Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

‘No,’ said Gil. ‘I can’t get at the truth. I think your sister Agnes fetched Allan Leaf to Augie’s house for him, but she won’t admit it, nor anything else, and he claims she never said where she found it.’

‘No, she wouldny,’ agreed Nicol. ‘She might now, if the Provost uses his thumbscrews.’ He looked round vaguely, and flourished his arm again. ‘See, there’s Robert and poor Danny waiting for us, all under a cloth of state and attended by armed men. No, it’s no armed men, it’s just Tammas Sproull.’

Gil, who had already noticed the corpses, laid out under a striped awning in case of rain and guarded by one of the constables, gave him no answer but went to turn back the linen cloth and look at the young mummer. After four days the body was beginning to smell, but the expression had relaxed and was remote and peaceful, the face pitifully young. Socrates put a paw on the edge of the bier and stood up to sniff with interest.

‘Looks like he’s asleep, don’t he no?’ said Tammas gloomily. Gil nodded, muttered a brief prayer, then looked similarly at Robert Renfrew, who really might have been asleep, a surprisingly healthy colour in his face, his expression one of faint surprise. After a moment Gil snapped his fingers to the dog, crossed the courtyard and climbed the steps into the Castle hall. Here, early though it was, a good crowd had gathered for the entertainment.

‘There’s Wat and Adam,’ said Nicol, still behind him and pointing largely, ‘and Christian with them, the poor soul. And all the mummers over there, see them, and Andrew Hamilton and Dod Wilkie. And here’s Augie just come in the door. We’re all gathered for Danny, though there’s only me and yoursel for Robert.’

Gil made his way through the gathering towards the Forrest brothers. Nicol gangled after him, grinning at one or two people who spoke to him, but it was not till Morison caught up with them, nodded to Gil, clapped the other man’s shoulder and said solemnly, ‘Good day to you, Nicol. I’m right sorry about the news, man,’ that the tenor of the other remarks reached Gil. He turned to stare.

‘Your father?’ he said. ‘What’s happened?’

‘He’s deid,’ said Nicol cheerfully. ‘I’m rid of him at last, and none of my doing either. We found him cold in his bed,’ he elaborated, and giggled. ‘So I had wine instead of ale to my porridge, to toast my fortune.’

‘Dead in his — What from?’ Gil closed his mouth, swallowed, and said more carefully, ‘I’m right sorry to hear that, Nicol. Do you ken what killed him?’

Nicol shrugged. ‘Never a notion,’ he said offhandedly, ‘unless it was my prayers, man, and they never worked before this, so why now? Or maybe it was grief for Robert, since I’d say he was the only one of us that was grieved.’

Gil exchanged glances with Morison, who seemed winded by amazement.

‘When was this?’ he asked. ‘When did you discover him? Should you be here, man? There must be all to see to at home.’

‘Och, there’s only Christ and His saints ken when it happened,’ said Nicol, taking these in order. ‘Last night, for certain, he was stiff by the time I saw him. One of the maidservants came to let Grace know it when he never came down at his usual time, and I went to his chamber, and there he was. And some one of us had to come out the now,’ he pointed out, ‘to see poor Danny done right, and Jimmy’s better than me for seeing to what’s needed. No to mention Eleanor came to the house and took the hysterics when she heard the news, so Jimmy would stay wi her.’

‘Word reached us just as I left to come up the brae,’ said Morison, finding his tongue. ‘It seems it was a natural enough death, by what they’re saying.’

‘Oh, aye,’ agreed Nicol cheerfully. ‘He was fine last night. Well, no to say fine,’ he qualified, ‘but fit enough.’

Gil looked about him, wondering what best to do next, aware of Socrates staring anxiously up at his face. It was likely that the Provost would want his evidence at the quest; it was also possible that the Renfrew family would not let him into the dead man’s chamber, particularly since the body would not have been properly laid out yet.

‘Did you notice anything strange about him?’ he asked, without much hope. ‘Was his chamber just as usual? Did he seem — peaceful, or as if it was easy?’

Nicol shrugged again. ‘I couldny say,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve never been in his chamber for ten year, no since he last beat me, afore I went to the Low Countries. It was all neat, just as it used to be, and nothing out of place. And he looked peaceful enough, just like poor Danny there or Robert.’

‘No sign that he’d eaten or drunk anything before he died?’

‘Oh, aye. He’d had his supper wi the rest of us,’ said Nicol helpfully, ‘and we all had cakes and buttered ale afore bed, and there would be oatcakes and cheese in the dole-cupboard like there aye is.’

‘Here is the Provost,’ put in Morison. ‘And young Bothwell. Ah, poor laddie, they have questioned him.’

Bothwell, hustled into the hall by two of the Castle men-at-arms, was manacled, and his hands were bloody. He almost fell at the step up on to the dais; his sister cried out in pity, and he turned a bruised face towards her. Thumbscrews, thought Gil, and a beating. Sir Thomas must have decided to risk the chill of the torture chamber after all. Bothwell was placed against the wall under guard, the Provost made his way to his great chair, and his clerk hurried in behind him with an armful of parchments and took up position at the other end of the table. The Serjeant, brandishing the burgh mace, bawled the order for silence, and the quest began.

‘We’ve two to deal wi,’ announced Sir Thomas, ‘but the one assize can do for both. We’ll just take them in order as they happened, Danny Gibson first. Who’s here to identify the laddie?’

It was clear that the Provost’s rheum was no better, and he was inclined to be even more short-tempered than usual. He dealt ruthlessly with the business of identifying the corpse and choosing an assize, despatched its fifteen members outside to inspect Danny Gibson and agree that there was no visible sign of the cause of death, and summoned Morison to describe the event, all between loud trumpetings into another handkerchief. Gil caught his eye at one point, but received only an irritable shake of the head.

‘And then he fell down,’ ended Morison, ‘and we — all the potyngars went to see if they could help, and then he died.’

‘Aye, he would,’ said someone at the back of the hall, and one or two people laughed. Sir Thomas glared round, and the laughter subsided.

‘We’ll ha none of that. This is a serious matter,’ said the Provost. ‘Who attended him? Is any of the — aye, Maister Forrest, come and let us hear what he died of.’

‘But we ken what he dee’d from,’ objected one of the assize from within their roped-off enclosure. ‘He was pysont by Nanty Bothwell, in a conspiracy wi the lassie Renfrew, as it’s being said all round the town.’

‘You be quiet and listen, Rab Sim, and let me ask the questions,’ ordered Sir Thomas. ‘Right, Wat, tell us what you saw, man.’

Wat Forrest recounted the signs he had observed on the dying man, agreed that it seemed like poison but not one that he knew of, and reported that the stuff in the flask appeared to be poison, also unidentified.

‘So it might be what was in the flask killed Danny,’ he said earnestly, ‘but it might not.’

‘Aye, but what was it if it wasny?’ asked an assizer. ‘What else could it be?’

Nanty Bothwell raised his head at that, but gave no other sign.

‘A course it was in the flask,’ said Rab Sim.

‘Could a bin something he ate,’ said another assizer. ‘Was there a refreshment afore the play, maybe?’