Pat McIntosh - St Mungo's Robin

The interview with the Sheriff did not take long. Sir Thomas was distracted by a demand from his overlord the Archbishop for some information which he was sure had already been sent, and agreed to Gil’s request without undue argument.

‘Could it be in the press there, Walter? If your notion clarifies the business so the assize brings in the right verdict, maister, I suppose it’s worth the time,’ he said, flapping a hand at his clerk. ‘Take a note o that, Walter. We’ll take the two quests thegither and hear all the evidence, and the same assize will do for both.’

‘It should save time, Sir Thomas,’ commented the clerk, reaching for the tablets hung at his waist. ‘It’s all called for noon, the Serjeant says, and a sound assize assembled.’

‘Aye, likely,’ said Sir Thomas, rather muffled, his head in the wall-cupboard. ‘Walter, I canny see that docket. I’ll swear it went to my lord last month. You have a look, man.’

Gil removed himself. After a word with the journey-man Thomas in the masons’ lodge in the building site by St Mungo’s, he extracted Maistre Pierre from its snug shelter and led him round to the little chapel in Vicars’ Alley.

‘But what do we do here?’ complained his prospective father-in-law. ‘We were here last evening and there is no more to be seen in a place this size.’

‘That’s what you think.’

‘Yes, it is.’ Maistre Pierre eyed the space beyond the chancel arch, where the clerks had finished Sext and disrobed, and were now engaged in their endless tidying round the altar. Gil ignored him, cast along the western wall of the nave until he found the marks he had noticed before, and stepped back, peering up into the rafters past the wreaths and votive objects.

‘It should be about there, I think,’ he said. ‘Pierre, could you give me a leg up here? Or make a back, or something,’ he added, recalling belatedly that his companion had been injured barely three months earlier and was not fully recovered.

‘Eh? What have you found?’ Maistre Pierre came forward to stare upwards beside him. ‘I see nothing but shadows up there.’

‘I agree, but shadows can hide a lot.’ Gil tried jumping for the nearest of the painted crossbeams, but missed. ‘I’m a handspan short — make a back,’ he requested again. The mason bent obligingly and Gil scrambled on to his broad back, and pulled himself up to perch on the beam above him. It creaked in complaint, and the laths under the thatch rustled and cracked.

‘How old is this roof?’ wondered Maistre Pierre, straightening up to watch.

‘Who knows? Not too old to support me, I hope.’

Each of the crossbeams was the base of a triangular structure with two uprights in it, so that there were three spaces, one large enough for a man to pass and two small ones. Gil moved cautiously to the mid-space of the next beam. Wads of dust fell, scattering on a withered wreath of hawthorn leaves, and below him the mason stepped smartly aside. The building looked quite different from this perspective, and the smells of old incense, damp stone and damp thatch were overwhelming. Next to him was the beam nearest the wall-plate; directly below were the marks the handcart had made on the wall and flagstones.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded a voice from the chancel arch. ‘Sir John, thieves! Thieves in the kirk!’ Hasty footsteps echoed.

‘Fetching something,’ Gil returned, reaching into the shadowy triangular space across from him. His hand met only bare wood. Incredulous, he groped the length of the space, and nearly overbalanced, saving himself by snatching at the upright beside him.

‘There’s nothing there.’ A different voice. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘Something we left here,’ improvised Maistre Pierre.

‘A cloak and hat.’ Gil pushed himself back into a stable position and looked down. The priest, a tubby balding man in a rusty black gown, was staring up at him, his two acolytes beyond at the chancel arch. A black cloak,’ he expanded, ‘with a lot of braid about it, and a velvet hat.’

‘Oh, aye. I took it for a donation at first,’ said the priest a little sadly. ‘Then I kent the badge on the cloak. You wouldny care to purchase it back, maister? It’d go to the lepers,’ he explained. ‘I could buy them blankets. They’re right cold at this time of year, the souls.’

‘I will certainly do so,’ said Maistre Pierre, patting his purse.

‘And I,’ said Gil. He dropped down from the roof and began brushing dust from his hose. ‘Tell me, sir, you leave the chapel unlocked?’

‘Aye, we do. The chancel gate has a good key.’ Gil glanced beyond the man, but the cast-iron yett was not visible in the shadows. ‘We leave that locked, so none can get in and steal the Host, but folk can aye come in here for a wee word if they wish it.’

‘And these garments. When did you find them, sir?’

‘Monday it would be,’ said one of the clerks, a skinny youth in an oversized jerkin. ‘You saw them after Terce, Sir John.’

‘Aye, that would be it,’ agreed Sir John. ‘As soon as it was light. You’d left yir bundle well enough hid,’ he said, ‘but for a corner hanging down, and it just catched the light coming in that window there.’ He turned away. ‘It’s in the cope-kist. Come and I’ll gie it you.’

‘But Sir John,’ said the other clerk, a smaller darker man still lurking within the chancel. The priest paused, looking at him. ‘How do we ken it’s theirs?’ he objected. ‘It hasny a name on it, only the badge.’

‘Nobody else has come looking for it,’ pointed out the priest, ‘and this fellow gaed straight to the place it was hid. Why did you hide it there, anyway?’

Gil looked at him, hesitated, and admitted, ‘It wasny me that hid it.’ The tubby man eyed him expectantly. ‘If you ken the badge, maister, you’ve maybe guessed who put it there.’

‘What’s he saying, Sir John?’ demanded the second clerk. ‘Will I call for the Serjeant? Is it thieved goods right enough?’

Several expressions crossed Sir John’s plump face. Puzzlement, understanding, surprise followed one another, and finally a wary look descended.

‘And what’s it to do wi you? I’ve seen you round the Consistory tower. You’re that nephew of David Cunningham’s, aren’t you no? What are you wanting wi the cloak, then?’

‘It’s wanted for the quest this noon,’ said Maistre Pierre, breaking a long silence.

‘What, about Hob next door?’ said the first acolyte.

‘Same as our handcart that the boy took away yestreen?’ said his fellow.

‘Aye, but Hob was slain yesterday by a madman,’ objected the first one, ‘the whole street kens that. That cloak was here on Monday after Terce.’

‘Would you swear to that afore the Sheriff?’ Gil asked. The three clerks looked at one another.

‘Aye, I suppose we could,’ agreed Sir John.

‘Then would you bring the cloak and hat to the quest at noon,’ said Gil, ‘rather than gie them to me?’

‘We could say Nones a bit early,’ suggested the younger acolyte, looking interested.

‘But what about the charity for the lepers?’ asked the priest anxiously.

Maistre Pierre reached for his purse. ‘This will warm the lepers,’ he said, extending a generous handful of coins. ‘Now will you bring the garments to the quest?’

‘We’ve a fair bit to determine,’ pronounced Sir Thomas, stepping on to the dais and sweeping the castle hall with his scowl, ‘so we’ll get on wi it. Who’s for the assize? They’ll need a strong stomach for it. We’re deciding on Deacon Naismith as well as Hob Taylor, and he’s been lying about a good wee while.’

The place was full. Genuine witnesses, others who thought they might be witnesses, and anyone who wanted to hear more about the deaths of Hob and the Deacon of St Serf’s, were all crowded into the large space. John Veitch had been led in between two men-at-arms, his hands bound before him, to a volley of hissing and pointing. The corpses had been firmly excluded, and lay in state, sheltered from the rain under a striped awning in the castle courtyard, with two more men posted well upwind of the Deacon in his coffin.