Pat McIntosh - The Stolen Voice

‘You again,’ she said.

‘Oh, aye,’ agreed Paterson. ‘And you’ll mind Ally Paterson next time you’re needing a comb, maister.’

By the time Gil extricated himself from the conversation, Mistress Doig had returned the dogs to their various pens, screamed at the others for silence and obtained it, glowered at her neighbour and at Gil, and was waiting in the midst of the yard, arms folded, to learn his business.

‘I’d a good word wi himself in Balquhidder,’ he began, making his way past the liver-and-white bitch again.

‘Is that where he is?’ she retorted, in unwelcoming tones.

‘He was saying he misses the dogs.’

She snorted at that. ‘Aye, well, he kens what he can do about it.’

‘You were to show me the fence.’

Her eyes widened, but she said without moving, ‘What about the fence, then?’

‘The new mended spot,’ he prompted.

She studied him, glanced briefly at Paterson still standing in his doorway watching them, and said sourly, ‘Come in the house.’

The house was a single room, though it had a fireplace with a chimney in one gable. Mistress Doig stalked in ahead of him, tossed her plaid on to the bed, pointed to a stool and said, ‘You can as well be seated. Now what’s this about? I’ll not discuss my business or Doig’s afore the neighbours.’

‘The new mended spot on the fence,’ he repeated. She hooked a second stool away from the wall with one foot and sat down, giving him another hostile stare.

‘I’ve no notion how that came about. I heard him shouting when I was out wi the dogs, maybe it was about that. He’d mended it by the time I cam back, he was just putting the tools past in the shed. Same evening you were asking me about afore,’ she added, ‘after I’d had the two priests in the yard. I’d enough to do wi the dogs when I came in, the ones I’d left here were in a right tirravee wi him shouting and all, I never heard what came to the fence. Maybe Doig and our Mitchel had a fight,’ she speculated, without much conviction.

‘Not round by the fence, surely?’ said Gil. ‘It’s a tight squeeze for a burly fellow like Doig, I’d have said, let alone starting a fight in the space.’

She shrugged. ‘He never said.’

‘Mind you, the damage is none so bad,’ he pursued. ‘Did he just have to cut a new cord and tie the hurdle to the stobs again? Or was there more to it than that?’

‘I’ve no notion,’ she said again. ‘Doig never said. You’ve been round and looked at it yoursel, then?’

‘I have. It’s well trampled, for such a simple repair, I wondered if you’d had a bit trouble.’

‘I keep telling you,’ she said impatiently, ‘I wasny here and Doig never let on.’

‘Did your cousin not tell you what happened?’

‘I’ve not seen him since. Likely he’s away a message for his maister.’

‘He’s away, is he? Who carries the word instead of him, then?’

‘That daft fellow that was wi you the other day. Peter.’ She snorted again. ‘No more sense than turn up here asking for Doig so all the neighbours can hear.’

‘What’s Maister Doig doing now that he’d as soon keep quiet?’ Gil asked casually.

‘Why ask me? If you’ve spoke wi him in Balquhidder, you ought to know,’ she retorted. ‘You’re mighty full o questions every time I see you, maister, and answering them’s never done me any good. I think I’d as soon you left my yard.’ She rose and shook out her striped homespun skirts, and stood glaring at him. ‘And I’ll no look for you — ’

‘Mistress Doig!’ shouted a voice outside. ‘Mistress Doig, are you there? You’re socht!’

She snatched up her plaid and hurried out to the yard, Gil following. Paterson was out at his door again, shouting; another two or three neighbours were hastening down their gardens with excited cries.

‘What’s amiss? Who wants me?’ she demanded.

‘It’s the Blackfriars!’ called another neighbour. ‘See, there he comes yonder! It’s your man, I doubt!’

‘Doig!’ she said, on a breathless little gasp, and froze on the spot.

‘No, it’s not her man,’ said someone else, ‘it’s her cousin. He’s carried in dead, and asking for her.’

‘I’m that sorry, Maister Gil,’ said Tam yet again, over the head of the man bandaging him.

‘You did your best, man,’ said Gil. ‘None of us was expecting an attack.’

‘That’s it,’ agreed Ned, his hands round a pot of hot spiced ale. ‘We never expected sic a thing that close to Perth.’

They were in the guest hall of the Blackfriars’ convent, a high light chamber with painted walls and a long table down its centre, where the injured men had been carried when they reached the gatehouse. By the time Gil arrived at the run, with Mistress Doig on his heels, Brother Infirmarer had made his decisions, told off two of his lay brothers to see to Tam and Ned, and was just following Donal as he was borne to the Infirmary. His assistant, crucifix in hand, was kneeling over a fourth man who lay groaning on the bloodstained flagstones.

Mistress Doig had dropped to her knees beside him in silence, seizing the injured man’s hand. Gil stood by, staring in horror, while the sub-Infirmarer recited words all too familiar to everyone in the room and Tam said urgently in his ear:

‘They came down on us no a mile fro the town, Maister Gil. There was six o them, we was lucky to get away, and it was Mitchel there they was after, they were out to kill him!’

‘Looks as if they’ve succeeded,’ said Ned beside him.

Gil stepped forward as the sub-Infirmarer reached the blessing, and hunkered down beside the dying man. The narrow, dark-browed face was glistening with sweat, blood bubbled on the bluish lips, and he whimpered as another spasm of pain jerked through his body. The two deep wounds to chest and belly would see him off within a few minutes, to judge by the sub-Infirmarer’s manner.

‘Mitchel,’ he said quietly, ‘who killed Jaikie Stirling?’

Mitchel groaned again, and Mistress Doig threw him an angry look.

‘Leave him at peace!’ she said. ‘He’s more to think on than that! Brother Euan, can you gie him nothing for his pain? I’d not — ’ She choked on the words. ‘I’d not leave a dog to suffer this way.’

‘I can,’ admitted the sub-Infirmarer in his deep gentle voice, ‘though whether he’ll get the good o’t is another matter.’ He turned away to receive a small bottle from his servant, unstopping it with big deft hands. Gil leaned forward, looking into Mitchel’s eyes.

‘Who killed Maister Stirling?’ he asked again. The man drew a shuddering breath, twisted away from his gaze, and gasped, faint and high-pitched:

‘Wha — ? Wha?’

‘He doesny ken what you mean,’ said Mistress Doig. ‘Here, my laddie, drink this.’ She almost snatched the little cup from the Infirmarer, lifted Mitchel’s head, eased water between his bloody lips. He swallowed once; she tilted the cup again, but this time the water ran out at the sides of his mouth.

‘I feared as much,’ said the Infirmarer. ‘No, daughter, no use giving him the rest.’

Gil sat back and crossed himself, muttering a prayer. He was almost stunned with anger. Someone had taken advantage of his own action, had made him partly responsible for this man’s death, and by it had snatched the information Mitchel carried out of reach, out of Gil’s own grasp. He rose and stepped back from the little group, Mistress Doig in her knotted headdress and striped gown, Brother Euan and his servant with their tonsured heads bent, and Mitchel with his face already relaxing into the painless depths of the next world. He looked younger than Gil had expected, not much past thirty perhaps. Biting back his anger, he joined Tam and Ned where they were seated at the long table, their helmets discarded beside them. The other Infirmary lay brother was still smearing salve into the long slash on Tam’s knee.