The Counterfeit Madam

by Pat McIntosh

  Chapter Three

  ‘We were wedded just before Martinmas,’ said Magdalen Boyd. Gil eyed her, wondering how to put his next question. She saw his expression and smiled faintly. ‘John and I deal excellently well,’ she said. ‘I’ll not deny it was a matter of convenience for both of us, but I’ve found great good in him.’

  ‘You have?’ said Gil before he could help it. ‘I mean – I’m glad to hear that.’

  It was probably not yet Terce, but he had begun the day before Prime recording an exchange of sasines on a muddy toft away along Rottenrow. After a short but frustrating interview with Canon Cunningham, which the older man had ended by claiming an early appointment at his chamber in the Consistory Tower, he had crossed the street to the gates of the town house which had once belonged to John Sempill and was now the property of his cousin Philip. Lady Magdalen had greeted him pleasantly, sent out to find her husband, and sat down to talk to her guest; a tray with small ale and little cakes had appeared immediately.

  ‘He’s that attentive,’ she went on, ‘far more than my first man, and he manages my estates for me, which is something I found a great burden, for I’ve no understanding o these things.’

  Gil stared at her in fascination, trying to reconcile this image of John Sempill with the man he knew. After a moment he abandoned the attempt and said,

  ‘Tell me more about these two tofts on the Drygate. How did you come by them?’

  ‘They were a part of my tocher when I was first wedded,’ she said. ‘My brother purchased them in ’89. There’s no need for you to worry about them, they’re mine to dispose of as I please, wi John’s consent, and you can see I have that.’

  So the feu superior was either the Archbishop or the burgh, he thought, and the records should be in Glasgow. That simplified that.

  ‘Did you ken who were the tenants?’

  She nodded, going faintly pink across the cheekbones.

  ‘The wester toft, the one where there’s all the workshops, we took on wi the most of those tenants in place. The other one, the house—’ She bit her lip. ‘My brother purchased that from one of the Walkinshaws. I think it was where their mother dwelt afore she founded the almshouse. We had one tenant or another in it for a year or two, and then this – woman and her business offered me a good rent, and my brother thought I should accept.’

  ‘You’ve had no dealings direct with her?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘My brother dealt wi’t first, and then John since we were wedded, and I think he’s had no need o speaking wi the woman, she’s sent the rent in good time each quarter-day. To tell truth, maister, I’ve never been in the house. I was right concerned, what Maister Livingstone said about the paintings. Are they – are they—?’

  ‘The ones I saw were seemly enough,’ he assured her, ‘though the subjects themselves were a touch wanton. A few painted drapes and they’d be fit for anyone’s een.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She did not sound convinced. ‘Or maybe a good coat o limewash. So have you come to a decision, maister?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Gil. ‘I’d like a closer look at all the workshops, and a wee while wi the accounts. But it’s beginning to look like a right generous offer.’

  She gave him another gentle smile.

  ‘It’s only right that John’s heir should be his own get,’ she said, ‘but I’d not want to see the other bairn lose by it. His mother was gently bred, after all.’

  So is his father, in his own country, thought Gil, but said nothing. She nudged the plate of little cakes towards him, but anything she might have said was drowned out by the arrival of John Sempill, flinging wide the house door and exclaiming,

  ‘There you are, Gil Cunningham! I was out in the town looking for you.’

  ‘I sent word I’d meet you here,’ Gil said mildly, rising. Sempill snorted angrily, but slammed the door behind him and came forward to salute his wife, his belligerent expression softening as he looked at her.

  ‘Did you get a word wi Dame Isabella, John?’ she asked. ‘Is all clear now?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said airily. ‘She’s – showed me how it happened. Likely there’s more to discuss,’ he added, ‘I’ll need another word wi her. What’s ado here?’

  ‘We’ve been talking o the two tofts on the Drygate,’ said his wife. ‘Maister Gil would like to see the rent-rolls.’

  He dragged another backstool beside hers and sat down.

  ‘Aye, I suppose,’ he said ungraciously. ‘I’ve got them in the kist in our chamber. Is that what you’re here for?’

  ‘Part of it,’ Gil said. ‘I’ve to find out the history of these lands out in Strathblane and all, and I hoped you might help me there. Did I hear you say you’d taken the one Dame Isabella named to be Lady Magdalen’s property already?’

  Sempill scowled at that.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘But I’ve just said, I was mistaken. It’s never been Maidie’s. I’d mixed up the two names. See, they’re too much alike,’ he went on more fluently, ‘Balgrochan and Ballencleroch, and it’s Balgrochan that’s been Maidie’s all along. She showed me that last night, and the old – woman’s confirmed it now, may she—’

  ‘John.’

  ‘I think you had that from Dame Isabella too,’ Gil said, looking at Lady Magdalen. She nodded. ‘Was there ever any thought that it might no ha been hers to dispone?’

  ‘We’ve got the dispositions,’ said Sempill before his wife could speak, ‘all sealed and witnessed. The lands o Balgrochan are Maidie’s own, I tell you.’

  ‘John.’ She put a calming hand on his wrist. He subsided, and she said direct to Gil,‘To tell truth, my god-mother’s Livingstone kin by marriage put up some tale o it being part of the heriot land at the time, but I took it she would ken what she’d a right to. I set it down to them no wishing to see the land go out o the family. I’m beginning to wonder, now, if she’s maybe been mistaken. She’s well up in her age, after all, she might be getting – for all she’s so vigorous, you ken—’

  ‘Childish? A course she is!’ said Sempill. ‘And has been for years, at that.’

  Lady Magdalen bit her lip, and Gil nodded understandingly.

  ‘Might I see the documents?’ he prompted. Husband and wife exchanged another look.

  ‘If you would, John,’ she said. He rose obediently. ‘Best to fetch them down here, I think, the light’s better here.’

  Does she put something in his meat? Gil wondered as Sempill left the hall. Lady Magdalen watched him go, with what seemed like genuine fondness, then turned to Gil again.

  ‘I think you’re no long wedded yoursel, maister?’ she said. ‘And to a French lady, am I right? You speak French, then?’

  ‘I was four years at Paris,’ he replied.

  ‘Paris! My brother studied there and all. Did you like it?’

  ‘I did,’ he said briefly, images of the city and the university drifting in his head. The raucous narrow streets of the Latin quarter, the stationers, the book dealers, and the great church of Our Lady on its island in the river, looming over all. He blinked, and found Lady Magdalen offering him another of the small cakes.

  ‘So did my brother,’ she said, nodding. ‘Travel is a wonderful thing, though the food can be strange, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘They eat bread and meat, just as we do.’

  ‘But snails as well, so they say, and garlic in everything. Oh, John, you were quick, that was clever.’

  ‘Aye, well, they were to hand.’ Sempill thrust the bundle of documents at Gil and went to sit down beside his wife, who gave him another of those encouraging smiles. Gil set the rent-rolls to one side and lifted the third item, the title-deed, to inspect it before Sempill changed his mind.

  ‘This is the wrong docket,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘It’s the one I put back in the kist last night,’ said Sempill aggressively. ‘It canny be the wrong one.’

  ‘None the less,’ Gil said, ‘it’s the title to Ballencleroch, no Balgrochan. The one t
he Livingstones dispute.’

  ‘What? Let me see!’

  ‘John.’ Lady Magdalen put one hand on his wrist, and stretched out the other to Gil. ‘May I see, sir?’ She took the crimped and pleated parchment and looked briefly at the heading, then at the seals at its foot, and nodded. ‘Aye, I’m agreed. My godmother must have given us back the wrong document yestreen. She must have the other still in Attie’s bag.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right,’ said Sempill in faint surprise, peering over her shoulder. ‘The auld – woman must have been mistook in that and all. We’ll ha to get the right one off her.’

  ‘Might I see that one?’ Gil accepted it back and spread it flat, studying the peripheral wording. It seemed clear enough and perfectly in order; Thomas Livingstone and Isabella Torrance his wife had taken sasine of the lands detailed, in joint possession, on a date in 1490. He drew out his tablets and found a clean leaf.

  ‘What are you writing?’ demanded Sempill suspiciously.

  ‘The names of the witnesses,’ Gil replied. ‘And the factor who acted for the Earl of Lennox. One of them might recall the name of the man of law, if Dame Isabella won’t tell me. I need to establish who has the right to this land before my sister’s marriage.’

  ‘I’d as soon it was put straight too,’ agreed Magdalen Boyd. ‘She’d not hear my questions yestreen, grew angry when I tried to persist, so I left the matter, but—’

  ‘Here’s her man Attie now,’ said Sempill, straightening up to stare at the window. ‘Just crossing the yard.’

  ‘Maybe she’s sent the other deed,’ said his wife. Sempill snorted, and turned to watch one of his cousin’s servants make her way across the hall in response to the knocking at the door. Gil finished making notes and checked carefully again that the name of the man who had drawn up the document was not recorded, and suddenly realized that both Sempill and his wife were exclaiming in surprise and shock.

  ‘But what can have happened?’ Lady Magdalen said. ‘She was in good health yesterday. John, did you see her just now? Was she well?’

  ‘Just – oh, just the now? Same as she was yesterday – in full voice,’ said Sempill, ‘calling me for all sorts over nothing. I’d no ha looked for her to drop down dead either. What happened, man?’

  ‘We’re no certain,’ said the man Attie, his livery bonnet held against his chest. ‘She was well enow when Annot left her to – to her prayers, but when she returned there she was—’ He crossed himself, and Sempill did likewise, pale blue eyes round with astonishment. Lady Magdalen bent her head and murmured something. ‘We’re thinking maybe she took an apoplexy, or her heart failed her, or the like. Maister Livingstone’s sent for a priest, but—’

  Gil looked round the dismayed faces and pulled off his own hat.

  ‘Are you saying Dame Isabella’s dead? This morning?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Sempill sourly. ‘So the man says. Trust the auld woman to thwart me in her last deed. So you can just fold that up and let me have it back,’ he added, pointing at the document Gil still held.

  ‘John,’ said his wife reprovingly. ‘There’s none of us can ken the moment of our death.’

  ‘But how?’ Gil asked. ‘What came to her?’ His mind was working rapidly as he spoke. Lady Magdalen’s transaction would probably be unaffected, but Tib’s marriage gift would almost certainly not reach her now, so the question of whether the lands in Strathblane were Dame Isabella’s to dispose of was a matter for the Livingstone family and not for him. He began to fold the crackling parchment. ‘What came to her?’ he repeated.

  Attie shook his head.

  ‘We’re no certain,’ he said again. ‘Annot left her in her chamber, like I said, and when she gaed back in, there she was on the floor, and stone dead.’

  ‘Did you fetch a priest to her?’demanded Sempill.

  ‘Maister Livingstone has sent for one, Attie says,’ Lady Magdalen reminded him.

  ‘Has anyone else seen her?’ Gil asked. ‘You’re certain she’s dead, no just fallen in a stupor? An apoplexy can be—’

  ‘I’m no sure,’ admitted Attie, ‘for I never saw her, but Annot’s in the hysterics and Maister Livingstone tellt the household she was dead, bade me bring word here and then go for the layer-out. Will you wish to see her afore she’s washed and made decent, mem?’

  ‘N-no,’ said Lady Magdalen doubtfully. ‘No, I’d sooner wait till she’s in her dignity. Send my condolences to Maister Livingstone on the death of his kinswoman, Attie, and say I’ll come down afore suppertime.’ She seemed even paler than usual; Gil, suddenly recalling her condition, and certain her husband would never think of doing so, reached for the ale-jug and filled her beaker.

  ‘You should drink a little,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel steadier.’

  ‘Aye.’ She took the beaker from him. ‘My thanks, maister. Attie, will you go down to the kitchen, tell them the news, bid them see you right. I – I—’ She put her other hand to her head, and smiled weakly. ‘I canny believe it. She’s aye been so robust, I’d ha thought she’d go on for ever.’

  ‘Do you need to lie down?’ said Sempill, belatedly recognizing her distress. ‘Attie, send her woman up to her! And you’ll have to leave,’ he added to Gil. ‘We canny be looking at all this stuff the now.’

  ‘I’ve questions yet,’ Gil said mildly, reaching for the nearer rent-roll as the man Attie bowed and retreated to the kitchen door. ‘See your wife right, man, and then we’ll talk.’

  The craftsmen of Clerk’s Land were hard at work, to judge by the hammering sounds from the several houses. Armed with the details from the rent-roll and Sempill’s sour comments on each tenant, Gil made his way along the muddy path, identifying the buildings and their occupants, making a note of necessary repairs and at the same time turning over in his mind the likely effects of Dame Isabella’s death on her various schemes. It seemed hard to believe, given the old woman’s forceful presence in Maistre Pierre’s house and then in Canon Cunningham’s only the day before, but sudden death could take anybody. He knew Canon Aiken’s house where the Livingstones were lodged, further down the Drygate; he could call on them later to condole, if that was the right word in the circumstances.

  The children he had heard yesterday were wailing again inside the house nearest the road, though a man’s voice shouted at them from time to time. ‘That’s Adkin Saunders, pewterer,’ Sempill had said, ‘an ill-mannered dyvour, and his wife’s a great Ersche bairdie wi no respect for her betters. They pay their rent, but,’ he had added with reluctance. The pewterer was seated by the window, intent on shaping some vessel over a mould, his hammer tapping busily, though he cast a sideways glance at the intruder. Further down the toft two women were talking shrilly in Ersche; presumably one of them was the man’s wife. What had she said to Sempill, Gil wondered.

  ‘There’s Danny Bell, that’s a lorimer, he doesny dwell on the toft but come in to his workshop by the day. Has a dog as ill favoured as himsel, but at least he’s taught it to do his bidding.’ That was complimentary, by Sempill’s low standards; the man was a stringent judge of dogs. ‘And Dod Muir, that’s an image-maker, works in wood and metal and all sorts, wee hurb of a niffnaff. Both of them pays their rent right enough and all.’

  At least, he reflected, peering into a low ramshackle shed and finding an assortment of barrels and a stock of small pieces of wood, at least Dame Isabella did not seem to have died by violence. This must be the image-maker’s woodstore, and yonder was certainly the lorimer’s workshop, with the scraps of leather round the door and pieces of horse-harness hung in the window; the lorimer himself, a young man with startling red hair, was visible at his bench working with leather-punch and hammer. His dog, a small shaggy creature with sharp ears, lay in the doorway and watched Gil suspiciously.

  Two of the children from the pewterer’s house ran past him as he moved on, heads down as if fearing pursuit. He hoped they had got out to play for a while. The image-maker was not at home, his house shuttered and silent; the man soun
ded inoffensive, to judge by Sempill’s contemptuous description.

  He moved on down the path, past another long low house with an open barn at its further end.

  ‘Then there’s Noll Campbell,’ Sempill had said, tapping the rent-roll. ‘I’ve had more trouble wi him than the whole – It’s another hallirakit Erscheman, a right sliddery scruff, wi a mouthful o abuse for any that speaks wi him, one that would sell his granny for dog’s meat. Makes enough to keep a prentice, but will he ever ha the rent together for the quarter-day? No him! I wish you well o him.’ There was a vindictive tone in his voice; clearly this Campbell and Sempill had crossed more than once.

  In the barn, the whitesmith straightened up and stared at him under black scowling brows, tongs in hand; behind him in the shadows another man turned to look. That must be the apprentice. Gil nodded at them, and the smith bent to his work again, tap-tapping at what seemed likely to become a lantern.

  Beyond the building was a kaleyard with a drying-green, where the women were still arguing in Ersche over a piece of linen. The children ran back up the path, and the two women paused as he came into sight, gazing open-mouthed at him, two Highland women with brows as dark as the smith’s, one young and slender, the other older and heavier. Both were clad in brown linen aprons tied on over loose checked gowns, whiter linen folded and pinned on their heads.

  ‘Good day to you,’ he said, raising his hat to them. ‘Is that Danny Sproat’s stable down yonder?’

  One of them nodded. The older one said civilly enough, in accented Scots,

  ‘Aye. Aye, it is. But you will not be finding Danny the now. He iss out with the cart and the donkey, just, and not back before tomorrow so he was saying.’

  ‘I’m only wanting a look inside the stable,’ he said reassuringly. They looked at each other, and the one who had spoken gathered up the disputed washing.

  ‘Bethag will show you,’ she said, turning towards the houses. ‘There is a way of opening the door, to be keeping the donkey in, you ken.’ She added something in Ersche; the other woman gave her a sharp look, then smiled awkwardly at Gil and gestured towards the small building at the foot of the toft. He followed her, looking about. The kaleyard seemed to be divided up; none of the households would get a living from it, but it would provide all with some green vegetables for most of the year, assuming the donkey did not get through the woven hazel fence.