The Fourth Crow

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘Does he have kin here in Glasgow, do you know?’

  ‘Never a notion.’ Kate disengaged the drowsy baby from her breast, leaned forward to put him in his cradle, and began to fasten her gown. ‘No, wait, I think he once mentioned having taken a wife out of Renfrewshire, which disappointed my sister Margaret at the time, she’d a fancy for him. Tib and I used to tease her about it. Good-looking fellow, wi fair hair, though he doesny have as many teeth as he used to have.’ She reached for her crutches, and levered herself to her feet to clump across to the bed. ‘How are you feeling now? Aye, I think you’re more like yourself. Were you wanting to track down Cadger Billy? Will we ask the men if they ken where he might dwell?’

  Making her way home an hour or so later with Jennet watchful at her elbow, Alys picked her way along the path by the mill-burn, past the gardens of the houses on the High Street, past the tumbledown wall at the foot of the College lands, turning over what she had learned in the afternoon, though her thoughts flinched away from the one fact, the unthinkable thing, which she must not share yet with anyone, not even with Gil. Andy Paterson, steward to Kate’s husband Augie Morison, had promised to ask about for Cadger Billy’s lodging, though he could not see what Alys wanted with such a man, and said so.

  ‘He’s honest enough,’ he admitted grudgingly, ‘but you’ve all the warehouses o Glasgow about you, mistress, what business would you have wi him?’

  Andy’s nephew John had been more helpful. Aye, he minded Berthold fine at the prentice boys’ battle; he had been near the Cross, and then he had slipped away, maybe no liking the tussle. John had seen him by St Nicholas’ chapel, hiding in the shadows. Seeing Luke was in the thick of things, John had kept half an eye on the German laddie, and saw the two fine fellows come down Rottenrow, past Berthold, and turn up the Stablegreen, and then again later coming by the Cross, making for the High Street. They had called encouragement to the defenders of the Cross.

  ‘Likely they was going drinking,’ he said. ‘And Berthold was still by the chapel then, mistress, but I lost sight o him after that, we was sore pressed by the Drygate lot, and he never cam home wi Luke and me, we took it he’d gone ahead.’

  ‘And will you lie down on your bed when we get in?’ Jennet was saying now. ‘Or at the least put your feet up on the settle for a wee while—’

  ‘It’s near dinner time,’ said Alys.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the other girl said, ‘you’d be better if you’d take a wee rest now and then, stead o running about Glasgow till you’re all owerset by a wee word wi your good-mother, even if she did say what I thought she said,’ she added darkly. ‘And did you hear what it was she was telling you afore we cam away? No that you can set great store by what these Ersche say, great leears they are, though maybe no your good-mother, mem,’ she added hastily, ‘but just the same. Did you hear it, mem?’

  ‘No,’ said Alys curtly.

  ‘Why, she was saying—’

  ‘Mistress! I thought that was you!’ said a voice. They both swung round, to confront Euan Campbell, weary and travel stained on the path behind them. ‘I am back, mistress,’ he said triumphantly, ‘and though I never found the missing lady, I have found where she is selling all her stolen goods!’

  Chapter Ten

  Gil was not convinced by what Euan was saying.

  ‘So you’ve been to Dumbarton,’ he said, eyeing his henchman, ‘and found where someone is selling stolen goods from Glasgow.’

  ‘Indeed I have,’ agreed Euan proudly, ‘all labelled with the Cathedral’s stamp they are and everything.’

  ‘Mind out the road, maister,’ said Annis, ‘till we set up the board.’

  ‘Begin at the beginning,’ Gil said, stepping aside while the women shifted trestles and Lowrie went to help them. ‘I sent you – yesterday afternoon,’ he added pointedly, ‘down to the shore to see if the fisher-folk knew anything about a lady leaving the burgh by night.’

  ‘Indeed, so it was,’ agreed Euan with even more pride. ‘Och, are you thinking I should have been back sooner? I could not, for I was carried all the way to Dumbarton while I found out all you were wanting to know, and I walked home today.’

  Gil sat down on the bench Annis had just dragged into position.

  ‘I sent you to the shore,’ he said patiently. ‘What did you do when you got there?’

  ‘Why, I asked as you bade me, maister,’ Euan avouched, ‘about a lady missing from the Cross in nothing but her shift, though I never told them that bit, for decency you understand, and first one said he knew nothing and then another, and then one was telling me that the man Stockfish Tam might have something to say.’

  ‘Maister Gil,’ said Jennet beside him, ‘will you raise your elbow till I put the cloth out. If you please,’ she added implausibly.

  ‘So you spoke to Stockfish Tam?’ Gil prompted.

  ‘No, no, for he was not there at that time. So I sat down and had a wee crack wi the fisher folk, seeing I ken the most o them from one time or another I’ve voyaged down the watter. They were right interested to hear o the goings on up at St Mungo’s,’ he added, ‘and I made sure to tell them you’d have the murderer by the heels in no time at all.’

  ‘And when Tam came back?’ Gil asked. Sweet St Giles, he thought, what tales has the man been telling? ‘What goings on at St Mungo’s?’ he added sharply.

  ‘Why, the lady that was dead, as well as the verger—’

  ‘How did you know about the verger?’

  ‘Och, all over the town it is,’ said Euan, waving one big hand.

  ‘It was well after dinner when I was summoned,’ said Gil. ‘How did you know about him? When did you hear he was dead?’

  ‘Och, it would be after dinner, likely,’ said Euan. ‘For Tam and me was taking a wee refreshment in Maggie Bell’s alehouse, see, and we heard them talking. Tam was saying that he had no knowledge of the missing lady, but I was not believing that, for when he was hearing that the man was dead, he said he would be taking a wee trip down the river in his boatie, and would I be,’ the confident voice faltered, ‘would I be giving him a wee hand.’

  ‘How much?’ Gil asked.

  ‘How much what, maister?’

  ‘How much did he pay you for crewing for him?’

  ‘Och, no, no, I was doing it entirely for friendship,’ averred Euan. Gil watched him. After a moment the man smiled hopefully. ‘Well, maybe he was giving me a penny or two. Good sailors is not so easy come by just at the drop of a rowlock.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Gil, ‘particularly not on the shore where the fisher folk dwell.’ Euan gave him a puzzled look. ‘Did you know which man it was that was dead?’

  ‘Och, yes, it was the verger Barnabas, the busy one. That was what Tam was saying, that he had an errand that he, that he could complete,’ Euan finished carefully.

  ‘And the errand was?’

  ‘Maister Gil, will you move your elbow again? Are you to sit here all the evening, maister,’ demanded Jennet, ‘or are we to get the board set?’

  Gil looked about him. The dishes were, clearly, about to be brought in, Alys was watching him, Catherine had hobbled out of her chamber. He had already recognised that the women were upset about something, though when he had asked Alys she had professed ignorance. One did not off end the kitchen at the best of times; this was no moment to hold up the dinner. He rose and moved aside with Euan.

  ‘Tell me quickly,’ he said, ‘what was the errand?’

  ‘Why, he had a sack of grain, and two cheeses, and there was a barrel of apples and all sorts, stowed in his boat already,’ said Euan, with shining honesty, ‘that had come down on a handcart the night before, and all to be carried to Dumbarton and sold. So we was taking them, you see. But it was only when Tam got to haggling for the price there in Dumbarton that I saw the St Mungo’s seal on them, maister, else I would never have been doing such a thing!’

  Washing his hands in the pewter basin on the plate-cupboard, drying them on the good linen towel, G
il turned this information over in his mind. When he had said Grace for the meat and done his duty with the carving-knife Alys served out roast mutton with raisin sauce, turnips with ginger and more dark green stewed kale, and he contemplated the timing Euan had described. It was just possible, he supposed, that the gossip mills of the burgh had carried the news of Barnabas’ death as far as Maggie Bell’s tavern, across the bridge in the hamlet of Govan, before Mistress Bell evicted her customers for the night. It was certainly possible to take a boat down the river to Dumbarton before dawn if the tide was favourable, and a walk of fourteen miles on a fine day would present no obstacle to a healthy, long-legged Erscheman.

  ‘Have you found anything useful this afternoon?’ Alys asked him. Startled, he discovered that the first course was done and Kittock had just carried in a broad custard tart on its wooden board. ‘I went to the hostel to condole with the ladies, and met the doctor there as well,’ she said brightly, ‘and I must say those are two very silly girls, but they told me some interesting things.’

  He looked at her, seated at his right hand, neat and elegant in her brown linen gown with its bright facings and her black Flemish hood. She had that pinched look which meant something had upset her, so that the high narrow bridge of her nose stood up like a razor-blade. He glanced at Catherine, seated opposite her, and received an infinitesimal shake of her head.

  ‘What have they told you, ma mie?’ the old woman asked in French, apparently feeling his silence had lasted too long.

  ‘A number of things.’ Alys was serving wedges of the custard tart onto the painted platters which had been Augie Morison’s wedding gift to them. She set Gil’s before him and went on, ‘Their marriages, for instance. One is betrothed into Lanarkshire, the other to an acquaintance of Dame Ellen’s kin at St Mungo’s, who has land by Tarbolton.’

  ‘She has kin at St Mungo’s?’ Gil repeated. ‘Did you learn who it is?’

  ‘William Craigie,’ she replied, sending two platters down the board. Her voice was even, but she glanced sideways at him round the black fall of her hood, acknowledging his surprise. ‘I know no more than that. What is his kinship?’

  ‘I’ve never asked.’ He frowned. ‘Habbie might— Oh.’ Lowrie looked up, spoon halfway to his mouth.

  ‘Later, perhaps,’ said Catherine elliptically. ‘How are they lodged at the hostel? It is a well-run establishment, one hopes. Does it compare with St Jacques at Nantes?’

  Once the meal was cleared and the board lifted they repaired to the solar with the ale-jug and a platter of little cakes. Catherine joined them, contrary to her usual habit. Gil thought she was keeping an unobtrusive eye on Alys.

  ‘We need to see where we are wi both cases,’ he said, as Lowrie handed the beakers, watched intently by Socrates. ‘But what’s this about Craigie, sweetheart?’

  ‘As I said. He is kin to Dame Ellen through her first marriage, though in what degree the lassies did not say. And also he has some sort of great penance laid on him, it seems.’

  ‘A penance?’ Gil repeated. ‘Now that he has never mentioned. I wonder what and why?’

  ‘Some crime against Holy Kirk, so Nicholas thought. This was hearsay,’ she admitted, ‘but the lassie was quite clear about who she had it from, one of her sister’s future servants at Tarbolton.’

  ‘Where Craigie comes from,’ supplied Lowrie unexpectedly. ‘Maister Sim’s man mentioned it the now.’

  ‘Is he now? I kent he was an Ayrshire man,’ said Gil, ‘but I think I never knew just where he was from. You’d think he’d ha recognised Annie Gibb by name, at least, given that’s where the most of her land is situated.’

  ‘Perhaps, if his offence was known there, he did not wish to be connected to the place,’ suggested Alys. Catherine nodded sagely.

  ‘Did you learn anything else?’ Gil asked.

  ‘Not at the hostel. I spoke with the doctor, who seems,’ she paused, ‘not concerned for Annie. I think that’s all, except that the cadger called regularly in Glenbuck.’

  ‘Cadger?’ he queried.

  ‘A man called Cadger Billy.’

  ‘Oh, him. Is he still alive? Well, I suppose he must be little past forty,’ Gil reckoned, recalling the man’s regular visits from his childhood.

  ‘Still alive, and still trading. It seems he goes all about Lanarkshire, Kate knows him, and Andy Paterson is to find his direction for me, for I think he is a Glasgow man.’ Gil raised an eyebrow. ‘I wonder if he carried messages for Annie.’

  ‘Ah! That’s very possible.’

  ‘And I spoke to Berthold, but I can get no more from him than you. He is plainly very frightened, but he still insists he saw nothing. Oh, and Andy’s nephew John confirms Luke’s tale, and also saw the two men in fine clothes.’

  ‘If Berthold is fit to be at work he must have improved,’ Gil said, digesting this.

  ‘No, I called at the house.’

  He looked at her sharply, but found Catherine, beyond her, giving him a significant shake of the head. Was that what had distressed her, he wondered. What reception had she had from her stepmother?

  ‘Lowrie?’ he prompted. ‘What did you get from Habbie’s man?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Lowrie admitted. ‘He claims Maister Sim came home without that gown after a right good evening four days since, and the cards the same. He’d never seen the purse afore either. Oh, no, maister, that’s never ours,’ he quoted. ‘Mind you, he noticed there was a lot of dust and dirt caught up in the folds of the gown, as if it had been lying about that undercroft for a day or two, maybe on the ground. He’d a bit to say about that.’

  ‘Did he mind where Habbie had been the night he lost it?’

  ‘No, though he thought it might ha been here. When I said, No, he had on the red one last time he was here, he began reckoning up all the other places it might ha been, but he could give me no sensible answer.’

  ‘I wonder who had it,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘It could have been Habbie himself, I suppose, but why hide the thing and then leave it out to incriminate himself?’

  ‘Oh, and the figs and apricots came out of the Vicars’ store, as we thought.’

  ‘So he was thieving from there as well.’

  ‘Would he have the key for the Vicars’ store?’ Alys asked.

  ‘A good question,’ Gil admitted. ‘Either he or his accomplice must have had.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ observed Catherine in her elegant French, ‘that there were many things happening on the night in question.’

  ‘As ever, madame,’ said Gil, ‘you are perfectly right. We should fit it all together,’ he added in Scots, ‘starting from the time Annie was bound to the Cross.’

  Alys pulled up the skirt of her gown, to reach the purse hanging between it and her striped linen kirtle. She extracted her tablets in their little embroidered bag, found a clear leaf, and drew the stylus from its socket in the hinge.

  ‘What time was that?’ she asked.

  ‘About the time we came home,’ said Lowrie. He cocked his head as Socrates scrambled to his feet, tail wagging. ‘Is that someone coming to the door?’

  ‘It is I,’ said Maistre Pierre outside the window.

  Drawn in, welcomed, handed a beaker of ale, he applied himself with enthusiasm to the task they had begun.

  ‘It was eight of the clock, not later, I should say, that she was bound there,’ he pronounced. Gil nodded. ‘And her man said he looked at her every hour or so, yes?’

  ‘If we can believe it,’ said Gil.

  ‘What happened next?’ said Alys. ‘The girl Peg?’

  ‘The prentices,’ said Lowrie. ‘Say about nine o’the clock.’

  ‘The brothers Muir,’ said Gil. They looked at each other. ‘I think the prentices began their battle next, indeed, though I’d ha said later than nine, more like ten, after the daylight had gone, and the Muirs walked through it, and then Peg.’

  ‘In which direction did they go?’ asked Catherine.

  ‘The Muirs came out of
Rottenrow,’ said Gil, ‘and claim they went down the High Street. Peg came down the Stablegreen from the port.’

  ‘Luke saw the Muirs go up the Stablegreen,’ Lowrie observed.

  ‘And yet they did not see her,’ said Alys.

  ‘Did anyone see her at all?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

  ‘There’s a man who heard a lassie arguing with someone,’ said Lowrie. ‘I have to go back in the morning and get a word.’

  The mason nodded.

  ‘But what time was all that?’ Alys asked. ‘It was about ten of the clock when Peg left the Trindle, I think you said.’

  ‘The battle went on for some time,’ said Gil. ‘More than an hour, by the sound of it, though it was over by midnight.’

  ‘Didn’t Euan,’ said Lowrie suddenly, and they all looked at him. He went red. ‘Didn’t Euan say the fisherman mentioned goods that went down on a handcart that night?’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Gil. ‘What’s more, I’ll wager I ken what way they went down to the shore. I saw the tracks of a handcart, out on the Pallioun Croft. And,’ he suddenly recalled, ‘Austin Muir heard or saw a handcart as they went back up Rottenrow. That’s why the vergers’ handcart was put away dirty!’

  ‘So that went through the Upper Town as well,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Mon Dieu! I have known it quieter at the Fair.’

  ‘I wonder who pushed it,’ said Alys. ‘The man who died, or his accomplice?’

  ‘And some time in all this,’ said her father, ‘the woman Peg was killed, and tied to the Cross instead of Annie Gibb.’

  ‘Did you say,’ said Alys, ‘that Annie’s man spoke to her after the prentices were finished and gone home? Was that after midnight?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Gil. ‘I need to check that wi him.’ He made a face. ‘And Canon Muir saw his nephews to bed before midnight, so if this is right it was none of their doing that Annie was freed from the Cross.’

  ‘A pity,’ said Alys seriously. She made another note on the tablets. ‘The handcart. It must have come back as well. I wonder if the Muirs saw it.’