The Lanimer Bride

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of saying such a thing,’ said Gil.

  ‘What about that bit paper you lifted, Maister Cunningham?’ said Agnes. He turned, startled, and discovered her seated near the window with some mending, the image of a good servant observing the proprieties. She was looking hard at him, and now repeated, ‘Yon bit paper wi writing, you lifted off the floor afore you called the hue and cry.’

  ‘A paper?’ he temporised, his mind working furiously. There had been no chance to look at it, but he would rather not share it with these two, whatever it was.

  ‘You put it in the neck of your doublet.’

  ‘A bit paper?’ Madame Olympe joined the discussion. ‘How exciting! What does it say?’

  ‘There was a map and all,’ Agnes added.

  ‘Oh, that paper,’ he said, cornered. He drew the documents out, handed one to Alys, and opened out the other. ‘Aye, it’s a map – of Lanark, I’d say.’

  ‘Oh, indeed!’ Madame Olympe leaned forward, the linen headdress precarious above the paper. ‘West Port. That must be north, then. Here is the Gallow Hill, I suppose, and that the Burgh Muir.’

  ‘This mentions the Burgh Muir,’ said Alys. She handed the sheet she held to Gil, with a significant look. He gave the map to Madame Olympe and studied the new page. It was a small sheet, the size of his hand, cut raggedly from something larger, with three lines of writing, two signatures and a mark.

  doyg to bere i d to burhmur, it read. m to ressive s to fee doyg. Below that was an elaborate notary’s mark, of the sort Gil himself used; this one depicted the burgh cross of Lanark, carefully built up in loops of penwork, with the initials GB nestling in their midst, presumably for the newly deceased Maister Ballantyne.

  The two signatures were illegible; the mark was inscribed, wm doyg his mark. That must have provoked Alys’s significant look, Gil considered, recalling his last encounter with Billy Doig, the dwarfish messenger to the politically aware of Scotland, carrier of news and doubtful goods, and sometime dog-breeder. Vary had mentioned such an individual in the marketplace. Could it be the same man?

  ‘And who are S and M?’ he said aloud.

  ‘What’s that?’ Madame Olympe craned to see the scrap. ‘Doig to bear – something – to Burgh Muir,’ she read. ‘M to receive, S to fee Doig. What fortune for M. Agnes, you saw only the two men you described? There was no third?’

  ‘Just the two,’ Agnes confirmed. Her mistress shook her head, the towering mass of linen wobbling lightly.

  ‘Doig is conspicuous. And what could he be carrying, that it required a written agreement?’

  ‘Doig might require a written agreement anyway,’ Gil observed. ‘You know him?’

  Madame gave him an expressive glance, but did not answer. Alys retrieved the note and studied it again.

  ‘I D,’ she said. ‘James, John, Jerome. Davidson, Dalziel, Dempster. It could be anyone.’

  ‘Or maybe five hundreds of something,’ Gil suggested. ‘Delivering a person to the Burgh Muir sounds like a strange errand even for Billy Doig, more like to be a bill of goods.’

  ‘Bricks, roof-tiles, slates?’ Madame Olympe contributed. ‘Are they building out there?’

  ‘On the burgh lands?’ Gil countered. ‘Surely not. The burgesses would have something to say.’

  ‘Five hundred bricks or roof tiles would barely roof a stable. But if it was to be done in secret,’ said Alys, ‘or at least begun before the burgesses heard of it – could this be what Maister Vary has to consent to?’

  ‘Fencing stobs,’ said Gil, his mind working. ‘Pit props, some new merchandise, barrels of uncustomed goods.’

  ‘Coin?’ said Alys doubtfully. ‘No, why carry that out to the muir? Much better take it to Maister S or Maister M for safekeeping.’

  ‘If they trust one another,’ said Madame Olympe.

  ‘All this is to assume,’ said Gil, ‘that the papers have something to do with the matter. They could refer to something else entirely. Ballantyne could have dropped them earlier in the day, they could have blown off his desk when the two men ran out. Doig may be involved in some completely lawful transaction. It might even be a different Doig altogether.’

  ‘Ah, my dear!’ said Madame Olympe, one large white hand shading her eyes. ‘Such innocence moves me almost to tears.’ She lowered the hand, and added in more forthright tones, ‘I think you need to speak to Maister Vary, as well as all these others. And that right soon.’

  Gil, who had already come to this conclusion, nodded absently, still considering the problem. It seemed more likely that the little document was connected with the death of Maister Ballantyne than with Audrey Madur’s disappearance, and the session clerk’s violent decease was a matter for the Provost to deal with. But in a quiet town like Lanark, however busy a market it might be, and however recent the Lanimer Fair, two such events this close together seemed likely to be part of some greater action.

  ‘Gil,’ said Alys. He looked up, and found all the other occupants of the chamber watching him. ‘Shall we go to call on Maister Vary? Now, before the quest on the groom?’

  Chapter Four

  Gil’s first impression was that Vary had not stirred since the previous evening. Seated at his desk, hands knotted white-knuckled on top of the writing-slope, he stared bleakly into the middle distance, and barely looked up when the woman Jessie tapped at the door of his study.

  ‘Has he eaten?’ Alys asked softly. Jessie shook her head.

  ‘Nor slept neither,’ she said.

  ‘An egg beaten in hot wine,’ said Alys decisively. ‘With sweet herbs and honey, maybe a drop of rosewater if you have it. Do you know how?’

  ‘The very thing, mem,’ said Jessie. ‘And the new rosewater’s just settling. I’ll be right back wi it. Maister,’ she said, speaking as to a small child, ‘here’s Maister Cunningham and his lady come to see you. Sit up nice and talk to them, now.’

  ‘Brosie?’ said Gil, though his stomach knotted with pity. ‘Bear up, man. Has there been any word the day?’

  Vary shrugged, an infinitesimal movement. Socrates padded over and sat down, leaning against his knee, but was ignored.

  ‘There’s been all sorts calling, now the word’s got round,’ said Jessie, pausing in the door on her way out. ‘Fro the Provost on down, no to mention Lockhart o the Lee and him fro Jerviswood and others, all wanting to get up a search, but he’ll no have it. Our Archie’s out looking,’ she confided in a hoarse whisper, ‘he canny bear it, what wi young Adam lying deid up at the Provost’s, and the quest on him called for this afternoon.’

  ‘Come, show me your rosewater,’ said Alys. ‘Do you distil it yourself, or is it your mistress’s work?’

  They vanished into the back of the house, terms such as ‘double-distilled’ floating back. Gil crossed the small chamber to stand by Vary’s desk, putting a careful hand on the man’s shoulder. Vary convulsed at the touch, flinching away as if Gil had struck him.

  ‘Easy, man!’ Gil said. ‘I mean you no harm. Has there been no word at all? None o the neighbours has anything useful to say?’

  Vary stared blankly at him, apparently parsing this speech syllable by syllable. After a moment he looked down at his knotted hands again. Gil, following his gaze, saw that they rested on a cheap set of tablets, identical to the set Alys had stolen a glimpse of last night.

  ‘Is that the same set?’ he asked. ‘Or a new one? Is it a message?’

  One shoulder stirred in what might have been a shrug.

  ‘Let me see,’ Gil coaxed. Vary did not respond, but offered no resistance when Gil slid the tablets out from under his hands. The set was exactly like the previous pair, almost certainly by the same cheap maker, decorated with another woodcut from the same source and painter, this one showing a crowned figure wielding a harp. Inside, dug into the wax, was the grim intimation:

  SEIK HIR AND SCHO IS DEID

  He closed the tablets and set them down, whistling silently.

  ‘Where did this
come from?’ he asked. ‘Who brought it?’

  Vary made another tiny shrug. His lips parted, and he drew a long, shuddering breath and let it out.

  ‘Was there,’ he said. ‘It. It was there.’ He indicated a spot on his desk with a jerky movement of his hand. ‘I sat down here. A-aye, I sat down here and, and saw it.’ He turned to look at Gil again. ‘Wasny there afore,’ he said.

  ‘Do you mean it simply appeared on your desk?’ Gil asked. Vary considered the question, and after a moment nodded, and went on nodding, frowning.

  ‘Just appeared. Out of nothing. It wasny there, it – it was there.’ He turned the hand over wildly to illustrate, narrowly missing the inkpot.

  ‘Was there anyone else here? Your woman said there were callers.’

  ‘Place was full of people.’ Vary was still nodding. ‘It wasny there. Then it was there.’

  ‘Someone set it down when you wereny looking, maybe,’ Gil suggested.

  ‘It just appeared. It wasny there, then it was,’ Vary repeated. There was no smell of strong drink about him, or even of small drink, but Gil found himself treating the man like a drunk.

  ‘Can you mind who was here?’ he coaxed. ‘Who were all the people in the house?’

  ‘Provost,’ said Vary after due thought. ‘Provost. My brother,’ he added in bitter tones.

  ‘Which brother? Gregory?’

  That got him a direct look, however brief.

  ‘Jerome. Why would Gregory call? Jerome. Tried to pray wi me.’

  ‘More than that?’

  ‘Half the toun. All her uncles.’ Vary fell silent, staring bleakly at the windows, where the burgesses of Lanark went about their business, swimming distorted in the small greenish panes.

  ‘Her uncles? Your wife’s uncles?’ Gil questioned, but Vary shook his head, another tiny movement. Then with a great effort, he looked round, meeting Gil’s eye.

  ‘They tell me Maister Ballantyne’s deid, and by violence. Is that right?’ he said, quite coherently.

  ‘It is,’ said Gil. His friend crossed himself.

  ‘A sad loss to the burgh,’ he pronounced. ‘He’s been an able clerk these ten year, and done well out o’t.’

  ‘Was he one of those that called?’

  Vary’s face closed down, the moment of coherence gone.

  ‘Have you had aught to do wi him lately? In a matter of private business, or Council dealings?’

  ‘No,’ said Vary, and swallowed. ‘No, I— no.’

  ‘Has he discussed aught about the Burgh Muir wi you? Mentioned it afore you, even?’

  ‘The Burgh Muir?’ Vary frowned slightly. ‘No, why would he—’ He looked at Gil again, and said clearly, ‘The Burgh Muir is owned o the Council. There’s no private dealings concerning it.’ His glance slid away, towards the window again. ‘They’d riot,’ he added, his voice dropping. ‘They’d riot. Break windaes and the like. The burgh folk.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Gil agreed. Lanark riots were well known in the county; the burgesses were jealous of their rights. ‘So you’ve no idea what Ballantyne might ha been doing, who he might ha been dealing with?’

  Vary crossed himself again and shook his head, but made no other sign that he had heard the question.

  Gil watched him for a moment, then left the room to search for Alys. Socrates followed him, his claws clicking on the tiled floor. Gil could hear Alys speaking, and the woman Jessie answering; he found the kitchen by following the sound, and tapped on the doorframe as Jessie turned from the fire, a piggin held in a corner of her apron, towards the dish Alys had set on the wide scrubbed table. Euan, a younger maid and another manservant he had not seen before were leaning against the far wall, talking in low voices.

  ‘There we are,’ Jessie said, tilting the piggin over the dish. Socrates watched intently, his nose twitching. ‘That’s cool enough to eat in a moment, and a few sippets o your toast set about it, it’s fit for a king.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Alys, smiling quickly at Gil as he entered the room. ‘The cinnamon was a good thought. Maybe a rasp of sugar over the top?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ Jessie set down the empty piggin and reached for a fragment of the sugar loaf and its scraper. ‘How is he, maister? Did you get any sense o him?’

  ‘Little,’ said Gil. ‘I need to ken who’s called on him. Did you answer the door every time it went?’

  ‘I did,’ she agreed. ‘Saving any that stepped in by theirsels, I saw all that crossed the door the day. He’s no been fit to open the door to Our Lady hersel. I can tell them ower for you.’ She considered the dish of rose-coloured custard with its scattering of sugar. ‘Now these sippets, mem, and we’ll bear it in.’

  In a private chamber on the upper floor at the Nicholas Inn, with a view out over the High Street and St Nicholas’ kirkyard, they sat round a sturdy cold pie and a dish of new peas with bacon and considered what to do next. Across the chamber pottery rattled on the broad floorboards as Socrates dealt with a bowl of bread and broth. Outside, the inn sign hung unmoving in the still, warm air. It depicted the saint as a bishop, hand raised in blessing, the three purses of gold which were his attribute floating round his haloed mitre as if he were juggling with them. Gil had always appreciated it.

  ‘We need to speak to all these people,’ said Alys, dissecting a wedge of pie with the point of her knife. ‘Is there time today, do you think?’

  ‘Some of them,’ said Gil. ‘The Provost again, Brosie’s brother the priest – Sir Jerome, is that his name? – and it seems one of the Franciscans asked for Ballantyne. Euan, did you find out if any of Brosie’s household went to Ballantyne’s door?’

  ‘They did not,’ said Euan. ‘Unless it was that Archie that’s still out searching. Neither Dickon nor the lassie had been across the door the day by what they tellt me, it was the woman Jessie went to the market. Will I serve more peas, mistress?’ He spooned peas and bacon onto all three platters without waiting for an answer.

  ‘So I need a word wi Archie.’ Gil made a note. ‘I wonder what took him there?’

  ‘And we need to ask if anyone has seen Doig,’ Alys offered, conveying a morsel of the pie to her mouth with careful fingers.

  ‘Doig? Is that the duarch?’ said Euan, swallowing hastily. ‘Him that goes about fetching things to folk? Never say it was him slew the clerk!’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Gil. ‘Agnes would ha seen him.’

  ‘Agnes would have known him,’ said Alys. Gil looked at her, considering this point, while Socrates pursued his bowl into a corner to extract the last of the flavour.

  ‘No,’ he said after a moment. ‘Even if she failed to mention him, one of the bystanders would have if he was there. They might ha failed to see the two swordsmen, but I think those were local, so it’s only a matter of common-sense no to see or name them. Doig’s no a Lanark man, he’d ha made a good scapegoat if he was there.’

  Alys nodded, accepting the argument, but Euan said round another mouthful, ‘He could ha hid till the hue and cry was gone elsewhere. Under the clerk’s desk, or the like. There’s your answer, maister, and I’s wager he has the lady and all.’

  Gil, recalling another death where Doig had certainly been responsible and had then hidden under the dead man’s bed, shook his head.

  ‘That’s one thing the constables did,’ he said, ‘searched the foreshot like the woman wi the lost coin. I’ve no notion what they were looking for, and I suspect nor had they, but they looked under or inside every stick of furnishing in the place. But that’s something you can do after we’ve eaten, Euan. Ask about the place for the likes of Doig, and if you get any word, find out who he was with, who he spoke to.’

  Socrates padded across the chamber to sit down beside Alys, gazing airily into the distance, his soft ears flicking at the little sounds she made dealing with her wedge of pie.

  ‘You should speak with the Provost,’ said Alys, not looking at the dog. ‘Will I seek out the priest? Which kirk does he serve?’

  ‘On
e of the altars in St Nicholas,’ said Gil.

  ‘Then I could speak to the Franciscans,’ she went on, ‘and then I think I might return to Belstane, to go study the burgh ledgers further.’

  ‘A good plan. The other men are kicking their heels below stairs, take two of them to attend you. And the dog. I’ll send the other fellow up the Burgh Muir to see if there’s aught happening up there.’

  She cast him a glance which suggested he was stating the obvious, and handed the crust of her pie to Socrates, who accepted it delicately, his tail thumping twice on the floor. Euan rose in a tangle of legs and tablecloth to fetch her the basin of water from the other side of the chamber.

  ‘You could always have a look at the caves by the Mouse,’ said Gil, snatching at the cloth to prevent it following the man.

  ‘A bad business, maister,’ said Provost Lockhart for the fifth or sixth time, when Gil completed his narrative of the events at the burgh clerk’s dwelling. ‘It’s twenty year or more since any thought they could simply ride into Lanark, slay a man and ride out wi impunity. What the world’s coming to I canny think. And Dodie Ballantyne, thrawn auld scunner though he was, will be a sair miss. He’s been an able burgh clerk, a good man to keep track o the pence.’ He considered Gil, then turned to gaze out of his window again. The sun, pouring through the coloured glass in the main embrasure, cast bright patterns on his face, his velvet bonnet, the close braiding on his brown linen doublet. He had not resumed the mustard-coloured gown; Gil wondered idly whether this was because it was too hot, or because Alys was not present.

  ‘You’d no chance to speak wi him, then,’ the Provost continued.

  ‘He was moments from death when I set eyes on him,’ Gil replied. ‘I’d ha had no answer, even had it seemed the moment.’

  ‘Aye, very wise,’ agreed Lockhart abstractedly. He studied the passers-by in the High Street a little longer, then appeared to come to a decision and swung round to face Gil. ‘Would you think, maister, this is anything to do wi Vary’s lass being stolen away?’