by Pat McIntosh
‘Can you no ask Jackie Somerville,’ said Mistress Somerville, ‘that’s my brother’s steward?’
‘I would if I could find him,’ said Gil. ‘Where might he have gone?’
‘Oh, never ask me!’ said Mistress Somerville, suddenly losing patience with the interview. ‘I’ve tellt you all I can, maister. You’ll need to go now, I – I have to think on all this you’ve let me hear. It takes some getting used wi, when all I want’s to see my lassie safe in her own home!’
The maidservant murmured something comforting and patted her mistress’s shoulder. Gil took his leave, with mingled relief and reluctance; he was certain Mistress Somerville could tell him more, but the right questions would not come to his mind, and talking to her was not easy. Socrates seemed to agree, to judge by his bearing as they left the house.
Down in the stableyard Tottie Tammas was deep in conversation with Billy, the man who had ridden with them on the first search on Monday evening, and another of the Kettlands men. They seemed to be agreeing on the difficulty of searching Lanark Muir in this heat, but fell silent as Gil approached.
‘Maister,’ said Billy, pulling off his bonnet. ‘I take it there’s no good word.’
‘None yet,’ said Gil. ‘It seems as if she was still alive yestreen.’
‘And ye’d traced her up at The Cleuch! Robert Somerville’s house!’ marvelled Billy. ‘And then it burned down.’
‘She’d been moved by then,’ Gil said, ‘but we’ve not learned yet where she’s been taken.’
‘Just as well they moved her, maybe,’ offered the other man, ‘if the house went on fire.’
‘Did you track down the tinkers?’ Gil asked, ignoring this.
‘No, we never,’ said Billy, pulling a face, ‘though it seems as if it’s no matter, if you ken where she is now. We tracked them the length o Thankerton, but they just vanished into the heather ayont that, no sign at all.’
‘Was surprising we found that much,’ commented the other man. ‘You canny see where they’ve went, for the maist part, they come and go like smoke.’
‘They’d left plenty sign on the Muir,’ said Tammas.
‘Aye, but where they’ve camped it’s a different matter,’ said Billy. ‘Ned’s right, it’s no that usual to see where they’ve went.’
Riding into Lanark, Gil looked about him, hoping to see Alys. His mother had been vague about her errand, though it seemed as if a visit to Madame Olympe was involved. He was in more than one mind about this; while he was certain Sandy’s tastes ran to other temptations than Alys offered, and he knew that Agnes would be present at any interview, he was concerned about what his cousin might persuade Alys to by way of searching for Mistress Madur, or worse, for the Irishman. The absence of any of the Belstane horses in the stables at the Nicholas Inn strengthened his doubts.
‘Aye, they was here,’ said the aged ostler as he took the reins of Gil’s horse. ‘But they rade out again afore noon, wi a bite bread and cheese bespoke for the saddlebags. No, I never seen the young lady, but your men said she was wanting her beast, I take it she rade out and all. And would you be willing to gie me a hand wi these fellows, young sir?’ he added to Tammas, with an ingratiating grin.
‘You never heard where they were off to?’ Gil prompted hopefully.
‘No me, maister. I deal wi the beasts when they come in here, I’m no concerned where they come and go to when they’re no in my yard.’ The old man set off ploddingly towards the stables, with Gil’s beast following eagerly, clearly expecting a bundle of hay at the very least.
Leaving Tammas, who had his instructions already, Gil went out through the arch of the stableyard and into Lanark. An attempt to call at Madame Olympe’s lodging was fruitless; nobody answered his rattling at the door, but after a while an elderly maidservant stuck her head out of a window of Maister Lightbody’s house. She peered up at him where he stood on the forestair, shading her eyes against the bright sunlight in the street. ‘She’s away out, and Agnes and all,’ she advised him.
‘D’you ken where they went?’ Gil asked her.
‘No me. Madam went off on a powny – mind you, it was a sight to see her getting mounted up on its back – but I think Agnes is went to the market, just.’ She eyed him assessingly, and glanced at Socrates who was waving his tail at her. ‘Did I no see you here the ither day? And that dog, and you’d your wife wi you, maybe? For I think it’s your wife that madam’s rade out wi.’
‘You’ve no idea where they went?’
‘No me,’ said the woman, as the ostler had done. She withdrew into the house, and Gil descended the stair and made his way to the Provost’s lodging, in some concern. Alys was less wary of his cousin than he was, and more inclined to listen to his blandishments, he felt. What could Sandy have cozened her into, riding out of Lanark in this heat?
Provost Lockhart had also taken refuge from the heat, in a pleasant little arbour in the garden at the back of his big house. Seated in the shade, stripped to sleeveless doublet and with his shirtsleeves rolled up, his writing-slope on a little table before him, he was dealing with what appeared to be Council papers. When Gil appeared he gathered these up and set them aside.
‘Maister Cunningham,’ he said, rising to bow to the visitor. ‘Aye, John, fetch another jug and a glass for Maister Cunningham, and a stool forbye. Come in out the sun, maister, it’s another parched day, and tell me all what went on up at The Cleuch. A bad business, a very bad business.’
He heard Gil’s account of the fire and the discovery of the two bodies with much head-shaking, wiping his perspiring pink brow with a handkerchief and exclaiming, ‘Christ aid us! What’s the world coming to?’ at frequent intervals. When the tale was done he sat for a little, gazing at Socrates, who was inspecting the clipped box hedge outlining the nearest flowerbed.
‘I’d never ha thought it o Somerville,’ he said eventually. ‘Madur o Eastshiel, now, he’s aye been a chancer, but no Somerville, no him. What’s he got mixed up in, maister, can you tell me that? First he’s plotting to plant trees on the Burgh’s land, and stealing away Vary’s wife to get him to consent to it, and now here he’s tortured to death in his own house, poor deil, and Madur deid and all. Unless it was Madur that slew him?’ he added hopefully.
‘I’d say not,’ said Gil. ‘Someone else had stabbed Madur and then thrown him where the chestnut could trample him. We’re seeking whoever did that, and it’s as like as no he slew Somerville and all. But it’s the Depute’s business to find him, no yours, seeing it happened outside the burgh.’
‘Our Lady be thanked for that,’ agreed Lockhart. ‘I’ve all to do a’ready, what wi Dod Ballantyne deid in his foreshot, and another Burgh clerk to find and get sworn in. I’d the Depute here the morn, I’ll no conceal from you, but he’d little he could tell me. You’ve let me hear a deal more o the situation.’
‘What I’d hoped from you in return,’ said Gil, acknowledging this, ‘is maybe a wee bit help in seeking this man we think slew Somerville. I ken he’s the Depute’s concern, but it’s tied up some way wi the matter of Mistress Madur.’
‘Aye?’ said Lockhart warily. ‘Is it the loan o the con stables you’re after? For they’ve enough to do within the burgh, maister.’
‘No, no,’ said Gil hastily. ‘They’ve enough to do, as you say. No, I hoped maybe the bellman could cry this horse the laddies at The Cleuch described to me, to ask if anyone’s seen him.’
‘No the Irishman?’
‘No the Irishman,’ Gil confirmed. ‘I want to fright him, no to panic him.’
‘Aye, we could do that,’ said Lockhart. ‘Gie me the description again, and we’ll summon Geordie and his bell.’
Leaving the Provost’s house, Gil could hear a group of horses approaching the High Street from the Edinburgh road. Socrates suddenly produced the soft bark he used as a greeting and sprang away across the street, and a moment later Gil realised he could hear a brisk argument in French over the walking bass of the hoofbeats. As the g
roup emerged into the wide marketplace, Socrates dancing round one of the lead horses, he recognised the riders, and made out words.
‘And I say we must confront him first! The man is paralysed by fear and shock, he has no connection to the plot other than to be afflicted by it.’
‘Caution is needed, I told you. If we alert my quarry, we could lose him.’
‘And if we wait, we could lose my quarry, and I will not permit that! Her life is in danger the longer we delay.’
‘Oh!’ said Madame Olympe, reverting to Scots. ‘Here’s your wee lapdog! Is your man in Lanark, then?’
‘Yes,’ said Alys. She paused to pet Socrates where he stood up grinning and pawing at her knee, then slid down from her horse before Madame’s lodging and put her hand in Gil’s as he reached her side. ‘We need to talk,’ she said.
‘Assurément, we must talk,’ agreed Madame Olympe, descending more ceremoniously from her saddle, with Henry and Euan to hold her elegantly gloved hands. ‘But should we not retire to my lodging first? One would not wish to affright the citizens of this town.’
‘Nor the horses,’ agreed Gil. She cast him a sharp glance, but inclined her head in thanks to Henry, waved graciously to the maidservant who was watching with interest from Maister Lightbody’s house, caught up the tail of her blue riding-dress to reveal red boots with black straps, and led the way up the forestair.
As Agnes shut the door behind them, Alys tugged at Gil’s hand, drawing him into the main chamber, patting the dog with her other hand as he danced at her side, nudging her with his long nose.
‘Socrates, sit! Mistress Madur may be at Tarbrax,’ she said. ‘It seems as if that was where the convoy was headed. Henry would not ride there with us, he wished to wait for you. And Maister Vary has visited The Cleuch.’
‘Vary?’ he repeated in astonishment. She nodded.
‘We must speak to him, Gil, at once, before we ride to Tarbrax. I am certain there is some explanation.’
‘We can’t afford to alert him!’ said Madame Olympe, turning in a swirl of wide skirts. ‘I need to find the Irishman, or learn that he is left the country. I can’t risk Vary passing word to him—’
‘You have not seen Maister Vary,’ Alys retorted. ‘I tell you, he is not capable of plotting as you suspect.’ Socrates, looking from Alys to Madame, rumbled a faint growl deep in his chest.
‘Quiet, Socrates. You had best tell me,’ said Gil, as Agnes set out beakers and a jug of ale. Alys succinctly reported her findings at Forth while Madame, with a tight expression that threatened her face-paint, divested herself of her straw hat and unbuckled the straps of her headdress.
‘I had already been told,’ Alys went on, going unaccountably pink, ‘that Somerville had a house at Tarbrax. It seems he never lives there – lived there,’ she corrected herself, ‘which I suppose is why nobody has mentioned it before. And,’ she glanced at Madame, who was now draining a beaker of ale, ‘we have word that there was a horse-litter with the party that rode out that way from The Cleuch. Mistress Brewster told Sandy of seeing it, with – was it a half-dozen riders, Sandy?’
‘Aye,’ Madame said curtly, setting the beaker down long enough to refill it.
‘And then Doddie recalled another man visiting, apart from the Irishman and Madur of Eastshiel, and swore the steward called him Maister Vary.’
‘Sweet St Giles!’ said Gil. He took possession of the jug and poured ale for Alys and then for himself, considering. ‘This changes matters. The boy is certain?’
‘I believe him to be sure of what he says,’ she stated. ‘I think we must confront Maister Ambrose Vary,’ she went on earnestly, and took a grateful gulp of the ale. ‘I cannot believe he has plotted this. He is in such despair, Gil, you saw it too!’
‘It’s hard to credit,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m agreed, I’d sooner speak wi him afore we run mad wi the notion, but I think it might be wiser to ride to Tarbrax first, and preferably wi a writ from the Depute and an armed band at our backs.’ He glanced at his cousin, who was still wearing that grim look. ‘Sandy, do we think the Irishman’s at Tarbrax and all?’
‘Could be anywhere,’ said Sandy, suddenly dropping Madame’s manner. ‘They’d no notion when he’d left The Cleuch, let alone what direction he took. I need to check the information I have, see where he might ha moved on to or taken refuge.’
‘Doig’s friends the tinkers?’ Gil suggested. ‘The Kettlands men tracked them as far as Thankerton, and then lost the trail, which gars me think they might be found in any direction other than that.’
‘Aye.’ The other tilted his head, considering, and just as suddenly Madame Olympe was back. ‘Ah, my dears, I must chase you away! I find myself un peu fatiguée after such exertions. I must rest, and give myself up to thought. Call on me the morn’s morn, if you have news.’
‘Well!’ said Alys as they stepped out into the street. ‘Do you think I have offended him?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ said Gil, offering her his arm. ‘But that’s no excuse for discourtesy. Are you still thirsty?’
‘A little,’ she admitted.
‘Vary’s servants would offer us refreshment.’ He snapped his fingers at the dog and set off down the hill. She looked up at him in surprise.
‘I thought you were against speaking to him?’
‘I have changed my mind. But we must be cautious,’ he counselled.
Vary was not at his desk today. Jessie greeted them with relief, drew them into the dark hall of the house and said, half-weeping with anxiety, ‘He’s out the back, away down the garden. He’s been walking up and down the whole day in that sun, talking to himself. I canny make sense of what he’s saying. He’s no eaten, he’s no slept, for I could hear him tramping up and down in his chamber every time I wakened mysel. He’ll be into his grave afore we get word o the mistress if this goes on. Have ye no found her yet, maister?’
‘No yet,’ said Gil, before Alys could speak. ‘Has he spoken to anyone?’
‘His brother fro the kirk called,’ said Jessie in dry tones. ‘Would pray wi him, preaching at him about how it’s the mistress’s reward for her wilful behaviour and the like. My mistress!’ she exclaimed indignantly. ‘As merry a lass as there’s been in this house since his first wife! I can tell ye, maister, they’ve a true regard one for the other, my maister and mistress, for all it wasny a love match, ye’ve only to watch them day by day as I do, and it’s my belief it’s that his brothers canny stand.’ She paused to think a moment, and sighed. ‘There’s been no other callers that I mind; he sent as many away yesterday and they wouldny call again the day.’
‘Gil,’ said Alys, ‘you should go out and speak to Maister Vary. If Jessie will let me into her kitchen again, maybe we can put up something to tempt him to eat.’
‘Oh, aye, and welcome, mem,’ said Jessie.
Wondering what Alys was planning, Gil took the dog and went out into the garden. It was not as large as Maister Lockhart’s, but long and narrow, with a pleached alley of hazels to one side, the growing clusters of nuts showing like ruffled green flowers among the thick leaves. Vary was not in its shade, but pacing away along one of the little paths between clipped lavender hedges, his head and arms moving jerkily as if he was arguing a point with some invisible interlocutor. Socrates bounded down the garden to greet him, by thrusting his head against the man’s hip and gazing up at him, tail waving. Vary stopped, and looked down at the dog for a moment as if he had never seen one before, then turned and saw Gil.
‘Oh! It’s you, Gil!’ He stared hard at Gil’s face. ‘Have you— is there any word?’
‘Very little,’ said Gil.
‘But some? What? What have you found?’ The man was braced, trembling.
‘We found their trail, away from the place where they captured her. Alys found it, wi some of my mother’s men,’ Gil corrected himself. ‘They headed up the Mouse, and made for Castlehill, but there’s no sign of her at Castlehill, though we searched the place. We’ve not found yet w
here she might be now.’
‘Castlehill?’ Vary repeated, his eyes widening. ‘That’s—’ He swayed, and Gil seized his elbow to steady him. ‘That’s Somerville’s place. Is it her uncles? Her family, that’s stolen her away? Put her in danger, and the bairn and all?’ He pulled himself upright. ‘Where are they? Which of them is it? By Our Lady, I’ll kill them! I’ll have them at the law!’
‘You may be too late,’ Gil said, in some amazement at this transformation. ‘Rab Somerville and Jocelyn Madur both are deid in a fire at The Cleuch last night.’
‘A fire?’ Vary repeated, in that more vigorous tone. ‘A fire? She wasny there, was she? Tell me she wasny there!’
‘So far as we can make out,’ Gil assured him, ‘she wasny there. Come, sit down in the shade and I’ll tell you what we’ve learned.’
Vary looked about in blank surprise, as if he had not been aware of where he was, but allowed himself to be drawn into the hazel alley, where he sat obediently on the slightly mossy bench, listening intently to Gil’s carefully edited account of the hunt for Mistress Vary and the fire at The Cleuch. He was shocked by the manner of the two deaths.
‘I never had time for either man,’ he said, crossing himself, ‘pair o chancers both o them, and Henry Madur’s no a lot better, but there’s none deserves that kind of an end.’
‘Have you any idea what this might all be about?’ said Gil, still adjusting his mind to this revived Vary.
‘No,’ said Vary firmly. He stared at the dancing light which fell between the hazel leaves, and after a moment said, ‘I suppose they wanted to bring me to consent to one o their daft schemes, but I’ve no notion what it might be. It could be what you found on the Burgh Muir, indeed – and the idea, setting up a plantation o timber up there, on Burgh land! – but it seems to me it might be more than that, something greater than that.’
‘Such as what?’ Gil asked hopefully, but the man shook his head.
‘I need to think on it. There might be some hint they’ve dropped, some mention – did you say Dod Ballantyne was in it and all? I wonder if it’s something he was after? And my head’s still all tapsalteerie wi this.’ He clenched his fists, suddenly overcome again. ‘Oh, my lassie! Our Lady send she’s safe! Her own kin, to do sic a thing!’