Pat McIntosh - The Counterfeit Madam

‘Done and dunted,’ Lowrie muttered from under the nearer settle. ‘No, maister, I see nothing that’s like to be used for the purpose that wouldny show the marks or break in two when you tried it. That pewter basin, or her jewel-box, for instance.’ He lifted the basin, looking at its unblemished base. ‘Likely he took it away wi him.’

‘Aye, that would be too easy,’ said Gil. He got to his feet and looked down at the corpse. ‘Tell me, Mistress Bowen, is this how you found her lying when you first saw her?’

She paused in her soothing of Annot, considered the body, and said,

‘Aye, more or less. Her shift was up about her hurdies, I pullt it down for decency, but I’ve heard the Serjeant on about moving a corp too often to make that mistake. As soon as I jaloused it wasny natural, I took care I never changed anything else.’

‘She’s just the way she was when I saw her,’ said Livingstone. He bit at a knuckle. ‘It was maybe no right to leave her there on the floor in her dirt, but to be honest I didny fancy handling her, the state she’s in, and anyway no sense in more of us getting fouled than need be.’ Mistress Bowen glanced at him, but said nothing. ‘Will I send the boy out to find the Serjeant, then? Is that what-?’

‘Attie’s away to find him already,’ said Lowrie, returning from the outer room.

‘And I’ll need a word with Attie when he gets back,’ said Gil, ‘with all her servants indeed, and this one in particular.’ He looked at Annot, now sobbing on Mistress Bowen’s shoulder. ‘As soon as she’s fit for it,’ he added.

‘Give her a bit longer,’ said Mistress Bowen. ‘If there’s another lassie about the place maybe she could give me a hand, we’ll get the departed made clean at least. I’ll not ask the St Agnes women, they’re full old to be heaving the likes of her around, the souls.’ She looked down at Annot and patted her back soothingly. ‘Thanks be to Our Lady, we had her shroud out of her baggage when I was first here.’

‘Then we can clean up the chamber,’ muttered Livingstone. ‘What Canon Aiken’s going to say — violent death in his house, and the state the chamber’s in, and all! But this doesny make sense, Maister Cunningham, why would an ill-tempered old attercap like her let a man close enough to drive a nail into her head?’

‘Someone she trusted,’ said his nephew, ‘someone she’d no reason to be suspicious of? Mind you, she’d suspect the Archbishop himself,’ he added.

‘It makes no sense,’ repeated Livingstone.

By the time Annot had been led away by one of the kitchen-maids for a nice sit-down and maybe a cup of buttered ale with honey in it, Gil had managed to get a good look around him.

There was a grey woollen bedgown lying on top of the counterpane, a black velvet gown with embroidered sleeves hung on a peg on the wall, more armfuls of black cloth on top of a kist must be the other garments Dame Isabella had discarded last night. A second kist had been opened, and a bundle of folded linen lay on top of the contents: the shroud Mistress Bowen had mentioned, without which no provident person would travel.

A set of rosary beads of carved ivory with jet gauds lay coiled beside a worn velvet-covered book on the prayer-desk by one of the windows. On the nearer settle a bowl of water, still faintly warm to the hand, and a pile of towels suggested the morning routine. The jewel-box Lowrie had noticed, of wood covered in leather and fastened by a stout brass strap, lay on the further settle, a silver cross on a chain dangling from beneath its lid; a close-stool covered in blue velvet to match the prayer-book stood half-hidden beyond the settle, and added its contribution to the appalling atmosphere in the room.

Livingstone, with a muttered excuse, had retreated to the outer chamber to wait for the Serjeant, but Lowrie remained, prowling about and looking awkwardly from time to time at the corpse.

‘Maybe we’ll can get her made decent,’ said Mistress Bowen, returning with a jug of water. ‘Did you see enough, maister, can I move her now?’

‘In a moment,’ Gil said. ‘I’d as soon leave her for the Serjeant to see as well. Mistress, what would you say happened here?’

‘Oh, she was at stool,’ the woman said, ‘that’s for certain. It’s all down her legs and her hose, you can see, but there’s little enough on the boards.’

He nodded. This had been his reading too.

‘What made you look for — for what you found, mistress?’ Lowrie asked suddenly. She turned to him, and her thin face softened a little.

‘Violent death’s never a bonnie sight,’ she said obliquely. ‘What made me look? The sight o her, maister. Her eyes starting out like that, the blood at her nose, yet her face is pale and there’s no other signs o an apoplexy. I mind my mother, that had the same calling, telling me the tale o just such a death she attended, oh,’ she paused to reckon, ‘forty year syne or more. Only there the nail was easier to find, not being driv’ home the same way.’

‘I never heard that tale,’ Gil said. And what other stories would a layer-out have to tell, he wondered.

‘Aye, well, you wouldny. My mother never tellt any but me. The corp was a foul-tempered fellow, she said, and had broke all his wife’s limbs in turn and started on his daughters.’ She closed her mouth firmly on that subject and turned to the corpse. ‘I’d as soon tend to her now, maister, never mind waiting for Serjeant Anderson. I’ve one of the kitchen lassies out-by, ready to give a hand.’

‘Not just yet,’ said Gil. ‘I’m still trying to work this out. She was seated over yonder, then,’ he nodded towards the close-stool, ‘and someone struck a nail into her ear.’ He drew back the cloth and considered the black dot of the nail-head again, and put his fingers to his own ear to match the place. ‘He must have moved fast, to strike home before she was aware of it. Or she,’ he added scrupulously.

‘If the stool’s not been moved,’ said Lowrie.

‘No by me,’ said Mistress Bowen.

‘It’s where I last saw it,’ the young man agreed. ‘Then someone could have approached her round the settle, whichever way she was facing.’

‘Someone she knew,’ said Gil, ‘someone she trusted, someone she’d no objection to having in the chamber while she was occupied like that.’

‘Anyone in the house, then,’ said Lowrie. ‘Not that she trusted any of us, as I said, but she’d summon any or all and sit there enthroned, giving out her orders for the day. Her women, her grooms, me or my uncle.’

‘Well, they aye say the wealthy has no need of good manners,’ said Mistress Bowen disapprovingly.

‘At that rate, mistress, Isabella Torrance could ha bought and sold Scotland,’ said Lowrie.

‘So how did she come to be lying here?’ wondered Gil. ‘Did she move herself?’

‘Maybe it didn’t kill her immediately,’ said Lowrie slowly. ‘Head wounds are orra things, I know that.’

‘It’s possible. I’ve seen stranger,’ said Mistress Bowen.

Gil looked down at the sprawled figure, half on its side, plump limbs part-flexed.

‘Aye, I suppose. She rose up and came forward-’

‘Maybe she thought to go after whoever it was as they left.’ Lowrie was prowling round the bed, and now leaned forward to sniff cautiously at its woodwork. ‘I’d say she’s laid her hand to this end panel, maybe to steady herself.’ He turned to open the shutters of the window over the prayer-desk, doubling the light that fell on the area he indicated. ‘Aye, it’s smeared like her shift.’

‘Her hands are foul.’ Gil considered this. ‘And then she collapsed where we see her. That would work. She looks as if she fell rather than being carried or dragged.’