Pat McIntosh - The Rough Collier

‘Aye,’ said the other voice in the darkness. ‘That would be right. And has your wisdom discerned yet what it was they took?’

‘Not yet.’ Well, she thought, I am not certain yet. She turned her head to listen; there was definitely movement, stones shifting under a footfall. What was the voice of the coal, anyway? Closer at hand Arbella’s leather sark creaked.

‘You’re slow, for one that claims to be herb-wise. And what will your man do next to find who is to blame?’

‘He will ask more questions.’

‘Aye, he’s good at that,’ said Arbella. It was clearly not a compliment. ‘Did my good-daughter talk to you yestreen?’

‘Mistress Lithgo?’ There was a thumping overhead, as if someone was hammering timbers, but there was also certainly movement close to her, on both sides. Arbella was stirring, the little sounds of leather and stone suggesting that she was indeed searching for the candle, and from down the sloping tunnel came the footfalls again. Something was approaching slowly through the dark. She stretched her ears, trying to hear the tiny noises. Not booted feet, surely? ‘Yes, I spoke to her. She said she poisoned Thomas Murray, because he was annoying her daughters and Joanna.’

‘She never did such a thing.’

‘No, I think not,’ agreed Alys.

‘You said that afore. Why d’you think not?’

‘I think she is protecting her daughters.’

‘You think one of my lassies poisoned Thomas?’

‘I think Mistress Lithgo fears it, or fears my husband might think it.’

Close beside her, something large moved, a waft of hot fishy breath reached her. She recognized it just as the cold wet touch came on her cheek.

Socrates.

Stifling laughter, she put an arm across his reassuring narrow back, and he licked her face as Arbella said, ‘But not you. Why not?’

Where are Jamesie and his men? she wondered. What is happening overhead? I do not know how long I can hold off this inquisition, and what if she becomes angry?

‘Why not?’ repeated Arbella. ‘What does your man think?’

‘We haven’t spoken of it since yesterday,’ she parried.

The scrape of flint and steel alerted her. Almost automatically she turned her head away and closed her eyes, and light flared beyond her eyelids. Beside her the dog tensed, and she felt him growl. Her free hand closed on one of the lengths of wood which lay beside her, and she opened her eyes, to find the space where she sat lit by one candle, in brilliant contrast to the total darkness. David Fleming lay on the heap of timbers staring blankly at the stone roof, and Arbella was on her feet, lunging towards her, knife in one hand and a lump of rock in the other.

Scrambling up and swinging the balk of wood she struck the knife, and it flew glittering into the tunnel and rattled down the slope. She hefted the stave, twisted it, swung it back, realized she had grasped it in the hold which Gil had shown her — how many days ago? — and struck Arbella’s wrist. The woman cried out, and recoiled. The dog bounded snarling round them, threatening to upset the candle again, and wonder of wonders Gil’s voice echoed down the shaft, booming and resounding but heart-warmingly familiar.

‘Gil!’ she shrieked. Wood creaked high up, and stones rattled down the shaft and fell on her leather hood. Her opponent hissed, and lunged again, and Socrates leapt to seize the old woman’s arm. Arbella struck at the soft of his nose with the stone, breaking his grip, and flung herself forward. Alys swung her wooden stave again, across, and twist the blade, and back , stepped backwards to avoid the reaching hands, and went down as her foot turned on a stone, writhing round to land on one knee. Using the stave to hold off her attacker, she scrambled to her feet, and the dog leapt past her, snarling hideously, struck Arbella at shoulder height with his forepaws, and brought her down.

More stones rattled down the shaft, and Gil shouted urgently to her, but she was panting too hard to answer him. The dog was standing over Arbella, his teeth at her throat. Blood dripped on her from his muzzle. Rope creaked and twanged, and suddenly Gil arrived beside her with a rush and a clatter of wood, blinking in the light, whinger in hand.

One breath, and he took in the situation.

‘You picked a strange place to practise,’ he said. ‘I told you to keep the point up.’

‘I was distracted,’ she said. ‘Gil, she killed Fleming, before he could tell me what he knew.’

‘He was next thing to dead already,’ said the woman on the ground. Socrates growled. ‘I gave him his quietus, no more. Call your dog off me, Maister Cunningham, if you would, and you’ll need to have a care to your wife, for I think her mind’s turned wi’ the dark. It does that to folks.’

‘Does it?’ said Gil politely.

‘And she poisoned Thomas Murray,’ said Alys.

‘It could be nobody else,’ he agreed.

‘You’ve no even worked out what slew him,’ said Arbella, though the dog growled again. ‘How can you tell who it was?’

‘I know very well what slew him. Where is the yew tree, madam?’ asked Alys. Gil looked down at her, and smiled in the candlelight.

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘Your mind’s turned, lassie,’ said Arbella again. Socrates’ snarl grew louder. ‘Call this brute off me, maister, I’m an old woman and it’s no right to keep me here on the cold ground wi’ a savage beast standing ower me — ’

‘Was it right to kill Murray and an innocent bystander?’ Gil asked. He handed Alys his whinger, and lifted the stick which had fallen the last few feet of the shaft with him, measured the broken end of the rope which was tied to it, and began to unravel the knots about the stick. Arbella shrank away from the dog’s teeth, the hood of her leather sark falling back. Her linen undercap had come askew, and her white hair straggled loose, the blood from the dog’s nose darkening it in the candlelight.

‘None so innocent, was he?’ she retorted. ‘Filthy catamite!’

‘He had done you no harm, and he should have had his chance at repentance. But those were only the most recent, I think. What about the others?’

‘What others?’ said Arbella scornfully. ‘You’re raving, the pair of you.’

‘Your husband,’ said Gil. ‘Your son Adam, seven years after him — ’

‘Attie went under a roof-fall, ten fathom that way.’ She jerked her head sideways, and the dog growled deep in his chest.

‘Like the one today?’ said Gil. Alys glanced at him in the dim light, then hastily back at her target. ‘So you admit to poisoning your husband?’

‘I said no such thing.’

‘And there was your other son, seven years after Adam.’

‘You’re reading a strange lot into our ill fortune, sir.’ Arbella stirred, and the dog snarled in her face. ‘Free me of this monstrous brute, afore the roof falls here — ’

‘Is that a threat?’ Gil was still working on the knots. The light could be no help, thought Alys, glancing at him again. He must be working by touch alone. ‘Why did you kill Murray?’

‘Have I said I did?’

‘I know you did, and I’ve a good guess at why. I just want to know which reason you’ll give me.’

‘No, maister, you tell me. Why should anyone kill Thomas Murray?’

‘He asked too many questions, didn’t he?’ said Alys, still holding the sword ready. ‘He had got too close to the secret.’

‘Secret!’ scoffed Arbella from her prone position. ‘What secret?’

‘Give me the sword,’ said Gil, ‘and you tie her arms.’

Alys obeyed, the dog was persuaded with difficulty to stand back, and Arbella sat up, still scoffing. Alys bound her arms at elbow level, and said quietly, in the old woman’s ear, ‘Did he know who her father was?’