by Pat McIntosh
‘He’s no stirred, mem,’ he said anxiously. ‘But his breathing’s maybe a mite easier.’
‘I think you are right,’ Alys agreed, feeling Davie’s rough red hand. ‘He seems warmer, too.’ She turned to her father. ‘We washed the wound, and bandaged it, after we clipped his hair. Brother Andrew came, and said he thought the skull was broken, but to keep him warm and still and nurse him carefully and pray. So Annis is watching and Catherine is praying, and so is Will while he can stay.’
‘A broken skull,’ the mason said in some dismay. ‘It needs a compress of vinegar with lavender and rose petals, hot to his feet, Alys, to restore the spirits and draw excess humours from the brain.’
‘So I thought,’ she agreed, ‘but we are short of rose petals. Jennet is gone out to the apothecary for more.’
‘What came to you, boy?’ said Maistre Pierre, staring down at the waxy yellow face. ‘I wish you could tell me.’
The sandy lashes stirred and flickered. Annis leaned forward with an exclamation, and Catherine paused in her muttering. Alys dropped to her knees, her head near the boy’s as the bloodless lips twitched, formed soundless words. Then the eyes flew open and suddenly, clearly, Davie spoke.
It wisny me. It wisny me, maister.’
His eyes closed again. Alys felt his hand, then his cheek, with gentle fingers, but he did not respond. She rose, and turned to her father and Gil.
‘You must find his sweetheart,’ she said. ‘Before the killer does.’
Chapter Three
Canon Cunningham was in his chamber in the Consistory tower, working at the high desk in an atmosphere of parchment and old paper. When Gil brushed past the indignant clerk in the antechamber and stepped round the door, his uncle was ferreting through more documents in a tray from the tall narrow cabinet behind him. At his elbow were the protocol books and rolled parchments for the Sempill conveyancing, with his legal bonnet, shaped like a battered acorn-cup, perched on top of the stack.
‘I’ll ring when I am ready,’ he said, without looking up.
‘May I have a word, sir?’ said Gil. At his voice the Official raised his head and favoured him with a cold grey stare. Gil, undaunted, closed the door and leaning on the desk gave a concise account of the morning’s discoveries. His uncle heard him in attentive silence, then stared out of the window at the rose-pink stone tower of the Archbishop’s castle, tapping his fingers on the desk.
‘James Henderson spoke to me at Chapter this morning,’ he said at last. ‘I think he has the right of it. She died on St Mungo’s land, St Mungo’s has a duty to find her killer.’
‘And to determine whether it was forethought felony or murder chaud-melle,’ offered Gil. His uncle glanced at him sharply.
‘Aye. Well, you were aye good at hunting, Gilbert, and you have shown some sense making a start on the trail already. You might as well continue. You’ll report to me, of course, and I’ll take it to Chapter.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Gil, blinking slightly at the unaccustomed praise.
His uncle looked again at the parchments at his elbow.
‘This must be replait, I suppose,’ he said, ‘at least until the poor woman is formally identified. Where will you begin? Where is the trail freshest?’
‘Two places, I think, sir,’ said Gil readily. He and the master mason had already found themselves in agreement on the same question. ‘The lass who was with the mason’s boy must be found, and I wish to speak to John Sempill of Muirend. And additional to that, St Mungo’s yard must be searched carefully, in case we find the great piece of wood with which the boy was struck down. The mason and his men are seeing to that just now. I passed Sempill in the waiting-room here,’ he added, ‘himself, Philip, two witnesses, and one of the gallowglasses.’
‘Well, well,’ said Canon Cunningham. He picked up parchments and protocol books, and moved to sit behind the great table, arranging his documents on the worn tablecarpet. Clapping the legal bonnet over his black felt coif, he continued, ‘Then let us have in Sempill of Muirend and see how he takes the news.’
John Sempill of Muirend, summoned alone, argued briefly with Richard Fleming the clerk in the antechamber, then erupted into the chamber saying impatiently, ‘Yon fool of a clerk says you don’t want my witnesses. Is there some problem, sir?’
‘There may be,’ said David Cunningham calmly. ‘Be seated, Maister Sempill .’
John Sempill, ignoring the invitation, stared at the Official. He was a solid, sandy man, inappropriately dressed in cherry-coloured velvet faced with squirrel, with a large floppy hat falling over one eye. Scowling from under this he said, ‘My damned wife hasn’t compeared, no in person nor by a man of law, but she’s left me anyway, I suppose you know that, so she isn’t concerned in this.’
‘When did you last see your wife, John?’ asked Gil.
The pale blue eyes turned to him. ‘Yesterday, making a May-game of herself at Glasgow Cross. Fine thing for a man to meet, riding into the town - his lawful wife, disporting herself in public for servant-lads and prentices to gape at.’
‘And that was the last you saw her?’ Gil pressed.
‘Yes. What is this?’ Sempill pushed the hat back. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Did you try to have word with her?’
‘Yes, I did, but the bitch never compeared for me either. What is this?’ he demanded again. ‘What’s she done, run off from the harper too?’
‘Not quite,’ said Gil. ‘When were you to have met her?’
‘Last night after Compline. Neil Campbell said he fetched her, but when I came out of the church she wasn’t to be seen. Turned hen-hearted, I suppose. You saw me,’ he added. ‘You came out of St Mungo’s just behind Euphemia.’
‘I did,’ Gil agreed.
‘Maister Sempill,’ said David Cunningham, ‘I think you should know that a woman was found in the Fergus Aisle this morning, dead. She has been provisionally identified as Bess Stewart of Ettrick, your wife.’
The blue eyes, fixed on his, grew round with shock. The broad face sagged and stiffened into a mask of astonishment.
‘Sit down, man,’ said the Official. John Sempill, still staring, felt behind him with one booted foot for the stool and sank on to it.
‘Dead,’ he repeated. ‘When? How? Had she been forced?’ he demanded.
‘No sign of that,’ said Gil. ‘She never went back to her lodgings. She must have died sometime last night.’
‘Dead,’ said Sempill again. ‘And in the Fergus Aisle? You mean that bit of building work in St Mungo’s yard? Why? What happened to her?’
‘That we hope to establish,’ said Gil. ‘Perhaps you can tell us a few things.’
‘So she didn’t run out,’ said Sempill thoughtfully. ‘Poor bitch.’ He looked up, from Gil to his uncle. ‘That means her interest in the Rottenrow plot is returned to me,’ he pointed out firmly. ‘We can continue with that transaction at least.’
‘That must be for you and your witnesses to decide,’ said Gil, rather taken aback. ‘My immediate concern is to discover who killed your wife and bring him to justice. Do you tell me that between the time you rode in at Glasgow Cross yesterday and now, you have not seen or spoken with her?’
‘That’s exactly what I said,’ agreed Sempill irritably. ‘The woman’s dead, what purpose is there in worrying at it?’
‘I think the Bishop - Archbishop,’ Gil corrected himself, ‘could enlighten you on that if your confessor cannot. What was the message that your man took, John?’
Sempill stared angrily at Gil for a moment, then evi-
dently decided to humour him.
‘That she should come up and meet me by the south door of St Mungo’s after Compline. And he delivered it. And he came into Compline and told me she was waiting out-by in the trees. The small belt of haw-trees,’ he elaborated, ‘by the south door. Is that dear enough? You can ask Neil himself if you choose. He’s over in Rottenrow.’
`Thank you, I will. Did you offer her a r
eason for the meeting?’
‘Aye, but what’s that to do with it?’
‘It will tell us why she would come up the High Street at that hour,’ said Gil mildly. ‘It was late to be out without a reason.’
Sempill stared at him again, chewing his lip. Finally he said, ‘I don’t know what Neil told her.’
‘Understood,’ agreed Gil.
‘I bid him tell her it was a matter of money. Her money. Knew that would fetch her,’ he said, grinning. ‘All Stewarts are thrieveless and she’s no exception.’ The grin faded as the two lawyers looked at him without expression. ‘I was going to offer her her share of the purchase if she agreed to this transaction.’ He nodded at the desk in front of him.
‘You must be desperate for the money,’ Gil said.
Sempill scrutinized this, failed to detect sarcasm, and said, ‘Aye. Well. The Treasury has a long memory. So we might as well go ahead with it.’
‘It seems to me as your conveyancer,’ said Canon Cunningham, ‘that it is only proper the matter should be replait - that it should be set aside to wait until you have identified the corpse yourself. Perhaps you would discuss this with your witnesses, Maister Sempill. And accept our condolences on your loss.’
‘Aye,’ said Sempill again. He glared at both Cunninghams, rose and withdrew with dignity, slamming the door behind him so that documents went flying about the room.
‘Well!’ said Gil, stooping for the nearest. ‘Why is he in such a hurry to get the money?’
‘Paisley Cross,’ said his uncle elliptically.
‘What was it at Paisley Cross?’ asked Maistre Pierre. He had been waiting near the door at the foot of the stair. Without the fur-lined gown he was less bulky but still big, an inch or two shorter than Gil but far broader. He had unlaced and removed the sleeves of his jerkin and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing muscular brown forearms decorated with silver scars. ‘This way, maister,’ he added.
‘It began two years since,’ said Gil, following him down the kirkyard. ‘The Crown granted Paisley burgh status and a market after Stirling field, you remember, and Renfrew took exception to another market two miles away from theirs.’
‘This I knew from Davie. Where does Sempillenter?’
‘The burgesses of Paisley bought stones to make a mar ket cross, and some evil advised persons of the said town of Renfrew,’ Gil quoted with relish, ‘came by night and broke up the stones. If Sempill of Eliotstoun -‘
‘Ah, the Sheriff of Renfrew -‘
‘Indeed, and head of the Sempills in the west, was not involved, he certainly knew who was. The Earl of Lennox and his son were charged with putting it right, and naturally they pursued the guilty with all rigour, given their -‘
‘Great love for all Sempills,’ Maistre Pierre completed. ‘I begin to see. There would be fines to pay, of course. So this particular Sempill is being pursued by the Crown, and having to sell land to raise funds. Is he close kin to the Sheriff of Renfrew?’
‘Not close enough for Eliotstoun to pay his fines for him,’ Gil said, and realized his companion was not listening. He had come to a halt at the edge of the trees and was casting about.
‘Now where - ah, that peeled twig. We search for a weapon, we agreed, or a thing out of place. We have seen no weapon this far, but Luke found this, which is certainly out of place. We left it lying so you also could see where it was.’
He parted the bluebells in front of the marker. Gil leaned down and lifted the harp key which nestled in the long leaves. It was a pretty thing; the metal barrel that gripped the tuning-pins was set into a painted wooden handle. A love-gift, a musician’s gift, acutely personal. Surely the dead woman would have kept such a thing safe?
‘It has flowers on, it must be hers, not?’ the mason continued. ‘Has she been here? Was it she who struck the boy down?’
‘Her hands were clean,’ Gil pointed out. ‘She had not handled the kind of stick we are searching for. No, this came here another way.’
He recounted the incident he had seen just before the mason arrived. Maistre Pierre heard him out, and said thoughtfully, ‘She must have had a purse, to keep it in. I wonder what has happened to that?’
‘My thought,’ agreed Gil.
‘We must find these laddies and question them. It must be nearly noon - will they sing also at Nones? We can catch them then.’
‘More like two of the other boys,’ Gil said. ‘They take turns. It’s cheaper, and doesn’t tire their voices. I’ll speak to Patrick - no doubt he can help. Where are your men now? Have you asked them about Davie’s lass?’
‘Alys spoke to them. I am not certain what she learned. They are up-by, searching the top of the kirkyard, since most of Glasgow is now gone home to its noon piece. Maister lawyer, this gallowglass must be questioned, I think. Suppose you leave us here and go see to that?’
The Sempill property was a large sprawling townhouse, an uneasy mix of stone tower and timber additions set round a courtyard. Three hens and a pair of pigeons occupied the courtyard; voices floated from an open window, and someone was practising the lute. Gil paused under the arch of the gateway, then, on the grounds that he represented St Mungo’s, moved towards the stairs to the main door.
He had taken barely two steps into the courtyard when sound exploded behind him, an enormous barking and clanking and scrabble of claws. He whirled, drawing his sword, leaping backwards through a flurry of wings, as the mastiff hurtled to the end of its chain bellowing threats. Laughter from the house suggested that he had been seen. He took another prudent step backwards, assessing the huge animal with its rolls of brindled muscle. Ropes of saliva hung from the white fangs in the powerful jaws. He looked carefully at the chain, then sheathed his whinger, turned and strolled to the stairs, controlling his breathing with some difficulty. Behind him the dog continued to bay furiously until Sempill appeared in the doorway.
‘Doucette!’ he bawled. ‘Down! You were safe enough,’ he added, grinning as the noise dropped. He had discarded the cherry velvet, and wore a very old leather jerkin. ‘We only let her loose at night.’
‘I hope the chain is secure,’ Gil commented. Behind him metal rattled as the dog lay down with reluctance, still snarling. ‘You could find yourself with a serious action against you if she got loose and killed something.’
The grin vanished. Sempill grunted in answer, and said, ‘I suppose you’re here to ask more questions.’
‘I wish to speak to the man who took your message last night,’ Gil agreed. ‘And perhaps I might ask the rest of your household if they saw anything unusual in the kirkyard when we left Compline.’
‘Why? You were there. You know what there was to see.’
‘Someone else might have noticed something different.’
Sempill stared at him, then said ungraciously, ‘Wait in here, I’ll send Neil to you. I’ll see if the others will speak to you as well - but you’re not to upset Euphemia, mind.’
He showed Gil into a small closet off the hall. It contained a clutter of half-repaired harness, for man and horse, and some leather-working tools laid on the windowsill.
‘Fool of a groom in charge here,’ said Sempill, seeing Gil looking at these. ‘I swear by the Rood, half the leather in the place is rotted, I’m having to overhaul the lot, but if I beat him as he deserves, who’s to see to Doucette out there?’
He strolled off, ostentatiously casual, shouting, ‘Neil! Neil, come here, you blichan!’ Gil sat down by the window and studied the array of tools. There were some nasty triangular needles, a leather palm, a vicious little knife. He lifted the awl and turned it in his hand, feeling the point.
‘Fery sharp,’ said a voice. Gil turned, to see one of the two men-at-arms occupying most of the doorway. ‘The chentleman wished to see me?’
Gil studied the man briefly. Dark hair cut short to go under a helm, dark eyebrows in a long narrow face, blue eyes which slid sideways from his.
‘You are Neil Campbell?’
�
��It iss myself.’ The accent was far stronger than Ealasaidh’s. Gil rephrased his next question.
‘You were sent with a message for Maister Sempill yesterday evening?’
‘I am taking many messages for himself.’
This one was to his wife.’
‘That iss so,’ agreed Campbell, the stern face softening momentarily. ‘To his wife. In the Fishergait, where she is liffing with the clarsair.’
‘What was the message?’
‘Oh, I could not be telling that.’ The man’s eyes slid sideways again.
Gil said patiently, ‘Maister Sempill gave me permission to ask you. I know what he bade you say, but I need to know what message reached her.’
‘Oh, I would not know about that.’
‘You know she is dead?’ Gil said.
The blue gaze sharpened. ‘Dhia! You say?’ said the man, crossing himself. ‘The poor lady!’
‘And you may have been the last to see her alive,’ Gil pointed out. ‘Did she come up the High Street with you, or did she follow you?’
‘Oh, I would not know,’ said the man again.
Gil drew a breath, and said with some care, ‘Tell me this, then. Did the message that John Sempill sent for his wife reach her, or not?’
‘Oh, it was reaching her,’ said the other man, nodding sadly. ‘And then she was coming up the hill, and now she is dead. How did she come to die, maister?’
‘Someone knifed her,’ said Gil. The narrow face opposite him froze; the blue eyes closed, and opened again.
‘What do you know about her death?’ Gil asked.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all, at all,’ said the gallowglass, through stiffened lips. ‘The last I saw her she was well and living.’
‘Did she come up the hill with you?’
‘Not with me, no, she did not.’ This seemed to be the truth, Gil thought. The man was too shaken to prevaricate.