Pat McIntosh - St Mungo's Robin

‘On the Stablegreen,’ said Gil.

‘The Stablegreen ? St Nicholas’ bones, man, how’d it get there?’

‘I’m still trying to find out.’ Gil reached out to take the object back. ‘What did you do after Naismith left the house?’

‘Now I tellt you that already as well. Comforted Marion so far as I might, sang the wee one a song when she was in her cradle, the bonnie wee lass she is,’ an involuntary smile spread across Veitch’s face, ‘and gaed down the hill to my lodging.’

‘And that would be what time?’

Veitch shook his head. ‘Two-three hour afore midnight, maybe. Time passes different on dry land, somehow.’

‘Did you meet anyone on the way?’

‘Oh, aye. No that it was busy, that time o night, but there was the usual traffic atween taverns, and the odd serving man or maid heading for home, and a pack o merchants’ sons whooping by the Tolbooth, out for trouble. Oh, aye, and one bonnie lass walking up the High Street. I thought of her when I saw the young callants, but she’d been up by the Bell o’ the Brae when I saw her, and she’d a man wi her, carrying her box on his shoulders, so I reckoned she’d be safe enough.’

Gil noted this, and set it aside to consider later. ‘And then what did you do?’

‘Went back to the Widow Napier’s house and gaed to my bed.’

Gil tipped his chin back and gave Veitch a challenging stare in the candlelight.

‘Did you so?’ he said.

‘Aye.’

‘That’s not what the Widow Napier said.’

‘Is it not?’

There was a pause, in which the man on guard outside could be heard whistling dolefully. Then Gil said, ‘It’s not what I think either. I think you went to Dumbarton.’ He patted the sleeve where he had stowed the embroidered linen. ‘I showed this to Marion and she denied knowing what it was, let alone whose, but when your friend Rankin Elder came into the house he knew it at once for yours, and said you’d missed it already the night you fetched him from Dumbarton.’ Veitch was silent under his gaze. ‘Did you borrow one of the boats down by Glasgow Brig?’

After a moment the other man grinned, and nodded.

‘If you’ve worked out that much,’ he admitted, ‘there’s no point denying it. Aye, I borrowed one of the fisher-folk’s boaties. Neat wee thing she was, got me down to Dumbarton afore midnight wi a sail someone had left in St Nicholas’ chapel at the vennel-foot, and the tide was just on the turn by that so we took a couple pair of oars out the Rose’s tender and came back up with the flow.’

‘And stowed the oars under the Widow Napier’s bed,’ Gil hazarded, suddenly recalling the bundle of timbers. Veitch nodded. ‘And the reason it was so needful to bring Elder upriver afore the dawn?’

‘You mean you’ve no worked that out yet?’ said Veitch mockingly

‘To protect your sister, of course,’ returned Gil, ‘but what had you done to make it so urgent?’

Veitch grimaced. ‘Nothing I’d done, Gil, I gie you my word on it. It was the state Marion was in at the thought o being homeless — threatening to do away wi herself at one point, crying out that she’d sooner be dead than back keeping house for our brother, which I can well understand, and then I put two and two thegither and realized Frankie was never Naismith’s get. She’s got Marion’s een, but wi that hair and the age she is, she has to be Rankin’s bairn. Now Rankin’s a sight closer to me than my brother William, we’ve shared a cabin on and off for four year, and he’s never mentioned a bairn. So I gaed down the water to have it out wi him, and as soon’s he heard — ’

‘Ah!’ said Gil. ‘Nothing would do but he come up the river to speak to Marion?’

‘That’s it,’ agreed Veitch. ‘As soon as he could get into the house to see her in private, he did, and if we all come out of this wi our heads on, he’ll wed her within the week. They’ll no want a big occasion,’ he said ironically, ‘no like some.’

Ignoring this, Gil considered the big sailor carefully.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Anything else you want to tell me now?’

‘No that I can think of,’ said Veitch after a moment. He got to his feet as Gil did, and hesitated again. ‘Gil, what’s my chances?’

‘Better than they were afore I came in here,’ suggested Gil. ‘Beyond that, John, I’m no sure. I’ll do what I can. It depends on the assize.’

‘Should it not go to Edinburgh?’

‘You were found wi the corp. Sir Thomas would ha been within his rights to hang you this day.’

Veitch swallowed.

‘Pray for me, Gil,’ he said. ‘And Gil — will you tell my uncle, if nobody’s let him ken afore this?’

Canon Cunningham was seated in his hall, spectacles on his nose, working on a drift of papers by the light of a great branch of candles. Socrates was sprawled at his feet. They both looked up when Gil came in, and the dog leapt up to greet him. The Official marked his place with one long forefinger, and said, ‘Aye, Gilbert. And where are you at now wi all this? Is that right what Maggie tells me about the bedehouse?’

‘It depends what she told you, sir,’ said Gil, replacing his hat and acknowledging his dog’s welcome. He sat down, craning his neck to see the superscription on the documents, and Socrates leaned against his knee. ‘Is this the Murray perjury case you were talking about?’

‘It is. Maggie said one of the brethren was raised up in his shroud and going about doing miracles. Seems hard to credit in Glasgow.’

‘I wouldny put it that strong, sir. It’s the one who was mad. We certainly thought he was dead yesterday — Pierre said he could hear no heartbeat — and today he woke and is as clear-headed as any in the burgh.’

‘Well, well.’ His uncle removed his spectacles and polished the lenses on his sleeve. ‘Both risen and cured? How did he die?’

‘By hanging.’ Gil grimaced. ‘It was me that cut him down.’

‘Ah.’ Canon Cunningham closed his eyes and tipped his head back. ‘There was a man in Edinburgh, in ’79 I believe it was, hanged for stabbing his son’s schoolmaster afore witnesses, but breathed again afore he could be buried. And another at Perth, in James First’s time.’ He opened his eyes and looked at Gil.

‘That’s what I thought,’ Gil agreed.

‘I’m glad to hear it. Now what of the other matter? You said little enough at supper but I think there’s been another death?’

‘Aye, and John Veitch taken for it.’

Gil recounted the events in Vicars’ Alley. His uncle listened attentively but, somewhat to his disappointment, when he had finished only said, ‘Clear enough. You’ll present this at the quest, o course.’

‘Aye, and so much depends on the assize,’ said Gil.

‘Tommy Stewart’s no fool,’ said Canon Cunningham. ‘Now away up and deal wi your youngest sister.’

‘Deal wi her?’ repeated Gil. ‘Surely it’s for my mother to chastise her? I’d not wish to usurp that.’

Their eyes met. The Official’s long mouth quirked, but he nodded solemnly.

‘That’s a true word, but you’re the head of the family, Gilbert.’

‘Not you, sir?’

‘No me. She’s expressed a bonnie contrition, though I doubt whether her confessor would be convinced by it, and she’s had my forgiveness, but that’s all I’ll take to do wi the matter, Gilbert. Dorothea tells me you demanded money off James Douglas.’

‘It was the first thing I could think of,’ Gil confessed.

His uncle nodded. ‘A good notion, for all that. Dorothea says it made him think.’

‘It stopped him roaring.’

‘I’m glad I wasny present,’ said David Cunningham, then, while Gil was still taking in this admission, ‘Away and speak to your sister. She asked me to say she wished a word wi you.’