Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

‘Is there, now?’ Nicol looked at him sideways. ‘But will I like to answer them, man?’

‘You won’t know that till I ask you,’ Gil pointed out.

‘That’s a true word,’ agreed Nicol, seeming much struck by the argument. ‘Well, ask away.’ He glanced over at the group by the bier. ‘They’ll no hear us.’

‘The poison,’ Gil said, keeping his voice low.

‘No idea,’ said Nicol promptly.

‘No idea of what? Of what it is, or where it came from?’

‘Neither.’ Nicol looked past him as the door opened, and another member of the council entered with his face solemnly arranged. ‘Maister Walkinshaw, it’s right good of you. Aye, a sad loss to my faither. Hae a glass in the lad’s memory, will you? Aye, he’s yonder, looking the picture of health, save that he’s deid.’

‘Syme thought you might know what it was,’ Gil said, as Clement Walkinshaw sailed past him, wearing a fortune in black velvet and sipping usquebae.

Nicol gave him a sharp look. ‘Did he, now?’

‘On account of your studies abroad,’ Gil persisted. ‘He thought your Saracen master might have met such a thing.’

‘Oh,’ said Nicol vaguely. He appeared to give it some thought, but shook his head. ‘No, I canny mind that he mentioned it to me.’

‘If you think of anything,’ said Gil, ‘I’d be pleased to know of it.’

‘You’d be amazed at what I think of, times,’ said Nicol with a happy smile. Gil eyed him with a feeling of bafflement. He seemed about to go off into one of his strange moods again, and there was still a question for him.

‘Where were you the most of the day?’ he asked, in fading hopes of an answer.

Nicol giggled. ‘I was away a journey,’ he claimed, as he had done earlier. ‘Sic dreams as I had. You should try it yourself sometime.’

‘Try what?’ Was this connected with Syme’s cryptic remark?

‘Your wee wife kens.’ Another giggle, a sly sideways look. ‘Though I think it never took her as far,’ Nicol added, on consideration.

‘Right.’ He could ask Alys later, then. ‘How is your good-mother? How has she taken this?’

‘None too well,’ Nicol admitted, sobering. ‘Poor lass, it’s a shock to her, and her new delivered. She’d a liking for Agnes and Robert both, for all the business wi the gloves, being a gentle soul hersel and no too far from them in age. Her mammy tells me she keeps saying how she canny believe it.’

‘Could I get a word with her, do you suppose?’

‘Wi Meg?’ Nicol looked surprised. ‘What way would you — aye, very likely. Isa,’ he said to the maidservant, as she opened the door to admit another mourner, ‘see if my minnie would gie Maister Cunningham a word, will you, lass?’

Gil was aware that it was unusual for a man not related to her to visit a new mother this soon after the birth, but nearly half an hour later, the time it must have taken to spread the embroidered counterpane and pillow-bere, dress the cradle and get the new mother back into her bed attired in the blue satin wrapper with the gold cords, he found himself offering mingled congratulations and condolences to Meg and her mother.

‘Aye, it’s a sair business,’ sighed Mistress Baillie, patting her daughter’s shoulder. ‘It was dreadful to hear the word that Robert was dead, and then when they came up to take Agnes away — ’

‘Don’t, Mammy,’ said Meg. She was propped on several pillows, the cover on the topmost embroidered with bees as big as Gil’s thumb; in the candlelight she looked weary.

‘And to think she might have found the stuff here in the house,’ pursued Mistress Baillie. ‘I was never skilled in stillroom work, maister, and nor’s my lass here, and I was never so glad of it as now. To be connected wi such a — ’

‘Mammy, please!’

‘But I hear you’ve a daughter,’ Gil prompted. This got him identical proud smiles, and Mistress Baillie rose and went to peer into the cradle, shielding the candle with her hand. He followed, and having been well brought up dutifully admired the crumpled red creature inside, claimed it resembled its grandmother, tucked a silver coin into one of the little hands with its exquisite fingernails, and eventually led the conversation round to the morning’s visitors. They were quite happy to list all the gossips who had called to admire wee Marion, and too much of the conversation which had gone on over the cradle; it became obvious that Agnes had not shown her face, though Grace had been there for part of the morning.

‘And Mistress Eleanor?’ he asked.

‘She was here yestreen,’ Mistress Baillie assured him. ‘As soon as my lass was fit to be seen, Eleanor was here, wasn’t she? And right pleased at her wee sister, too. She’s in hopes that the two bairns will play thegither when they’re older.’

‘For all that hers will be wee Marion’s niece or nephew,’ said Meg, half laughing. ‘I was glad to see her, too. And then when she came up to me the day — ’ Ready tears started to her eyes, and she turned her face away from the light.

‘Hard to say which of them was the more grieved,’ confided Mistress Baillie to Gil. ‘Weeping in each other’s arms, they were, I’d to fetch Grace to dose them both. And such news as Grace brought — saying the poor laddie left his goods to wee Marion with his dying breath — I tell you, maister, I wept myself.’

Gil nodded. ‘I heard him too,’ he said, ‘if ever you need a witness.’

‘Oh, it’ll not come to that,’ said Mistress Baillie. ‘And you’ve had a wee sleep since then, haven’t you, my lass? So you’ll be ready when the bairn wakes for her supper. You’ve her to think on now, you need to put your own cares aside or you’ll turn your milk.’

‘And I should go and let you rest,’ said Gil, rising. ‘I’m right grateful for your time, both of you — all three of you,’ he corrected, glancing at the cradle.

Meg laughed again, wiping her tears. ‘Maybe next time you see her Marion might have her eyes open,’ she offered.

‘Interesting,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘Very,’ said Gil. ‘The women of the household have reacted quite differently from the men.’

He held his lantern down to see the roadway, and turned for home. His father-in-law fell into step beside him, his own lantern bobbing at his side.

‘The father presents a convincing image of grief,’ he observed, ‘but I should say his first emotion was anger.’

‘With whom?’

The lantern swung wildly as Maistre Pierre spread his hands and shrugged. ‘That was not clear. Fortune, Almighty God, the boy himself perhaps.’

‘His daughter?’ Gil stepped aside to let a group of cheerful journeymen pass.

‘Yes, certainly, it seems by the way the man is speaking that he believes both her and the maidservant to be guilty. He did not defend her, you understand, when Maister Wilkie remarked on ingratitude.’

‘Poor devil,’ said Gil. He turned in at their own pend, but paused, listening, while their shadows jumped on the walls and the roof-beams which supported the floor of Gil’s own closet overhead. ‘Was that —?’

‘Someone called your name.’ Maistre Pierre was still out in the street, peering uphill. ‘It is two people, I think. Hello? Who calls?’

‘Peter.’ A man’s voice. ‘It’s me — Adam Forrest.’

‘Is Maister Cunningham there?’ Mistress Bothwell sounded out of breath. ‘I thought I saw him.’

This time she was persuaded into the house, Adam watchful at her side, both trying to explain their errand. Lighting more candles in the hall, Maistre Pierre said soothingly, ‘Yes, yes, I can hear something has come to mind, but one of you must tell us, rather than both at once. Will you have some wine? Ale, a drop of aquavit against the cold?’