Pat McIntosh - The Counterfeit Madam

‘John.’

‘You might,’ continued Otterburn, ‘get off wi a great fine, but that’s no for me to decide. So I need you where the justiciars can see you, man. Will you swear, or will you spend the night below here along wi the man Miller?’

‘Your word, John,’ Lady Magdalen prompted gently. He threw her a sulky look and mumbled something. Otter-burn, clearly deciding to make do with what he could get, nodded and rose to his feet.

‘I’ll get a couple o the men to see you home,’ he said. ‘And my thanks, madam.’

‘I’m feared I canny return the compliment, Provost,’ she said. ‘You’ve left me wi a deal to think about, and the most o it unwelcome. But I’m grateful that you’ve uncovered the reasons for my godmother’s death, you can believe that.’ She held out her hand to Sempill, and he leapt up hastily to assist her to her feet. ‘Bid you good night, Alys, maisters.’

At the foot of the stair, watching the other couple disappear under the gatehouse arch with two sleepy men-at-arms behind them, Gil remarked,

‘D’you think they’ll sleep, either of them?’

‘He’s got a curtain lecture like none other waiting for him, I’d say,’ said Otterburn. ‘What a woman. But you’re right, maister, she’ll no want to come before the justiciars, they’ll discern more than she’d wish for.’

‘She makes no attempt to conceal it,’ said Alys, leaning against Gil. He looked down at her, full of pride and a sudden compunction. Socrates yawned hugely beside her.

‘I ought to take you home,’ he said. ‘I should never have let you stay the now.’

‘I wanted to stay,’ she pointed out.

‘No, no, it was a good help having her here,’ said Otterburn, ‘but you should get her home to her bed now. I dare say the two of you have as much to talk o as that pair that’s just left. I’ll get a couple more men out to get you down the High Street.’

‘We’ll manage fine,’ said Gil. ‘I’ve the woman that took the man Miller to protect me, after all.’

Out in the silent street, making their way round to the High Cross, Alys said,

‘What will you do now?’

‘Do?’ he said, startled. ‘I’ve a disposition to scribe for Monday, likely I can get time at that tomorrow.’

‘No, now.’

‘Get you to bed, madam wife. You can tell me in the morning how you guessed it was a silver mine in Strathblane.’

‘Is that all?’

He finally recognized the drift of her questions. ‘Why, what do you want to do?’

‘I thought,’ she said diffidently, ‘that Madam Xanthe might wish to know what happened today.’

‘Madam Xanthe?’ He stopped, and swung her round, holding the lantern higher to see her face. The dog came back from his scrutiny of the Girth Cross, looking up at them curiously. ‘Are you sending me out to the whorehouse, after a day like this?’

Her quick smile flickered.

‘Not sending,’ she said. He waited. ‘I thought you might take me?’

He suppressed a crack of laughter, and hugged her close, thinking yet again how fortunate he was in this woman.

‘I see what it is,’ he said. ‘You want to inspect these naughty paintings.’

‘That too,’ she said against his chest. ‘But I should borrow your plaid, this riding-dress is all too conspicuous.’

He unfolded it and shook it out, swinging it round her. It was a full-sized man’s plaid, two ells long by the full one-and-a-half wide; the pattern was a dark check in the natural greys and browns of the wool, and in this light it disappeared altogether, making her nearly invisible, a patch of shadow crowned by a jaunty hat like a man’s.

‘If anyone sees us, they’ll just think I’m selling you into the place,’ he said, and she giggled.

The House of the Mermaiden was quieter than Gil expected. It could hardly be midnight, but the hall windows were dark. He held the lantern low so they could pick their way round the side of the house, past the kitchen where snores issued through the shutters, to the back door. The window beside it showed light, and quiet voices spoke inside. Gil tapped on the shutter, and they stopped.

‘Who’s there?’ said someone sharply.

He spoke his name. There was an exclamation, quick footsteps, a heavy rattle and thump as the door was unbarred. Light spilled out past the plant-tubs, over the cobbles. Socrates padded forward, tail waving.

‘Gil? No, who’s that wi you? We’re closed this evening, sir-’

‘No matter,’ said Alys in French. ‘I’ve wanted to meet you.’ She curtsied full in the candlelight, and Madam Xanthe laughed, and replied in the same language.

‘And I to meet you, madame. Come away in! You’ll take a glass of wine?’

The wine was the same rich, fruit-tasting stuff as before, but everything else was different. The little panelled chamber where he had been dried and fed cordial and soup was almost bare, the padded bench and a few stools standing forlornly amid a sea of kists and boxes, and the woman Agrippina was kneeling before another, trying to fasten the straps.

‘You’re packing,’ Gil stated.

‘Such penetrating observation, I see how you’re made Blacader’s quaestor,’ said Madam Xanthe. ‘Your health, madame. You can see, you’ve caught us just in time. The wagons are ordered for first light.’

‘A moonlight flitting?’ Gil challenged.

‘Oh, I’ve paid the rent to the end of the quarter, no doubt o that. But we’re done here in Glasgow. Anyway this is the last o this barrel, I could never stay longer.’ She lifted the jug and topped up their glasses again.

‘Where are you off to?’

She gave him that arch smile.

‘Who can say, maister? Where my fancy takes me, wherever the oxen stop like St Serf’s wagon, somewhere there’s need of my talents?’

‘I can’t imagine where that could be. And the lassies?’

‘Nor can I, sir. Oh, the lassies? The most of them’s bound for Edinburgh, for their talents are certainly wasted here, but Cleone and Cato are going to her granny’s house in Renfrew.’

‘Are they left yet?’ Alys asked quickly. ‘There was something I wished to ask Cleone.’

Madam Xanthe tilted her head to look at her. ‘Did you so? Is that what brings you visiting?’

‘No, merely a distraction. I wished to thank you for your help to my husband,’ said Alys, smiling into the painted face. ‘And we have just come from the Castle, and a long talk with John Sempill and his wife.’

‘A pleasant evening that would be, certainly,’ said Madam Xanthe, her gaze sharpening. ‘As to the other, you thanked us well enough with the basket of sweetmeats. That was a kind thought, and well received. Agrippina, would you go up and see if Cleone is still awake? And how is the charming John?’ she went on as the woman rose, lifted a candle and left quietly.

‘Chastened,’ said Gil. The fine eyebrows rose.

‘What, by your doing?’

‘Mostly Alys’s, I should say. She and young Lowrie found the source of the silver today, out in Strathblane, and the surviving miner claims it was Sempill brought them over to Scotland. Then they captured the man Miller, who seems to have killed the other two miners, and found the renowned blue velvet purse on him.’

Madam Xanthe’s gaze dropped to her fingernails.

‘Dame Isabella’s purse?’

‘The same,’ agreed Alys, ‘or so we assume. The Provost will get it identified in the morning.’

‘Well, well. And what does he conclude from that?’

‘That the man Miller killed Dame Isabella,’ said Gil.

‘Ah!’ She sat back, then turned her head as Agrippina returned, with a blinking Cleone in her wake. ‘Och, you silly lassie, could you not have covered yourself decent?’