‘Silence. Disperse these people to their devotions and tell them that if any word of this is breathed abroad, they shall suffer for it. Bid them pray that they are forgiven for giving eyes and ears to the defamation of a man of the Church.’
Danforth turned his back on the nodding burgess, just as the man raised his voice to scream at the people to be about their business. The laughing and raillery gave way to low grumbles and mutters. Storming back up the High Street, Danforth held the cheap, soiled papers out in front of himself. Martin kept pace with him. ‘Shall we neglect Mass this morning?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I have no desire to be in the company of such a people as these.’
They took the papers up to Danforth’s room and spread them out on the desk next to one of the verses from Glasgow. Each newer page bore the same message, in the same ugly hand. Martin cast a critical eye over them. ‘These are not the work of the Lutherans, or the university japesters, or whoever made merry with the Cardinal’s name in Glasgow,’ he said. ‘The handwriting is different, so’s the spelling. And here’s no verse, but the crudest of slanders. No sir, I’d say that these words are the first blast this author has composed. There’s nothing subtle in them.’
‘I agree,’ said Danforth. ‘All writings carry in them something of the essence of their author, intended or otherwise.’ For a second, the words from his Book of Hours echoed in his mind: ‘Rember your love in yr gud prayers’. He blinked them away. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I perceive a base and bloody-minded creature: a person with no other desire than mischief. These bills were not made to hurt his Grace, but to attack us. Someone is playing a game with us, sir. Someone does not like our interest, and would divert us. Mr Martin, what does a man who writes do?’
‘Think?’ offered Martin.
‘Often. Not always. What he always does is observe. Someone has been observing us, sir, and now hopes to confuse us. And in doing so, he has made a grave mistake.’
12
The afternoon saw clouds regather to block the sun, and Danforth and Martin again within the precincts of the Abbey demanding an audience with the Prior. The light in the room was poor, the fire causing tiny moths to chase wildly about the painted and tapestried walls. With pursed lips Walker leant over his desk, mouthing the words of the papers Danforth had thrust before him. He then turned a blank gaze upwards.
‘I don’t know what you would have me say.’
‘Is that so? These vile things were found strewn across the streets of the lands belonging to this Abbey, Father. I would hope you shall quickly think of something.’
‘I might ask the Town Council to start privations, raids.’ His voice was noncommittal. ‘The news out of the south is that men wax weary of this war, and blame the Cardinal for it. Perhaps some grow lusty.’
‘Father, I think you do not grasp the serious nature of this offence. Such papers have been found in Glasgow, and might now have spread here. An attack on the Cardinal is an attack on the Church, and an attack on the Church is an attack on the Abbey.’ At this a flicker of realisation crossed the Prior’s lined face.
‘The Abbey threatened?’
‘Naturally. An attack on the Church’s good order is an attack on us all: on the faith. Are you not assiduous in protecting the Mother Church?’
‘I am as true in allegiance as any man living,’ said the Prior. ‘I will do anything to defend this house from without.’
Martin and Danforth exchanged glances, and then the former took a breath. ‘Would that extend to harbouring and protecting a murderer, Father?’
The Prior’s eyes popped and he gripped at the edges of his desk, the veins in his fingers purpling. ‘I .. I ...’ he stammered. Danforth almost pitied him. Then he remembered the body of the dead girl, and he took up Martin’s questioning.
‘You must be frank with us, Father. These notes, these vulgar scribbles, are not of the nature of those posted by the Lutheran heretics in Glasgow. Plainly these latest affronts were designed to distract me and Mr Martin from investigating the death of Kate Brody, and her connection to this house.’
‘But I told you only yesterday, sir, I have no knowledge of that matter. It was her father killed her and rightly he shall hang for it. I cannot think why you persist in making mischief, if not to bring this Abbey into contempt.’ His eyes flew between Martin and Danforth’s, wary and sharp. Outsight the light changed, and the room took on a warmer red glow.
‘And I suppose,’ said Martin, ‘you shall claim no knowledge of one Brother Hector Watson.’ The name hung in the air between them for a long moment. The Prior then closed his eyes and hunched over his desk, his head in his hands. His lips moved rapidly in prayer, as Martin and Danforth exchanged glances again. They had been unsure what reaction they would receive, but neither had imagined this.
At length, the Prior raised his face to them and tears gleamed in the corners of his eyes, ready to flood the nearby furrows. ‘To whom have you been speaking?’ he asked in a low, strangulated voice.
‘That is of no consequence, Father. When we said we wish to make no trouble we spoke in earnest.’
‘What ... what are you going to do?’
‘As I said,’ said Danforth, ‘nothing prejudicial to your estate nor that of the Church.’
‘We seek,’ said Martin, ‘only the truth, whatever that might be.’
The Prior rose from his seat and crossed the room, gazing into the fire. ‘Brother Hector,’ he said. ‘Young Brother Hector. I had such hopes of him. I watched him grow as a scholar, gentlemen, from the time he was the bairn of burgesses, before the Lord took them, and before that they bid me and the order have charge of him. When they died, I took him in as a novice. Like a son to me, a child. That was my error. He was not meant for the order, though I could not see it. Lord, that child loved to talk. That alone might have warned me he was not suited for a silent order. And the spirit in him! The joie de vivre, Mr Martin.’ He turned and smiled weakly at Martin, then looked back towards the fire, its glow colouring his face. ‘It could not last of course, a bright young creature like him in a cage such as this. The Abbot, had he been here, might have seen that, but I have been so eager to make decisions.’ Slowly he shook his head.
‘What of the girl, Father? What of Kate Brody?’
‘That daft little chit. It was always a mistake to have her here. We are temperate men, those of us who are born to this life, but we are of frail flesh and blood yet. Brother Hector was unrefined, a child himself. I turned my eyes from it, though I knew they grew close. I came upon them in the cloister some weeks back, his arms around her and his lips on her cheek. I sent her out. I slapped him, and was frightened at the anger and hatred in his eyes. I prayed that he would find the strength to overcome her wanton temptations.’
‘Yet,’ said Martin, ‘it is apparent that he did not.’
‘No.’ The Prior turned away from the fire. He wiped them away tears a knuckle and then smoothed a loose hair. He took his seat before them again. ‘No, they made their plans and they fled, and, God forgive me, I did all I could to clear the sordid tale from the Abbey. By my faith, I hoped never to hear of them again, that they had got clean away and would never be connected to this place by thought or deed.’
‘But now the girl lies buried, murdered most brutally, and this Hector missing.’
‘Yes.’
‘You can see, Father,’ said Danforth, ‘that there is perforce some suspicion that Brother Hector may have killed his lover, whether in some terrible crisis of faith or in some other panic to rid himself of her company?’ To their surprise the Prior smiled.
‘Your thoughts run as sordid as the affair itself,’ he said. ‘No, gentlemen, you shoot at the wrong mark. I tell you I have known this boy since he was but a green sapling. He grew to be a lusty youth, it is true, but he could no more have taken that wench’s life than I.’
‘Then we are at an impasse, I think,’ said Martin.
‘I do not see how that is so, sirs. The girl’
s father stands accused, and I see no other who might be indicted. By my faith, my only worry is that he has struck down our young Hector, and his body is lying yet unmourned. I must ask you again, gentlemen, are you minded to carry your knowledge of this matter abroad, though it should hurt this Abbey and all who worship here?’
‘No, Father,’ said Danforth. ‘We spoke in earnest. If it is true that you have done nothing but look through your fingers at the disgrace of two young people, and buried evidence that one of your order dallied with the murdered girl – and if it be true that you have no other knowledge pertaining to that crime – then you have nothing to fear. I would only that you had spoken freely to us earlier, that you might have been spared this. It is secrecy between the brethren of the faith that gives our enemies leave to attack us, and ammunition.’
The Prior bowed his head. ‘Shall you take these wicked papers away from me?’ Martin leant over the desk, gathering them up and depositing them in his pocket. ‘Those are nothing to do with any man here,’ he added with feeling. ‘And I apologise to you, sirs. I understand that you wished to come to this place on pilgrimage, and am sorry that you have found only disorder and disharmony. When the murderer be himself hanged, things will be as before.’
‘If,’ said Danforth, ‘the murderer be found.’
As they made their way back to the burgh, a thoughtful Martin turned to Danforth. ‘I thought the man spoke true.’
‘As did I. And yet he has lied to us before, and therefore may be practiced in the art. Though these wretched bills seem not to be the work of such a man as he.’
‘Not by their appearance, no,’ agreed Martin. ‘They appear rather as the work of one unlearned, unskilled. Lacking knowledge of this practice of defaming the great in verse. Yet that might be their art. Some man of knowledge might wish to disguise his guilt by inducing us to suspect an ignorant dolt. Their crudity might be a trick. Ah, I find I cannot but see evil in this rainy place.’
‘The thought did occur to me,’ said Danforth. His head was beginning to ache. ‘And it troubles me. When men begin to doubt and suspect others there is no end to it. The suspicion divides and then falls upon so many that no man is true any longer. One might hear tales and imagine the ways of a killer – his nature and means, his fashion and attire – and then force that crooked suit of clothes upon any man one does not take to, however ill it befits him. In faith, I find myself bone-weary of this whole matter. I do not know who to believe, for rather it strikes me that the Prior speaks true and yet Brody speaks true also. That leaves us with an innocent man imprisoned and no suspects respectful enough to cast doubt on his guilt. Whilst someone wishes to distract us with scurrilous bills. And still a man is missing who might hold the key to the whole. Are you to come with me back to the inn?’ They stood where the market cross met the High Street, the familiar sound of musical revelry floating through the rain from several dark and secretive vennels.
‘No, sir. If you don’t mind, I shall go for a proper wash at the barber’s and have a bite afterwards. I suggest you do likewise. I do not like to turn nurse, but you have not been eating as you should.’ Danforth looked at him, amused, and Martin decided to venture further. ‘May I speak freely with you, Mr Danforth?’
‘Pray do.’
‘I do not wish to make a window into your soul, sir. But I know that you had a wife and child, now lost, in England. I know also that some strange imbalance of the humours has resided within you since you lost them, sir, since the plague carried them off. But you were spared. I feel certain they wouldn’t want you to live a life of strictures and self-punishment, wrapped in a hair-shirt of your own devising. You do not choose to tell me what it is that leads you to punish yourself, and I don’t choose to press you. I ask only that you let it go, sir. Eat, drink and live. Listen to that music. It is a wonderful gift.’ When he had finished, he stood back, as though expecting a storm.
‘You are an odd fellow, Mr Martin. Though I think a kindly one, despite your tiresome ways. May I trouble you with a question?’
‘One question begs another.’
‘Were you ever to be married, sir?’ Danforth felt himself begin to redden, and suddenly hated himself for thinking to ask so personal a question. But the words had been spoken. He might as well satisfy his curiosity. ‘Have you lost a love?’ Thankfully the younger man did not laugh at him.
‘In faith, sir, I did once hope to be married, but it did not happen.’
‘I am sorry. Did you lose the young lady?’
‘I did. Yet not in the same manner as you lost your wife. No, the girl I hoped to marry did not have the like desire. Marion; she was a sharp little kitty, but very lovely. She married some other, or so I believe.’ A faraway look had come into Martin’s eyes. ‘Yet I take comfort that it was not to be, and there might yet be another. There are a great many turtledoves in the sky. Were I a clever man I might turn the melancholy memories to poesy. Alas, I am not. What compels you to ask, my friend?’
‘Nothing. It is nothing. Perhaps I do not ask enough questions. Or at least not enough of the right ones. It is good of you to indulge me. Thank you for your care. And enjoy your meal.’
Danforth continued up the High Street towards the Oakshawside, ignoring the music that drifted towards him.
Grateful to find no sign of Mistress Caldwell, Danforth climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He removed his robes, doublet and boots and sat down in his shirtsleeves. A new entry went into his book:
Remember to beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves. You will recognize them by their fruits. Are grapes gathered from thornbushes, or figs from thistles?
After ‘thistles’, he wrote, in a more childish hand, ‘Scotland, where I do live’. In a nod to comfort, he got up and found his pack, which he placed at the head of the mattress as a makeshift pillow. He closed his eyes and settled down to doze, his cloak pulled over himself. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples, and felt it slow as the sharp headache began to fade. The sensation of each beat washing the pain out was pleasant. He felt himself drift, felt the business of the libels and the mystery of the missing monk become as nothing. His doze had already developed into a long, satisfying nap when an almighty bellow found its way up the stairs.
He jerked up and stepped into his boots, not bothering to pull on his doublet and robes, threw open his door and flew down the stairs. Martin, freshly shaven and cheeks gleaming, was not far behind him. When they reached the bottom, they found the extraordinary tableau of Mistress Caldwell with her thick arms wrapped around a scrawny, bearded figure that had fallen to its knees.
‘What ails you, mistress,’ cried Danforth, ‘are you robbed? Does this vagabond do you mischief?’ Martin held a dirk in his hand. Caldwell paid neither of them heed. Her eyes were searching the pitiful creature’s face, gazing into rolling bloodshot orbs.
‘What has that hoor done to you, Tam? What miseries has she inflicted upon you? Oh, but it is yourself, it is yourself. Oh, sweet, merciful Jesus and all the blessed saints.’ Finally, she seemed to become aware of the presence of her lodgers. She turned to them, the ribbons in her hair – laced up in gaudy bows – bouncing. A smile spread across her face as she announced, ‘It is Tam, sirs; it is my own Thomas Kennedy, escaped from the tortures of his vicious, thievin’ hoor and come back to me.’ For a heartbeat Danforth was reminded of the carved saints along the wall of the Abbey, their serene expressions now carved onto the doughy, grey face of his hostess.
13
‘Regard, gentlemen, what she’s has done to him,’ cried Mistress Caldwell. ‘He has nothin’. He stands even in the clothes he left in two years since, and no’ a penny to bless himself.’
Tam Kennedy was certainly a sorry sight. His eyes were wild, his hair and beard unkempt. What must once have been a handsome, tall man had grown desiccated and shrunken. His ill-fitting suit of clothes was all that marked him as a well-to-do burgess, the rich velvets unmarked save for some
discolouring around the chest, where his filthy, matted beard had left faded but indelible stains. ‘The war,’ was all he could bark, his voice rusty and hoarse.
‘Pray do somethin’ for him, sirs,’ said Mistress Caldwell. ‘He’s ravin’, I can’t get sense of him, nor will he tell me what’s been done to him or how he came to return.’
Before Danforth could cross to him, Archie made an appearance from the back of the house. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief, and then shouted, ‘the master’s come hame. Whit’s it a’ aboot?’
‘He’s no time for you, you wretch,’ yelled Mistress Caldwell, and the boy, pouting, turned and left. ‘Please, sir, get sense from him. Have him tell me where he’s been, what he’s done wi’ our money.’
Danforth bent before Kennedy, recoiling from the sour breath. ‘Mr Kennedy, can you hear me?’ The only response was a groan, and a thin trickle of spittle running from the corner of purplish lips. His breath rattled out, his chest racking with it. He might have been trying to say ‘Tam,’ but could get no further than ‘Tah’. Danforth held a hand before his face and moved it around, but the eyes did not register anything.
‘What is it, what ails him?’ asked Mistress Caldwell.
‘I know not, mistress. I am no physician. This looks to be the result of hard living, of the kind usually suffered by the poor. What time is it?’
‘Past seven o’clock.’
‘Is it possible? I must have slept longer than I expected. Mistress, know you of any physician in the burgh?’
‘There’s none, sir.’
‘Are all medicinal needs tended by the Abbey, all sicknesses remitted to the infirmary there?’
‘Only by special permission – and of course if you plead poverty and desperation, like a lowly beggar desirous of Christian charity, then they’ll take you for a space. I shouldn’t like to drag my husband down to the Abbey, show him as he is before the burgh like a jester in a mockin’ play. He’s no beggar, but a free man and a burgess. They’re no’ a hospital, sir; they give charity, not physic.’ Defiance had raised her voice, her bearing turned proud.
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