Pat McIntosh - St Mungo's Robin

‘Marion, when did your brother come to Glasgow?’

Another quick glance.

‘Two days since,’ she said. ‘No, it’s the day afore that now, isn’t it? The day Naismith dined here and then — ’ She stopped, apparently unwilling to finish the sentence, her expression quite blank. ‘John turned up at my door afore noon that day,’ she resumed, ‘and I was fair glad to see him, for he’d been away almost four year. He’d never set een on my wee girl.’

‘He was on his own?’

‘On his own.’

‘Was it a good venture?’ asked Maistre Pierre with professional interest. ‘Where had he been?’

‘He’s pleased enough,’ she said. ‘I don’t know all where he’s been. Spain and the Middle Sea and Araby maybe.’

‘ As far as cercled is the mappemounde ,’ offered Gil.

Marion glanced briefly at him, but merely went on, ‘He’s come home a wealthy man.’ She put up a hand to cover her mouth. ‘And what good it’ll do him — ’

‘Has he been to Portingal?’ suggested Maistre Pierre. The smile vanished.

‘No, that was — ’ She bit off the words. ‘That was one place he never said,’ she finished carefully. Maistre Pierre looked at her oddly, but did not comment.

Gil felt in his sleeve and drew out the stained scarf.

‘Do you ken this piece of linen, Marion?’ he asked, unfolding it. She looked at it, and her gaze sharpened.

‘No,’ she said. ‘What is it? Where did you get it?’

‘It has an initial on it,’ he said, turning the end of the strip towards her. She made no attempt to reach for it. ‘Or perhaps two. It might be N , it might be I V.’

‘It might be a number,’ she suggested. ‘What’s the stains on it? Where did you get it?’ she asked again.

‘I think it was dropped by whoever put Deacon Naismith into the bedehouse garden,’ said Gil, watching her carefully. Her eyes widened slightly.

‘You mean it was in the garden?’ she said, still staring at the thing.

‘Not in the garden,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Maister Cunningham’s dog found it.’

Again the quick glance at him. Then her eyes went back to the scarf, studying the fine white stitchery on the end Gil was holding up.

‘I’ve never seen it afore,’ she said.

‘What is it?’ Gil asked. ‘We thought it might be a towel, or else a neck-scarf, but women ken more about such things.’

She shook her head. ‘It could be either.’ Gil held it out to her, and she shrank away from it. ‘Where did you say you found it?’

‘Where would you think such a thing might be found?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

‘How would I ken?’ she asked, her voice rising slightly. ‘I–I don’t — I’ve never seen it afore,’ she reiterated.

The house door opened. She looked up, and something like relief crossed her face. Socrates scrambled to his feet and Gil turned, as a man’s voice demanded, ‘Marion, have you seen John this day?’

A big voice, not shouting but pitched to carry in a gale. Maistre Pierre looked at Gil, his eyebrows rising, and round the open door appeared a man to match the voice, big and broad, booted feet planted firmly on the wide boards, his short dark curls level with the carved lintel. Rankin Elder, drinking companion of John Veitch, who had told them the tales of flying fishes in a tavern on the High Street.

‘You!’ he said, staring at them, and put his seaman’s bonnet back on his head. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Rankin — John’s been taken up by the constables!’ said Marion. ‘They’re saying he’s killed a man in Vicars’ Alley.’

Elder pursed his lips in a silent whistle, and came forward to Marion’s side, putting one hand on the back of her chair and looking down at her in concern, his manner subtly possessive.

‘And did he?’

‘We do not think so,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘Is there any need for you to be here?’ demanded Elder, turning his head to look at them again. ‘Mistress Veitch is grieving for her friend,’ he added formally, ‘and she doesny need to be pestered wi questions.’

‘I’m trying to find out who killed her friend,’ said Gil, putting a little emphasis on the term. And why did he assume we’re questioning her, he wondered. ‘That’s why I’m asking questions. Have you seen this before?’

He held up the strip of linen. Elder cast it a cursory glance and said, ‘Looks like John’s neckie. He’d lost it. Where did you — Is that blood on it? When did that happen? He was well enough the morn when he left the lodging.’

‘When did he lose it?’

‘Och, it was days ago.’ The man relaxed. ‘Was it the night he fetched me from Dumbarton that he missed it?’ Marion was staring up at him, frozen with dismay. Belatedly he met her eyes, and backtracked. ‘I don’t recall. Might ha been sooner than that.’

‘When was that?’ asked Gil.

‘Three nights since, if it’s any of your mind.’

‘Three nights? The night Naismith died? When did he set out to fetch you?’

‘I’ve no idea about that,’ said Elder. ‘He reached me some time the third watch. And that’s certainly none of your mind.’

‘And you’re sure the scarf is John Veitch’s property?’

‘No,’ said Elder. He looked at Marion again. ‘And now you’ll leave, gentlemen, while we think what’s to do about John. And whatever we do, we’ll do it without your help.’

The noon bite in the house in Rottenrow was much as Gil had feared. However since his uncle was not present and Alys was, he could have eaten dry stockfish and not noticed.

She was in the hall, helping Maggie and Sister Agnes set up the board for the meal when they came in. Socrates hurried forward to speak to her, nudging her with his long nose. Her face lit up, and as soon as the cloth was straight she left the task and came to kiss Gil.

‘Dorothea has told me,’ she said quickly in French. ‘About Tib, I mean. I came up — I’ve been with her — Gil, you won’t be severe with her, will you?’

He had no chance to answer before her father claimed her, embracing her as if he had not seen her a few hours previously. Maggie eyed Maistre Pierre and said, through the clatter of the wooden trenchers she was distributing, ‘There’s just the one hot dish for the table, since we’re all owerset the day, but there’s plenty bread and half a kebbock o cheese. We’ll no go hungry.’

‘Where is Tib?’ Gil asked. Maggie grunted.

‘Shut in her chamber and willny speak to me,’ she announced. ‘Says she’ll no eat. Lady Dawtie’s wi her the now, but …’ Her voice trailed off, and she continued setting the table. Alys returned to help her, and Gil gestured for Maistre Pierre to wash his hands at the bright majolica cistern by the door.

‘Have you been at the bedehouse?’ said Alys in Scots. ‘How are they this morning?’

‘The old men are all very shaken, and Mistress Mudie hasn’t spoken since last night, I think.’

‘Ah, the poor woman. She has suffered a great loss — that man was the centre of her life.’ Alys inspected the table. ‘Is that it, Maggie? Shall I tell Dorothea we are ready?’

When the household was seated, without Tib, and Dorothea’s secretary had said Grace for them, Alys returned to the same subject. Gil appreciated her restraint; he had no wish to discuss Tib’s misbehaviour in the hearing of the stable-hands. It was surprising how much French the men understood, particularly at times like this when they probably knew more than he did about the subject already.

‘Did you learn any more, Gil? Is there anything new since last night?’

‘Not at the bedehouse,’ said Gil. ‘Anselm had an odd tale about Agnew, but that was all.’