Pat McIntosh - St Mungo's Robin

‘So it wasny a quick stab and Hob dropped deid,’ proposed the man who had spoken first.

‘Aye, you’re right, Willie,’ agreed another.

‘No, it was a savage attack on an innocent man!’ said Agnew.

‘Do you mean,’ said Maister Sim, shocked, ‘that Veitch stabbed him and then stood and watched him dee?’

‘We cannot tell that,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Certain he died unsuccoured, you have only to look, but there is nothing to say that he was watched.’

‘Now we’ve seen how he lies,’ said Gil, ‘we can look at the wounds. Pierre, give me a hand to turn him.’

They rolled Hob’s limp form over and laid him straight, staring now at the wall beyond the crumpled mats. Maister Sim, biting his lip, stepped closer but like the mason touched only the cheek of the reeking corpse, gathering his green brocade gown away from harm with the other hand.

‘I should say any of these wounds would have killed him eventually,’ said Maistre Pierre, turning back the slit and saturated jerkin. ‘You see them, maister?’

‘Aye, I see them,’ said Maister Sim, peering at the clotted hairy flesh. ‘Three to his chest at least, and a couple more in his wame.’ He retreated with some relief and looked at Gil thoughtfully. ‘You’re the Quaestor, man, and the huntmaster and all. What do you read here?’

‘There’s no sign he fought back,’ said Gil.

‘What about these mats,’ objected the fourth member of the assize, a minor cleric whose name Gil could not recall. ‘They’re turned up just where he lies, you see that.’

‘They’re none so easy rucked up,’ said the man called Willie, scuffing at the mat he stood on. ‘And there’s no other sign o a rammy Nothing owerset, and that fine pricket-stand still by the wall. Now me,’ he expanded, ‘if someone cam at me wi a knife, I’d ha seized that for a weapon. It’d take the feet from under anyone, that would.’

‘Aye, you’re right, Willie,’ agreed his friend. ‘So that’s a puzzle, that is.’

‘Was he maybe in the act of turning the mats?’ suggested Maister Sim, prodding the braided rushes with one red shoe. ‘These squares are stitched together, are they, six or eight at a time.’ He gestured to outline a mat. ‘So he was just turning a couple of them when he was surprised.’

‘Cut down in the midst of his day’s darg!’ exclaimed Agnew bitterly. ‘ How long shall the wicked exult?’

‘Aye, but how was he no stabbed in the back?’ said Willie’s friend. ‘If he was bending to his work?’

‘He would stand to greet whoever came in,’ said the cleric.

‘He’d a gone to the door, surely,’ said Willie.

‘No if it was someone he knew,’ objected his friend. ‘Maybe the fellow just opened the door and shouted, the way you do when my maister’s no at home, and stepped within.’

‘The man Veitch claims no to have set eyes on Hob till he found him dead,’ said the cleric thoughtfully. ‘Maister Agnew, had Veitch ever been at your house afore this?’

‘No,’ said Agnew with reluctance, ‘no that I can say. But who’s to say he wasny here at some time when I was out the house?’

‘What was the weapon?’ Gil asked. ‘Is there any sign of it?’

‘He’d put it up afore I found him!’ expostulated Agnew. ‘Of course it’s no here, it’s at his belt!’

‘Dagger,’ said Maistre Pierre briefly, bending to inspect the cuts more closely. ‘Much like any in this hall,’ he added, casting an eye round the group.

‘So what do you read, Gil?’ prompted Maister Sim again. Gil looked the length of the hall and then down at the corpse.

‘He was taken by surprise,’ he said slowly. ‘He was in the midst of his day’s work, as Maister Agnew said, suspecting nothing. If he did answer the door to whoever slew him, he went back to his work when the man came in, so he’d no mistrust of him.’

‘Now that’s no like Hob,’ said Willie, and his friend nodded agreement.

‘And then what?’ asked the cleric. ‘Do you say they quarrelled?’

‘Nothing to show that,’ said Gil. ‘But Hob wasn’t expecting violence. His own blade’s still at his belt. He’s never touched it.’

‘That fits wi what we can see,’ said Maister Sim, and the other men nodded.

‘Should we have the man in that’s accusit,’ proposed Willie, ‘and get a look at his dagger?’

‘Aye, and make him touch the corp,’ agreed his friend. ‘That’ll show us whether he’s guilty, that’s for certain.’

‘And then we can send to the castle,’ said Agnew, ‘and get him taken away.’

‘We can take him round there ourselves, if he’s guilty,’ said the cleric.

The superstition had been useful before, Gil reflected, turning to the door to summon Veitch and his self-appointed guards. The widespread belief that if a man’s killer touched his corpse it would accuse him in some way meant that making someone touch a body could provide a good measure of how much guilt he felt, unless, like Gil, he was not impressed by the idea.

Veitch stepped into the room, rubbing at his arms where his keepers had gripped them. As many people as would fit into the doorway craned after him, with excited comments about the blood and the body.

‘Look at his dagger!’ exclaimed Agnew. ‘It’s the right size. Has it been used? Has he cleaned it maybe?’

‘Let me see your dagger, John,’ said Gil, holding out his hand. Veitch looked at him, then at the corpse, took a moment to cross himself at the sight then unfastened the weapon from his belt and passed it to Gil.

‘It’s clean and oiled,’ he said. ‘I saw to it on Sunday after Mass, as it’s my habit to do. The only other blade I’ve on me’s my wee eating-knife, and who in his right mind uses his eating-knife for murder?’

‘No if he wants to eat wi it again,’ agreed Willie’s friend. Gil drew the dagger from its sturdy leather sheath and turned it towards the window. As Veitch said, it was clean and well-kept, sharpened and gleaming dully in the thin light.

‘This has not been used since last it was cleaned,’ he said, showing it to the assize. ‘And there’s been no time to clean it since Murder was cried. It was not this weapon killed Hob.’

‘Then he used another,’ said Agnew. ‘Maybe Hob’s own dagger! I tell you, I found him standing red-hand ower the corp, he must be guilty!’

‘Tammas, that doesny follow,’ said the cleric. ‘I’ve stood ower a many men, aye and women and bairns, that I never slew.’

‘Aye, but that’s your calling,’ protested Agnew. ‘No, maisters, it’s plain enough, this is the fellow that slew my servant and we should have the Sheriff here, no some daft laddie placed by Robert Blacader to please his family.’

Gil made no comment, but handed Veitch’s weapon back to him, at which Agnew howled indignantly. Ignoring him, Gil said, ‘John, will you touch the corp for us?’

‘Gladly, aye,’ said Veitch, bracing his shoulders. ‘Mind, I’ve already touched him.’ He displayed his marked fingers, and stepped forward.

‘And do it wi some respect,’ challenged Agnew.

Veitch moved along the room to where Maistre Pierre still stood by the corpse with his beads in his hand. Agnew hurried jealously at his elbow and the four men of the assize followed closely. Gil outpaced them and stepped beyond the corpse to a position where he could watch them all, avoiding the blood-soaked matting, Socrates keeping position by his knee.

Veitch nodded to him, then went down on one knee by the body, crossed himself and reached out to touch the averted face. Like a striking adder, Agnew’s hand shot out and closed on his.

‘Make sure you touch him,’ he said savagely. ‘We’ll ha no pretence, man!’ He jerked at Veitch’s arm, slapping his open palm heavily down on Hob’s bloody breast.