Pat McIntosh - St Mungo's Robin

‘These accounts.’ He turned to the rack of little drawers and pulled out the topmost bundle of papers. ‘And when I get the keys from Millar I must go through the papers in the man’s kist through there. Get another look at the body, look for the ladder — ’

‘Ladder? Oh, at the back gate,’ she said, and shivered, but went on sharply, ‘What, hunting all round the outhouses in the rain? I fancied you’d ha been seated somewhere in comfort, asking questions, and a clerk to write down the answers.’

‘No,’ Gil said, as the recollection of previous investigations rose in his mind, of pursuing and being pursued through moonlit scaffolding by a whispering killer, of playing cards with his enemy in a cushionless hall. ‘You’re thinking of the old man,’ he added. ‘Time enough for that when I’m his age. But if you still want to help, and you want to be seated in comfort, I can give you some of these documents to sort.’

She looked doubtful, but once he had explained what he wanted and lent her his own tablets in which to make notes, she settled by a window and began extracting the names of the various parcels of land for him. Gil took another bundle of papers from the rack and tried to concentrate on the same task, but his sister kept up an irregular flow of comments on the names of places and persons in the documents, with remarks about the weather and about Maggie’s activities the day before, and he found himself thinking more of how he could get her off his hands again, and where. Could I induce her to go back to the house in Rottenrow, he wondered, or would she go down to see Kate?

‘What a name!’ she said, for the fifth or sixth time. ‘Some folk have no thought for their bairns, the names they saddle them with. Imagine being called Wenifreda. And this is another Douglas donation,’ she added. ‘Four — seven — eight of them witnessing this paper.’

‘The bedehouse is a Douglas foundation.’

‘Oh, is that why — ’ she began, and broke off. After a moment she went on diffidently, ‘Gil, do you think it was the Devil in the garden that night?’

‘Seems unlikely,’ said Gil. ‘What reason would he have to come for Naismith rather than anyone else in Glasgow?’

‘Maybe he was — well, carrying on wi black Masses, or witchcraft as those silly women said, or the like.’

‘We’ve found nothing to suggest it.’

Tib seemed about to answer him, but was forestalled by a sudden mixed shouting from the garden. As she turned to stare out of the window, the separate voices became identifiable, and running feet sounded in the passage below the chamber where they sat.

‘Humphrey calm yoursel! Help! Help me!’

And Humphrey’s resounding Latin: ‘ Trust them not, for all their fine words! Day and night they accuse him before our God — ’

‘Humphrey be still. Let go, man!’

Tib looked in horror at Gil, who was already making for the door.

‘What’s happening?’ she demanded. ‘Gil, stop them!’

‘Stay here, Tib,’ he ordered. ‘Socrates, stay! Guard!’

In the narrow passage through the building there was a complicated struggle going on, with many exclamations and choking noises, and two dangerously waving sticks. As Gil arrived, Mistress Mudie burst out of the kitchen and dived under an elderly elbow, babbling in two very distinct tones of voice.

‘- whatever’s happening, who’s upset you my poppet? It’s no that brother of yours is it, now, now, Humphrey, that’s no way to treat your brother whatever he’s been saying, if that’s Maister Agnew he deserves what’s come to him, such things as he’s been trying to — ’

‘ The accuser shall be overthrown — ’

‘Sissie, get him off!’ That was Millar’s voice. ‘He’s about throttled Maister Agnew!’

Gil pushed past a bony shoulder, deflected Anselm’s stick from Cubby’s head, and assisted Mistress Mudie in attempting to prise Humphrey’s fingers from about his brother’s throat. The Latin flowed over the whole scene.

‘ Trust them not, for all the fine words they give you! ’ That isn’t the Apocalypse, thought Gil, trying to dislodge a thumb. ‘ How long must it be before we are vindicated, before our blood is avenged? It calls out to the mountains and the crags — ’

‘- saying such things about his own brother, trying to make out he would take a knife to anyone, let alone the Deacon that’s been so good to him, no wonder the poor soul’s owerset wi it, hearing the like from his own kin — ’

‘ I hold the keys of Death and of Death’s domain — I have the power to make men slaughter one another, for God’s word and for the testimony they shall bear!’

‘Brothers, please, I b-beg of you, calm yoursels!’

‘Humphrey my poppet, let go, come and sit nice and have a wee drink — ’

Agnew was going black in the face and the choking sounds were diminishing; the grip about his throat was amazingly strong. Gil, with hindrance from Mistress Mudie, managed to get hold of one of Humphrey’s little fingers and tugged backwards. The old trick worked. Agnew himself managed to break the grip of his brother’s other hand and fell back into Millar’s arms, drawing a crowing breath. Cubby and Maister Veitch got between Humphrey and his quarry, and Gil and Mistress Mudie drew the struggling bedesman towards the kitchen door, the Apocalypse rising above the general uproar.

‘ The beast shall be taken prisoner, and cast into the lake of fire, and all the birds shall gorge themselves on its flesh!’

I hope they like roast meat, thought Gil.

‘- lovely milk for you, wi soothing herbs in it, and a wee bit honey, all for you, my poppet, and I hope the man of law didny hurt you tugging at your fingers, if you’ll just come and have a nice sit-down and drink your milk — ’

‘ We will conquer him by the testimony which we will utter — ’

‘St Mungo send he doesny turn into a cheese,’ said Maister Veitch’s dry tones.

Humphrey was steered struggling through the kitchen, where the three servants stood quickly out of the way as if they were used to this happening, and into Mistress Mudie’s chamber. She thrust him down in the chair by her hearth.

‘- there now, my poppet, your milk won’t be a moment, and how can I thank you, maister, it’s a charitable act you’ve just done, best you get away the now, he’ll be right enough once I get his draught down him — ’

‘Are you sure?’ Gil asked, trying to get his breath.

‘ The accuser of our brothers shall be overthrown ,’ declaimed Humphrey, ‘ for Michael and his angels shall wage war upon him, though he be allowed to mouth bombast and blasphemy! ’ Then, in Scots, ‘The white eaglet, the goggie, will fling his brother from the nest, and snatch his share of the carrion!’

‘- all’s well, Humphrey, sit nice now, oh, aye, maister, he’s better already and Simmie’s there if I was needing any help, there now, and some honey to go wi the milk — ’

Gil retreated to the hall, where the rest of the embroilment had taken refuge. Agnew was seated in one of the chairs by the hearth, sipping water in small painful swallows, his breath whistling in his throat. The brethren were ranged about him arguing, and Millar stood by making anxious noises and asking questions.

‘But how did it happen?’

‘The nane o us saw it.’

‘Andro, the man must be keepit out o here! Humphrey’s never so bad as when he’s been round him.’

‘He’s never gaed for any o us afore this.’

This was probably no time to question Agnew himself. Extracted from the hall with a request for Naismith’s keys, Millar added little to what Gil had already guessed.