The Harper's Quine: A Gil Cunningham Murder Mystery

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘And what was the message?’

  ‘That I cannot be telling you.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell me?’

  ‘Chust it is not possible. Is the chentleman finished asking at me?’

  Gil gave up.

  ‘Will you tell Maister Sempill I have done with you for the moment,’ he said. ‘I will need to get another word with you later.’

  The man turned and tramped out. Baffled, Gil stared after him, then bent his attention to the tools on the sill again. He was still studying them when John Sempill returned.

  ‘I could have told you you’d not get much out of Neil,’ he said. ‘Him and his brother, they’re both wild Ersche. You need the two tongues to deal with them.’

  ‘How do you manage?’ Gil asked, controlling his irritation.

  ‘Oh, they have enough Scots for my purposes. Do you still want to speak to the others?’

  ‘Yes, if it is possible.’ Gil rose, and followed Sempill across the hall, picking his way past hunting gear and half a set of plate armour, and up a wheel stair at the other side towards a continuous sound of voices. The room at the top of the stair was hung with much-mended verdure tapestry, and replete with cushions, among which Lady Euphemia Campbell was sewing and chattering away like a goldfinch to her middle-aged waiting-woman.

  They made a pleasing sight. Lady Euphemia, wearing a wealth of pleated linen on her head, fathoms more rumpled round her, appeared daintier than ever. Her stout companion, stolidly threading needles, merely served to emphasize this further. Under her coarse black linen veil her face reminded Gil of the dough faces Maggie used to bake for him and his brothers and sisters, with small black currant eyes and a slit of a mouth.

  ‘Here’s Euphemia, making sheets to her bed,’ said Sempill. ‘I can make do with blankets myself, but she’s too delicate for that.’

  ‘Venus rising from the foam,’ said Gil, and added politely, ‘in duplicate.’

  This won him a suspicious look from Sempill and two approving smiles. Someone laughed at the other end of the room.

  ‘And there’s my cousin Philip and Euphemia’s brother,’ added Sempill.

  ‘Have some claret, priest,’ suggested one of the two men by the blank fireplace, darkly handsome and much Sempill’s age. ‘Since my good-brother does not see fit to introduce us, let me tell you I am James Campbell of Glenstriven. Are you here to explain why we’ve to wait to finish this sale?’

  ‘In a way,’ agreed Gil, accepting a cup of wine and adding water. ‘I am Gilbert Cunningham of the Consistory Court.’ He waited until the familiar chill in his stomach dispelled itself, and continued, ‘I’ll drink to a successful conclusion with you. Perhaps John has already explained that Bess Stewart his wife was killed last night in the kirkyard of St Mungo’s. We need to find out who did it and take him up.’

  ‘Why?’ said Campbell of Glenstriven. ‘She was an adulterous wife, she’s dead. Why bother yourself with her?’

  ‘That comes well from you, James Campbell!’ said Sempill indignantly.

  ‘I spoke nothing but the truth.’

  ‘She was a Christian soul killed on Church land,’ said Gil, ‘and she died unshriven of her adultery. St Mungo’s owes her justice. Moreover, the manner of her death must be clarified before John’s sole right to the land can be certain.’

  ‘Why?’ said Sempill blankly. ‘What’s that to do with it?’ Behind him there was a pause in the chatter at the other end of the room.

  ‘You mean in case it was John killed her?’ said Campbell of Glenstriven.

  Sempill’s colour rose. ‘I never set eyes on her last night!’ he said loudly. ‘I wanted her agreement, she’d to turn out today and sign her name - I never killed her!’

  ‘I have not said you did,’ said Gil. ‘Just the same, that’s why the sale must wait.’

  Philip Sempill looked up from his wine. Physically he was a paler imitation of his cousin, fair rather than sandy, less stocky, quieter in speech and movement and less forceful in manner. Like him, he was wearing an old leather jerkin, which contrasted oddly with James Campbell’s wide-sleeved green velvet gown.

  ‘Och, well,’ he said, his voice sounding thickened. ‘Ask away, Gil. We’ll answer you, at least.’

  His cousin stared at him.

  ‘You got the rheum, Philip? You can stay away from Euphemia if you have, I don’t want her getting sick just now.,

  ‘It’s nothing much,’ said the fair man. ‘Gil?’

  Gil hesitated, considering. The three men watched him; the two women had gone back to their sewing, but he was aware that Lady Euphemia flicked him a glance from time to time. Squaring his shoulders, he began:

  ‘You were all at Compline.’ The three men nodded. ‘Was the kirkyard busy when you went down to St Mungo’s?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say so,’ said Philip Sempill. ‘A few folk coming down from the Stablegreen and Rottenrow, a last few youngsters going home to a beating for staying out. I saw a couple in that stand of haw-bushes.’

  ‘Would you know them again?’ Gil asked.

  The other man shook his head. ‘Likely not. Oh - the boy had striped hose on. The Deil knows where he got such a thing in Glasgow.’

  I saw them,’ said Euphemia Campbell, breaking off her chatter. She had a high pretty voice with a laugh in it, and a dimple came and went in her cheek as she spoke. ‘But they were further down the hill. I wondered where he got the striped hose too. Surely not in Glasgow, I never saw such a dreary place. I swear you can buy better wares in Rothesay.’

  ‘When did you see them?’ Gil asked.

  She giggled. ‘It must have been later, mustn’t it, if they were in the haw-trees when Philip saw them? Maybe after Compline when we all came out?’

  I never saw them,’ said Sempill suspiciously.

  ‘Maybe you were looking at me,’ she cooed. He stared at her as if he could not help it, and she smiled at him so that the dimple flashed then turned back to her sewing and her chatter, with what appeared to be a highly coloured account of how she had purchased the linen. Her waitingwoman nodded in time to her words.

  ‘Did you see anybody in the kirkyard after the Office?’ Gil asked. The men exchanged glances, and all shook their heads.

  ‘Not even Bess, damn her,’ said Sempill. ‘I told you - Neil came into the kirk, said he’d left her in the hawbushes, but when I went out she’d gone.’ He stared at the empty fireplace, chewing his lip. ‘Not a sign of her. I checked through the bushes - you can see right through, but I went to the other side. I looked down the kirkyard, and not a thing was stirring.’

  ‘You are sure of that?’ said Gil.

  ‘I keep telling you. Besides,’ he added, undermining this statement, ‘I assumed she’d run off. If she could do me an ill turn she would.’

  ‘We were close enough behind to see him moving about in the haw-bushes,’ said his cousin, and James Campbell nodded and muttered something that might have been agreement.

  ‘And were you all together during Compline?’

  Once more they exchanged glances. After a moment Campbell said, fiddling with his embroidered shirt-duffs, ‘There was some coming and going to other altars. You know the style of thing. I was gone long enough myself to say a prayer to St James and come back to the others.’

  ‘I left money for candles to St Thomas,’ agreed Philip Sempill. ‘It took me the length of a Gloria, I suppose. John was the only one who stood the Office through. Oh, and one of the men. Euan, maybe.’

  ‘I thought you were watching us, Maister Cunningham,’ said Lady Euphemia, looking up with her needle poised above her seam. ‘Did you not see where we all were?’

  ‘My attention may have wandered,’ said Gil drily. Sempill frowned, looking for the insult, but Lady Euphemia cast her eyes down again, and the dimple flashed. ‘And the wee dark fellow?’ Gil continued. ‘What is he, a musician? Where was he?’

  ‘Antonio?’ said James Campbell dismissively. ‘He’d likely be listening to the music. I�
�ll swear he thinks in tablature.’

  ‘Never in Scots, that’s for certain,’ said Sempill. Gil, turning to set down his wine-cup, caught sight of Euphemia’s expression. She was listening to her companion, but her needle had paused again, and her mouth curved, softly crooked as if she was recalling the taste of stolen fruit.

  ‘And afterwards?’ he continued. ‘ou all came back to the house together?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And sat together afterwards. We were up here for an hour or so listening to lute music.’ Philip Sempill looked round, and Campbell of Glenstriven said,

  ‘Aye, that sounds about right. And playing at the cards; he added.

  ‘Even the two gallowglasses?’

  ‘Neil and Euan?’ said John Sempill dismissively. ‘They’d be in the kitchen, likely, you could ask Marriott Kennedy.’

  ‘And what about the dead woman?’ Gil asked. ‘Tell me about her. Why would anybody want to kill her?’

  Three pairs of eyes stared, and there was a pause in the chatter behind him.

  ‘I took it to be some beggar or broken man,’ said Sempill after a moment. ‘Why should it have been deliberate?’

  ‘I hoped you could tell me that.’

  ‘She was a quiet body,’ said Philip Sempill thickly, shaking his head.

  ‘Quiet!’ exploded his cousin. ‘She scarcely had a word, and that not civil.’

  ‘That was after you took your belt to her.’

  ‘And why would I not? I needed an heir - she knew I needed an heir - and then she lost it, the clumsy bitch. So after that she never spoke to me. And if she had I’d have clouted her round the lug for what she cost me.’

  Rage boiled up, a physical presence in Gil’s chest. He put up a hand to finger his upper lip in concealment, taking a moment to compose himself, astonished at the strength of the response. Never condemn, his uncle had said, you’ll get the story clearer. He had been referring to pleas of divorce, but it applied just as firmly here.

  ‘Cost you?’ he asked, when he was sure of his voice.

  ‘Aye. Well. My uncle. He’s made it clear I have to settle down, not only wedded but with an heir, if I’m to get his estate. So she lost the brat, and ran off before I could get another, and if the old ruddoch dies at the wrong moment the whole lot goes to Holy Church and I’ll not get my hands on it, may they both rot in Hell for it.’

  ‘It might have been a lassie,’ Philip Sempill pointed out. His cousin snarled at him.

  ‘Did your wife have friends?’ Gil asked.

  ‘Other than the harpers, you mean?’ said Euphemia. Sempill swivelled to look at her. ‘I’m sorry, John, but it was notorious. Every musician that came to Rothesay was in her chamber.’ She giggled, and the dimple flashed at Gil. ‘They say she had a key for every harp west of Dumbarton, and her own ideas about speed of performance.’

  Sempill glared at her, and her brother said, ‘Now, Euphemia,’ and raised an admonishing finger in a gesture which Gil found suddenly familiar.

  ‘So it might have been a jealous lover,’ she finished triumphantly. Sempill made a move towards her, but she lifted her chin and smiled at him, showing little white teeth, and he stopped.

  ‘What -‘ said Campbell of Glenstriven rather loudly. ‘What did you mean, Maister Cunningham, about the couple in the bushes? Was it just the state of sin they were in, or had you a purpose asking about them?’

  ‘I did,’ said Gil. ‘We’ve found the laddie, but he’s no help. We need to find his sweetheart.’

  ‘Can he not tell you who she is?’

  ‘He can tell us nothing. He was struck on the head there in the kirkyard and now lies near to death. There may have been two ill-doers abroad in St Mungo’s yard last night.’

  Lady Euphemia, suddenly as white as her linen headdress, stared at Gil for a moment. Then her eyes rolled up in her head and she slipped sideways into the arms of her companion. Sempill, with a muffled curse, sprang forward to land on his knees beside her, patting frantically at her cheek and hands.

  ‘Euphemia! Mally, a cordial! Wine - anything!’

  ‘It’s just a wee turn,’ said the companion, putting a cushion under the sufferer’s head. ‘She’ll be right in a minute.’

  Sempill, still rubbing at the limp little hand in his grasp, turned to glare at Gil over his shoulder.

  ‘I warned you not to upset Euphemia; he said forcefully. James, get him out of here!’

  Campbell of Glenstriven got to his feet, and indicated the door with a polite gesture. Gil, aware of unasked questions, considered brazening it out, but something about James Campbell’s bearing changed his mind. He rose, said an unheeded goodbye and went down the wheel stair. As Campbell emerged into the hall after him he turned to say, ‘You were in Italy after St Andrews?’

  ‘Bologna,’ agreed the other. ‘I was back there just last autumn, indeed. And you? Glasgow and …?’

  ‘Paris,’ Gil supplied. ‘But of course the subtle doctor is a Bolognese.’ He raised the admonishing finger in imitation, and they both grinned.

  ‘Was it that gave me away, or was it a good guess?’ Campbell asked, moving towards the door.

  ‘hat and other things. There were Italian students. Dress, deportment, your dagger. Is it Italian? The pommel looks familiar.’

  James Campbell drew the blade and laid it across his palm.

  ‘From Ferrara. I brought several home this time. I like the wee fine blade they make. It has a spring to it we can’t achieve here. Least of all in Glasgow,’ he added.

  ‘Was that all you brought?’

  ‘Five miles or so of lace. Two-three lutes and a lutenist to play on them. Oh, did you mean a sword? No, those were beyond my means. The daggers were dear enough.’ Campbell opened the front door, and the mastiff raised her head and growled threateningly. ‘Good day to you, brother.’

  Maistre Pierre drank some wine and chewed thoughtfully on a lozenge of quince leather. Further down his table two maids were whispering together and the men were eating oatcakes and cheese and arguing about football, ignoring the French talk at the head of the long board.

  ‘Why did she swoon, do you suppose?’ he asked.

  Gil shrugged. ‘Alarm at hearing there were two dangerous persons in the churchyard? Her gown laced too tight? I don’t know.’

  ‘These little fragile women are often very strong,’ remarked Alys, pouring more wine for Gil. ‘Was it a real swoon?’

  ‘Real or pretended, you mean?’ Gil considered. ‘Real, I should say. Her mouth fell open.’

  ‘Ah.’ Alys nodded, as at a bright student, and her elusive smile flickered.

  ‘And what of the boys who found the harp key? Or the unknown sweetheart?’ said her father fretfully. ‘She must hold the key to the mystery.’

  ‘Luke tells me,’ said Alys, glancing along the table, ‘that she is called Bridie Miller and she is kitchenmaid to Agnes Hamilton two doors from here. I thought to go after dinner and ask to speak with her.’

  Gil opened his mouth to object, and closed it again, hardly able to work out why he should have anything to say in the matter.

  ‘Very good,’ said her father, pushing his chair back. ‘That was an excellent meal, ma mie. Maister Cunningham, what do you do now?’

  ‘I accompany the demoiselle; said Gil. Alys, supervising the clearing of an empty kale-pot and the remains of a very handsome pie, turned her head sharply. ‘Mistress Hamilton’s son Andrew found the harp key,’ he elaborated, ‘with William Anderson, the saddler’s youngest.’

  ‘Better still,’ said the mason. ‘Take your cloak, Alys, the weather spoils. Wattie, Thomas, Luke! To work! We seek still this weapon.’

  ‘In a moment; said Alys. ‘I must see that Catherine and Annis are fed and set someone to watch Davie. Kittock, do you carry this out, and I will bring the wine.’

  The household began to bustle about. Gil, retreating to the windowseat, found not one but two books half hidden under a bag of sewing. When Alys reappeared, in plaid and dogs like any girl of th
e burgh, he was engrossed.

  Maister Cunningham?’ she said. He looked up, tilting the page towards her.

  ‘I like this,’ he said. ‘Cease from an inordinate desire of knowledge, for therein is much perplexity and delusion. I’ve often felt like that when confronted with another pile of papers.’

  There are many things,’ she agreed, ‘which when known profit the soul little or nothing.’

  ‘ou read Latin?’ he said, startled.

  ‘It is my copy. I have to confess -‘ The apologetic smile flickered. ‘I take refuge in Chaucer when it becomes too serious for me.’

  ‘What, this one? The story-tellers on pilgrimage?’

  She nodded. ‘I am cast out with Patient Grissel at the moment.’

  ‘I never had any patience with Patient Grissel or her marquis.’ Gil laid the Imitation of Christ on the sill and followed her to the door. ‘Any man that treated one of my sisters so would have got his head in his hands to play with as soon as we heard of it.’

  ‘Her lord cannot have loved her, for sure, though he claimed to.’ She clopped down the fore-stair into the courtyard. And he took all the power and left her none.’

  ‘Power?’ said Gil. This girl, he recognized again, was exceptional.

  ‘If the wife has responsibilities,’ Alys said seriously, ‘duties, about the house, she must have power to order matters as she wishes. Grissel must do all, but has no power of her own. It is as if she is her marquis’s hand or foot and must do only as he directs.’

  ‘You think that is wrong? Holy Kirk teaches us -‘

  ‘I know the husband is the head of the wife, it’s in St Paul’s letters somewhere,’ Alys said, pausing beside a tub of flowers in the middle of the yard. She had taken the ribbon out of her hair and it hung loose down her back. She pulled at a soft fair lock. ‘But what sort of head cuts off its own right hand to test it?’

  ‘I had not thought of it that way, I admit,’ Gil said. ‘To my mind, she would have had good grounds for a lawful separation a mensa et thoro, though I suppose the Clerke of Oxenfoord would not have given us the tale of Patient Grissel Divorced.’ Alys giggled. ‘We see a lot of marriages,’ he said. ‘The ones I admire most are those where the wife is allowed to think for herself and decisions are made by both spouses together. Myself, I think …’ He paused, groping for words to fit his idea. ‘Women have immortal souls and were given the ability to seek their own salva tion. How can they do that if someone else takes responsibility for their every deed and thought?’