by Pat McIntosh
‘Had she none?’ Gil asked.
‘Aye, but she renounced them,’ said the hiccuping girl, Nicholas he thought. ‘We’d to see to them all atween us. Feed her hens, take her share o the sweeping and cooking.’
‘Fetch her food,’ said the other, who must therefore be Ursula.
‘Did her maid or her waiting-men not do that?’ It hardly made sense, he thought; he had seen several servants already, and the householder was described as a gentleman and his daughters as heiresses. His own sisters had had their duties certainly, but they hardly amounted to cleaning and kitchen-work.
‘Meggot had enough to do trying to keep her chamber clean.’
‘Tell me about the household,’ he suggested. ‘How many are you?’
They looked at each other. Beyond the outer courtyard, beyond the walls of the hostel, Gil heard the burgh bellman ring his great brass bell and begin the description of Annie Gibb.
‘Well, there’s us,’ said Ursula, counting on her fingers, ‘and Faither, and our aunt, and Annie. And there was Mariota till she wedded Lockhart, and times there’s Henry and Austin—’
‘Who are they?’ Gil asked.
‘Cousins?’ said Nicholas.
‘No, they areny cousins,’ said Ursula. ‘Only by courtesy. They’re no blood kin o ours, Nick, they’re Ellen’s nephews by her first man’s sister Margaret Boyd, they’re Muirs, the both o them.’
Outside, the bellman had dealt with Annie Gibb and was now describing the unknown corpse, inviting any who might know her to visit the chapel of St Catherine’s hostel. A mistake, thought Gil. We’ll be overrun. Reckoning his mother’s Boyd kindred in his head, he located Margaret Boyd and her sons. They were perched on a very distant branch of the pedigree, but the connection with Dame Ellen could be useful.
‘They might as well be cousins, the way Ellen carries on,’ said Nicholas. ‘Making them ride into Glasgow wi us, keeping on at Annie how handsome they are,’ she added darkly, and hiccuped. Ursula bit back more giggles, and continued,
‘And there’s that doctor the now, and then there’s Meggot, and Gillian that waits on my aunt.’ She proceeded to list a good half-dozen indoor servants before she lost count, looking helplessly from her hands to Gil.
‘Most of those have stayed at home, I think,’ Gil said. Nicholas nodded. ‘Why did you come to Glasgow?’
‘Well, for the miracle,’ said Ursula reasonably. ‘It wouldny work tying her to the farm gatepost, after all.’
‘No, I meant you two in particular.’
They looked at each other again. Nicholas hiccuped, Ursula giggled.
‘To see the High Kirk?’ suggested Nicholas, trying to ignore her sister. ‘And all the vessels on the Clyde, and the market, and that. All the things the chapman tellt us, that was through Glenbuck last month.’
‘We’ve only seen St Mungo’s so far,’ said Ursula. ‘Might as well ha stayed at home.’
‘Ellen wouldny ha left us at home,’ said Nicholas sagely. ‘Where we go, she goes, and where she goes, we go, till we’re wedded. And Ellen had to come wi Annie,’ a shadow flickered across her face, ‘and Faither.’
‘Tell me about Annie,’ he suggested. ‘What like was she before she fell into her melancholy? Was she a good sister?’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Nicholas, and hiccuped. Ursula ducked her head, suppressing more giggles, and her sister went on, ‘She was a good laugh, she was aye fun to be company wi, she’d lend all her gowns and her jewels and borrow yours.’
Gil nodded; his sister Margaret had summed up this sharing as First up, best dressed.
‘Then she lost the bairn,’ said Ursula, sobering. ‘She was right melancholy after that.’
‘And then Arthur died,’ both sisters crossed themselves, ‘and she vowed she’d never cease mourning him, and all the rest of it.’
‘Sitting in the dark, aye at her prayers, no singing or joking or bonny clothes.’
‘She’d locked her jewels all in her kist,’ said Nicholas resentfully.
‘She must have loved him very deeply,’ said Gil.
‘Aye,’ said Ursula, ‘and the deil knows why, it was just Arthur.’ Her sister hiccuped explosively, and she gasped and turned her head away, biting back the giggles.
‘Has she any friends in Glasgow?’ Gil asked.
‘Just us,’ said Nicholas blankly. ‘Who would she have? She’s never been in Glasgow in her life afore this.’
‘So she’s adrift in a strange burgh,’ said Gil deliberately, ‘barefoot in her shift. What d’you suppose has come to her?’
‘She’ll be safe enough,’ said Ursula, on a sudden uncontrollable burst of giggles. ‘The way she stinks now, nobody’d go next or nigh her!’
Her sister drew breath looking shocked, hiccuped resoundingly, and collapsed in equal laughter. The door to the women’s lodging was flung wide, and Dame Ellen stalked out.
‘What a way to comport yoursels! Your sister missing, a dead woman in the chapel, your faither the way he is. Sit up straight and behave yoursels decent, or the Archbishop’s man will send in sic a report of you, you’ll never be wedded this side o Doomsday.’
Both sisters rose, scarlet with mingled laughter and embarrassment, and collected themselves enough to curtsy briefly to Gil before fleeing past their aunt and into the shadows. He could hear them, still laughing within the hall, and Dame Ellen turned a bony simper on him, the rather dreadful coquetry of her mouth by no means matched in her eyes.
‘What a pair of lassies!’ she was saying. ‘You’ll accept my apologies for their behaviour, I hope, maister.’
‘They’re very young,’ Gil observed. The simper vanished bleakly.
‘Aye, well, if they’re old enough to be wedded, they’re old enough to behave theirsels like modest women. What my kinsman at St Mungo’s would have to say about them I canny think. Have you learned aught yet? That doctor says my brother’s—’ She broke off, her expression softening as voices rose in the outer yard, Sir Simon’s among them. Feet sounded in the passageway, Socrates growled quietly, and two young men burst into the sunshine.
‘What’s this yon fellow says?’ demanded the first of her, as Gil checked his dog. ‘Annie vanished and some dead woman in her place? What have you been at here?’
‘Now, Henry, mind your tongue afore Blacader’s quaestor!’ chided Dame Ellen. ‘These are my nephews, maister, that rode into Glasgow wi us and are lodged wi their kinsman along Rottenrow. Henry and Austin Muir.’
Her gestures identified them: Henry fair and ostentatious, Austin tawny and diffident, both sturdy, handsome and expensively dressed in identical short velvet gowns which did not conceal Austin’s low-necked shirt of fine linen or his brother’s embroidered doublet of crimson silk, its high collar caked in silver braid. That must itch, Gil thought irrelevantly.
The brothers stared, taken aback, until Henry recalled his manners and made a swaggering bow, sweeping his jewelled bonnet above the cobbles. Gil returned the courtesy, saying,
‘Aye, Mistress Gibb is vanished away. Have you any knowledge of where she might have taken shelter or hid herself?’
‘Hid herself? Why’s she done that?’ said Austin, still staring.
‘We’d looked to find her here,’ said Henry. ‘Is there truly no trace o where she’s at?’
‘What brings you here to find her?’ Gil countered. ‘Had you business wi her?’
‘Business?’ repeated Austin. ‘Us? No, we—’
‘What else would bring them but civility? They’ve called in the hopes o finding her cured o her madness, a course,’ said Dame Ellen, smiling fondly. ‘And the wish to see their old aunt, I hope.’
‘But what’s happened?’ asked Henry, ignoring this. ‘Have you no set up a search? Why was there another woman in her place? Who is it, anyway?’
He was speaking to Dame Ellen, but Gil answered him:
‘The Provost’s men are searching for Mistress Gibb, and we’ve got both women being cried through the town. We’ll see if anyone kens th
e corp we have. Someone must ha missed her.’ He paused, considering the two. ‘Where were you last night? ‘
‘Where were we?’ Henry bristled. ‘Are you saying we had aught to do wi it?’
‘If I ken where you were and whether you saw anything useful,’ said Gil patiently, ‘it would help me trace where the dead woman came from. In fact, I’d be grateful if you’d take a look at her now.’
‘And then you can join the search for Annie, the both of you,’ announced their kinswoman. Henry gave her a sharp look, but said,
‘Aye, well, we were in our cousin’s house all the evening, getting the news o Glasgow and telling him the news o Ayrshire.’
‘Together?’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Austin, nodding.
‘So what about this corp?’ demanded Henry. ‘Are we to look at her, or no?’
‘One thing,’ said Austin, ‘she’ll ha stayed this side of the Girth Burn.’
‘Who will? What are you on about now?’ demanded Henry, turning to follow Gil to the outer courtyard.
‘Annie, a course. She’ll ha stayed up here atween the two burns.’
‘How d’you make that out?’
‘They canny cross running water. Everybody kens that.’
‘That’s witches, bawheid! Annie’s no witch, just melancholy.’
There was a handful of local people in the chapel, arguing briskly about who the dead woman might be, their speculations hindered only slightly by the fact that none of them could recognise her. The bier was now attended by two of the hostel servants; a man in blue livery stood at its head and a woman in a blue gown and grey cloak knelt at the foot, her beads sliding through her fingers. Near them, leaning negligently against the chancel-screen, was Lowrie. His attention was on the arguing townsfolk, but when Gil stood aside to let the Muir brothers enter first, he straightened up, watching them approach. Gil, watching his assistant in turn, was warned by the way the younger man’s expression went blank, a fraction before Austin Muir stopped in his tracks and dropped his hat to seize his brother’s arm.
‘Henry! Is that no— Is it no—’ He swallowed, and his brother turned a furious face on him, as the group of neighbours paused to watch. ‘Aye, it is, surely!’
‘It’s no Annie, bawheid, they’ve tellt us that,’ Henry said savagely. ‘Hold your tongue, and let the rest o us decide what’s to do!’
‘No, it’s no Annie, I ken that,’ argued Austin, ‘it’s surely—It’s that— It’s awfy like—’ He took in his brother’s expression and fell silent. Henry freed himself and stepped forward to the bier, bending to look at the dead girl’s damaged face, then straightened up.
‘Never saw her afore,’ he said. ‘I’ve never a notion who she might be.’
‘And you, Austin?’ said Gil deliberately. Austin jumped, looked over his shoulder at Gil, and back at his brother.
‘I, I— I never saw her neither,’ he averred.
‘Likely she’s some hoor from away down the town, from the Gallowgate or the like,’ said Henry easily, crossing himself as he moved to join Gil. ‘Poor soul.’
‘That’s a good thought, maister,’ said one of the neighbours, a stout woman with a basket full of purchases from the market. ‘You never ken what they folks down the Gallowgate will get up to, beating lassies to death would be nothing to them.’
This met with agreement from two more of the group, but one man shook his head and the other woman present said,
‘It’s right far to carry her once she’s deid, Agnes, to bring her up here to St Mungo’s. Did the bellman no say she was bound to the Cross? Why would anyone do that?’
‘So they wouldny get the blame for it away down there, a course!’ said the basket-carrier triumphantly.
‘There, you see,’ said Henry to Gil. ‘Make sure the bellman cries her down the town, or better still carry her down there and show her, the most of them’ll not trouble themselves to come up here for a dead lassie. Likely someone down the Gallowgate’ll name her for you.’
‘But how would they do that, Henry?’ asked his brother in perplexity, ‘when they—’
‘Will you be quiet, bawheid that you are?’ demanded Henry. ‘Hold your wheesht and let those of us that can think do the thinking.’
‘No, I never met them before this,’ said Lowrie, accepting a share of bread and cheese with gratitude. ‘I doubt Austin can sign his name, let along con his books, and Henry doesny seem like a college man. Certainly he’s no Glasgow man.’
‘He never came to visit your friend Ninian when you were at the College? Ninian Boyd, I mean,’ Gil expanded, without much hope. Lowrie shook his head.
They had repaired to the inner courtyard; Gil wanted to consider what he had learned so far, and it seemed a good moment to consume Kittock’s dole. Now he continued, ‘I reckon they’d be some kind of kin of Ninian’s, third or fourth cousins maybe, closer than they are to me. The two of them are lodged wi Canon Muir on Rottenrow, who Dame Ellen said was another kinsman. I need to get a word wi him, confirm that, confirm what they were doing last night. I’m not at all convinced they gave us the whole truth.’
‘Austin knew the corp, or thought he did,’ Lowrie agreed, ‘he was struck wi horror at first sight. It could have been her bruises, but it seemed to me he recognised her.’
‘Henry was very quick to silence him.’
‘I liked his suggestion of the Gallowgate.’
‘A nice piece of misdirection. It could even be true.’
Gil extracted the cheese from between the remainder of his bread and ate it. Lowrie was watching him intently and chewing hard, and after a moment swallowed and said,
‘I had another word wi the servants here, both the guests’ household and the hostel folk, now it’s known Annie’s missing.’ Gil made an interrogatory noise. ‘The two that guarded her kept a good eye on her till about midnight, it seems, because there were folk about till that hour. The man Sawney says she spoke to him then, asking him to set her free, addressed him by name, so I think we can assume she was there and unharmed at that point. I’ve a note of who slept where here in the hostel, which should help if we’re checking movements, and that pair in the chapel the now, Will and Bessie, are man and wife and dwell by the gate here, and they mentioned there were comings and goings in the night.’
‘Oh, there were, were there?’ Gil gave his crusts to the expectant dog and took another hunk of bread from the linen wrapping. ‘Did they name anyone?’
‘No, it seems the door was left unbarred a-purpose, in case they brought Mistress Gibb back earlier than the dawn. The woman, Bessie, heard the door go an hour or so afore midnight, so she reckoned, and looked out assuming she’d be needed to help Annie back to the women’s hall, but the courtyard was empty.’ Lowrie dug in his purse for his tablets, found the right leaf and scrutinised his notes. ‘And twice more after that she heard footsteps and the door closing, and voices in the courtyard. Seems it shuts wi a thump that shakes their bed, no matter the care that’s taken. She never looked out the later times, she said she took it if she was needed they’d bang on the lodging door. Likely she was too warm to move by then,’ he added in faint amusement.
‘Three times the door went,’ said Gil thoughtfully.
‘Three times after they were in bed,’ Lowrie qualified.
‘A good point. And yet none of the folk we’ve spoken to referred to being out of the hostel. You’d think they might have mentioned it.’ He considered the final portion of bread and cheese, then broke it carefully into two large pieces and a small one, handed the small one to the dog and gestured to Lowrie to take one of the others. ‘Did her man hear anything?’
‘He says he heard the door go but never roused enough to take note of how often.’
‘Hm,’ said Gil. ‘Did you get anything from the others? From the Shaw servants?’
‘No more than I’ve told you already. So do we need to start asking who was about in the night?’
‘That can wait.’ Gil brushed
breadcrumbs from his person, gathered up the linen cloth and shook it out. Several chaffinches flew down onto the cobbles, keeping a wary distance from the dog, but flew up again when the two men rose. ‘I want to get another look at the Cross, and the ground about it, if Andro and his men haveny trampled it into dust. The amount of movement there must have been, they’d surely have left some trace.’
‘Who?’ Lowrie followed him across the outer yard. ‘Whose traces are you thinking we might find?’
Gil nodded to Sir Simon at his chamber window and strode on, out of the gate, before finally saying,
‘At the very least, Annie herself and whoever released her from her bonds. Depending on what came after that, it could be as many as five or six people we’re trying to track.’
‘Do you think she went willingly?’ Lowrie asked after a moment.
‘A lot turns on that,’ agreed Gil. ‘And on precisely why she was released.’
Lowrie was silent while they skirted the high sandstone walls of the Castle and approached the gate of St Mungo’s kirkyard. Finally he said, counting off the points on his fingers,
‘Marriage by consent, whether for love or money. Marriage by capture. Simple compassion.’
‘As a hostage,’ Gil supplied. ‘To get control of her land or her money, even without marriage. Any of these.’ He paused on the slope that led down to the Girth Burn, looking about him. Off to their left the building site which was Archbishop Blacader’s addition to his cathedral church showed signs of life, with the clink of metal on stone and the creak of wooden scaffolding; as Gil turned that way Maistre Pierre’s head showed above the wall. Seeing them, the mason waved, and vanished down into the structure.
Between the Fergus Aisle and the burn which formed the boundary of the kirkyard was a clump of hawthorns, their berries just beginning to show in still-green clusters. Taller trees beyond them threw a thick-leaved shade. Crows swirled about their tops, cawing, and the long blades of bluebells grew thickly in the dappled spaces between the glowing sunlit trunks, the flowers long faded and the green seed-cases ripening on the curved stems. A sudden memory assailed Gil, of hunting among the bluebells for a harp-key while the harper’s mistress, small John’s mother, lay dead in the Fergus Aisle, of finding a wisp of woollen thread from her plaid on one of those same hawthorn bushes.