by Pat McIntosh
‘Of course,’ echoed Gil, wondering if he could ever put salt on his food again.
‘I’ve heard there’s salt-pans at Ayr,’ conceded Wullie, ‘but the best sea salt comes from the shores of the Forth, maister, mind that. The coal’s handy, the sea-water’s good, and we get rock salt in from the Low Countries to strengthen the brine.’
‘How many salt-boilers are there along this shore?’ Gil asked. ‘I heard of a fellow called Lithgo one time.’
‘Simon Lithgo? Aye, that was a bad business.’ Wullie shook his head, and Gil made a questioning noise. ‘Oh, a bad business. Died at the pans, didn’t he. Found in his own Number Two pan, boiled to a turn. Coffined burial,’ he added with relish.
‘How did that happen?’ Gil asked, his thoughts racing. Surely the trouble at the Pow Burn couldn’t reach this far, he told himself, but –
‘Peter Nicholson reckoned his heart gave out. He should never ha’ been tending the pans on his own. And the worst o’ it was,’ Wullie added, ‘he’d no long got his last daughter wedded, he was working for hisself at last. More than ten year syne, that was. I’d no recalled Simon Lithgo in a many year. A bad business,’ he said again.
‘I never thought of it being a dangerous trade.’
‘That’s a good one!’ Wullie guffawed. ‘A dangerous trade! That’s a good one! Aye, you’re right, maister, it’s a dangerous trade. Now, I need to get back to my pans,’ he announced, scanning the line with his red-rimmed eye. ‘Number Fower’s about ready for skimming, I’d say. Ye’re welcome to take a dander about, maister, afore ye go.’
‘Thanks, I will,’ said Gil. ‘Are the Paterson lads here, by the way? Jock and Tam, I mean, the two sinkers. I was hoping to get a word wi’ them.’
‘Jock and Tam.’ The man stared at him, and rubbed at his closed eye-socket. ‘Aye, they’re here wi’ me. Jess’s nephews, they are. What was ye wanting them for? They’re up at the house, but they’re likely asleep the now. Here, is it you they’re looking for these last two week or more, to talk about the small coal from Lanarkshire? They’ve been right concerned for ye, maister.’
‘No, that’s not me, but I’m looking for the same fellow. I want to ask Jock and Tam about him. I’m hoping they can tell me where they parted from him.’
‘I wouldny know about that,’ said Wullie doubtfully. ‘They’ve never said.’
‘You’re telling me they’re asleep? How long before they’re stirring?’
‘No long.’ Wullie glanced at the sky. ‘They’ve been watching the nights for me while they’re here, since our Jock’s no to be depended on, poor laddie. Will I rouse them, or will ye wait, maister?’
Gil elected to wait, and strolled on along the shore a little in the evening light, leaving the man to get on with his work. Once he rounded the point the shouts of the men by the ships dwindled, and all he could hear was the bleating of sheep and lambs in the pastures inland, and the cries of the seabirds, and the steady swish of the tide beyond the expanse of mud. The east wind blew in briskly from the German Sea, and across the firth the salt-pans of Fife flew similar plumes of smoke.
He sat down on a bank of rough grass to consider what he should ask the Paterson men. He was still not sure whether he was investigating a murder. On previous occasions there had been a body to identify, or at least in one case a head; here he had a body which was not Murray, and Murray whose body was not to be found, whether the man was alive or dead. Perhaps he has been spirited away, he thought, grinning to himself. Maybe Fleming is right about witchcraft. But Alys had seen no sign of such a thing up at the Pow Burn.
And what had taken Alys into Carluke this morning? She had discovered a great deal for him, one way and another. He found himself smiling again at the thought of her, her endless capacity for surprising him, her incisive mind and astonishing competence. And the warmth of her skin under his hands, the way her lips clung to his. As always, he marvelled at his good fortune. An hendy hap ich habbe yhent, he thought. I wonder if she learned anything in the town?
The light was beginning to fail, and the tide was coming in across the wide stretch of mud before him. He rose, stretched, rubbed at the seat of his hose. The grass was not as dry as he had thought, and he must have been sitting here for quite some time.
Wullie and his wife and son had vanished, presumably into their house, and been replaced by two men who were on their knees checking the fires below the row of pans, raking at the hot coals with clanging iron implements. One of them noticed Gil walking in along the tide-line, and spoke to the other; they rose and came forward to meet him, big broad-shouldered men with the same economical walk he had noticed in the colliers.
‘Aye, neebor. Is that you that’s looking for Tam Murray?’ demanded the taller, as soon as he was within earshot. ‘Have you any word of him at all?’
‘None,’ said Gil frankly. ‘I was hoping you could tell me more. Where did you see him last? I think you parted from him somewhere on the round before you reached Forth.’
‘Oh, long afore that,’ said the other man. ‘Lanark. We left him in Lanark.’
‘Lanark?’ repeated Gil incredulously. ‘But – Do you mean he left it to you to collect the whole of the fees?’
‘Oh, aye,’ agreed the taller brother. ‘He mostly does. Meets us outside Forth town.’
‘Sweet St Giles!’ He looked from one man to the other. ‘I take it Mistress Weir doesny know of it.’
‘What do you think?’ said the taller man, the light catching his teeth as he grinned.
‘So where does he go? Does he simply stay in Lanark drinking?’ Gil looked about at the twilight. ‘Will we sit down and you can tell me what you know about the man.’
There were three stumps of driftwood drawn up in the mouth of one of the sheds, an unlit wood fire set and the ashes of many more fires scattered on the shore around them. Seated here, the Patersons answered his questions, slowly at first, then more confidently. The taller brother, it seemed, was Jock, and it had been his idea originally to take up Sir Thomas Bartholomew’s suggestion and seek work in Lanarkshire.
‘Lanark folks is all right,’ he said dismissively. ‘A bit soft, especial in the head, but they’re kind enough.’
‘Lanark lassies is more than all right,’ observed Tam, smacking his lips.
His brother kicked his ankle. ‘Och, see you? Anyway, we get there, maister, and find Tammas Murray, that was at the sang-schule in Kincardine wi’ our brother Davy, set in authority in the place. He was right pleased to see us and all.’
‘Took us on like a maid embracing her lover, so he did,’ supplied Tam. ‘Treated us well, too. Choice of lodging, bed to oursels, laddie to carry our gear whenever we was working, fetch our sister to mind the house – though that never lasted, she up and wedded Attie Logan.’
‘And we hadny been in our place six month afore he sends for us one morning and he says to us, private like –’
‘I’ve a proposition, he says.’
‘Aye, a proposition. D’ye think, he says, ye can find your way about Lanarkshire and back here with a bag of coin.’
‘What’s in it for us, says I.’
‘And he says, ye’ll get paid extra for it if ye can keep your mouths shut, says he. So we agreed a fee, and he sets out wi’ us, and in Lanark he leaves us wi’ a list of where we’ve to call, and the names of who to ask for at each place, and what’s owed, and we do the whole round and then meet him in Forth.’
‘And we’ve done it every quarter since,’ contributed Tam.
‘And no a word to anyone, till now.’
‘Well!’ said Gil. ‘And where was Murray while you were collecting the coin?’
‘Now that,’ said Jock with deep regret, ‘we’ve never jaloused. It’s aye the same place he leaves us, in the midst of Lanark.’
‘We took it he was wi’ a lassie, but we never found out where.’
‘A pity, that, seeing what like his wife is at the Pow Burn,’ said Jock thoughtfully. ‘If I’d that Joanna
in my bed, I’d no feel the need to keep another in secret.’
‘No accounting for tastes.’
‘You never asked him?’
‘We did not. He’s no one for idle chat, Tammas Murray.’
‘And how long has this been going on?’
The brothers looked at one another in the firelight.
‘Two year?’ said Tam.
‘No as long,’ said Jock. ‘It was after Matt Crombie died, no the first quarter’s reckoning but the next. A year past at Martinmas, I’d say.’
‘A year and a half, then. Since before he wedded Joanna,’ Gil said.
‘Aye, but it went on after.’
‘But where does he go? Do you think he stays in the town, or does he venture out elsewhere?’ Gil asked.
‘I followed him one time,’ said Tam, ‘but I lost him afore the top of the town. It was market-day, ye see, and he just vanished in the crowd. Must ha’ jouked up a vennel.’
‘What, you lost a red-haired man?’ said Gil in faint disbelief.
‘Aye, red-haired, wi’ a great blue bonnet on like a’body else’s.’
‘So how come you’re asking for him, maister?’ asked Jock. Tam, looking along the row of salt-pans, rose and went to poke at one of the fires.
‘The men from Thorn found a red-haired corp in their peat-cutting,’ Gil explained.
‘A corp? St Peter’s bones, what’s that doing in a peat-cutting?’ exclaimed Jock. ‘Is it Tammas Murray, then? Is he dead right enough, and you never said?’
‘It isn’t Murray,’ Gil said carefully, ‘but I’m beginning to fear he’s dead right enough, for he’s never turned up yet. David Fleming was convinced that the corp was Murray, and that Mistress Lithgo had set it there by means of witchcraft.’
‘Beattie? No Beattie!’ said Tam, sitting back on his heels, the fire-glow lighting his face. ‘She’d no do a thing like that. Davy Fleming’s no done her any harm, has he?’
‘Phemie called out the day shift and rescued her.’
‘She would,’ said Jock, grinning in the firelight. ‘That’s a fechtie lass, that Phemie. And did that sort it? He’s no laid charges against Beattie, has he? He’ll have the whole of the colliers to reckon wi’ if he has.’
‘He’ll have Adam Crombie to reckon with,’ Gil said. ‘The young man came home yestreen, and was for Cauldhope this morning to confront Fleming.’
‘Oh, well. Raffie should sort him. But where has Tammas Murray got to?’ said Tam Paterson. He rose and returned to his log, bringing a lighted stick with him which he set to the fire at their feet. ‘You say he’s no turned up at the Pow Burn either, maister? That’s . . . that’s . . .’ He paused, reckoning on the free hand. Flames sprang in the tinder under the driftwood. ‘Aye, five week or more since we parted from him in Lanark town.’
‘We’ve been right concerned,’ said his brother, ‘but you’ll see it’s no just a matter of going back to the Pow Burn to ask for him. The auld wife would ha’ questions for us, and the first would be, Where did he part from you?’
‘And where does he part from you?’ Gil asked. ‘Can you recall anything that might help me track him down?’
‘The Nicholas,’ said Jock promptly. ‘Hard by St Nicholas’ kirk. Juggling Nick’s they call it.’ Gil nodded, familiar with the inn and its sign where the mitred saint stared up the market-place in half-length, his three purses floating round his halo. Its landlady was feared by drinkers in four parishes. ‘We aye light down there for a drink after we’ve rid in from Jerviswood, he collects from the two accounts we’ve got in the town, and then he takes off.’
‘On foot?’
‘On foot.’
‘So not far, then.’ Gil considered. ‘Somewhere in the town, or not far outside it. If it was in the town, I’d ha’ thought he’d ha’ turned up by now, the word about the corp in the peat-cutting should be all over the Middle Ward. Does he leave his horse at Juggling Nick’s?’
‘Aye, that’s right. Then he rides up to meet us when we get to Forth. He’ll get a week wi’ his woman, I suppose,’ reckoned Jock. ‘She must be a patient soul, to put up wi’ that. Aweek wi’ your man once a quarter doesny seem like a lot.’
‘Joanna Brownlie might think it was enough,’ said Tam darkly.
‘Did he never let anything slip, then? Nothing that might give us a direction?’
The two men considered, and Jock shook his head.
‘He’d a sprig of yew in his hat one time he joined us,’ offered Tam. ‘Tucked behind his St Andrew. Had berries on it.’
‘There’s yew grows everywhere,’ objected his brother. ‘That’s no use.’
‘No, but it might mean the lassie dwells by a yew tree.’
‘It’s still no use, you daft lump.’
‘It might help. Is Juggling Nick’s the same place he goes drinking, do you know? I’m told he goes down into Lanark once a week or so.’
‘You don’t think he takes us wi’ him,’ said Jock.
‘Just the same,’ said his brother, ‘I’d say it might be. He’s a kent face there, aye joking wi’ the lassies and taking snash from the ostlers he’d never take from us.’
‘It sounds like it,’ Gil agreed. He rose, and stretched his back. ‘I had best get back to the Ship afore they bar the doors. My thanks to the both of you for all this. If you think of anything else I’ll be glad to hear it, though I’ll be away back into Lanarkshire at first light.’
‘Aye well, here’s a thing,’ said Jock. ‘Just talking of it now, it comes into my mind. Could his lassie maybe work at Juggling Nick’s? They’ve two or three lassies about the place, to see to the chambers and the kitchen and that.’
‘No yew trees in the midst of Lanark town, but,’ said his brother.
‘Aye there is,’ retorted Jock, ‘there’s a great yew tree in St Nicholas’ kirkyard leans ower the wall.’
‘I think I need to head for Lanark the first chance I get,’ said Gil.
Chapter Eight
‘Michael was to start for Lanark at first light,’ said Alys, from her place in the circle of Gil’s arm, ‘so he has had most of the day now to search Lanark. He reckoned he could more easily spare half a dozen men for the day than Madame Mère,’ she explained, with a quick smile at his mother. ‘But I hoped he might send word of my patient.’
Gil drew her closer, relishing her solid warmth. It had been, somehow, a longer ride home than the one out to Blackness, and the thought of her welcome had greatly cheered the journey. He used his other hand to scratch the ears of the rather damp wolfhound who leaned against his knee, making the dog groan ecstatically.
‘Maybe I should have gone on to Lanark to find him myself. I’m reluctant to ride further, to be honest . . .’
‘Well you might be,’ said his mother, with a wry glance at the cushion of the bench he had chosen to sit on. ‘I can spare Steenie that long, I suppose. Indeed, he should be back soon. And I bade him ask after Fleming while he was about it, my dear,’ she added to Alys.
‘Yes, Fleming,’ said Gil. ‘You say it was Crombie beat him?’
‘So he told us,’ Alys agreed. ‘He made better sense later, once we had got him back to Cauldhope, and washed his hurts and put him to bed. He said he was out in the fields, on his way to wherever it was Michael had sent him, and Crombie and his men found him, and set about him with sticks.’
‘Crombie had one man and no sticks when he left here,’ Gil said.
‘No, I thought that, and I would have said from his bruises they rather used their fists and feet.’
‘Gaif him an outragious blaw, and great boist blew,’ suggested Gil.
Her quick smile flickered as she placed the quotation, but she went on, ‘I suppose Crombie wished to threaten him about the charge against Mistress Lithgo. But Gil, I am still puzzled by his lying in a swoon half the day like that, and by the convulsions. I could find no blow to the head that would account for it. I wonder if Mistress Lithgo would tell me . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
‘So you think,’ said Lady Egidia, ‘that the man Murray has a mistress in or near Lanark, and visits her once a quarter while these two brothers collect the money for him.’
‘It looks very like it,’ Gil said. Socrates nudged his hand, and he scratched behind the dog’s ears again. Awaft of the animal’s fishy breath reached him.
‘It’s odd, mind you,’ persisted his mother, ‘if that’s so, that word’s never got round. It’s a small enough neighbourhood, after all. Carluke folk go down to the market at Lanark, and a juicy bit of gossip like that would travel, you’d think.’
‘He might visit her under another name,’ said Alys.
‘He’d be recognized by someone as he came or went, I’m sure of that.’
‘He goes in disguise,’ said Gil. ‘A turban and a false beard from the Corpus Christi costume kist.’
‘Corpus Christi costume kist. Now yon’s a tongue-trap!’ said his mother, half laughing.
‘Perhaps she lives secluded,’ suggested Alys. ‘In a green desert, with one faithful hound for company.’ She reached across Gil to stroke their own faithful hound’s head, and the dog licked her wrist with a long tongue.
‘The yew tree wouldn’t fit with that,’ said Gil. ‘They mostly grow in a kirkyard or at least by a chapel.’
‘She is the guardian of the chapel, of course.’
‘What, and a man’s mistress these two years as well?’
‘Temptation can strike anyone,’ Alys responded seriously.
‘The yew tree might be on the road to her home,’ said Lady Egidia.
‘Can you think of anywhere that might fit, Mother? You know this side the river better than I do.’
‘If it’s so much out of the way,’ said Alys, ‘surely nobody can know of it.’
‘You get the odd dwelling down by the Clyde itself,’ said Lady Egidia, nodding in acknowledgement of this point, ‘even in the gorge below Lanark. But I’ve a notion I’ve seen something elsewhere. A solitary place in the cut of one of the rivers, on the way to nowhere. Now where was it and why was I going that way?’