by Pat McIntosh
He took a deep breath, as one going to his execution, and set off for a doorway at the far end of the hall. Gil, keeping a reckoning in his head, recognised that they were going into the western wing of the house, the one which overlooked the river.
Beyond the doorway was a well-furnished chamber, with new, pale oak furniture mixed with older, darker pieces, cushions of brocade scattered on the settle to gleam in the lantern-light. Their guide crossed this chamber and the next, paused to listen carefully, and stepped onto a newel stair.
At Gil’s back, Boyd murmured, ‘If we come on the Irishman, he’s mine.’
‘Wi pleasure,’ said Gil, following the manservant.
They climbed that stair, crossed two more chambers where the windows showed palely against the dark walls, found another stair which Gil reckoned must be above the doorway by which they had left the hall. Whoever built this house, though he had not fortified it, had kept its defence in mind. Ascending this second stair on to the attic floor they traversed more small chambers, furnished under their slanted roof-beams apparently at random.
‘Who needs this many chambers?’ wondered Doig at the rear of their little procession. ‘Even the King hasny this many chambers at Stirling.’
‘What makes you think you’ve seen the whole o his lodging?’ asked Boyd.
‘Wheesht!’ said the manservant, then realised what he was doing. ‘Yir forgiveness, maisters, but we dinna ken where he’s got to. He could be hearkening to us the now, waiting to spring on us out the shadows.’
‘Where are we headed for?’ Gil asked.
‘We’re here, maisters.’ The man stopped at the further side of the chamber they had just crossed, before another doorway. ‘He’s in yonder, in his closet. I’ll no venture in, I seen him once and that’s enough.’
Hand on his whinger, lantern held high in the other hand, Gil stepped into the closet.
It was a chamber of some size, certainly twice the size of Gil’s own closet at home in the house on the Drygate. To the right of the door stood a cabinet of little drawers like an overgrown spice-kist, the kind of thing collectors kept to hold their curiosities; to the left a writing-desk, with an inkstand and pen-rest at the top of the slope and nothing else on its surface. Across the chamber, between two windows, a great chair with a shelf of books above it, two backstools standing near it as if there had been a conversation, a meeting of some sort. Three people, thought Gil, Somerville and the Irish visitor and who else? To left and right between these walls the roof had been lined with planks, forming a ceiling which came down low, so that the side walls of the chamber were no more than three feet high.
Resisting the temptation to go and study the books on the shelf, Gil turned his attention to the corpse, which was hard to ignore.
Robert Somerville lay between the writing-desk and the great chair, his hands tethered to the chair-legs, his feet to the desk. He lay stretched in his flamboyant, ruined clothes, bright between the bloodstains even in the lantern-light, surrounded by a black pool of blood as Maister Ballantyne the burgh clerk had been. The resemblance ended there: this man was younger, perhaps in his fifties, and beardless, and had died in a different way, not by a single thrust through the breast but by many cuts, many blows, small acts of damage and harm which had—
‘Them’s his fingers,’ said Doig. ‘Four, five – all ten o them. And his ears and his nose. Christ aid, he’s been hackit in wee collops.’
‘And all laid out very neat,’ said Boyd. ‘Just where he could see them. How thoughtful.’
‘Somebody must ha heard this going on,’ said Gil grimly, looking at the expression on the dead man’s bloody face. ‘He’d never ha taken sic abuse in silence. Why did none of them come to his aid?’ He bent to close the staring, horrified eyes, then turned to speak to their guide, and discovered the man had vanished. ‘Confound it, where the deil has the fellow got to? I never said he could leave.’
‘You might ask,’ said Doig ambiguously. He stepped past Gil into the chamber and bent over the corpse, carefully avoiding the pool of blood, to pat the dead man’s purse where it hung at his belt. ‘Nah. No much in there. I wonder where he’s got it hid?’
‘Got what hid, Billy?’ asked Boyd.
‘His coin. He owes me fifty merks, and I’ll have it the nicht, if I’ve to search this house to get it.’
‘Likely in that cabinet.’ Boyd jerked his head towards the handsome piece in the other corner. ‘You’ll want a stool to get at the drawers.’
Gil opened his mouth to object, and decided against it. Instead he said, ‘He never told.’
‘Agreed,’ said Boyd after a moment.
‘How d’ye make that out?’ said Doig, pausing in dragging one of the backstools across the chamber. ‘Oh, aye. He’s no had his throat or his wame slit. He’s just dee’d on him, likely bled to death, no had to be slain at the end.’
‘I wonder what it was he kent,’ said Gil thoughtfully.
‘I hope, for her sake,’ said Boyd, ‘it was the whereabouts of the lassie Madur that he didny tell.’
Gil moved past the dead man, stepping over the neatly arranged trimmings of the corpse, and looked out of a window. As he had surmised, he found himself looking down into a little knot-garden, its further section brightly lit by the moon, the nearer in dark shadow. This chamber was almost certainly where the conversation Michael had overheard had taken place.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘There’s naught we can do for Somerville but set up the hue and cry, and search this house to find if his killer’s still on the premises.’
‘He’ll ha made off, if he’s any sense,’ said Doig, slamming a small drawer shut with a resounding clack and opening another. ‘Ah, what’s this? That’s more like.’ He drew a purse from the little cavity and weighed it in his hand speculatively. ‘Could be, could be. Let’s have a look.’
‘Is the man married?’ Gil asked. ‘Had he family? Kin? I ken very little o him.’
‘Widowed,’ said Boyd. ‘Two sons, I think, one at the college at St Andrews, though I’m no certain where the other dwells.’
‘And maybe recruited to slay the Duke o York if he comes to Scotland,’ said Gil.
‘You heard that,’ said Boyd.
‘I did. Will they really gie him Katherine Gordon? The Duke o York, I mean, or whoever he is. The Fleming fisher’s son.’
Boyd shrugged. ‘No saying. He might no come to Scotland, though he’s long invited. Maximilian’s fitting out a fleet for him to invade England the now, but none of us think that will come to aught. His next road would be Ireland, but the Irish have done all they’re going to do for him. They’ll likely pass him on here as soon as they can. The O’Neill has been speaking to James Stewart already, and the fellow’s writ a touching letter to Kate Gordon and all.’
‘Right.’ Gil took a final look at the corpse, holding his lantern low to study the shredded countenance, noting the cuts about the mouth and other sensitive parts of the face under the sticky layer of blood. ‘I tell you, if Somerville concealed Audrey Madur’s whereabouts from the fellow that did this, he’s won absolution for aught else he’s done.’
‘Amen,’ said Doig. He had been counting the coins in the velvet purse he had found, and now jerked the strings tight and tucked the object into the breast of his doublet. He closed the little drawer with a slither and clack of wood. ‘I’m happy to leave, maisters, if you’ve seen enough.’
‘Sandy?’ said Gil.
‘I need a bit time alone wi the deceased,’ said Boyd. ‘God ha mercy on him.’
‘It doesny just seem right to leave him here, mind,’ said Doig. He retrieved his lantern from the top of the cabinet, and slid down from the backstool where he had been perched.
‘The Sheriff will need to see him,’ said Gil, ‘or whoever he sends. I’ve no powers out here, save Blacader sends me in himsel. We shouldny interfere wi the corp.’
‘Oh, indeed,’ said Boyd lightly. ‘Away down and see if your man’s got the servants th
egither, Gil. And you, Billy.’
Gil, deciding he had no wish to know what his cousin was about, set off into the enfilade of dark chambers, Doig rolling along at his side like a ship in a high sea.
They found the man who had guided them collapsed at the foot of the first newel stair, his lantern missing. Gil swore at the sight of him, lying where he had fallen, yet more blood dark and shiny about his head.
‘Throat cut,’ said Doig, bending to see closer. ‘No a quarter-hour syne, at that.’
‘Sweet St Giles,’ said Gil. ‘I heard naught. Did you?’
‘No me. Must ha been quick, likely took him from ahint.’
Doig gingerly flicked open the door of his lantern, blew the candle out, and moved nimbly away from the corpse. Gil did likewise; there was enough light to see by, once his eyes grew accustomed, from the glazed upper portions of the two big windows of the chamber.
‘He’d ha done better staying wi us, poor devil.’ He muttered a prayer and crossed himself, then looked back up the stair, wondering whether he should return to his cousin, whether this killer in the dark would be waiting above them or below or elsewhere in the shadowed house.
‘I’d back Sandy against any four you care to name,’ said Doig, correctly interpreting his silence. ‘We’re warned, any road.’
‘Aye,’ said Gil. ‘We’ll need to leave this fellow here the now, it’ll take more than the two o us to get him down the stair. None o this seems right, but our first task’s to find the fellow wi the knife.’ He tipped his head back and called, ‘Sandy!’
There was a distant slither and a wooden clack which resounded in the silent chambers.
‘Ah, the voice of the turtle!’ responded his cousin.
‘Garde à toi! Y a ici un autr’homme mort.’
‘Ah. Notr’homme?’
‘Le valet de maison, oui.’
‘Entendu.’
Satisfied that Boyd was warned, Gil drew his whinger, heard Doig draw his own weapon, and paced carefully forward into the dark chambers between him and the next set of stairs, ears at the stretch, aware of Doig at his hip.
They reached the hall without encountering anyone. The great door stood ajar, a shaft of moonlight lying across the polished floorboards and darkening the rest of the chamber, and voices from outside suggested Steenie had obeyed instructions and gathered the servants together. Gil stepped into the high, shadowy space and immediately sideways, back against the wall. Doig moved with him, and over the sounds from outside Gil thought he heard a door close, at the other side of the hall. He froze.
‘I hear him,’ Doig whispered.
They waited, but there seemed to be no further movement inside the house. After a little, Gil, trying to breathe silently, nudged his companion towards the great door and that spear of moonlight. This must be how a mouse felt, he thought, with the cat in the same chamber. Moving cautiously sideways, listening to the panicky tone of the voices out in the yard, they achieved the door and sprang through it, Gil flinging it wide open behind him.
‘What’s he after?’ Doig wondered as they crossed the yard to the group of men huddled in the far corner. ‘Him wi the knife, I mean. Why’s he still in the house?’
‘Had that cabinet been searched? Afore you got to it, I mean.’
‘I’d say no. You could be right, he’s after a chance at that.’ Doig showed his teeth again. ‘Well, if he tries the now he’ll meet our Sandy.’
Steenie was facing the gathered servants like a sheepdog with a penned flock, his hand suggestively near his whinger, the tight glossy scars on his face shining in the moonlight. As Gil approached, the man said, apparently in answer to somebody, ‘Well, if none here’s willing to take charge, you’ll just need to do what Maister Cunningham orders. Aye, Maister Gil,’ he went on smoothly, hearing Gil’s booted feet on the flagstones, ‘so what did ye find?’
‘Aye, and where’s Davie? What have ye done wi him?’ demanded somebody at the back. Gil looked over the heads and identified the outdoor man who had refused to guide them. Like the rest of the group, he seemed very young; few of them were past twenty, he estimated.
‘Davie’s deid,’ he said bluntly, at which his questioner cried out. ‘He wouldny stay wi us, set off on his own, and we found him the now wi his throat cut.’
‘Christ ha mercy on us!’ said someone else, and they all crossed themselves in a ragged movement. ‘Are we to be picked off one by one?’
‘No if you stay thegither,’ said Gil. ‘I want the house searched, for the man that killed Davie and likely killed Somerville is still within doors.’
‘Maister, no!’ said the nearest man. ‘You canny make us!’
‘If we go by fours,’ said Gil, ‘wi torches or lanterns, we’ll be safe enough. It’s only the one man we’re seeking. What weapons have you?’
‘Aye, but he’s naught to lose,’ said someone. ‘He’s wanted for murder a’ready, he can only hang the once.’
‘Are ye men or mice?’ demanded Steenie. ‘It’s nae wonder your maister’s lying deid up the stair, if this is the likes of what’s served him! You, you and you,’ he pointed, ‘you’re wi me. Get fresh torches, get them lit. How will we work this, Maister Gil?’
‘Doig’s group secures the hall.’ Gil picked out another five men. ‘You’ve more than one door to watch, so keep awake. Take orders from Billy, he’s fought more battles than you’ve had hot dinners, any o you. Steenie, when the hall’s secure, you clear the chambers ayont it, that end o the building,’ he waved at the eastern wing, ‘and shout when you’re done, and I’ll take you three,’ he pointed to the last group, ‘and get up the stair. And if any o you kens o closets or side-chambers where our handy friend might be hid, he’s to say it.’
Waiting on the steps for Doig’s group to declare the hall clear of mysterious men with knives, Gil said quietly to the man beside him, whose name seemed to be Doddie, ‘Where did they move the lassie to?’
‘Och, I wouldny ken,’ said the man. Gil turned to the other two, but they shook their heads blankly.
‘I hope they took her in a litter,’ he said conversationally.
‘There was nae lassie,’ said one of Steenie’s group firmly. ‘Nae women in the house.’
‘Aye, there was!’ said Doddie. ‘And the auld wife and all, wi a tongue to flay a bullock! Well, she wasny in the house,’ he qualified, ‘she was in the tower, but I’d to carry her food.’
‘Hall’s clear!’ said Doig at the doorway.
‘Right, lads,’ said Steenie.
‘There was nae lassie, d’ye hear me, Doddie Allen?’ said the man who had intervened. ‘Mind what Somerville said!’ He turned to follow Steenie into the house.
‘Aye, weel, Somerville’s deid. And there was so a lassie!’ said Doddie. ‘And the wean and all. It was a bonnie wee thing, so it was, no longer than my airm.’ He measured fingertip to elbow, and nodded defiantly at Gil in the torchlight. ‘It was sucking weel,’ he added. ‘She’d plenty for it.’
‘But you’ve no notion where they took her,’ Gil prodded.
‘Might ha been Hyndshelwood,’ offered one of the other men. ‘Or Castlehill, maybe.’
‘Castlehill’s no Somerville’s land,’ said the third. ‘Nor Eastshiel’s neither.’
‘Aye, but Richie Thomson’s the steward there, he’d find a chamber for them gin he was asked. He’d do aught for Jocelyn Madur o Eastshiel, so my Da says.’
They continued to discuss this in low tones while they waited, but had produced no other useful suggestions when Steenie’s call told Gil the ground floor was clear.
‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘And keep it quiet, men.’
Doddie took a firmer grip on the kitchen cleaver he was armed with; the other two raised their garden forks; and all three followed him with visible reluctance into the hall, which was now brightly lit by half a dozen torches, and into the east wing.
‘Never a sign, Maister Gil,’ Steenie reported, waving at the row of lit chambers. ‘Save that on
e o the windows was standing open.’
‘Show me,’ said Gil.
‘This one.’ Steenie led him into the middle chamber of the three, and pointed to a shutter, unfastened and standing ajar. Gil stepped over to it and looked out cautiously.
‘What’s out this way?’ he asked.
‘Danny here tells me it’s the stables this side, and the old tower ayont them.’
‘Well, if he went that way, he’s had the most o half an hour already,’ Gil said. ‘I’ll go secure the upper floors here, and then we’ll check the stables. How many horses would there be?’ he asked Danny, who seemed to be the man who had argued with Doddie.
‘Four,’ said Danny. ‘No the best he’s kept, save one o them.’
‘The rest would have gone wi this lassie that’s no here,’ speculated Gil. Danny gave him a resentful glance, and said nothing. ‘Keep an eye out this window, Steenie, and I’ll go clear the upper floors. Wi me, you three.’
Whinger in hand, his reluctant cohort behind him, he took the stairs at a run, sprang out into the chamber at the top whirling as he went, the flames of his torch streaming. The corners of this chamber were empty, nobody lurked behind the few pieces of furniture which stood about, there were no hangings to hide a—
‘That’s an orra thing,’ said one of the fork-bearers, staring about him at the shadows jumping up the walls by torchlight.
‘What is?’ Gil said, making for the door to the next chamber.
‘Where’s the hangings? This chamber’s got right bonnie ones, in pictures.’
‘Is that smoke I smell?’ demanded Doddie. ‘Maister, is that smoke? What’s burning?’ He turned his head about, sniffing.
‘It’s your torch, you loon!’ said the other fork-bearer. Gil looked about him, made hastily for the next chamber where the stair was, and looked upwards. In the gaps between the boards which floored the chamber above and ceiled this one, red light glowed and flickered. A crackling met his ears.
‘Fire!’ he said. And like an echo, from below came Steenie’s shout.