by Pat McIntosh
‘All the better,’ Otterburn was saying. ‘If we can find his premises and search them, then put a watch on the ports for him, we’ll maybe no need to horn him.’
The tramp of booted feet announced Andro, with a reluctant Neil Campbell at his back. The gallowglass was dismayed to be ordered to find the missing servants.
‘I have never set eyes on my cousin’s good-sister,’ he protested. ‘You would be wanting my brother for that.’
‘And where is your brother?’ demanded Otterburn. Neil shook his head.
‘I am not knowing that. He was in Glasgow yestreen, but—’
‘If you went down Clerk’s Land,’ Gil recommended, ‘you could ask Saunders to take you and some men to his sister’s house.’
‘Aye,’ said Andro, grinning. ‘And he’s still that grateful no to be hung for Dod Muir, he’s bound to help us.’
‘Is he?’ said Gil.
‘He will be when I’m done wi him.’ Andro grinned again, touched his helm to the Provost, and left, shouting for his men. Gil laid a hand on Neil Campbell’s shoulder as he turned to follow him.
‘Not so fast, man. I need a word.’
‘Maister Cunningham iss aye welcome to a word,’ said Neil courteously, though his eyes rolled in alarm, ‘but—’
‘Several words, in fact,’ said Gil. ‘Tell me more about the coin you’re carrying to Ardnamurchan. To Mingary, was it?’
‘Och, no, I am knowing little of that,’ protested the gallowglass. ‘All I have done is carry the stuff, I have no knowing where it is from or who makes it—’
‘So it’s not this man Miller?’ Gil suggested.
‘I would not be knowing. Just my cousin gave me the leather bag and I was taking it to McIan.’
‘And never helped yoursel from the contents?’ said Otterburn sceptically.
‘I am an honest man,’ said Neil indignantly. ‘I would not be thieving from those that employ me. Besides that, it was sealed,’ he added, ‘the sack I mean.’
‘Whose seal?’ Gil asked. He shook his head.
‘The old woman’s, I am thinking.’
‘Old woman?’ Gil repeated. ‘What old woman?’
‘Some old woman that was paying them to—’
‘Was it Dame Isabella? Isabella Torrance?’
‘Maybe.’ The man backed away from Gil, looking anxiously at the Provost. ‘It wass not Sempill’s, for certain.’
‘Sempill’s? What does he have to do with it?’
‘He had the seal,’ said Neil, as if it was obvious. ‘He was there to seal the bag, wass he not, and pay my kinsman for his work, and me and my brother for our time. Like the other morning,’ he said helpfully.
‘What other morning?’ Gil felt he was floundering, but this seemed like a support to clutch at. ‘Do you mean Thursday morning? The day Dame Isabella died?’
‘The day you wass rescued in the – yes,’ finished the gallowglass, changing his mind about what he had been about to say.
Does the entire town know I was rescued by the bawdy-house? Gil wondered. ‘What time was he there?’ he asked.
‘Och, early on, maybe about Prime. No, it was later, for I heard the bells, but it was not so late as Terce.’
‘So he was on Clerk’s Land before Terce, sealing the bag of coin,’ Gil began.
‘No, he wass not, for it wass not there to be sealed, the man Miller only came by with it after he had gone away.’
‘And then what happened?’ Gil was trying to fit the sequence of the morning together. And you said you didn’t know the man Miller, he thought.
‘Miller and my kinsman were going off to speak with the old woman.’
‘Why?’ asked Otterburn. ‘Was that usual? No, it couldny be, she didny dwell here in Glasgow. Why did they want to speak wi her?’
‘I would not be knowing,’ said Neil politely. ‘But maybe it wass because of what Sempill of Muirend was saying.’
‘Christ aid, it’s like drawing teeth!’ said Otterburn. ‘So what was Sempill saying, and who did he say it to?’
‘Oh, I wass not listening,’ declared the gallowglass. ‘He wass not talking to me, you understand, so it wass not right to be listening.’
‘Neil,’ said Gil levelly, ‘tell me what he said.’
The gallowglass gave him a reproachful look.
‘Only that there was to be no more silver,’ he said. ‘He was in a great rage, I thought, and the whole of the Drygate likely heard him, but that was all he was saying. No more silver, and no more coin.’
‘No more siller,’ the Provost repeated. ‘And where was there to be no more siller from?’
Neil shrugged his broad shoulders.
‘He was never saying that.’
‘Did your kinsman argue with him?’ Gil asked.
‘Who argues with Sempill of Muirend?’
True, Gil thought.
‘And then your kinsman told the man Miller,’ said Otterburn, thinking about it, ‘and the two o them went away down the Drygate to speak to Isabella Torrance. To complain to her? To clype on Sempill?’
‘To kill her?’ Gil supplied. Neil Campbell stepped back in alarm.
‘I have not said it!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have no idea who was killing her! They have said nothing of it when they came back to Clerk’s Land, only that she was telling how it would certainly go on, she would see more silver into Glasgow if it was to kill her…’ His voice trailed off, and he stared at Gil. ‘I think it was not them,’ he finished.
‘Hah!’ said Otterburn, rubbing his hands together. ‘Looks as if we’ll sort that killing as well as Dod Muir’s if we take the man Miller, Maister Cunningham.’
‘Maybe,’ said Gil.
It was nearly an hour before Andro returned, with the three missing serving-men. There had clearly been some dissent about whether they accompanied the Provost’s men or not; two had puffy eyes, one was dabbing at a split lip, and all three were covered in the mud of the Stablegreen. Andro’s men were hardly unblemished either; the Provost, surveying them, said drily,
‘Well, well, we’ll ha some repairs to put on the bill, I can see. Right, you three.’ He stared at the row of men. ‘It’ll likely save time if I tell you what we ken already. You left your mistress’s house when you kent she was dead by violence, along wi the woman,’ he turned his tablets to read the name, ‘Forveleth nic Iain nic Muirteach. She went to hand a package back to the potyngar, while you three went by the back lane to Clerk’s Land and there burnt your livery,’ all three men gaped at him and two crossed themselves, ‘and then I think you went to the place where my men just found ye. No?’
They looked at one another in dismay. Gil, seated by the window, identified the two who were brothers, dark of hair like the gallowglass. They must be Nicol and Alan, he thought, and the third was called Billy, a short, round-headed man with a ginger beard.
‘Aye,’ said Billy now. ‘Small point in denying it, maister. What,’ he swallowed, ‘what d’ye want of us now?’
‘Ye’ll have heard,’ said Otterburn, ‘the quest on yir mistress brought in a verdict o murder.’ His tone was pleasant, so pleasant that the men took a moment to realize their danger. ‘So what can you three tell me o that?’
‘Persons unknown,’ said Billy nervously. ‘We’re no, no what ye’d say unknown, maister, ye can see us clear in front o ye.’
‘Aye,’ said Otterburn in that pleasant tone.
‘She was slain while we were out about her errands,’ said one of the other two. ‘We cam back all about the same time, and waited in the outer chamber, see, and then Annot cam out screeching that the old dame was, was—’
‘I still think it was an apoplexy,’ muttered his brother.
‘So where did you go?’ Gil asked. ‘It was Alan went to the potyngary, I think, Maister Syme gave me a good description.’ One of the brothers looked even more dismayed by this. ‘Where did Nicol and Billy get to?’
‘To the Campbells,’ said Billy promptly.
‘And?�
� Gil encouraged. Billy and the remaining man eyed each other sideways, and Gil said, ‘Now I ken fine you went your separate ways. What I want to know is what those ways were.’
The two exchanged another glance, and Billy said reluctantly,
‘I gaed to Clerk’s Land. To ask about that pair o Camp-bells. Euan or Neil or whatever they’re cried. And then I waited on Nicol meeting me,’ he admitted when Gil prompted him further.
‘Was it a long wait?’ Gil asked, and bit his lip, thinking of the prentice joke. ‘How far had Nicol gone?’
‘Long enough,’ admitted Billy. ‘How long was ye, Nicol? Best part an hour, I’d say.’
Nicol nodded reluctantly.
‘All the way down the Gallowgate and back,’ Gil said. ‘It’s shorter by the back way, of course, down the Molendinar. Down the mill-burn,’ he translated, as they looked blankly, unfamiliar with the Sunday name. ‘And was Miller at home?’
Nicol’s jaw dropped. Recovering it, he said, ‘No, he wasny, nor his woman didny ken where he was, save that a laddie came to fetch him an hour afore I was there.’
Gil and Otterburn exchanged a glance. The Provost nodded at his captain, who left the chamber, and Gil said carefully,
‘What kind of time was that, then? When were you down the Gallowgate, Nicol?’
Nicol looked blankly at him, and then at Billy.
‘They’d done wi Terce,’ Billy said helpfully, ‘afore ever we set out. You could hear the bells ringing.’
‘Och, it was long after that,’ said Nicol.
‘Is that no what I’m saying? Half an hour after eight it would be, likely, when we left the lodging, and getting on for Sext when we got back.’
‘And there was nobody about Canon Aiken’s house other than the folk o the two households,’ said Otterburn. Billy nodded, the brothers shook their dark heads. All seemed to be agreeing with him.
Andro returned, with four men, rather fresher than the last set.
‘Right,’ said the Provost, and rubbed his hands together again. ‘Seeing you ken the way to this Miller’s house, my lad, you’ll take us there now. And to make certain you behave yoursel, we’ll just keep your brother and your friend here waiting for you. Any fun and games, laddie, and your brother’s the one that pays for it. Right?’
Out past the Gallowgate Port, past Little St Mungo’s, Nicol led them hesitantly down an alleyway among tumbledown hovels, little huts of wattle and clay with balding thatch and sagging walls. Women paused in their gossip and turned to stare as they went, a gaggle of children gathered in their wake, but as it became obvious where they were heading, somehow the interest evaporated. The children hesitated and turned back, the women ceased to watch them directly, though Gil suspected that by the time they stopped outside a shack no different from any of the others he could have obtained a detailed description of every member of the party from anyone within fifty yards.
Andro, following the plan the Provost had outlined before they left the Gallowgate, led two of the men quietly round the back of the little structure. Gil drew Nicol to one side, and Otterburn stepped up to the door and hammered on it with the hilt of his sword.
‘Miller!’ he shouted. ‘Open up, there! Open up for the law!’
A child in a nearby house began screaming, and a few heads popped out of doorways and as quickly popped back in. Like rabbits with a ferret in the warren, thought Gil.
‘What’s he done, maister?’ asked Nicol softly. ‘Why’s the law after him? Is he put to the horn, maybe?’
‘If he’s not here,’ said Gil, ‘he will be at the horn, for the murder of Dod Muir at the least.’ Otterburn, tiring of shouting at the door, had lifted the latch and flung it open. ‘I’d say he’s not here, would you?’
‘It’s deserted,’ said Andro, appearing in the open doorway. ‘We got in the back. There’s a workshop ahint the house, sir, you’ll want a right look at.’
The house was very small, and with eight men in it uncomfortably crowded. There was another doorway immediately opposite the one they had entered by, with a leather curtain; to the left was a single dwelling-space, to the right a couple of stalls where a goat bleated in alarm. Otterburn, ordering the men-at-arms out to watch front and back, cast a glance round the place and stepped through to the workshop Andro had mentioned. Gil stayed where he was, Nicol at his side, studying the sparse furnishings.
‘You said he had a woman,’ he remarked.
‘Aye.’ Nicol was looking about him too. ‘And there was a cooking-pot and two-three platters at the hearth, and a couple more stools, when I was here afore. And a better blanket on the bed.’ He grinned nervously. ‘He’s no a – no a good-heartit man, maister. Likely he beats her. She’s maybe took her chance when he’s away, and went somewhere kinder.’
‘Aye.’ Gil lifted the lid of the one kist in the place, with caution. It held some worn garments and a pair of down-at-heel boots; there were several choicer garments hanging on nails on one end wall of the box bed, and a pair of sturdy shoes set neatly below them. ‘He’s come into some better living lately,’ he observed. ‘Been here many times?’
‘Twice or thrice,’ admitted the man. ‘An errand for the old dame, ilka time.’
‘What was your message this time?’
‘To let him ken she was here in Glasgow,’ he said readily enough, ‘and wanting a word wi him.’
‘Was that how she put it?’ Gil asked, amused.
‘Well. Maybe no. Maybe it was more like, Tell the man Miller I’ll get a word wi him as soon as he pleases, and no to wait about.’
There was nothing under the bed, and nothing on its roof save some dust. The ledge at the top of the wall, below the rafters, yielded some oddments of broken crocks, a plain wooden comb, a few other fragments of domestic life. He prodded the bed, but found nothing stowed in it. Above the goat’s stall a bucket hung in the rafters proved to be empty.
‘If he’d anything worth it, his woman’s likely taken it with her,’ offered Nicol.
‘Maister Cunningham!’ Otterburn called from outside. Gil followed the sound across a small yard of beaten earth well-sprinkled with goat droppings, past a turf-banked furnace to a substantial shed whose door stood wide.
‘The man thinks more of his work than his dwelling,’ he observed, ducking under the lintel.
‘Aye, very like. See what we’ve found here,’ said Otter-burn, gesturing largely. Gil looked about the dark interior. There was a shuttered window, and a bench below it, the sort of low structure a man could sit astride with his workpiece on a raised portion before him. A rack of small hammers and mells was fixed to the wall below the window. Two wooden bins held scrap metal of different qualities, other tools and materials were neatly stowed.
‘A hammerman’s workshop,’ said Gil.
‘There’s more.’ Otterburn was grinning in the shadows. ‘There’s more. Show him, Andro.’
Part of the back wall of the shed swung open, and Andro stepped through.
‘There’s no air in there!’ he complained, fanning himself with one hand. ‘Aye, sir, it’s all there, all Maister Livingstone described, so far’s I saw afore you shut the door on me. A bar o siller, a sack o blanks waiting to be struck, a sack o powder I suppose could be dried argol. And here’s the dies.’
‘It’s no that secret,’ said Otterburn disparagingly, ‘but you’d no spot it unless you were right next it, in this light, and it’s a right neat wee press when you get inside, all well stowed. It’s a false back wall to the shed, see, you’d no guess unless you paced it out. See us the dies, then, man.’
There were three of them, identical in size and heft to the one which had been hidden with Dod Muir’s body. Gil moved to the door to inspect them. Two showed the cross and four mullets, with no balls as Madam Xanthe had said. One of these was badly worn. The third should be the king’s head, he thought, turning it to the light.
‘Here’s a thing,’ he said. ‘Could this be why Dod Muir was slain?’
‘Eh?’
said Otterburn from the hidden press.
‘The die we found wi him was a worn head, right? Livingstone reckoned there were two heads and two crosses, one of each worn out, so we ought to have a good head here.’
‘Aye?’
‘This one’s damaged. There’s a great scratch across it, maybe from a chisel or the like, right across the king’s jaw.’
‘You mean Miller wanted him to make another and he refused?’ Otterburn came to look. ‘Why would he refuse? He was in it up to his neck any road.’
‘Maybe he hoped to get out of it.’ Gil admired the three dies where they lay in a row on his palm. ‘Maister Otter-burn, I think we’ve found our counterfeiter.’
‘Well, we’ve named him, any road,’ said Otterburn, prodding the dies with a long forefinger. ‘We’ve no found him yet, Maister Cunningham.’
‘No,’ said Gil, with a sudden rush of anxiety. ‘No, we haveny, and he’s out the same side of Glasgow as my wife.’
Chapter Twelve
Sir Richie was astonished by their story. He was already out at the corner of his little church, staring up the glen, and when the little procession came in sight he vanished, to reappear shortly round the kirkyard wall, stole about his neck, a little box clasped carefully in one hand. Bearing this he made his way down to cross the burn by the plank bridge Alys had used, and came hurrying towards them.
‘Who’s hurt? Is there time to shrive them?’ he demanded as soon as he came within earshot. ‘Who is it? You’re all hale – who is it?’
Leaving Lowrie to direct his men and keep an eye on young Berthold, Alys came forward to explain. He listened attentively, crossing himself, then inspected the two dead men, flinching away from the burnt face of the boy’s father, exclaiming over and over.
‘And these were the demons? So they were flesh and blood after all! Bring them within the kirkyard at least. Were they Christian souls?’
‘I think it,’ said Alys. ‘The boy has a set of beads, I think he was praying for his father. Or perhaps for himself,’ she added thoughtfully.
‘Bring them in, then, bring them in. But what can we do, maister? If they’ve been murdered as you say, we should raise the hue and cry, but there’s never a soul to hear it in the Clachan, and none wi the authority to command the pursuit neither.’