Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

‘My hands.’ Nicol studied his, palm and back. ‘Well, well. Now Frankie’s hands I’d accept gladly, for he’s right defty, whatever his other faults.’ He looked at his hands again, right and left, rubbing at the nails with his thumbs, and then earnestly at Maistre Pierre. ‘You’ve given me a thing to think on, maister.’

‘I never heard the tale either,’ said Gil as they made their way back across the bridge. ‘I suppose as a boy I’d have no interest in such matters, and likely Renfrew kept it quiet enough at the time.’

‘Likely,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘But to raise a lad in the thought that he was some other man’s son, with evidence like that before him — my opinion of Renfrew is diminishing daily.’

‘You’ve given Nicol something to think about, as he said.’ They had left him with a fresh jug of ale at his elbow, considering his hands by Maggie Bell’s rushlights as if he had never seen them before.

Maistre Pierre shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, it can have nothing to do with Danny Gibson’s death. What did Mistress Bell have to say?’

‘Nothing new.’ Gil paused to peer over the parapet at the river muttering past the stonework of the great pillars. ‘She has a good memory. How long since we were there last? Eighteen month? Yes, it was May of last year, when we — just before you took on young John. She recalled my name, and asked after Nan Thomson’s daughter, who I think is wedded to some Dumbarton tradesman by now, so I have every hope that she’s right when she says Danny drank there regularly, never caused trouble and had no arguments with anyone. A likeable lad, she said, and would be sore missed.’

‘Well,’ said Maistre Pierre after a moment. ‘It had to be checked.’

‘It had to be checked. No, this that Nicol had to say about the flask is of more use. I think I have to stop procrastinating and beard his father in his workshop.’

‘Hmm.’ His companion leaned on the parapet beside him, considering the water below them. The Clyde was shallow here, running over sandbanks and around small islets, but occasional deeper pools showed dark brown in the yellowing late afternoon sunlight. Autumn-brown leaves from the trees further up the river bobbed on the current. After a moment Maistre Pierre said, ‘It was an accident.’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Who do you suppose is the intended target?’

‘The man himself, I’d have thought, as our friend said,’ said Gil, suddenly conscious that people were trudging past them up the slope of the bridge. ‘He’s the likeliest target in the house, I’d have said. Unless …’

‘Unless?’

‘Unless he prepared the stuff himself to deal with either his son or his wife.’

‘If they all dislike one another as much as the son suggests,’ said Maistre Pierre with distaste, ‘surely it could be intended by any one of the household for any other.’

‘The sister — the elder daughter — gave me the same impression,’ Gil said absently. ‘And she also made it clear any of them would be able to prepare the stuff. It was from her I got the idea our friend yonder might have recognized the flask, and she was right in that.’

‘Well.’ Maistre Pierre straightened up. ‘As you say. If the father is the target we must warn him, and if instead he is the poisoner, then by warning him we may save someone’s life. Let us do it now.’

They walked on in silence down the northward slope of the bridge and into the town, through the bustle of the Fishergate and Thenewgate preparing for darkness, shopkeepers bringing in goods which had been laid out for sale, a baker crying the last of his wares before the day’s end, an alewife overseeing the transfer of a large barrel from her brewhouse to the alehouse across the street. Two of the burgh’s ale-conners lurched past them after a good day’s work as they reached the Burgh Cross, and the Serjeant proceeded majestically down the Tolbooth stair. Gil hardly noticed them; he was considering the information he had, trying to construct a complete image from it. He felt there was still some vital piece missing, or perhaps more than one. It might help if he knew what the poison was; he wondered whether the Forrest brothers had learned anything useful.

‘Do you know what ails Alys?’ said Maistre Pierre suddenly.

‘What ails — no,’ said Gil, surfacing with difficulty. ‘That is, yes, in general,’ he amended, ‘though I don’t understand why it matters so much to her. Just now in particular it’s likely Meg Renfrew’s baby.’

‘I suppose. But our friend yonder thought she had had a fright.’

‘Yes,’ said Gil. ‘I am concerned. I’ll go home as soon as we’ve spoken to Maister Renfrew.’

‘I never thought you indifferent,’ said Alys’s father unconvincingly. ‘But so few things frighten her, I am puzzled.’

‘So am I,’ said Gil. He looked about him, and realized that they were before Renfrew’s door. ‘Sweet St Giles, the gossip-ale is skailing.’

It was indeed. The pend which led to the house door was full of hilarious women, clinging to one another and shrieking at some joke which Gil felt it was as well he had not heard. Two of them were supporting Agnes Hamilton, no easy task at the best of times, and calling for her servants to be sent for. Someone else, her headdress slipped forward over her face, was sitting on the doorstep alternately demanding lights and singing raucously about a hurcheon.

‘ Meet we your maidens all in array, with silver pins and virgin lay ,’ Gil said, with irony. He took a pace backwards, and exchanged a glance with the mason; as one they turned and made for the shop doorway.

Inside, James Syme and young Robert Renfrew started nervously at the jingling of the bells on the door, then relaxed as they saw two men entering. Robert stepped forward with an automatic smile, saying, ‘And how may I help you, sirs? We’ve apple-cheese the now, just new in. Were you wanting my faither?’ he went on, the smile diminishing as he recognized them. ‘Just he’s a wee bit taigled just now. Was it to offer good wishes for the bairn, or —?’

‘I can imagine he is,’ said Gil, ‘but I’d like a word just the same. We’ve learned a bit more about what happened yesterday, and I’d like his opinion of the matter.’

‘He’s in the house,’ Syme informed them as Robert returned to his position at the counter and helped himself to some sweetmeat from under the counter. ‘Maybe you’d have a seat till the passage is free?’ He inclined his head towards the other door, through which more shrieking laughter reached them. ‘It might be easier.’

‘Much easier,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘We’ll wait,’ agreed Gil.

‘Robert, is there a seat for the gentry?’

‘Yonder,’ said Robert unhelpfully, pointing. Syme tightened his lips, but brought two stools forward and seated them politely.

‘A bad business, yesterday,’ he said. ‘Has Wat found what the poison might be? He’s never sent word here, if so.’

‘I’ve heard nothing either,’ Gil said. ‘Is your sister Agnes still shut in her chamber, Robert?’

‘Likely,’ said Robert indifferently. He reached under the counter and brought out another sweetmeat, which he popped into his mouth. He did not offer to share the supply.

‘The lassie was quite overset,’ confided Syme unnecessarily. ‘It’s no wonder if she’s shut herself away. She’s young yet, and still inclined to be foolish, no like my wife.’

‘Hah!’ said Robert explosively, but did not elaborate. Gil eyed Syme speculatively, thinking that the man seemed to hold Eleanor in more regard than she did him.

‘I’d a word with Mistress Eleanor earlier,’ he said. ‘She tells me she and Agnes and your good-sister do a lot of the stillroom work for the business.’