Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

‘There was no other sign,’ said Gil slowly. ‘Maister Syme detected nothing.’

‘Nor did I,’ admitted Nicol, ‘but then I never passed the sheets under review. Frankie’s maidenhead was never my concern.’

Gil thought about this.

‘You were first to leave the house, when you went to fetch Syme,’ he said. Nicol nodded. ‘Was everything locked as usual?’

‘Oh, aye. Just the way Frankie fastened all down at night.’

‘So if your father fetched a woman in, he must have risen to let her out again, and returned to his bed. It might account for his heart giving out,’ Gil added.

‘Aye, it might that,’ agreed Nicol with enthusiasm.

‘But Mistress Mathieson and her mother and Babtie,’ Gil said, thinking it out, ‘were all in the chamber off the hall, one stair up, and awake much of the night they told me.’ Nicol nodded again. ‘Your father was in his bedchamber, on the floor above. Surely they’d have heard — voices, movement, anything — ’ Nicol grinned at that. ‘And what about you and Mistress Grace? Did you hear nothing?’

‘I’d hear nothing,’ Nicol said cheerfully, ‘seeing I slept like a log all night, and Grace beside me. And if the bairn was screaming, which I never heard neither, perhaps they’d not hear the houghmagandie over their heads.’

Perhaps not. Gil considered this.

‘Had he done the like before?’ he asked.

‘How would I ken? Though I can tell you, if he did and Mistress Baillie learned of it,’ Nicol grinned again, ‘she’d have cut him into collops and served him for supper.’

‘I’d agree there.’

They both looked out over the town for a space, Gil turning this new evidence over in his mind. If Isa was right, and the stains she had found were fresh, and resulted from -

‘I did ask her,’ said Nicol suddenly, ‘if she was sure he’d had a woman wi him, if he’d no just, seeing he was without Meg — ’ He mimed crudely. ‘No, she said, she’s washed the family’s sheets for twenty year, she kens the difference, there was two in that bed. I never knew you could tell that much from the wash, did you, Gil?’

‘No,’ he said, wondering which of the maidservants in Pierre’s house knew the details of his own marriage.

‘I’ll not have you send the bellman round asking for her,’ Nicol pursued. ‘Same as I said to Isa, I’m no troubled myself but Eleanor wouldny care for it and Meg likewise, never mind it would sound right daft. The woman that was wi Frankie Renfrew the night he died, speak wi his family. The reward is, we’ll get the Serjeant to you . No, I think we’d get no applicants.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Gil shook his head. ‘I can ask about if you like, Nicol, see if I can find her, though to tell truth it’s not a trade where I’ve contacts — ’

‘I’m glad to hear it, man,’ said Nicol, grinning again. Socrates appeared, and flung himself down at Gil’s feet, his expression matching Nicol’s. ‘No, I think we leave it, for I canny see either how we learn more without discredit to the family.’

But that isn’t justice, thought Gil.

‘Alys might know,’ he said. ‘Or Mally Bowen. She must know likely names.’

‘But would she keep the Serjeant out of it? Leave it, Gil. I tellt you for cause I’d not want you to think I left Glasgow without telling you all I knew, but I think there’s no more to be said on it.’ Nicol got to his feet, rubbing the seat of his hose, and produced that annoying giggle again. ‘I’m soaking wet. If Grace has packed all my hose I’ll need to borrow some of wee Marion’s tailclouts.’

Alys, kneeling at the prie-dieu which had once been her mother’s, was having difficulty with her devotions.

Gil and her father had gone out after supper, once again, to offer sympathy at the Renfrew house, and she had retired to the bedchamber, intending to take prayerful stock of the past few days. She had offered all her usual petitions, and those which were appropriate for the apothecary’s family, living or deceased. She had tried to put her own swirling fears and horrors into some sort of order, to offer them to Our Lady and St Catherine in the hope of lightening the burden or clearing her mind. Neither saint had helped. Instead she found herself thinking through her successive encounters with the Renfrew household, with the servants and Meg’s mother as well as the family, Gil’s latest piece of information tumbling among the words and images which succeeded one another in her head without order. Perhaps that was what she was supposed to think about?

Sighing, she cleared her mind and began from the start, from her first encounter with Eleanor and then Grace in Kate’s new great chamber, the smell of paint and new wood about them. Carefully, as Mère Isabelle had taught her, she offered each person up, surrounding the image in her head with light, with the love of God even if not her own. It took time, and concentration. With her attention successively on each individual, she was faintly aware that the words and images, the odd facts were falling together in the background, that things glimpsed or half-spoken were beginning to shed light on one another or fit together to make another image. She persevered in her task, though the outline of that image began to frighten her. By the time she finished she was trembling. But she also knew what she must do, and that frightened her even more.

She rose from the little prayer-desk, stretched stiffened limbs and hugged herself, trying to still the trembling, thinking about how to proceed, wondering how her kind, civilized, considerate husband would react to what she was about to do. It was one thing to act independently of him, another entirely to act against his duty to his master the Archbishop. She had never seen him really angry, though her father had. Socrates came to her, pushed his nose under her elbow, waved his tail. She uncurled her arms and patted him, wondering how he would react if Gil struck her.

He would return soon. She moved into the outer chamber, where she lifted her plaid from its nail by the door and lit a lantern from the candle. The dog pricked his ears hopefully.

‘Stay, Socrates,’ she said, and extinguished the light.

‘It’s right kind in you,’ said Grace Gordon, folding a fine linen shift. The candle flickered in the draught as the fabric swayed in her grasp. ‘But you can see I’m a wee thing taigled here, Alys.’

‘Can I help?’ she offered.

Grace shook her head. ‘I’m about done. I’ve been packing for most of a week,’ she admitted.

‘When did you book the passage?’

‘As soon as Gerrit sent word he’d reached Dumbarton. Then he’d to loose his cargo and find another, but it seems that’s mostly on board now. He’ll wait till Wednesday for us, no longer.’ Grace considered the box she was filling, lifted a pair of shoes and crammed them into a corner. ‘I’m sorry to leave, in some ways. Meg is a dear soul, and I could learn to love Eleanor, I think, but she and me would never come to terms wi Nicol in the way, and my duty’s to him.’

‘Where are they both?’ Alys asked.

‘Meg and her mammy are below, with the bairn.’ Grace gestured in the direction of the birthing-chamber. ‘Eleanor went to lie down awhile. I hope she’ll bear up, for her own bairn’s sake.’

‘But you lost yours,’ said Alys. Grace looked up sharply at the words, her light gaze focusing on Alys’s face. ‘That must be a grief.’

‘It is.’ The other girl looked down at her packing, and pushed a bundle of stockings in at random.

‘A great pity you’ve not taken again.’

‘D’ye ken, if that’s all you came for, Alys, I’d as soon you left, and let me get on.’

‘No,’ said Alys. ‘I came to make sure you get away. I think you should leave Glasgow as soon as you can. Before the funeral, if it’s possible.’