Pat McIntosh - St Mungo's Robin

‘I’m managing,’ said Marion, a trifle impatiently. ‘What was it you wanted to ask?’

‘Do you know if Thomas Agnew,’ he began, saw how maladroit the question was, and carried on perforce, ‘has a mistress?’

‘Do I ken?’ she repeated. ‘No.’ She began to turn away.

‘Do you know of a woman by the name of Chisholm, or something like that,’ he hazarded, ‘somewhere in the Upper Town? No far from Vicars’ Alley. Or would any of the household know?’

‘No,’ she said again. ‘Gil, I canny stand here and talk, I’ve as much to see to. Come back a time when I’m less taigled and we’ll talk all you please.’

He got himself out of the house with civility, and paused out in the wynd. Above him, the child was still singing.

‘ Kate and for ailos, kate and for ailos ,’ went the little voice. A man laughed, and answered her. Gil stared up at the window, but someone slammed the shutters shut, without looking out. Along the house-wall the kitchen door opened. As he looked round a head popped out, and was followed by the rest of the maidservant Bel. She beckoned sharply, and he moved towards her.

‘It’s no Chisholm, maister, it’s Dodd,’ she said rapidly. ‘Ellen Dodd, and she dwells in the next wynd but two down the Drygate on the other side. I’ve a cousin in the same wynd.’

‘And Agnew calls there?’ The girl nodded, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Bel, many thanks. Is all well in the house here?’

‘Oh, aye,’ she said, and broke into a huge smile. ‘Better than well. I’ll need to go, maister.’

She slipped back in out of the rain, and he was left looking at the shining silvery planks of the oak door.

‘Well, well,’ he said aloud, and turned to make his way back to the street.

The next wynd but two on the other side of the Drygate was another pocket of small houses, all lit and bustling as the supper was prepared. Gil stopped at the first house, asked for Mistress Dodd, and was directed further along.

‘Another man calling on her, is it?’ said the maidservant who had answered the door, peering at Gil in the light from behind her. ‘Well, that’s no surprise.’

She withdrew and shut the door before Gil could defend himself, and he heard the bar thudding into place.

Mistress Dodd’s house proved to be a modest structure with sagging thatch and crooked shutters. When Gil rattled the latch one of these was flung back and a head popped out, white kerchief-ends swinging.

‘Who’s that at this hour?’

‘Does Mistress Ellen Dodd dwell here?’ he asked.

‘What if she does?’

‘I’d like a word with her, if I may.’

‘And who’s asking? What’s it about?’

‘I’m a man of law,’ he said reassuringly. ‘My name’s Gil Cunningham. I’ve a couple questions for the mistress. It won’t take long.’

The woman snorted, and withdrew. He heard female voices within, and after a moment the door was unbarred.

‘You’d better no be long,’ said the maidservant sourly. ‘Her supper’s about ready.’

She lit him across the outer room and into a small chamber, clearly painted by the same hand as Agnew’s hall in lozenges of red and green, with pots of blue flowers in them. At its centre, standing to greet him, was a lady who somehow matched the chamber well.

‘I’m Ellen Dodd,’ she said, assessing his sober dress with one swift look. ‘Are you from the Consistory Court? There’s no harm come to — to my friend, is there?’

‘No, no,’ he said, and introduced himself and his position. ‘I’m looking into this matter of Deacon Naismith’s death.’

She crossed herself at the mention, and waved him to a stool, sitting down opposite. She was a well-rounded woman, dressed in a kirtle of blue wool with a loose gown of black velvet over it, and gave the impression that either garment, firmly fastened though they were, could slide off at any moment. Curls of tawny-coloured hair escaped from her French hood.

‘I’m no particular friend of Deacon Naismith,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard o the man, for certain, but I’ve never met him that I ken, I’ve no information for you there.’

I never thought it,’ said Gil. ‘What I have heard …’ He paused, looking for the words, and she leaned forward as if eager to hear them. ‘… is that you may be able to confirm what another person told me.’

‘Me?’ She sat upright, spreading one small plump hand on her black velvet bosom and displaying two valuable rings. ‘Oh, if I can help you, maister, I surely will. Who was it? What did he tell you?’

He , thought Gil.

‘The last I know of Naismith’s movements,’ he said cautiously, ‘he was with Maister Thomas Agnew in the Consistory tower, for maybe an hour, after supper that evening.’

‘Oh,’ she said faintly, making big round eyes.

‘Maister Agnew,’ he pursued, ‘tells me he left him, and a little later he went out himself to call on someone, and spent the rest of the night there. I believe you might know something of that?’

She looked down modestly at the rush matting under their feet.

‘I — ’ she began. Was she blushing? Gil thought not, though the candlelight made it hard to tell. ‘Well, indeed, maister. I confess that’s the case indeed. Maister Agnew spent that night wi me in this house.’

The face remained downturned, the hand spread on her bosom, but she was looking sideways at Gil under her lashes, and the corner of her mouth quirked, inviting Gil to consider how Agnew had spent the night. Som can flater and some can lie , he thought, and some can sett the mouth awrie. No accounting for tastes.

‘Thank you indeed, mistress,’ he said obtusely. ‘When did he arrive? Can you recall?’

‘Perhaps the middle of the evening?’ she suggested. ‘More than an hour after I’d eaten my supper, if I mind right.’

That fits, he thought. ‘And when did he leave? Late, I imagine,’ he said, giving her the oblique compliment she seemed to expect. She looked gratified, but shook her head.

‘No, no, it was early. Before it was light,’ she assured him.

‘You mean he was here the whole night? Most of the hours of darkness?’

‘Aye, that would be it,’ she said complacently. Al nicht by the rose ich lay. But this one’s flower was long since borne away, he guessed.

‘And had he a cloak with him? Do you recall which one it was?’

‘A cloak?’ she repeated. ‘Er — I think he did.’ Again the inviting glance, the quirk at the corner of the mouth. ‘I never saw him to the door,’ she admitted. ‘I wasny dressed for it.’

Gil made his way back up to the Wyndhead in the rain, deep in thought. It was full dark now. The more public-spirited burgesses had already lit the lanterns or torches which they were required to hang out at their house corners, and the deep shadows between these were broken by more lanterns, borne by people hurrying homewards as their working day ended. As he passed the end of Marion Veitch’s wynd, he nearly collided with her brother, cloak pulled up about his nose and head down against the rain.

‘You again,’ said Veitch, recoiling. ‘Seems to me I keep meeting you round here. Here or the bedehouse — Frankie was just saying you’re never away from the place.’

‘I’m still trying to find who killed the Deacon,’ said Gil mildly. ‘Your sister will be the better for knowing the answer.’

‘I doubt that,’ Veitch flung at him, tramping past towards the house. Gil watched him to the door, then plodded on up the busy street.

Reaching the crossing, he was unsurprised to see Maistre Pierre’s bulky form appear out of the darkness, illuminated by his own lantern.

‘Not a productive day,’ said his friend. ‘What have you discovered?’