Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

‘I’d say so,’ agreed Adam, ‘though I’ve noticed Frankie — well, enough of that.’

‘So whose was that flask?’ Alys asked. ‘One of Maister Bothwell’s, or another?’

‘We’d need to count them all afore I could tell you that,’ Adam admitted. ‘They’re each a bit different, but hardly enough to tell one on its own like that. I don’t see it could be one of ours, but I can check,’ he added.

‘Would the other mummers know where the flask came from?’ asked Morison.

Kate glanced quickly at him, and said, ‘You could speak to them in the kitchen, Gil, rather than bring them up where their fellow died. Maybe Maister Forrest would have some questions for them and all.’

Gil led Adam Forrest obediently down to the kitchen, reflecting that his sister had probably heard enough of the day’s troubles. In the big, busy room the mummers were easily picked out, two grey-faced men surrounded by most of Morison’s household, who were plying them with sympathy mixed with questions about what the Serjeant had asked them and what he would do next. Without their disguises it took Gil a little while to identify them. Then he recognized a gesture, the angle of a head, and realized that they were the two mitred characters, Judas and St Mungo, probably the senior men in the group.

‘Tammas Bowster and Willie Anderson,’ said Adam behind him. ‘Willie’s kin to the Serjeant, but I ken no ill of Tammas. He’s a glover in the Thenewgate.’

Andy Paterson looked round at this, saw them standing at the foot of the stair from the hall, and called for silence, into which Gil said politely, ‘May I come into the kitchen? My sister sent us down. I think these fellows wanted a word wi me.’

‘Aye, that we did,’ said the man who had played Judas, getting to his feet. ‘A word in private, maybe, maister?’

‘Take a light into the scullery,’ suggested Ursel the cook, a spare elderly woman in a clean apron. ‘And mind your good gown on the crocks, Maister Gil, they’re no all scoured yet.’

Perched uncomfortably on the wooden rack where the pots were dried, Gil watched the two mummers brace themselves for speech. They were both quite tall, St Mungo bearing a strong resemblance to his kinsman Serjeant Anderson, the glover leaner and younger with a confident manner which suggested he was his own master. The rushlight Adam had carried through from the kitchen showed them exchanging awkward glances.

‘It’s like this, maister,’ said the glover after a moment. ‘We’d a word among ourselves, the — ’ he checked, pulled a face and went on — ‘the five o us that’s left. Davie Bowen’s no making much sense, poor lad, he’s that stricken by his fellow being deid all in a moment like that, but the rest of us are agreed, and we put our heads thegither, and we, and we — ’

‘And we put our hands in our purses and all,’ offered Willie Anderson.

‘Quiet, Willie, let me tell it. And the thing of it is, maister, by what we’ve heard, you see into secret murders like what’s happened here for Robert Blacader, and we thought, maybe you’d consider seeing into this one for us? For it’s certain it was murder, Danny was fit and well afore the play began, and it wasny ever Nanty that done it, and we’ve — ’ Bowster dug in the breast of his leather doublet and drew out a pouch. ‘We’ve gathered a fee to you, the day’s takings and a wee bit from each of us and all. Only maybe,’ he admitted, with a deprecating look, ‘it’ll no be enough, wi you being a man of law and all.’

Taken aback, Gil stared at the two, trying to think what he should say.

‘It might no take that much doing, for a learned man like yoursel, maister,’ said Willie Anderson ingratiatingly. ‘There might be enough there in wir purse.’

‘You said you’d be taking it on anyway,’ said Adam Forrest from the shadows. ‘Did you no?’

‘I said I’d report to my lord Archbishop,’ Gil corrected. ‘It’s for him to decide whether he wants me to go into the matter.’

‘Is that right?’ said Bowster in dismay. ‘Blacader’s decision?’ The two mummers looked at one another uncertainly. Anderson recovered first.

‘If he was to decide against you,’ he suggested, ‘maybe you could just look into it a wee bittie anyway? Maybe as far as wir purse would take you?’

Gil shook his head, more in disbelief than anything else, but Adam said, ‘No harm in that, surely, Gil?’

‘If I’m to report to Robert Blacader, I need more to tell him,’ said Gil. ‘Why are all Anthony Bothwell’s friends so certain he’s innocent, for a start? And I need to know more about the play, and all the players. This is no place for — ’

‘Gil?’ The scullery door creaked open, and Alys stepped in, holding up her apricot silk skirts with one hand. ‘Gil, here is Mistress Bothwell wanting a word.’

‘Maister Cunningham?’ The woman’s voice was high with anxiety. ‘Maister, will you act for my Nanty? He’s there in the Tolbooth, John Anderson’s got him in chains, he’s as innocent as a babe of any poisoning. Will you act for him, and clear his name?’

Gil was having difficulty keeping his face straight.

He knew it was inappropriate. One man had died and another was facing torture, trial and possibly hanging. Bothwell’s friends were deeply anxious for him, his sister was almost frantic. But never before had what felt like half of Glasgow come separately and asked him to take on a case. He feared he was not concealing his amusement well; Alys had looked at him quite severely before she left for home. The remaining supplicants, meanwhile, were gazing hopefully at him by the light of the hall candles, where they had all adjourned after Mistress Bothwell’s outburst.

‘The evening’s wearing on,’ he had said when they came up the stairs. ‘Adam, if I call by the shop tomorrow, I can find out how your brother has proved the flask, and get a longer word wi you.’

‘Aye, fair enough,’ agreed Adam, ‘but I’ll wait and see Mistress Bothwell to her door, I think.’

‘No need,’ Alys had said quickly. ‘Mistress Bothwell will lie at our house tonight.’ Her eyes met Gil’s. ‘They have one servant, who sleeps out,’ she added. He nodded, with some reluctance. In her present state it was hardly right to let the woman go home alone, and though he would have preferred not to offer protection himself he would certainly lose an argument with Alys about the appearance of partiality.

‘I’m right grateful,’ admitted Mistress Bothwell, pleating up the hem of her apron between small hard hands. ‘I’d not — I canny fancy sleeping in an empty house, after sic a day.’

‘Better Maister Forrest walks us home now,’ said Alys, at which Adam made sounds of assent, ‘and my father may stay and help you talk to the mummers.’ She looked about her. ‘Take this light into the window there and I will send him to you.’

So now, seated on one of Morison’s good tapestry back-stools, he poured the men more ale, handed a beaker to his father-in-law, and said, ‘Why are you so certain it was none of Bothwell’s doing?’

They looked at one another and shook their heads.

‘Ye just canny think o Nanty doing sic a thing,’ said Anderson. ‘He’s aye that sweet-tempered, never a man to hold a grudge or, or — ’

‘He’s been good friends wi Danny Gibson,’ said Bowster. ‘Until these last two-three month when they both took a notion to the lassie Renfrew, they were scarce out of one another’s company in leisure time, for all I heard.’

‘Went drinking thegither, went out to the butts on a Sunday,’ agreed Anderson.

‘Did their being rivals for the little Agnes make a difference?’ asked Maistre Pierre. The two shook their heads again.