Pat McIntosh - St Mungo's Robin

Socrates, having run ventre à terre in large circles for several minutes, returned to find his master inspecting the ground beside the wall. He joined in with enthusiasm, but nothing seemed to catch his attention at first. The earth here was firm, and had not taken clear prints, and the grasses were well trampled where many casual passers-by had come to stare over the wall. Pushing the dog aside, Gil worked his way along the boundary, and was finally rewarded by the discovery of two small square marks, sharp-edged, the length of a fingernail deep, with muddy water gathering in them. One was a handspan from the foot of the wall, the other perhaps three-fourths of an ell further out. He searched to either side along the wall, but found no more such imprints.

Standing up, he looked carefully at the wall which surrounded the bedehouse garden. The angular stones which made up its coping were at shoulder height, convenient to his eye. The rain was getting heavier, and was now running off the brim of his hat if he tipped his head forward, but the signs he was searching for showed up the more clearly.

He turned and scanned the surrounding area. The trampled grass close by offered little information, but further away there were signs which interested him. Socrates, looking where Gil looked, put his nose down and set off on a trail just as Maistre Pierre stepped through the gate, clutching his heavy cloak round him.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘what has the dog found?’

‘I suppose the scent of whoever it was brought Naismith here,’ said Gil. His friend raised his eyebrows. ‘Come and look at this.’

The mason came obediently to stretch his neck and study the wet stonework. ‘What am I looking at?’

‘There.’ Gil pointed cautiously. ‘What do you see?’

‘Scratches,’ said Maistre Pierre after a moment. ‘Two or three small scratches and a chip off the stone.’ He cast Gil an interrogative look.

‘I think,’ said Gil, ‘he was put over the wall.’

‘Not through the gate?’

‘Michael tells me the gate was locked. I wondered if that would make a difference, so I looked, and found this.’

‘Go on.’

‘I think these scratches were made by that great bunch of keys he bore, scraping on the stone as he went over.’

‘Ah! And that was when his ear was torn,’ said Maistre Pierre, nodding. ‘It would work, though it does not explain the other marks on his face. But I would not care to lift such a burden so high myself. One person or more? Do we look for a strong man from a fair?’

‘Perhaps,’ Gil hedged. ‘There are no footprints to show someone was carrying something heavy, but there are these.’ Maistre Pierre looked where he indicated, tested the depth of the two small square impressions and frowned.

‘A ladder?’ he said. ‘He climbed a ladder, with the corpse? In the dark?’

‘Maybe,’ said Gil. ‘I can only find one set of marks. If it was a folding ladder, the other feet have left no trace.’ He looked round. ‘But if it was a ladder, we needn’t look for a big man. No more than the middling size. Where is that dog?’

He whistled, and was answered by a peremptory bark from the nearest clump of hazel scrub.

‘He has found something,’ Maistre Pierre suggested.

‘Surely not a squirrel, at this time of year,’ said Gil. ‘He was following a trail. I had better take a look. Do you see, someone has walked from here to those hazels.’

‘Half the Upper Town has walked here since dawn,’ complained Maistre Pierre.

Moving carefully to one side of the line of bruised grasses, they made their way towards the trees.

‘Will you see Alys again today?’ asked Maistre Pierre casually.

‘If I can,’ said Gil. His friend turned to look at him in the drizzle.

‘She will be herself again once the festivities are over,’ he said reassuringly. ‘She has done this once before, though not so bad, a few years since when we had a feast for my fortieth name-day. At the feast itself she was the model of a good daughter, in her pearls and her best gown. All will be well.’

‘Yes,’ said Gil. ‘It’s not the feast that troubles me.’

‘That will be well too,’ said Maistre Pierre largely, and gave him a significant grin. ‘She is sufficiently like her mother, God rest her soul, that she will make you a good wife in all ways. Do not worry, son-in-law.’

‘Everyone keeps telling me that.’

‘They are right.’ The mason clapped him on the shoulder, and Gil grunted in response as they approached the thicket where Socrates’ tail was visible waving under the branches. The dog threw them a brief look over his shoulder, but turned back to the object which had interested him among the hazel-roots, pawing at the ground round it. The coarse grey hair stood up in a ridge along his narrow back and his soft ears were pricked intently.

‘Blood,’ said Gil. ‘He has found blood, or else a hedgehog. Good dog, leave!’

‘But no,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘it is something light-coloured. A piece of linen, I think.’

Socrates, recognizing that his master had taken charge of his find, sat back with his tongue hanging out, well pleased with himself. Gil bent over the object.

‘Yes, linen,’ he said. ‘Very wet, but not particularly muddy. It has not been here long.’ He straightened up to look round, and broke off a convenient twig to prod the cloth with. ‘And yes, I think these are bloodstains. Good dog!’

‘Is it a garment, or part of a garment? A napkin?’

‘It’s hemmed all round.’ Gil turned another fold of the cloth. ‘Neat stitches, too. It’s not napery, it’s a different weave, more like a towel, and far longer than it is wide. I think it’s a neck-piece. A scarf.’

‘Someone will miss it, in this weather,’ said Maistre Pierre, tugging gloomily at his own where it was wrapped about inside the collar of his cloak to prevent the rain running down his neck. ‘Whatever is such a thing doing here?’

‘A good question. Don’t move,’ Gil requested. He lifted the wet cloth carefully on his twig and handed it to the other man, then cast about round the spot where the object had lain. ‘The ground is much damper here than it is by the wall, and the dog was following a trail when he came here. Yes, indeed, there are footprints. A heel here, and there’s a toe.’ He bent again, pushing the wet stems of the dead grasses aside. ‘Ah!’

‘A complete print?’ said his companion hopefully. ‘Both of them?’

‘Indeed, several, but I think only one person. Come and look.’

The marks were clearly visible, several footprints superimposed as if a man had stood under the trees and shuffled nervously about while waiting for something. One print was distinct on top of the others, the clear outline of a well-shod foot.

‘Smaller than mine,’ said Gil, comparing his own foot with the print. ‘A good sole, not much worn. Boot or shoe, I wonder? The sole is quite rigid, I suspect a boot.’

‘Not helpful,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘No.’ Gil looked about him, and back at the gate of the bedehouse. ‘This doesn’t read.’

‘Not read? You mean you cannot make out the prints? They seem clear to me.’

‘Oh, those are easy enough. But what was he doing? He came from the gate, and stood here for a bit — ’

‘Dropped this.’

‘- aye, possibly, and then I suppose went back to the gate. Why? These are recent prints, probably made last night. What was so important here that he would tramp about rough ground by lantern-light? Or even,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘in the dark.’

‘Had he left something here?’

‘No sign of that. And he wasn’t carrying anything heavy. I wish the prints by the gate were clearer. Unless …’