The Fourth Crow

by Pat McIntosh

  Following Gil out into the sunshine again, leaving Baird standing in baffled anger by the bier, Lowrie said quietly,

  ‘Was she maybe putting the black on someone? Is that why she was killed?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Gil. ‘I wonder how this fellow had afflicted them both? And when he came back into the town?’ He glanced at the sky, and snapped his fingers for Socrates, who obediently left the doorpost he was inspecting and came to his side. ‘I think we need a word wi the lassies at the Trindle, and then it’s high time we went home for the noon bite.’

  Chapter Five

  Jean Howie’s alehouse presented itself much as Gil expected. It stood with its sagging stone gable facing the street, at the top of one of the long narrow tofts north of the Castle walls and just within the Stablegreen port. Tumbledown thatch lowered over the doorway, a similar building stood just beyond it, and a straggling line of sheds and shacks further along the path must include the lodging Billy Baird had shared with Peg. Beyond the fence at the far end of the toft was a stretch of common ground, and then the foot of the gardens of Vicars’ Alley, where the songmen of St Mungo’s dwelt. There was a sound of women weeping, and two gloomy men standing outside the house.

  ‘Is this it?’ said Lowrie doubtfully.

  ‘The sign says it is,’ Gil answered. The younger man looked at the weather-worn board hanging crookedly over the door; just recognisably it depicted a trindle, one of the long candles matched to the donor’s height and coiled into a spiral which were pledged to one saint or another in return for favours granted.

  ‘They aye make me think of dog-turds,’ he remarked, following his superior along the path. ‘Trindles. The way they curl round about.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ said Gil. He nodded to the two men at the door, and rapped smartly on the doorjamb. Socrates returned from a brief jaunt down the path and sat down grinning at his feet.

  ‘You’ll get no assistance, neighbour,’ said one of the bystanders. ‘A man could die o thirst in there the day, if he wasny drowned first wi them weeping.’

  ‘Aye, well, they’re a’ owerset,’ said his companion. ‘One o their hoors is deid,’ he explained to Gil, ‘strangled to death at Glasgow Cross in the night so they’re saying. It’s only natural they should be out o sorts.’

  Inside, the alehouse was dark, the fire burning low. The room seemed to be full of sour-smelling bodies huddled together in sobbing groups, but as his vision improved Gil made out Mistress Howie moving about by the two barrels of ale on their trestles, and no more than four other women, three at the single window with their arms about one another and one on her own by the hearth, stirring something in a pot. This one rose and came forward, wiping her eyes.

  ‘You’ll ha to forgive us, friend. Maister,’ she corrected herself as she assessed Gil’s clothing in the dimness. ‘We’re no serving the now, for we’ve just had bad news—’

  ‘I ken that,’ he said, raising his hat to her. Lowrie had taken up position by the door, the dog at his feet. ‘I was hoping for a word wi all of you that worked beside Peg Simpson. It’s possible she said something yesterday that might help me track down the man that slew her.’

  ‘You found us, then,’ said Mistress Howie from the tap. ‘Aye, Sibby, answer his questions, and if you ken aught that would help, tell it him straight out.’

  ‘It was that man o hers, for certain,’ said one of the group by the window. ‘Question him, why don’t you, or just take him up afore the Provost—’

  ‘I still need to know why she died,’ said Gil. ‘Did she tell any of you why she went out last night? Or where she was going?’

  ‘I seen her,’ said another woman by the window. She disengaged herself from the group and came nearer, rubbing at her arms as if she was cold. The sleeves of her kirtle were decorated with braid like Peg’s. ‘She went off down the road wi her plaid about her. You seen her and all, Mysie.’

  The one who had spoken before nodded, saying, ‘Aye, so I did.’

  ‘What time would that be?’

  ‘Just when we closed,’ said Mysie. ‘We’d put up the shutters, the mistress was barring the door ahint us.’

  ‘It wasny full dark,’ said the woman with the braided gown. ‘Maybe ten o’ the clock?’

  ‘Had she said where she was going?’ Gil asked.

  There was general agreement that she had not.

  ‘Never said much all afternoon,’ contributed the fourth girl, and scratched at her belly through her gown.

  ‘I thought she was in a strunt,’ said Sibby, stirring her pot again. ‘She was civil enough wi us, but she seemed right annoyed about something.’

  ‘No just annoyed,’ said Mysie. ‘Spoiling for a fight, maybe.’

  ‘I asked her what was eating her,’ said the fourth girl, ‘and she said, Same thing as all of us. But I’ll get him for it, she said. That was all, Richie Allen wanted her out the back then and we said no more of it.’

  ‘And is something eating all of you?’ Gil said. What had she meant by that, he wondered. Surely not the lice which infested her gown, those were a hazard of everyday life against which respectable people waged continuous war. The women looked at one another, but Mistress Howie said briskly,

  ‘No, indeed. My house is a happy house, maister. Well, the most o the time. The lassies all gets on well enough, don’t you no?’

  ‘Aye, we do, mistress,’ agreed Sibby.

  ‘What put Peg in a strunt?’ Gil asked. ‘Was she in a mood when she rose in the morning, or was it something through the day?’

  ‘No, she was great in the morning,’ said the scratcher. She seemed to have infected the others; the girl next her was rubbing uncomfortably at her apron. ‘We’d a good laugh ower the last night’s crocks, her and me.’

  ‘No, I thought it was after the mistress gave her into trouble for being as long wi the day’s breid,’ said Mysie.

  ‘She said naught to me,’ said Mistress Howie, coming forward with a cup of ale in each hand, ‘but then likely she wouldny.’ She handed one of the cups to Gil, and drank to him from the other. ‘Your good health, maister, and here’s to a ready solution.’

  ‘And yours, mistress, and all within here.’ Gil raised the cup in turn.

  ‘’At’s kind, maister. No, she took what I said to her quiet enough, seeing as I’d the right o it, and set about her tasks as she should. Never gave me no back-answers or nothing.’ Gil preserved silence, and she sniffed, and wiped at her eyes with the tail of her headdress. ‘Poor lassie, nobody deserves that.’

  ‘I’m for the privy,’ said one of the two still by the window, moving suddenly towards the back of the room. ‘Canny wait any longer.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said somebody else under her breath. She grimaced, and slipped out into the daylight.

  ‘What else was Peg speaking of in the day?’ Gil asked

  They looked at one another blankly. Heads were shaken in the dim light.

  ‘Just ordinary things,’ said Mysie. ‘Nothing special. What like the day’s broth was, what the baxter’s lad said when she fetched the breid, that kind o thing.’

  ‘She mentioned her bairn,’ said Sibby. ‘Said it would ha been its name day soon.’

  ‘Lowrence, was it called?’ said Lowrie, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Aye.’ She glanced at him. ‘Said it was in a better place, she did, and then went on scouring the crocks.’

  Ah, yes, thought Gil. The feast of St Lawrence would fall in a few days, name day of all called for the saint, when every Lawrence, Lowrence, Lowrie in Glasgow would be at the saint’s altars; Peg Simpson would likely have found a penny for a candle in her baby’s name.

  ‘I suppose that might be why she was in a strunt, if that vexed her,’ he suggested. More shaking of heads.

  ‘She aye said Our Lady would look after it,’ said Mysie. ‘She wasny one to brood.’

  And yet she went out to pick a fight with someone who had done her some sort of ill turn, Gil thought.


  ‘And what about the customers? Was she speaking to—’ He broke off, as a heartfelt, pain-filled wail reached his ears. It seemed to come from beyond the back door of the house. Lowrie, by the door, tensed and looked sharply at Gil. Mistress Howie ignored it; the other women looked at one another, one shrugged her shoulders, and another said,

  ‘Go on, maister. What were you saying?’

  The sound had stopped. He swallowed, gestured to Lowrie to relax, and continued, ‘Was she speaking to any in particular? Who did she take out the back?’

  ‘Out the back?’ repeated Mistress Howie indignantly. ‘Now that’s atween me and them and poor Peg, maister, I canny tell you that, you must see!’

  ‘Given that anyone else in the place would ken who she took wi her,’ he retorted, ‘no, mistress, I canny see.’

  ‘He’s right, at that, mistress,’ said Sibby. ‘And she might ha said something to one o them.’

  This was not entirely Gil’s meaning, but he let it pass.

  ‘Richie Allen. Daniel Shearer,’ said Mysie, ‘I seen her wi him. And then wi Tammas Syme. Was there another one, Dorrit?’

  ‘Never seen.’

  The fourth girl slipped back into the house, moving uncomfortably, as if she was afraid she would break, and joined the group. Dorrit put an arm round her, and Mistress Howie said irritably,

  ‘Aye, well, it was Will Thomson if ye must ken.’ Gil looked over his shoulder to check that Lowrie was making a note of the names. ‘But I’ll no have my regulars harassed. If you go asking them in front o their wives what—’

  ‘I’d never dream of it,’ said Gil politely, ‘unless they refused to answer me.’

  Mistress Howie snorted, and turned back towards her barrels.

  ‘Well, if you’re done asking questions,’ she said, ‘ye can either leave, or start paying for your ale. I’ve a house to run here.’

  ‘I was never in a bawdy-house before,’ said Lowrie diffidently, making down the hill past the rose-pink walls of the Castle. ‘At least, I was in the Mermaiden when it was still—’ He paused. ‘That one was very different.’

  ‘It was,’ said Gil rather grimly. ‘And no the kind of place I’d hope you’d frequent, save in a matter of the law. Long Mina takes better care of her girls, though I believe her prices reflect it. We’ll go round by the Castle the now. I’d better warn Otterburn or his man Andro, for I’ll wager their men use that place, handy as it is.’ He looked round, and saw Lowrie’s surprise. ‘Those four all have the clap.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lowrie followed him a few paces further, then asked, ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Later,’ Gil said, very aware of the busy street. Half of Glasgow was going home for its midday meal, and this was no moment to discuss the signs of the afflictions of Venus: the privy itching, the burning water. It occurred to him that he had not foreseen this aspect of educating a young man when he took on an assistant.

  Andro, the captain of the castle guard, was crossing the outer yard when they emerged from the gatehouse. He received the news with resignation, and promised to put the Trindle out of bounds to his men.

  ‘No that it’ll make much difference,’ he said. ‘Once that’s abroad in a town there’s only one way to avoid it, and they’re never all going to take that road.’ He eyed Gil. ‘Where have you got to wi this missing woman, maister? Or the other one?’

  ‘That’s what took me to the Trindle. The dead girl is one of theirs, Peg Simpson, last seen last night when they closed up. I need to find who she went off to meet. As for the other, I was hoping you might have something for me.’

  ‘No a thing.’ Andro shook his head gloomily. ‘We tramped all down the Girth Burn to the mill-burn, we’ve looked in sheds and outhouses and cellars and all, we’ve had as many sweirings from kitchen-wives. They’re still out searching, but we’re far enough fro the Cross now that if she was carried there to be hidden, you’d wonder why they bothered going so far. If you ken what I mean.’

  ‘You think she’s alive, then?’

  ‘Or hid somewhere right cunning. Tell you truth, I think she’s run off wi her lover. She never got untied fro the Cross hersel, somebody helped her and took her off. Likely she’s at Edinburgh by now, though how she got out o Glasgow’s anyone’s guess, for she never passed the ports this morning, I’ve checked wi all my lads.’

  ‘And the other lass? The dead one?’

  ‘No, that’s your problem, maister, none o mine.’

  ‘Just the same, if any of your men was in the Trindle last night, I’d like a word.’

  ‘You’ll get it,’ said Andro. ‘And I’ll get a word wi him too, whoever he is.’

  ‘So you have one lassie vanished away without trace,’ said Alys in her accented Scots, ‘apparently in her shift, and another lassie who left her . . . her place of work to speak to someone unknown, and turns up beaten to death, tied to the Cross, and strangled. In that order?’

  ‘In that order,’ Gil confirmed.

  ‘But are these the same matter?’ She clasped her hands together, then spread them apart, looking from one to the other. ‘Or are they separate?

  ‘You tell me,’ said Gil.

  They were in the little solar at the back of the house, where they had retired after the midday repast along with small John and his toy horse, the last of the ale and a dish of sweetmeats. Now Lowrie handed the pewter dish to Catherine, who took a lozenge of apricot leather and said in disapproving French,

  ‘The girl who has vanished must have been melancholy indeed, to make such a vow as you describe, maistre. I do not know why her priest permitted it.’

  ‘But why?’ said Alys. ‘I can understand if she wished to live without candles, though doing without coal in Scotland in winter seems to me a great folly, but why would she vow never to wash or comb her hair? She must have been crawling with—’ She made a fastidious movement as if crushing something.

  Lowrie offered,

  ‘The Provost’s captain was certain it would make her easy to trace, but I’m not so sure. She only has to wash herself and find some clothes, after all, to alter all that.’

  ‘She must also be absolved of the vow,’ Alys observed, ‘or be guilty of perjury.’ She withdrew her feet as John’s little wooden horse galloped over them, and went on, ‘Where would she find a priest for that? And would he see it as a moment to break the seal of confession and inform her friends?’

  ‘This is the upper town,’ Gil said ruefully. He seized John as the boy came within reach, and hauled him onto his knee. The harper’s son, Ealasaidh’s nephew and Gil’s ward, was a handsome child nearing three years old, tall for his age with sparkling blue eyes and a mop of dark curls. ‘Sit quiet a moment, John. She needny trouble the Cathedral or St Nicholas’, she just has to rattle at the nearest door to find a priest behind it.’

  ‘C’est vrai, maistre,’ said Catherine. ‘And his servant would not be bound by the seal of confession.’

  ‘John down! No cuddle!’

  ‘A good point, madame.’ Gil let the child go, and looked at Lowrie. ‘A task for you, then. Work your way out from the Cross, talking to servants, asking a different lot of questions. Not, Are they hiding Annie Gibb, but, Have they seen a woman in her shift at all?’

  Lowrie pulled a face.

  ‘Andro and his men will have crossed that trail,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I’ve every confidence in you.’

  ‘But,’ persisted Lowrie, reddening at the comment, ‘you mind we thought they put the other lassie at the Cross to gain time. Is it worth hunting for her close by, or do we look further afield? Could she have left the burgh?’

  ‘How would one get out of Glasgow in the night?’ Alys wondered. ‘The ports would all be barred, but I suppose some of the vennels lead out where one could get onto the Dow Hill or the Stablegreen.’

  ‘In the dark,’ said Lowrie. ‘Here, John, horsie could run along the windowsill.’

  ‘Someone that knows Glasgow, and well, could do it,’ Gil said as t
he horse’s wooden legs clattered on the sill. ‘I don’t think that applies to any of the party at St Catherine’s, but I need to check. The brothers Muir might be more familiar wi the place, I’d say, given their kinsman’s office at St Mungo’s. I’d best get a word wi them and find out where they spent the night.’

  ‘She might also have left by boat, or on a horse,’ Alys said. ‘But surely, if she has spent the last year or two dwelling in one chamber, not taking even her share of the work about the house, she has no strength to walk any distance.’

  ‘That’s a good point. Aye, I think we make sure of whether she’s still within the burgh,’ Gil said, ‘afore we start looking outside.’

  ‘Much depends,’ said Catherine, ‘on just how much help the lady had, as well as where it came from.’

  Gil nodded, and downed the last of his cup of ale.

  ‘I’ll get a word wi Otterburn,’ he said, ‘and call on Canon Muir. Then I’ll go and trouble St Catherine’s some more. I’m not convinced the whole answer’s there, but some of the questions lead back there, at least. Oh, and I need to find this ropewinder out towards Partick, and ask him about the cord.’

  Alys rose, holding her hand out to the child. ‘Come, John, shall we see if Nancy has finished helping Kittock with the crocks? You could take Euan out with you,’ she added hopefully. ‘Kittock finds him no use about the kitchen.’

  ‘There’s a coincidence,’ said Gil.

  ‘Och, indeed I was working hard on Maister Cunningham’s behalf all the morning,’ protested Euan. He nodded towards the honey-coloured bulk of St Mungo’s where it loomed above the houses on the north side of the Drygate. ‘We was making certain, me and the vergers, that the lady was not hid about the High Kirk anywhere. I was never searching so big a building afore,’ he added earnestly. ‘You would be having no idea how many corners and stairs and chambers there are about the place, it is nothing like St Comghan’s wee kirk at home.’

  ‘Did you search the towers and all?’ Gil asked, irritation giving way to amusement.

  ‘Indeed we did. That Barnabas was saying there was no need, so naturally I would be making certain,’ said Euan virtuously. ‘Maister Cunningham has no need to concern himself wi St Mungo’s now, the lady is never hidden there.’