The Harper's Quine: A Gil Cunningham Murder Mystery

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘De profundis clamavi ad to … Out of the deep have I called unto thee, 0 Lord …’

  Gil looked round, counting heads. Aside from the mason and his men and the Sempill party, there was another man who looked like a harper, led by a shabby boy; a flamboyant fellow with a lute across his back; and more than a dozen townsfolk, among whom he recognized Nancy’s mother and aunt, and a man from the Provost’s household, presumably sent as a nicely judged courtesy. The Provost, as a Stewart, was related to the Earl of Lennox, and therefore at odds with the Sempills, and although Sempill of Muirend was a fellow landowner he had lost only an adulterous wife and was in no favour with anyone who mattered in the burgh, such as the Archbishop. Sending one’s steward in a black mantle was quite enough.

  The brothers were chanting the Miserere. Beside him the mason hitched at his velvet gown, crushing the great bow of the black silk funeral favour tied on his arm. Gil glanced down at his own. Alys had tied it for him after she had seen to her father’s, standing in the paved yard with the sunshine bright on her bent head. Her hair, it occurred to him now, was the warm tawny colour of honey just run from the comb.

  Movement by the entrance to the chapel made him look round, in time to see David Cunningham enter quietly, followed by his taciturn servant, genuflect, and move into a corner. Catching Gil’s eye he nodded briefly, and turned his attention to the service.

  ‘Requiem aeternam … Grant them rest eternal, 0 Lord …

  The words unfolded, with their promises of eternal life, their reminders of judgement and the end times. Father Francis delivered a brief address in which he managed to suggest rather than state his hope that the deceased, having agreed to meet her husband, had repented of her adultery. Ealasaidh stirred restively, and was checked again.

  The Mass drew to its end, and Father Francis stepped down from the altar to stand by the bier. Bowing to the shrouded corpse, he drew breath to address it, but Ealasaidh spoke first, her accent very strong.

  ‘Chust one thing, father. There iss people here who have not seen her. We should make it clear who it is we are burying.’

  The Franciscan looked steadily at her for a moment, then bowed. She reached forward and tugged at the ribbons which tied the shroud at the crown of the unseen head, then folded back the linen to reveal the still face, softened now into the calm acceptance of the dead. Tenderly she smoothed at a lock of the dark hair with its dusting of silver threads.

  ‘There,’ she said, looking defiantly at John Sempill. ‘Now who else will say farewell to Bess Stewart?’

  ‘I will,’ he said, accepting the challenge. He stepped forward, and first made the Cross with his forefinger and then bent to leave a rather perfunctory kiss on the white brow. Ealasaidh, watching, smiled grimly as he turned back to his place.

  ‘Now you,’ she said to his cousin.

  ‘I can name her from here,’ said Philip Sempill, dismay in his tone.

  ‘Come and say farewell,’ she commanded. He would have objected, but John Sempill nudged him, and he came reluctantly to touch the corpse’s cheek with the back of his hand, then suddenly bent and kissed the cold lips. He turned away, his eyes glittering in the candlelight, and James Campbell stepped after him with a short and sonor ous prayer, the palm of his hand on the shrouded breastbone.

  ‘And you,’ said Ealasaidh to the two gallowglasses. They strode forward as one, to touch fearlessly, murmuring something in Ersche which sounded like a blessing, and turned away to move back down the chapel to their place.

  Gil, from where he stood, had an excellent view of the way their faces changed. Astonishment was succeeded by staring fear, which gave way to horror. Turning his head to look where they did, Gil felt the hair stand up on his neck.

  Out in the dim church, a white figure approached, gliding slowly between the pillars of the crossing, hazy and silent, its scale impossible to determine in the shadows. It came nearer, and paused. Others had seen it. Gil noticed the mason’s man Luke crossing his fingers against ill luck, and there were muttered exclamations of prayer or blessing. Then the figure moved, and spoke, and became human-sized.

  ‘Am I late? I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Euphemia!’ said John Sempill. ‘Come and say farewell to Bess, since we’re all laying hands on her.’

  ‘I hardly think that necessary; said Father Francis, regaining control of the situation. ‘Oremus …’

  As the Latin words rolled over the corpse Euphemia moved gracefully through the screen gate into the chapel, her watchful Italian at her back. She had dearly failed to borrow a black mantle, for she was in full white mourning: a satin gown, without ornament, and a cloak fit for a Carmelite were garnished with an extensive veil of very fine gauze with spangles. Gil heard several people draw in their breath at the sight.

  Under the strident keening of the women, as they followed the bier out into the kirkyard, the mason said quietly, ‘What do you make of that, maister lawyer?’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Gil. ‘That is five people who are either innocent or not affected by superstition.’

  ‘Would you have touched her, there before all the congregation? And run the risk of being accused of her death, if fresh blood appeared?’

  ‘I already have - and I know myself to be innocent.’ Gil eyed the back of John Sempill’s sandy head, visible beyond the shrouded form on the bier. ‘I am convinced that one is innocent too, at least in himself, though the Fury is equally convinced of his guilt.’

  ‘And she - the Fury - what is she screaming about now?’

  ‘It is an Ersche custom,’ Gil explained. ‘She and the others are addressing the dead, reproaching her for leaving us, probably listing all the people who will miss her. So I am told.’

  ‘It is a horrible noise. Has she mentioned the child?’

  ‘I would not know.’

  ‘No, but anyone who understands Ersche will,’ said the mason significantly. ‘Who are all these? I expected an empty church.’

  Gil looked round again.

  ‘Two musicians at least. Neighbours. Serjeant Anderson - he’s worn that favour to a few funerals. A few others out of compliment to the harper, or to Sempill.’

  The pallbearers, selected evenhandedly by Father Francis, halted before the open grave and lowered the bier. Sempill and his cousin stepped back immediately, glaring at the other two, and Euphemia Campbell moved forward to stand between them, leaning on John Sempill’s arm with a pretty solicitude as he glowered at the lutenist opposite him. The women fell silent, and four of the Franciscans took up the cords to lower Bess Stewart into her grave. Gil edged back from the sight.

  ‘I cannot bear the way they bend in the middle,’ he confessed in Maistre Pierre’s ear.

  The mason turned a bright eye on him, but moved companionably to the edge of the group, saying, ‘There is a bite to eat after this at my house. You will come back, no? There may be something to be learned.’

  ‘I should be grateful.’ Gil looked over the heads. ‘But I think you have competition. Look yonder.’

  James Campbell, in a pose comically mirroring the mason’s, was speaking low and sideways to the Official. Since Canon Cunningham’s attention was on Father Francis he received only a stiff nod in reply, but this seemed to satisfy him, for he moved casually off to speak to the Provost’s steward. Maistre Pierre said something inappropriate to the occasion, and set off in opposition as the singing ended and Father Francis pushed back his hood and turned to John Sempill with calm sympathy. At the grave’s foot, Philip Sempill stood, bare head bent, the light breeze ruffling his fair hair.

  Gil remained where he was while the mason secured a word with both musicians and several neighbours. James Campbell seemed unaware of the situation until he sidled up to someone with whom the mason had already spoken. Gil was watching the resulting exchange with some amusement when his uncle spoke in his ear.

  ‘We may learn more in different courts.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said gratefully, thinking, God, the old ma
n’s quick on the uptake.

  The Official sniffed. ‘Mint and feverfew. Flea repellent?’

  ‘It has other uses, I’m told,’ Gil said, annoyed to hear himself defensive.

  ‘Aye, well. Is there anything I should raise in particular?’

  ‘Money. Who is the better for her death.’

  ‘Cui Bono. Aye. I cannot think it Sempill.’

  ‘Not directly,’ Gil agreed, watching Father Francis decline politely. ‘I cast Maggie in there this morning to see what she could put up. Best not to see her if you see her, sir.’

  ‘I take your point.’ The Official, with another hard look at the borrowed gown and favour, moved away to condole with John Sempill. Gil found Serjeant Anderson approaching in his blue gown of office.

  ‘A sad business, Maister Cunningham; he said conventionally.

  ‘Aye, indeed,’ agreed Gil.

  ‘And I hear you’ve no put her killer to the horn yet.’

  ‘We only found her yesterday morning,’ said Gil. ‘I am working on it.’

  ‘Aye,’ said the serjeant. ‘No doubt. And is that right, that there’s a bairn?’

  ‘What makes you ask?’ countered Gil.

  ‘Girzie Murray yonder’s first man spoke the Ersche. She was telling me what the women were saying, when they were caterwauling there.’

  ‘And what were they saying?’

  ‘Oh, the likes of, Who will stroke the small harp, who will tune the big harp, who will comfort the man-child. All very poetic, though you’d not think it to hear it sung,’ said Serjeant Anderson trenchantly. ‘So it seems there’s a bairn.’

  ‘So what have we learned today?’ asked the mason, strolling up the High Street in the late afternoon sun.

  ‘Little enough,’ admitted Gil. ‘I have another sighting of Davie and his girl, but no description. I have learned that Bess Stewart had property on Bute, and spoke Ersche, and that the gallowglass promised to see her home.’ He ticked the points off as he spoke. ‘We know that Sempill is after the baby. And I had a long word with that musician.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘He calls himself Balthasar of Liege, but I suspect Leith is nearer it.’

  The flamboyant man with the lute had approached Gil in the courtyard of the mason’s house. The long trestle table was laden with food, and maids hurried about with wicker dishes containing more food; avoiding a girl with a handful of empty beakers, the man had said, ‘Poor Bess. And poor Angus. She’s a great loss. Didn’t I see you at their lodgings last night? Had you known her long?’

  ‘I never met her,’ Gil said. ‘I found her dead.’

  ‘Stabbed, so Ealasaidh tells me. By the husband.’

  ‘There is no proof of that,’ Gil said firmly. ‘Tell me about Bess - how did you know her?’

  ‘I’ve known Angus for years - you meet folk, on the circuit. Then he turned up with this new singer. More than one of us envied him - I’d have been happy to lift her away from him,’ he admitted frankly, ‘but she’d none of any of us. Angus it was for her.’

  ‘I heard her sing, on May Day. She’d a bonnie voice.’

  ‘And a rare hand with the wee harp.’ The lutenist’s own hand shot out and seized a pasty from a passing tray. ‘And always a greeting and a friendly word for Angus’s friends, for all she was stolen away from her own castle. A good woman and a good musician, and few enough of either come from baronial stock. I saw her on the High Street on May Day evening,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘You don’t say?’ said Gil. ‘On May Day evening?’

  ‘I do. I’m in Glasgow for the dancing, see,’ he said, indicating the lute, ‘and I picked up enough to go drinking. So I was sizing up the howffs on the Bell o’ the Brae when she came up the hill with a good-looking young fellow. I’m about to say something tactless when I catch what they’re saying, and he’s addressing her as Mistress Bess, and it’s dear they know one another.’

  ‘They knew one another?’ Gil repeated.

  ‘By what I heard, aye. In Bute it was, from the sound of it.’

  ‘What language were they speaking?’ Gil asked.

  ‘Oh, Ersche, of course.’ The lutenist eyed Gil. He had one blue eye and one brown, a most distracting attribute. ‘Are you thinking I don’t speak Ersche? You’re right, of course, but I can sing in it, and I understand it when I hear it. She knew his name, and she sounded like a woman speaking to a trusted servant.’

  ‘I see,’ said Gil, digesting this. ‘And then what? Did you speak to her?’

  ‘Aye, briefly, and she bade me goodnight, and told me where they were living, and went on up the brae, rattling away in Ersche with the young fellow. And when I went round there yesterday, looking for a crack with the three of them, this was the word that met me.’ He gestured largely round the yard and bit into the pasty. ‘What a waste.’

  ‘What a waste, indeed,’ said Maistre Pierre, pushing open the gate into St Mungo’s yard. ‘So the gallowglass knew her already. Should we speak to him again, think you?’

  ‘We must,’ said Gil. ‘And I wonder about going down to Bute.1

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘You take a ship from Dumbarton, or maybe Irvine.’

  ‘I have contacts in Irvine,’ said the mason thoughtfully. ‘Alys can manage for a day or two without me.’

  ‘Alys can manage anything, I think,’ said Gil. ‘Did she organize that by herself this afternoon? As well as fetching the child and its nurse home.’

  ‘She did,’ agreed Maistre Pierre, completely failing to conceal his pride. ‘When I suggested it to her it was already in hand. And all without a cross word in the kitchen, so Catherine tells me, although Bridie Miller never came to help.’

  ‘Her mother is dead? Who was she?’

  ‘Yes, in ‘88, just before we came to Scotland, poor Marie. Who was she? She was the niece - well, he said she was his niece - of a parish priest, poor as a grasshopper in all but his learning, in a God-forsaken place inland from Nantes. Claimed to be of the same family as Peter Abelard, if you’ll believe it. He dropped dead an hour after he handed me the patron’s money for the new east window, so I married the girl and took her back to Nantes with me, and never regretted it in fifteen years.’

  ‘And just the one child?’

  ‘Just the one. She has run my household for four years now. I suppose I should find her a husband, if only to be rid of Robert Walkinshaw, whom she does not affect, but what would I do without her, Maister Cunningham?’

  ‘I find it extraordinary,’ said Gil, ‘that you and the demoiselle should have been in Glasgow since before I came home, and our paths never crossed. I’ve been mewed up in the Chanonry, I suppose, learning to be a notary, and seen little enough of the town.’

  ‘And before that you were in Paris, as we were. You were recalled after Stirling field?’

  ‘There was no more money,’ said Gil frankly. ‘I had studied long enough to determine - to graduate Bachelor of Laws - in ‘89, but there was no chance of a doctorate. And my father and both my brothers died on Sauchie moor, most of the land was forfeit, my mother needed things sorted out. I had to come home as soon as I was granted my degree.’

  He was silent, recalling the scene in the Scots College when the news of the battle arrived, the strong young men weeping in the courtyard, and the unlikely sympathy of the English students who had experienced the same shock three years earlier when Welsh Henry took Bosworth field.

  The Cunninghams were not the only family to have been affected, when the young Prince of Scotland and his advisers took up arms against his father, the third King James, and met on a moor near Stirling in a tiresome affray which ended in the mysterious death of the elder James. There had been some strange alliances and enmities forged in that battle and in the troubled weeks which followed it.

  ‘Well,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘we grow melancholy again. Come and look at this.’

  He led Gil down the slope, past the thatch of the lodge, across the path that led to the crypt door
, into the dump of trees where they had found Davie.

  ‘The boy was here, no?’ he said, gesturing. “The mark is still to be seen where he lay. Now look at this.’

  He indicated the branch of a sturdy beech which leaned above the recovering grasses and green plants where the boy had huddled. The branch was perhaps chest-high to either of them, and on its western side, about three feet from the trunk, was a scraping bruise in the bark.

  ‘Interesting.’ Gil bent closer. The bark was damaged and split, and the powdery green stuff which coated trunk and branches had been rubbed away. ‘What has happened here?’

  ‘Has whoever struck the boy hit the branch as well?’

  ‘Why should one do that?’

  ‘By accident, naturally. On the way down, or on the back-swing. Or - what do golfers call it? - when the swing continues after you have hit the ball?’

  ‘We never thought of a golf-club as a weapon.’

  ‘Whatever he used, it is not here,’ said Maistre Pierre firmly, wiping his hands on his jerkin. ‘I will swear to that. We have searched every ell of this kirkyard, from the gates up yonder down to the Molendinar, and Luke spent this morning guddling in the burn itself.’

  ‘Very strange,’ said Gil. ‘I wish the boy would waken. Has Alys learned anything about the girl? If we could find her -‘

  ‘Ah!’ The mason dug in his pouch. ‘Alys was much concerned with our guests, she had not time to speak, with having less help than she had depended on, but she gave me this.’ He unfolded a slip of paper. ‘Annie Thomson, in Maggie Bell’s ale-house at the Brigend,’ he read carefully, and showed it to Gil.