Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

‘I’ve been a wonderful journey.’ Nicol waved a hand in a wide gesture, and Serjeant Anderson swayed back to avoid being slapped. ‘Three times round the world, met Agnes in Rome and Grace in Constantinople, and that mad Italian in his strange new world, and then back across the Dow Hill. Is there aught to eat in the house? I’m famished.’

‘Can you make marchpane cherries?’ asked the Serjeant.

‘Me?’ Nicol giggled again. ‘No, I leave that to my wife. And the putting pyson in them.’ The Serjeant looked sharply at him. ‘Grace told me,’ he added. ‘A bad business, Faither, for the both of us, and for you, Jimmy, but we’ll no talk of it now wi so many present.’

The Serjeant grunted, and returned his attention to Maister Syme.

‘It’s a habit of the young man’s,’ Syme pronounced, with that air of sharing a secret, ‘I mean it’s aye been a habit, if a box of sweetmeats gets broken, he’d eat the dainties himself, rather than save the box and perhaps put two such together and sell one complete. I’ve mentioned it a time or two,’ he admitted, ‘but Robert never desisted.’

‘Aye,’ said the Serjeant. ‘Young men will aye have their cantrips.’ Syme’s offended expression suggested that he possessed none. ‘And who knew of this, maister?’

‘All his family,’ said Syme steadily, ‘but also anyone that came into the shop while Robert was there could observe him, and a few of those might have heard me mention it to him.’

‘Aye,’ said the Serjeant again. He looked round as his constables entered. ‘Well, lads?’

The one who had been in the kitchen nodded significantly. What had he learned? Alys wondered. Their superior acknowledged the nod and went back to Syme.

‘And who makes all these kickshawses?’ he asked.

‘My wife,’ said Syme, ‘her sister, her good-sister. All three of them’s right good at the fancy work — ’

‘And does each one have her speciality? What do you make best, mistress?’

‘I made those marchpane cherries,’ admitted Eleanor wearily. ‘But I never put aught in them but dried cherries and marchpane. And as for harming my brother, I’d never — I’d never — Oh, he was the dearest wee boy!’ she burst out, tears springing to her eyes, and Father James patted her hand. ‘I canny believe it!’

‘Well, well,’ said the Serjeant, with a certain rough sympathy. He turned to his men again, and Syme hurried across the room to his wife. Alys watched, wishing she was closer, as the constables conveyed some information to the Serjeant’s ear.

‘Right, lads,’ said Serjeant Anderson. ‘I think that’s all we need to know. Away and take her up, and you’ll no accept any marchpane cherries off her.’

‘Who?’demanded Eleanor as the two constables left the room. ‘Take who up?’ exclaimed her father at the same time. ‘Her? Who — not — not Grace?’

‘Your daughter Agnes,’ said the Serjeant with satisfaction. ‘She was heard to say she’d get back at her brother, and she’d the means and the chance to put the dainties where he’d find them.’

‘Agnes?’ said Nicol, interested. ‘I’d never have thought she’d do that. Senna in his porridge maybe, but no pyson. She must dislike him worse than I thought.’

‘Agnes?’ said Eleanor at the same moment, but not as if she disbelieved it. She looked up at her husband, and he put a hand on her shoulder.

‘No!’ said Renfrew. ‘No, Serjeant, no my wee lassie! You canny mean it!’

‘Oh, I do,’ said Serjeant Anderson. ‘And I’m wondering if she’s responsible for what came to Danny Gibson after all.’ He smiled kindly at Gil. ‘There you are, Maister Cunningham, two deaths sorted and the miscreant taken up, all in less than half an hour.’

What was that line in the play? Alys thought. I’ll rug you down in inches In less than half an hour. Gil returned the smile with the politeness which meant he was deeply annoyed.

‘Sir Thomas will be impressed,’ he said.

‘We should have some light in here,’ said Syme anxiously. He looked at Alys. ‘Could I trouble you to call for candles, mistress? It would — ’

She nodded, and stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind her and wondering whether to go out to the kitchen for lights. Overhead, suddenly, there was screaming, exclamations, running feet, loud voices. The two constables seemed to be having some difficulty with their capture. In the same moment she realized that the two younger maidservants were by the door which led out to the kitchen, clinging together and staring at the ceiling.

‘No!’ shrieked Agnes overhead. ‘It was nothing to do wi me! Get your hands off me! My faither will — ’

‘What in Our Lady’s name are you doing?’ Grace’s voice.

‘Ah, you wee bitch! Mind her claws, Willie.’

‘Oh, mem!’ said Babtie. ‘What are they doing? Are they taking her up for it?’

‘A course they are!’ said Jess scornfully. ‘What else d’you think? Even if Isa wouldny tell them what she heard, I let them know it plain enough. Proof positive, that is.’

‘We need lights in the chamber yonder,’ said Alys. ‘Will one of you fetch candles?’

‘They’re here, mem,’ said Babtie. She crossed the chamber to the plate-cupboard and lifted two candles from the box on its lower shelf, a small two-branched pricket-holder from the upper shelf. Fitting them together she struck a light and lit the candles, their small flames blossoming in the suddenly darkened room. As she returned, the thumping and shouting overhead moved on to the stairs, the newel-post rocking in the approaching light. Booted feet appeared round the turn of the stair, stamping uncertainly, and then Agnes’s skirts and the rest of her person, writhing as she attempted to free herself from the grip of the two men. They all lurched gasping off the stair on to the flagged floor of the hall.

‘It’s nothing to do wi me!’ Agnes shrieked again. Behind her, Grace descended quietly, dismay in her face, and a frightened Nell Wilkie appeared at her back. ‘My faither will stop you!’ Agnes persisted. ‘Daddy, tell them! Make them let go!’

‘Ah, shut your noise,’ said one of the men, the one with the scratched face. ‘This way, and we’ll see what your daddy says.’

‘Why have they taken her? Have they proof of any sort?’ Grace said quietly.

‘Circumstantial only,’ said Alys. ‘Is Meg —?’

‘Her mother’s wi her.’

Alys took the candles from Babtie and followed the constables into the chamber, Grace at her shoulder, aware that the two maidservants were following them. Nell hurried after, clearly unwilling to be alone.

It was already a complex and noisy scene. Agnes was appealing again to her father, Eleanor was on her feet sobbing on Syme’s shoulder, Nicol was leaning against the wall beside Gil and giggling foolishly, and Maister Renfrew, his face alarmingly dark in the dim light, was arguing with the Serjeant, who alternately answered him and conjured Agnes to admit her guilt. By the settle, in deep bell-like tones, the Dominican priest whose name Alys had not caught was reciting prayers for the dead and intercessions for the bereaved and the guilty, a grace she felt they could have done without at this moment. Babtie slipped in behind her, shrinking against the door where she obviously hoped to be unnoticed, staring round-eyed at Robert’s body. Jess followed, gazing triumphantly at the struggling prisoner, and Nell Wilkie peeped timidly round the door.

‘It wasny me!’ repeated Agnes. ‘Where’s Grace, she’ll tell you, where’s — ’ She twisted round to see who else was in the room, and froze briefly, staring at the group by the door. ‘It was you!’ she exclaimed in fury.