Pat McIntosh - The Rough Collier

‘I was never there,’ admitted Sir Simon.

‘And both the sons came back to the burial,’ said Alys.

‘Aye, and the displenishing, which is what brings most folk back to the old home,’ said Sir Simon drily. ‘It’s seldom an edifying sight, the family after the funeral.’

‘I hope the Brownlie funeral was harmonious.’

‘No,’ said Sir Simon. ‘I wouldny say it was.’ He shook his head, contemplating the past, and took another sweetmeat. ‘I wouldny say it was,’ he repeated.

‘Did they disagree over the will?’

Another of those sharp looks.

‘Aye, though it was clear enough. I scribed and witnessed it. All the outside gear to the sons, to divide equably atween my sons Thomas and Robert Brownlie , and the inside gear to our dear Joanna that was born in the year of 1470.’

‘How odd,’ said Alys. ‘What a strange way to put it. As if there was another Joanna.’

‘I thought that myself,’ agreed Sir Simon, ‘but there was never no more than the one lassie in the household. But that was the way Will dictated it, and he’d no be shifted. Poor man,’ he sighed, ‘he doted on the lassie, even though — Then the coin in his kist was to be split three ways after payment of his debts and a gift to the kirk. Straightforward, you’d think.’ Alys nodded. ‘Aye, you’d think, and you’d be wrong. What must they do but argue about what was inside gear, and discover a sum owing to Tammas that must be settled afore the coin was split. In the end, I’d say, Joanna got little more than half what was her due.’

‘It’s a strange thing, human nature,’ said Alys. ‘A great sum or a small one, neither is easy to share out.’

‘Aye. Mind, she was still left to the good. A saving man, Will Brownlie, and did well from the property he held.’ Sir Simon considered Alys. ‘Is there aught else I can tell you, lassie? I’d aye a fondness for Joanna Brownlie myself, I’d be glad to help her in her difficulties.’

‘They all made him feel worse,’ repeated Lady Egidia. ‘In what way, do you suppose?’

‘I never asked,’ said Alys with regret. ‘He is a clever man, but I think with no medical knowledge. He might not have been able to tell me. But I think he found something odd about the man’s deathbed, from the way he spoke.’

‘Yes.’ Lady Egidia stroked her cat thoughtfully. ‘I like that hood better on you, with the narrow braid,’ she observed. ‘It becomes you more than the other one. You have good taste, my dear.’

From a woman presently clad in a patched kirtle and a loose budge gown of her late husband’s this did not seem to be much of a compliment, but Alys had seen her mother-in-law dressed en grande tenue and took it at its proper valuation. Aware of her cheeks burning, she answered lightly, ‘But of course. I chose Gil.’

‘And he is making you happy?’

‘He is,’ Alys said, resolutely not biting her lip. Of course, the inquisition had to come, and a well-bred woman like this one would conduct it neither too early nor too late in the visit, and certainly in Gil’s absence.

‘You don’t seem certain.’ Lady Egidia raised one eyebrow, in an expression Alys had seen in Gil. Socrates, sprawled before the hearth, raised his head and stared at the hall door. ‘Have you quarrelled? I heard your voices last night.’

What else did she hear? wondered Alys in alarm, her cheeks flaming again. ‘No, no,’ she said hastily. ‘Gil had a dream that woke him, and we talked a while.’

‘And then lay down again.’ There was no hint of innuendo in the tone. ‘So was it today you quarrelled?’

‘We haven’t — ’ Alys began, and the eyebrow rose again. ‘It’s a disagreement only. Nothing important — well, it is important, but not — ’ She caught herself up, took a deep breath, and explained briefly: ‘He suspects all of the Crombie women, that is he suspects any one out of all of them, and I do not.’

‘It seems to me he must be right — it must be one of them is the bludy tung undir a fair presence. Do you have good reason for excluding any of them?’

‘I think so.’

Lady Egidia considered her for a moment, then smiled.

‘He’ll apologize,’ she said. ‘But don’t let him always be the one to apologize. Even when he’s wrong.’

‘I know,’ said Alys, answering more than the smile. Her mother-in-law stretched out a hand to her, over the sleeping cat, and was clearly about to speak when Socrates scrambled to his feet and they heard Alan Forrest’s voice on the stairs.

‘Mistress? It’s Jackie Heriot here, about the corp in the feed-store. Will you see him?’

‘Aye, send him up, Alan,’ said Lady Egidia resignedly in Scots, and scooped the cat up. ‘Come away in, Sir John. You’ll stay to supper?’

‘St Malessock,’ Sir John corrected, sweeping over the threshold. ‘Our martyred St Malessock, that brought the gospel to these parts and was cruelly slain for his faith.’ He seemed to have gained in stature since the morning, Alys noticed, rising with her mother-in-law and bending the knee for his blessing. The ownership of a new and possibly important relic had done much for his self-esteem. ‘I never meant to put your household out, madam,’ he demurred, when the invitation was repeated. ‘But it would be right welcome. Indeed. I’ve been up the Pow Burn wi’ pastoral comfort and a Mass for them in their grief, and thought I’d come by this way to enquire when it would suit you to have us fetch our saint away, with a great procession and music and all.’

‘Aye, St Malessock.’ Lady Egidia sat down again, and the cat settled itself ostentatiously on her knee, glaring at Alys. ‘I heard about that. Has he cured Davy Fleming?’

‘Oh, too soon to say, too soon to say. We left the poor soul asleep, did we no, mistress,’ he said with a nod at Alys, ‘which at the least will do him some good, and if he can fast as I bade him and ask the saint’s help, then I’ve great hopes. Great hopes,’ he repeated, stroking Socrates’ head.

‘And how are they all up at the coaltown?’ asked Lady Egidia.

Sir John shook his head compassionately. ‘All at sixes and sevens, madam. The young widow — Mistress Brownlie — is overcome in her grief, and Mistress Weir is quite ill wi’ concern for her.’ Alys had difficulty in recognizing this picture. ‘I said a Mass for them, though we had to make do with household candles to light it, the rats had eaten away all the ones in the box, even the wicks, indeed. Strange to think that the cause of their sadness is the source of our rejoicing, is it no? And tell me, mistress,’ he turned to Alys. Trying to work out the logic of his last statement, she was taken by surprise. ‘I think you were there when our saint came up out of the peat? Did you not see any portents? Was there no sign, no lights in the sky or flames hovering over his brow, nothing like that?’

‘Nothing,’ she said firmly, wishing Gil was present to share the moment. Sir John looked so cast down at this that she felt impelled to add, ‘But I was not there when he was discovered, sir. When Maister Cunningham and I arrived he was already taken out of his burial-place and laid on a hurdle. You should ask the men of Thorn, who found him.’

‘Thorn,’ he said reflectively. ‘Aye. Well, I can ask.’

‘Best ask them separately,’ said Lady Egidia on a sardonic note, ‘if you want to get at any sort of truth there.’

‘Oh, they would not lie to their priest,’ Sir John responded, shocked.

‘And the other folk at the coaltown?’ pursued Lady Egidia. ‘Mistress Lithgo and her daughters, young Crombie himself, how are they? I hardly think Crombie will be grieved for his grieve,’ she pronounced, savouring the play on words, ‘but the man was part of the household, so I’ve heard, and it stirs up the melancholy humours when death comes under your roof.’