Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

‘That’s true,’ admitted Syme. ‘That’s very true. We’ve been able to expand the range, what’s more, since our good-sister came home. She has a few strange receipts from some learned Saracen she met in the Low Countries. Her rose comfits sell well, they’re not quite like any — ’

He was interrupted. The cacophony beyond the house door had been reducing as the good ladies of the High Street made their way out to go home, but suddenly a new, shrill, perfectly sober voice burst on their ears.

‘Do you believe my daughter now, Frankie Renfrew?’

‘Aye, I’ll believe her.’ That was certainly Maister Renfrew. ‘The bairn’s a Renfrew right enough. She’s the image of Agnes and Robert when they were born.’

‘Are you no to apologize, then?’

Syme rose, turning towards the door as if to cover it, stop the exchange somehow. Gil moved to look out of the green window at the wriggling shapes moving in the street.

‘Apologize? What way would I apologize? It’s your daughter should apologize to me, woman, forever leading me to think other.’

‘Just because Sibella Bairdie played you false, man, doesny mean all women’s to be tarred from the same pot. My Meg’s an honest wife, and you’ll treat her that way from now on, or I’ll have your hide for cushions, maister potyngar. And just you mind that.’

‘Oh, aye, I’ll mind it.’ The latch rattled, the door opened, Maister Renfrew stepped through into the shop, saying over his shoulder, ‘And maybe you’ll mind that this is my house, woman, and treat me wi civility.’

‘Aye, when you’re civil to my lassie!’

Renfrew shut the door on this retort, snarling, then caught sight of Gil and stiffened.

‘Oh, you’re back, are you?’ he said. ‘Were you wanting something?’

‘We are come to wish good fortune to the bairn,’ said Maistre Pierre hastily. ‘Are both mother and babe well?’

‘Oh, aye, well enough.’ Renfrew pushed his felt hat forward, scratched the back of his head, and sighed deeply. ‘I was a fool to marry again. I wish I hadny thought of it now.’

‘Me too,’ muttered Robert.

His father looked sharply at him, but Syme broke in, smiling, ‘Admit it, Frankie, there’s advantages to being a married man.’

‘Might we have a word, Maister Renfrew?’ said Gil.

‘What about? If it’s the poison Bothwell used, these two had as well hear it, it’s of as much interest to them as to me.’

‘Not entirely,’ said Gil. ‘In your workroom, maybe?’

Renfrew unlocked the workroom and led them in. Gil looked round again, admiring the long scrubbed bench below the window, light even this late in the day. There must be room for more than one person to work at a time.

‘All the potyngary work happens here?’ he said.

‘Aye, it does. What’s this about, maister? I’ve all to see to, and the bairn’s godparents to choose.’

‘Syme and his wife and your good-daughter,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘There, it is simple. Frankie, we are concerned for you.’ Renfrew frowned enquiringly at him. ‘We think that the flask that held the poison was one of those which should hold some drops which you take — ’

‘What? Havers, man, it was one of Bothwell’s own — ’

‘No, sir,’ said Gil patiently, ‘we are quite certain all Bothwell’s are accounted for, and so are those Forrest had. We should check what you’ve given out already,’ he added, with little hope, ‘in case it was one of those, stolen from whoever you sold it to, but we are quite certain it was — ’

‘Rubbish!’ exploded Renfrew. ‘How would he get hold of it? I never heard such nonsense. My workroom’s locked, the supply of flasks is still in the barrel there in the corner, all in their straw, and the spare ones Grace makes up for me are here — ’ He turned to the shelves beside him, and patted a small, expensive sample of the cabinetmaker’s craft. ‘In this cabinet.’

‘How many flasks do you use?’ Gil asked.

‘I keep three for the drops. Grace fills the three at a time, and puts them by here for me, and when I empty one, as I did this morn, I pass it to her. Then when I get to the third one she makes up a fresh batch.’

Gil frowned, working this out. Something did not tally.

‘You leave it all to your good-daughter?’ asked Maistre Pierre curiously.

Renfrew shrugged. ‘I can trust her well enough wi that. The receipt’s clear, she’s capable of following it right, and it makes her feel useful forbye. I maybe need to bid her strengthen it,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘I feel as if the humours are unbalanced again the day.’

‘Much has happened in the day,’ observed Maistre Pierre.

‘I’d have thought she was useful for more than that,’ said Gil. ‘She seems both skilled and competent.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Renfrew, with a sudden bark of laughter. ‘You’d be surprised. Aye, she’s a useful lassie, particular at making apple-cheese. I canny interest you in a box? Anyway, maister, the spare flasks,’ he picked open one of the many little doors in the cabinet, ‘would be with Grace, lying empty and waiting to be filled, or else here for my use. So it canny have been one of mine that Bothwell had, and when I think of the help I’ve given that lad, the advice and the stores I’ve put in his way, it fair makes my blood boil that he should misuse the craft that way.’

The doors of the cabinet bore labels with writing on them. Gil bent and looked closely, but found the words much abbreviated. Absint., Tanac., Alc. mol. , he read. The open cavity was unlabelled and empty; there were stains on the light wood which smelled vaguely herbal, though the cabinet and the whole chamber smelled so strongly of spices and drugs it was hard to identify one odour. Maister Renfrew, appealed to, agreed that it was the same way as his drops smelled.

‘The last two or three you finished,’ said Gil, ‘did you give them to Mistress Grace yourself?’

‘Oh, likely. Or I’d gie them to Frankie or to Robert to pass on to her. So it gets to her, it’s no great matter.’

‘But none has been missed?’

‘And the one in your purse now, Frankie?’ asked Maistre Pierre across the denial.

‘It’s the right stuff,’ Renfrew said irritably. ‘I lifted it this morning and I’ve had two or three doses in the day. I ken my own receipt. What are you trying to show, Peter? Are you suspicioning Bothwell intended to leave it here for me?’

‘Not Bothwell necessarily,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘but we have wondered if it was intended for you.’

Renfrew stared at him, then laughed again.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I’ll not entertain it. That’s a daft idea. Besides, there’s nothing goes on in my workroom that I’m not in control of.’ He closed the little door, and looked at them curiously. ‘You’re serious in this, aren’t you, Peter?’

‘We are,’ said Gil. ‘Is there anyone in the house capable of brewing up such a poison?’

Renfrew shrugged. ‘Robert and James and me, we’re all busy at sic things from time to time. Nicol likely could and all, daftheid though he is, I trained him well. So aye, any of us, maister. But as I said, there’s naught occurs in my workroom but I’m in charge of it, whoever’s handling the bellows. No, I canny see that it could ha been aimed at me. Whatever sort of an ill-doer he is, Bothwell would never ha had the chance to set it in here, and nobody under my roof could do sic a thing, for reason that I take care of all the potyngary stuffs that would pyson a man.’

‘The workroom was locked yesterday, you say?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

‘It was. You saw me unlock it the now. It’s aye locked when I’m out of the house or when the shop’s empty.’