Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

That flask, the one which Nicol called Allan Leaf, had gone to the Forrest brothers and so far as he knew was still in their possession. So Agnes must have found a further supply of the stuff, to concoct the sweetmeats which had killed her brother. Where? Or had she first located a larger quantity, and helped herself to what she needed each time? If the stuff killed on contact with the skin, she must either have been very lucky the first time or have known already what it was. And where was it stored?

That was the point they kept coming back to. What was the stuff, where did it come from, who knew about it? Presumably one person in the house did. Was that person still in the house? Still in the world? Could it have been Robert who brewed the poison, only to fall victim to it at his sister’s hands? Could it have been Frankie’s work?

And if Renfrew’s death was not natural, how had it happened? He considered the scene in the stripped bedchamber this morning. Grace’s motive seemed to be a good one, of sparing the young widow the distress of dealing with the task herself, but in doing so she had made a clean sweep of everything which might have indicated whether the man had died peacefully of a heart attack or not. You would hardly have known he had slept in that chamber, he reflected.

Below him, across the Molendinar, a figure in the garden of the Renfrew house was grappling with what seemed to be a barrel, twirling it on one end down the rough path towards the back gate. He watched, half attending. The chimney of the washhouse in the same garden was smoking briskly; the November wash must still be under way. Up and down the bank of the mill-burn other households seemed to have completed their wash, and linen was being spread out on dykes and hedges, bushes and greens, in the hope that this wind would continue. Likely the Renfrew household had been late starting, in the circumstances.

If Renfrew’s death was not natural, who could be responsible? The figure with the barrel — was it Nicol? — had deposited the thing by the gate and was returning to the house. What about those two, he wondered, Nicol and Grace? Why had they come home? Why had they stayed so long when they were unwelcome? No, more logical to ask why Renfrew had made them stay so long when they were unwelcome. A man of contradictions, the apothecary, a man who wished to control everyone round him. Nicol would return to the Low Countries, presumably make a living there, his quiet, beautiful wife with him. They had planned to leave already, as he had told the Provost, why would they have to poison Frankie in order to get away?

Mistress Mathieson and her mother claimed not to have stillroom skills. Faced with something labelled as poison, one would hardly need stillroom skills to make use of it, but this stuff was dangerous, and an untrained person using it would put himself at serious risk. Or herself, he corrected, as the Provost had done. Would Renfrew have taken a wife who knew nothing about the work in the shop? Perhaps he planned to train her, he answered himself.

Who else was left? The servants, and Syme and his wife. The maidservants did not seem to him to be strong contenders, though of course they had access to all parts of the house while they were working, and whichever one it was who had come to tell Grace her master had not risen might have had the chance to remove whatever evidence had been left before the rest of the household reached the chamber.

Across the burn, down in the Renfrew garden, Nicol appeared from the house with a box. It seemed to be heavy; when one of the women emerged from the washhouse to speak to him he lowered it to the ground. Gil watched idly as the two held some kind of discussion. Nicol’s manner never related closely to his words, but the woman appeared to be telling him something she relished knowing. Then he spoke, and she seemed to take offence, swung round and hurried back into the washhouse. Nicol lifted the box, carried it to the gate and set it on top of the barrel. Then he let himself out of the garden, crossed the Molendinar by the nearest footbridge, and set off purposefully up on to the hill.

Who else? Yes, Syme and his wife. Always about the house, well able to leave a trap for Renfrew, both well placed to gain a great deal from the two deaths in the family. Both with the necessary knowledge. Either must be a good actor if guilty, he considered, recalling Eleanor’s response to her brother’s death. It did not seem to have occurred to either that the other might be guilty; perhaps they were in conspiracy. He thought about that for a moment, trying to imagine how one would discuss such a subject, broach the idea in the marriage-bed perhaps.

‘I thought that was you, Gil Cunningham!’

He looked up, startled, to find Nicol Renfrew standing in front of him, face lit by that aimless grin.

‘Did you, then?’ he returned. Socrates loped over to inspect the newcomer.

‘Aye, from yonder in our garden.’ Nicol sat down beside him, without benefit of plaid or padding, and reached to scratch behind the dog’s ears. Socrates accepted the attention, then wandered off again, nose down in the brown tussocks. ‘Here, this grass is damp. And I wanted a word, so I cam up to find you.’

‘Did you so?’

‘Aye, and here I am.’ Having found him, Nicol did not seem to be in a hurry to get the word. He fidgeted with his hands and feet for a space, while Gil sat silent. Eventually he observed, ‘We’re packing. Grace and me. It’s surprising how much you collect thegither in six month or so.’

‘Did you bring much with you when you came home?’

Nicol turned his head to look direct at him. ‘Never say that, man. This is no my home. We’re going home now.’ He grinned again. ‘Eleanor’ll no have me under the same roof, and it has to be her and Jimmy dwelling in the house now, to keep Meg safe till she can wed Tammas Bowster.’ He paused. ‘Christ aid, I never tellt Tammas Frankie’s deid.’

‘He’ll know by now,’ Gil observed. ‘I think the word is all over the town.’

‘Aye, but better to hear it from a friend.’

‘Why should you and Grace not stay in the house?’

‘Because it has to be Eleanor and Jimmy.’ Nicol struck his hands together. ‘Strange to think Frankie sent me overseas to be rid of me, and here’s me done better than he ever imagined, and here’s him shrouded for burying.’

‘How well have you done?’ Gil asked.

‘Well, I’ve wedded Grace,’ Nicol pointed out, ‘that Frankie never valued as he ought, and we’ve a partner in the Low Countries is waiting for us to come home and get on wi the business.’

‘Have you now?’ Even less reason for Nicol to poison his father, Gil thought.

‘I have that. I’m a wealthy man, Gil Cunningham.’

‘My congratulations,’ Gil returned. There was another pause.

‘That Isa,’ said Nicol after a time. ‘She wanted a word wi me the now. Said she had to tell me something.’

Gil made a questioning noise.

‘She said the old man had a woman wi him in his bed last night.’ Gil turned to stare at him. ‘Aye, you may well gawp. How would she ken that, I asked her, seeing she slept in the kitchen where it’s warm. His sheets, says she, my nose tellt me as soon as I surveyed the sheets. So what woman was it? I asked her. Neither Elspet nor me, she says, nor Jess for she joined us in the kitchen, and Babtie was wi the mistress all night. Fetched someone in off the streets, I’ll wager he did, she says. So I bid her be silent. I wouldny mind if word of that got round Glasgow, it’s no skin off my porridge, but if Eleanor heard her say sic a thing she’d be out on her arse and no waiting for the term of her hire. And Eleanor would take the hysterics again, which isny good for her bairn.’ He looked at Gil, eyebrows raised. ‘So what d’you make of that tale, eh?’