Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

‘Aye. Now who was in the house that might have ministered the stuff?’

‘The maidservants.’

‘No. No that lot.’

‘No, I agree. Mistress Mathieson, who everyone says is not fit to leave her bed, though I’ve seen her up and seated in a chair. Her mother. Grace and Nicol. The man himself,’ he added scrupulously, ‘though if it was the same poison, he could never have taken it himself and then left all tidy. It works too fast.’

‘Aye, and we don’t know yet what it was. The mes-senger’s no like to reach me afore this evening at the best, this time of year,’ said the Provost, glancing at the dull window.

‘And there was no sign of anything untoward in the bedchamber,’ Gil reiterated.

Sir Thomas grunted again. ‘And who of those might have a reason to kill Frankie Renfrew? The wife, I suppose, given that she’d sooner ha wedded Tammas Bowster, but you tell me she’s not got the knowledge. The good-mother, who I met at Frankie’s wedding,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘A woman of sense, I’d not put it past her to have the ability, and if she thought Frankie had slighted her bairn, I suppose she might. Did you get a word wi them?’

‘I did, after I’d seen the corp,’ said Gil. ‘Mistress Mathieson is hardly able to speak from shock, poor woman. Her mother made more sense, but it seems the two of them were up most of the night with the baby, and the lassie called Babtie with them, so all three can speak for one another through the night. I saw the candles,’ he added. ‘Anyone can burn a candle down, but I thought they were speaking the truth.’

‘Right,’ said the Provost. ‘And what of that daftheid and his wife? Did you ever hear sic a thing this morning? Frankie’s no able ,’ he mimicked. ‘ We’ll none of us miss him . Hah! Did you say they were leaving Glasgow?’

‘They have a passage booked from Dumbarton,’ Gil said, ‘sailing with the morning tide on Wednesday, assuming their dead can be in the ground by then.’

‘M’hm.’ Sir Thomas blew his nose and mopped it thoughtfully. ‘They’re not expecting to gain from the will, are they?’

‘Renfrew made that very clear,’ Gil said. ‘Nicol has had his share from the business already, and he could expect nothing. I’ve no information about whether Renfrew altered his will since they came home,’ he added, ‘but he’d no chance to make a new one since Robert’s death, so it all likely goes as you’d expect, the widow’s third portion to Mistress Mathieson and the rest between Robert, Agnes and Eleanor, with whatever he thought proper to Syme as his partner. Oh, and the bairn must get a share.’

‘They’ll not be able to divide it, either,’ said Sir Thomas, ‘till the Justice Ayre deals with that wee wildcat Agnes. They might find her innocent, after all,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You never can tell. But if Nicol’s no expecting anything under the will, why would he poison his faither?’

‘He’s never liked him,’ Gil said slowly. ‘But he said to me, when he told me his father was dead, I’m rid of him at last, and none of my doing either . Coming from him, I’d take that as the truth.’

‘And the wife, Grace Gordon, is that the name? What of her? She’s a wise woman, it seems, but is she wise enough to poison her good-father and leave no traces?’

‘It was her that cleared up, stripped the bed, washed the corp.’

‘Aye, but what gain? What benefit to her from this death?’

Gil shook his head. He was still unconvinced, but he could not muster an argument to support his suspicions.

‘She gains the return to the Low Countries, which he’d been trying to prevent, but since they must have had the passage booked already, that doesn’t seem like a reason. They could well pack and leave without him knowing, in a house that size. I think she disliked him more than she let on, but that’s not much of a reason either.’

‘Aye.’ Sir Thomas reached into his purse, produced a small box of ointment, and anointed the reddened area under his nose. Replacing the box, he said, ‘This is all assuming it was the same poison, and it was left overnight. It could ha been that wildcat Agnes left it for him, though I think she was surprised by Nicol’s news. Or it could ha been something else entirely. No, Gil, it’s too wide open, it’s like catching smoke. I’ll ha none of this. The man died of grief, and that’s that.’

‘Packing?’ repeated Alys, serving out stewed kale with caraways to go with the cold sliced mutton. ‘So they are leaving immediately? Not even waiting to read Maister Renfrew’s will?’

‘And young Bothwell is set free?’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘That I am glad to hear.’

‘It seems Agnes did herself no favours,’ Gil said, ‘denying everything and casting blame on Bothwell or on the girl Jess indiscriminately. The Provost was able to convince the assize she was to blame for Robert’s death, and they decided on their own account to name her alone for Gibson. Bothwell may be liable for blood money, since he ministered the poison, but the Provost can consider that at more length. The man is free.’

‘And so Frankie Renfrew is dead.’ Maistre Pierre frowned. ‘I wonder what will come to the business now? There is the young widow, and the daughter and her man, but if Nicol is to return to the Low Countries — ’

‘What troubles you, maistre le notaire ?’ asked Catherine. ‘I think you are not convinced of the truth of something.’

Gil shook his head. ‘You are perceptive, madame. I’m not …’ He hesitated. ‘I’m not convinced Renfrew’s death is natural, but I can’t see who could be responsible.’

‘Then you must find out,’ she said, and returned to her kale.

Sitting on his folded plaid on a damp bank on the Dow Hill, the dog ranging happily in the rough grass, Gil surveyed the burgh laid out before him in the afternoon light and considered three deaths.

Small birds scolded among the bushes as Socrates invaded their territory. Sounds drifted up from the town on the brisk wind, voices and hammering, the clack of the several mills downstream, a steady rasping from the sawpit at the foot of Andrew Hamilton’s toft. Up to his right, the blond bulk of St Mungo’s loomed against the grey sky, its narrow spire and lopsided towers familiar as a friend’s face. The big houses of the Chanonry stood round it, their gardens sprawling down to the mill-burn dotted with autumn-leaved fruit trees and plots of dark green kale. A tumble of smaller cottages on the High Street led down the steep portion known as the Bell o’ the Brae, their long narrow tofts built up with workshops and storage sheds. The university was easily picked out by its swarming students in their blue gowns, with what seemed to be a noisy game of football taking place on the Paradise Yard. Next to that, the Blackfriars’ austere narrow kirk stood among the conventual buildings, and was succeeded, directly in front of him, by more big houses where the successful lived. He picked out Pierre’s house, and Morison’s Yard, and the Renfrew house next to it, the source of his present problems.

He cast his mind back over the past few days. The first death, the mummer’s poisoning, he was fairly certain was an accident. The way both Bothwell and Agnes Renfrew had reacted made that clear. But who had the lethal little flask been intended for, if not for Danny Gibson? And where had Agnes found it? He’d locked his workroom , she had said, I had to take what I could find . Where would she look if her father’s workroom was unavailable, and all the servants in the kitchen? He or the man Andro had searched the rest of the house; they had both found similar painted flasks, but the content of each was identifiable, though some they had had to refer to the helpful Syme or to Grace Gordon.