Pat McIntosh - St Mungo's Robin

‘Humphrey wasny at Terce, but neither Sissie nor I knew his brother was in the place,’ he said, wringing his hands in distress. ‘He must have come in quietly afore the Office when Humphrey was resting in his own lodging, and stayed talking wi him far longer than I’d ha thought advisable. The first we heard was the shouting, and then Maister Agnew came running in from the garden, and Humphrey after him trying to get him by the throat.’

‘What had he said to provoke him?’

‘He’s aye been able to anger him,’ said Millar, ‘but I think from what Humphrey said, afore he went off into the Apocalypse, as ye heard, and then tried to strike Duncan wi his own staff, that Maister Agnew was wanting him to confess to having slain the Deacon.’

‘That’s what his texts suggested,’ Gil agreed.

Millar nodded, still wringing his hands. ‘Agnew’s took it into his head it was his brother, though I’ve tried to tell him it wasny possible because of the way the locks are, and that, and he must have tried — ’ He turned his head as the argument in the hall grew louder again. ‘Maister Cunningham, I’ll have to leave you till I deal wi this.’

Tib was still sitting at the window, the dog at her feet, staring anxiously at the door, when he returned to the upper chamber.

‘What was it?’ she asked.

He sat down, sighing. ‘The mad bedesman tried to kill his brother.’

‘Mad? I didn’t know one of them was mad!’

‘I’ve mentioned it before,’ he said mildly. ‘He’s shut in with Mistress Mudie now. She’ll dose him with something to calm him, and the others are no harm to anyone. Except Maister Veitch,’ he added, ‘who beat me black and blue to get the Latin into me.’

She sat in subdued silence for some time, then said, ‘Gil.’

‘Mm?’ He set down the paper he was studying.

‘This is a deal more work than I imagined you did.’

‘It’s all in the detail.’

‘And in mad people trying to kill each other.’

‘That doesny happen often,’ he said reassuringly.

‘I hope no,’ she said. Then, turning her head, ‘My, is that sunshine?’ She stretched her back. ‘Gil, would it be safe now if I go down into the garden for a wee while? I’ve not seen the sun for days.’

‘Humphrey won’t go for you even if he sets eyes on you. Don’t annoy Mistress Mudie,’ he said. She snorted. ‘And for God’s sake, Tib, if any of the old men speaks to you, be civil.’

‘What d’you take me for?’ She shook out her skirts and pushed her hair back from her brow, arranging the curling locks with a gesture Gil realized he had seen in all his sisters except Dorothea. ‘Can I no question them for you?’ she added with an air of innocence. ‘Old men like me. They try to pinch my chin.’

He grinned, and waved her towards the door.

‘Get away out and walk in the garden,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in a wee while.’

Is it simply because she is my sister, he wondered, as her footsteps receded down the creaking stair, or are our natures incompatible? With Alys beside me I get more done than when I’m alone, but with Tib in the room I can’t concentrate.

Socrates lay down on his feet. He sighed, and bent his head to the documents again. Somewhere in this dusty pile was the reason for Naismith’s death, he was certain.

He had turned over only another two pages when more steps on the stair heralded Maistre Pierre, a neat hank of linen tape in his hand.

‘I have measured the distance between those feet,’ he said without preamble, ‘and sent the men out, since they are doing nothing useful today. Wattie has the joint-ill and cannot hold a mallet, and the journeymen were celebrating something last night and will not be fit to work safely before noon. If Robert Blacader ever wishes to see his aisle finished, he had best pray for a miracle. So they may as well search the Upper Town for our ladder.’

‘Oh, the ladder!’ repeated Gil, in some relief. ‘I was thinking of the wrong kind of feet. That would be valuable, Pierre.’

The mason checked a moment, staring at him, then guffawed.

‘Feet? What kind of feet had you in mind?’ he demanded. Gil shook his head, aware that his colour was rising, hardly recognizing why. ‘No, I only measured the ladder. Feet!’

‘Is my sister in the garden?’

‘Yes, she was out there, talking to those two students. I would say she was well entertained. Certainly she hardly noticed me at the gate.’ Maistre Pierre set a familiar bunch of keys on the table. ‘And it seems the talking woman has finished laying out the corpse. Do you wish to come down and inspect it?’

Gil rose and crossed the room to the window where Tib had been sitting. Out in the garden was a tableau: the three young people stood conversing by the door of the Douglas lodging, Tib with her hands demurely folded at her waist, Michael leaning casually against the house wall, Lowrie tossing up his felt cap and catching it again. Seeing movement at the window he looked up, clapped the hat on his fair head in order to take it off again, and called, ‘Good day, Maister Cunningham. What more have you found?’

Tib turned sharply.

‘See who’s here, Gil!’ she exclaimed with a bright smile. ‘You mind Michael, don’t you?’

Gil, with a sneaking feeling of shame, recognized rescue.

‘I mind Michael well,’ he agreed from the window, ‘and Lowrie. Good day, the both of you. Were you going down the road any time soon? Could you see Lady Tib to where she wants to be next?’

Robert Naismith was laid out on the board in the washhouse, with linen under him, and the length waiting to complete the embrace piled in creamy folds at his feet. His mouth was already closed and bound, sealing in the lentils and the scent of wine. Gil thought of Thomas Agnew’s vile Malvoisie, and wondered where the dead man had drunk his last draught. There were candles at the head of the board, and Sir Duncan Fraser with a fearsome set of beads at its foot, shining head bent over his fingers while the prayers slid out from under the luxuriant moustache. The dog padded in past Gil to check the space, raising his long nose to sniff at the hanging edge of the linen shroud.

‘Sir Duncan,’ Gil said softly. The old man looked up, still murmuring. ‘Did you hear anything, the night Deacon Naismith died?’

The prayers halted, and Sir Duncan peered at him with watery blue eyes. After a moment he shook his head, absently stroking Socrates. ‘Naither eechie nor ochie. A tauld ’e.’

‘Nor see anything, out in the garden?’ Gil asked hopefully. ‘Lights, maybe, or movement?’

The old man considered, his bushy eyebrows meeting in a frown. ‘A seed wir boanie Andro come hame, wi’s lantron. Gaed up his steps, juist as ayeways.’

‘What time was that?’ Gil asked, following this with difficulty.

‘Late. Lang efter Sissie was dune wi Humphra, peer saal.’

Gil nodded, and patted Sir Duncan’s bony elbow.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll not keep you from your prayers.’

‘Ye’re a lang-heidit laddie,’ said Sir Duncan approvingly. ‘Collogue wi Frankie, at’s my rede.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Gil. He was still holding his hat, out of respect for the corpse, but he bent knee and head in salute to the old man, and turned to Maistre Pierre as the lumpy black beads in the gnarled fingers slipped round and the soft ripple of prayers began again. Socrates, having completed his survey, paced out into the yard.

Maistre Pierre was peering at the back of the Deacon’s head. ‘I can find no other injury than the knife wounds,’ he reported. ‘There is only this, which still puzzles me.’ He laid the head down and turned it so that the light fell on the undamaged ear. ‘It begins to fade as he softens, but it can still be seen, this pattern on his ear and jaw.’