Pat McIntosh - The Rough Collier

After a while he rose from his knees, with no feeling of having been answered, and went to sit near St Roch on the stone bench at the wall-foot, half listening to the singing from beyond the chancel arch and turning matters over in his mind.

His mother and Alys had proposed some experiment, involving one of a nest of young rats which Henry had been saving to teach some terrier pups their business. But whether or not the creature died from drinking the water which had rinsed out the flask, what would that tell him? The man Murray was dead, and Andrew Syme with him, that was inarguable, and it seemed almost certain that their deaths were murder. But if I’m wrong, he thought, if it was an accidental poisoning or even a double suicide, what then? He had studied too much law to have any illusions about the judicial process; if he named someone to Maister Lockhart, or to his master the Archbishop, that person would suffer the penalty for murder as likely as not, whether innocent or guilty And in this case …

In this case, the guilty person was most probably someone he had had civil dealings with in the past few days. Someone from the coaltown, or just possibly one of the two fellows he had left at the saltworks on the shores of the Forth. Or David Fleming, or one of the customers whose fees Murray had collected — the list got longer and longer, though he could probably rule out the people of Forth — or someone from the Nicholas Inn. And I must go in there and ask questions, he told himself. But suppose I name the wrong person to the Archbishop?

He opened his eyes and stared at St Roch’s dog, a splendid black-and-white creature gazing adoringly up at his master. The man who carved the statue was better at dogs than at people, he thought irrelevantly.

But what if Murray’s death was an accident, and the intended victim was Syme? Or perhaps the two of them had been killed deliberately by someone who knew one of the men, knew he had a lover. Now that would work whether the lover was known to be a man or thought to be a woman, but was the poisoner a friend or a would-be lover of Murray or of Syme? Or a friend of Joanna Brownlie, he thought, which takes me back to the coal-heugh and its household.

For the first time since the corpse had come up out of the peat-digging, he wished Alys’s father was present. Pierre was good at this sort of exploration of the wider possibilities, and as he had found last night, it was not an easy subject for a man to discuss with his wife. Even Alys. He thought for a moment about her warm sympathy and the matter-of-fact way she had dealt with his dream, and wondered if perhaps she would find the subject less awkward than he did. Her capacity to surprise him really did seem to be endless.

The townspeople round about him were moving, leaving the little chapel. The Mass must be over. He stretched his back, then drew the paper with the report from Bonnington out of his doublet, and tilted it to the light from the nearest window.

Maister Lockhart’s strictures on the two men who had compiled it were well deserved. The document was simply a list of answers, in no particular order, with few notes of who had supplied each fact. The spelling was eclectic, but the writing was clear enough. He worked his way down the page, trying to fit the short statements into some kind of narrative. Syme had not been seen since before the quarter-day; the fact of his not having been paid was noted again. None of those asked had known of any reason to kill the man, he seemed to have no quarrel with any of his fellows, the lassies liked him but he favoured none of them. One woman apparently had aye suspicioned him , but even the interrogators thought this was hindsight speaking. The tale about the goats occupied half the page, the fact that Murray was unknown to the Bonnington household was dismissed in one line. Sighing, Gil turned the sheet over and studied the other side. Here they had apparently turned to the question of poison, without success. It was surely a bad mushroom, it was a judgement, it was pestilence or witchcraft. Nane here is abil to mak use o pyshn , had written the clerk, in simple trust.

Further questioning might uncover something, but at the moment it was plain that no strong trail led from the forester’s cottage to Bonnington. The clearest scent led back towards the Pow Burn, and all his training at the hunt told him that was what he should be following. Metaphor, he thought, and grinned as he thought once more of Pierre and his dislike of figures of speech.

He rose and shook the creases out of his hat, and made for the door, pausing again before St Giles. Are the goats your creatures? he asked the oblivious figure. You made a pet of a deer, perhaps goats appeal to you too. Their master was poisoned. Help me win justice for him, whatever sort of sinner he was. The saint made no reply, but a gleam of light lay on the white hind couched at his feet.

In the busy taproom of the inn, there was no sign of Patey, but Bessie Dickson was supervising the distribution of ale of two different strengths from a pair of large barrels by the further door. She greeted him with disapproval.

‘I’ve no notion why you should think I’ve any more time for you,’ she announced. ‘Is it still this man Murray and his horse you’re after? I’ll sit down and talk wi’ you if you’ll sweep the draff out the brewhouse for me when we’re done.’

‘I’ll not take up your time,’ he said, without answering this offer. ‘I wondered if you or any of your folk had a notion of what Murray and his friend talked about when he was in here.’

‘Talked about?’ She stared at him. She was a big woman with a broad red face; muscular forearms showed below the rolled-up sleeves of kirtle and shift, and the ends of her kerchief, knotted up on top of her head, were threatening to come untied. ‘What would they talk about? The same as any that sits in here drinking, I’ve no doubt. How they could run the world better than them that’s set in authority, what lassie’s willing for a walk round the kirkyard by night, a’things like that.’

‘You’ve never overheard them?’

‘I’ve more to do than stand about all day listening to my customers.’ Bessie pushed her rolled sleeves higher up her arms. ‘Like sweeping up that draff out there. If you’ll no do it, I’ll ha’ to find someone that will.’

‘Mistress?’ The man at the other barrel was looking at Gil. ‘Should he maybe get a word wi’ Girzie? She’s been on about what she heard all day, it might shut her mouth if someone heard her out. The twice-brewed, Annie?’ He half-turned to the spigot and drew brown ale foaming into a fat yellow-glazed jug for a maidservant in a drab homespun gown, who bobbed a curtsy in thanks. ‘There you are, lass. On your maister’s slate, is it?’

Bessie snorted.

‘Her? I’ve no wish to encourage her. She’s barely done a hand’s turn since the word came back the man was dead.’

‘What did she hear?’ Gil asked, in no great hopes. ‘Was it Murray?’

‘Aye,’ said the tapster, ‘him or the other fellow. She’s out in the yard the now, mistress, I could fetch her in.’

‘I’ll go out there,’ said Gil hastily. ‘I’ll not keep her long from her work.’

‘Hah!’ said Bessie bitterly, but did not prevent him from going out through the rear door of the taproom.

The first thing he saw as he stepped into the yard was Socrates, who looked up from his inspection of a storehouse door and hurried across to meet him, tail waving. Acknowledging the dog’s greeting, he looked about and found Patey, deep in conversation with another of the Belstane grooms. Two empty beakers were on the ground at their feet, and four of his mother’s horses stood tethered beside them.

‘The mistress is yonder, Maister Gil,’ the second man called, pulling off his bonnet. ‘The young mistress,’ he added. ‘In the kitchen yard, ayont the brewhouse, talking to some weeping lassie.’