‘That was interesting,’ said Maistre Pierre, coming up out of the burn. He stamped water from his boots and went on, ‘He knew more about William’s doings than he would admit.’
‘I agree.’ Gil began to stroll up the track away from the burn. ‘It was also interesting that he asked about William’s death but not about Jaikie’s.’
‘There is more than that.’ Maistre Pierre groped in his purse. ‘What about this?’
He handed over a twist of wet rag. Gil shook it out to inspect it, and a waft of spirits reached his nose.
‘Usquebae!’ he exclaimed.
‘I suspect the two little dogs were quarrelling for possession of that cloth. It fell when they came out fighting and were seized by their owners. The dogs,’ said the mason portentously, ‘were not mad, but drunk.’
‘Jaikie’s missing bottle?’
‘Was in the pen. I saw it. It had been hidden under the straw, I surmise, and the dogs found it. The one that was put back into the pen had also fallen into a stupor, like his brother. I never knew that dogs would take spirits.’
‘We had one liked red wine,’ said Gil, ‘and most will drink ale if they get the chance. These two must have liked the smell on the rag, and unstopped the bottle when they fought over it.’
‘It was on its side, half-hidden. They may not have had much.’
‘Enough to make them fighting drunk. Sweet St Giles, I wouldn’t like to have to handle them tomorrow!’
‘But you see what this means.’
‘I do.’ Gil paused where the track branched, on the spur between two burns. ‘The laddie that led us to the Doigs’ door said
That’s where she walks the dogs,
but Harry Hubbleshaw yonder – Doig himself – said he had walked them today at noon.’
‘I thought this was news to his wife,’ commented the mason.
‘So did I. You see, this goes over the Mill-burn and into the High Street as Doig said, and that goes out on to the Dow Hill and the butts.’ He looked down the track to the wooden bridge that led back into the burgh, and pointed. ‘Isn’t that your garden?’
‘It is,’ agreed the mason in slight surprise. ‘It looks different from here. And there is the land of Blackfriars, and beyond it the college kitchen-yard. I do not come here often.’
‘I have, on my way to the butts to practise archery when I was a student, but we’d have had no reason to take the other track, I had no idea where it went. It would be easy enough for both the Doigs to come this far while the neighbours were watching, and then go separate ways.’
‘You think the woman killed the porter?’
‘There was no blood on her gown,’ said Gil with regret, ‘and she seemed startled to learn of his death.’
‘Whereas the dwarf wore a leather apron which would successfully conceal any stains.’
‘And which was much too long for him. I suspect it is his wife’s.’
‘But why should he kill the porter? And is he capable of it?’
‘I wonder.’ Gil looked back along the way they had just come. ‘He picked up my reference to the bundle of papers as if he had seen them.’
‘You mean,’ said the mason after a moment, ‘he was in the porter’s chamber after the Montgomery men?’
‘Instead of walking the dogs.’ Gil handed the reeking rag back to Maistre Pierre and set off down the slope to the wooden bridge over the Mill-burn. ‘I would say he has the strength to bind bears, like the dwarf in the play, and if he cuts up the dogs’ meat he is used enough to wielding a knife. Whether he has the reach –’
‘The wound that killed the man went straight in, I thought, between two ribs.’ The mason demonstrated, levelling two fingers at the palm of the other hand. ‘It must have pierced the heart or come near it, to cause blood to run from his mouth after he fell down. Doig could have reached so high, I suppose, and struck level, but would such a blow have the necessary strength or accuracy?’
‘Unless Jaikie had been drinking again,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘You asked me if there was a fight, and I thought not, but Jaikie could have fallen over, or out of his chair.’
‘You mean he was stabbed when lying on his back?’ The mason considered this. ‘It would work. Or perhaps the boy Ninian had struck him down for snooping, as he did William. He was certainly very much overcome by the porter’s death.’
‘I don’t like that,’ said Gil after a moment. ‘It could have happened, but it is too symmetrical. Let us suppose Jaikie was drunk as usual, and fell over. Easy enough for Doig to strike, vertical and true. There still remains the question why? And when? Why was Doig up at the college this noon?’
‘Seeking the dog, surely. Then he came straight by my house and spoke to Alys.’ Maistre Pierre grimaced and looked about him at the fenced gardens of the small houses on either side of the vennel. Further up the fences gave way to walls, then to the stone flanks of the grander buildings on the High Street. ‘We are overheard, perhaps. We discuss this in my house. Also the question of your betrothal,’ he added. ‘Now your mother is here we should go ahead with signing the contract.’
‘Aye.’ Gil turned his head to look at the mason. ‘Though she may not be present. She was very civil to Alys this morning, but she wouldn’t let me mention the marriage.’
‘Why? What is wrong?’
‘You saw her letter. She must have a reason, but I don’t know it yet.’
‘Ah.’
They walked on in silence. Gil was becoming aware of his aches and bruises again, and was conscious of a feeling that his own bed, in the attic of his uncle’s house in Rottenrow, would be a welcome sight. The vennel debouched on to the High Street, where a few people were still about, and as they turned down the hill towards Maistre Pierre’s house the bell began to ring in Greyfriars.
‘Can that be Compline already?’ wondered the mason.
‘I think it must be,’ Gil began, and was interrupted. From above his head a harsh, familiar voice spoke.
‘You! Cunningham law man! A word wi’ you.’
He paused, looking up. They were passing the tall stone tower-house with the Montgomery badge over the door. The shutters of one of the windows stood open, and leaning on the sill, glaring down at him with that dark glow of rage, was the owner.
‘Come up, Cunningham,’ said Hugh, Lord Montgomery. ‘I want to talk.’
Gil stepped back, the better to meet the dark Montgomery gaze.
‘You expect me to come under your roof? What warranty will you offer me?’ he challenged.
‘Feart, are you?’
‘I’ve no wish to be the third Cunningham head at your gates.’
‘Ach –’ Lord Montgomery shook his head angrily. ‘I’m no killing the day. Bring your good-father up wi’ you if you wish. He’s safe enough – I can’t afford the blood money for a merchant-burgess of Glasgow before next quarter-day.’ He spread his hands. ‘I’m no armed, save for my eating-knife. Come on, man. I want a word.’
Gil exchanged a glance with Maistre Pierre, who shrugged, and gestured towards the wooden fore-stair of the tower.
They were admitted by a grim-faced man who looked as if he missed his armour. Across the bare hall, Hugh, Lord Montgomery stood scowling by a fireplace which would have sheltered a small encampment. A diminutive blaze perched across the fire-irons was putting out no heat whatever. Two large dogs rose and growled as Gil crossed the threshold, and their master cursed and kicked at the nearer.
‘Cunningham,’ he said, apparently in welcome. ‘And you, Maister Mason. Thomas, we’ll have some ale.’
Thomas grunted, and slouched off. The dogs lay down, still watchful.
‘Right, man,’ said Montgomery, turning to Gil in the firelight. ‘What have you learned? How near are you to finding who killed our William?’
Gil, who had been expecting a question like this, shook his head.
‘I’ve struck a lot of people off the list,’ he said, ‘but I still have more names on it than I want.’
‘All I want’s one name,’ said Montgomery.
‘The boy was dear to you?’ asked Maistre Pierre.
‘Dear enough. He was close kin.’
‘For his mother’s sake?’ Gil suggested. ‘Grievous to lose the boy so soon after the mother.’
Montgomery’s eyes glittered in the firelight. ‘What do you know about his mother?’
‘I know who she was, and her husband. She’s dead, no need to fling her name about.’
Montgomery made a sound between a grunt and a snarl. The manservant reappeared with a jug, a handful of wooden beakers, and a platter of small cakes. He set these on a bench by the fire, and stumped off glowering at Gil.
‘Aye,’ said Montgomery. ‘Well. She never let on who was the father, though I’ve aye had my suspicions.’ He turned away from the fire to pour ale into the beakers, and thrust two out at arm’s length so sharply that liquid splashed into the hearth, making the dogs jump and glare at the fire. ‘Drink, maisters,’ he said abruptly over the hissing of the embers.
‘To a satisfactory conclusion,’ said Gil.
‘To the name of someone I can hunt down.’
They drank. The ale was cool and strong.
‘Do you know if William had enemies?’
‘He was one of ours. We have enemies. Maybe it was a Cunningham!’ said Montgomery with a mirthless laugh.
‘There are no Cunninghams in the college just now,’ said Gil. And the saints be praised for that, he thought. ‘Had he no enemies on his own account? How much do you know about what he was doing?’
‘He was studying,’ said William’s kinsman. ‘I intended him for the Church. Or maybe the Law,’ he added. ‘What do you mean, what he was doing? What should he have been doing?’
‘We think,’ said Maistre Pierre with caution, ‘he was gathering information.’
‘Aye?’ said Montgomery after a moment. ‘And what was he doing with it?’
‘Selling it,’ said Gil succinctly.
‘Or asking payment not to sell it,’ expanded Maistre Pierre.
‘Then he’d ha’ been a wealthy man,’ said Montgomery, ‘for anything William did, he did to extinction.’
‘Oh, he was,’ said Gil. ‘He was. We found both coin and jewels in his chamber, and new boots and good clothes.’ He met Montgomery’s eyes in the leaping firelight, and grinned at him. ‘A meld of twenty points, I should say, my lord.’
‘You play Tarocco? Both of you?’
‘I do,’ said Gil with confidence. ‘Pierre?’
‘Not I,’ said the mason, shaking his head.
‘Then we’ll play now, Maister Cunningham.’
‘For what stakes?’
‘Information.’ Montgomery was searching inside the cupboard at the end of the hall, patting the shelves with a hard hand. A pewter dish fell with a clang and he kicked it, cursing. One of the dogs raised its head to look, then went back to sleep. ‘Aye, here they are. Information, Maister Cunningham. The currency of this reign. Here, sit down. Where the devil has Thomas put the candles?’
The bench was hard, but it was against the wall. Gil leaned back gratefully while their host dragged a pricket-stand closer, lit the strong-smelling tallow candle, kicked two stools across the room and placed them where they would catch the light.
‘Ye might as well be seated,’ he flung at Maistre Pierre, seating himself. ‘Who deals?’
‘The cards are yours, my lord,’ said Gil, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘A short game, do you think? Twenty cards each, one point for a trick?’
Montgomery grinned. ‘You’ve no patience for a long game, is that it?’
‘I’ve no strength for a long game,’ said Gil frankly. This was more like Paris. Although two of his books had been the prizes of a game, he had never played for large sums in money or jewels, but he had once defended a friend’s mistress on a charge of theft, won her freedom, and learned some remarkable things about the city, all as the result of a casual stake. ‘As you know well, my lord,’ he added.
‘Nor has Thomas,’ said Montgomery with a feral grin. ‘I’ll shuffle if you’ll cut, and then I deal. Is that agreeable?’
He was already running the cards from hand to hand. Gil nodded, and he riffled the slips of pasteboard a couple of times and set the pack down to be cut.
The dark-eyed foreign faces were the same ones current in Paris. Propping his aching wrist on his knee, Gil found enough strength in his right thumb to hold the cards, and arranged them clumsily with his left hand. The Fool and two Kings, three of the great Trumps (a meld of twenty points, indeed, he thought) and a handful of small cards. Not a good hand.
‘I’ll change four,’ he said.
‘Oh, those rules. Aye, if I can change five.’
They made the exchange, a card each in turn, and Gil propped his new cards in his hand. His opponent held his own cards close to his chest, tilting them from time to time to let the candlelight fall on them.
‘Twenty points,’ he said, looking up at Gil.
‘And I have twenty-five.’ Twenty points, he thought, could be one or two of the big melds, or several smaller ones. Five points for a run of four cards, or fifteen for the other two Kings and the World or the Magician.
‘Your good-father can keep the score. You’ll find a bit chalk on the cupboard yonder, Maister Mason. Just mark the tally on the wall.’
There were advantages and disadvantages to the short game. One of Gil’s talents, that of knowing almost without thinking what cards were in hand and who held them, had no place in a situation where barely more than half the pack of seventy-eight had been dealt out. His other gift, for reading his opponent’s play, would be more help. He had already summed Hugh Montgomery up as a practised player rather than a good one.