Pat McIntosh - St Mungo's Robin

‘Perhaps also in the notes for the man’s new will.’

‘Well, those are in Agnew’s hands.’

‘But no. You have them.’

‘I do?’ Gil stared at him. ‘No, they’ll be in his chamber in the Consistory.’

‘They were,’ agreed Maistre Pierre, ‘but they are now in your possession. Do you not recall?’

‘Recall what?’ said Gil, in growing dismay. ‘When? What are you saying?’

‘Last night.’

‘Pierre, what are you talking about? What did we do?’

Maistre Pierre looked hard at him across the table.

‘We met the men we sought,’ he said, ‘in the fourth or fifth tavern.’

‘I recall that,’ Gil admitted, searching his memory. Details began to surface. The conversation with John Veitch had been difficult at first. It had taken a while to persuade the two sailors that he and Pierre were friendly, but they had succeeded eventually. It seemed the pair had not identified Gil with the man who had called at their lodging. Then what had happened? There were mariners’ tales in his head, one about a great worm that ate ships, another about fish which flew like birds. No certain information. ‘They told us little, I think,’ he prompted hopefully.

‘Oh, very little. They insisted they were on their ship the night we were asking about, which is patently not true, and I recall they told us a tale about how Dumbarton Rock fell from a giant’s apron. I think they said his apron.’

‘Oh, aye,’ said Gil vaguely.

‘Then the Watch came by and cleared the tavern, and you set off up the street.’ There was a gleam of humour in Maistre Pierre’s eye. ‘I thought I had best come too, and followed you, whereat you decided that we two must go and look at Agnew’s chamber.’

Gil shook his head. ‘I didn’t. Surely I didn’t.’

‘Oh, but you did. We had two lanterns, after all, and the tower was empty and you had your key to the great door.’ He grinned as Gil’s expression turned to horror. ‘All you lifted were the tablets.’

‘Then where are they now?’

‘You put them in your purse.’

‘No, these are mine — ’ He opened the purse and reached in, and froze as his fingers encountered, not the soft leather pouch in which his own set lived, but folds of brocade and a loop of braid. ‘Sweet St Giles protect me!’ he said. He set the alien object on the table and stared at it in deep dismay. ‘If these are Agnew’s, where are mine, Pierre?’

‘I have them. You put them down, possibly as an exchange, which I felt to be a bad idea.’ Maistre Pierre felt in a sleeve and produced Gil’s own set in its pouch. Gil looked from one to the other and buried his aching head in his hands.

‘This is theft,’ he said. ‘What was I thinking of? He could have me taken up by the Serjeant, or fined by the Sheriff.’

‘He need not know you took them,’ said Maistre Pierre reassuringly. ‘I am hardly like to tell him, since I was there, I am complicit in the theft.’

‘Did anyone see us in the tower?’

‘I do not think it. I saw no lights, at all events.’

‘St Giles be praised, I had no recollection of this when I saw the man here this morning. Is he still on the premises?’ Maistre Pierre shrugged. Gil stared at the brocade bag. ‘Perhaps I can put them back. Or maybe I could leave them in St Mungo’s, or the like.’

‘Without reading the notes?’

‘They may not help. Most of us use some private shorthand of broken words and odd letters, we may not be able to read his.’

‘I too,’ agreed the mason. ‘We can try.’

‘We could, I suppose.’

Almost of their own volition, Gil’s hands went out to the brocade bag and drew out the tablets it held. Maister Agnew had selected a set with covers of carved bone; the image on the front was a Crucifixion attended by a pair of gigantic robed figures, bowed in grief like Maister Veitch and Mistress Mudie.

‘Clumsy work,’ said Maistre Pierre disparagingly. ‘You cannot tell Our Lady from the Evangelist. Local, do you think?’

‘Not a Glasgow workshop.’ Gil reluctantly unwound the strip of braid which held the covers shut, and turned back the Crucifixion to reveal the first leaf, its hollowed surface filled with greenish wax and marked by neat lines of quickly incised notes. ‘Well, it makes sense of a sort, though his writing is not easy.’ He turned the leaf to study the other side. ‘These are notes from a few days ago. St Giles be thanked, he has dated them.’

‘What do they deal with?’

‘Not bedehouse business. A couple of dispositions. I mind my uncle mentioning this one, it’s been discussed in Chapter.’ He turned the next slat, and the next. ‘Aha! This one is headed Robt Nasmyth. Yes, this is it.’

‘And what does it say?’ asked Maistre Pierre after a moment. Gil tilted the leaf towards him. ‘No, I can make little of this. Scots I can read, but abbreviated Scots is another matter.’

‘I’d need the existing will to compare it,’ said Gil, ‘but it seems to be a fresh document rather than a codicil. He’s listing his possessions. As you said, properties in several parts of Glasgow. The furnishings here. A gold chain and some other jewels. The chain to Andro Millar if he is still sub-Deacon, the furnishings to a kinsman in Kirkintilloch, a property in the Gallowgait to Mistress Marion Veitch on condition, and the bulk of the rest to a Mistress Elizabeth Torrance, relict of one Andrew Agnew of Kilsyth.’

‘Brutal,’ commented Maistre Pierre.

‘Yes,’ said Gil. ‘Interesting. The notes simply stop there. No sign of the residual legacy being conditional on the marriage.’ He lifted his own tablets and slid them from their purse. ‘These must go back, somehow, but first I’ll copy the dispositions. And then — I wish I could think clearly. I don’t understand what has happened here at all.’

‘If we go on asking questions, we may find out,’ said Maistre Pierre comfortably. ‘I have set the men to continue the search for the ladder.’

‘That’s good, though I suppose even if we do find it we may not learn much from it.’ Gil finished the copy and fastened the strip of brocade round the misappropriated tablets. ‘St Giles aid me, I must get these back without being caught.’ He lifted the brocade bag to push the tablets back in, and checked as something crackled inside it. ‘What’s this?’

‘Yet another document,’ said Maistre Pierre as Gil drew out a folded parchment. ‘Has he been working on it, to have left it with his tablets?’

‘I don’t know.’ Gil looked at the superscription. ‘It’s a copy of the Kilsyth disposition. It must be the family copy — he would have it, of course, if the parents are dead.’ He refolded the parchment carefully, tucked it back into the bag with the tablets, and put the whole thing into his purse. ‘We must confront Marion and possibly her brother as well with the scarf, I must try to recall what we learned from the sailors last night. There’s all to do here. And I suppose I have to speak to Tib. But first I must return these.’

‘Have you a pretext for calling on the man? Condolence, questions, information?’

‘Aye, that would be the best way. I’ll think of an excuse on the way round there.’ He rubbed at his eyes. ‘I’m too old for drinking sessions like that.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said his future father-in-law.

In the event, there was no need of a pretext for calling at Agnew’s house. As they rounded the corner of the little chapel at the near end of Vicars’ Alley, a clamour broke out ahead of them, with shouting and indignant exclamations. Socrates growled warily, his hackles rising.

‘ Mon Dieu, que passe? ’ demanded Maistre Pierre. Gil made no answer but quickened his pace as a number of people emerged from the house next to the chapel and trampled noisily across its small garden, a powerful voice roaring at the centre of the group.