The Fourth Crow

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘Let me get my boots,’ said Gil, stepping aside as Kittock emerged from the end chamber blinking and hooking up her gown across her broad bosom, her apron over one arm. ‘Would you cut me a bite of bread and cheese?’ he asked her. ‘I doubt I’ll be home afore the porridge is eaten up.’

  ‘What’s amiss, maister?’ she asked, shaking out the apron. ‘Is it the English at the gates? Will you be wanting your jack and helm? For I’m not right sure where we put them when we flitted you.’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ he confessed. ‘Habbie? Who’s dead?’

  ‘It’s the woman that was at St Mungo’s Cross,’ began Habbie Sim.

  Within the small chamber, Annis shrieked in alarm.

  ‘Christ amend us, is she got loose? Is she dangerous? Are we all to be murdered in our beds?’

  ‘No, no, you’re safe enough, lass,’ said Maister Sim, pausing to rub at his arms as if he was cold. ‘It’s the woman hersel— She’s dead. Someone’s slain her where she was bound.’

  ‘Our Lady save us all. Murdered, you mean, maister?’ said Kittock intelligently, over another shriek from Annis. She crossed herself, and muttered a prayer. ‘Right, Maister Gil, I’ll get a piece and cheese put up for you, and you be sure and eat it, now. Annis, you can stop that noise, hen. The poor soul will be led straight to Paradise by St Mungo himsel and Our Lady, I’ve no doubt.’ She set off towards the back door, followed by a reluctant Annis, just as loud footsteps on the main stair proclaimed the arrival of Euan, now decently clad and waving Gil’s boots.

  ‘Here’s your boots, maister, you’ll likely be wanting them,’ he said unnecessarily, ‘and Maister Lowrie’s on his way down, and Jennet’s getting the mistress up, and the wee fellow’s still sleeping, praise be to Our Lady, we’d not want him running about hearing all what Maister Sim has to tell us, would we now?’

  ‘Away out with Kittock,’ Gil ordered, accepting the boots, ‘and gie her a hand to get the fire going.’ He sat down on the nearest bench and kicked off his house shoes. ‘Go on, Habbie, tell me what’s amiss. Who found the woman? Is it certain it’s a violent death?’

  ‘Oh, aye, certain. It was two of her friends found her,’ said Maister Sim, as Lowrie slipped quietly into the room, fully dressed and booted. ‘Her servants, I suppose. They came out to get her afore the dawn, and here she was dead, which distressed them greatly a course, and they cam up to St Mungo’s to fetch someone. It was only when we found the cord about her neck they realised she hadny just up and died of her own accord. And when the light grew they recognised she’d been beaten and all, a dreadful sight, Gil. You need to see her.’

  ‘A cord?’ Gil repeated. ‘I see why you’ve come for me.’ He stood, tramping his heels down into the boots, and bent to fasten the straps which held the soft leather in place about his calves.

  ‘Aye. So will you come now, afore they shift her? I’ve heard you often enough about what’s to be learned from a corp afore it’s shifted.’

  The light in the chamber was increasing, and the full glory of Maister Sim’s garb was visible. Always a showy dresser, he had risen this morning in a short gown of tawny velvet faced with gold-coloured silk, which contrasted nicely with a red cloth doublet and bright blue hose. Boots of a different red and a round green felt hat completed the outfit. Beside it, Gil’s habitual, well-worn black appeared quite drab. Used to this effect, Gil ignored it, lifted his plaid from the peg by the back door, nodded to Lowrie and snapped his fingers for the dog.

  ‘The hunt’s up,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. Tell me more as we go, Habbie. What did her friends do when they found her?’

  ‘Set up a hue and cry,’ said Maister Sim, following him out of the house. ‘One ran to St Nicholas’, another to St Mungo’s and found us just assembling for Prime. So Will Craigie and I went to see, since we could be spared, our parts are both doubled in this morning’s setting, and when we found the cord I came down to fetch you and he stayed to offer up the first prayers, which was only right in the circumstance.’

  Gil nodded, pausing at the kitchen door to take the scrip Kittock had ready for him, and glad his friend could not see his expression. Most of the songmen were in minor orders at least, though possession of a good singing voice was the more important criterion. Maister Craigie was one of the few who were fully ordained, but his private life was not what one might hope for. He cheated at cards to Gil’s certain knowledge, there were other tales to the man’s discredit, and Gil’s uncle Canon Cunningham had admitted that the Chapter of St Mungo’s was occasionally exercised about his behaviour. Not who I would wish to offer prayers at my death, Gil thought, striding out onto the Drygate.

  ‘And who are her friends? Who’s she, indeed? I heard she was from Ayrshire.’

  ‘Well, you ken more than me, if that’s so,’ admitted his friend. ‘These were two of her servants, I think. They called her Annie, and said her sisters were in the guest-hall at St Catherine’s. Likely they’ve been tellt by now.’

  There was a small crowd in the kirkyard near the tall stone cross, exclaiming in shock and amazement above a rich bass drone which became recognisable as the prayers for the dead. Gil made out William Craigie close by the Cross as its source, with two bareheaded men standing white faced and stricken next to him. One of the St Mungo’s vergers in his blue gown of office stood by radiating indignation; the rest of the dozen or so spectators seemed to be servants of the Upper Town and other early workers, attracted to the scene on their way past. He recognised the livery of St Nicholas’ hostel, but nobody from St Catherine’s seemed to be here yet.

  ‘Get all these names if you will,’ he said to Lowrie as they approached. ‘Likely the most of them have nothing to do with the matter, but you never ken.’

  ‘Will I be sending them all away, Maister Gil?’ offered Euan helpfully behind him.

  ‘No, you will not. Stand back and keep out of it,’ Gil ordered, and shouldered his way in next to the tall cross.

  ‘Maister Cunningham!’ said the verger as he reached it. ‘What are you going to do about this? She canny stay here, we canny have this! I told the woman we couldny take an eye to her, and now see what’s come o’t!’

  Gil considered him for a moment.

  ‘A drop of compassion would be becoming to a servant of Holy Kirk, Barnabas,’ he observed. The man coloured up, but said defensively,

  ‘It willny do for St Mungo’s, and any road Canon Henderson’s no going to be pleased. We’re no wanting this kind o thing on our ground!’

  Abandoning the matter, Gil moved round him to touch the body where it hung slumped and stiffened in its bonds.

  ‘She’s long gone, maister,’ said one of the men beside her. ‘But sic a way to go! Who’d ha done that to a poor mad lassie?’

  The woman was quite certainly dead, there was no doubt about it. She had been bound to the Cross with a stout new hemp rope, no cheap item, which in happier circumstances would have been gifted to St Mungo’s altar by now, to be sold on later to pay for lights. It had been tied with care, though not particularly tightly, perhaps leaving her enough room to flex arms and legs to prevent cramp, and as a result she now leaned forward and sideways, her head bent. Unkempt mud-coloured hair was trapped under the cord which Maister Sim had mentioned where it crossed the nape of her neck, but more locks fell free, hanging below her waist, and obscured her face. She was clad in a penitential sacking gown, a surprisingly threadbare woollen plaid bundled over it, her bare feet visible below its bedraggled hem. There was a strong smell, not merely of stale urine as one might expect, but of a ripely unwashed body. He felt her hand and then her neck; the dead flesh was quite rigid. The dog nosed at the body, and turned to look up at his master’s face.

  ‘She’s deid, maister,’ said the man who had spoken before, while Maister Craigie switched from Requiem aeternam to Pater noster. ‘She’s cold and set, and I thought she was sleeping.’ He spoke quite calmly, but his hands shook.

  ‘Was it you found her?’ Gil asked, moving a ha
nk of hair aside to look at the dangling ends of the cord. They seemed as new as the rope. Who would use a cord like that, he wondered, and for what?

  ‘Aye, it was. Rab and me.’ The man indicated his silent companion. ‘We was watching in St Nicholas’, over yonder, seeing St Mungo’s was locked for the night, and I keeked out every hour or so, cam across to the kirkyard wall wi a lantern to see that all was well, she spoke to me a couple o times and asked me to set her free, and I wish I had, maister, I wish I had. And then I cam down and it was, it seemed, it was all quiet, she’d ceased her raving and fell asleep, and there was the moonlight, and the laddies that were about had all went hame by midnight and— When we cam down to loose her afore dawn I still thought she’d fell asleep, I— I thought she was sleeping,’ he repeated, ‘till I spoke her name and she never stirred, and then I seen— I seen—’ He crossed himself, tears springing to his eyes. ‘It’s no just that she’s deid. Look at her face, maister, look what’s come to her! Who could ha done that?’

  Gil lifted away the rest of the dangling hair, and flinched. Maister Craigie’s steady murmur checked at what was revealed, and flowed on with extra fervour. The woman had been beaten, and savagely. Blackened eyes, pulped nose, a swollen and purple cheek, torn mouth, were all caked in blood, which had run across her chin before it dried.

  ‘Sweet St Giles!’ he said. ‘I take it she never looked like that when you left her.’

  ‘We left her hale and healthy, maister, save she was mad,’ the man assured him. ‘Who could ha done this to her, bound as she was, the poor lassie?’

  ‘Nobody from St Mungo’s!’ said Barnabas indignantly.

  ‘And you heard nothing from where you were?’

  ‘Nothing, maister! And we were awake the whole night, so we were, the both of us. Surely she’d ha screamed if she was— Could she no ha cried out? We’d ha heard her, maister, we would that!’ The man swallowed hard. ‘Poor lass, she never wished— She bade us take her away as many times, she never felt it would do her good. I wish I’d listened. I wish I’d watched at her side.’

  ‘Have you been with her long?’ Lowrie asked, fetching up at Gil’s elbow, tucking his tablets back into his purse. Much of the crowd had evaporated rather than have its names written down, as Gil had hoped, and the remaining handful had retreated to a safe distance, Euan among them. He caught the words Blacader’s quaestor passing around.

  ‘I followed her fro her faither’s house,’ said the man. ‘And Rab here’s been wi her near as long. Maister, who could ha done this? She was under the saint’s protection, she’d never ha been a harm to anyone, we bound her only to prevent her running off. Why throttle a lassie that canny— And to treat her like that and all—’ He turned away, his hand going to his eyes. Lowrie patted him on the shoulder, and looked at Gil.

  ‘What do you see?’ Gil prompted, as Maister Craigie embarked on another round of the prayers for the dead. ‘Anything useful?’

  ‘Ground’s too dry, even this close to the burn,’ said Lowrie, ‘and there’s been too many feet around here in any case. No tracks to recognise. No marks on the gown or plaid, I’d think she hasny been stabbed at all, just beaten and strangled.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s like what they tell of the Inquisition, isn’t it, maister?’ He prowled around the high carved cross, tugged at the rope which bound the woman, peered at the hemp strands as Gil had already done. Socrates followed him, sniffing carefully where he looked. ‘These knots haveny been untied, have they?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Gil. Socrates sat down at the feet of the more talkative servant, nudging his hand. The man stroked the soft ears, smiling crookedly at the dog, and Gil said to him, ‘Do you mind how she was bound last night? Would you say all was as you left her?’

  The man looked at him, startled, then at the restraints which held the corpse upright. He appeared to count the loops which circled the skirts and torso, then stepped behind the cross to check the knots.

  ‘It looks like it,’ he agreed. ‘You can see, we put plenty good knots in it, Rab and me. She’d never ha got them undone, maister, we— We took good care o that.’

  ‘Well it was nobody from St Mungo’s,’ declared Barnabas officiously. ‘I tellt the woman, I tellt her plain, it’s naught to do wi us what happens down here at the Cross, there’s nobody to spare to have an eye to her. It was nobody from St Mungo’s untied they knots.’

  ‘Sawney,’ said Rab suddenly. He glanced beyond his colleague, beyond the cross, just as Gil became aware of a commotion approaching the kirkyard gates, of raised voices and women weeping.

  ‘Oh, Christ aid us all, it’s the lassies,’ said Sawney. ‘Maister, it’s her good-sisters, we’d best head them off, she isny a sight for young lassies, no till she’s laid out, if then.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Maister Sim, who had stood by silently until now. ‘Will, come wi me, I think the living need you.’

  Maister Craigie, finishing the prayer he was reciting, crossed himself, looked round and nodded. Maister Sim was already hurrying towards the group of women. As the priest followed Gil said,

  ‘Barnabas, if you would fetch Euan a board or the like we can cut her down, afore it gets any busier here.’

  ‘A board?’ repeated Barnabas, as if he had never heard the word before. ‘Oh, no. The boards we’ve got are all accounted for, it’s more than my position’s worth to let them out my hands.’

  ‘There will be something there that would not be missed for an hour or two,’ said Euan. ‘Come and show me what you have.’

  ‘But where’ll we take her to, maister?’ asked Sawney helplessly. ‘I’ve no— I canny— Our maister’s no fit to direct me, and it’s no a matter to take to Dame Ellen.’

  This was the first Gil had heard of a head of the household. He set the point aside for later and said, ‘If you’re lodged at St Catherine’s, we should take her there. They’ll put her in the chapel for now. I want to see her afore she’s laid out.’

  ‘Better to wait till she’s washed, maister,’ said Sawney, watching Euan making for the Cathedral, the protesting Barnabas beside him. Several of the spectators were following, possibly in the hope of learning more. ‘She’s pretty ripe. See, it’s been since her man dee’d,’ Sawney expanded. ‘What wi that and she’d lost the bairn he gave her, she fell into a great melancholy, poor lassie, and she vowed she’d live single all her days, and never wash, nor be combed, nor anything of the sort. Nothing her sisters said would budge her from it.’

  ‘Sweet St Giles!’ said Gil, but Lowrie was nodding.

  ‘I’ve heard of that. There was a woman away beyond Stirling did the same, so my mother once told me. It’s in a song, too. Sall neither coif come on my head, nor kaim come in my hair, Nor neither coal nor candlelight come in my bower mair,’ he quoted, and added thoughtfully, ‘doesn’t say anything about never washing.’

  The group of women had been persuaded to retrace their steps, though one of them kept looking over her shoulder. The two songmen were going with them, gesturing past the rose-coloured sandstone walls of the castle in the direction of the pilgrim hostel.

  ‘Tell me about her,’ said Gil. ‘Who is she?’

  She was, as Maistre Pierre had said, Annie Gibb, daughter and heiress of a gentleman of Kyle, one James Gibb of Tarbolton. Wedded at fourteen to Arthur, son of Sir Edward Shaw of Glenbuck, a bonnie lad a year younger than herself, she had lost a bairn at seventeen, by which time her husband was already racked by the coughing sickness which killed him a year later, shortly after her own father died.

  ‘So he never gave her another,’ said Sawney, ‘and here she was a widow at eighteen, poor lass, and by then she was over ears in love wi him, and fell into a great melancholy like I said. And given that Sir Edward’s got his death and all, he was hoping to see her cured so he could wed her safe afore he dees hissel, and not leave her a charge on his lassies or their husbands. There’s no other heir,’ he explained.

  ‘How old is she now?’ Gil asked.

  ‘N
ear one-and-twenty,’ said Sawney, ‘and her faither’s dead these two year and all,’ he repeated.

  Gil looked at the corpse’s bent head and unkempt hair with pity. My deth I love, my life ich hate, he thought. Alys would be nineteen at midsummer; his youngest sister Tib, married a few months ago, had just turned twenty. This girl’s life had taken a very different turn from theirs, and now it was over, and violently. He could not imagine either his wife or his sister succumbing to such a melancholy, but he could see why it might happen.

  ‘Will we be cutting yon good rope?’ Euan had returned, some of his eager entourage behind him bearing a wattle hurdle. ‘It seems a shame, it does, though I would not be wishing to use it myself after this—’

  Gil was not very familiar with the two pilgrim hostels of Glasgow, and had never been inside St Catherine’s, though he had encountered its Master once or twice in the course of his legal practice. The hostel, he discovered, was a series of timber-framed buildings off the Stablegreen, with its own small stone chapel in the outer courtyard and guest halls for male and female pilgrims flanking an inner one. In the Master’s modest dwelling Sir Simon Elder met Gil with concern.

  ‘They’re all in great distress,’ he said. ‘None o them making much sense, and small wonder. Did you ever hear the like, Maister Cunningham? I’ve broke it to Sir Edward, seeing his lassies were in a right state and Habbie and the other fellow had to get back to their duties.’

  ‘How did he take it? His man Sawney said he’s sick to death. I hope this won’t hasten his end.’

  Sir Simon grimaced.

  ‘I’m not certain he took it in, to tell truth. Nodded and thanked me for bringing him word, but when I offered to pray wi him he said, No, he’d need time to it. Then his doctor put me out of the chamber, and then the lassies needed comforting.’

  ‘How big is the party?’

  ‘Oh, a good number. There’s Sir Edward himsel, poor soul, and his doctor, and his sister, and his own lassies and the husband of one of them, and this poor lass who’s in the chapel now, and all their servants. Fortunately, Sir Edward’s well able to make us a generous donation, or I’d have to be asking them to leave as soon as their three nights was up, no to mention all their beasts out-by in the stables, and I’d not like to do that in the circumstances. And we’re quiet the now, we’ll not get busy again till nearer the Assumption, we’ve a few days yet.’