‘The poor lady. I’d have justice for her. Do you think her killer left the book and coin, in his haste to be gone?’
‘I think it passing likely.’ Danforth paused to bend again, lightly brushing closed Madeleine’s green eyes. ‘And yet there is another possibility.’
‘Oh?’
‘Who might gain passage easily to the lady’s bedchamber? Who should, indeed, have the right of it?’
‘Only her husband, sir.’
‘Yes. Mr Furay, with whom she claimed yesterday to have an appointment. Mr Furay, who was to bring her fennel from his business out of the burgh. Mr Furay, whom we now hear was from home last night.’
7
Outside, the Tolbooth struck eleven. Danforth pocketed the book and the coin, wiping his hands on the side table’s towel after handling them. Martin led the way downstairs, Danforth pausing to cast one last glance back at the body of Madeleine Furay. The woman should not be dead. Though she might have been a vain, proud creature, she was yet a living, breathing person, who could not have expected some monster to attack her. He was glad that defiance was the last message printed on her features. She had died fighting, likely beating at her killer like a wild cat.
The baillies had departed, leaving the maid alone and weeping. She sat in the hall, hiccoughing fitfully – not on one of the good chairs, but on a stool. A soiled handkerchief was pressed against her lips.
‘What is your name, lass?’ asked Martin.
‘Morag, sir. Are you the gentleman the baillie said was looking after the mistress?’
‘Yes, Morag. My friend Mr Danforth and I have charge of her.’
‘Mr Martin and I shall find her killer,’ said Danforth, in an effort to be helpful. Fresh paroxysms of grief threatened, and Martin gave him an exasperated look.
‘You know what has passed, Morag,’ he said. ‘Your mistress has departed this world, and someone bears the blame of it.’
‘Yes, yes, it’s true – I saw her. Oh, my poor, kind mistress.’ Danforth was surprised. He would have imagined the dead woman to have been an exacting employer, hard on those who served her.
‘Yet we must have the truth of it,’ he said. He was irritated at being outdone by Martin, who always seemed to know the right way to handle people – especially unhappy young ladies, for whom he had a special sympathy. ‘Your mistress’s death has struck me, and I shall not rest until the … the nature of her passing is discovered.’ Morag nodded understanding. The girl was shocked, not stupid. She wiped her nose with the handkerchief, sat it on her lap and then tightened the loose bow under her chin which held her cap on. ‘Do you live here, Morag?’
‘No indeed, sir. I go home at dusk.’
‘Where is home?’
‘Down the Hiegait, sir, the bottom end, near to St Mary’s.’
‘I see. And so you left this place at dusk yesterday?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where are the other servants? Do they dwell within the house?’
‘There is only me, sir, and Taylor.’
‘Taylor?’ asked Martin.
‘The steward. I come in the mornings, and I cook, and I leave behind supper for the master and the mistress before I go.’
‘Where is Taylor?’
‘He serves as the master’s groom, sir. He is from home with him.’ Danforth wrinkled his brow. A maid for the mistress and a groom for the master. For a merchant, it was not much of a household. Madeleine Furay would never have been able to boast about the service given her.
‘And you saw nothing of Mr Furay yesterday?’
Morag nodded vigorously. ‘But yes, sir, in the morning and after dinner.’
‘Yet you said he is from home.’
‘Yes,’ said Morag, frustrated, looking at them as if they were fools. ‘He and Taylor went off after noon. I do not know when, I was so busy.’
‘And they took their horses?’
‘I cannot say, sir. I’m not concerned with the stables. Yet I think they must have taken them, else how could they leave the burgh?’
‘How, indeed,’ said Danforth. He let the words hang, thinking. Often the murderer in domestic cases such as this was the husband. He could recall a case in London of a man who had hired another to kill his wife, the woman’s body beaten senseless by a desperate vagabond. Still another had struck his wife in the morning, then left her bleeding by the hearth all day as he went smiling to his trade in the nearby smithy. Both had tried to cast the blame elsewhere: on some stranger; on some accident. Both had hanged, neither smiling then. Men – and women – frequently conceived some grievance against their spouse, some imagined wrong, and struck out in vengeance. Horror at their actions usually made them run, either out of the sight of the world or into the street in terror. Yet for each one who ran crying into the street in horror at their passionate actions, five more would try and bury the evidence. ‘Morag, did you inform the baillies and the Provost that the master was from home?’
‘Yes, sir – well, the baillies. The Provost would not speak with one as low as me.’
‘Thank you. And one final thing. Do you know of any other man who might have come here after you returned to your home? Some man of trade, or the like?’
‘I cannot say, sir.’
‘Very well. You might now go home. We shall seek you out if we need you again. Oh,’ added Danforth, raising a finger to his lips, ‘you might take a message to the baillies that they can send some men to retrieve the body, else to set her on the bed until such a time as she can be taken to the Holy Rude for burial. We have done with her.’
Morag nodded and dropped them a curtsey, as though pleased to be released and to have something to do.
Once she had gone, Danforth knuckled his temple. A headache was beginning. He wanted some dinner. Martin began to circle the room, picking things up and putting them down: a cushion; a candlestick; a spoon. There was nothing of any particular interest. Neither could imagine Madeleine Furay sitting sedately in such a room, her remarkable green eyes narrowed in concentration as the needle thrust in and out of fancywork. Something did not fit.
‘So the husband did it?’ said Martin at length.
‘That would be hasty, yet his absence is strange. Item: he was here yesterday. Item: he left on business. Item: his wife claimed to be expecting him. These things signify something amiss, but whether guilt or some other thing, I cannot say.’ As he spoke, Danforth moved between stools and chairs and strode to the empty grate. It was not a grand affair, but any fireplace was a thing of status. He leaned his forearms on the mantle, breathing in the smell of soot and years of fires. ‘Someone was dishonest. We might visit the stables, if we can find the passage to them. Perhaps some common stable houses the street’s horses – there we shall see if Mr Furay left on a long journey. Either he told his wife he would return in the evening, and did not, or Mistress Furay lied.’
‘A great storyteller, as my maman said,’ said Martin to Danforth’s back.
‘Perhaps. Yet I should like to speak to this husband, damn the man.’
‘And here’s your chance, sir.’
‘Who in the name of Christ’s bloody wounds are you?’
Danforth turned from the fireplace, his boots nearly catching on his cloak, and stared across the room and into the suspicious, rat-like face of Walter Furay.
‘Well, sirs, who are you to be in my house?’
‘Mr Furay … you know what has occurred here?’
‘My wife is slain, it’s said in the street. It cannae be so. I willnae believe it. False flyters shall suffer for reporting vicious shite.’
‘I am afraid,’ said Danforth, ‘it is true. Your wife lies upstairs, dead. We have been invited by the Provost to take–’ But Furay had raced for the stairs, taking them two at a time.
‘Where is this Taylor?’ said Martin, his voice low.
‘Attending to the horses, I shouldn’t wonder, and saving us that job.’
A keening moan sounded from the direction of the b
edchamber, and then Mr Furay reappeared, his face the colour of wet chalk. He was a slight man, with a fashionable long, thin, straggling beard. More rat’s tail than beard, it did little to lessen his similarity to a rodent, but a lot to emphasise it.
‘Is she slain, sirs, or is this some unhappy accident?’
‘Slain,’ snapped Danforth. He disliked the man, and distrust found dislike a sturdy throne.
‘Yet this cannae be, I cannae have it. How am I to live without her?’ He looked plaintively at Martin, whom he appeared to recognise, if dimly.
‘You shall, sir. One’s life goes on, in time, even though it may not seem so.’ Martin’s face turned placid as he spoke.
Danforth said nothing, though the image of his own wife drifted through his mind. How had he taken that dreadful news? He did not care to recall. But he thought it had been with concern for Alice and his daughter, Elizabeth’s, souls – not for himself.
‘Nae comfort, nae comfort,’ moaned Furay. ‘I saw her only yesterday.’
‘Before your business took you from the burgh?’ asked Danforth, his tone acid. Furay looked up. Suspicion had returned to his face, as though he had suddenly remembered that the men in his hall were investigating his wife’s death.
‘Aye, before that. I was away frae home this last evening and night and know nothin’ to help you catch this fiend.’
‘In what business are you engaged, sir?’
‘Spices.’
‘Where?’
‘Linlithgow, Edinburgh, Tullibody, Alloa, anywhere there’s a market to be found. Goods are carried to the harbour here or brought by pack horse from the bigger harbours.’
‘Spices are a fine business, indeed. I must ask, sir, if you have any enemies, or have lately had any trouble in your affairs.’
‘None.’ The inflection in his voice was sharp, almost petulant. He crossed his arms over his chest in a defensive little gesture.
‘Tell me,’ continued Danforth, reaching into his cloak, ‘have you seen this thing before?’ He produced the book, held it up and opened it, the pages facing Furay so that only he need look at them. Danforth trained his eyes on the man, hoping that his face might reveal something before his will could override it. Furay’s eyebrows rose.
‘No, indeed, whit do you take me for, sir? It’s no’ mine. I know nothing of it.’ Danforth snapped the cover shut neatly and slid the book back into the inner pocket of his cloak. A sly look crossed Furay’s face. ‘Or is it that you’d try and sell me such filth? Is that your game?’
‘My error, sir; forgive me,’ said Danforth, fighting a rising surge or rage and embarrassment. ‘Have you any children, Mr Furay?’ Martin looked at Danforth oddly. They both knew the Furays were childless.
‘No children,’ he said. ‘None. She couldnae bear them.’
‘That is sad, sir. For what use is a marriage but to bear issue.’
‘I’ve already said I cannae help you, gentlemen. I was away from the burgh.’
‘So you have said, sir. Away on business to find a market. At night. And now returned in the morning from … where was it? Linlithgow or Edinburgh, some days’ ride away, or from the harbour and river, from which you might easily have returned before now.’
‘What is this?’ said Furay. ‘Who are you men? Why has the Provost given you any hand in this matter? It is my wife’s been killed.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘I need tell you nothin’, nothin’ at all. You’re no’ baillies. I don’t know what the hell either of you are. Get out of my house. Get out! I’ll speak to no man save a true man of the law to advise me, and a priest to take my poor wife. Get out!’
Danforth and Martin allowed themselves to be ushered out, passing a flustered young man who must have been Taylor. Danforth had time to register that he was carrying nothing, none of his master’s belongings. The door slammed behind them.
‘He’s a shifty fellow. Always was. Never liked him. He did seem sad enough about the lady’s death, right enough.’
‘Yes. As any accomplished player might. I found him more exercised by fear that he might stand accused.’
‘You can’t hang a man for that.’
‘No. More is the pity.’
They took the stone steps down to the Hiegait. It had turned cold, and Danforth tightened his cloak around him. He felt the sordid book bump against his chest and recoiled from its touch. The crowd had dispersed, probably melting away at the angry orders of the Provost as he had left. At the bottom of the stairs, Danforth turned to look up at the house, sandwiched between its neighbours. From the outside, it was impossible tell where one house ended and another began. One wall of grey and brown stone ran along the length of the upper street. His eyes travelled upwards, to the roof, drawn in stark relief against the lighter grey of the sky. He turned left, down towards the Tolbooth, and then right, up the slope of the Castle Wynd, snaking its way up the enormous rock. He had never realised before how oppressive it felt dwelling in a burgh sheltered by such a thing. The grounds of the castle were open and airy, for it surmounted the clifftop. Underneath, one felt like a little insect, warily scratching around beneath a boulder.
‘What now, Simon?’ said Martin, interrupting his thoughts. ‘You can’t be thinking of going to the castle? The Provost wouldn’t like it, although I think that guards armed with partisans and halberds might help us force a confession.’
‘You think the husband guilty, then?’ Danforth had turned away from the castle rock, and instead looked levelly at Martin.
‘I think he’s a dirty little liar. You struck upon it yourself, sir – he was not booted for travel, nor could business have taken him from the place for one night. If he did not do it, there’s no place he could have gone, laid his head, and yet returned so quickly.’
‘There is,’ said Danforth. ‘And not so far from here.’
Danforth set off across the Hiegait, with Martin trailing him. The snow was now almost gone, the mud road wet and sludgy. As they walked, stepping over the sewer, small twigs lodged in the muck crackled and crunched underfoot.
Danforth opened the doot to McTavish’s inn, pleased at the look of respect on Martin’s face. They found the place empty save for the owner, humming under his breath as usual. Danforth cast a glance down at the rushes, skirting them as best he could as he crossed the room.
‘Gentlemen,’ said McTavish, breaking off. ‘A visit again, and so soon. You shall be wanting some ale? Mistr-’ Danforth cut off his strangely quiet shout.
‘We need not trouble your wife, sir. You are aware of what has befallen the burgh in the night?’
‘The death of poor Mistress Furay? Oh, yes, sir, yes. Very sad, very terrible. Some thief, I don’t doubt; the people in the lower Hiegait and the wynd must feel they’ve liberty to thumb their noses at the law, sir, with the old king dead. And this burgh so wealthy and fair since the reign of the fourth King James. I don’t know, sir, but the times are hard. It shall become like the north before long, pickpockets and wild men killing us in our beds.’ He rubbed his hands together as he spoke, agitating them in a fussy gesture.
‘When did you hear of this news, sir?’
‘Me? This morning, sir, when the hue and cry went out.’
‘You said last evening, Mr McTavish, that you had guests in the inn.’
‘Did I, sir? Yes, so I did. We did, at that.’
‘Who were these guests?’
‘Gentlemen, sir, fine gentlemen, such as this house commonly lodges.’
‘Their names?’
‘I shouldn’t like to say, begging your pardon, sir. Their lodging here is their business.’
‘We have been asked,’ said Danforth, sighing, ‘to look in to the lady’s death, and to discover, if we can, the fellow who slew her.’
‘Asked, sir? By whom?’
‘By Provost Cunningham,’ said Martin. ‘He … uh … esteems our connection with the Cardinal and our talents.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Ye
s,’ said Danforth. ‘Tell me, Mr McTavish, were the gentlemen staying here last night Mr Furay and his man, Taylor?’
A sudden noise made them all jump – the sound of beer mugs being slammed on a table in the private rooms behind the bar. ‘Will you keep your peace, hen?’ McTavish called out in his modified whisper. ‘You’ll disturb the Cardinal’s gentlemen.’
‘Well,’ said Martin. ‘Was Walter Furay here?’
‘Indeed, sir, indeed. It was he and his servant.’ McTavish held up his white hands in a gesture of defeat.
‘Why would the man stay here when his home is across the Hiegait? Was his late wife that much a shrew?’
‘I cannot say, sir, I do not pry. A man’s business and his conduct with his wife are his own.’
‘His conduct with his wife?’ Danforth’s eyes turned sharp. ‘You think there was some trouble in relations between the Furays?’ McTavish said nothing, his beady eyes meeting Danforth’s without expression. There was something unsettling in the blank stare.
‘Did Mr Furay lodge here often?’ asked Martin, as though the thought had suddenly occurred.
‘He lodged here when it suited him.’ McTavish’s voice came so quietly that Danforth had to lean in to hear him.
‘How often was that?’
‘Oh, let me think … it would be in the book, I dare say, though I’d rather not fetch the book, sirs.’
‘It might help us,’ said Danforth.
‘Two nights out of the week? Perhaps three? It varied, sir. He would come here oftentimes, after perhaps some disagreement, and then not at all for a week or more. Or yet it may be that his business brought him home late, and he did not care to trouble or awaken Mistress Furay by it.’
‘That is a possibility. He did not speak of what business took him from his wife, or of any unhappiness that ever flared between them?’
‘Of course not, sir. Why should he tell me? I board guests, sir, I simply offer them a bed. I don’t ask questions, don’t pry. This is not the trade for it. Can you foresee, sir, how it might go if I requested the business of every ambassador or emissary who honours us with his presence when he attends on the great folk up in the castle?’
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