Pat McIntosh - The Counterfeit Madam

Lowrie met Gil’s eye across the chamber, but did not speak. His uncle, who had spread the contents of the leather sack out across the squared counting-cloth on a stool by the window, and was sliding the thin coins about into different groups, did not reply at first; when Otterburn repeated the question he looked up and said,

‘Aye, aye, they’ve plenty to tell me. Bide a bittie till I — ah!’ He turned a coin over and back again, tilted it to the light, and put it carefully between two others. ‘That’s it, I’d say.’ He was still turning coins over, adding them to one pile or another. ‘These are struck wi two different sets of dies, Provost.’

‘Different coiners?’ asked Otterburn. ‘Are we looking for two workshops?’

‘No, no, I’d say not, for some of them-’ he turned another coin. ‘These threepenny pieces, some of them have one pattern on the reverse and some another, but the same head on them.’

‘One die has worn out?’ Gil suggested.

‘Aye, more like.’ The man’s fingers danced over the little heaps of coin. ‘See, here we’ve this head, a good copy of the second portrait of James Third, and on the reverse a cross and four mullets, where it should be a cross wi two mullets and two pellets. Now these ones are the same, and these, save that the die’s wearing away, you can scarce see one o the mullets and the head could be Queen Margaret for all you can discern.’

‘Is it no just the coin that’s worn?’ Otterburn asked.

‘It’s no worn. It’s as thick as the others.’ Livingstone tapped the offending coin with his fingernail. ‘I’d say the die wasny steel. Maybe brass or the like, something softer any road. Now here,’ he lifted four or five coins, which slithered in his hand like fish-scales. ‘Here we’ve a fresh head, wi ringlets, which the other never had, and the worn mullet on the reverse, and here we’ve the new head and a new reverse wi all showing clear.’

‘So what does that let me know?’ Otterburn asked, peering at the late king on one of the coins. Livingstone looked blankly at him for a moment, then assembled his thoughts.

‘Well. They’ve cut a set o dies, and used them to make all these,’ he waved a hand above the greater part of the heaped coins, ‘and then when they wore out they’ve cut a new set, first the head and then the cross. I’m no sure it-’

‘Cut?’ said Gil. ‘Not cast?’

‘No, that’s likely why they’re using brass,’ Livingstone said. ‘You can engrave it, see. It’s an easier process for your counterfeiter, you just need to draw the image on the end o the die and engrave it, no need to play about wi casting in iron and impressing on steel. If you’ve a man wi a good ee and a steady hand, it’s no great trouble.’

‘How easy is it to find sic a one?’ asked Otterburn. Livingstone shrugged.

‘Easy enough. When I’d charge o the Mint for the late king I could ha laid my hand on five or six in Edinburgh, within easy walk o the Mint, and likely the same again further about the town.’

‘Gets us nowhere much,’ said Otterburn. He tossed the coin in the air, caught it on the back of his hand. ‘Heads or crosses, maister?’

‘Heads,’ said Lowrie promptly. The Provost looked at him, half-smiling, and uncovered the coin. The cross with its four mullets greeted their gaze.

‘It was never her,’ said Ealasaidh, striding down the High Street beside Gil.

‘I’m agreed,’ said Lowrie, on her other side, ‘but what makes you say that?’

Gil dragged his mind from an unsatisfactory interview with the Serjeant. The man had been at pains to tell him that the carpenters at work in Canon Aiken’s house had left no mell or other such implement lying about, something Gil should have thought to check for himself, and had made clear his expectation of getting a confession out of Forveleth before noon. Torture was a valuable method of interrogation, Gil knew, but he disliked the thought of it applied to a woman.

‘She thought it was an apoplexy. Nor she never robbed the old woman of the blue velvet purse.’

‘She could be lying,’ Gil offered.

‘She could.’ Her tone made it clear she thought it unlikely.

‘Why did she say she had seen you before?’ Lowrie asked.

‘Och, that.’ She reddened again. ‘Foolishness. There is those that see things, and it means little. What will you do now, Maister Cunningham? Who will you question next?’

‘Sempill,’ said Gil, his heart sinking at the thought. Ealasaidh snorted. ‘And I should speak to your uncle’s household again, Lowrie.’

‘That should be easy enough arranged,’ said the young man. He drew a breath and went on, rather hesitantly, ‘Maister Gil, did Dame Isabella — when she spoke wi you — did she, did she say aught about me?’

‘About you?’ Gil paused, staring at him and trying to recall the conversation he had had with the deceased. ‘No, I’d say not. Should she have?’

‘No,’ said Lowrie hastily, reddening. Gil turned to move on, but Ealasaidh took hold of his arm.

‘Is that no Maister Mason’s boy?’ she asked, craning her neck to see through the groups of people in the busy street. ‘A good laddie, that. He is seeking someone.’

‘Maister Gil!’ said Luke, dodging round a group of women with baskets, their plaids bright in a sudden blink of sunshine. ‘Mistress.’ He doffed his cap to Ealasaidh and then to Gil, acknowledged Lowrie politely and stood in front of them, catching his breath. ‘The maister said I should tell you, Maister Gil.’

‘Tell me what?’ Gil gestured down the street, and they moved on.

‘About yestreen,’ Luke said earnestly. ‘See when the mistress sent me to the ’pothecary shop, and I got a great list o things, and she bade me ask for a sweetie myself, and I had one of the marchpane cherries-’ Gil repressed a shudder. He would never feel the same about marchpane cherries since last autumn. ‘Oh, and Jennet and me took the basket to the house wi the mermaiden on the door afore I started work the day, and they were right pleased wi the gift, said how it was awfy generous o the mistress. I never saw any lassies in their stays, but,’ he added with regret.

‘Is that what you were to tell me?’ Gil prompted.

‘No, no, it was this. When I told the maister of it he said you should hear it. I was talking wi Maister Syme, see, and I mentioned how strange it was that two o that old carline’s men should ha been in his shop right at the time she was killed-’ How did the boy know that? Gil wondered. Information seemed to travel round the burgh on the wind. ‘And Maister Syme said No, no, it was just the one . And the maister said I was to let you hear it. And another thing,’ Luke went on. ‘Lady Kate sent to say she’d be glad of your company a wee while the day, one of the wee lassies has something she wants to tell you.’ He judged Gil’s expression correctly, and added, ‘The mistress bade me say she thought it was something to the point.’

‘Just the one,’ confirmed James Syme.

‘Can you describe him?’ Gil studied the apothecary across his workbench, aware of Lowrie at his side doing the same. Syme was a handsome young man with golden hair and an irritating way of speaking, as if he was confiding a secret. Married to his partner’s elder daughter, on the older man’s death he had found himself in charge of the flourishing business and was managing it well and methodically. Any observations he had made were likely to be accurate.

Now Syme set down the pestle with which he was reducing dandelion leaves to a green paste, and turned to lift a ledger from the shelf behind him. Across the shop his assistant looked up, and returned to a similar task.