‘Don’t try and match yours with mine, you malapert old whore.’ Behind him, Martin bristled. ‘Yet tell me, in God’s truth, if you have ever before laid eyes on this.’ He produced the thin book of images, tied with string, from his pocket. It had lain there since he had taken it from the Furay house, like a dark little secret. His greatest fear was that some servant might find it at Martin’s house and take it to be his property. As he had with Walter Furay, he spread the book open, its leaves facing outward.
He watched Marjorie Sneddon closely. She leaned in and her eyes bulged. Then she seemed to shrivel into her large frame, becoming a scared old woman. ‘Where did you come by this?’
‘It is no matter. You have then seen it before?’
‘No, sir.’ She shook her head to emphasise her certainty. ‘No, I haven’t. Oh, books like it, aye. They’re all one in our trade.’
‘From whom do you make purchase of them?’
‘I can’t say, sir. Gentleman leave them here, at times. Still others will take some pages. They come and they go, these things, like the gentlemen themselves.’
‘And you can tell me nothing more of these?’
‘No.’
‘What of your … um … husband?’ asked Martin. ‘Perhaps he can tell us.’
‘I’ve never seen that before in my life.’ Danforth and Martin jumped at the sound of McGuire’s voice. He had crept out of the hall and into the passage behind them. ‘As Sneddon says, some men take such books when they leave; some leave some; some girls take some when they leave; some bring some. We don’t concern ourselves reading such them. A good tradesman doesn’t make merry with his own merchandise.’
‘But he should take stock of it,’ said Danforth. He had begun to feel uncomfortable sandwiched between the bulky Marjorie Sneddon and her greedy husband – as though he and Martin were flies caught between two spiders.
‘Christ’s blood, will you damned knaves get away from my door and let me sleep?’ Four heads turned towards the door next to the hall and the rich voice that rang from it.
‘That’s McKenzie,’ whispered Martin at Danforth’s back, his angry gaze fixed on the door. ‘In there.’
‘Ah.’
‘You see,’ said Sneddon, her voice low, ‘again you disturb a guest. Get yourselves to fuck, before I find some men to be rid of you for good.’
‘Do not trouble yourself. I had it in my mind to go, hearing the nature of man which you call a guest.’ Danforth turned, lightly turning Martin by the shoulders too. The younger man’s head twisted as he did so, keen to remain on the door to McKenzie. ‘Come, young Martin. I have no desire to be begrimed with the filth of this place a moment longer.’
Martin pushed McGuire out of the way with one hand, unloosing another barrage of colourful oaths. Marjorie Sneddon’s joined them, each eager to hurl abuse at the men who had spoken ill of their house. As the door slammed behind them, they faintly could hear the louder entreaties of John McKenzie.
‘Jesus, but what a place, eh?’ said Martin as took the stairs down to the vomit-encrusted street once again. ‘And to think they’re a married pair.’
‘Bah. Those old bawds are likely no more married than we. It is an old fraud, to pretend to be but a couple joined in matrimony keeping a house.’
‘And what a house.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Danforth. They had reached the street and Danforth stalked off to the stable, muttering to himself. He retrieved a visibly grateful Woebegone and let him out, shaking his boots after emerging.
‘What’s on your mind, Simon? This business of the naughty book?’
‘Yes. In faith, it may only be a part of something.’
‘Of what?’
‘Well, that is a question. I find my mind turning to the Greeks.’
‘I didn’t know it ever left them. You know, sometimes I wonder if you were born in the wrong world. You’d be more at home strolling around Rome, or Athens, sandals on your feet.’
‘Most witty, sir. In thinking on that place, I cannot help but dwell on the hetairai and the pornai.’
‘Gods?’
‘No. It is nothing. Perhaps I am turning into the fond old fool I think you believe me to be.’ Danforth was unsure what to think. ‘Were it not for that old woman’s face–’
‘Not a pleasant one.’
‘Were it not for her face,’ repeated Danforth, ‘I should let the whole matter go. Yet I think she knows where these books come from. I think she knows which folk take them.’
‘Then why not tell us? Ugh, sorry. Foolish question.’
‘Arnaud, every man – and woman – has something they wish to hide from the eyes of the world. Even if it is unconnected to any other matter, they will lie to protect it.’
‘You think the book is unconnected to Mistress Furay’s death?’ ventured Martin.
‘No, certainly not. There is one obvious solution, yet in truth I find it too perplexing, and scarce wish to face it.’ Martin’s eyes lit up.
‘Aw, go on. Tell me.’
‘No.’ Danforth felt that the uncomfortable idea which had occurred to him might end up making him look foolish if some other incident had occurred. ‘No, Arnaud. Though it would at least explain one part of the mystery, it would not conclude the affair. There is a connection, but I do not yet know what it is. Someone in that damnable place knows something about it, and it will only be drawn from one of the folk in it.’
‘Which isn’t helpful if no one will loosen their damn tongue.’
‘No.’
‘Might it be that the killer left the book to frustrate justice? To confuse us?’
‘There is a thought.’ They had gained the Hiegait. ‘All is speculation.’ A strange feeling of superstitious familiarity hit him. With it came something else: a desire to be quit of the affair by solving it. As had happened before, there was a great game here, but it was missing pieces. Or, he thought, it might be that he was not seeing them clearly, again chasing ghosts and shadows. ‘Yet there is one more person I have let free, not pausing to question her further.’
‘Her?’
‘Aye – that little maidservant. What was her name?’
‘Morag.’
‘Yes, Morag. She said she lived nearby – in the lower Hiegait, close by the wynd. It should not be difficult to find her.’
They spent a quarter of an hour finding the right house, the bells of the Tolbooth telling them off for their slowness. Their rumbling bellies joined in the admonition. Eventually an old woman pointed out a door that faced directly on to the street, close by several other. It was unpainted, and the wooden house itself had no windows. Danforth rapped on it. ‘Handle her gently, sir,’ cautioned Martin as they waited on an answer. ‘She’s only a wee lassie.’
A hard-faced man in his forties opened the door and glared at them, taking in their smart clothing. ‘What do you want? We don’t owe anything.’
‘We wish to speak with Morag, sir. Are you her father?’ asked Martin.
‘Aye, I am that.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Whit would two gentlemen want wi’ a wee lass? You’re not after anythin’ from her, now? She’s not one of those. A maidservant is what she is, and no more.’
‘Peace, sir,’ said Danforth, distaste tinging his voice. ‘We wish only to speak with her on the matter of her late mistress. The Provost of Stirling has allowed that we might discover by any means the woman’s killer. What is your name, sir?’
‘McAlpin.’
‘Mr McAlpin, might we speak with Morag?’
McAlpin looked at them, still with mistrust, but held open the door. They stepped in and past him. The place was dark, but some light filtered in from a hole in the ceiling above the hearth. There was only one room, but some thin wooden screens divided it. Danforth was dismayed at how little seemed to be present. Good houses – his own house – were not brimming with goods, but he could boast cooking pots and pans, plate, ladles, horns, tubs, trenchers, salts, desks, stools, and cupboards full of sheets and blankets. Here
there was only a battered pot hanging above the unlit fire. McAlpin caught his gaze. ‘We have’nae much, sir, but we’re a wee thing above them wretched poor as live by the Back Raw,’ he said. ‘By the Dirt Raw, I should say.’
‘I meant no offence,’ said Danforth. It was strange how even the poor felt themselves to be above the more indigent. It was much like how certain criminals seemed to think themselves of greater honour and repute than others. Every man seemed to have a need to be considered as good or better than his peers, no matter how lowly his affairs. Morag spared him the need to make further apology, appearing from behind a screen.
‘Sirs?’
‘Ho, Morag,’ said Martin. ‘I trust you’re well.’
‘How might she be well,’ asked McAlpin, coughing and raising a large hand to his mouth, ‘she’s no’ got any work, no’ got any pay comin’ in.’
‘I think a good girl shall find other work,’ said Danforth. ‘Morag, I wish to ask you more of your late mistress.’
‘A good lady,’ said Morag.
‘No’ much good to you deid,’ put in her father.
‘So you have said,’ said Danforth, ignoring him, ‘and it is right you speak well of the dead. Yet I would know more. Did Mistress Furay speak ever of any enemies, of men whom she disliked?’
‘I cannae say, sir. She never spoke to me of gentlemen.’ Danforth sensed a brief pause.
‘Are you sure, Morag?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘You know you might be in great trouble if you conceal anything?’
‘Whit is this, “great trouble”?’ barked her father.
‘Peace, sir – we are now on the queen’s business. This is a matter of justice,’ said Danforth. Martin turned to him, warning on his face. He paid it no attention. ‘Morag, we must know if your mistress ever spoke of any man other than her husband, for it may be that man that slew her.’
‘But sir,’ said Morag, her eyes full of appeal, ‘the mistress did speak of a man.’
‘Whom?’
‘The king, sir. The dead king. She said that one the king would stop by and visit, and that I’d get to serve him mysel’.’ Danforth threw his head back, whilst Martin grinned. McAlpin barked laughter.
‘Aye, there’s yer killer, gentlemen. A ghost frae the grave come back to haunt the living. Ha!’
Danforth fixed him with a hard gaze. ‘You may yet be more right than you know, sir. Morag, how did your mistress behave towards her husband?’ Morag shrugged, not understanding the question – or affecting not to. ‘Did she behave lovingly towards him?’
‘I hardly ever saw them together, sir.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘They didn’t speak much, from what I kent. But that’s right, sir – the mistress said that a lady shouldn’t speak with her husband lovingly before a company, even servants. “Such privy speeches were for the bedchamber”, that’s what she said. Used to say.’
‘Ah,’ said Danforth. ‘The bedchamber.’ He looked at Morag, and then at her father, and then he closed his mouth. He could not bring himself to ask the girl how often Madeleine and Walter Furay shared a bed. The idea was too appalling. He crimsoned and moved on. ‘Mr Furay had a man, Taylor. Of what nature is he?’
‘A quiet fellow, sir.’
‘Did Mistress Furay treat him well? Or did he serve her well, and with loyalty?’
‘I don’t think she treated him at all, nor he her, sir. He’s her husband’s groom, no’ hers.’
‘Very good,’ grinned Martin. It was Danforth’s turn to flash him a warning look.
‘Please try and understand, Morag, that you, Taylor and Mr Furay are the only ones who formed the dead woman’s household. Anything you can tell us, no matter how unimportant, might have significance, though you might lack the wit to see it.’
‘Sir, the only thing that was strange,’ cut in McAlpin, ‘was that yon girl was kept from that great house, when she might’ve been needed. Mr Furay wouldn’t keep her as a gentleman should keep his servants but sent her back to this place each night.’
‘Has it ever been so?’ asked Danforth.
‘No,’ said Morag. ‘No, not always, sir. Mistress Furay only ordered that I keep from the place these past months. Since …’ she thought, mouthing numbers silently, ‘… last year. Before that she bid me come home only two nights out of the week. Yet she said over a year since that she and the master no longer wanted me to stay any nights in the big house. I was just to come during the day. She was kind about it. I think she was sad about it.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘No, sir. Why should she?’
‘Why indeed. Is there nothing else you can tell us, Morag? Do you maintain that Madeleine Furay was a loving and sweet mistress?’
‘I say it, sir, because it’s the truth. She was.’
‘I believe you, girl,’ said Danforth, after examining her face. ‘If anything does trouble your mind, then please seek us out.’
‘Is that all, gentlemen?’ asked McAlpin. ‘Do you wish to employ the lassie. You could question her a wee bit more then.’
‘No,’ said Martin, shaking his head. ‘I regret we can’t do that. Yet if I hear of any burgess in the town seeking a maidservant, I’ll call upon you both, I promise.’
McAlpin nodded his thanks, and showed them back out into the street, closing the door behind them. ‘That was little help,’ said Martin. ‘You frightened that poor girl for nothing.’
‘She was not frightened. Yet her father was more help. “No ghost” to trouble the lady, nor frighten her to death … And this business of the girl suddenly being turned out by her loving mistress – yet sadly – a year since. Perhaps her husband could no longer afford to keep even such a poor girl as that on each night. Neither he nor his wife would want it bruited about the burgh that money was the reason, nor his business, which I think has failed. Perhaps some creditor…’ Danforth raised a hand to his temple.
‘Then what, sir? Should we now confront this Taylor?’
‘For now, Arnaud, I am close to starving. Come, let us see how your poor mother fares, and what fare her house offers.’
They picked up Coureur, freshly shod, from an irritated smithy – ‘he has been ready some time, sir, and his presence preventing me from other trade’. He crossed muscular arms over his black apron as he berated Martin, who reluctantly produced a little more money than was necessary. Danforth wondered at how much he must carry about with him as the two rode back home.
From her settle in the solar, with a woollen rug over her knees, Alison welcomed them, immediately calling for Wilson to fetch them a meal. Despite their orders, she had held off dinner, but conceded to let the servants eat in the hall without her so that she could wait.
Over cold roast capon, they exchanged the usual polite, idle pleasantries, the mistress of the house keen not to keep their minds perpetually on death. Yet by the evening, following two jugs of wine, several mugs of ale, and a small cup of aqua vitae apiece for the men, they raised the matter themselves.
‘We shall have the solution to it,’ said Danforth, waving his arms expansively, emboldened by the good food, warm fire and rich liquor. The tip of his nose was glowing.
‘So how are things running, my boys?’ asked Alison, her tone diffident, her gaze fixed on the hands clasped in her lap. The alcohol had not touched her.
‘We make progress, maman. I would as soon not have to tell you of the great adventures we’ve been forced into already.’ His mother’s eyes rose sharply.
‘No danger, son? Please tell me you’ve not invited the anger of the fellow who killed Mistress Furay, either of you? Nor of anyone else?’
‘Bah,’ he said, ‘the devil’s given no sign of himself. He might yet have flown the burgh.’
‘Indeed,’ put in Danforth. ‘Aye, Arnaud, we shall have that from the baillies on the morrow. Their onerous task was discovering if any man had fled, taking his guilt with him.’ He hiccoughed, excusing himself.
‘What manner of man,’ asked Alison, h
er voice small, ‘do you think might have done this terrible thing? That’s if it was a man, of course. Mr Danforth, Arnaud has told me before of your adventures in London.’
‘Hardly adventures, mistress.’
‘Yet they weren’t all that different from this. And my boy’s told me too of the discoveries you made in Paisley in the autumn. What manner of person, I should say, can let the devil come into them and slay one of their own? This person, this killer, must be off their head.’
‘The world,’ said Danforth, measuring his words to avoid slurring, ‘holds that only a monster might do murder, mistress. Some wicked fellows, we expect, full of fury and unbridled by reason, their humours in flux and their speech untamed. Yet I have found that wickedness might breed in any heart, and that heart beat within any unremarkable breast. A person might harbour the depths of evil, and yet counterfeit a noble brow and timid nature. Any man can be possessed of all the faces of Janus, and any woman might be Zeus’ beautiful evil.’
‘Ho, the fellow turns lyrical, and after swimming with – who is your friends’ wine God, Simon?’
‘Hold your wheesht, Arnaud,’ said Alison. ‘This is strange thinking, Mr Danforth, but I guess we have to face it. So I thank you for it. And I’ll leave you lads to drink yourselves to sleep. Don’t get too drunk.’ Alison stood, before dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief. ‘This bloody nose,’ she smiled, before stifling a yawn. ‘It’s my humours overflow. I’m the same every winter. My boy here gets it in the summer, when the flowers bloom. I’ll bid you goodnight, boys. Only I did want to say that … well, I’m sorry for all this.’
‘What, maman? Your nose?’
‘No, don’t be daft. I mean you came here to visit with me – a good thing – and it’s all gone to madness.’
‘Nonsense – Simon would never admit to it, but he is more alive than ever when there is some secret to be uncovered.’
‘Well, if only it was … I don’t know – a stolen horse or something. Well, goodnight.’
Danforth and Martin rose with her, Martin kissing her hand goodnight. When she had gone, they finished their liquor in contemplative silence, the thoughts of each having turned again to the unfortunate Madeleine Furay. Her green eyes had looked in to those of her killer. The most maddening thing about unsolved murders was that the dead knew everything but couldn’t speak, and the killer could speak but would invariably remain silent about their deed.
The Royal Burgh Page 13