‘It was Gilbert Strachan.’
He heard her mirthless laughter. Then, ‘That’s fair enough,’ she answered quietly.
‘Aye. There was a black deed done. I think you know.’
She shook her head. ‘My man is dead.’
‘You know that he raped Agnes Ford?’
‘There can be no proof of that. Besides, she was a whore.’
He could not read the flatness in her tone. He sensed indifference, resignation, patience, lack of care. ‘Why do you protect him still?’ he challenged her.
Her eyes were open wide. She watched him pale and colourless, as if convention, like a hand, had moved her face. He saw no feeling there. She spoke complacently. ‘I have good sons, who hope to have some standing in the town. Will’s an honest lad. How should I condemn their father, when he is not here to answer? Let God judge.’
‘But others here must answer, if you will not tell the truth. You told it to your daughter, I believe.’
‘Told Nan?’ She laughed a little scornfully. ‘What should I tell her? She’s only a bairn.’
‘No, not Nan. You told your daughter Jennie that her father was a wicked man, that he had blackness in his heart.’
‘I have no daughter Jennie. She is dead.’
‘I have seen her, though,’ he contradicted. ‘She has spoken to me. Would you not know how she lives?’
‘I can imagine how she lives,’ she answered bitterly. ‘She’s her father’s child. I have no daughter Jennie, for she’s dead.’
He rose from the stool and walked to the window, drinking in the air. Standing with his back to her, he proceeded quietly, ‘You told her she was like her father. How was she like him? And you would not suffer your dead infant to be buried in his grave. You preferred him to lie without Christian burial. Why?’
He felt grateful for the air. In part, he did not want to look upon her face. He sensed a change in her. He knew she held the answer. He was coming close to it. And somewhere, in this house dark-steeped among the lye, would lie the proofs. He knew, and was afraid it might dissolve into the stew. Like Jennie, when he found it, it might disappear. But she was talking still.
‘She is like her father. Wicked, bold and lustful. Whore.’
He pictured her there, thin and resentful, stirring the ashes, stirring the lye.
‘Yet she was not to blame,’ he said, just soft enough.
She rose to it. ‘He could not help his lusts, for he was moist and hot. But she is cold and dry. She preys on men like him. He could not help himself.’
‘Poor Jennie,’ he said inwardly. Aloud, he said, ‘When you told her what her father was, she did not believe you.’
‘Her father dealt in filth. He saw filth where’er he turned. Her father’s daughter! Aye, I telt her. She’d have none of it.’
‘When was it that you knew?’ he asked.
‘I knew when Agnes told me. You cannot think he kept me privy to his ain foul filthie secrets. I was full with child.’
‘I do not mean the rape. For that did not dismay you. There was something more.’
‘My husband an adulterer, a fornicator, not dismay me? How could there be more? If Jennie told you more, she lied to you.’ There was uncertainty, a high note marking fear, behind the voice.
He counselled quietly, ‘You were not to blame.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘It was not your fault that he left you while you were with child. That he had to look elsewhere.’
He had gone too far now to retreat. He turned on her. ‘Were you grateful for it?’ he persisted. ‘That it was Agnes he forced, and let you be? Agnes was a whore, he told you that. Did she not deserve it, then?’
‘He told me nothing,’ Janet cried.
‘Did you feel responsible? But you were not responsible. Did you feel guilty? Did you feel glad? I imagine you felt both. You understood his needs. Yet you could not fulfil them. You could condone the rape. It was the other thing that you could not forgive.’
‘I don’t know what you speak of,’ she insisted.
‘Then I’ll tell you.’ He had returned to face her, speaking fast and low. ‘When your husband forced his lust on Agnes Ford, it was witnessed by her nephew, Alexander Strachan. He was hiding in the shop. Your husband found him there, and took his life. And when he had killed him, he came home to you. He walked through the marketplace, spattered with blood. But because he was the dyer, he was not remarkable. No one wondered at his clothes. He hid behind the mask that was himself.’
She was shivering. Yet still she answered stubbornly. ‘It was the Sabbath day. His clothes were clean.’
‘Aye, that’s true. He took the risk that those who saw him in the town there would not remark the change. For he was always stained. Even when he wore his Sunday clothes, he could not rid his fingers of the dye. He was despised for it. Men would not shake his hand. Then why would anyone look twice, when he came through the marketplace crusted in gore? And yet to you, who were his wife, it must have seemed irregular. You must have known.’
‘I swear I did not know it at the time,’ she whispered hopelessly. ‘I asked him what had happened to his Sunday coat and he answered he had worn it to the pots. Will was working on a shade and was anxious lest he lost it, and it needed something adding in the afternoon. George had spilled the dye. His coat and breeks were stiff with it. It was not until your sister came with blood upon her sleeve I understood the truth for what it was. My husband, sir, would never stir the pots upon the Sabbath, even to preserve the dye. He did not work on Sundays. He had told a lie.’
‘Do you have them still?’ Hew demanded urgently. ‘The bloodied coat and hose?’
He knew before she spoke it would be hopeless, and before she shook her head. ‘He wore them afterwards for dyeing,’ she replied. ‘For they were ruined. He was wearing them the day he died. And since his skin was purple and his face . . . It did not seem worth the expense of a fresh suit of clothes, and he was buried in them. It was more than he deserved.’
There was no solace in the truth. He knew the whole. It did not comfort him.
Janet saw it in his face, for she returned complacently, ‘There’s justice of a sort if Gilbert Strachan killed him.’ Then she smiled a little. ‘Now I understand that Agnes was protecting him. She wanted me to help her prove the crimes were linked. She begged me to give evidence in court.’
‘That served you both,’ reflected Hew, ‘though neither you nor Agnes realised it. She asked you to swear against Nicholas Colp, because she knew that Gilbert Strachan killed your husband, and you no doubt agreed to it, because you knew your husband had killed Gilbert’s Strachan’s son.’
‘So you say, sir.’ Janet shrugged. ‘Let the dead lie. What you accuse will never be proved.’
It was almost two o’clock when Hew returned to St Leonard’s. The students had dispersed and Gilchrist scowled at him across the lecture room. ‘You keep peculiar hours. I looked for you and found your magistrands alone.’
Hew smiled apologetically. ‘I left them to rehearse their theme. If I overhear their practising, I find that it inhibits them. I trust you found them working hard?’
‘Aye, if a little animated.’
‘Excellent. It’s what I hoped. Though they are diligent enough they seem a little shy of me. It is to be expected. They must miss their regent.’
‘I employ you, that they may not miss him,’ Gilchrist answered curtly.
‘That is my intent.’
‘I cannot approve of the theme that you set,’ the principal frowned. ‘“Does woman have a soul?” You know, of course, that that is spurious?’
‘For certain. It was just a trick to exercise their wits. I would have them more at ease with me. In truth, I have felt at a loss as to how to win their confidence. I have come to them so late, and am so inexperienced. Since you think ill of it, I do repent it,’ Hew excused himself humbly. ‘I am glad of your advice.’
‘Well then, we’ll let it
pass. Your newness vindicates you. If you come up to my rooms tonight, I will show you a list of more proper arguments. But there is another matter I would raise with you, the case of Duncan Stewart.’
Hew nodded. ‘He does not come to lectures, sir. I am concerned for him.’
‘Yet you will not read them over, is that so?’
‘He has not asked me to.’
‘I am asking you. His father is in college and is anxious to have news of Duncan’s progress. You must make report. What will you say?’
‘I should say his progress would be greater if his father did not take him to the town, when he ought to be in college.’
‘Tsk, you must not say that.’
‘No, forgive me. I shall say that Duncan’s progress is as steady as expected, and we hope to see him triumph on the black stone in July. Then I shall entrust the bursars with his closer education. They will help him learn his themes. They’re clever boys. And for myself, I will come to him in the evenings and read over all the lectures he has missed.’
‘Good, that’s good,’ the principal smiled. ‘The father left a present of a longbow. Is the son proficient at the butts?’
Hew looked sceptical. ‘I had not noticed it.’
‘A pity, that’s a pity. It is to be encouraged, don’t you think? We have a competition here among the colleges that I had thought to formalise with the provision of a prize. I hoped he might subscribe to it. No matter, you must do your best. This evening you will sup with me. We’ll go through the themes, and drink a little wine, for I have something else that I would put to you.’
‘I thank you, sir, you are too kind.’
The students were returning from their dinner and Hew had little time to think about the dyer’s wife. He spent the afternoon attending to their themes. At last, at six o’clock, his class was dismissed. He returned to St Salvator’s to dissect the case with Giles. But Giles Locke was absent from the college. He had not turned up to give the morning lecture, and had not been seen since breakfast. Anxiously, Hew cornered Paul.
‘Professor Locke was called away this morning,’ the servant reported. ‘Your sister sent a message. He has not returned.’
Hew’s first fears were for Meg. He cut through the close to the south street, pounding on the Fletts’ front door. The house stood locked and bolted with its usual dour contempt for all the street. He hammered with his fists until a servant opened up the shutters, grumbling, ‘Whisht, you’ll wake them!’
‘Wake them?’
‘Wait, I’ll let you through.’ She put her fingers to her lips, in a gesture of exaggerated patience, shuffling down the stairs to let him in. ‘Be quiet, sir. Ye’ll want the doctor. Here he is.’
Giles came down the stair, wiping his hands on a cloth. His cap sat awry and his shirt-cuffs were spattered with blood. Yet he was smiling.
‘Meg!’ Hew cried out in alarm.
‘For goodness sake, you’ll wake the dead! They’re all asleep!’ his sister answered, scolding. She stood behind him in the hall.
‘But what has happened?’ he stammered.
‘Well, I’m done here,’ Giles answered calmly. ‘Do try to make less noise, Hew. You may write to let your cousin know that he has two fine sons. Lusty and hale as ever I saw.’
‘Two sons?’
‘Aye, it was twins,’ confirmed Meg. ‘Poor Lucy, and we blamed the sugarplums! Robin will be proud!’
* * *
Robin Flett, returning home, proved to be ungrateful. The loud and lusty voices of his twins did little to dispel the storm. ‘I gave clear instruction that my wife must not have converse at the weaver’s house,’ he raged at Hew. ‘Now she speaks of nought but scandals. Worse, she writes to me that she has been with Agnes, and that Agnes Ford has killed her husband, if you please. Your sister, sir, has led her into this. She is no longer welcome in my house.’
‘My sister has been a good friend to her,’ objected Hew. ‘When your sons were born, she helped to save her life.’
‘Lucy says she is indifferent company. Before she lost her wits, she left my wife alone for hours.’
‘Meg has not lost her wits,’ Hew corrected him. ‘She has the falling sickness, as you know.’
‘The pair of you, deranged! As I had understood, the sickness was controlled. Now I find it has recurred, and far from bringing comfort to my wife, she turns a pregnant woman from her bed . . .’
‘It was Lucy’s choice to put her there.’
‘. . . has turned her from her bed and sought for comforts, while my wife herself has done without. Physicians calling daily! Without mention of the cost.’
‘There is no cost. It is a friend of mine.’
‘With no regard to Lucy’s feelings.’ Flett ignored him. ‘Therefore, she must leave. I have found a nursemaid in the town who will serve our purpose well. Return her to her father’s house, and say we were deceived in her.’
‘I see,’ Hew answered coldly. ‘Then will she take the monies that my father paid to keep her?’
Robin flushed. ‘Well, we were deceived in her. It was she that broke the contract. And the money has been spent.’
‘On the Angel, I presume,’ Hew confided privately to Meg. ‘In truth, I could not bear to see you in that house. And Father will be glad to have you home.’
‘As to that,’ she answered thoughtfully, ‘I may not return to him.’
‘How so?’ he teased. ‘He will not have you?’
‘I may have another home. My father will be welcome there. Doctor Locke has asked to marry me.’
‘Giles?’ he echoed, startled, ‘asked Father if he may marry you?’
‘No, Hew,’ she said tartly. ‘He asked me. He wishes me to help him in his practice. He thinks his days are numbered in the college.’
‘And you said yes? I thought that you disliked him?’
‘Did you, though?’ She smiled at him. ‘I wonder why.’
Meg was to be married from her father’s house. Hew returned on Sunday to collect her things. Lucy Linn was pleased to see him, all ill will forgotten in the light of her most recent acquisitions. The painter had returned at last, a little worse for wear, and had planted two stout cuckoos in the painted nest. Hew was admiring the fat twins, more from politeness than conviction, when Robin burst into the room, crying, ‘Scoundrel! Thief!’
‘What is it?’ Lucy begged him in alarm.
He glared at Hew as if he were responsible. ‘We shall be ruined!’
‘But what has happened?’
‘Gilbert Strachan,’ Robin spluttered.
‘Gilbert Strachan?’ echoed Hew. ‘Your friend?’
‘He is no friend of mine,’ his cousin answered rudely. ‘Aye, I’ll see him hanged. He took the Angel, Lucy! We are ruined!’
‘Peace, Robin, for you make no sense,’ she scolded. ‘The Angel’s safe in harbour. Gilbert’s overseas.’
‘Aye, he is now, in the Angel. He has stolen her.’
‘Do you mean to say,’ demanded Hew, ‘that Gilbert has returned to Scotland?’
‘Aye, man, don’t you listen? He came here last night. He came secretly, and falsely, and this morning went to the shipmaster and bought out his share. Can you believe, he paid him with my money, that I gave to buy him out, and has made off with her!’
‘It was my father’s money,’ muttered Hew.
Lucy asked shrewdly. ‘Has he taken Agnes?’
‘Agnes? Damn it, aye, he did! He has taken the Angel, that is the point! He sold his share to me, to buy the other third so that he might steal the whole! And the shipmaster swears that Strachan told him I had sold my share to him!’
‘I am confused,’ said Lucy. ‘Do not shout. You will disturb the babies.’
‘Disturb them? Don’t you understand? It’s them he robs. It is their future gone. Villain! Treachery!’
‘Hush, Robin, do. You’ll have another ship. Or Gilbert will return her. He will, won’t he, Hew?’
But Hew was staring in astonishment. ‘Agne
s Ford was right. He did come back for her.’
As the news spread through the town, Hew approached the coroner. ‘Now that Agnes and Gilbert have fled,’ he petitioned, ‘will you not write to the justice clerk, and bid him drop the charge against Nicholas Colp?’
The man shook his head. ‘It is not as simple as that.’
‘Strachan killed the dyer. Dyer killed the boy. That much is simple.’
‘Aye, perhaps. I hear your plea,’ the coroner acknowledged. ‘But there are no witnesses.’
‘There is a twelve-year-old child, Dyer’s daughter, who could identify the man who killed her father.’
‘A child may not bear witness,’ the coroner said patiently.
‘If you dredge the Kinness Burn, you’ll find his velvet cloak. It’s thick with dye.’
‘And say we find the cloak, who swears it’s his?’
‘But still,’ persisted Hew, ‘unless Agnes and Strachan are to testify, there can be no case against Nicholas.
‘I allow they are defaulters. There are charges against them, and they are both denounced as rebels since they do not come to answer them. Agnes is indicted for the murder of her husband, Strachan for assisting her escape. And Robin Flett has brought a charge of piracy, for the thieving of his ship. Even if they did compear, the court would disallow their evidence against him.’
‘Well then, drop the charge.’
‘If it were simply murder, then we might. There is a second charge against your friend, of sodomie.’
‘Of sodomie? How can there be witnesses to that? If Strachan is discounted . . .’
‘It was not Strachan who brought the charge.’
‘Who, then?’ Hew said, baffled.
‘It was James Gilchrist, principal of St Leonard’s College. He was most emphatic. There were letters and a gown set forth in evidence.’
‘Gilchrist? Aye, of course. Yet you must allow that he is not impartial in this case. You have heard him make allegations of the sort before, wild and importunate, and with as little substance. Will the justice not accept his wit’s impaired?’
‘I have seen him sorely distracted, as you say. I believe he bears a grudge. You and I know his evidence may well be skewed. Yet I doubt the justice clerk would see it in these terms. Gilchrist is a man of some importance in the town. Since he makes the charge, it must be heard.’
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