Pat McIntosh - The Merchant's Mark

‘Do what?’

‘Hit the barrel. It didn’t sound — ’

Andy rapped the head of the barrel with the hook, and then one of the staves, and cocked his head at the resulting dull thud.

‘It’s no right, is it?’ he agreed. He rocked the barrel, his ear close to the smooth tar-splashed planks of its head.

‘You think it is the wrong barrel?’ asked the mason in disappointed tones. ‘But it has your mark.’

‘Aye, it does.’ Maister Morison went to the door and opened it wider, to let in more light. ‘I’m wondering …’

‘You’re wondering if it’s an old mark,’ Andy prompted him.

‘One never cancelled, you mean?’ asked Gil. ‘Does that happen?’

‘Oh, it happens,’ said Morison, nodding earnestly.

‘So whose barrel is it?’ demanded the mason. ‘I suppose one of these other marks must be the right one, but I do not know them. And what is in it?’

‘It’s gey heavy,’ said Andy, ‘whatever’s in it.’

‘Books weigh heavy for their size,’ said Gil.

‘It must be the right barrel!’ said Morison. ‘I convoyed this shipment from Blackness myself. There was only the one puncheon. The rest was just the two big pipes out of Maikison’s ship. They’re in the barn now, and the men unpacking them. Go on, Andy, lift the head out of it.’

Andy, wielding mallet and hook expertly, began coaxing the end hoop upward off the top of the staves. It was slow work, tapping round the hoop and round again, but by the third circuit it could be seen that the withy was rising up the curve of the stave.

Maistre Pierre, peering closely at the rocking barrel, exclaimed something, at the same moment as Andy, setting mallet and hook for another blow, snatched his hands away, wiping his left hand on his doublet.

‘What is it?’ demanded Morison.

‘Wet,’ said Andy. ‘My hand’s wet.’

‘Wet? How can it be wet? The books will be spoiled!’

‘Your books canny be in here, maister,’ said Andy. ‘Look at it. That’s a stout wet-coopered oak barrel, and the outside’s dry as a tinker’s throat. The wet must be inside, and right to the top. It’s full of something.’

‘Wine?’ said the mason hopefully. He touched the trickling damp patch where two staves met, and sniffed his fingers. ‘No, not wine, nor vinegar.’ He tasted cautiously. ‘Salt. It is brine.’

‘Brine?’ said Gil.

‘Herrings, maybe,’ said Morison. ‘I never ordered anything in brine. And where are my books? I must have got the wrong barrel somehow.’

‘Not herring,’ said the mason, sniffing his fingers again.

‘We’ll have to open it now,’ Andy said, ‘and top up the brine, or it’ll spoil, whatever it is. Will I carry on, maister?’

‘Aye, carry on.’

Andy, tucking the hook in his apron, produced another implement and began screwing it into the tarry planks of the barrel head. When it was fixed to his satisfaction, he stepped on to the platform to get a better leverage, rocking and twisting expertly.

‘It’s like drawing a cork,’ said the mason, watching him.

‘It is,’ said Andy. ‘Could one of you steady the barrel, maisters?’

Maistre Pierre stepped forward and gripped the puncheon between his big hands. Andy, with a final heave, dragged the head from its lodging and staggered backwards. The mason peered into the depths of liquid in the cask.

‘It is mostly brine,’ he reported, ‘but I think there is something at the bottom.’

‘Use this,’ said Andy, handing him the metal hook.

Gil glanced across at Augie Morison, who was watching with a kind of puzzled dismay as Maistre Pierre trawled the puncheon with the barrel-hook. Beyond him there was movement, and Gil realized that the two little girls were staring round the door.

‘Augie,’ he said, and nodded towards them.

Morison turned, and tut-tutted in exasperation. ‘I told you to stay with Ursel,’ he said, going to the door.

‘Mall’s back,’ said the younger one, ‘so Ursel sent us away.’

‘Well, go and stay with Mall now,’ said Morison, making shooing motions. ‘Get away, the pair of you! Take your sister to Mall and tell her I said you were both to stay with her.’

They clopped away on their wooden shoes, the younger one glancing back just before they vanished out of Gil’s sight to see if her father was watching her. Morison stood at the door a little longer, apparently making sure he was obeyed, and returned to the group round the barrel.

‘What is it, then?’ he asked.

‘A sheep’s head, maybe.’

‘A sheep’s head?’ Morison repeated.

‘Maybe.’ The mason showed hairs caught between the tines of the barrel-hook. I try again.’ He rolled back his sleeve and stabbed the depths once more. ‘Ah!’

Something came up out of the salt water and hung briefly suspended from the barrel-hook. They had a glimpse of a tangle of dark hair which floated and clung, then as the mason’s free hand collided with Andy’s the object evaded both of them and slid back into the dark.

‘That was never a sheep’s heid, said Andy grimly.

‘Then what?’ said Morison, with a dawning horror. Maistre Pierre exchanged a glance with Gil, crossed himself, rolled his sleeve back further, and reached into the puncheon.

‘Ah, mon Dieu, oui,’ he said as his hand made contact. ‘Most certainly it is not a sheep. It’s a man.’

He hauled it out with a firm grasp of the dark wet hair, and Augie Morison whimpered as the pale brow, the half-shut eyes and slack jaw emerged to view, brine pouring from between the bloodless lips.

‘A man’s head,’ said Gil.

Maistre Pierre set the thing on the platform, where the water ran from its hair in a spreading pool. He drew out his beads, crossed himself again, and began a familiar quiet muttering.

‘It was …’ Morison began, his eyes starting. He pointed from the head to the barrel and then at the oblivious mason. ‘It was in. And you. You tasted …’

He turned and stumbled out of the hut, and they heard him vomiting in the yard.

‘Anyone you know?’ said Gil to Andy over the mason’s pattering prayers.

The small man, staring morosely at the head, said, ‘Hard to say. Most folk I know’s taller than that.’

‘We need light,’ said Gil, grimacing at this, ‘but if we take it into the yard the bairns might see.’

‘Aye,’ said Andy. ‘It wouldny trouble that Ysonde, but if Wynliane takes one of her screaming fits we’ll have none of us any sleep the night. I’ll fetch a light, Maister Gil, if you’ll have a care to my maister? He’d aye a weak stomach, but he’s no been himself since the mistress went,’ he confided. ‘Bad enough when the bairns have frichtsome dreams, without him starting and all.’

Gil followed him into the yard, where he set off for the barn, remarking to his master in passing, ‘First barrel I’ve ever seen wi three heads, maister. You canny say Andrew Halyburton doesny give good value.’

Morison, leaning pallidly on a huge rack of tin-glazed pots, grimaced faintly and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

‘Forgive me, Gil,’ he said. ‘I was just stamagasted. St Peter’s bones, what a thing.’

‘Aye, he’s not a bonnie sight,’ agreed Gil. ‘Augie, we’ll need to look at it closer. Andy’s gone for a light. And you’ll need to decide what’s to be done with it.’

‘Me decide?’ said Morison helplessly. ‘But it’s not mine!’

‘It was somebody’s. And it’s in your yard.’

‘But what needs done?’

‘He deserves a name, if it can be found,’ said Gil, ‘and his kin told. Serjeant Anderson’s the man to see to that, since it’s an unknown body turned up in the burgh. He’ll call an inquest.’