Pat McIntosh - The Counterfeit Madam

‘You mean she gave him it?’ Lowrie said. ‘But in that case, was it him killed her?’

‘Forveleth said,’ she recalled slowly, ‘the old dame said to her, Here’s that Campbell coming down the street and another wi him, and then she said, Hand me the blue purse out my kist and get out o here . So it would fit. But why did he kill her? Who is he?’ She knelt beside Lowrie, looking at his tablets without seeing them. ‘Who is involved in this anyway? Your man Attie, the other servants, I take it he’s none of those.’ He nodded agreement, a gleam of humour in his expression. ‘The folk from Clerk’s Land. Madam Xanthe and her girls. Forgive me,’ she said briefly as a wave of scarlet swept up his brow. ‘Useless to pretend such places don’t exist. What other names do we have?’

‘Dusty,’ said Lowrie suddenly. ‘The man Miller, the one the little girls saw.’

‘Of course, the one who dwells down the Gallowgate. Have you set eyes on him?’ He shook his head. ‘Nor has Gil. I can think of no others, apart from folk like yourself, or Maister Syme, or Kate’s lassies.’ She sat back on her heels and looked triumphantly at him. ‘Well, I think we have a surname and a by-name for this man, though we still do not know why he killed Dame Isabella.’

‘Sempill of Muirend will be disappointed,’ he said after a moment. ‘I think he’s looking forward to a hanging.’

By the time they rode back into Glasgow in the twilight, Alys was bone-weary.

Sempill of Muirend had indeed been disappointed. His reaction, in fact, put her in mind of small John denied a sweetmeat, involving as it did red-faced shouting, stamping and finally a prolonged sulk. She found herself wondering how Lady Magdalen dealt with these episodes: did she use one of the remedies which were so effective with a small boy? The adult was less easily distracted, could not be smacked and put to bed, and would not be reasoned with. Finally Philip Sempill took his cousin on one side and talked to him quietly and forcefully, then returned with a curt,

‘Get him on a horse, then.’

There was still some delay. Decisions had to be made, and Frank’s slashed arm to be bound up. Sir Richie was persuaded to allow the two dead miners to lie in St Machan’s overnight, arrangements made for their burial on Monday, for the boy Berthold to be present (‘My father will see to that,’ said Alys confidently) and for one of Sempill’s men to ride down Strathblane to spread the word that the demons were vanquished and proved to be no more than flesh and blood.

‘Though whether they’ll believe it,’ said Sir Richie dubiously, ‘I couldny say. They’re fond o a good story, see, and demons make a better tale than miners.’

The remaining horses were untied and led out to graze and find water before the ride back, and at Lowrie’s suggestion, several of the men went up the glen to dismantle the miners’ shelter and pack their belongings into the hides which had covered it, bringing them back to stow in St Machan’s safe from further pilfering.

‘It belongs to the boy,’ he said, ‘and if he gets away after all this, he’ll ha need of it.’

Alys, who had been hoping nobody else would recognize Berthold’s criminal status, said nothing and Berthold himself, shown the bundles as they were hoisted into the loft, merely nodded. He seemed to have retreated into a distant, silent place; Alys thought he was probably hungry, but she did not wish to mention it in front of Sir Richie, who could hardly feed all of them.

The prisoner himself, tethered to the great ring handle of the church door, watched all with a sour expression. He still denied everything, refused to account for his presence in the glen, and claimed he had never seen the two dead men before.

‘He touched them willingly enough,’ said Lowrie. ‘It might be true.’

‘Not everyone holds by the belief,’ Alys said.

‘Aye, but it’s more often scholars, folk that’s been to college, that accept that the dead are dead. This fellow looks far more like to believe they’ll sit up and accuse him, or bleed when he touches them, or the like.’

‘He reacted to the name,’ she said, snapping her fingers for the dog.

‘Maybe.’

Addressed as Miller from across the little church, the prisoner had frozen briefly, but made no other sign, and refused to answer when asked if that was his name, even when encouraged by Sempill’s boot and fist. Since the man was obviously a quick thinker, Alys was inclined to take this as proof; the others were less convinced. The blue velvet purse had elicited even less response, although John Sempill had exploded in righteous indignation when he understood what it was, and had to be restrained.

Finally, the prisoner tied on Alys’s horse, Alys herself put up behind Lowrie, the boy Berthold perched in front of Tam, they set off. They made a good pace down the valley, hoping to reach the better road before the light began to fade. John Sempill was still deep in his sulk, but Philip brought his horse alongside Lowrie’s and said,

‘Do we take him to the Tolbooth, or to the Castle?’

‘The Castle,’ said Alys promptly. ‘The Provost is more like to accept him without arguing. He has the better instruments of interrogation, too,’ she added, glancing at John Sempill’s hunched back. Philip followed her look, and grinned.

‘A good argument,’ he agreed. ‘Do you think we’ve found the man that killed Dame Isabella?’

‘He denies it,’ said Lowrie. ‘He denies knowing her.’

‘Otterburn will sort that,’ said Philip confidently.

‘I don’t see why else he would have the purse,’ said Alys. ‘We know,’ she paused, assembling an accurate statement, ‘we know that Dame Isabella saw two men from her window, one called Campbell and another, and asked for the blue purse and dismissed her waiting-woman. Now we have the purse, and a man she might not have known. It fits, but not inarguably, I suppose.’

‘He might have stolen it from someone else,’ Lowrie agreed, as Philip looked surprised. ‘Or been given it, or even had it from the miners before he killed them.’

‘I never thought of that,’ said Alys.

They pressed on, passing little knots of cattle being driven home for the night, sleepy herd-laddies trudging behind them. Socrates ignored their dogs with a lofty air. Alys clung to Lowrie’s waist and considered the day. It seemed to her to have been extremely successful; she had achieved what she set out to do in this country of strange adventures, and more besides. But where had the blue purse come from? Why would Miller, if he was Miller, kill Dame Isabella?

Where the Glazert met the Kelvin, turning towards Glasgow, Lowrie and Philip Sempill consulted briefly and ordered more speed. There was little more traffic than there had been in Strathblane. The carts had found their destination or settled down somewhere for the night; they passed a few groups of riders, occasional people on foot, most with curious looks for the cavalcade. Ten riders at a fast trot through the spring twilight, thought Alys, one of them stripped to his shirt, can hardly be an everyday sight. She clung tighter to Lowrie, her teeth rattling.

At the Stablegreen Port the guards had heard them coming, and were waiting to swing the heavy gate across the way behind them in the very last of the light. Lowrie called his thanks, but John Sempill suddenly roused himself to say,

‘Right, Livingstone, you can tell the Provost I’ll be at home if he wants me, and you two wi me,’ he flung over his shoulder at his two men. ‘Philip, what are you doing?’

‘I’m for the Castle,’ said his cousin. ‘They’ll be glad of the extra hands, I’d think, to get this fellow into custody.’