“Ay, the truth,” said Lady Hume, the two lines by the corners of her mouth lengthening and deepening. “The truth is, we dinna ken. He was stabbed and had his brainpan laid open in his ain parlour, we dinna ken who by, except there were two strangers in the village. D’ye know aught of them?”
“Nothing except that two horses with West March brands were found by a man called Tully. He says they were wandering in the forest not ten miles south.”
“Hm,” said Lady Hume, tilting her head on its long neck. “Come with me.”
The manse was a scene of frantic activity as women scrubbed the walls by the plate cupboard and swept the rushes into the yard.
“Where’s the corpse?”
“In his church, in the crypt.”
“May I see it, to pay my respects? I’m sorry for his death for he was a good man.”
“Ay,” said Lady Hume, “he was.”
She led the way to the church, where there were black candles lit, and down the narrow steps into the ancient vaulted crypt. Among the Papist statues lying as if it was a strange stone dormitory, was the bier with James Burn’s body.
His head was actually in two bits, sliced through his face, held together awkwardly by a linen bandage. There wasn’t much blood. The corpse lay as it had fallen, twisted to the right, though he had been laid out and cleaned and wrapped in his shroud ready for burial.
“Ye canna see the stab wound. It’s in his back, the cowards. Stabbed in the back first, then that done by a good sword.”
Elizabeth took a look at the hands. They were big hands and the knuckles of his right were grazed.
“He tried to fight, I think.”
“Ay,” sniffed the Dowager Lady, “of course.”
“When is the funeral?”
“Tomorrow or the day after. Nae reason to wait about, some of the Burns are here already. His wife willna be coming, I think?”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “It’s a miracle she didn’t miscarry the wean as it is. I can be her proxy if you like, ma’am.”
“Yes, that would be fitting, Lady Widdrington.”
Young Henry had come down the steps behind them and was standing, head bowed by the body.
“Ye willna be praying for his soul,” said Lady Hume flintily.
Young Henry lifted his head in surprise. “No,” he said, “for his family and his wife. He’s already gone to Judgement.”
Lady Hume nodded once. Elizabeth felt sad that you couldn’t pray for souls the way you could in the old days that her nurse had told her about. What harm did it do? But only Papists did that nowadays and she wasn’t a Papist so she kept quiet about it. Silently she asked God to have mercy on Jamie and keep him safe until Judgement Day.
“God rest him and keep him,” she said. “He was a good man and a good husband.”
Lady Hume sniffed eloquently. “A pity his wife betrayed him, then.”
“What?”
“Ay well, why else would she ride all that way? You mark my words, Lady Widdrington, the girl brought in the strangers to kill him and then rode off wi’ them and she’s told ye a fine tale to draw your sympathies but.”
Elizabeth felt her colour and temper rise at the idea that Poppy could have betrayed her husband like that, but she said nothing for a while. Lady Hume was a powerful woman and no doubt would be even more convinced of Poppy’s guilt if she knew of the rape.
“I doubt it,” she said finally with a glint of humour. “I really doubt it, Lady Hume.” She shook her head at the idea.
“Well then, explain the death of Mr Burn.”
“I can’t. He was a good pastor.”
“Ay, he was, a good pastor and a good dominie but a fire-eater he was not. His sermons were respectable and his life exemplary. He may have come from a riding surname but he himself was no reiver.”
Elizabeth nodded. “You’re right, Lady Hume. He never showed any signs of being a reiver.” Lady Hume gave Elizabeth a long and considering look which Elizabeth returned blandly and then curtseyed low to her again.
They went in silence up the steps from the crypt and straight into the alehouse which was full. Elizabeth went into a corner, called for double beer for Young Henry and his cousins and mild for herself and settled down on the bench to watch what happened. The presence of Lady Hume made the church alehouse respectable. She wondered whether the lady had simply taken up residence in the manse for the duration. Elizabeth also wondered where she herself would sleep. At least she had an official position here for the funeral, so she supposed Lady Hume might do something about it eventually.
Jamie Burn had come from a riding surname of the Middle March and was a son of the headman. The Burns were coming in all day to the funeral, feeling the need to make a point of it, and she hoped that Lady Hume had brought supplies with her to help with that. She watched the man she thought was Jamie’s father by the bar as he drank and stared into space and stared into space and drank. She wasn’t sure what had happened between him and his son when Jamie decided to go to university. Had that been with his father’s consent or had there been a quarrel?
After a moment she got up, left her pewter mug of mild ale on the table next to Young Henry, and went over to the man.
“Mr Burn?” she asked.
“Ay. Ay missus.”
“Are you Minister Burn’s father?”
“Nay missus, his uncle, Jock. His dad’s Ralph o’ the Coate.”
“May I speak with you?”
“Ay, why not?”
“I was very, very sorry to hear of Jamie Burn’s death, Mr Burn,” she began inadequately.
“Ye were. Why?”
“He was a good man and a good pastor. There aren’t enough of those about that we can afford to waste them.”
Strangely there was a brief moment when the man in front of her seemed about to laugh, but she thought she had mistaken it. “Ay,” came the answer, “I backed him agin his father when he wanted to dae it.”
“You did?”
“I backed him, ay. His big brother Geordie thought it was hilarious, him studying Divinity at St Andrews as a servitor, and his dad wanted him to stay with the family. There was a lot of argufying.”
“I wondered if his father was against it.”
“Ay. Agin it. Ye could say that.”
“Will he be coming to the funeral?”
Jock Burn’s face shut tight. “Ay well. I dinna ken. He might.”
“The rest of the surname seem to be coming in.”
“Ay,” said Jock Burn, “we need to make a bit of a show.”
“Why?”
He paused, thinking. “Somebody came up to a Burn, stabbed him, and part took his heid off wi’ an axe. We’re coming in so no one thinks we’re afeared.”
“Good Lord, Mr Burn, I don’t think anyone could possibly think that.”
“Hm. And I think kindly on ye, that the Widdringtons are showing support.”
“I liked the minister, Mr Burn. He was a good man.”
“Ay.”
She went back to Young Henry who was looking wistfully at a game of shove ha’penny that was starting up in the corner.
“What do you think about it?” she asked as she sat down with him again and finished her mild ale. Young Henry flushed and hid his nose in his beer.
“About Jamie?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I liked him too. I wish he wisnae dead. That’s about the size of it.”
“Hm. What do you think about how he was killed with an axe?”
“It wisnae an axe; it was a broadsword.”
“How do you know?”
“Well an axe mashes up more of the flesh and that was a sharp edge that took him, right down through his skull at an angle, left to right. That’s not an easy blow forbye, it was an expert with a good sword.�
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“And stabbed from behind. Before or after?”
Young Henry didn’t need to think. “Before. If ye get his kidneys or his heart, it’s all over. He probably didn’t even shout.”
She thought about this and nodded.
“Ay,” Young Henry said judiciously. “So one man kept him talking and the other went round, drew his poignard, and struck from behind.”
“They didn’t want him to know.”
“No, well, he’s a Burn. They’re a’ good fighters.”
“Even the one who got away and into the church.”
A fractional pause. “Ay.”
Elizabeth smiled brightly at Young Henry and left it. He went off to join the shouting crowd round the shove ha’penny board and started betting on it. Even without the murder, she was beginning to feel very interested in Jamie Burn and his history. What had he done before he went to St Andrews, and why had he decided to become a minister in the first place?
It was a nuisance that Poppy Burn was at Widdrington and not here, thought Elizabeth. Blast the woman for taking it into her head to ride away. It gave a perfect opportunity for all the clacking nasty tongues to work.
Looking at the problem from a man’s point of view, Elizabeth had to admit that the killers would have had an easy job of it if they had had Poppy’s help—and it was very difficult to show she hadn’t helped them. Elizabeth was sure she hadn’t, but who could be certain of anything like that? The bruises and the state of her showed it had been rape, but a man might say she was willing to start with, and then changed her mind and it wasn’t his fault if he couldn’t stop.
Elizabeth shook her head and frowned. Lady Hume had been welcoming the headmen of the surnames coming in to the funeral, who certainly were an impressive bunch of killers and robbers. Now she was gathering herself up to go, and so Elizabeth went over to her and asked where she would advise Elizabeth to find lodging?
“Are ye afeared of ghosts?”asked Lady Hume.
“I’ve never seen one,” Elizabeth answered steadily.
“Well I’m staying at the manse since it’s a ten-mile ride back to my Lord Hughie. You’re welcome to join me, Lady Widdrington, and your stepson as well, though your men will have to find space in the alehouse.”
“Thank you, Lady Hume.” Elizabeth was relieved at solving the problem so easily. She went back to Young Henry with the news and discovered that he’d rather find a space at the alehouse than the manse. Not that he was afeared of ghosts, oh no, but he felt he should stay with his cousins since there were a number of reivers come into the village and while none of his men had feuds with anyone likely to come that he knew of, it would be well if no feuds started up, especially with the Burns, who were dangerous that way.
With the village full of reivers, she decided to bring the hobbies and Mouse and Rat into the manse with her. Lady Hume was agreeable and so Elizabeth went back to Young Henry who thought it was an excellent idea and sent the youngest Widdrington cousin with her to lead the horses.
They went round the back to the stableyard where the hobbies shared two loose-boxes and Mouse and Rat shared another since they were friends. There wasn’t much horse feed there but all the horses got enough to tide them over.
The manse was a small stone-built house, the chantry of St Cuthbert’s somewhat altered by the previous incumbent. Poppy had been proud of that—living in a stone house with a slate roof was better than one of wattle and daub and thatch, though she admitted that it was a lot colder and harder to heat. There was a large handsome entrance hall, decorated with Papistical carvings nobody understood anymore—who was the woman with a towel in her hand and why did a stag have a cross between its antlers?
The small parlour was still damp and had no rushes on the tiled floor. Lady Hume led Elizabeth to it and opened the door.
“Ye may as well satisfy yer curiosity,” she said.
“Thank you, Lady Hume,” said Elizabeth and went in to look. That the plate cupboard was open and bare of plate was the first thing she saw, gone were the three silver goblets and a handsome bowl with dancing cherubs on it that she had seen when she stayed with Poppy. The benches along the wall were a little at angles, probably moved by the village women when they cleaned out the rushes. There must have been a lot of brains to clean up, very unpleasant and fatty.
The gore was gone but she could trace where it had been from the scrubbing and wet walls. It was mainly around the plate cupboard, though not on the cupboard itself. She shut her eyes and tried to imagine James going to get the plate, probably the three goblets, and then one man coming up behind him with a knife, the other man sweeping his sword out and finishing the job when it went a little wrong.
Who had held Poppy still? Or no, she had been fetching wafers and wine. And who had taken the plate which belonged to Poppy?
“Hm,” she said aloud, “where are Poppy’s silver goblets and bowl?”
Lady Hume shrugged. “Nae doubt but they took them. Why not?”
Reivers would know someone who could melt it down for the silver, probably Richie Graham of Brackenhill who made a very good thing out of buying plates off reivers for not very much and then minting it up himself into the debauched Scottish shillings to trade over the Border. The plate had been taken by way of a bonus; it was far too little to be worth the raid by itself.
Still, the fact Jamie had opened the plate cupboard was very interesting, since it showed that the men were indeed known to Jamie, were in fact honoured guests. You wouldn’t give them wine in silver goblets if they were just messengers or strangers unless there was something else about them that made them important.
“Hm,” she said, pleased with herself for thinking that one out, and looked around for more interesting details. Robin Carey had told her something about that once, that truth was like gold and essentially indestructible although you could bury it. But there would be traces.
What would he do, faced with such a puzzle? Well for a start he would be in the saddle looking for the tracks and prints that would show which way the killers had gone, probably with Sergeant Dodd alongside. She couldn’t do that, and in any case, any hoofprints would be indistinguishable from all the people coming into the village. Robin would also be charming the Dowager Lady Hume like a bird out of a tree.
Before she could get lost in thinking about him, she turned and came out of the parlour, shutting the door firmly behind her.
“I suppose Mrs Burn’s larder has been pillaged?” she said to the lady who sniffed.
“Since she no longer has any claim to it, I have taken it over.” She gave Elizabeth a bold look. Elizabeth knew well that the living was not in her gift but in fact in the gift of the man who held the Lord Hughie’s wardship, which alas, currently was Lord Spynie, the King’s minion. Elizabeth also knew that it could be hard to make ends meet even if you were a lady, here in the north where the living was difficult, certainly if you were trying to hold the lands together for a son and heir aged ten.
It had taken a great deal of conniving and letter-writing for her to get the living for Jamie a couple of years ago when Chancellor Maitland held the wardship, and it was annoying that the effort had all gone to waste. How inconsiderate of Jamie to die like that! she caught herself thinking.
“Ah,” said Elizabeth with a smile, “I wondered if there’s anything there I could make a supper out of.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” was the withering response, from someone who had probably always had a cook and was therefore helpless.
Elizabeth forayed into the kitchen, where the fire hadn’t been lit and where there were no servants at all, and found a hacked loaf of bread and the end of a ham hock and some crumbs of cheese. In a crock in the wet larder behind she found some soused herring, and in a bag in the scullery she found some carrots and parsnips, a little withered but perfectly edible. She took a look at the modern brick ra
nge and found it was stone cold, which was a pity because her stomach was aching with hunger.
She peered out of the wet larder door into the little stableyard and found two boys there, arguing over whether they should knock and ask for some pennies for a job or two, and pounced. One, she sent to the alehouse to fetch some hot coals. The other she sent to the woodshed for kindling and logs, and then to the well to fetch water.
Half an hour later she was boiling the parsnips in a saucepan on a sharp fire at the small end of the range and heating the soused herring in the warmer.
She found the plates for the Burn’s dinner sitting in cold scummy water and gone mouldy, so she trimmed some bread trenchers from the stale loaf and even found a wooden platter and two serving spoons. The pantry had a crock of butter, which was wonderful news, and even a big crock of oatmeal for the morrow, which she immediately mixed up with some water, butter, and salt ready to go in the warmer overnight when the herrings came out.
Best of all, in a carefully hidden crock amongst the dirty pans, she found Poppy’s little honey oatcakes which weren’t even stale.
Lady Hume seemed astonished when Elizabeth called her to a late dinner at the table in the parlour, but she took the place at the head of the table when Elizabeth invited her. Over the food she folded her hands and said grace.
“Lord and father, we thank thee for this food which thou hast vouchsafed to us here in this house of sorrow…” There was quite a lot more of that until Elizabeth’s stomach gave a heroic growl at which Lady Hume said amen halfway through a sentence. They didn’t speak for a while after that except to say things like “pass the salt” and “would you help me to some more neeps?”
The soused herrings were very good, well soaked to clear them of salt and then cooked in a mixture of stock and vinegar until they melted like butter in the mouth. Elizabeth’s neeps were less good, as they could have done with a little more time in the water, but the butter made up for that.
Lady Hume had a good stomach to her meat despite her frail looks and her eyes lit up when she saw Poppy’s honey oatcakes.
“Ay,” she said, a little strictly, “I’ll have just the one of those.”
A Chorus of Innocents Page 5