The Merchant's Mark (15 page)

‘You mean my brother?’ said Kate evenly.

He swallowed. ‘Maister Cunningham,’ he began again, ‘said if there was that much in one bag there should be the same again in another.’

‘I mind that,’ said Andy. ‘And I said there was no more in the barrel.’

‘Aye,’ said Billy. ‘Expect me to believe that?’

‘We had all the brine out of the puncheon,’ said Andy, ‘before the maister, and Maister Cunningham, and Maister Mason. There was no more treasure in it, as you’d ha heard
if you’d stopped to speir a bit more, you nasty sneaking wee bauchle.’

‘What’s he called, the man with the axe?’ said Kate.

‘He’s got no name,’ said Billy, taken by surprise as she had hoped. ‘They cry him the Axeman, just.’ He realized what he had given away and stopped, gulping in
alarm.

‘And the Axeman sent you to fetch the treasure out of your maister’s kist,’ said Kate. ‘What were you to do with it? Were you to take it to him at the Hog?’

‘He’ll kill me!’ said Billy. ‘I’m a deid man!’ He flung himself forward, taking his warders by surprise, and fell on his knees. ‘My leddy, you’ll
protect me, won’t you? He’ll get me for letting on about him!’ He shuffled forward to grasp at Kate’s skirts, and she drew back instinctively into the chair. The two men
bent to haul him up, but he grovelled on his face, moaning in what seemed like real fear.

‘What does he have to do with it?’ Kate asked. ‘Why did he send you for the treasure? How did he know about it?’

‘I dinna ken!’ wailed Billy. ‘I never cheated him!’

‘When did he first speak to you?’

‘In the Hog this afternoon,’ said Billy quickly. ‘I swear it, by St Mungo’s banes I swear it! I never seen him afore that in my life.’

‘In the Hog this afternoon,’ repeated Kate, looking down at the man with distaste. ‘You said just now neither of you was there.’

‘Aye we were!’

‘Put him in the coalhouse,’ she said to Andy. ‘And never mind giving him a light. We’ll see if he can tell the serjeant a straight tale in the morning.’

‘This is a handsome town,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘though it is smaller than Glasgow.’

Gil did not reply.

He was seated on a block of stone, throwing pebbles into Linlithgow Loch. The music and the drinking had gone on in the harper’s lodging well into the night, and even after the brisk two
hours’ ride from Stirling in the sunshine his head still felt thick. Moreover, all through the merriment, the part-songs and snatches of consort-music, the ride in the bright morning,
McIan’s comment had nagged at the back of his mind.
Where your treasure is, there will your heart be
. It no longer surprised him that McIan could quote Holy Writ; the surprise was that
he had quoted it in Scots and not in Latin. But what did the harper mean by it? His heart, certainly, was with Alys, but there was precious little treasure involved, and until there was more he was
reluctant to agree a date for their marriage. I am a Cunningham, he thought, rubbing a stone with his thumb, I won’t live on my bride’s money.

The mason turned to look up at Linlithgow Palace in the morning sunshine, with St Michael’s Kirk wrapped in scaffolding beyond it, and added approvingly, ‘And that is a well-run
chantier
. I have spoken with the master. He tells me the church has been many years rebuilding.’

Gil threw another pebble into the loch, and nodded. Socrates, loping back along the water’s edge, saw the splash and leaped in.

‘Where are your men?’ the mason asked.

Gil pulled himself together. ‘I gave them some drink-silver and sent them into the inn by the West Port.’

‘The Black Bitch, I think.’

‘Aye.’ Gil threw another pebble for the dog, who plunged joyfully after it, biting at the ripples. ‘I told them to find the whereabouts of the cooper’s yard for
me.’

‘The
tonnellerie
? I have asked the master builder. It is the other way – along towards the East Port beside the tower, which he tells me belongs to the Knights of St John. I
did not realize they were here.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Gil. ‘Their headquarters is a few miles away over the hill.’ He waved a hand vaguely south-west.

‘Is it, indeed? I had thought it much further south. That would account for the number of their servants one sees in the town,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Likely your men find my
lad Luke in the Black Bitch too. Well, I got nothing of use at the dyer’s yard in Kilsyth. There had been no disturbance, and no orphaned barrels left lying about. And what have you learned
in Stirling?’

Gil shook his head. ‘I think our dead man is not the musician, since I’ve a sighting of him here on Tuesday morning, but I’ll be happier about that if I can get another trace
of him.’ The mason grunted agreement. ‘And I had no useful word concerning the other matter. Nobody would admit to knowing where it might have been hid, or to knowing who would know . .
.’ The mason grunted again. ‘Except,’ Gil added thoughtfully, ‘that William Knollys was very keen to send me into Ayrshire to talk to my father’s friends
there.’

‘Into Ayrshire,’ Maistre Pierre repeated, raising his eyebrows.

‘Cumnock and thereabouts. So what we have to do here,’ said Gil, ‘is speak to the cooper, and ask after the musician.’

‘Do we also go out to the shore at Blackness?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘I understand it is not far.’

‘It could be worth the trip,’ Gil agreed, ‘but we may learn all we need here in the town.’

‘I have been thinking,’ said Maistre Pierre. He looked about, selected another disregarded block of stone, and seated himself. ‘Why put a severed head into a barrel? How many
reasons can there be?’

‘Concealment,’ offered Gil. Socrates bounded out of the water, shook himself copiously, and sat down at Gil’s feet, staring intently at the remaining handful of pebbles.
‘We dule for nae evil deed, sae it be derne haldin.’

‘Yes, but where is the body? The rest of the man?’

‘Hidden somewhere else, I assume,’ Gil said.

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere in Scotland.’

‘Yes.’ His friend pulled a face. ‘And what is being concealed? The murder, or the fact that this man in particular is dead, or the place of his death? Or something
else?’

‘And why should these need to be concealed?’ Gil wondered. ‘Both of the bodies we dealt with in May had been left openly where they were killed. Well, fairly openly,’ he
qualified. ‘What was this man doing, that he had to be made to disappear?’

‘Presumably that is connected with the treasure.’

Gil stared unseeing at a journeyman mixing mortar in the distance.

‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘So the head was hidden in the barrel to conceal an unlawful killing, or the death of this man in particular, or his death in a particular place,’
he ticked the points off on his fingers, ‘or perhaps to get it past a watcher.’

‘Or to preserve it to accuse someone later,’ suggested Maistre Pierre. ‘It was put up in brine, after all.’

‘Mm.’ Gil thought about that. ‘If that was so, it may have been put in the barrel by someone other than the killer. We must keep it in mind, but it adds a complication and the
question is already sufficiently complicated.’

‘Mon Dieu
,
oui!
’ agreed the mason. ‘And the treasure? Why did the killer not simply take it with him, since he has apparently made his escape?’

‘Yes. That puzzles me. It surely means whoever put both in the barrel intended to keep track of it – of the barrel. I wish we had some idea of where the hoard has been.’

‘So does that mean the head was hidden for some longer purpose, not simply to conceal an unlawful killing?’

‘Perhaps.’ Gil got to his feet, and Socrates scrambled up looking hopefully at his face. ‘We need to find a name for the dead man. Once we have that, we will have something to
work on, and perhaps we can discover where he was killed.’ He gestured towards the little town in the sunshine. ‘Shall we go find the men? They’ll be a stoup or two ahead of us by
now.’

As they reached the foot of the Kirkgait, Maistre Pierre paused and stared eastward past the Mercat Cross along Linlithgow’s other, busier street. There was a cavalcade approaching among
the bustle of women with baskets and journeymen with boards or bales of merchandise. Helmets glinted in the sunlight, bright badges and well-waxed boots collected the dust of the dry road.

‘Who is this with such a retinue?’ he wondered. ‘Do you know the blazon?’

‘Yes, and I know the leader,’ said Gil a little grimly. ‘Sinclair. I saw him in Stirling.’ He raised his hat as Oliver Sinclair reined in his horse, the ornaments on its
bridle clinking. ‘Good day, sir.’

‘Good day again, young Cunningham.’ Sinclair grinned at him. ‘So Will Knollys never persuaded you into Ayrshire, then?’ Gil shook his head. ‘Probably wise, man. And
what brings you this way?’

‘My good-father and I are tracking a murder,’ said Gil.

‘Oh, the man in the barrel?’ Sinclair nodded to the mason, and checked his horse, which was touching noses with Socrates. ‘This is you in hot pursuit, is it?’

‘Say rather, in cold pursuit,’ said Gil wryly. ‘The trail’s near a week old, and may be crossed. That’s what I want to find out.’

‘Good hunting, then,’ said Sinclair carelessly. He nodded again and nudged his horse on, summoning his men after him with a wide gesture of one arm. They clattered away east along
the curve of the High Street, scattering chickens, pigs and burgesses as they went.

‘He never mentioned leaving Stirling when I spoke to him last night,’ said Gil, staring after them. ‘Not that I had much conversation with him,’ he added, after
considering the point.

‘Perhaps it slipped his mind,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Come and let us drink.’

The taproom of the Black Bitch, which had probably been the hall when the sprawling building had been somebody’s house, was large and smoky from an ill-drawn fire, but clearly the ale was
good, for even in mid-morning the room was busy and loud with gossip. Gil’s men and the mason’s Luke were there; Luke and Tam were sitting at one of the long tables, and Rob was in
colloquy with the man in charge of the great barrel of ale on its trestle. Seeing them enter, he broke off his conversation and returned to his seat with a jug and two more beakers.

‘Talk the man in the Moon to death, that one,’ he said, grinning, as Luke moved along the bench to allow his master to sit down. ‘William Riddoch the cooper has his yard along
near the East Port, Maister Gil, at the back of the first Cross tavern, and there’s been no musicians in the place since the court moved to Stirling.’

‘In the town,’ Gil questioned, ‘or here in the Black Bitch?’

‘Now that I don’t know,’ admitted Rob, ‘for I never thought to ask it. Will I go back and find out? Only it might take me till dinnertime, the way that fellow
talks.’

‘We can ask further,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘But what did you mean, the first Cross tavern? Is there more than one of the same name? That must be confusing.’

‘Aye, well, I asked about that,’ said Rob, ‘and one’s the Spitallers’ cross wi the eight points, and the other belongs to the Sinclairs, so it’s got their
badge on the board. You ken, their cross that looks as if it’s been chewed all up the edges.’

‘The engrailed cross,’ said Gil absently. ‘I suppose, if Balthasar was here to meet someone, as that singer in Stirling said, he might not have been playing.’

‘He’d be playing, maister,’ said Tam. ‘They’ll aye take the chance to turn a penny or two. I would myself, if I could play more than
Two taps on ae
tun.’

‘He’d lie at a smaller place than this,’ volunteered Luke, ‘like the one across the way. The Green Lion, or something. This is maybe ower dear.’

‘Will I go and ask?’

‘No, leave it, Rob. I don’t want to make too much of it. We can ask in the town.’

‘Lute strings,’ said Maistre Pierre, emerging from his beaker. They looked at him. ‘There is a butcher’s yard,’ he pointed out, ‘and the court spends much
time here. Someone must make and sell strings out of all that gut. Perhaps our quarry has been sighted there.’

‘And there’s another thing, Maister Gil,’ said Rob, helping himself to the last of the jug of ale. ‘Drouthy work it is, talking to a man like that. When I mentioned the
name, maister, he asked me was I looking for work, for it seems this cooper’s a man short. His laddie hasny been seen for near two weeks.’

‘Is that so?’ said Gil thoughtfully.

‘Our man was nobody’s prentice laddie,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘He was nearer thirty than twenty, I should have said.’

‘Just the same,’ said Gil, offering Socrates his beaker to lick, ‘we should keep it in mind.’

‘He was warning me off,’ added Rob, ‘for there was a thief in the same yard just the other night. I’d say the cooper’s luck’s away the now.’

The luthier’s workshop was halfway along towards the Mercat Cross, well up a steep narrow vennel which seemed to lead to the hillside south of the town. Inside, at a bench by a wide-open
window, Maister Cochrane himself was working on the delicate rose of a lute, an array of small sharp carving tools by his elbow. Beyond him a journeyman was shaping the neck of another instrument
with a drawknife; an apprentice in the corner was rubbing what smelled like boiled linseed oil into a finished lute. More instruments hung on pegs, lutes and vièles, a psaltery and something
which might be a cittern. Neat stacks of wood were tucked into a rack at the far end.

As Gil and Maistre Pierre entered with the dog at their heels, the two younger men looked up, and the journeyman set down his knife and came forward, brushing curls of wood off his jerkin.

‘What’s your pleasure, my maisters?’ he asked. ‘A new instrument? Music, strings, a ribbon fairing for your sweetheart’s lute? We’ve all of those.’

‘Music?’ said Maistre Pierre, pricking up his ears. ‘You sell music?’

‘We do, maister.’ The journeyman turned to lift a wooden tray from a shelf. ‘We’re a bit low at the moment,’ he admitted. ‘The court cleaned us out before
they left for Stirling, and the package we’re looking for from Edinbro’s no come in yet.’

‘No matter.’ The mason bent over the pages in the tray. ‘There will be something I do not have. These are good copies.’