Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

The last of the other guests had eventually left, still exclaiming about the afternoon’s entertainment, but Kate had begged the mason’s party to wait on and eat a bite of supper in private with them, saying, ‘I’ve no idea what’s left in the house, it could be thin fare, but we could both do with your company.’

In fact it was a substantial meal before them, the more so since Kate picked at her plate of cold raised pie and refused the mould of rice and almonds which Ursel had sent up with apologies.

Morison cast her an anxious glance now, served Alys with a wedge of onion flan, and said, ‘I’m less than convinced it was murder under our roof, anyway. Young Bothwell seemed as stricken as any of us by the man’s death. Can you do aught about it, Gil? After all, you — you got me — ’

Kate shivered. He dropped his serving-knife to put a comforting hand over hers.

‘I feel very sorry for that poor woman, his sister,’ said Alys. She and Kate had been in time to witness the removal of the prisoner, with Christian’s angry attempts to interfere restrained by Nancy Sproull and a more sympathetic Barbara Hislop.

‘I’m not convinced it was murder by Nanty Bothwell,’ said Gil. ‘I’ll report to my lord and get his instruction, but I agree, Augie, I should be asking questions already, before folk forget what they saw.’

‘And what did we see?’ asked Maistre Pierre rhetorically. ‘The only opportunity to poison the man while the players were there in the hall,’ he gestured with his third slice of pie at the door of the small chamber where they sat, ‘was when the doctor put the drops to raise him up.’ He grimaced at the irony implied. ‘But was there some other way it could be ministered?’

‘The sword?’ said Morison.

‘Was wooden,’ said Gil, ‘and they never struck flesh. It was a very clever display,’ he added, ‘they were well practised.’

‘The armour?’ suggested Alys. ‘Something they ate or drank in the kitchen?’

‘Christ preserve us,’ said Morison, ‘I never thought o that. Kate, should we —?’

‘I’ll ask Ursel,’ said Kate with more resolution. ‘She was to give them ale, she’d likely serve it from the barrel or from a common jug, but she might ha noticed something.’

‘The man was rubbing at his mouth,’ Gil recalled, ‘just before he collapsed. Did the drops go on his mouth, Alys? I think you saw better than I did.’

‘The second time,’ she agreed. ‘The first time he only touched the man with the lip of the flask, but the second time when he said, Three drops to your beak , I saw them fall.’

‘If that was the moment,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘it worked with astonishing speed.’

‘He fell down within a quarter-hour,’ said Alys.

‘Less,’ said Gil. ‘The length of a Te Deum , maybe.’

‘I can’t bear this. Let’s talk of something else,’ said Kate. ‘Tell me how John does.’

Nothing loath to discuss his foster-son, Maistre Pierre launched into an account of how the boy had escaped into the garden that morning, and had been found seated on the stone bench beside the wolfhound Socrates, singing to a blackbird.

‘He has a sweet little voice,’ said Alys, ‘and very true.’

‘Well, his father is a harper,’ Kate pointed out, ‘and his mother could sing, by what you tell me.’

Morison had turned his head, listening to a disturbance elsewhere in the house. He pushed his chair back, but before he could rise the chamber door was opened.

‘Maister?’ said Andy Paterson. ‘My leddy? Here’s Adam Forrest out in the hall, wanting a word wi Maister Gil, and I’ve two o the mummers in the kitchen on the same errand. What’ll I do wi them all?’

‘Give the mummers some ale and bid them wait,’ said Kate decisively, ‘and ask Maister Forrest if he’d care to step in here and join us, and bring him a glass and trencher.’

Adam Forrest, much embarrassed, refused food but was persuaded to some more of Morison’s claret.

‘My good-sister Barbara keeps a good kitchen,’ he said, ‘we’d our supper already, though none of us was that hungry, what wi one thing and another.’

‘Nor are we,’ agreed Morison, in flagrant disregard of Maistre Pierre’s laden plate. ‘It’s a bad business, Adam.’

‘Aye, a bad business,’ agreed Adam, ‘and I’m right sorry to ha troubled you at your meal, Lady Kate, but — ’ He slid a sideways look at Gil. ‘I just. It’s a bit.’ He ran a finger round the rim of his wineglass. ‘I just — ’

‘Go on,’ said Gil encouragingly.

‘Well. Will you be looking further into the business, Gil?’

‘He will,’ said Kate and Alys, speaking together.

Gil suppressed irritation and said, ‘I’ll report to my lord, but I think he will want me to investigate, aye.’

Adam sat back and nodded in obvious relief.

‘You don’t think Maister Bothwell guilty?’ Alys said.

‘I’d never ha taken him for a pysoner,’ said Adam simply. ‘It’s what we all deal in, certainly, the most of an apothecary’s trade is in things that will kill in some quantity or another, but we’re sworn to use our skills to support life, no to end it, and Nanty’s a good craftsman, I’d never ha thought he’d bring the craft into disrepute this way, no matter Frankie Renfrew’s opinion.’

‘Do we know yet what was in the flask?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘Your brother was to prove it, I think.’

‘He was just setting to that when I came out,’ admitted Adam. ‘We were both of us right puzzled by it. It’s a kind of a whitish liquid, like almond milk, though I couldny say if it smells like almond milk too, for we never got too close to it, seeing what it’s done to Danny Gibson.’

‘And what was that?’ said Gil. ‘What signs did you observe before he died?’

‘Gil, must we hear this again? You saw him too,’ objected Morison, taking Kate’s hand.

‘I’m no apothecary,’ Gil said quietly. ‘I’d as soon hear what the trained man saw.’

‘Well, we all saw him,’ said Forrest with confidence. ‘Nanty said he never swallowed, it was only a couple of drops touched his mouth. But with that minimissimal dose, he went short of breath even after he’d had time to recover from the battle, there was a great excess of choler which made his face red and caused him dizziness so that he fell down.’ He closed his eyes to recall the scene better, and Kate bit her lip and turned her face away. ‘His breathing was fast and shallow, with a great strain on the heart, leading to seizures,’ he recited, as if he was composing a report, ‘which eventually slew him.’ He crossed himself. ‘We did what we could, the five o us, but it’s my belief there would never ha been any saving him, no matter what remedies we tried.’

‘It sounds like no ailment I ever heard of,’ said Alys. ‘It could only be poison, I am certain.’

‘And I,’ said her father, ‘and the rest of Glasgow I suppose, but what poison? And if it did not get into the flask at young Bothwell’s hand, then whose?’

‘The flask,’ said Gil. ‘I thought Mistress Christian recognized the flask. The one that was used instead of Bothwell’s own. That bright pottery is distinctive.’

‘Well, no, it isny,’ said Adam awkwardly. ‘We’ve all three got some, all three o the businesses. We use them for the luxury goods. It was a barrel we had from Middelburgh, of painted ware out of Araby or somewhere. Frankie ordered it up last spring, and took the most of the batch, but Nanty had five or six, and me and my brother took a dozen.’

‘In proportion as you trade in the burgh,’ said Maistre Pierre, wiping his platter with a piece of bread. ‘You have your custom well apportioned between you. Maister Renfrew trades in luxuries, in cosmetics and expensive fine goods, you and your brother have the middle part of the market and young Bothwell serves the poorer sort that can yet pay for materia medica . All works out well, I should say.’