Authors: Pat McIntosh
‘He never settled any property on you?’ Gil asked. She shook her head. ‘Or got you to witness any of his papers?’ Another shake of the head. ‘Did you sign anything
for him?’
‘He kept all his business separate,’ she said at last. ‘I kent nothing about the bedehouse, nor his transactions in the burgh. Thomas Agnew tells me they’re considerable,
but I never heard of any of them.’
‘Agnew’s spoken to you?’ said Gil, startled. ‘What was that about?’
‘Oh, aye. This morning.’
‘This
morning
?’ repeated Gil. ‘Before or after John went to see him?’
‘Oh, long afore. That’s why he went, see,’ she explained. ‘The man was here and spoke to me about the Deacon’s business, explained that all he left uncompleted
would be void now, but he never said aught about the will. So John gaed to ask him when he came back fro the bedehouse.’
Gil waited, but no more was forthcoming. After a moment he changed the subject.
‘Marion, when did your brother come to Glasgow?’
Another quick glance.
‘Two days since,’ she said. ‘No, it’s the day afore that now, isn’t it? The day Naismith dined here and then –’ She stopped, apparently unwilling to
finish the sentence, her expression quite blank. ‘John turned up at my door afore noon that day,’ she resumed, ‘and I was fair glad to see him, for he’d been away almost
four year. He’d never set een on my wee girl.’
‘He was on his own?’
‘On his own.’
‘Was it a good venture?’ asked Maistre Pierre with professional interest. ‘Where had he been?’
‘He’s pleased enough,’ she said. ‘I don’t know all where he’s been. Spain and the Middle Sea and Araby maybe.’
‘
As far as cercled is the mappemounde
,’ offered Gil.
Marion glanced briefly at him, but merely went on, ‘He’s come home a wealthy man.’ She put up a hand to cover her mouth. ‘And what good it’ll do him
–’
‘Has he been to Portingal?’ suggested Maistre Pierre. The smile vanished.
‘No, that was –’ She bit off the words. ‘That was one place he never said,’ she finished carefully. Maistre Pierre looked at her oddly, but did not comment.
Gil felt in his sleeve and drew out the stained scarf.
‘Do you ken this piece of linen, Marion?’ he asked, unfolding it. She looked at it, and her gaze sharpened.
‘No,’ she said. ‘What is it? Where did you get it?’
‘It has an initial on it,’ he said, turning the end of the strip towards her. She made no attempt to reach for it. ‘Or perhaps two. It might be
N
, it might be
I
V.’
‘It might be a number,’ she suggested. ‘What’s the stains on it? Where did you get it?’ she asked again.
‘I think it was dropped by whoever put Deacon Naismith into the bedehouse garden,’ said Gil, watching her carefully. Her eyes widened slightly.
‘You mean it was in the garden?’ she said, still staring at the thing.
‘Not in the garden,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Maister Cunningham’s dog found it.’
Again the quick glance at him. Then her eyes went back to the scarf, studying the fine white stitchery on the end Gil was holding up.
‘I’ve never seen it afore,’ she said.
‘What is it?’ Gil asked. ‘We thought it might be a towel, or else a neck-scarf, but women ken more about such things.’
She shook her head. ‘It could be either.’ Gil held it out to her, and she shrank away from it. ‘Where did you say you found it?’
‘Where would you think such a thing might be found?’ asked Maistre Pierre.
‘How would I ken?’ she asked, her voice rising slightly. ‘I – I don’t – I’ve never seen it afore,’ she reiterated.
The house door opened. She looked up, and something like relief crossed her face. Socrates scrambled to his feet and Gil turned, as a man’s voice demanded, ‘Marion, have you seen
John this day?’
A big voice, not shouting but pitched to carry in a gale. Maistre Pierre looked at Gil, his eyebrows rising, and round the open door appeared a man to match the voice, big and broad, booted feet
planted firmly on the wide boards, his short dark curls level with the carved lintel. Rankin Elder, drinking companion of John Veitch, who had told them the tales of flying fishes in a tavern on
the High Street.
‘You!’ he said, staring at them, and put his seaman’s bonnet back on his head. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Rankin – John’s been taken up by the constables!’ said Marion. ‘They’re saying he’s killed a man in Vicars’ Alley.’
Elder pursed his lips in a silent whistle, and came forward to Marion’s side, putting one hand on the back of her chair and looking down at her in concern, his manner subtly
possessive.
‘And did he?’
‘We do not think so,’ said Maistre Pierre.
‘Is there any need for you to be here?’ demanded Elder, turning his head to look at them again. ‘Mistress Veitch is grieving for her friend,’ he added formally,
‘and she doesny need to be pestered wi questions.’
‘I’m trying to find out who killed her friend,’ said Gil, putting a little emphasis on the term. And why did he assume we’re questioning her, he wondered.
‘That’s why I’m asking questions. Have you seen this before?’
He held up the strip of linen. Elder cast it a cursory glance and said, ‘Looks like John’s neckie. He’d lost it. Where did you – Is that blood on it? When did that
happen? He was well enough the morn when he left the lodging.’
‘When did he lose it?’
‘Och, it was days ago.’ The man relaxed. ‘Was it the night he fetched me from Dumbarton that he missed it?’ Marion was staring up at him, frozen with dismay. Belatedly he
met her eyes, and backtracked. ‘I don’t recall. Might ha been sooner than that.’
‘When was that?’ asked Gil.
‘Three nights since, if it’s any of your mind.’
‘Three nights? The night Naismith died? When did he set out to fetch you?’
‘I’ve no idea about that,’ said Elder. ‘He reached me some time the third watch. And that’s certainly none of your mind.’
‘And you’re sure the scarf is John Veitch’s property?’
‘No,’ said Elder. He looked at Marion again. ‘And now you’ll leave, gentlemen, while we think what’s to do about John. And whatever we do, we’ll do it without
your help.’
The noon bite in the house in Rottenrow was much as Gil had feared. However since his uncle was not present and Alys was, he could have eaten dry stockfish and not noticed.
She was in the hall, helping Maggie and Sister Agnes set up the board for the meal when they came in. Socrates hurried forward to speak to her, nudging her with his long nose. Her face lit up,
and as soon as the cloth was straight she left the task and came to kiss Gil.
‘Dorothea has told me,’ she said quickly in French. ‘About Tib, I mean. I came up – I’ve been with her – Gil, you won’t be severe with her, will
you?’
He had no chance to answer before her father claimed her, embracing her as if he had not seen her a few hours previously. Maggie eyed Maistre Pierre and said, through the clatter of the wooden
trenchers she was distributing, ‘There’s just the one hot dish for the table, since we’re all owerset the day, but there’s plenty bread and half a kebbock o cheese.
We’ll no go hungry.’
‘Where is Tib?’ Gil asked. Maggie grunted.
‘Shut in her chamber and willny speak to me,’ she announced. ‘Says she’ll no eat. Lady Dawtie’s wi her the now, but . . .’ Her voice trailed off, and she
continued setting the table. Alys returned to help her, and Gil gestured for Maistre Pierre to wash his hands at the bright majolica cistern by the door.
‘Have you been at the bedehouse?’ said Alys in Scots. ‘How are they this morning?’
‘The old men are all very shaken, and Mistress Mudie hasn’t spoken since last night, I think.’
‘Ah, the poor woman. She has suffered a great loss – that man was the centre of her life.’ Alys inspected the table. ‘Is that it, Maggie? Shall I tell Dorothea we are
ready?’
When the household was seated, without Tib, and Dorothea’s secretary had said Grace for them, Alys returned to the same subject. Gil appreciated her restraint; he had no wish to discuss
Tib’s misbehaviour in the hearing of the stable-hands. It was surprising how much French the men understood, particularly at times like this when they probably knew more than he did about the
subject already.
‘Did you learn any more, Gil? Is there anything new since last night?’
‘Not at the bedehouse,’ said Gil. ‘Anselm had an odd tale about Agnew, but that was all.’
‘No,’ said her father gloomily, ‘all is happening elsewhere today.’
‘Why, what’s happening?’ asked Dorothea.
‘John Veitch is taken up for killing Agnew’s servant,’ supplied Gil.
‘I heard that!’ exclaimed Tam from further down the table. ‘Is that right the corp sat up and accusit him?’
‘That Hob wouldny tell you the time o day,’ objected the other stable-hand, Patey. ‘I canny see him telling tales like that after he’s deid.’
Beside him Matt nodded agreement, but did not speak.
‘Does Marion know?’ asked Dorothea.
‘She does.’ Gil described their meeting with Marion and the encounter with Rankin Elder at the house.
‘A sailor?’ said Maggie. ‘That would explain it, wouldn’t it no? If he’s been at sea all this time.’
‘It would explain much,’ agreed Maistre Pierre, accepting the dish of bannocks from Gil. Dorothea cocked her head enquiringly, and he set the bannocks down and began to enumerate on
his fingers. ‘
Item.
She said she had never seen Naismith’s original will, did not know what was in it, but she was seated in the master’s great chair as if she is now owner
of the house.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Alys. She captured the bannocks and sent them down the table. ‘She is about to become a respectable wife.’ She glanced quickly at Gil and away
again, blushing.
‘
Item.
She has spoken to the man of law this morning but it seems they spoke only about Naismith’s transactions in the burgh.
Item.
Her brother returned the day the man
was killed, apparently alone, from a successful venture to Spain and the Middle Sea, but not to Portugal though the child was singing a Portuguese song.’
‘Oh, is that what it was?’ said Gil, understanding.
The mason nodded. ‘And then the linen cloth,’ he went on.
‘She knew it well,’ Gil said. ‘I would say she knew every stitch.’
‘When she realized it was connected with Naismith’s death, she was frightened,’ agreed Maistre Pierre. ‘She pretended not to know what the stains were.’ Dorothea
snorted inelegantly, and Alys coloured. ‘That was when our drinking-companion of last night appeared.’
‘I heard about last night,’ said Dorothea, with an amused look at Gil. ‘Maggie seems to feel there’s no ale left in Glasgow today. How’s your head?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Gil took up the thread. ‘Anyway Rankin Elder recognized the piece of linen as John’s property, which he had lost –’
‘Ah!’ said Dorothea.
‘Exactly,’ agreed Maistre Pierre.
‘Which he said John had already lost when he fetched Elder from Dumbarton three nights since.’
‘Three nights?’ queried Alys. ‘What did he mean by that? Before or after the Deacon died?’
‘He was not in the mood to answer more questions,’ said Maistre Pierre.
‘It doesn’t work,’ said Gil, rubbing his forehead. ‘There isn’t time.’
‘Time?’ asked Maistre Pierre.
‘For John to have gone to Dumbarton the same night the Deacon died,’ supplied Dorothea, ‘whether this other man helped him at the bedehouse or not.’
‘And yet the widow said John wasn’t in his bed that night, but turned up in the morning along with Elder, as if the two of them had made a night of it.’
‘With their feet wet, you said,’ the mason recalled.
‘Elder’s boots are too big,’ said Gil, ‘but John’s that were drying – the ones that had got wet – are a good size to have made the prints we
found.’
‘He’d a temper,’ said Matt from further down the table. Gil looked at him. ‘Veitch.’
‘He’s right, you ken,’ said Maggie doubtfully. ‘I mind you and him fighting, Maister Gil. I’ve no knowledge o this man Elder – did I hear he was an Ayrshire
man, from whatever port John sails out of?’
‘That would be the accent,’ Gil agreed.
‘They’re saying he’s her sweetheart home from sea,’ contributed Tam from opposite Matt. ‘And he’s driven off this giant wi the bloody sword that was haunting
the wynd where she dwells.’
‘Certainly,’ said Gil, ‘I’d believe he was wee Frankie’s father.’ He looked at Alys. ‘Just like that romance we thought of. She’s even named the
child for him, if Rankin is a by-name for Francis the way it usually is.’
‘Is that right!’ said Maggie. ‘I aye thought it wasny the Deacon.’
‘Maister Gil,’ said Matt. ‘The woman Chisholm.’
‘I found her,’ said Gil, ‘but she’s no a Chisholm, she’s a Dodd.’
‘Oh, her,’ said Patey ‘My sister Jessie and her waiting-woman is gossips. Thinks gey well o herself, she does.’
‘Chisholm, Dodd. One of they names,’ said Matt, spooning yesterday’s kale.
‘A Dodd? Is that Ellen Dodd?’ said Maggie sharply. ‘Dwells off the Drygate?’ Gil nodded. ‘Well, well. Thomas Agnew’s mistress, is she? No wonder she puts on
airs. Her and her jewels.’ She spread one large red hand and looked at it. ‘If I’d gone that road, nae doubt I’d have jewels and all.’
‘You have treasure in Heaven, Maggie,’ said Dorothea softly.
Maggie sniffed. ‘Aye, very like. But I’ll have a word to say to Jennet Clark, so I will, letting her sit in at her hearth talking as if she’s a married woman.’
When the meal was ended, the table cleared, the men retired to the kitchen with Maggie, and the family gathered round the hearth, Dorothea and Alys looked at one another.
Dorothea nodded slightly, and Alys turned to Gil.
‘Gil,’ she said formally, ‘Tib has something to say to you. Will you hear her?’
Assuming the well-worn phrase meant an apology of some kind, Gil grimaced, but nodded, and she slipped from the hall.
‘Did you tell Kate?’ Gil asked Dorothea.
‘I did, and stayed with her a while,’ agreed his sister. ‘She’s fair grieved to think Tib met the laddie under her roof, but I think that can’t be right.’