Authors: Pat McIntosh
‘So it wasny a quick stab and Hob dropped deid,’ proposed the man who had spoken first.
‘Aye, you’re right, Willie,’ agreed another.
‘No, it was a savage attack on an innocent man!’ said Agnew.
‘Do you mean,’ said Maister Sim, shocked, ‘that Veitch stabbed him and then stood and watched him dee?’
‘We cannot tell that,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Certain he died unsuccoured, you have only to look, but there is nothing to say that he was watched.’
‘Now we’ve seen how he lies,’ said Gil, ‘we can look at the wounds. Pierre, give me a hand to turn him.’
They rolled Hob’s limp form over and laid him straight, staring now at the wall beyond the crumpled mats. Maister Sim, biting his lip, stepped closer but like the mason touched only the
cheek of the reeking corpse, gathering his green brocade gown away from harm with the other hand.
‘I should say any of these wounds would have killed him eventually,’ said Maistre Pierre, turning back the slit and saturated jerkin. ‘You see them, maister?’
‘Aye, I see them,’ said Maister Sim, peering at the clotted hairy flesh. ‘Three to his chest at least, and a couple more in his wame.’ He retreated with some relief and
looked at Gil thoughtfully. ‘You’re the Quaestor, man, and the huntmaster and all. What do you read here?’
‘There’s no sign he fought back,’ said Gil.
‘What about these mats,’ objected the fourth member of the assize, a minor cleric whose name Gil could not recall. ‘They’re turned up just where he lies, you see
that.’
‘They’re none so easy rucked up,’ said the man called Willie, scuffing at the mat he stood on. ‘And there’s no other sign o a rammy Nothing owerset, and that fine
pricket-stand still by the wall. Now me,’ he expanded, ‘if someone cam at me wi a knife, I’d ha seized that for a weapon. It’d take the feet from under anyone, that
would.’
‘Aye, you’re right, Willie,’ agreed his friend. ‘So that’s a puzzle, that is.’
‘Was he maybe in the act of turning the mats?’ suggested Maister Sim, prodding the braided rushes with one red shoe. ‘These squares are stitched together, are they, six or
eight at a time.’ He gestured to outline a mat. ‘So he was just turning a couple of them when he was surprised.’
‘Cut down in the midst of his day’s darg!’ exclaimed Agnew bitterly. ‘
How long shall the wicked exult?’
‘Aye, but how was he no stabbed in the back?’ said Willie’s friend. ‘If he was bending to his work?’
‘He would stand to greet whoever came in,’ said the cleric.
‘He’d a gone to the door, surely,’ said Willie.
‘No if it was someone he knew,’ objected his friend. ‘Maybe the fellow just opened the door and shouted, the way you do when my maister’s no at home, and stepped
within.’
‘The man Veitch claims no to have set eyes on Hob till he found him dead,’ said the cleric thoughtfully. ‘Maister Agnew, had Veitch ever been at your house afore
this?’
‘No,’ said Agnew with reluctance, ‘no that I can say. But who’s to say he wasny here at some time when I was out the house?’
‘What was the weapon?’ Gil asked. ‘Is there any sign of it?’
‘He’d put it up afore I found him!’ expostulated Agnew. ‘Of course it’s no here, it’s at his belt!’
‘Dagger,’ said Maistre Pierre briefly, bending to inspect the cuts more closely. ‘Much like any in this hall,’ he added, casting an eye round the group.
‘So what do you read, Gil?’ prompted Maister Sim again. Gil looked the length of the hall and then down at the corpse.
‘He was taken by surprise,’ he said slowly. ‘He was in the midst of his day’s work, as Maister Agnew said, suspecting nothing. If he did answer the door to whoever slew
him, he went back to his work when the man came in, so he’d no mistrust of him.’
‘Now that’s no like Hob,’ said Willie, and his friend nodded agreement.
‘And then what?’ asked the cleric. ‘Do you say they quarrelled?’
‘Nothing to show that,’ said Gil. ‘But Hob wasn’t expecting violence. His own blade’s still at his belt. He’s never touched it.’
‘That fits wi what we can see,’ said Maister Sim, and the other men nodded.
‘Should we have the man in that’s accusit,’ proposed Willie, ‘and get a look at his dagger?’
‘Aye, and make him touch the corp,’ agreed his friend. ‘That’ll show us whether he’s guilty, that’s for certain.’
‘And then we can send to the castle,’ said Agnew, ‘and get him taken away.’
‘We can take him round there ourselves, if he’s guilty,’ said the cleric.
The superstition had been useful before, Gil reflected, turning to the door to summon Veitch and his self-appointed guards. The widespread belief that if a man’s killer touched his corpse
it would accuse him in some way meant that making someone touch a body could provide a good measure of how much guilt he felt, unless, like Gil, he was not impressed by the idea.
Veitch stepped into the room, rubbing at his arms where his keepers had gripped them. As many people as would fit into the doorway craned after him, with excited comments about the blood and the
body.
‘Look at his dagger!’ exclaimed Agnew. ‘It’s the right size. Has it been used? Has he cleaned it maybe?’
‘Let me see your dagger, John,’ said Gil, holding out his hand. Veitch looked at him, then at the corpse, took a moment to cross himself at the sight then unfastened the weapon from
his belt and passed it to Gil.
‘It’s clean and oiled,’ he said. ‘I saw to it on Sunday after Mass, as it’s my habit to do. The only other blade I’ve on me’s my wee eating-knife, and
who in his right mind uses his eating-knife for murder?’
‘No if he wants to eat wi it again,’ agreed Willie’s friend. Gil drew the dagger from its sturdy leather sheath and turned it towards the window. As Veitch said, it was clean
and well-kept, sharpened and gleaming dully in the thin light.
‘This has not been used since last it was cleaned,’ he said, showing it to the assize. ‘And there’s been no time to clean it since Murder was cried. It was not this
weapon killed Hob.’
‘Then he used another,’ said Agnew. ‘Maybe Hob’s own dagger! I tell you, I found him standing red-hand ower the corp, he must be guilty!’
‘Tammas, that doesny follow,’ said the cleric. ‘I’ve stood ower a many men, aye and women and bairns, that I never slew.’
‘Aye, but that’s your calling,’ protested Agnew. ‘No, maisters, it’s plain enough, this is the fellow that slew my servant and we should have the Sheriff here, no
some daft laddie placed by Robert Blacader to please his family.’
Gil made no comment, but handed Veitch’s weapon back to him, at which Agnew howled indignantly. Ignoring him, Gil said, ‘John, will you touch the corp for us?’
‘Gladly, aye,’ said Veitch, bracing his shoulders. ‘Mind, I’ve already touched him.’ He displayed his marked fingers, and stepped forward.
‘And do it wi some respect,’ challenged Agnew.
Veitch moved along the room to where Maistre Pierre still stood by the corpse with his beads in his hand. Agnew hurried jealously at his elbow and the four men of the assize followed closely.
Gil outpaced them and stepped beyond the corpse to a position where he could watch them all, avoiding the blood-soaked matting, Socrates keeping position by his knee.
Veitch nodded to him, then went down on one knee by the body, crossed himself and reached out to touch the averted face. Like a striking adder, Agnew’s hand shot out and closed on his.
‘Make sure you touch him,’ he said savagely. ‘We’ll ha no pretence, man!’ He jerked at Veitch’s arm, slapping his open palm heavily down on Hob’s bloody
breast.
Everyone present heard the faint groan which escaped the dead man under the blow. Gil felt the hair on his neck stand up.
‘Christ and Our Lady protect us!’ said Willie, stepping back and crossing himself.
‘Look! Look!’ crowed Agnew, white-faced. ‘I said – I said he slew Hob, and Hob himsel has tellt us it’s the truth!’
Veitch stared where he pointed, and then looked up at Gil, horrified. From the pallid lips of the corpse a thread of fresh blood was trickling.
‘It was the force of the blow caused him to groan,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘As I told the Sheriff. The last breath was still in the man’s lungs, and the
blow forced it out.’
Gil nodded, aware of a level of relief at the explanation quite ridiculous in a rational man. ‘As if I punched you in the breastbone.’
‘Precisely. And if there was still liquid blood from where he bled inwardly, it might have gathered when you and I moved him, and that also was released by the blow. But I suppose,’
the mason continued gloomily, stepping over the puddle at the castle gatehouse, ‘there is no use in telling it to the witnesses.’ He looked back over his shoulder at the tower where
John Veitch was now imprisoned, still vehemently protesting his innocence. ‘How long have we got?’
‘The morn’s morn, Sir Thomas said,’ Gil quoted in Scots. ‘Properly the law should be done on him within this sun, wi no more ado.’
‘If we ever see the sun,’ commented his friend in French.
‘Indeed. But since he won’t confess to guilt, and you’ve cast some doubt on it, there must be a more formal quest, and it might as well follow on from the quest on Deacon
Naismith. I wish Sir Thomas had let me question John just now, but he was within his rights to refuse it. What worries me is that with three deaths in the Upper Town within three days, John may
simply hang for the lot and the investigation will be closed whether I like it or no.’
‘Can the Sheriff do that? Surely your commission is direct from the Archbishop.’
‘Aye, and as Archbishop not as overlord,’ Gil agreed, ‘but ultimately, in Blacader’s absence, Sir Thomas represents the law in the burgh.’ They reached the
Wyndhead, and he paused, looking down the Drygate. ‘Look at this. Someone must have taken the news to her.’
Marion Veitch was hurrying towards them, skirts gathered up, the ends of her plaid flying, the kitchenmaid Bel at her side. Seeing them she changed direction and halted in front of them,
panting.
‘Gil Cunningham, what’s this they tell me about my brother?’ she demanded. ‘He never slew a man in Vicars’ Alley! I’ll no believe it!’
‘I don’t believe it either, but he was found standing above the body,’ said Gil, and she clapped both hands over her open mouth. ‘I tried to act for him, Marion, but the
bystanders insisted he touch the dead and the corp bled. He’s in the castle now, and there’s to be a quest on it the morn’s morn.’
She swayed, and Bel jumped forward to support her.
‘There, mistress, hold up!’ she said. ‘Come and sit down yonder.’
Maistre Pierre took her other arm, and they helped her to the foot of the Girth Cross where she sat limply on the steps, staring at Gil.
‘He never,’ she said. ‘He never.’
‘Why did he go to Agnew’s house?’ Gil asked. She shook her head. Socrates sat down beside her, and she patted him mechanically.
‘To ask about the will. Is it Agnew that’s slain? What happened, Gil? Why’s John been taken?’
‘Agnew came back to his house, so he says,’ Gil related precisely, ‘and found his man Hob stabbed and bled to death, and John standing above the corp.’
‘When did your brother leave you?’ Maistre Pierre asked. She rubbed a hand across her brow, pushing her linen cap askew.
‘Kind o late in the morning. After Sext, maybe?’ She shivered, pulling her plaid closer about her, and Bel bent to put an arm round her.
‘Come back to the house, mistress,’ she urged. ‘There’s nothing you can do the now.’
‘No – no, I want to see John. He’ll be –’
‘They’ll no let you in, mistress. Come back and get warm,’ Bel coaxed.
‘Indeed I think it wiser,’ offered Maistre Pierre. ‘Come, we will walk with you.’
After a little more argument she got to her feet and set off weakly down the Drygate, her maid supporting her protectively. The street was busy, with people returning from the market further
down the High Street, but she made her way among the passers-by without apparently seeing them.
‘I’ll no believe it,’ she said again. ‘He’d no call to. He’d not been to the man’s house afore, he’d likely have to ask the way. Why should he
kill someone he never saw afore?’
‘Ah!’ said Gil. ‘Now if we can find whoever he asked –’
‘Would you?’ She turned her blue eyes on him. ‘Would you ask about, Gil?’
‘I will,’ he said, ‘if you’ll answer a few things for me.’
‘Aye,’ she said after a moment. ‘I suppose. Fair’s fair.’
Back at the house she seemed to have recovered a little from the shock of John’s arrest, and dismissed Bel with affectionate thanks, though the girl would have stayed with her. Seated in
the hall, upright and formal in the great chair which must have been Naismith’s, her visitors on the tapestry-upholstered stools, she said, ‘Did you find that woman you were asking
for?’
‘I did,’ said Gil. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you at a bad moment yestreen. This is no a lot better.’
‘Oh, I’m no much occupied right now,’ she said, with faint irony. ‘What are these questions you’ve got?’
Gil looked at Maistre Pierre, but found his friend’s attention on the ceiling, beyond which Frankie was talking to someone. Occasional sounds of sweeping suggested it was Eppie.
‘One or two things,’ Gil said, and hesitated. ‘Marion, you said John went to ask about the will. Do you ken what the Deacon’s original will was like?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘He never showed you it?’
‘No,’ she said again. Under the crooked cap her oval face was pale and pinched. Above them the child began singing again, the same tune as last night. Socrates cocked his ears to
listen, but did not move from his position at Gil’s feet.
‘I know what the new one was to have been,’ Gil persisted, and checked as he realized that Agnew’s tablets were still in his sleeve. Well, it had been no moment to return them.
‘I wondered how much you were to lose by it,’ he went on.
‘He said he’d see me right,’ she said indifferently. ‘I aye trusted him.’
‘But the trust was misplaced,’ said Maistre Pierre. She flicked a quick glance at him – was she startled? Gil wondered.
‘Yes,’ she said, and shivered.