Hue and Cry

by Shirley McKay

  ‘Did you come here, through the house?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I took him into the front of the shop, where the shutters were drawn and the counters closed up, lighting the lamps to let him see that no one was there.’

  ‘You are certain that no one was there?’

  She looked at him curiously. ‘For certain. The place was in darkness. Then he examined the back of the shop, where the looms were kept, idle on that day as they are now, and then he came here and looked at the spinning wheels, fingering the threads. And of course he found no sign of industry . . .’

  ‘And then?’ Hew pressed.

  ‘Then he turned his back to go. And then . . . and then he turned again. He called my name, he called me names. He said . . . most filthie things. He pushed me to the floor and raped me.’ She fell silent, staring at the ground.

  But Hew persisted urgently, ‘What happened next?’

  The words came very softly. ‘The rage had left him. He was gentle, coaxing. To hear him, you would not have thought … He was standing in his shirt, his britches on the floor. And I ran into the house, by the backstair, locking the door behind me. I took off my clothes and scrubbed my skin raw, and where his vile hands had defiled me were blue spots of dye. He had stained me. Yet the next day, when our boy was dead, he came with his condolences, lifting off his cap, as if the rape had never happened. And when we found the boy, I thought it had not happened, that I had imagined it. In that deeper horror, it seemed like a dream.’

  ‘You accuse a dead man,’ Hew observed, ‘who may not speak his answer. Some will say that is convenient; others, that it is no mere coincidence.’

  ‘I know it,’ Agnes answered. ‘Yet I speak the truth.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, what happened then? When your husband came from market?’

  ‘Archie had done well that day. But he had had a drink or two. He called for Alexander, spoiling for a fight. When we found him missing we sent for Master Colp. You know that, you were there. And the cloth was gone. We were looking in the shop. The master found the body in the closet bed. The horror is, the poor boy must have lain there all the while. And while . . .’

  She paused a moment; closed her eyes. Hew prodded gently, ‘While the dyer raped you? Aye, perhaps. Go on.’

  ‘We were looking for the cloth,’ she whispered, ‘and Master Colp had opened out the bed, and there the cloth came falling, and he opened up the cloth, and in it was the boy.’

  ‘Agnes, do you recall Doctor Locke, who is to give evidence for you at your trial?’

  ‘I remember,’ she acknowledged, ‘though I do not understand him.’

  ‘He is a learned man. He swears that since the corpse was limp when we discovered it, Alexander must have died that afternoon. He was not long dead. Therefore he could not have lain within the closet all the night.’

  ‘But then … but he was not at home.’ She looked perplexed. ‘Where was he, then?’

  ‘Perhaps he was alive, and hiding in the room.’

  ‘He would not hide there,’ she objected. ‘He was feart of closed-up spaces. It was what tormented Gilbert, when they nailed him in the kist. Archie used to threaten him; he’d shut him in the press.’

  ‘He was quite a man, your husband,’ Hew said dryly. ‘May I look about the shop?’

  ‘Aye, if you will.’

  The place, once so neat, had begun to accumulate dust. Hew looked beneath the counter where the floor was bare.

  ‘Once there were blankets,’ commented Agnes. ‘No one sleeps there now.’

  He felt into the corner.

  ‘What is it? Have you found something?’

  ‘It’s nothing. Only dust.’ And he withdrew his fingers, scraps of fabric, threads and fluff, and a scattering of sand.

  ‘Do I have a defence?’ she asked him at the door.

  ‘I know not. You have lied to me.’

  ‘Lied? I have not lied!’ she objected. ‘Everything that I have told to you has been the truth.’

  ‘I almost could believe it. Yet you lied about the father of your child.’

  ‘I was raped. I swear it.’

  ‘I believe that you were raped. The conundrum, though, is this: it is not three months since the day that Alexander died, since you say you were raped, and yet your child has quickened in the womb. I saw the midwife with you in the kirk. She said that you were four or five months gone. Therefore you have lied to me.’

  ‘The midwife was mistaken,’ she said stubbornly. ‘I carry low and large. Tibbie was a big child for her time.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ he said softly. ‘Tell me, Agnes, who is the father of your child? Is it Gilbert Strachan?’

  ‘My brother?’ Agnes started ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘He is not your brother, but your husband’s. And I heard you in your sleep. You spoke his name.’

  ‘In my sleep?’ she challenged. ‘When my wits were gone? You know that I meant nothing.’

  ‘I did not mistake the meaning. You have pinned your hopes on him. And yet his brother’s death was at your hands. How can you be sure of him?’

  ‘What you suggest,’ she protested, ‘though he is not my brother, the law would count as incest. If it were proved, we should hang.’

  ‘I am aware of it. You do know he has abandoned you?’

  ‘He would not.’ She stared at him.

  ‘Madam,’ he said gently, ‘have you heard from him?’

  ‘I think my letters have not reached him. When they do, he will return.’

  ‘He received your letters. Did you know that he has sold his share in the Angel to my cousin Robin Flett?’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he does not mean to return. He told my cousin there was nothing for him here.’

  ‘You lie,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘Do I? Well, perhaps you know. Perhaps you’ve heard from him.’

  Her eyes were bright with tears. ‘I did not lie,’ she said, ‘about the dyer. Only I did not tell all the truth. He said he had observed me with my husband’s brother, and he knew I was adulterous, a whore. And he would denounce me to the kirk unless I lay with him.’

  ‘He blackmailed you?’

  ‘I know not how he had discovered it. We were so careful.’

  ‘Aye, perhaps you were. Yet somehow he had guessed it and your face confirmed the guess. Forgive me, you do not dissemble well. How long have you had converse with your husband’s brother?’

  ‘You do not understand,’ protested Agnes weakly. ‘Gilbert was not like his brother. He’s a gentle, loving man. And when his wife died young … Archie was coarse, and has always been cold to me. It was Gilbert I loved.’

  ‘It was for your sake that he brought Alexander here?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘And for your sake that he sold his brother’s wool.’

  ‘Aye. But understand, though Archie was unkind, we did not wish him dead.’

  ‘You might have wished the dyer dead, I think.’

  She flushed a little. ‘Well, we might have done. And when the tutor killed him, it seemed providential.’

  ‘I’m sure it did. But then you knew the tutor had not killed him.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I think you do,’ he chided quietly. ‘You swore a statement to the Crown that Nicholas Colp had murdered George Dyer. You condemned a man to die for it, knowing he did not commit the crime.’

  ‘I thought it made no difference,’ Agnes whimpered. ‘He killed Alexander. He had murdered Gilbert’s son.’

  ‘Suppose that I could prove to you that he did not kill the boy. Would you still condemn him?’

  ‘But I saw him take the letters. And I saw him find the corpse. You saw it too.’

  ‘And you believed you owed this debt to Gilbert, to relieve him of the burden of his crime. I ask again, if I can show he did not kill your nephew, will you still let him die?’

  ‘Can you prove it?’ challenged A
gnes.

  ‘I wish I could,’ he sighed. ‘The truth is that the law forbids my answer. I may not, in defence of him, accuse another man.’

  ‘Then you may not say,’ she answered cunningly, ‘that Gilbert killed the dyer.’

  ‘Yet we both know that he did.’

  She whispered, ‘It was an accident. You must not think that Gilbert meant to kill him. He is not a violent man. He was provoked.’

  ‘You told him that the dyer raped you?’

  ‘I did not, at first. He was distraught at Alexander’s death. The dyer scarcely seemed to matter then. But when he turned up at the lykewake, he insinuated he would make report of our affair. He’d tell Archie everything. Gilbert would be ruined.’

  ‘So Gilbert went to see him.’

  ‘Aye, but not to kill him!’ she protested. ‘We had hoped to buy him off.’

  ‘Men like that are not bought off,’ he told her sharply. ‘Doubtless, Gilbert knew.’

  ‘He did not mean to kill him. He charged him with the rape. The dyer mocked him. He vilified his son. Gilbert lost his wits, and pushed him in his rage. He fell into the dye, and Gilbert could not save him, though he tried.’

  ‘Was that how he told it?’ Hew snorted.

  ‘That is how it was,’ she answered stubbornly. ‘He fell into his pot. It was an accident.’

  ‘Then Gilbert must have walked home dripping dye.’

  ‘He was spotted, aye, though less than you’d suppose. There was a blot upon his cheek, blue like a bruise. We scrubbed it till it bled. He was wearing gloves, and his long green cloak that covered all his clothes was violet-stained. He wrapped it round a stone and dropped it in the Kinness Burn.’

  ‘Convenient, then.’

  ‘I do not understand you,’ she insisted. ‘He was vexed about the cloak, for it was Alexander’s.’

  He nodded. ‘Then the cloak would not be missed. Katrin saw him, did she not?’

  ‘Poor lass, aye. She was wearing one of Tibbie’s cast-off plaids, and Gilbert called to her. He recognised the cloth. At first he took her for his niece, and after, felt afeared that she might know him. She came here to the house in search of Tom.’

  ‘Katrin posed a threat,’ he iterated slowly, ‘so he saw to her.’

  ‘Ah, but not like that!’ cried Agnes. ‘Sir, you must not think it. Katrin was to be denounced before the kirk, and her father too, for his delinquencies. She could not marry Tom. My husband would not loose him from his bonds.’

  ‘The kirk would force the marriage,’ argued Hew.

  ‘There were moves against her father. He foresaw the future, and was glad to leave. Gilbert gave them passage on his ship. We offered them a new life overseas, for they had nothing here.’

  ‘The Angel’s secret cargo!’ Hew exclaimed.

  ‘I do not understand you.’

  ‘Where is Katrin now?’

  ‘That is the worst part. She was distraught at the parting from Tom. We did not count it safe to let her say goodbye to him. The sailors forced the lass to board the ship. Once they had set sail she seemed to be resigned to it. She seemed to settle down. Then on the third night, without sight of land, she threw herself into the water and was drowned. Gilbert wrote to me. The captain turned his sail and searched for several days. They did not find her, though.’

  Hew shook his head. ‘And you believed this?’

  ‘Aye, of course. You cannot think otherwise? Gilbert told me what had happened. He is not . . .’

  ‘A murderer?’

  Agnes shuddered. ‘That was a mistake. The dyer had provoked him. But he would not harm the girl.’

  ‘What happened to her father?’

  ‘They set him down on foreign shores. Gilbert offered him a place, but he declined it. There are sheep in Holland, are there not?’

  Hew did not reply. ‘Madam, this dismays me,’ he concluded bleakly.

  ‘Aye, it is a tragedy. Gilbert felt it keenly. And we feel for Tom, who looks for Katrin still.’

  ‘Have you not told him?’

  ‘How could I?’ she smiled at him faintly. ‘I believe he loves her, after all.’

  A Blood-colour Coat

  ‘What does it mean,’ Hew thought aloud, ‘to be caught red-hand?’

  ‘Why then,’ Giles looked up from his breakfast, ‘to be taken in the act.’

  ‘Aye, but literally?’

  ‘With bloodied hands.’

  ‘Precisely so. Will Dyer told me it could not be Nicholas that killed his father, though Nicholas was caught red-hand, for he had nothing on his hands.’

  ‘Gilbert Strachan killed his father,’ his friend reminded him.

  ‘Aye, and he wore gloves. And he wore a long green cloak, which protected him from the dye.’

  ‘Which would imply,’ suggested Giles, ‘he did premeditate the crime.’

  ‘It does imply it. According to Agnes, a single spot of dye had splashed his face, configured like a bruise. What colour is a bruise?’

  ‘Hew, we have lectures at ten.’

  ‘Ah, humour me. This is your field. What colour is a bruise?’

  ‘A bruise may be a rainbow made of yellows, purples, blues . . .’

  ‘A rainbow, aye. Agnes said the dyer had defiled her. She did not mean just the rape. She meant he left his mark upon her like a bruise, a purple stain. I saw it on her wrists. I thought her husband had been cruel to her. But I was mistaken.’

  ‘Where does this lead?’ Giles tore off and buttered a fat chunk of bread.

  Hew answered with a question. ‘Why was Alexander wrapped in wool?’

  ‘No doubt you mean to tell me.’

  ‘I think it was to stop the blood. The murderer had split his skull. Then it would bleed, no doubt.’

  ‘For certain, a good deal,’ assented Giles. ‘Head wounds bleed profusely. Since he smashed the skull, there would be matter too.’ He spoke through a splutter of crumbs.

  ‘It would stain his clothes and his hands.’

  ‘They would be thick with it.’

  ‘I think the murderer used the cloth to wipe his hands and face,’ continued Hew, ‘and then he wrapped the boy to staunch the blood. There was no water in the shop. He could not wash. Then what were the colour of blood?’

  Giles gave up his breakfast and sighed. ‘Blood-colour. I once bought a blood-colour coat. I did not care for it. It showed up all the smears.’

  ‘Tactless, for a man of your profession.’

  ‘Disconcerting, aye.’

  ‘What colour was your coat?’

  ‘It was an ox-blood red, a sort of curdled wine,’ Giles answered wistfully.

  ‘And yet it did not mask the spots of blood,’ persisted Hew. ‘The spirit from the arteries is light red, bright and spouting. Venous blood is dark and coursing, almost black. Dried, it makes a sullen brown.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Then blood in all those colours marked the killer’s clothes as he walked home through the town that Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘But how? It would be seen.’

  ‘No doubt it was.’

  At ten o’clock, Hew read his lecture to the magistrands. ‘I see that Duncan Stewart remains absent,’ he concluded. ‘Can he be unwell?’

  The students exchanged glances. One of them said, ‘I believe Principal Gilchrist has excused him, sir. His father is in town. He will hear the reading-over.’

  ‘He has not mentioned it to me. Pray tell him when you see him there will be no reading-over. Since the rest of you attend, I see no need for it.’

  The boy hesitated. ‘Is it to be examined, sir?’

  ‘Indeed it is. You may tell him I’ll be here tomorrow morning, after six, if he would like to discuss it. But I do not intend to give this lecture again. Now work on quietly, for I have business in the town, and may not return before the dinner hour. This afternoon I will hear you argue on the theme of whether women can have souls. I see you smile. I do assure you, tis no jest. Practise in your pairs. I thank you, gent
lemen.’

  It had begun to rain. Against the blackened sky, the dyer’s cottage seemed more isolated still, more resolutely desolate. The children were playing in the yard, eyes watering in the wind. A smaller girl had taken Jennie’s place. Her features were set hard. They threw pebbles at the water butt in some haphazard game, the youngest brother snivelling listlessly. They did not look up from their play.

  Inside, the house was quiet, the children’s voices fleeting, dropping like the gulls. At first he did not see her though he sensed her watching him. She sat shadowed in the stoor, shrinking in her chair beside the fire. Without recognition, without curiosity, she acknowledged him. ‘My sons are gone to market, sir. Come back another day.’

  ‘I do not want your sons.’ He pulled up a stool and sat in the midst of it, snatching in his breath amid the thickness of the stench. He wondered she could breathe in it, so close before the fire. Dung-clots of dyestuff clung to the hearth. He smelled the mordant and the lye.

  ‘What do you want?’ she whispered.

  ‘We have met before. I came here with my sister on the day your child was born. I’m sorry for your loss.’

  She did not reply to this, and he went on, ‘I am a man of law, and I make enquiries into your husband’s death.’

  ‘Aye?’ she asked, uncurious. ‘It is resolved. They have the man.’

  ‘Yet it is not resolved. I know who killed your husband. It was not Nicholas Colp.’

  Without hope or interest, she said simply, ‘Aye?’