by Pat McIntosh
The last of the sentences wound to a close, and Father Bernard lifted up his powerful, musical voice in the opening words of the funeral Mass. Gil, half attending, surveyed the congregation and turned over in his mind what he must say to the Faculty afterwards.
As Maistre Pierre suggested, a number of those present were probably moved by curiosity. A burial following a murder that touched the college and also the landed class would be a great draw. But the Provost’s steward was here as a courtesy to the college, and there was also a scattering of journeymen from within the burgh. Gil recognized James Sproat’s junior man, come straight from the cordiner’s shop with his leather apron bundled under his arm. William must have been a good customer, he reflected.
The Dean was speaking. The Latin phrases flowed elegantly over the heads of most of his hearers, who took the opportunity to continue their various conversations. Two men near Gil appeared to be compounding some transaction concerning their masters’ goods, to be ratified by their principals later in the week. Behind the Dean the scholars stood in obedient silence with the younger regents watching them. Gil saw Maister Kennedy glare at Walter. At the other end of the same row Ralph Gibson was weeping openly, and Patrick Coventry put his arm about the boy’s shoulders.
In the middle of the ranks of bachelors, both junior and senior, Robert Montgomery stood, head tipped back, glaring down his nose at the Dean’s back. Gil glanced at the other side of the church, and found Hugh, Lord Montgomery, in identical pose, glaring at the Dean’s face.
‘They breed true, these Montgomery men,’ said the mason, who had evidently seen where he was looking.
‘They do,’ said Gil, adding absently, ‘Lyk as a strand of water of a spring Haldis the sapour of the fontell well.’
He was very close to the solution, he was certain. He could feel the shape of the argument. But there was still something missing, something which did not quite support his proof.
The Dean’s address wore on, but from the back of the church, what with the surrounding noise, Gil could hear only the occasional word. Those phrases he did catch seemed to convey the wish, rather than the hope, that William’s time in Purgatory would be shortened by his academic achievements and the respect he had borne his teachers. Maister Kennedy’s face as he heard this was studiously blank, and Gil recalled that his friend had seen the Dean’s notes.
The Dean reached a benediction, and seated himself. One of the Theology students leaned forward and gave out a note, marking the beat with his hand raised above his head, and the scholars launched into another funerary setting.
‘I must go outside,’ Gil said to Maistre Pierre, and got a nod in reply. He slipped out of the open west door into the yard, and stood for a moment in the brighter light, looking about him. To his right, at the corner of the church, was the bell-tower whose base served as mortuary chapel. It seemed likely that Jaikie was still laid out there. To his left the cloister wall extended south of the church, with the small guarded gate by which guests entered or the friars went out into the burgh to preach. In front of him, stretching to the back walls of the small properties on the High Street, the lumpy grass of the public graveyard was broken by a few bushes and the occasional marker of wood or stone. A mound of fresh earth near the bell-tower indicated William’s immediate destination. Trying not to think about that, or about the clump of bigger bushes in the far corner where a girl had been stabbed ten days since, Gil wandered along the cloister wall. One of Montgomery’s men emerged from the church and strode to the gate, where he leaned against the pillar watching Gil and stropping his dagger on his leather sleeve.
There was an elder-tree by the gatehouse, covered in creamy platters of blossom. Gil stopped beside it, breathing the mixture of the rank odour of the leaves and the sweet, heavy scent of the flowers, and the porter put his head out of his lodge, hand raised to deliver the customary blessing.
‘The funeral’s in the kirk, my son,’ he said. ‘Oh, it’s yourself, Maister Cunningham. Not seeking any more bodies in the kirkyard, are you? We’ve enough for the moment.’
‘I think Dean Elphinstone feels the same way,’ Gil said. ‘No, I was admiring the bour-tree.’
‘We’ll have a good crop of berries off that in the autumn,’ said the wiry Dominican. ‘The cellarer makes a good wine with them.’ He smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘Good for coughs and colds, that is.’
‘Better a linctus with cherries,’ said a familiar voice behind Gil. He turned, to see both the harper and his sister approaching. The watcher at the gate glowered after them.
‘And upon you, brother,’ said McIan in reply to the porter’s blessing. ‘Good day, Maister Cunningham. We came for the burial, but I think we are late.’
‘The boy’s no yirdit yet,’ said the porter. ‘They’ll come out in procession shortly. Wait up yonder by the college wall if you want to be nearer.’ He surveyed them with a bright eye, assessing the need for his professional services. ‘It gars any man look over his shoulder for his own fate, to see so young a laddie put in the ground.’
‘I have much to be thankful for,’ said McIan, and his sister nodded. ‘With God’s help, my own son is brought back from the brink of death. I came to offer prayers for the kin of this boy, since they have lost what I have regained.’
‘We were by the house the now,’ said Ealasaidh to Gil. Her severe expression cracked into a fond smile. ‘It seems the bairn will feed himself, so Nancy says, and shouts with wrath because his sops go everywhere but into his mouth.’
‘I mind that stage,’ said Brother Porter unexpectedly. ‘My sister’s eldest ate porridge with his fingers till he was two. Mind you, he canny count beyond ten with his boots on,’ he added. ‘How old is your boy?’
‘Not eight months,’ said Ealasaidh proudly. Brother Porter looked properly impressed. Behind them the west door of the church was opened wide, and the processional cross was borne out, followed by the singers. Gil ignored them. He found himself thinking of his nephew, who as an infant had borne a strong resemblance to Maister Forsyth. But then, he reflected, most babies looked like Maister Forsyth.
The last fragment of the picture fell into place.
Chapter Thirteen
The scholars, filing past, each stooped to lift a handful of earth from the mound and throw it into William’s grave. As the clayey lumps thudded on to the elm coffin-lid, Gil found Maister Kennedy at his elbow.
‘They’re comporting themselves well, Nick, but is this wise?’ he commented. ‘It sounds like the drums for the Dance of Death. You’ll have nightmares again tonight, surely.’
‘A touch of the Ut sum, cras tibi? No, I think it means they can be the more certain William’s dead,’ said his friend, and then with more formality, ‘Maister Gilbert, the Dean commands me to say that he and the Faculty will hear your findings on this matter in the Principal’s chamber after this. Lord Montgomery will also be present.’
‘I am ready to make a report,’ replied Gil with equal state. He looked across the scene of the burial, and encountered three stares: the Dean’s blue and acute, Maister Doby’s anxious, and off to one side Hugh Montgomery’s hotly alert. He raised his hat and flourished it in a general bow, and the two academics nodded and turned away to take their places in the procession as it formed.
‘I’ll see you there,’ said Maister Kennedy, and slipped away to round up the last few scholars before Gil could comment.
‘An interesting ceremony,’ said Maistre Pierre behind Gil, as the Steward began to circulate among the mourners, issuing select invitations to the cold meats and ale waiting in the dining-hall of the University.
‘The college looks after its sons,’ Gil returned. ‘There wasn’t much smoke, because incense costs money, but we have a ready-made choir which doesn’t have to be paid, and plenty of breath for speech and singing. Ceremony comes naturally.’
‘Now what happens?’
‘I’ll tell ye what happens,’ said Hugh, Lord Montgomery. The tail of the procession
vanished singing into the church, and as the remainder of the congregation drifted towards the gates he left the church wall and came closer. ‘You, Cunningham lawyer, are about to tell me whose work that is –’ He jerked a thumb at the open grave behind him. ‘I warned you, and I warned the clerks in the college. I’m quite prepared to put them to the question one by one, starting with the youngest.’
‘I’ve no doubt of that,’ said Gil politely. ‘Shall we go? Maister Doby and the Dean are expecting us.’ He saw the slight widening of the eyes, and pressed the advantage. ‘Oh, aye, you mind I was asking you about William Doig the dog-breeder, my lord? Here’s a strange thing. Maister Mason and I saw the same man this morning, leading a cart over the Dow Hill, and his wife and all the dogs with him.’
‘The Dow Hill?’ repeated Montgomery in amazement. ‘Why should – why should the man’s deeds be any concern of mine? I told you before, I’ve no knowledge of him.’
‘So you did,’ said Gil, pausing at the foot of the grave. Montgomery bent and angrily threw in a yellow clod.
‘So it’s your problem, no mine, if the wee mimmerkin’s run,’ he added, wiping his hand on his jerkin. ‘Get a move on, man, I want to get a hold of Bernard Stewart before he takes refuge the wrong side of that wall. And we’ll have my nephew Robert present, since none of my sons is here at the college. He’s full old enough to be involved.’
‘How old is he?’ Gil asked casually.
‘Sixteen on St Lucy’s eve next. A man grown.’ Montgomery grinned evilly, and seizing Gil’s elbow hustled him into the church, just in time to see Father Bernard and the colleague who had deaconed for him, about to retreat into the enclosed portion of the church with the newly washed Communion vessels.
‘Bernard!’ roared Montgomery, in much the same tone as he had used to the dogs at his fireside.
Father Bernard jumped convulsively, and dropped the paten from the top of his chalice. It bowled away across the paved floor, pursued by the other friar and by Maistre Pierre.
‘My lord?’
‘To the college. Now.’
‘I have a disputation to prepare –’
‘You’ll do as I bid you, or you’ll have more disputation that you’ve stomach for, priest.’
‘My lord,’ said Father Bernard with a spurt of courage, ‘I’m not your chaplain any longer –’
‘For which we may both thank God and St Dominic. Are you coming or do I make you?’
‘You offer violence to a priest, my lord, in the sanctuary?’ exclaimed the other Dominican, returning with the paten.
‘No,’ said Lord Montgomery softly, ‘I’m no offering it. I’m promising it, if he doesny do as I say!’ he bawled.
Both men flinched, and Gil interposed in Latin, ‘Father Bernard, I am about to report to the Dean and Principal on what I have learned about the death of the scholar William Irvine. I think it might be proper for you to be present.’
‘I? For what reason?’
‘You are the college chaplain.’
‘Oh.’ Father Bernard closed his mouth over the large teeth and looked down at the chalice and paten in his hands. ‘Very well. Edward, could I ask you –?’
‘I got the Steward to set aside a platter for us,’ said Maister Doby doubtfully, surveying the single wooden dish on the linen-draped trestle table in the great chamber of his house, ‘but there’s more folk here than I looked for.’
‘I could go ask him for more,’ suggested Maistre Pierre. ‘And wine also, I think. Where are they served? In the Laigh Hall?’
He bustled off. Gil, mentally dividing the food into portions, could not blame his friend. Like the Principal, he had not expected so many to be present, though it was hard to see who could be dispensed with. The five senior members of the Faculty, whom he had encountered here in this room less than two days since, had every right to be present. So had the Second Regent and Maister Kennedy. Hugh Montgomery, unfortunately, had even more right, and Gil did not feel like voicing any objection to either of the supporters the man had summoned.
At least we made him leave his retinue outside, he thought.
‘Well,’ said Montgomery, as if on cue, ‘are we to keep my men kicking their heels in the yard the rest of the day, or are we to hear this report?’
‘I feel,’ said the Dean more civilly, ‘that we should begin, the sooner to put an end to the matter, if this should be possible.’
‘And anyway there’s no enough food,’ said Maister Doby. ‘We can hear Gilbert and get a bite after.’
‘I am ready,’ said Gil. He watched as his audience settled itself before the painted hangings, the Dean and the Principal in two great chairs, the two lawyers with their heads together on stools next to them, Maister Forsyth on the padded bench near the window. The younger regents and the chaplain were seated off to his right, and in the corner near the door, in another chair hastily borne in from the Dean’s own lodging, glowered Lord Montgomery with his nephew standing behind him like a body-servant. On the hangings the philosophers, impassive, stared into the distance.
Tucking his thumbs in the armholes of his gown, speaking in Scots out of courtesy to Hugh Montgomery, Gil began.
‘I first set eyes on William Irvine when he greeted me at the college yett on Sunday morning. He was very civil to me, until he discovered I was a Cunningham.’
‘So?’ said Montgomery. Gil glanced at him, and beyond him at his nephew’s superior smile.
‘His nurse Nan Irvine had asked me to deliver a package to him, one which had come from the boy’s late mother. I handed it to him, and what with that and his height and the colour of his hair, he caught my attention a few times during the rest of the morning, in the procession and at the Mass and the feast. He seemed excited about something, out of himself in some way. Generally he was speaking to someone, but none of the people he spoke to seemed to be glad of it.’
David Gray was staring at Gil with that haunted look on his face again.
‘After the feast there was the play. William left the hall before it was finished, though he had several large parts.’ Maister Kennedy grunted, and stuck out his legs to cross them at the ankles. ‘None of his teachers saw him alive again, although he was not missed until an hour or so later.’
‘None of his teachers?’ Montgomery broke in. Gil nodded. ‘Then who –?’
‘I hope it will become clear before long,’ Gil said. Montgomery glowered at him for a moment longer, then snarled, and gestured angrily for him to continue.
‘I was among those who searched. We found him lying in the college coalhouse. He had been strangled with one belt, and his hands were bound with another. His purse was missing, which might have meant robbery, but the coalhouse was locked and the key was not in the door. His death was certainly secret murder. I was commissioned and required to investigate,’ said Gil, bowing to Maister Doby as generally representing the college, ‘so Maister Mason and I inspected the corpse and began asking questions.
‘William had been dead about an hour when he was found, perhaps two or more by the time we examined him. He had been knocked down before he was killed, and there were fresh quicklime burns on his gown and scuff-marks on the toes of his boots, which were otherwise well cared for. There was nothing else on him or in his clothes to tell us more. The belt round his neck was his own, and had recently been handled by someone whose hands smelled of cumin. And other spices,’ he added scrupulously.
‘You mentioned the cumin before,’ said Montgomery with impatience. ‘I canny see that it has anything to say in the business.’
Behind him his nephew eased imperceptibly backwards, to lean against the wall.
‘We next spoke to many of William’s teachers and fellow scholars and the servants of the University, and learned a number of valuable things. In the first place, the people who knocked him down and tied his wrists had left him, alive but dazed, in the limehouse. As a sort of student joke. Their story fits the facts I had observed, and I do not think they killed him.’
‘Their reasons were very unworthy,’ commented Maister Doby in grieved tones, ‘but I have no cause to doubt what they told me either.’
Montgomery grunted sceptically, but Maister Crawford rose to address the air between the Dean and the Principal.
‘What my colleague has described was common assault,’ he objected in Latin. ‘Are we to permit our scholars to attack one another without penalty? This will resound most grievously to the discredit of our University.’
‘It was not without penalty –’ began the Principal.
‘Students will aye be students,’ said Maister Forsyth in Scots. ‘Sit down, Archie, and hold your peace. Gilbert has a lot to tell us.’
Montgomery grunted again in what sounded like agreement.
‘Therefore,’ Gil continued, as Maister Crawford sat down with a dissatisfied expression on his face, ‘someone else had killed him and put him in the coalhouse, for a reason which was not apparent.
‘In the second place, we found William’s purse. It contained a great sum in coin, a letter in code, and a draft will, in which he would have left his property to be divided between his friend Ralph Gibson and his nurse Ann Irvine.’