Pat McIntosh - The Counterfeit Madam

‘She’s perfectly decent,’ said Alys quickly, switching to Scots as Madam Xanthe had done. ‘Cleone, I am Maister Cunningham’s wife.’

Cleone took this in, smiled broadly, and curtsied as well as she might in her abbreviated shift.

‘You sent us the sweetmeats, mem! Thank you, they were right good! C-cato was sick twice wi eating them. And the ribbons was that bonnie!’

Alys accepted this as it seemed to be intended, and said earnestly,

‘I wished to ask you something, Cleone. Do you mind how you saw Maister Cunningham struck on the head?’

A wary expression came into the blue eyes.

‘Aye.’

‘Who was it struck him?’

‘Dod Muir, like I said.’

Alys looked steadily at the other girl, while Gil considered that he had wondered about the same point. After a few moments Cleone looked down at the floor.

‘Dod Muir was shorter than my husband,’ Alys observed, ‘by a good span. He’d have had trouble reaching up to hit him on the crown of the head. And in any case, lassie, he was dead by then.’

‘Aye,’ said Cleone, ‘but I didny know that, did I?’

‘Did he shout at you?’ Alys asked with sympathy.

‘No at me, at Col. Cato,’ she corrected herself. ‘He’s no, he’s no — he’s a bit daft, Col, but he’s a good laddie, there was no need to give him a swearing just acause he got in the man’s way.’

‘I understand that,’ said Alys. ‘So who was it struck my husband?’ Cleone looked sideways at her. ‘Did you ken him? Was it a stranger, or one of the other men on the toft?’

‘It was that stranger,’ she said after a moment. ‘That one that’s aye coming about the place, and they’re all feart for.’

‘The one called Miller?’ Alys asked. Cleone shrugged, and the short shift bounced. ‘Can you tell me what the man looked like?’

Another shrug.

‘Taller than Dod Muir,’ she offered. ‘He’d a red doublet and good boots, and a blue bonnet.’

‘What colour was his plaid?’ Gil asked. Cleone smiled at him.

‘Our Lady love you, maister, he wasny wearing one.’

‘Thank you, lassie.’ Alys sat back, nodding to Madam Xanthe. ‘I’m sorry to have brought you out your bed, but that’s a useful thing you’ve told me.’

‘And more useful if you’d tellt the truth in the first place,’ said Madam Xanthe crisply. ‘Away back up the stair afore you freeze to death, you silly lassie.’ She watched the girl go, and as Agrippina settled to her packing again said, ‘And you’re saying this man Miller’s been taken? After you searched his workshop today, you’ve likely put a stop to the coining. So all’s at an end?’

‘All’s at an end,’ agreed Gil.

‘Tell me about it, my dears. You won’t mind Agrippina coming and going, will you?’

They kept the tale short, though Gil had to hear the full account of Miller’s capture, guiltily aware of a wish to display his wife’s talents before someone who could appreciate them. Madam Xanthe listened attentively, and was suitably impressed by the drop-dead trick.

‘I must keep that in mind,’ she said, and tittered. ‘Though nobody’s likely to take me hostage at knifepoint, I imagine. Well done, madame.’

She laughed aloud at their account of John Sempill’s crushed demeanour, but heard about the promises Otterburn had exacted without comment or expression.

‘Do you think Sempill will get away with a fine?’ Alys asked when they had finished. ‘He has broken the law, after all.’

‘Oh, my dear, how can I say?’ said Madam Xanthe, waving a long white hand in front of her face. ‘I’m a simple woman, I’ve no idea how the justiciars will act.’ She paused, looked from one to the other, and tittered again. ‘Do you know, you are looking at me with the same expression, both of you! Positively eerie, I assure you!’

‘Can you wonder?’ Gil said. ‘I believe no part of that statement was true.’

‘Do three negatives make a negative?’ she speculated absently. ‘So you think your case is ended, maister? The matter of Dame Isabella’s death is concluded?’

‘I think so,’ said Gil deliberately. Alys nodded.

‘So why did she die?’ The painted face altered somehow and Gil found he was looking at Sandy Boyd’s pale gaze, direct and challenging in the candlelight. Not Who killed her? he thought, but Why did she die?

‘A number of reasons,’ said Alys, ‘though the ones Maister Otterburn saw will do for the justiciars.’

‘You think so? Both of you?’

Gil exchanged a glance with his wife.

‘I think so,’ he said at length. ‘It’s clear enough how and when the old woman was killed, and Miller had reason enough and was seen approaching just afore she died. Even if he continues to deny that one he’ll certainly hang for Dod Muir, St Giles be thanked, we have witnesses enough for that.’

‘I’m right glad to hear it,’ said Boyd. ‘And you, my dear?’

Alys set down her wineglass and gathered up her skirts to rise.

‘ Mon mari a raison ,’ she said. ‘Madame, I must beg your forgiveness. It is late and I am very weary. I wish you good fortune wherever you are next, and whatever occupies you.’

‘Why, thank you.’ Madam Xanthe was back, taking Alys’s cue, rising in a crackle of taffeta. ‘And I wish you the same.’

‘And I hope,’ said Gil deliberately, ‘that you will be able to separate personal business from professional next time.’

‘But monsieur !’ The pale blue eyes met his direct, but the arch manner was more exaggerated than ever. ‘It’s so convenient when they overlap, you must see that!’

‘Oh!’ Alys paused, turning away from the door. ‘Before we go, might we look at this painted hall? I’ve heard great things of it.’

‘Oh, and so you should.’ The light laugh, the hand on Alys’s arm. ‘Come away up now, we’ll find candles and let you inspect it at your leisure. It’s caused a lot of comment among our guests,’ she confided. ‘I believe there’s nothing like it in Glasgow.’

‘Very likely,’ said Gil with emphasis.

Walking slowly down through the silent burgh, the plaid wrapped round both of them against a light drizzle which had begun while they were admiring the paintings, Alys leaned her head against Gil’s shoulder and said,

‘I should like a longer look at that house by daylight.’

He had been thinking how good it would be to fall into bed. ‘Hmm?’ he said.

‘The paintings are very good. One could put a plate-cupboard in front of the naked lady, though it would be a shame to hide the golden hair. It has how many chambers?’

‘Seven chambers, three closets, four hearths under the main roof,’ he recounted. ‘Or so Sandy said, the first time we were there.’

‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully, as they turned in at the pend which led to her father’s house. ‘Smaller than this, but a good size.’

‘A good size for what?’ he asked, with a faint feeling of alarm.

‘For us.’ She paused under the pend, the beams of his small closet over their heads. ‘This is my father’s house, Gil. You should have your own roof, and when you take an assistant you need to have room to house him.’

‘An assistant?’ he repeated in surprise, his voice rising.

‘Hush, you will wake John. Yes, you need an assistant. I’d suggest Lowrie, after today, but you will make your own decision of course.’

‘Will I?’ he said. And what was I thinking earlier about being managed? ‘He made a good impression, did he?’

‘He did. Oh, he is not you, but if you teach him he could be nearly as good as you. His manners are good, he is well read. Socrates likes him.’

‘An infallible sign of merit,’ he said, amused. She pushed him lightly.