Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

‘That’s more than enough!’ exploded Renfrew.

He got to his feet and patted his daughter’s shoulder, and she turned to bury her face in the waist of his woollen gown, wailing, ‘Send them away, Daddy!’

‘Aye, never fret, my lammie. That’s all you get, Maister Cunningham. I’ll not hear any more of this nonsense, and I’ll answer no more questions myself. Away and tell the Provost it was Nanty Bothwell done it.’

‘How long will you stay in your chamber, Agnes?’ asked Maistre Pierre suddenly. ‘You are needed out in the house. Your good-mother is abed, there is the house to run — ’

‘I’ll see to what needs decided under my own roof, Peter Mason,’ said Renfrew angrily. ‘There now, my pet, they’re just away.’

‘If you change your mind, Agnes,’ said Gil, ‘you can send word to my wife.’

‘I’m no that keen on your story,’ said Sir Thomas Stewart, Provost and Sheriff of Glasgow. He pushed aside his notes on Danny Gibson’s death, and blew his nose resonantly into a large linen handkerchief. ‘Confound this rheum, a man canny think straight wi his head full of ill humours. Tell me it all again, till I see how it will sit wi the assize.’

He huddled into his huge furred gown, tucking his hands up the sleeves. Gil obediently began again at the beginning, and recounted what he had learned so far. Sir Thomas listened attentively, blowing his nose from time to time, and shaking his head.

‘I’m still no convinced,’ he said at last, ‘and what’s more I think the assize will never understand it. You’re saying you think this lassie fetched a flask from her father’s house, that turned out to hold poison, and it was all an accident. But the lassie denies it, so does her father, and you’ve given me no reason why Frankie Renfrew should have strong poison lying about his place and not recognize it.’

‘I’ve been unable to speak to the lassie alone,’ Gil corrected, ‘and her father won’t hear of what I say, and laughed at my suspicions.’

‘I’m no surprised,’ said Sir Thomas. ‘He keeps a tight hand on his household, does Frankie, he’d never accept sic a notion, and no more do I. Is that the best you can do, Gilbert?’

‘Bear in mind, sir, I’ve yet to hear from my lord Archbishop, I’m acting on my own account for now, so I can hardly insist on speaking to Agnes against her father’s wishes. I’ve no notion whether she’d tell a different tale if I did. I’d hoped my wife might get a word with her, but she’s — ’ He broke off, unwilling to expand further on that. ‘She hasn’t succeeded yet,’ he finished. ‘There’s been no word from Stirling, I take it?’

‘No, no, I think there hasny. Walter clerk would ha brought it to me if there had.’ Sir Thomas hooted gloomily into the handkerchief again and wiped his eyes with his embroidered shirt cuffs. ‘Confound this rheum. No, Gilbert, I’m no willing to give you a direct order to question the lassie. It seems to me there’s little enough to connect her with the matter, other than that it’s one of her two admirers that’s slain the other. I’ll put young Bothwell to the question in the morning, and see what light he’ll cast on the matter, but — ’

‘She was heard speaking to him,’ Gil pointed out.

The Provost shook his head again. ‘So was the lad who died heard speaking to him, you tell me,’ he said, ‘and those two had high words. That’s a better argument for why he’s dead, though how Bothwell came by the poison so quick after the quarrel — did anyone think to search him or his scrip?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ admitted Gil in some embarrassment. ‘When I learned the flask he should have carried was left in the booth, I thought no further of it. That was unwise.’

‘Aye, well, maybe John Anderson searched it, though whether he’d write down all he found is another matter.’ Sir Thomas rubbed thoughtfully at his reddened nose. ‘No. Now, this flask that has the poison in it. We’ve got Bothwell and Frankie Renfrew both claiming it’s Both-well’s, your wife’s witness that it isny because all the ones he had are still in the packing and the docket wi them, and that daft Nicol Renfrew saying it’s one of his father’s that should have drops in it. If that’s right, and Nicol knows the flask, how come Frankie doesny? No, no, Gilbert,’ he added as Gil opened his mouth to interrupt, ‘I heard you the first time, but it’s how it will look to the assize that matters. Quiet, now, and let me think.’

Gil sat hopefully, watching the older man. Sir Thomas must be in his forties, a small neat balding individual, usually dressed with quiet, rich good taste. Today, packaged in several layers of different furred garments, he resembled a disaster in a skinner’s workshop. He was tapping on the desk before him now, considering the quest on Danny Gibson.

‘Aye,’ he said finally, drawing the papers toward him. ‘I’ll tell you what, Gilbert. I’ll direct the assize to the cause of death, and order them not to consider who’s guilty here. They’ll no like it,’ he admitted, ‘for they aye relish getting someone took up for slaying or murder, but they’ll have to live wi the disappointment for once. Then if you’re right, and my lord agrees, we can follow it up, and if you’re wrong, well, we’ve got young Bothwell locked up anyway, though I’ve a notion John Anderson would like rid of him. It’s no very convenient having a lodger in the Tolbooth.’ He blew his nose again. ‘Confound this rheum. I’m away to my supper and my bed, and hope I feel more like the thing the morn’s morn. My lady’s got some remedy or other for me to take, but to be honest I’d as soon a good dram of usquebae.’

‘Very well, sir,’ said Gil, concealing his reaction. ‘When will you question Bothwell?’

‘Oh, that’s for the morn and all,’ said Sir Thomas, rising and clutching his furs about him. ‘I’ll not risk standing about there in the tower just now, all in the damp and cold. Bid you goodnight, laddie, and I’ll see you in my court.’

Gil left the Castle in some annoyance, but by the time he reached the Wyndhead he was more resigned to the situation. It seemed as if he had spent the entire day asking questions to no effect, and now Sir Thomas had put a stop to any further action this evening, except perhaps to find out what Wat Forrest had learned. However it was late in the day, darkness had fallen and the denizens of the upper town were making their way home for supper, and the evening was sufficiently cold that after speaking to Wat it was attractive to think of doing the same, and then of sitting by the fire, discussing what they had learned so far with Pierre and Alys.

Yes, with Alys. And what was wrong there? he wondered, with a rush of anxiety.

When they left the Renfrew house Maistre Pierre had set off to speak to his men at the other site by the cathedral, and Gil had gone straight home, to discover that though nobody in the main house knew she was there, his wife was in their dark lodging, curled up in the bed in her kirtle, dry-eyed and silent in a tight little ball. Socrates, who was not allowed on the bed, had been wedged in firmly at her side with his chin on her shoulder, and had made it politely clear to his master that he felt his mistress needed him. Alarmed and puzzled, Gil had lit candles, spoken to Alys, stroked her hair, tried to find out what was troubling her, but she would not speak except to tell him to go away. Obeying might not have been wise, he was aware, but he did not know what else to do.

He paused at the top of the Drygate, standing under the torch on the corner of someone’s house, to consider matters. In the last couple of months she had been quite unwell when her courses began, but a brief reckoning of the calendar had already told him that that was probably not the answer, and the dog’s response suggested something different. Nicol’s remark that she had had a fright might be nearer it. Where had she been this afternoon? She was going to call at the Renfrews’ house, and Jennet had said something about Kate. Neither of those should have been alarming, the social events round a birth were women’s work after all and Kate would hardly — unless she and Kate had discovered something she disliked.