Pat McIntosh - St Mungo's Robin

‘No, no,’ said Dorothea reassuringly, ‘we’re expected back at my uncle’s, but I had to see you when I heard of your trouble.’

Relief crossed Marion’s face, but all she said was, ‘Come to the fire, come and be seated, the both of you. Eppie, get Danny to bring us a refreshment, will you, lass.’

Eppie, who had set the child down, picked it up again and made for the stairs.

‘He’ll likely no bring it himself,’ she warned, ‘the strunt he’s in the day, mistress.’

‘It must be twelve years,’ said Dorothea, sitting down on one of the pair of cushioned settles. ‘We’ve all changed. I’m right sorry to see you again at a moment like this, Marion. I had to come by when I heard of it. But has none of your neighbours come in to sit with you?’

Marion shrugged. She was warmly but unbecomingly dressed in a dark brown high-necked gown, with a grey furred loose robe over it which hung open and lay in pools of marten-skin round her feet when she sat opposite her guests across the small brazier. A gold chain of strange work lay about her neck under the robe. Without the armful of linen to mask it her pregnancy was visible but not, Gil thought, very far advanced.

‘They’ve been at the door, the most of them, but I sent them away, I’m too taigled. But it’s no a bother to see you, after all this time,’ she said, ‘I was just packing. Gil, you’re a man of law these days, are you no? Can you tell me how much of this I can lay claim to? I’d no like to go off wi something I’ve no right to take.’

Gil closed his mouth, swallowed, and said carefully, ‘Your own clothes, your jewellery, items like your combs and spinning wheel and such like, are all paraphernal. That is,’ he translated, seeing her anxious look, ‘they’re your own property and you can take them where you like. Also anything of the bairn’s,’ he added, ‘clothes and toys and so forth.’

‘But do you have to leave immediately?’ asked Dorothea. ‘Surely whoever inherits the house, they’ll give you time to find somewhere else.’

‘Aye, likely,’ said Marion. There was a short silence.

‘I’m sorry about Maister Naismith’s death,’ said Dorothea, trying again. ‘He’ll be a sore miss to you, surely.’

‘No, I wouldny say that,’ pronounced Marion, gazing out of the open shutters at the lit windows of the house opposite. There was another silence. Gil slid a look at his sister, and found her eyeing him round her veil. He cleared his throat, and their hostess turned the wide blue gaze on him.

‘Marion, how much did Andro Millar tell you?’ he asked.

She considered briefly ‘My uncle Frankie came by wi the word first, and then my brother John, and Andro came later, but they never told me a lot. Just that the Deacon was dead. They found him in the bedehouse garden the morn. Is that right?’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Gil. ‘They never said how he had died?’ She shook her head. ‘He was stabbed, Marion.’

‘ Stabbed? ’ she repeated sharply.

Gil nodded. ‘It was murder. I’m Blacader’s Quaestor, and I’m pursuing the death to bring whoever did it to justice.’

‘No need for that,’ she said, the brief moment of animation over.

‘Everyone deserves justice,’ said Dorothea. Marion smiled kindly at her, but said nothing.

‘When did you see him last?’ Gil asked.

‘Who, the Deacon? Yestreen, it would be. He was here at supper-time. He ate his supper wi the household.’

‘What did you serve?’ Gil asked.

‘Stewed kale wi lentils, and a dish of roastit mutton,’ she said promptly, ‘and a plate of apple fritters to follow.’

‘And Malvoisie to drink?’

‘No,’ she said blankly. ‘Just ale. And my brother John was here. You’ll mind John, a course. He’s home from the sea, from Dumbarton, where his ship’s in the now. Is that no good news?’ she said, a smile crossing the empty façade. ‘He fetched up at the door at noon yesterday, and I was that pleased to see him. Four year he’s been away this time, him and — He brought me this chain,’ she touched it vaguely, ‘he says it’s Moorish make.’

‘It’s a bonnie thing,’ said Dorothea. ‘You must have been thankful to see him. Was he here at supper too?’

‘Aye.’

‘How long did Maister Naismith stay?’ asked Gil. ‘Did you sit talking after supper?’

‘No,’ she said, the blank look returning. ‘Naismith was to go out, so he said, about some business of his own, so he gaed off, and my brother was here a while longer talking over — talking over old times.’ Was that a break in her voice? ‘Then John went off and all, to his lodging down the High Street, and I went to my bed.’

‘So you saw Naismith about six or seven o’clock?’ Gil said.

‘Aye, that would be it,’ she agreed.

‘What time would it be when he left?’

‘Maybe half an hour after seven.’ She sounded vague. ‘Would that be right, Eppie?’

‘Aye, I’d say so, mistress,’ said Eppie, returning with the child on her hip. ‘Can I leave the wean wi you a minute till I carry up this tray? Danny’s still in a mood.’

The little one was passed over, smiling at its mother and, more shyly, at the visitors. It was an attractive child, dressed in a tunic of fine red wool protected by two layers of linen bib and apron. A mop of dark curls overhung a little pale-skinned face with huge blue eyes like its mother’s. They could pose for an altarpiece, thought Gil.

‘And who’s this?’ asked Dorothea, smiling back at the child.

‘This is Frankie,’ said Marion unhelpfully. ‘We named her for my uncle,’ she added, finally providing the detail Gil wanted. ‘He’s been right good to me. She’s being a bit clingy the day, aren’t you, my wee poppet? So Eppie’s been minding her till I get this packing done. Make your obedience to the lady and gentleman, Frankie.’

After a little more coaxing Frankie slid off the settle, performed a wobbly curtsy, and hid her face in her mother’s lap when it was praised. Marion and Dorothea exchanged indulgent glances.

‘Where was Maister Naismith going when he left here?’ Gil asked.

‘He never said,’ Marion declared. ‘He was — he wasny given to discussing his business wi me,’ she added firmly.

‘But did it seem like something he was looking forward to, maybe an evening with friends,’ persisted Gil, ‘or was it a matter of business? How was he when he left?’

‘Just ordinary,’ said Marion. Eppie, reappearing on the stair with the tray in her hands, cast a sharp glance at her mistress but said nothing. ‘Neither up nor down,’ Marion elaborated. ‘Will you have a cup of buttered ale?’

The refreshment was served out by Eppie, the ale steaming in the wooden beakers. It must, Gil reflected, have been already hot for the servants’ mid-afternoon break, to have appeared so promptly. There was a plate of little cakes to hand round after it, at which Frankie emerged from her mother’s skirts looking hopeful.

‘You can have one cake,’ said Marion, ‘and then go down wi Eppie and have another one. You can come back to Mammy later.’

Gil watched as the two left, then began again.

‘Marion, did Maister Millar tell you anything else?’ She shook her head. ‘There was someone in the Deacon’s lodging by the time Millar got home last night, but we don’t know where he was before that.’

‘But I thought he was slain in the night,’ said Marion, looking troubled, ‘or maybe right early this morn. Was it no someone inside the bedehouse? Why does it matter where he was afore that?’

‘It’s quite possible it was someone inside,’ agreed Gil non-committally ‘but if we know what his movements were last night, who he met or spoke to, we might learn why he was killed.’