Pat McIntosh - St Mungo's Robin

‘And keep it off the matting,’ said Hob as he reached the doorway. ‘Once in a week’s enough.’

‘Hob! Get away hame!’ said Agnew. His man snorted, and ducked out of the door. ‘You’ll ha to excuse him, Maister Cunningham. He’s been too long wi me. Some wine, then?’

The wine was golden in the glass but belied its promise. Gil kept his face straight, and said reassuringly in Latin, ‘I won’t keep you, if you’re promised somewhere. But there are a few things I hope you might shed light on, regarding Deacon Naismith’s death.’

‘You said that before,’ said Agnew. He was remarkably like his brother, but his hair was fashionably longer, his face was fatter, and the lines at mouth and forehead signalled his presence in the day-to-day world of the Consistory. ‘He was with me about this time last evening, after supper, for an hour or so, but I never saw him again after that.’

‘Was that here?’ asked Gil innocently, looking round the hall where they sat. He had friends among the cathedral songmen, who made up most of the inhabitants of the two rows of identical houses of Vicars’ Alley, so the size and shape of the room were familiar to him. This one was brightly painted with false panelling in black and red, with vases of stiff improbable flowers depicted on the red squares. The beams which supported the floorboards overhead were also decorated, with vines wriggling along their length, and the shutters at the window had more flowers, startlingly unlike the ones which would be visible in the little yard outside in summer. ‘Is it new painted?’

‘Handsome work, isn’t it?’ agreed Agnew in Scots. ‘You’d not believe what George Bowster cost me, first and last, but it was well worth it. It’s Eck Sproat your gudefather’s got in, I hear? I hope he’s as good,’ he said dubiously, and returned to Latin for the business of the evening. ‘No, I saw Deacon Naismith in my chamber in the Consistory tower. The clerk that brought him up to me asked how long we would be, since it was time they were away, so I am certain it was late. The Deacon stayed while we dealt with the matter that brought him.’

‘And what was that?’ Gil asked.

‘He was planning great changes in his life,’ said Agnew easily. ‘Some more of this Malvoisie?’

‘No, thank you. I’ve another call to make. Changes, you said? So naturally he would turn to you, since you conveyed so much of his other property.’

‘Naturally,’ agreed Agnew, smiling slightly.

‘He must have come to you in the first place as the bedehouse’s man of law.’ Agnew nodded. ‘Perhaps you can tell me about the financial arrangements there. Is the Deacon in complete control, or is there other supervision?’

‘The Deacon is in control,’ said Agnew, pursing his lips and nodding. ‘I dare say the founder’s family have the final direction of their own donations, but the other properties are at the Deacon’s disposal entirely, those that are outright gifts.’

Improvident, if true, thought Gil.

‘So he made the most of the opportunity,’ he said aloud.

‘Naturally The very most, indeed.’ Gil raised his eyebrows and Agnew confided, ‘I have sometimes wondered if he was altering the terms of some of the dispositions.’

‘Dear me,’ said Gil. ‘Without your concurrence, I assume.’

‘Oh, I assure you! I would certainly have advised against it if he had consulted me.’

‘How long have you acted for the house?’

‘Ten or twelve years, I suppose.’

‘And how long had Maister Naismith been in place? How did he come by the post?’

‘Four years at Candlemas next,’ said Agnew promptly. ‘As to how he came by it, I can claim no knowledge, but I recall him saying that he had been master of a smaller house at Irvine before he came to Glasgow. He has — had friends in Lanarkshire, perhaps they knew the founder’s family.’

‘I can check that,’ said Gil, ‘if it becomes relevant. And you said he was planning changes. Are you able to say what they were?’

‘Well, it can do no harm to tell you, I suppose, since it cannot come to pass now. He was hoping to be married, and had great intentions for the bedehouse, and for his property round the burgh of Glasgow and elsewhere.’ Agnew felt in his sleeve, then looked about him. ‘No, of course, they’re in the tower. I have the notes for the new will I was to draw up for him in my other tablets.’

‘Had you drawn up the previous will? Did the principal legatee remain the same?’ Gil asked neutrally.

Agnew took another sip of his execrable wine, and considered his answer.

‘No,’ he said at length. ‘The principal legatee was not the same. It was originally — I expect you can guess who it was, I hear you’ve already questioned her. The new will would have left most of his property, including the house by the Caichpele, to his wife. Contingent on the marriage taking place, of course.’

‘Of course.’ There was a pause. ‘And who was that?’ Gil prompted.

Another sip of the Malvoisie.

‘It was to have been a kinswoman of mine. Widowed, you understand, with a nice little settlement in coin and land. The marriage was in my hands.’

‘Very provident,’ said Gil, wondering how the widow felt. ‘So the Deacon was planning to be married, and wished to rearrange the disposition of his properties,’ he summarized. ‘I’m sure you’d have wanted to drink a toast to that. Did you discuss anything else? Did it affect the almshouse, or any other individual? Was he making provision for Mistress Veitch?’

‘Very little, in my view,’ said Agnew, assuming an air of disapproval. ‘And that conditional on the child she’s carrying being a son. No, there was nothing to be writ down that affected the almshouse.’

‘I see.’ Gil set his glass on the fine rush matting. ‘So this took you an hour or so.’

‘We had to disentangle his ideas somewhat. You know what it can be like.’

Gil nodded. ‘And then?’

‘He left, without saying where he was going. And then I left.’

‘Not together?’

‘No, he was ahead of me, by — oh, not by as much as a quarter-hour. I had papers to straighten, notes to make for this morning. I never saw him alive again.’ Agnew bent his head and crossed himself.

‘Did it seem as if he was going home, or to meet someone else?’

Agnew looked up in surprise. ‘I never thought of that.’ He considered briefly, gazing at the wriggling vines along the roof-beams. ‘No, I would not say he was going home, though who he was going to meet I could not speculate.’

‘Did he seem in any way worried? As if there was anything wrong?’

‘No, no,’ Agnew assured him. ‘He was considerably annoyed, for I think — ’ He broke off, but then shook his head. ‘It can do him no harm now to divulge these matters, and may do some good. I got the impression that the former principal legatee, or perhaps her family, had raised objections to his change of plans which the Deacon felt were not justified. He said that it was his business, and none of theirs.’

Gil nodded, appreciating this version of what Eppie had called a roaring tulzie.

‘Did he feel he had got the better of them in argument?’ he asked. ‘Did he anticipate any kind of retaliation?’

‘Some legal action, you mean?’ said the other man of law. Gil held his peace. ‘None was mentioned, nor any threat of violence. Yes, the Deacon seemed to feel he had got the best of the discussion. Do you imply that this had some bearing on his death?’

‘I imply nothing,’ Gil said mendaciously. ‘I must ask about everything, because somewhere in his last hours lies the answer.’

‘Ah. Yes, of course.’ Agnew crossed himself again, and took another sip of wine. Gil cleared his throat, and changed the subject slightly.