The ostler tutted. ‘Falling all the time. Still, your crowns are good.’
‘Except I can’t get change for them,’ Hew observed ruefully.
‘I see your point. But I’m afraid I cannot help you there. Unless . . .’
‘Aye, then, what?’ persisted Hew.
‘Unless of course, you want to buy a horse. Then I could do you a deal and throw in a purse of Scots coin on the side. A man that’s come from France will likely want a horse. It happens that I have one that I don’t know what to do with, for he is too rare and brave to put out to hire. I had him from a gentleman, in payment of a debt, and he was loath to part with him, and he is called Dun Scottis. The horse,’ he clarified, ‘and not the gentleman.’
‘What, Duns Scotus, like the schoolman?’ Hew smiled. ‘Then he must be a subtle and ingenious horse.’
‘Most subtle and ingenious indeed. A most prodigious horse. Come, sir, come and look at him. Do not say yay or nay until you’ve seen him, now.’
It had not occurred to Hew, before the man suggested it, that he required a horse, and yet the thought immediately appealed to him. Though he could ride tolerably well, he had never possessed a mount of his own. As a student in St Andrews he had little need of one. In Paris he had hired a horse and wagon as required. Now the thought of riding home in his peascod coat and slops upon a brave new saddle horse was almost irresistible. The ostler broke into his reverie.
‘Here he is. Dun is his colour, and Scottis for you know he is a Scots-bred horse, though I don’t remember that gentleman’s name. His mother was a Highland pony, stout and sure-footed as ever you saw, but his father was an Arab courser, fierce and swift and proud.’
Hew was a little disappointed. In his mind’s eye he had seen a white horse or a grey, or a black with a blaze to set off his clothes. The horse that stared back was a mud-puddle brown.
‘So if you want a courser, sir,’ the ostler rambled on, ‘Dun Scottis is your horse. But if you want an ambler, sir, Dun Scottis is your horse. But if you want to trot him, sir, or rack or leap or gallop him . . .’
‘Dun Scottis is your horse?’ Hew ventured humorously.
‘I see you have his measure, sir,’ the ostler smiled. ‘Look, he seems to like you. It is by no means common that he takes to you so well. In truth, I am amazed by it, for he is a gentleman’s horse, and of a nervous temperament. Often have I seen him shake his ears at strangers. It’s almost like he knows you! Here, give him some bread.’
Hew broke off a crumb of the coarse loaf of horsebread, and held it out to the dun-coloured horse. The animal received it with shy solemn grace, flashing a fine set of teeth. Its back was sleek and broad.
‘Why is he fettered?’ he wondered. The horse was tethered from a chain, with a cuff around its hind leg which had begun to rub the skin.
‘The gentleman I had him from was none too happy with his loss, and would have stolen him away if I had not secured him,’ replied the ostler smoothly. ‘But he is long since gone; the danger’s past.’
‘Then you could let him loose now,’ Hew suggested.
‘Aye, I could,’ the man agreed. He made no move to do so.
The horse swallowed the crumbs and nuzzled Hew’s hand, and he heard himself asking impulsively, ‘What do you want for him?’
‘A hundred French crowns, and I’ll throw in a pocket of change.’
Hew shook his head. ‘It’s too much.’
‘I won’t sell him cheaper, for he is a prince,’ the ostler declared. ‘But you shall have a saddle and a saddlebag besides. And look, here’s a couple of Spanish doubloons,’ he offered generously. ‘Left in a bed by a Spaniard, no less. The wench didn’t know what to do with them. And, if you like, take the rest of the horsebread, in case he feels hungry on the way home!’
Hew held out for four new shoes, stirrups and a halter, and the deal was done.
‘He will not wear a bit,’ the ostler warned. ‘He has the softest mouth. But do not be alarmed. For I can tell he likes you; he’ll handle like a lamb. Come back for him tomorrow, sir, and he will be waiting, saddled and shod.’
Hew left in high spirits, pleased with his purchase, and continued to the tolbooth to inform the coroner that he was leaving town. The coroner sat busy at his desk, scratching his signature onto a writ, to which he applied the chief justice’s seal. He waved aside Hew’s explanations.
‘I thank you for your patience, sir. It is of little consequence, for you will not be needed now. The case is closed.’
‘Closed?’ Hew echoed, startled. ‘Is the matter solved?’
The coroner chuckled. ‘Solved, sir, aye. And this afternoon to be resolved, if you understand me.’ He rewarded his pet witness with a teasing smile. ‘I have the paper here. The libel is to be served. And if, sir, you attend the lykewake at the weaver’s house this afternoon, then you may see it served.’
‘Whatever has happened? Has someone confessed?’
‘I don’t say he has, sir. I don’t say he hasn’t. I say to you, go there. Pay your respects.’
It was Agnes, once again, who met him at the door and led him by the hand into the stifling room. There were no courtesies between them, for they had gone deeper than that, yet she seemed touched to see him there. Her anguish had subdued into a mute and heavy sense of loss. She took him to the curtained bed where Alexander’s corpse lay freshly washed and dressed. The blood had been cleaned from his hair and the red curls damped down to conceal the split edges of bone. Beside the bed the Strachan family paid their last respects: Alexander’s father breathing deep into his handkerchief, Tibbie softly weeping, Archie scowling at the corpse. Between them, Agnes flitted like a ghost, touching Gilbert’s hand and face. He glanced warily at Hew.
‘Gilbert, this is Master Cullan, from St Leonard’s College,’ Agnes murmured.
Gilbert stared at him. ‘Have you come alone?’
Agnes answered for him. ‘Master Colp is indisposed.’
‘And my good friend Master Gilchrist. Is he likewise indisposed?’
Hew swallowed hard. ‘He offers his condolences.’
Gilbert turned abruptly, acknowledging the slight. Agnes shook her head. ‘He is distraught. Excuse us.’ She spoke again to Gilbert in a low and urgent voice. Hew began to find the room oppressive. Though the evenings were cool the days were still long and the corpse lay exposed to the heat of the sun. The air became thick with the scent of decay and the sweet overlay of dead petals and smoke. Choking, he forced his way back to the door. A thin man in black stood blocking his path.
‘Excuse me, sir. Are you the minister?’ Politely, Hew held out his hand. Though the man did not accept it he seemed pleased at the unwitting compliment.
‘I, sir? No. The minister will no’ be coming, for he doesna approve of feasting and dancing in the wake of the dead. The lad should slip quietly into the ground, without all this. Tis wrong, sir. I am an elder of the kirk, and I think ill of it mysel’.’
‘And yet he sends you in his place?’
The kirk elder shifted a little. ‘I am come, sir, in my other role, for I am master of the gild of dyers, and a family friend.’
Unconsciously, he put his hands behind his back, as though he was ashamed of them. It was why he would not shake, for dyeing was a dirty trade.
‘You, I think, are not a cleric, but from the university,’ he said aggressively.
It was simplest to continue the deception. Hew confirmed it.
‘I thought as much.’ The man leaned towards him, and forgetful of his inky fingers gestured with his hands as if he meant to prod him or grasp him by the cloak. Hew stepped back, alarmed, as the dyer raised his voice. ‘Then you would do well, sir, to keep a check upon your students. Several of them were up before the kirk session last term for debauchery and drunkenness. And worse, though I blush to mention it here. That boy – I mean, Alexander Strachan – would not be dead now if his father had not got it in his mind to put him to the university.’
Hew was astonished. ‘You surely
don’t believe that!’
‘I do not say it was the college that killed him, understand me, sir, I do not say that. But if his father and uncle had not exposed him to such lewd influences, who knows what might not have become of him.’
‘I can assure you that the students of St Leonard’s lead a sheltered life,’ insisted Hew, ‘and are subject to most rigorous discipline.’
‘Aye? If you say so, sir.’ The dyer changed his track. ‘But I cannot help but think that if his friends had taken better care of him, then this would not have happened. Where was his uncle when the boy was killed? Gone to market, on the Sabbath, which were profanation of the Lord’s day, when he should have been at kirk. And his nephew is struck down. Now what does that tell you?’
‘Did I hear you say you were a family friend, sir?’ Hew enquired coldly. He turned his back on the dyer and moved a little closer to the centre of room. Archie was attempting to discuss the funeral expenses.
‘I bought the candles, Gilbert, at considerable expense. You wanted five and twenty,’
‘Candles? Aye. There must be candles,’ Gilbert answered vaguely. ‘He’s feart of the dark, did you know? And we put him to sleep in such darkness, Agnes. My boy dead?’ His voice rose to a wail. ‘How can he be dead?’
‘Hush, Gilbert,’ Agnes soothed him like a child. ‘We shall sit with him tonight. I’ll take the turn with you.’
‘Then there’s the question of the mortcloth,’ Archie went on doggedly. ‘The kirk session’s best one is cut to the middle size, most useful of course and well suited to your boy, but in truth it’s much muddied and darned. Or the gild has for hire a fine piece of Genoa velvet, newly lined in black silk. It may be on the large side, though. Would it drag, do you think? The infant cloth is almost new, and lined in white silk, right enough, but it may yet be too small.’
‘Archie, please.’ His wife caught at his sleeve. But Gilbert rallied, ‘Aye, the velvet.’
‘Of course. And I think we can have it for a very fair price.’
‘I care nothing to that. And I should say, Archie, that I mean to have justice for this.’
‘Justice? And you shall, so you shall. If we only knew where to look . . .’
‘Ah, but we do,’ Gilbert said coldly. ‘Did you think, brother, to have kept it from me? The culprit is plain. I have informed the coroner, and he will be here presently to serve the writ. But I want him brought here first. You have him down below, I doubt? If he declares his innocence, then let him touch my boy.’
Agnes shivered, ‘Gilbert, who?’
‘The prentice lad. Tom Begbie.’
Archie looked aghast, began to protest, then thought better of it and muttered his retreat. A few moments later he returned with his apprentice, pushing him wordlessly into the room. The boy looked about in confusion. At the far side of the bed, Gilbert Strachan was watching. He stroked back the hair from his dead son’s head, exposing the cracked crevice of the skull, all the while staring at Tom.
Hew stiffened. He had not expected this. As Tom was brought forward he tried to move towards him but the crowd had formed a phalanx stretching to the corpse and he could not break through. The room was unbearably hot. He saw the boy stumble as they passed him hand to hand, the weaver urging onwards, looking round a little nervously as if to say, ‘A shame, but what’s to do?’ Bewildered, the boy was delivered to the bedside where they waited: Gilbert, Agnes, Tibbie, muffled in her plaids, and Alexander, waxen, waiting to accuse.
‘You haven’t touched him, Tom.’ Gilbert’s voice broke through the silence, strangely intimate. ‘We all of us have touched him. Tibbie kissed him, Agnes laid him out; Archie and the tutor brought him here. I wish for all his friends to say goodbye to him. They say the spirit knows its killer, that the dead man’s wound bursts open at the murderer’s touch. Have you heard that, Tom? All that blood that was spilled, on your master’s fine cloth. Look at his face! Look, see how pale he is! Will he bleed now, Tom? Can there be more?’
‘Come, Gilbert, surely now, you don’t believe that nonsense. And besides you know, I haven’t touched him. Colp carried him up here himself,’ Archie put in briskly.
‘Haven’t you, brother?’ Gilbert scrutinised him. ‘I’d be grateful if you would.’
‘Godless nonsense.’ And yet Archie touched his fingers to the wound, and let them brush the surface of the dead boy’s broken head. Shuddering, he forced a smile at Tom. ‘Nothing to it. Dry as dust. Do it, to be sure, it does no harm.’
‘Aye, do it, Tom,’ urged Agnes. ‘See, there are no tricks here. Touch him, and you may be saved.’
But the sight of the waxen figure that that had tumbled out of the closet bed where Tom had kept his work clothes, where on winter nights he slept, had become too much for him. His hands fell useless by his sides. He could not touch the corpse, and he was damned.
‘Would ye no’ like to confess it, though? You would, you know.’ Gilbert’s voice came kindly, like light through a fog. Hew willed him not to follow it. It was the kindness that disarmed them. Hew had seen its force before, its treachery in court, that lulled men to confession when they longed for sleep. It was a sort of torture and it showed Strachan’s ruthlessness.
‘Don’t take it, Tom,’ he whispered desperately, ‘don’t grasp the light.’
But Tom Begbie, glancing right and left among the crowd that gaped and gawked at him, knew that they would drag him out and drown him like a kitten in the burn. He understood it plainly, though it made no sense. Tom did not confess. He opened his mouth and let slip, ‘Katrin,’ like a prayer. Then there was nothing more.
The room was full of people now. Hew heard the voice of the dyer who had somehow pushed his way through to Archie, distilling his poison. ‘Tell the truth before God, boy, and all will be well. Don’t say I didna warn ye, Archie, that he was a bad one . . . an eye for a lass . . . we know where that leads.’
Agnes was staring, her eyes blank with fear. Tom gave a shriek, a high fluting wail that unsettled the crowd, until someone shook him by the shoulders and forced him to down a cup of cold ale.
Then came the coroner, on cue like a conjurer, waiting to pounce. ‘You killed him, Tom, you know you did. Was it over Tibbie? Come, then, who could blame you? She’s a bonny lass.’ He looked across at Tibbie, crying by the bed, and shook his head indulgently. ‘You broke his head with a shuttle from your master’s loom and then concealed the corpse in a bolt of blue cloth . . .’
‘For shame,’ broke in a voice indignantly. ‘I ordered that myself!’
The coroner scowled at the interruption. ‘Then,’ he spoke a little louder, ‘did you conceal the corpus in a closet where you slept and kept your clothes. Thomas Begbie, you are indict and accusit for the foul and cruel slaughter of one Alexander Strachan, that you did strike him on the head to his injury and death, wherefore you are to be delivered into ward until you come to trial at the next justice ayres, or else your friends stand surety on your behalf.’
He looked askance at Archie Strachan, who cleared his throat: ‘His father died some years ago. I fear he has no friends.’
‘He’s contracted to you is he not? Indentured? He must be of good birth. Did his parents not make terms?’ the coroner demanded.
‘Aye, well, there’s an awkwardness, you see. It’s my nephew lies dead, after all.’
‘Then I’ll take him to the tolbooth. Come, lad, easy now.’
‘Confess, Tom, do, you know you want to,’ Gilbert whispered at his side.
‘That’s right.’ Archie gave the boy an encouraging smile, and clumsily patted his shoulder. ‘Tell the truth.’
The coroner winked at Hew as he marched the boy out. ‘I telt ye we would see the thing resolved. Did ye not enjoy the show?’
Behind him, Gilbert Strachan fell back on the bed as though the effort of interrogation had exhausted him. Agnes sat beside him stroking down the dead boy’s hair. Archie rubbed his hands and began to light the candles. Someone brought a fiddle. The party had begu
n.
Hew slept fitfully. He rose at dawn, intending to collect his horse and ride to Kenly Green. A dark gloom had descended that he hoped a change of air might soon dispel. It was a fine, chill morning, a little damp still from the haar. As he came to the harbour it occurred to him that at that hour he might find Nicholas at prayer. Since the college was deserted, he resolved to storm the gate. The students had removed a dozen stones as footholds on the far side of the wall, and a tree grew close enough to form a bridge. And so a little after half past five he scrambled down into the courtyard opposite the chapel, where he found his friend. Nicholas was kneeling in the dust. As he struggled to his feet he clutched at Hew.
‘Is there news? Pray God, you bring me news! Gilchrist locks us in, and I hear nothing. I can think of nothing else. I have not slept.’
He looked grey in the half-light, his eyes moist and blank with exhaustion.
‘The prentice boy Tom Begbie has been taken for the slaughter of your pupil,’ Hew reported. ‘Since I am going home today, I came to let you know.’
‘The prentice lad,’ Nicholas echoed wildly. ‘Why? Has he confessed? What does he say?’
‘He has not confessed. And yet he dared not touch the corpse, which some will say is tantamount to his confession.’
‘Can that be enough?’
‘To satisfy the law? By God, I hope not. He is taken to the tolbooth to await his trial. They say that it was jealousy, over Tibbie Strachan.’
‘Surely, it could not be that!’
‘Why not?’ Hew looked at him curiously. ‘Do you know something more?’
Nicholas cried fervently, ‘I know nothing. But, God help me, Hew, I can think of nothing but that poor boy and his death. I cannot wash the blood clean from my thoughts. And I am starved of news. I need to have an answer.’
‘Well then, you have one: Tom Begbie.’
‘Aye, but is it, though? For he has not confessed. Do you think he did it? Was it Tom?’
‘I confess, I do not know,’ Hew answered evenly. ‘I do not know these people as you do. The boy was found in Tom’s bed. In truth, it was you that found him there. What do you think?’
Hue and Cry Page 4