face narrow and intent within the folds of her veil.
‘Gil,’ she said clearly. ‘Slip the collar, and you will win free.’
‘Dorothea?’ he said, but she had turned back to her prayers. ‘Slip the collar and you will win free,’ he repeated, and woke with a start.