Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

‘No, for I don’t know what she meant by saying she’d saved the play.’ There was no answer. ‘What had she to do with the play?’

‘Nothing,’ said Bothwell firmly. ‘Ask her. Ask her faither. Do you think Frankie Bothwell would ever let his lassie near a company of mummers?’

‘Right,’ said Gil, rising. He kicked the door and shouted loudly for the Serjeant. ‘I’ll do just that, man, for if you’ll not help me to the truth I’ll get there another way.’

Below the painted sign depicting a marble mortar and pestle a crowd was gathered about the door of the Both-wells’ booth. Its demeanour seemed to be peaceful, but Gil hastened his stride along the side of the Tolbooth, past the other small booths and stalls with their array of enticing wares spread out in the chilly sunshine.

‘No need to hurry,’ said the capper from his doorway, knitting-wires unheeded in his hand. ‘They’ll be there a while yet.’ Gil checked to look at the man, who went on, ‘I canny interest you in a good new bonnet, maister? No, I thought not. Trade’s been as quiet the day so far, they’re all along by Christian’s door trying to hear what’s to do wi her brother.’

‘I’d like to know the same,’ said Gil, rather grimly. The capper threw him a jaded look and ducked back into his booth, taking up his thread of wool again.

Christian Bothwell was behind the counter in the booth, dispensing packets of herbs and folded papers of pills, a snippet of news or thanks for a word of sympathy along with each. To his surprise Gil recognized his wife beside her, neat this morning in her everyday blue gown and plain black silk hood, taking the money and counting the change as if she had done it all her life. He managed to catch her eye over the heads of the crowd, and she smiled at him, spoke quietly to Mistress Bothwell, but made no effort to leave. With some trouble he elbowed his way to the front, and the two women finished the transaction they were occupied with and turned to him.

‘So did you get a word wi Nanty, sir?’ asked Mistress Bothwell.

‘I did. He’s not saying much.’

‘Pennyworth of treacle, lass, and I’ve my own pig here,’ said a stout woman, elbowing him aside and thumping a pottery jar down on the counter. ‘That’s a terrible thing about your brother, and all.’

‘Is it the shock, maybe?’ Mistress Bothwell said to Gil, smiling automatically at the woman and passing the pottery pig to Alys.

‘I’d say not.’ Gil looked round at the crowd, nodded to an acquaintance, and resisted the attempts of another woman with a basket of strong cheese to push past him to the counter. ‘I need to get a word wi you, mistress. There’s a few things you could tell me.’

Alys was already lifting the money-box away into the booth, and Mistress Bothwell reached for the ropes that held the counter in place.

‘Get round to the door and I’ll let you in,’ she said. ‘Forgive me, neighbours, I need a word wi this man of law, you’ll agree Nanty needs all the help he can get the now. I’ll open the shutters again in half an hour,’ she promised. ‘Your pig’ll likely take that time to fill, the treacle runs that slow this weather, Maggie.’

There were some groans, and a few disgruntled comments, but the woman with the cheese seemed to speak for most when she said, ‘Aye, Christian, take all the advice you can get. Is that no the man that got Maister Morison let off when he found a heid in a barrel?’

Inside the booth, with the shutter closed and the door latched again, it was nearly dark. Alys materialized at his side in the shadows, tucked her hand in his, and said, ‘Will he not answer your questions?’

‘He’ll tell me nothing about the item he had,’ Gil said quietly, well aware that they were far from private. ‘Nor how it came to be in his scrip instead of the other. Can you shed any light, mistress?’

‘No,’ said Mistress Bothwell from across the little space. ‘I found the pewter one in here when I lifted the counter to close up, the way I said, long after he’d left to gather wi his friends. The wee filler was there wi it, I thought like as not he’d been mixing a fresh batch of the smoking potion and filling it into the flask and maybe been interrupted by a customer and put the whole thing under the counter out the way.’

‘That sounds reasonable,’ Gil agreed. ‘But the other. Where did he get that, and when did it come by its fill of poison? Is it one of your own?’

‘One of ours? It might be.’ By her voice she was thinking carefully. ‘Frankie Renfrew would have us take a half-dozen out of a shipment he had from Araby, and I’ve no recollection we’ve used any of them. We don’t trade wi the luxury end of the market, maister. They should all still be in their straw wrappings in the basket where I stowed them.’

‘And where would that be?’ he asked.

She laughed abruptly. ‘A good question.’

‘They are not here, are they?’ said Alys. ‘Could they be in your house?’

‘Aye, very like. I’ll tak a look if it’s important, maister.’

‘I think it is important,’ said Gil patiently. ‘We need to find out where it came from and how it came to be in his scrip with poison in it, and if your brother won’t tell us we have to find out another way.’

‘But why won’t he say? That’s madness, if it’s sic an important matter. It wasn’t just us that had some,’ she said, still thinking it out. ‘Frankie ordered six dozen, I think he said, and five of them was broken or chipped past using for the business. We took a half-dozen, Wat and Adam had a dozen, so Frankie must ha had near fifty. Even Frankie Renfrew isn’t going to trade fifty flasks like that in a year.’

‘But why would either the Forrests or Maister Renfrew wish to do you such an ill turn?’ Alys asked.

‘It might not be Frankie himsel.’

‘Mistress Hislop is to check that all theirs are accounted for,’ Gil said.

‘Barbara’s a good lass. You’ll can trust what she says.’

But can I? Gil wondered. Beside him, Alys said:

‘Might my husband go by your house just now and ask your servant to look for the basket? Would it be easy for her to find?’

‘No,’ Mistress Bothwell said bluntly. ‘I stowed it out of her way. She’s a capable woman, but she’s right clumsy. I’ll not have her crashing about in my workroom. I tell you what, maister, if you would wait while I go home the now, seeing you’re in a hurry, I could fetch out the basket and bring Leezie back wi me to gie me a hand here while I’m about it.’

‘I could come with you,’ said Alys hopefully. ‘Gil can guard the booth on his own, I am sure.’

‘If you’re doing that,’ said Gil, ‘leave me a light of some sort.’

Maister Goudie’s shop along the Thenewgate was also beset by a number of lads and men old enough to know better, who were hanging about the door in the hope of setting eyes on the surviving journeyman. When Gil stepped into the shop an older man looked up from his work on a ball-ended dagger, perhaps thinking that here was a genuine customer. Through the window behind him the two apprentices were visible in the yard behind the shop, at their endless task of rottenstoning the plate mail. There was no sign of Davie Bowen, but Goudie appeared from the drawing-shop to one side, ducking past the leather curtain, slate and pencil in hand and spectacles on nose.

‘And how can we help you, Maister Cunningham?’ he asked. ‘A new dagger, is it, or a helm? Or I’ve a bonnie back-and-wame would just about suit you, all of new plate and just a wee bit chasing on the breast — ’

‘I’m not buying today,’ Gil said regretfully. ‘Maybe at the quarter-day. I just stepped by to condole with you after yesterday.’