Pat McIntosh - St Mungo's Robin

‘One or two things,’ said Gil. ‘I’ve spoken to the Widow Napier, and I’ve just had a word with Agnew’s mistress. I was going round to the bedehouse to see how Humphrey is.’

‘I join you.’ Maistre Pierre turned to stroll with Gil, lantern held low to light their steps. ‘The men have found a many ladders,’ he reported, ‘but none of them the right size. If the uprights were the right distance apart, the feet were too big to have made those prints. I have a list of those places they were found, so we do not repeat the work tomorrow.’

‘Good work, just the same.’

‘They did not think so. I had a full account of which households were friendly and which took exception to being asked such a thing. Luke seems to have met with most success.’

‘Luke’s a good laddie.’ Gil checked as he recognized an approaching figure. ‘Good e’en to ye, Maister Agnew.’

‘E’en,’ said the other man of law hoarsely, and paused. His face appeared drawn and strained in the pool of light from their combined lanterns, and he had a soft cloth wrapped about his throat.

‘Have you been calling at the bedehouse again? How is your brother, poor fellow?’

‘Aye,’ agreed Agnew, speaking with difficulty. ‘Better. At’s prayers.’ He bent his head and crossed himself to indicate his meaning.

‘That must be some relief to you,’ said Gil. Agnew nodded, smiling, and put his free hand to his wellwrapped throat.

‘Forgive,’ he said. ‘Home.’

‘I hope your man can give you something to soothe that,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Red wine with syrup of cherries in it would be good, or a little poppy syrup perhaps.’

Agnew nodded and smiled again, raised his round felt hat and walked on. Gil looked after him, frowning.

‘I’m surprised he got access to his brother,’ he said quietly as they continued up the street. ‘Sissie would be watching him like a hen with one duckling after this morning’s scene.’

‘Perhaps she was busy with the supper,’ suggested Maistre Pierre.

It was a bad moment to call at the bedehouse too. The old men were gathered round the fire in the hall, discussing the morning’s events, while the kitchen-boy and one of the women set up their table and spread a mended linen cloth. The brethren greeted them as familiars, but Cubby said straightly ‘The half of Glasgow’s been here the day. Frankie’s nephew’s just left us. You’ll no be wanting to stay while we get our supper, will you?’

‘No, no,’ Gil assured him. ‘We’re expected at home soon.’

‘The meals are the highlights of our day,’ Maister Veitch said. ‘When Humphrey doesny outshine them.’

‘Where is that poor man?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘We met his brother on the way.’

‘His brother?’ Maister Veitch looked from him to his neighbours in some concern, and craned to see out of the window. ‘There’s been no shouting,’ he said, ‘and there’s no light at his window. I hope he’s no ill.’

‘Shall I go and see?’ Gil suggested.

‘Better to let Sissie ken, and she’ll see to him. He’s been as jumpy as a squirrel all day, and no wonder.’

Gil went out obediently and found Mistress Mudie just overseeing the dishing up of the supper. She greeted him with disfavour, but when he explained his presence she snatched up a lantern, lit it and set off indignantly into the garden.

‘- never kent that man was here again, if he’s done my poppet any harm I’ll see him in the Bad Place for it, what a way for anyone to treat his brother — ’

Gil, standing in the doorway of the main range, watched her trotting down the path to the door of Humphrey’s darkened lodging. She rattled at the latch, and opened it, her loving words floating through the rain, and stepped in.

She cried out, and dropped the lantern. It fell with a crash, and went out, and in the sudden dark she screamed and screamed.

‘Pierre, bring lights!’ Gil shouted, hurrying down the garden. ‘Bring lanterns!’

Inside the little house he bumped first into Mistress Mudie, her familiar herbal smell overlaid with sharp terror, and then into Humphrey. It had to be Humphrey, he smelled of damp wool and almond milk like Humphrey, but he was taller than Gil, and moved oddly as he recoiled from the encounter. Mistress Mudie was still screaming, huge ragged sounds that tore at the ears. Humphrey bumped into him again, and Gil realized what was wrong just before Maistre Pierre appeared at the doorway with a lantern.

‘ Mon Dieu! ’ he said. ‘He has hanged himself!’

‘We must cut him down!’ said Gil. ‘Set the light there and hold him for me!’

He dragged a stool from the hearth and stood on it, drawing his dagger to saw at the rope as the mason raised the black-faced body on his shoulder. Several of the bedesmen arrived at the door, exclaiming and asking questions to which there was no answer. Maister Veitch and the deaf Barty failed to make Mistress Mudie sit down, but did succeed in halting her dreadful screams, and Millar pushed his way into the house as Maistre Pierre set Humphrey’s body carefully on the ground. Mistress Mudie flung off Barty’s restraining grip and threw herself to her knees beside her darling, fumbling with the rope at his throat. She got it free and flung it aside, then fell to patting and rubbing at the limp and bloody hands, all the while making a thin wailing sound which made Gil’s hair stand up.

‘What’s happened?’ Millar demanded unnecessarily. ‘Humphrey! What’s he done? Christ and His saints, is he dead?’

‘I would say so,’ pronounced Maistre Pierre, who had been feeling for a heartbeat. ‘He must have been hanging for a quarter-hour at least, maybe longer.’

‘The candle is cold,’ said Gil, feeling it and setting it back on the mantel-shelf. Millar looked at him blankly, and back at Mistress Mudie sobbing over Humphrey’s body.

‘But why?’

‘His brother was here again,’ said Maister Veitch. ‘So Gibbie says.’

‘Aye, he was, but — ’

‘We met him on the road,’ Gil expanded. ‘He said he’d left Humphrey at his prayers.’

‘I doubt he’s persuaded the poor soul it was him killed the Deacon,’ speculated Cubby from the doorway. ‘And he’s hanged himsel for remorse.’

‘We canny tell it was remorse,’ said Maister Veitch argumentatively ‘He’s no left a note or anything, has he?’

‘Why other would he do sic a thing?’

‘Maybe he realized he was mad.’

‘He knew he was mad,’ Gil said. ‘Just today he asked Mistress Mason to pray for him because he needed it, he said.’ And her prayers would be doubly important now, he reflected.

‘What a thi — what a thing to happen!’ exclaimed Millar. ‘St Serf protect us! Oh, this is a dreadful time! And I’ll ha to send to le — to let Agnew ken. He was here just the now, asking me about the Deacon’s papers. And the Deacon laid out in the washhouse already, and now another grave to be ordered — ’

‘We cannot leave him here on the floor,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Where can we lay him?’

‘On his bed,’ suggested Gil.

Mistress Mudie was prised away from the body with difficulty, and it was borne through and laid on the narrow bed in the inner chamber. Gil drew the checked blankets back to the foot of the bed, and laid the sheet over the engorged face, but Mistress Mudie snatched the linen away and tucked the blankets round Humphrey as if he was asleep, then dropped to her knees beside the bed, hands over her face, and rocked helplessly back and forward, sobbing thinly.

‘ Who can not wepe com lerne of me ,’ said Gil quietly. Maister Veitch glanced at him and nodded.

‘Far’s wir supper?’ demanded Duncan from the garden. ‘It mun be spiled by noo.’