The Harper's Quine: A Gil Cunningham Murder Mystery

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘I think so also,’ said the mason, ‘because how could he persuade a girl like Bridie to go apart with him when he had no Scots?’

  ‘Some men have no trouble,’ said Gil fairly, ‘but this one seemed to have eyes for nobody but Euphemia Campbell. And what she thought would happen if she screamed at John Sempill like that, is more than I can guess. She has known him several years, she must know how he acts first and violently and thinks after if at all.’

  ‘He certainly acted this time.’

  ‘And it was murder,’ said Gil again.

  ‘And he had been her lover also - the Italian.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She seemed greatly moved by his death. I thought of Salome.’

  Gil rode on in silence for a time, digesting this remark. On the other bank, the tower of Erskine dropped behind them.

  ‘And where had the gallowglass been?’ he said at length. ‘Sempill said they were on an errand and would be back on Sunday or Monday. Yet there was one of them last night. Matt,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘do you know where the Campbell brothers had been sent? Does Tam?’

  ‘No,’ said Matt.

  ‘And do you know where the horses may he while we are on Bute?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Perhaps Matt should stay with them,’ suggested the mason. ‘We should be back by Monday, God willing, and can shift without him for two days.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Matt. Gil twisted in the saddle to look at him, a small fair man perched expertly on one of David Cunningham’s tall horses.

  ‘You could ask about for Annie Thomson,’ he suggested, and was rewarded by a lowering glance. ‘If I leave you alemoney, you could keep your ears open.’

  ‘Hmf,’ said Matt.

  They rode on, in the growing warmth of a May morning. Birds sang, the distinctive smell of hawthorn blossom drifted on the air, making Maistre Pierre sneeze. Lambs bleated on the heights above them, and the cattle of Kilpatrick lowed on the grazing-lands, where the herd laddie popped up from under a gorse-bush to watch them pass.

  It is beautiful countryside,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘So much cultivated, so pastoral.’

  ‘It’s nothing compared to Lanarkshire,’ said Gil, and Matt grunted agreement.

  ‘And this is an excellent road.’

  ‘It’s well used. Argyll took half the guns down here to the siege at Dumbarton in ‘89. They’d need to level the way for those.’

  ‘I had forgotten. Alys told me of seeing them go through Glasgow, and the teams of oxen hauling the big carts. I missed the sight. I was out looking for building-stone in Lanarkshire.’

  ‘You haven’t travelled this way, then?’

  ‘I have not. Parts of Ayrshire and Renfrewshire I know also, and the quarries about Glasgow, but not this ground. What is the stone hereabouts, do you know?’

  ‘Just stone, I suppose,’ said Gil blankly. ‘Isn’t it all?’

  ‘Assuredly not.’ The mason leaned over the saddle-bow again, peering at the road-metal under his horse’s hooves. ‘No, it is still too dusty to distinguish. However these hills have the appearance of trap, which is not good to build with, but makes excellent cobbles. Perhaps on the way back I explore a little. A piece of land to quarry out here, with a good road to Glasgow, would be a valuable investment.’

  ‘Be sure to contract for the mineral rights, then; Gil said, and got a quizzical look in reply.

  Dumbarton town, tucked in the crook of the Leven behind its rock, was not impressive, a huddle of wattle-and-daub roofed with furze or turf. Here and there a stone-built structure had an air of greater permanence, but most of the houses looked as if they had sprouted, possibly by night, since the end of the siege of three years since. There did not appear to be a cobble-stone in the burgh.

  ‘It has a market on Tuesdays, and a wealthy church,’ said Gil, guiding his reluctant horse along the muddy curve of the High Street. ‘You wouldn’t think it paid customs about fifth in the kingdom, would you?’

  ‘Clearly, you have not seen Irvine,’ said the mason. ‘Where shall we go first? I am both hungry and thirsty.’

  Finding an inn, arranging for Matt to stay with the horses, consuming bannocks and cheese and a jug of thin ale, took a little time, and it was past Sext when Gil and the mason walked down to the strand.

  There were several boats of varying size drawn up on the shore, loading and unloading. At the far end of a narrow stone wharf, several men were shouting round a crane which they were using to hoist barrels out of a sturdy cog. Larger ships lay in the river, and out in the Clyde, beyond the confluence, two carvels swung at anchor.

  ‘Where do we begin?’ said Gil in bewilderment.

  ‘You have been to sea, have you not?’

  ‘Aye, from Leith. From there everything’s bound for the Netherlands. Some of these could be headed for Ireland, or for France or even Spain. Or for the North Sea, indeed. How do we tell which will be willing to leave us at Rothesay?’

  ‘You are looking too high. I consulted a map,’ said the mason grandly, ‘and I find that Bute is the island most near to here. We want a fishing-boat.’

  ‘Does one go through this every time one travels to the place?’ Gil wondered, following his companion along the strand. ‘It would certainly put me off living on an island.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. Why anyone would go there is beyond me, if he did not have business there. Though at least,’ added the mason thoughtfully, ‘the sea air is good. There is no smell of hawthorn to make one sneeze. Ah - good day, gentlemen.’

  The last three vessels drawn up on the shore were smaller than the others. Above them, on the grassy bank, a group of men sat mending nets. They looked up briefly, and one or two nodded in answer to the mason’s greeting, then returned to their task.

  Undaunted, Maistre Pierre began talking. Gil, watching in some amusement, appreciated the way the fishermen, tolerant at first, were gradually played in by questions about the weather, the tide, the best course for Rothesay, the best man to sail it. At this point, recognizing that success was in sight and money would shortly be discussed, he turned away to study the fishing-boats.

  He was watching the gulls swooping across the sandy causeway to the Castle rock when Maistre Pierre said beside him, ‘Done. We sail in an hour. I have said we return to the inn, tell Matt who we sail with, fetch our scrips. There will be time also to look in at that handsome church and say our prayers.’

  ‘Good work,’ said Gil. ‘You do realize, don’t you, that you have just contracted to cross the sea in a basket?’

  The mason’s jaw dropped, and he whirled to look at the boats. The fishermen looked up at the sharp movement, and Gil saw them grinning.

  ‘They are quite safe,’ he said. ‘Corachs. I have never set foot in one, but I’ve heard of them. All the old saints used to tramp up and down the sea-roads in these.’

  ‘Yes, but I am not a saint,’ said Maistre Pierre, staring at the leather side of the nearest boat. It was tilted so that they could see clearly how the hides were stretched outside the interlaced laths and finally stitched to the wooden keel, or perhaps the other way about. ‘Ah, mon Dieu!’

  From the stern of the Flower of Dumbarton as she slipped creaking down the Leven on the current, out past Dumbarton Rock and into the main channel of the Clyde, there was an excellent view of the scars of the bombardment which had eventually ended the siege of ‘89. Gil commented on this.

  ‘And that was a waste of time,’ said Andy the helmsman.

  ‘How so?’ said Maistre Pierre beyond him.

  ‘They’d ha given up soon in any case. I heard they were about out of meal. But Jamie Stewart,’ said Andy, by whom Gil understood him to mean the young King, fourth of that name, ‘wanted back to Edinburgh for Yule, and he had this fancy great gun, so they had to bring it down the water and flatten poor folks’ houses with it.’

  ‘It meant money for some, surely,’ said Gil.

  ‘Aye,’ said Andy, and spat over the side. ‘And a lot of in
convenience for the rest of us.’

  ‘And what speed will this excellent vessel make?’ asked the mason, settling himself gingerly on the stem thwart. The woven structure gave noisily under his feet.

  ‘Three knots,’ said Andy. ‘Maybe four.’

  ‘A fast walk,’ the mason translated for Gil.

  ‘If you can walk on the water,’ said Andy, and laughed. ‘That’s a good one, eh, maisters? If you can walk on the water!’

  ‘Andy, shut your mouth,’ said the master from the bows. He and the ship’s boy were doing something complicated to a mound of ginger-coloured canvas.

  ‘She may not be so large or so fast as Andrew Wood’s Flower,’ said the mason, ‘but I dare say she knows these waters.’

  ‘Better than Andrew Wood; said the master, and grinned. This Flower’ll no go aground on the Gantocks.’

  Gil sat silent in the stem of the boat, letting the talk flow past him like the grey water, barely aware of the mason’s gradually improving confidence. He was feeling very unsettled. He had been more than five years in France, but since his return he had scarcely left Glasgow, except to spend Yule or his birthday in familiar territory in Carluke. Now here he was travelling again, exploring new places, crossing the water -

  ‘It is extraordinary,’ said the mason. ‘This river runs not into the open sea, but deeper into the hills, which grow higher everywhere one looks. Tell me, maister, how do you know which of these roadways to follow?’

  He gestured at three identical arms of the river.

  ‘Lord love you,’ said the master, ‘what’s your trade? Mason, aren’t you,’ he added before Maistre Pierre could speak. ‘I can tell by your hands. How d’you know which stone will stay on another and which will fall down? Tell me that?’

  ‘I see,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘It is a thing learned at one’s father’s knee.’

  ‘And that’s a true word,’ said the master. ‘Int it no, silly?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Billy.

  ‘And there’s the tide,’ said Andy.

  ‘True enough,’ agreed the master. ‘When the tide’s on the ebb, she’ll take you down the water and out to sea easy enough. But when the tide’s on the make, what then? You’ve got to know where you’re steering for, all right. Billy, have you done with that sheet? We’ve a sail to hoist here.’

  And where am I steering? wondered Gil. Which of the arms of the river am I headed for, and will it bring me safe to port, or does it only strike deeper into the hills?

  His uncle, bidding him farewell in the dawn, had taken his elbow and said with unaccustomed strength of feeling, ‘You’re a good lad, Gilbert, and I want to see you right.’

  ‘I know that, sir,’ he had answered, startled.

  ‘Aye.’ There was a pause, then the Official said abruptly, ‘There’s more roads than one leads to Edinburgh, or Rome for that matter. Are you content with the road we’ve planned for you? The law and Holy Kirk?’

  ‘How should I not be, sir? It’s a secure future.’

  His uncle studied him carefully.

  ‘You’ve not answered my question,’ he said, then raised a hand as Gil opened his mouth to speak. ‘No. Dinna forswear, Gilbert. I want you to think about it while you’re away. When you come back, you can give me the answer, and I want the truth.’ He fixed his nephew with an eye as grey as St Columba’s. ‘You were aye a poor liar. Like your father.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Gil helplessly, and knelt for the blessing. So now, attempting to put in order the things he needed to ask about in Rothesay, he kept finding his thoughts sliding back to his uncle’s words. Was he happy with the road before him, whether it led to Edinburgh or Rome? If he turned back from that road, what other way through life was there? Bess Stewart had turned aside from the road before her, to snatch at happiness with the harper, and look where it got her. And why did the old man pick just now, of all times, to ask a question like that?

  A wave slopped over the strake beside his elbow. Gil hitched his plaid up, and the master, having set the sail to his liking, made his way aft and took the helm from the mate. The Flower creaked happily in the wind.

  ‘Now you’ll see,’ said the master instructively, adjusting the rope at his other hand, ‘that when we get out yonder, off Kilcreggan, we’ll take a point or two to larboard, because that’s what the channel does. And I’ll tell you, maisters, that if the weather doesny shift southward from here, you’ll be kept in Rothesay a day or two.’

  ‘She’ll shift,’ said Andy, looking at the sky.

  ‘And where is this Kikreggan?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

  ‘Yonder,’ said Andy, gesturing to starboard. Gil, peering, made out a scattering of thatched roofs under a haze of peat smoke. How strange, he thought. It is a village, where people live their lives, as important to them as the Chanonry and the High Street are to me, and yet I would not have known it was there. What other havens are out here, invisible until pointed out by someone who knows the coast?

  Rothesay Bay was full of shipping. There seemed to be more ships here than at Dumbarton. Several large vessels were anchored in the bay with ferries plying to and fro, a number of ships lay alongside a wooden jetty, and two galleys were beached west of the castle. There were carts and wheelbarrows on the foreshore, and a bustle of people beyond. Over all the gulls swooped, screaming.

  ‘That is a strong fortress,’ Maistre Pierre observed. ‘Also very old, I should say.’

  It stood on a mound, less than a hundred paces from the water, its red stone drum towers dwarfing the houses round it. The light caught the helmet of a man on the walkway, and Gil, looking closer, realized there was a competent guard of five or six on the battlements.

  ‘And what is that yonder?’ asked the mason, nodding at a tall building some way to the left of the jetty.

  ‘Bishop’s house,’ said the master, easing the rope in his hand. ‘Let go, Andy.’

  The sail clattered and flapped into a heap in the bows again, and the mate and the boy shipped the oars and hauled for the shore.

  Gil studied the town. It lay snugly between two small hills, facing the bay. As well as the castle and the Bishop’s house, there were a number of stone buildings, certainly more and better than at Dumbarton. A handsome plastered barn stood between the castle and the shore, and there were some timber-framed houses further inland, but most of the dwellings were low structures covered in thatch or turf, each at the head of its toft. Pigs, children and small black cows roamed freely between them, and hens pecked about everywhere. The smell of the middens reached them on the breeze.

  ‘Where are ye for, maisters?’ asked the master. The Bishop or the castle? Just I need to know which side of the burn to set ye down.’

  ‘The castle,’ said Gil. ‘I’ve a letter for the chaplain.’

  Sir William Dalrymple, stout and red-faced, his jerkin caked with food under a hastily assumed moth-eaten gown, peered anxiously at the letter Gil presented to him under the interested gaze of the two guards on the gate.

  ‘Lachie Beag stepped on my spectacles; he said apologetically, handing it back. ‘I can make out the salutation, but David’s wee writing’s beyond me. Mind, I’d know his signature anywhere.’ He added something in Gaelic to the guards, and one of them nodded and opened the barrier to let them pass. ‘Come into the yard and tell me what it’s about. Are ye hungry, maisters?’

  ‘We have not eaten since Sext,’ said Maistre Pierre, following the portly outline of the priest along the passageway into the bustling courtyard.

  ‘Come to the buttery, then, and see what we can find.’ Sir William led the way round the end of the chapel, past the smithy where several men were discussing crossbow bolts, and up a narrow stair. ‘And is your uncle well, Gilbert?’

  Dinner was long past but the buttery men, obviously used to their priest, found half a raised pie and some roasted onions which nobody was using. Seated at the end of one of the long tables with these and a plate of bannocks and a jug of claret, Sir William rattled
through a short grace and said as the mason grimaced over the wine, ‘Now. This letter. Why is David sending to me after all these years?’

  ‘It explains why we’re here,’ Gil said, and read the letter aloud. Sir William listened attentively, with muffled exclamations, and nodded emphatically at the end.

  ‘Very proper, very proper,’ he said. ‘It’s high time that was cleared up. And so Bess Stewart is dead, then? I’m sorry to hear it, indeed, for she was a bonny girl and a good Christian soul, until she did what she did. That would explain the word from Ettrick, certainly.’

  ‘From Ettrick?’ Gil prompted, when the stout priest did not continue.

  Sir William nodded deprecatingly. ‘News came in this week that the beann nighe had been heard at Ettrick, washing linen at the ford, on May Day at twilight.’

  ‘Washing? What is this?’ asked the mason, perplexed.

  Sir William sighed. ‘It is a pagan thing, an evil spirit I suppose, and I should stamp out the belief, but to be honest, maisters, I’ve heard it myself once or twice. If you are near a ford by night and you hear a sound like someone washing linen, slapping the wet cloth on the stones, go away quickly and do not disturb the washer-woman, or she will have the shirt off your back. And then who knows what will happen? But if she is heard, a death in the parish follows.’

  ‘But what does she wash?’ asked the mason. ‘How can you tell it is a spirit?’

  ‘Who washes clothes by twilight?’ said Gil. ‘I have heard of such a thing, in my nurse’s tales. Did one of the old heroes not meet her? Finn, or one of those?’

  ‘Aye, very possibly,’ said Sir William. ‘Anyway she was heard at Ettrick, so they were all waiting for a death in the parish, and when nobody seemed like to die and there were no accidents, of course the entire parish began to reckon up who was off the island that she might wash for. They will certainly believe it was for Bess, if she is dead.’

  ‘She is dead,’ Gil agreed, ‘under sad circumstances. There is no doubt it was secret murder, forethought murder, and I am charged with finding the killer.’