Pat McIntosh - The Fourth Crow

‘What a way to comport yoursels! Your sister missing, a dead woman in the chapel, your faither the way he is. Sit up straight and behave yoursels decent, or the Archbishop’s man will send in sic a report of you, you’ll never be wedded this side o Doomsday.’

Both sisters rose, scarlet with mingled laughter and embarrassment, and collected themselves enough to curtsy briefly to Gil before fleeing past their aunt and into the shadows. He could hear them, still laughing within the hall, and Dame Ellen turned a bony simper on him, the rather dreadful coquetry of her mouth by no means matched in her eyes.

‘What a pair of lassies!’ she was saying. ‘You’ll accept my apologies for their behaviour, I hope, maister.’

‘They’re very young,’ Gil observed. The simper vanished bleakly.

‘Aye, well, if they’re old enough to be wedded, they’re old enough to behave theirsels like modest women. What my kinsman at St Mungo’s would have to say about them I canny think. Have you learned aught yet? That doctor says my brother’s-’ She broke off, her expression softening as voices rose in the outer yard, Sir Simon’s among them. Feet sounded in the passageway, Socrates growled quietly, and two young men burst into the sunshine.

‘What’s this yon fellow says?’ demanded the first of her, as Gil checked his dog. ‘Annie vanished and some dead woman in her place? What have you been at here?’

‘Now, Henry, mind your tongue afore Blacader’s quaestor!’ chided Dame Ellen. ‘These are my nephews, maister, that rode into Glasgow wi us and are lodged wi their kinsman along Rottenrow. Henry and Austin Muir.’

Her gestures identified them: Henry fair and ostentatious, Austin tawny and diffident, both sturdy, handsome and expensively dressed in identical short velvet gowns which did not conceal Austin’s low-necked shirt of fine linen or his brother’s embroidered doublet of crimson silk, its high collar caked in silver braid. That must itch, Gil thought irrelevantly.

The brothers stared, taken aback, until Henry recalled his manners and made a swaggering bow, sweeping his jewelled bonnet above the cobbles. Gil returned the courtesy, saying,

‘Aye, Mistress Gibb is vanished away. Have you any knowledge of where she might have taken shelter or hid herself?’

‘Hid herself? Why’s she done that?’ said Austin, still staring.

‘We’d looked to find her here,’ said Henry. ‘Is there truly no trace o where she’s at?’

‘What brings you here to find her?’ Gil countered. ‘Had you business wi her?’

‘Business?’ repeated Austin. ‘Us? No, we-’

‘What else would bring them but civility? They’ve called in the hopes o finding her cured o her madness, a course,’ said Dame Ellen, smiling fondly. ‘And the wish to see their old aunt, I hope.’

‘But what’s happened?’ asked Henry, ignoring this. ‘Have you no set up a search? Why was there another woman in her place? Who is it, anyway?’

He was speaking to Dame Ellen, but Gil answered him:

‘The Provost’s men are searching for Mistress Gibb, and we’ve got both women being cried through the town. We’ll see if anyone kens the corp we have. Someone must ha missed her.’ He paused, considering the two. ‘Where were you last night? ‘

‘Where were we?’ Henry bristled. ‘Are you saying we had aught to do wi it?’

‘If I ken where you were and whether you saw anything useful,’ said Gil patiently, ‘it would help me trace where the dead woman came from. In fact, I’d be grateful if you’d take a look at her now.’

‘And then you can join the search for Annie, the both of you,’ announced their kinswoman. Henry gave her a sharp look, but said,

‘Aye, well, we were in our cousin’s house all the evening, getting the news o Glasgow and telling him the news o Ayrshire.’

‘Together?’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Austin, nodding.

‘So what about this corp?’ demanded Henry. ‘Are we to look at her, or no?’

‘One thing,’ said Austin, ‘she’ll ha stayed this side of the Girth Burn.’

‘Who will? What are you on about now?’ demanded Henry, turning to follow Gil to the outer courtyard.

‘Annie, a course. She’ll ha stayed up here atween the two burns.’

‘How d’you make that out?’

‘They canny cross running water. Everybody kens that.’

‘That’s witches, bawheid! Annie’s no witch, just melancholy.’

There was a handful of local people in the chapel, arguing briskly about who the dead woman might be, their speculations hindered only slightly by the fact that none of them could recognise her. The bier was now attended by two of the hostel servants; a man in blue livery stood at its head and a woman in a blue gown and grey cloak knelt at the foot, her beads sliding through her fingers. Near them, leaning negligently against the chancel-screen, was Lowrie. His attention was on the arguing townsfolk, but when Gil stood aside to let the Muir brothers enter first, he straightened up, watching them approach. Gil, watching his assistant in turn, was warned by the way the younger man’s expression went blank, a fraction before Austin Muir stopped in his tracks and dropped his hat to seize his brother’s arm.

‘Henry! Is that no- Is it no-’ He swallowed, and his brother turned a furious face on him, as the group of neighbours paused to watch. ‘Aye, it is, surely!’

‘It’s no Annie, bawheid, they’ve tellt us that,’ Henry said savagely. ‘Hold your tongue, and let the rest o us decide what’s to do!’

‘No, it’s no Annie, I ken that,’ argued Austin, ‘it’s surely-It’s that- It’s awfy like-’ He took in his brother’s expression and fell silent. Henry freed himself and stepped forward to the bier, bending to look at the dead girl’s damaged face, then straightened up.

‘Never saw her afore,’ he said. ‘I’ve never a notion who she might be.’

‘And you, Austin?’ said Gil deliberately. Austin jumped, looked over his shoulder at Gil, and back at his brother.

‘I, I–I never saw her neither,’ he averred.

‘Likely she’s some hoor from away down the town, from the Gallowgate or the like,’ said Henry easily, crossing himself as he moved to join Gil. ‘Poor soul.’

‘That’s a good thought, maister,’ said one of the neighbours, a stout woman with a basket full of purchases from the market. ‘You never ken what they folks down the Gallowgate will get up to, beating lassies to death would be nothing to them.’

This met with agreement from two more of the group, but one man shook his head and the other woman present said,

‘It’s right far to carry her once she’s deid, Agnes, to bring her up here to St Mungo’s. Did the bellman no say she was bound to the Cross? Why would anyone do that?’

‘So they wouldny get the blame for it away down there, a course!’ said the basket-carrier triumphantly.

‘There, you see,’ said Henry to Gil. ‘Make sure the bellman cries her down the town, or better still carry her down there and show her, the most of them’ll not trouble themselves to come up here for a dead lassie. Likely someone down the Gallowgate’ll name her for you.’

‘But how would they do that, Henry?’ asked his brother in perplexity, ‘when they-’

‘Will you be quiet, bawheid that you are?’ demanded Henry. ‘Hold your wheesht and let those of us that can think do the thinking.’

‘No, I never met them before this,’ said Lowrie, accepting a share of bread and cheese with gratitude. ‘I doubt Austin can sign his name, let along con his books, and Henry doesny seem like a college man. Certainly he’s no Glasgow man.’

‘He never came to visit your friend Ninian when you were at the College? Ninian Boyd, I mean,’ Gil expanded, without much hope. Lowrie shook his head.