Authors: Pat McIntosh
‘Watching the house?’ Gil repeated. ‘Mistress Veitch’s house? How do you know?’
‘I seen him when I came out,’ she assured him. ‘He was standing in the corner atween the two houses across the vennel, but I got just a glimp when I put my own light up to be
sure I’d shut the kitchen door right.’
‘What, just standing there?’
She nodded, her plaid falling back from her face in the light from the lantern overhead.
‘Standing watching the house, looking up at the lighted windows above. A big wicked-looking man wi a great black beard. I’ll be keeping an eye out when I go to work the morn, you can
believe it, sir.’
‘Nobody you knew? Had he a weapon?’
She shook her head.
‘Never seen him afore in my life,’ she asserted. ‘I never saw a sword or nothing, but likely it was hid under his cloak. So I was right glad of your company the now, sir. My
thanks on it.’ She bobbed again, and turned away into the narrow space between the houses. Gil waited until her lantern vanished into the shadows, and went on down the street, frowning.
‘Your sister’s to lie at the castle?’ said Nick Kennedy, pouring wine. ‘Oh, aye, the guest-hall they keep for visiting religious. Well, it saves your
uncle having to fit her and her folk in at Rottenrow. And what like is Agnew’s lodging?’
‘Very comfortable,’ said Gil. He accepted a glass of sweet golden Malvoisie and said thoughtfully, ‘What can you tell me about the man Naismith, Nick?’
Maister Kennedy fitted his feet beside Gil’s on the box of smouldering charcoal on the hearth.
‘No a lot, you know,’ he said, and paused to consider the wine in his own glass. ‘Patey was right, this is no bad. I must tell John Shaw that. The last barrel he got for us
wasny fit to drink. Sharp as verjuice, and I’d swear there’d been a cat at it.’
‘I think I had some of the same shipment from Agnew the now,’ said Gil.
His friend grinned, and went on, ‘No, I’ve no much information about Naismith. He’d been in Irvine, so he said once, but he came from, let me see, somewhere out into
Stirlingshire, away up the Kelvin. Lenzie or somewhere like that,’ said Maister Kennedy, an Ayrshire man.
‘Did you see him wi the old men? The brothers? How was he wi them?’
‘Ah.’ Nick peered into his glass of Malvoisie again, but found no inspiration in it. After a moment he said, ‘I’ll tell you this, Gil. For all Sissie Mudie talks like a
cut throat, she’s a good nurse to those old men, and she kens herbs like no other, and to see her wi poor Humphrey Agnew would lesson anyone in charity. But even wi her in the place,
I’d not have cared to put any kin of mine there under Naismith’s governance.’
‘Is that right?’ said Gil.
Nick shot him a glance, and said, ‘What do you know, then? I’ve seen that expression afore.’
‘I’d a word wi old Frankie Veitch. He taught me my letters in Hamilton, before I came here to the grammar school.’
‘You know everyone.’
‘No quite. I didny know this man Naismith,’ Gil said, ‘and I don’t much like what I hear of him.
An orgulous knight
, as Malory says.’ He related Maister
Veitch’s assessment of the inhabitants of the bedehouse, and Nick nodded.
‘I’ve heard the Deacon, making a game of one or another of them. None of that surprises me. But I wouldny say . . .’ he paused, ‘I wouldny say any of the old men had the
strength to stab a man three times, nor to drag him out where we found him, even old Veitch. Sissie might,’ he added dispassionately, ‘and Andro’s a different matter, but
you’ve seen what a nervish, loup-at-shadows creature he is.’
‘Aye.’ Gil held out his glass. ‘Is there any more of that Malvoisie? We wouldny want it to spoil. Tell me, was Naismith a man of habit? Was he at Mass every morning?’
Maister Kennedy paused with the jug in his hand. ‘Most mornings, I’d say, but not every morning.’
‘And in his own stall?’
‘When he was there? Oh, aye. Well, usually. Odd times he was late, he’d slip in at the tail and sit near the choir door.’
‘Oh.’ Gil accepted the returned glass. ‘Next to Anselm?’
‘Oh, you’ve heard about that, have you,’ said Nick, as Maister Veitch had done. ‘No, he wouldny sit next to Anselm. I’m told it can be gey cold in the stall next to
Anselm.’
‘Lowrie thought he saw him in that stall this morning, but Millar said it was more likely this other –’ He stopped, shaking his head.
‘Mm,’ said Nick. ‘No this morning.’
‘You’re very sure.’
‘Sure enough.’ He gave Gil a doubtful look. ‘You’re no priested, this may not make sense to you.’
‘Try me.’
‘Aye, well. I don’t see Anselm’s friend myself but – Look, when you say a Mass, it’s no always the same. Sometimes your words come right back at you as if you were
standing next a wall, and sometimes they vanish as if you were speaking down a well,’ said Nick hesitantly, ‘but sometimes – sometimes it’s as if something –
some
one
else you canny see joins in wi you, and the whole thing takes a life of its own. You ken?’
‘Like prayer,’ said Gil simply.
Nick nodded in relief. ‘Aye, exactly. Well, in St Serf’s, when it’s one of the good Masses, the better Masses I mean, then when we go to get a sup of porridge wi the old men,
Anselm will be yapping on about his friend being there. It aye happens. And once or twice, when Naismith was making a joke of it at Anselm, trying to make out he’d seen the extra brother
himself that day, I could tell what Anselm was going to say for it hadny been one of the uplifted Masses.’
‘And?’
‘It wasny one this morn. What was Anselm saying?’
‘Anselm agreed wi you. So far as he was making sense at all,’ Gil qualified.
Nick’s dark-browed face split in a grin, then became serious. ‘So who did Lowrie see? The boy’s sharp-eyed and sensible, I’d believe he saw something, so who was
it?’
‘That’s one of the things I need to find out.’ Gil took another sip of wine. ‘You mentioned Humphrey Agnew, Nick. How was Naismith with him?’
‘No bad, for all his faults, and for all the names Humphrey called him. Better than the poor soul’s brother, at all events. I’ve seen Naismith help Sissie to get Humphrey out
the way and calmed down when his brother’s got him rampaging.’
‘The brothers Agnew don’t get on?’
Nick shrugged. ‘Tammas never humours Humphrey. He starts reciting the Apocalypse and Tammas says,
No need for that now
, or
Calm down, Humphrey.
Humphrey tells you the
Deacon’s a shrike and Tammas tells him no to be ridiculous. A quarter-hour of that and Humphrey goes for his throat, tries to throttle him. Nearly got him a couple of times that I’ve
seen,’ he asserted, ‘but the Deacon dragged him away and Sissie got Humphrey out the room. The poor man ought to be somewhere he can be locked up, but he’s happy at St
Serf’s.’
‘Why a shrike?’ Gil wondered. ‘He says he’s a robin now, because he’s dead. Oh, and Pierre and I are hoodies.’
‘All in black as you are, wi a grey plaid, I can see how he’d think you were a hoodie,’ said Nick, ‘but a robin? Maybe like the one in the bairns’ rhyme?
Who
killed cock-robin?’
‘
I
,
said the sparrow, wi my bow and arrow
,’ recalled Gil. ‘But it was a dagger killed Naismith, no an arrow. I wonder who he’s cast as the sparrow? And do
you tell me you have to wait till he’s out of sight after the Mass before you can lave the vessels?’
‘Oh, aye. Or he starts on the Apocalypse again and then gets violent, it seems. I’ve never taken the chance. Let’s talk of something more cheerful. How’s the wedding
plans going? Got the bed set up yet?’
‘The painters are still at work.’
‘It’s to be hoped they finish afore the great day,’ said Nick, ‘or we’ll all be covered in paint when we put you to bed. Oh, aye, my new gown came home.’ He
got to his feet, setting down his glass, and went to the kist at the foot of his own bed. ‘Wat Paton’s man brought it round this afternoon. Now is that no braw?’ He shook the
garment out and held it up, a long gown of dark red velvet with a heavy fur lining. ‘Mind, I still think we should ha been both of us in our Master’s robes, but I’ll do you proud
as your groomsman in this, will I no?’
‘We’d be more symmetrical in academic dress,’ Gil agreed, ‘but I’ll tell you, we’ll be warmer in these. Mine’s much the same, but cut in blue brocade.
We’ll make a good turnout.’
‘And I’ll get years of wear out of this,’ said Nick, in satisfaction. ‘Provided the moth doesny get into it.’ He stroked the fur again, and folded the rich material
with care. ‘I’d ha stood up for you anyway, Gil, you’d no need to bribe me like this. And have you got the rings ready?’
Gil thought briefly of the two circles of gold in their little silk pouch, stowed in his uncle’s strongbox for safety. His was quite plain, set with a single dome-cut garnet; Alys’s
was the most delicate work he could commission in Glasgow, ornamented with linked hearts and the single word,
SEMPER.
Always. He found he was rubbing his ring finger, and stopped.
‘Aye, the rings are ready,’ he said.
By the time Gil left the college, after a quick word with Patrick Coventry the second regent, depute to the gentle Principal Doby it was late. The rain had stayed off, but the cold wind whipping
dark clouds across the stars was not an improvement. He paused outside the great wooden yett, hitching his plaid up higher, and considered what to do next. Of the options which presented, going
home to the house in Rottenrow was the more sensible and less attractive.
He turned downhill, towards his lodestone.
Chapter Seven
There were still lighted windows in the mason’s sprawling house, and lute music floated faintly on the wind. Gil picked his way across the courtyard, avoiding the bare
plant-tubs; as he set foot on the fore-stair the door opened and more light fell across the damp flagstones.
‘Gilbert,’ said Maistre Pierre with pleasure. ‘Alys thought she heard your footstep. Come in, come in, and take some wine. We have been sitting above stairs. Did you learn
anything from the Deacon’s mistress? Is that where you have been? Perhaps,’ he said, and grinned, white teeth catching the candlelight as he lit the two of them up the stair, ‘I
should object, if you come to your betrothed from calling on another man’s mistress.’
‘I was well protected,’ Gil assured him, following him into the little painted closet. ‘I took Dorothea with me.’ Alys had set her lute in its case, and turned to greet
him, her honey-coloured locks gleaming in the candlelight. He gathered her close and kissed her, then released his clasp as he felt her draw back slightly.
‘How is she, poor creature?’ she asked. ‘The man’s mistress, I mean. And your sister? Is she tired from the journey?’ Her hand slid into his like a little bird into
its nest.
To see her fingers that be so small! In my conceit she
passeth all That ever I saw.
But she won’t let me kiss her, he thought.
‘My sister is well,’ he answered her, and sat down with her on the cushioned bench. ‘She’s looking forward to meeting you tomorrow. She and I went to see Marion Veitch
after you left us, Pierre, before supper.’
‘And?’ Maistre Pierre was pouring wine, not Malvoisie but the red Bordeaux wine he favoured. Gil took the glass in his free hand and described the visit to the house by the
Caichpele.
‘That poor woman,’ said Alys again as he finished. ‘She has been very badly treated. I hope Sister Dorothea was able to comfort her.’
‘It’s a sorry tale,’ Gil agreed. ‘But as matters stand, she won’t lose by the man’s death. His existing will was much more generous to her and to the little
girl as well, Agnew tells me.’
‘Oh, you have seen the lawyer?’
‘After supper. And also Maister Veitch at the bedehouse.’
‘Who else benefits from the old will?’ asked Alys.
Gil looked down at her where she leaned against his shoulder, and smiled. ‘There are one or two bequests of named property to his kin, by what Agnew says, and something for the bedehouse,
something for the child by name, and the residue goes to Marion Veitch. I would say he’s purchased several plots of land since it was drawn up. She’ll be a wealthier woman than he
intended.’
‘Oh,’ said Alys thoughtfully. ‘So the man’s death comes very convenient for her.’
‘It does.’
‘And for who else?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘Did he have enemies, have you discovered?’
Gil grimaced. ‘According to Maister Veitch anyone in the bedehouse, not only the six brothers but Millar and Mistress Mudie as well, had cause to dislike him. Marion’s brother John
was very angry with him last night. I don’t yet know who his friends were, other than Agnew and one of the Walkinshaws, and I must find out. I should have asked Agnew just now.’
Maistre Pierre grunted, and sipped his wine, pausing to savour it respectfully.
‘What else do we know about the Deacon?’ he said. ‘Consider how did he die. That is the first thing’
‘Did you say he was killed somewhere else?’ said Alys.
Gil nodded. ‘He was stabbed, by two opponents, one of them left-handed. After he was dead his eyes were closed, and he lay for a while in one position, perhaps as long as three hours, and
then he was moved to the bedehouse garden, where he fell into another position.’
‘Do not forget the marks on his face,’ prompted Maistre Pierre, ‘and the straw in his garments.’
‘Straw?’
‘Flakes of straw,’ agreed Gil. ‘Those may have come from Agnew’s chamber in the Consistory tower. Someone has been sweeping the chambers, I think, and his stair is
covered in fragments.’
‘So that confirms Agnew’s story.’ Maistre Pierre took one of the little cakes from the half-empty plate on the tray, and bit it thoughtfully.
‘So far,’ agreed Alys. ‘What else, Gil?’
‘His keys were on his belt,’ continued Gil, ‘and gate and door were locked as usual. It seems most likely that he was moved somehow to the Stablegreen and put over the wall
into the garden, rather than being taken in by the door.’
‘And then he was heard walking about,’ said Alys.
‘Someone was heard. There was a light and movement in his lodging about ten o’clock, witnessed by Mistress Mudie and by Millar separately.’