by Pat McIntosh
He was recalled to his whereabouts by a hesitant bleating. Looking round, he discovered that the evening was beginning to darken, and Maister Gregor was stooped beside him, trying to draw his attention.
‘Er –’ he said again, more than ever like an old sheep. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Maister Cunningham. Maybe you’re deep in your thoughts?’
‘No, no,’ said Gil, rising politely. ‘Come and sit down, sir.’
‘I’ll not sit down, thank you,’ said Maister Gregor, waving the idea away as if it would sting him. ‘It’s a bit damp for my bones. But I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said again.
‘Was it something you wanted? Can I do something for you?’
‘Well, no,’ the chaplain peered at him in the fading light, ‘it’s just that I thought on what badges it was that’s gone from poor Jaikie’s hat.’
‘Badges? More than one?’ said Gil, and realized that the old man was murmuring one of the prayers for the dead. He waited, and Maister Gregor crossed himself and continued:
‘Aye, indeed, maister, it’s two badges.’
‘And what ones is it?’ said Gil encouragingly,
‘Well, one of them’s St Eloi’s horse from Noyon, unusual it is, and the other’s the only one that was from a female saint’s shrine. Save for Our Lady, and she’s aye a different matter,’ he added as an aside. ‘I mind joking him about it more than once. But the thing is I canny right mind her name.’
‘That’s a pity,’ said Gil in disappointment.
‘Aye, for it’s an unusual kind of name. I never heard of anybody given it.’ The old man leaned forward to peer into Gil’s face, and a bony hand came out to clasp his arm. ‘See, her shrine’s somewhere in the Low Countries, but she’s not a Flemish saint, she’s Irish.’
‘Irish?’ repeated Gil.
Maister Gregor nodded. ‘Irish, maister. An Irish princess, so Jaikie told me one time. She fled from Ireland with her confessor, and fetched up at this shrine in the Low Countries, where she heals madmen and women. I don’t recall the rest of the tale, though I think her father came into it somewhere, and I can’t call her name to mind, but I know she’s a healer of the mad.’
‘Right,’ said Gil. ‘Maister Gregor, thank you for telling me this.’
‘Is it any help?’ The sheep-like expression had returned. ‘I think it began with a D. Her name, I mean.’
‘It’s a help,’ said Gil. ‘It’s a lot of help, Maister Gregor.’ It means I can probably dismiss the problem, he was thinking. I don’t see how there can be any connection.
‘I’m glad,’ said the old man. ‘We want to know what’s come to him.’ He peered round in the dusk. ‘I’d best go indoors, maister. The night air’s no a good thing. Are you coming too?’
‘I am.’ Gil lifted the empty platter and turned towards the house. ‘I’m surprised I’m not being bitten here. You can’t sit out like this in Balquhidder.’
‘It’s the smoke,’ explained Maister Gregor. ‘They stay away from all the smoke.’
‘I think you packed away all Maister Stirling’s property,’ Gil said, gesturing for the old priest to go in front of him.
‘I did that,’ agreed Maister Gregor in a distressed bleat. ‘Never thinking but that he’d come back for it. Poor Jaikie!’
‘Was it all in good order? Nothing seemed out of the ordinary about it?’ Gil saw that for a foolish question as he spoke. This gentle old soul would hardly recognise trouble if it bit him on the hand.
‘No, no, nothing by-ordinar. Save for the crossbow.’ Maister Gregor stopped still and nodded, the movement dimly visible in the twilight. ‘Save for the crossbow.’
‘What was wrong with that?’
‘Oh, nothing wrong wi’t, it works well, I ascertained that, if you could but draw it. Only I never kent Jaikie had a bow, you see. He’d aye to borrow mine when we went out to the butts.’
Stifling his response to the image of Maister Gregor with a crossbow in his hands, Gil said, ‘You and Maister Stirling have been good friends, then, if you’d lend him your bow.’
‘Oh, yes, indeed. He’s a – he’s a good friend,’ said the old man earnestly. ‘There’s some finds his humour a bit sharp, but he’s aye a good laugh, and he’ll do you a good turn sooner than an ill.’ He chuckled. ‘Only the day afore he went off, he’d a good crack at Wat our steward, fair made me laugh. See, Wat had misplaced his tablets, and Jaikie found them at the back o a bench, fallen down behind the cushion. Oh, he said, if I kent where to take it, that would be worth a penny or two, wi all the tally o my lord’s household in it. Wat was no best pleased, but the rest o us laughed.’ He peered at Gil in the shadows. ‘Maybe you had to be there. But the other was better, wait till I tell you. The very day we last saw him, Wat was on about a new way o cooking mutton he’d got off Robert Elphinstone’s steward when we was last in Edinburgh, that he’d tried to teach my lord’s cook and the man couldny get the rights o’t, and Jaikie said, You should write it down, Wat, and sell it in the Low Countries. Wat was right put out.’
‘I think you and Maister Stirling had a disagreement, too,’ Gil said, with faint malice.
‘We did,’ said Maister Gregor sadly. ‘We’d a word in the morning. Sic a small matter, it was, to fall out over a misplaced shoe, and thanks be to Our Lady we were friends again by noon.’
‘A shoe?’
‘Aye, is it no daft? Jaikie was hunting it all through the chamber, and found it down my side o the bed, and would have it I’d kicked it there in the night. But as I said,’ offered the old man earnestly, ‘he’d as likely thrown it there hissel while he searched for it. So we got a bit sharp wi one another, and disturbed my lord, who wasny well pleased. But we shared a jug of ale wi the noon bite, and he’d that crack about Wat and the Low Countries, and all was just as usual again.’ He sighed, and crossed himself. ‘And now he’s dead, my poor friend, and him as much younger than me. What are we doing standing out here in the night air, Maister Cunningham? Come away in, afore you take a chill.’
Gil followed the old man along the path and helped him up a set of steps by the house door, running these things through his mind. Just before he set his hand on the latch, he said, ‘Where was the bow when you found it, then?’
‘In his kist,’ said Maister Gregor. ‘In his kist.’
Mistress Doig’s house and yard were in the midst of the northern suburb, their gateway further from the port than Gil had thought from the sound of the barking. Following the man Peter again past the low turf-walled houses and middens in the morning light, he avoided chickens, goats and a marauding pig and wondered what the Blackfriars thought of the addition to their neighbourhood. The continuous noise from the dogs must affect the singing of the Office. Then again, he reflected, the Blackfriars’ convent in Glasgow was right in the centre of the burgh, with full benefit of the sounds of market and traffic.
Mistress Doig herself was at work in the yard, sweeping out an empty pen. When they stepped in all the dogs began barking again, and she straightened up from her task with a swift glance at Peter’s livery, then turned from him to survey Gil with displeasure but no surprise. She was a gaunt raw-boned woman wrapped in a sacking apron, sleeves of gown and shift rolled well up above her elbows, the grubby ends of her white linen headdress knotted at the back of her neck. Some of the dogs began scrabbling at the fencing of their pens, eager to get at the visitor.
‘Quiet!’ yelled Mistress Doig. A silence fell, in which she said, ‘It’s you, is it? If it’s Doig you’re after, he’s no here.’
‘You remember me?’ said Gil, raising his hat politely.
She unbent slightly at this, but her tone was still resentful as she said, ‘Aye, I mind you. We’d never ha had to move if you’d kept away from Doig. That was a good place we had at Glasgow. Better by far than this.’
He looked about him, and had to agree. The yard here was smaller and the house far less well-constructed than the one he recalled, although the wooden fencing of the pens was new
and solid. Peter had wandered off to admire some of the dogs.
‘What brought you here?’ Gil asked curiously. ‘Why not Stirling or Edinburgh?’
She shrugged one bony shoulder, and scraped at something with her brush. ‘I’ve kin here, it was as good as anywhere else. You kept that wolfhound pup,’ she remembered. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s well, and growing,’ Gil said, aware of smiling as he thought of his dog. ‘The handsomest wolfhound in Scotland. A rare beast.’
She unbent further at this.
‘I thought that myself. Is it Doig you’re wanting?’ she demanded, her tone almost friendly.
‘Yes, but maybe you could help me if he’s not here.’
‘I’ve no idea where he is,’ she said hastily. ‘He never tellt me where he was off to.’
‘No, I’m not looking for him,’ Gil reassured her. ‘I’m trying to find this man that’s gone missing, the Bishop’s secretary, a fellow called James Stirling.’
‘Him.’ She came out of the pen, leaned the besom against the fence, and skilfully extracted one small dog from the next pen without letting the other escape. Pushing it into the newly swept space she shut the gate and twirled the two turnbuttons, then turned to Gil. ‘He was here, aye.’
‘You know him, then?’
‘He was here about the Bishop’s wee spaniel. My cousin Mitchel brought him here first, and he cam back a time or two wi word from my lord.’ Her grim expression cracked as she smiled. ‘A rare litter, that was. Off this bitch here,’ she pointed to the next gate along. ‘Right good wee pups she throws.’ The inmate of the pen stood up, scrabbling at the fence and squeaking exactly like her son, and Mistress Doig leaned in and caressed her soft ears. ‘Aye, Blossom, that’s my bonnie girl.’
‘And what about the time when he vanished,’ said Gil. ‘Had he been here then?’
‘That’s what I meant. He was here.’ She glanced at the sky. ‘Doig was home that week, and the man – Stirling, you cried him? – came around looking for him.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘He did not. Nor did I ask. Doig was in the town, so Maister Secretary said he’d wait, and hung about my yard getting under my feet,’ she said pointedly, lifting the besom again, ‘and getting my dogs excited wi too much attention.’
‘What time was this?’ Gil asked.
She shrugged. ‘About the time I make their evening –’ She broke off significantly, and Gil recalled all the dogs in the yard in Glasgow barking at the word dinner. He grinned, and nodded.
‘So an hour or two afore Vespers, maybe?’
‘About that or sooner. He hung about for a while, and then another fellow cam in seeking Doig, and the two of them knew one another.’ She made a sour face. ‘If they’d been dogs, there would ha been blood shed. Walking round one another stiff-legged wi their fangs showing, they were, though since they were both priests it was all done very civil.’
‘Both priests?’ said Gil quickly. ‘Do you know the name of the other man?’
‘A Canon Andrew Drummond, so he said. From Dunblane.’
‘Well, well,’ said Gil. ‘And he knows Maister Doig as well?’
‘So it seemed,’ she said, ‘but no need to ask me how or why, for I’ve no notion.’
‘So then what happened? Did they speak to your husband? Did they stay here?’
She propped the besom resignedly against the fence, extracted another dog, dropped it neatly in beside its neighbour, and began to sweep the empty pen.
‘They stayed here,’ she said, ‘the half of an hour or so, talking about nothing, very civil as I said. Then they saw Doig would no be back any time soon, and went off thegither the pair of them. Which I was glad to see,’ she admitted, pausing to look round for the shovel, ‘since if there was to be blood shed I’d as soon it wasny on my yard.’
‘What were they talking about?’
‘Nothing.’ She lifted the shovel. ‘A lot of havers. They looked at Blossom, and spoke of the Bishop’s wee pup, and Maister Secretary said he’d ha had another of her litter, but that two brothers in the one place are often jealous, which is daft. Maybe it’s true of folk, but not of dogs if they’re handled right. Then the other said, a dog’ll not forget an ill turn done to him as a pup. Now that’s true I’ll admit, but what was it to the point?’
Well, well, thought Gil.
‘And then they left here,’ he said.
‘They did.’ She emptied her shovel into a reeking bucket by the gate of the pen. ‘Drummond was back later on his own, no even his man wi him, looking for Doig, and I tellt him where he’d likely get him, but I haveny seen him since, for whenever it was he caught up wi Doig it wasny here. Maybe it was in the town.’
‘Did you see Stirling again?’
‘Aye, later on.’
‘Where?’ he asked eagerly. She straightened up and stared at him.
‘When I was walking the dogs,’ she said. ‘I take them out yonder,’ she gestured northwards, ‘along by the river, and when I cam back I saw him away down this track ahead of me, making for the Red Brig, just his lone, his head and shoulders showing over the rise in the track. You couldny mistake him, wi the last o the sun shining on the badges on his hat. Never saw so many badges on a hat,’ she added.
‘You’re sure of that?’ Gil asked.
‘Sure of what? I saw the sun catch on the badges, I ken what the time was. They were just ringing St John’s bell to shut the gates.’ She cast a glance round the pen, stepped out, and retrieved its occupant from behind the neighbouring gate. ‘Now, maister, if there’s naught else I can help you with, I’d as soon get on wi this task. It’s never-ending, you’ll believe.’
‘I’ll believe it,’ Gil said. ‘Many thanks, mistress.’ He reached for his purse. ‘Maybe you’d buy the dogs a treat for me.’
Chapter Seven
The Blackfriars’ accommodation for guests was spacious and well appointed. It was hardly surprising, Gil reflected, admiring the brocade cushions and rich hangings of the chamber where he had been asked to wait for Brother Cellarer. The court had not used the place for fifty-odd years, not since James First was assassinated here, but it had certainly been founded, long before that, to provide somewhere suitable for the King and his entourage to lie when they came to Perth. Alys would like the detail of the stonework, he thought, studying the carved foliage on the capital of the pillar between two window-openings.
‘Can I help you, Maister Cunningham?’ asked a soft voice in the doorway. He turned, to find a small fair-haired Dominican watching him with faint amusement.
‘It’s a fine building,’ he said.
‘We are blessed,’ agreed the friar. He came forward into the chamber. ‘They were craftsmen that built it to God’s glory. Did you see this?’ He stepped into the window-space beside Gil and pointed upwards. Gil followed his gaze and found a tiny head carved in the angle of wall and roof, grimacing at him. He laughed, and Brother Cellarer smiled, then raised his hand and delivered the friars’ conventional blessing.
‘I am Edward Gilchrist. I oversee the smooth running of this guesthouse. And how can I help you?’ he asked.
‘I’m looking into this matter of James Stirling,’ Gil explained. ‘Secretary to Bishop Brown,’ he prompted, as the other man frowned.
‘Yes, of course.’ Gilchrist’s face cleared. ‘The Bishop sent this morning, and the lay brothers are out just now, searching the Ditchlands.’ He nodded at the window, through which several black-habited men were visible on the open ground, peering under gorse bushes. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, maister, but I –’
‘Almost the last action of Stirling’s we know of,’ Gil pursued, ‘was to speak to Andrew Drummond, Canon of Dunblane, who was lodged here at the time. I’ll have to go back to Dunblane and speak to the Canon, but in the meantime I hoped, if you can tell me anything about his movements that day, it might shed some light on what Stirling did next.’
‘Ah.’ Gilchrist studied Gil for a moment, then nodde
d. ‘I’ll fetch the record book. Take a seat, sir. I’ll no be long.’
In fact he was nearly a quarter of an hour, slipping back into the chamber with a big leather-bound volume clasped against his white scapular.
‘Forgive me, maister,’ he said, drawing another stool up to the small table by the window. ‘I’d to deal wi another matter. The laundry seems to have lost three of the good linen sheets. Now, when was Canon Drummond here? About two week since, am I right?’ He leafed backward through the book. Its pages were filled with columns of neat tiny writing and figures, a total at the foot of each in red ink. ‘Aye, here we are. Andrew Drummond from Dunblane, stayed three nights with four, no, five men, and what’s this? Oh, I mind. He’d a woman wi his company, which was awkward as the women’s guest-hall was empty at the time. It’s unusual, but it happens.’
‘A woman?’ said Gil blankly. ‘Oh – he was bringing his bairns to their grandmother. Maybe he brought one of the maidservants along to see to them on the journey.’
‘I’d say she was more than a serving-lass,’ demurred Gilchrist. ‘She was maybe his – some woman’s companion. I set eyes on her myself, Mistress Ross she was cried, a decent enough woman past forty I’d say, but we’d to put her in a lodging out-by, and Maister Canon insisted we send her food out to her. So hardly a maidservant.’
‘That must have been inconvenient. Was she far away?’
‘No, no, just at Duncan Niven’s house by the dyer’s yard. He’s kin to one of our lay brothers, we’ve lodged other folk there afore now, though we don’t usually carry their food. The kitchen-folk swears we never got all the dishes back.’
‘Irritating,’ said Gil. ‘So what have you recorded here?’