by Pat McIntosh
‘Thank you,’ said Gil. He took a wide course round a tethered pig, with the dog adhering to his heels, and looked up and down the Drygate. Chickens and another pig or two foraged in the street, children were playing, a few stragglers were returning to work after their midday meal. Little knots of women made their way to call on one house or another for the afternoon, many with spindle or sewing or other handwork bundled in an apron. The conversation Gil caught was mostly about Annie Gibb, though the dead girl was mentioned.
‘Away down to the Clyde,’ he said to Euan, with sudden inspiration, ‘and get a word wi the fisher-folk. See if any of them took a passenger anywhere out of Glasgow in the night.’
‘You think she might ha sailed away out of Glasgow?’ said Euan intelligently. ‘Och, the cunning! Never you worry, maister, if that’s what she did I’ll be tracking her down.’ He touched his blue felted bonnet and loped off towards the Wyndhead. Gil watched him go, suppressing relief. Euan had made himself moderately useful a few weeks since, when Gil had been summoned on the King’s hunting trip to the Western Isles, but now he seemed to have attached himself to the household where he was a great deal less help.
Wondering what to do with the man, Gil followed him more slowly, to turn up along Rottenrow towards Canon Muir’s manse.
He knew all the resident members of Chapter, having encountered them often enough in his uncle’s house. As the Official of Glasgow, the senior judge of the diocese, David Cunningham had a certain level of state to keep up, and entertained his fellow-clerics regularly. While Gil had been his pupil, learning those secrets of the notary’s craft which he was about to transmit to Lowrie, he had assisted at many such occasions, and recalled Canon Muir as elderly, slightly foolish, and a little too fond of his wine.
This was still the case.
‘My cousin Dandy’s boys,’ the Canon agreed, smiling indulgently. ‘Are they no the dearest laddies, Gilbert? And so handsome as they both are.’ He sighed. ‘They used to tell me I was bonnie-looking, but I’m sure I was never the equal o those two. They ought to be wed by now,’ he went on, ‘indeed Will Craigie’s been quite urgent wi me on that head, to promote a marriage wi some kin o his for one or other, but as I said to him, you canny force a young man, it takes time to these things. I think they’re ower fond o their freedom yet.’
Gil, seated on an uncomfortable carved wooden back-stool with the dog at his feet, preserved silence, and after a moment Canon Muir went on,
‘And what was it you wished me to tell you? You think they’re connected wi all this at St Mungo’s Cross? No, no, I hardly think it. Two sic sweet-tempered laddies, they’d never be mixed up in the likes o that.’
‘They’re connected wi it already,’ Gil pointed out, ‘seeing they escorted the missing lady into Glasgow, and they claim kinship wi her aunt.’
‘That’s very true. There’s much in what you’re saying.’ The Canon took refuge in his glass of claret. Emerging after a moment he said triumphantly, ‘But they’re no true kin o Ellen Shaw’s, only by marriage. I think Will Craigie’s closer kin to her. No that she hasny been a good friend to the laddies, looking about her for aught she can do for them, a good friend. Any road, Gilbert, they lay here last night, and I saw them to their bed mysel. Will you have more o this wine? It’s right good, I had it from John Shaw at the College. And a wee cake, maybe?’
‘They’ve a servant wi them, I think,’ Gil said. ‘Your kinsmen, I mean.’ He accepted more of the claret, admiring the colour in the little glass.
‘Aye, that’s so. A good fellow, keeps those bonnie clothes right well, though I think, to tell truth, he might be a wee bit fond o his ale. No that I like to criticise a good worker, but my man William said he’d the deil’s own task to rouse the fellow this morning.’
‘He didny share the brothers’ chamber, then?’
‘Oh, aye, but William went in to waken him, that he might fetch the laddies their hot water to wash in, and a bite o bread and ale to break their fast. We ken well how to keep guests in this house, Gilbert. And they were all asleep, their man on his straw plett and Henry and Austin like mice in a nest in the shut-bed, so William said, so you needny suspicion they were out in the night snatching a lady off the Cross in the kirkyard. Beside,’ concluded Canon Muir triumphantly, ‘where would they put her? There’s no lady hidden about this house, I assure you, son, and nowhere to put one if they tried.’
Gil had to admit to the truth of this. The manse was commodious, but the upper floor contained only one large hall and two small chambers. One of these was clearly Canon Muir’s bedchamber, since his prayer-desk with two books propped on it and the corner of his box bed were visible round the open door. The other was the guest chamber in which the brothers were lodged, to judge by the way the Canon had gestured towards it. Here in the hall was one of those great beds which in Gil’s experience were rarely used and never comfortable, its hangings of green dornick elaborate and rather dusty, and also the set of carved back-stools and the benches and trestles for the long table where the household ate. The plate-cupboard at the far end of the hall bore a decent array of silver, including a large and very ugly salt, and a tall press in the corner suggested stored linen for the table. On the ground floor, the servant who admitted him had said, there was one huge storeroom and the kitchen from which the rather stale little cakes had emerged. Canon Muir’s benefice was a rewarding one, Gil concluded.
‘So Henry and Austin were here, were they,’ he said, ‘from when they arrived in Glasgow to the time they came out this morning, to ask after Annie Gibb’s health? The lady that was tied to the Cross,’ he elucidated, seeing the old man’s blank expression.
‘Oh! Oh, I see what you’re asking me. Aye, a course they were, for they’d all the news o Ayrshire to let me hear, and word o our kin, and so forth, so they sat and talked wi me after dinner a long time afore they went out to see their friends. But the lady wasny there to ask after, was she? She’d been snatched away. Is that no a strange thing? Who’d want to carry off a mad lady? Is she very wealthy?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘Likely that’s it, then. Someone will wed her out of hand and shut her away while he gets the benefit of her lands. Well, so long’s he takes good enough care o her, I suppose it’s an act o Christian charity to keep the poor soul safe. But is her kin no all out hunting for her? Surely,’ said Canon Muir, putting his finger accurately on what troubled Gil, ‘surely they’d want to keep hold o her lands for theirsels, they must want to fetch her back.’
‘You’d think so,’ Gil agreed. ‘What friends are those that the two of them went out to meet? Henry and Austin, I mean.’
Canon Muir paused for a moment’s thought, then shook his head. ‘They never said. Likely some of the young fellows about the town.’
‘And did you hear them come in?’
‘Oh, aye, I was still about the place. I saw them to their bed myself, I told you, Gilbert. I never sleep much nowadays,’ the old man confided improbably, ‘it’s hardly worth my while lying down afore midnight, so a course I was still up when they came in.’
Dissatisfied, Gil refused another glass of claret and took his leave, following Rottenrow out along its length, past the port at the end of the street where the guard dozed in his shelter, and onto the land called the Pallioun Croft. The roadway ran along the brow of a steep slope here, and quickly deteriorated into a muddy track, which shortly angled down towards the river and joined the Thenewgate to head for Partick and then out towards Dumbarton. It was not much frequented; he paused on the crest of the slope to survey the scene, but saw nobody about, and there were few footprints and only the marks of one light cart in the mud. Birds sang in the bushes, some of the burgh cattle grazed on the grassy slopes. Otterburn’s clerk had described the ropewalk as being almost at Partick. It was a pleasant day for a walk, he decided, and set off.
Socrates launched himself from his side with delight, running in great loops through the grass and bushes, appearing over t
he roadside dyke from time to time to grin at his master, then vanishing again. Gil found himself grinning in return at his dog’s pleasure, but the grin did not stay in place. The problems which confronted him were bewildering indeed. He knew better than to expect to identify Peg Simpson’s killer this soon, but Annie Gibb’s disappearance perplexed him. She could hardly be hiding out here, he thought. My bed schal be under the grenwod tre, a tufft of brakes under my hed. Hardly likely for a gently bred, reclusive girl. Canon Muir, like Lowrie, had hit on the likeliest explanation for it: someone had carried her off hoping to lay hands on her wealth. But in that case, who? Why had he, or they, not contacted the girl’s kin already to ask for her title deeds? Why had Sir Edward, or even Lockhart, no idea who might be responsible? No, that’s unfair, he thought, when I spoke to Lockhart we still reckoned it was Annie who was dead. I need to speak to him again. But if she went willingly, why did she do it this way? Why not simply agree to someone’s proposal of marriage, get absolution from the ridiculous vow, and wash? Perhaps her pride would suffer too much if she did that. And why did she not tell her friends, the servants who knew her since she was a child? I need to talk this through with Alys, he thought, as he forded one of the many small burns which ran down through the grazing-lands to the Clyde. Socrates splashed through the stony shallows behind him and paused to shake himself, the drops flying from his rough coat glittering in the sunlight.
Matt Dickson the rope-drawer proved to be a sturdy man in his forties, in a sleeveless jerkin and patched hose, his shirtsleeves rolled well up. When Gil entered the long, low shed by one of its many doors he was measuring off a new rope in armspans, counting aloud as he worked, a raw-boned journeyman coiling it down beside him.
‘And twelve. I’ll be a moment longer, maister,’ he called. Gil nodded, and stood quietly, looking about him with interest. He had vaguely imagined something like a huge spinning-gallery, with hemp instead of flax or wool, but this was quite different. On a floor of beaten earth, a long groove showed the track of the rope-workers between a thing like a child’s windmill toy, mounted on a solid trestle, and a second smaller trestle on two wheels, with a large hook which could clearly turn by means of a handle. How did that work, he wondered. Other tools stood about or leaned against the walls – surely that was not a hay-rake? Hanks and balls and bales of the product of the craft were all about, hung from the rafters or stacked in neat heaps ready for baling, and over everything a cloud of dust, presumably hemp dust, danced thickly in the beams of sunlight which leaned in at the doors.
‘And twenty-one – and twenty-two – and three,’ said Maister Dickson finally. ‘And if four spans is seven ells, then that’s,’ his lips moved silently for a moment, ‘forty ells near enough. Aye, tie it off, Patey, and put it by. Maister Mason’s man was to come for it the morn.’
‘A rope for my good-faither?’ Gil said, surprised. ‘I suppose he must use rope, like most of the trades.’
‘Our Lady love you, a course he uses rope,’ said Dickson, laughing indulgently. ‘Cord by the bale for his scaffolding, rope for his hoist, twine to tie off his sacks o lime to keep the rain out. Just like near every craftsman in Glasgow. There’s other folk laying rope about the burgh,’ he conceded, ‘but it’s all small stuff. If Patey and Andy and me,’ he nodded at an equally scraggy apprentice who was sorting hanks of flax nearby, ‘wasny at our trade the whole town would come to a halt. That rope’s for a new hoist your good-faither’s about to put in where he’s working at the High Kirk, to lift the stone up to where it’s needed.’
I should have mentioned this to Pierre, Gil thought, and saved myself the walk. But would Luke, much less Berthold, ask the right questions?
‘I know what rope is, but what’s the difference between cord and twine?’ he asked.
‘Cord’s corded, maister, and twine’s no but twined. Andy!’ The apprentice jumped up from his work and went to his master’s high desk where the order-book lay almost submerged in small balls and hanks of cordage. He brought two of these, and Maister Dickson nodded approvingly. ‘Show it all to Maister Cunningham, then, laddie. Let us hear what you’ve learned.’
Listening to the boy’s hesitant exposition of the stages of ropemaking, Gil compared the samples he was showing him with the ell-and-a-half of cord still in his purse. It was cord rather than twine, he could say now, since rather than being a simple twist of many fibres of hemp it was made up of several such strands twisted together, but its use was still unclear. Young Andy was gesturing at the instruments in the middle of the floor, describing rather incoherently how they worked; Gil had already lost track of left-hand and right-hand twists. One probably had to know what the boy was talking about to understand him.
‘Aye, very good, laddie,’ said Dickson as the stumbling description ground to a halt. ‘Well said. So that’s the difference, Maister Cunningham. So was it cord or twine, then? Maybe a bale o twine for the garden o yir new house? Needs a bit work, so I’ve heard.’
‘Neither, in fact,’ said Gil, irritated by this. ‘I’ve no doubt my wife will order what she sees needful. No, I came out here to get an expert’s view on this.’ He opened his purse, slipped the boy Andy a penny in reward, and held out the coils of cord. ‘What can you tell me about it, maister?’
‘Tell you?’ Dickson glanced at him curiously, and took the hank. Shaking it out he measured its length, inspected the ends, separated the strands to test how tightly it was twisted, picked with a chewed fingernail at the fibres of each strand. The journeyman came to join him, doing much the same with the other end of the cord.
‘It’s no ours, is it, maister?’ he said at length.
‘I’d hope no, Patey,’ said Dickson sternly. ‘It’s no evenly twistit, the strands is no equal, it’s a mix o hemp and flax. Andy there could lay a better cord. Where did you come by this, maister? I hope you didny pay out good money for it?’
‘No,’ Gil admitted. ‘Did you hear about the lassie at St Mungo’s Cross ?’
They had not. It was too far out of Glasgow for someone to come simply to bear gossip, and quite likely they carried their own noon bite with them, rather than walk home and back again. Gil gave as moderate an account as he might of how the length of cord had been found, but the facts themselves were enough to make Patey’s eyes pop out.
‘This very cord, maister?’ he said with relish, his grasp on the loops tightening. ‘And put about her neck to throttle her?’
‘After she was dead,’ Gil confirmed. ‘So I’d like fine to ken where it came from, what sort of use it might be sold for, since I doubt whether it was sold for strangling lassies.’
‘Oh, very good!’ said Dickson, laughing. ‘The idea!’ He studied the loops of cord again, picked at the neatly lashed end he held, and peered at the other end still clutched in Patey’s bony hand, while the apprentice stared longingly from a few feet away. ‘It’s been cut out o a greater length, see, and bound off both ends. It’s the exact length it needs to be and it’s to be put to use a good few times, whatever use that is, and that’s as much as I can say.’ He considered a little longer, and added, ‘Aye, well, it’s no unlike the cord George Paterson lays, off the Drygate. He’s about the longest walk in the burgh, maister, can put up thirty ells, works alone wi his oldest boy. You could ask at him if he kens this quality.’
Prising the evidence with difficulty from Patey’s grasp, Gil took his leave, whistled up his reluctant dog and set off back into Glasgow. He had no idea of a cordage-spinner on the Drygate, but no doubt Alys would know where he lived.
Sir Simon was in the outer yard of the pilgrim hostel, deep in Latin discussion with the doctor, their gowns contrasting vividly in the sunlight. As Gil entered at the gate, Doctor Januar looked up in some relief and said,
‘Perhaps Maister Cunningham can tell me. Is there to be a quest on the dead woman, magister? When will it be?’
‘Not before tomorrow,’ Gil said in the same language, ‘or even the day after. Is it a problem?’
; ‘No,’ said Januar unconvincingly.
‘And how’s your patient?’ Gil asked in Scots. The doctor bent his head.
‘Sinking,’ he said gravely. ‘I would estimate he has two days at most.’
‘Our Lady send him a quiet end,’ Gil said. ‘I suspected as much, when I saw him earlier.’ He looked hard at Januar. ‘I’d like to be able to bring him news o Mistress Gibb afore his end, if that’s possible—’
‘Surely nothing could ease his last hours better,’ offered Sir Simon. ‘Supposing it’s good news, a course.’
‘—so I need to ask more questions of the rest of the party here.’
‘I have told you all I can,’ said the doctor after a moment.
‘Na’the less, I’ve questions for you and all.’ Gil looked about. ‘Sir Simon, might I use your chamber? The other courtyard has too many windows and doors onto it.’
Seated in the paper-strewn chamber, a jug of ale from the kitchen at hand, Gil studied Chrysostom Januar and said in Scots,
‘You’re gey reluctant to be questioned, magister. It makes a man wonder what you might be hiding.’
‘We doctors dislike answering questions.’ The Latin was professionally inscrutable. ‘The patient never asks the ones to which we have an answer.’
‘I know how that feels,’ Gil said ambiguously. ‘Now, I’ve heard that the outer yett to the hostel, which is through the wall from the bed the two St Catherine’s servants sleep in, went three times in the night.’
‘Three times?’ The doctor’s bright blue gaze flicked up to his face, and away again. ‘How strange. One might expect twice, or four times, but three times suggests that someone left and did not return, or entered and did not leave.’
‘Or, I suppose, two people went out together and came back at different times,’ Gil said. ‘Would you maybe like to reconsider what you said, about nobody being out o the hostel in the night?’