Pat McIntosh - The Merchant's Mark

The barn was a substantial building, nearly as big as Maister Riddoch’s house, but without the upper floor. Gil stood while his eyes adjusted to the light which filtered under the eaves; over his head swallows darted in and out to nests of shrieking young among the rafters. The floor was packed earth, swept clean; stacks of barrels, bundled staves, folded canvas cart-aprons, spare workbenches, were ranged round the walls

‘Augie’s cart was here first, if I mind right,’ said Riddoch, pointing with his left hand, ‘so it would lie there, up this end, this corner. Now whose was next?’ he wondered. ‘He was bound for Leith, I mind that. It’ll come to me. That lay in the other corner, side by side wi Augie’s. And last in was a great pipe o clarry wine, off a ship at Blackness and bound for Irvine, though why he never brought it ashore at Irvine in the first place — that’d be down here, near the door. Last in and first out, it was, out on the road so soon as the gates was open, for my lord Montgomery must have his clarry wine it seems. There was just the great pipe on the cart.’

‘I know Montgomery,’ said Gil rather grimly. ‘If it was just the one pipe of wine, our barrel can’t have come off his cart. What about the other? What sort of load was it?’

‘A big load,’ said Riddoch. ‘Mixed. More than a dozen puncheons and kegs, off different coopers, and a hogshead or two and all. Salt fish, the most of them, by what the man said. But how would a barrel jump from one cart to another, maister?’ He led the way to the end of the barn, while the swallows whirred and twittered overhead. ‘See — Augie’s cart lay here, maybe this wide. Robert Henderson’s — aye, I kent it would come to me. He’s a Kilsyth man. Robert Henderson’s lay here, there would be more than an ell between them, and a full puncheon’s no light weight. It wouldny happen by chance.’

‘No,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘And Augie’s man said the fellow he saw never came into the barn?’

‘This does not make sense,’ complained Maistre Pierre. ‘Three thieves who stole nothing, a barrel which vanishes, a watchman who did not see it.’

‘But did it vanish?’ Gil looked about him. ‘Where would you hide a barrel, Pierre?’

‘Maister?’ Simmie’s large ears were outlined against the light at the barn door. ‘Could you call your dog, maybe?’

‘The dog?’ Gil strode towards him. ‘What’s he up to? Socrates!’

‘It’s just he’ll no leave this bit alone,’ explained Simmie. ‘He’s found a scent he likes, and I canny sweep round him.’

‘Socrates!’ Gil stepped out into the sunlight. Shading his eyes he found his dog sniffing intently at the newly swept cobbles by the end of the barn. ‘Come here!’ he said sharply. Socrates wagged his stringy tail, but gave no other sign of hearing. His head was down, his muzzle close to the stones, and the rough grey coat was standing up on his shoulders and spine. Gil seized the animal’s collar to pull him away, and realized he was growling quietly.

‘What have you found?’ he said. ‘Leave it! Leave!’

‘What’s drawing him?’ asked the cooper. ‘What’s he scented? Have we emptied a load o fish there, or what?’

Gil bent to look closer at the patch which interested the dog.

‘There’s something caked between the stones,’ he reported. He rubbed at it and sniffed his fingers.

‘What is it?’ said the cooper.

‘Gilbert!’ called Maistre Pierre sharply from inside the barn. ‘I think you were right. Come look at this!’

He was poking about at the far end of the barn, near the place where Morison’s cart had stood. As Gil entered the barn towing a reluctant Socrates he turned his head, and indicated a shadowy corner.

‘Look here!’ he said dubiously. ‘It has been opened and emptied, but it is very like the barrel we had, the head here has by far less birdlime on it than on the goods beside it, and though the light is bad I think it has both Maister Morison’s own mark, and also Tod’s shipmark. Could this be our missing barrel?’

‘Aye, very likely it is,’ said Gil in Scots, ‘for what the dog wouldny leave out there is a great patch of blood. I’d say it’s no more than a few days old.’

‘Blood?’ repeated Riddoch in growing dismay. ‘In my yard? What’s been going on?’ He looked from one to the other of them. ‘What was in the barrel you had home, anyway?’

‘Let us get this one outside,’ requested Maistre Pierre, ‘and we will tell you.’

Out in the light, the puncheon he had found was indeed very like the one which had reached Morison’s Yard. Gil thought he recognized several of the marks, and the additional brand on head and flank seemed to be a fox’s head, which was presumably Thomas Tod’s mark. It was dry inside, and held a few handfuls of the chopped lint which had padded the contents. Gil shook the barrel so that the lint shifted, and something white showed under the fluffy clumps. Letting go the dog, who immediately slipped back to the interesting cobbles, he leaned in to extract a folded paper.

‘Is that the docket?’ said Maistre Pierre hopefully.

‘It is indeed.’ Gil scanned the small looped writing. ‘Well! He has done us proud — Pierre, we must find this load. Look at this!’ He handed the sheet to the mason, who bent to inspect it.

‘What was in the barrel that went to Glasgow?’ asked Riddoch again, frowning. ‘You’re very close about it, maisters.’

Gil looked directly at him, dragging his mind back to the matters of most concern.

‘Maister,’ he said, ‘what like is your missing laddie?’

The frown drained from the cooper’s face, leaving open-mouthed dismay.

‘Nicol?’ he said hoarsely, and crossed himself. ‘Christ aid us, what’s come to him?’

‘Can you describe him?’ pursued Gil. ‘What colour is his hair? His eyes? What age is he?’

‘Now that I can tell you,’ said Riddoch, licking his lips. ‘He was born the same year as the King’s brother Prince James. He’s sixteen past at Corpus Christi. Sinclair never — I–I beg you, maister, if you ken aught about him, tell me now. He’s my son.’

‘Does he resemble you, maister?’ asked the mason, looking at the neat-featured face before him.

‘They tell me he does, aye.’ Riddoch looked from one to the other of them, not daring to repeat his question. ‘His een are grey. Like his mother’s, God rest her soul.’

‘Then all I can tell you is we ken nothing about him,’ said Gil.

Riddoch clutched at the rim of the barrel in front of him, as if for support.

‘Our Lady be thanked for that!’ he muttered, crossing himself again.

‘Now can you tell us in return,’ said Gil, ‘who found and emptied this barrel?’

Seated once more in the cooper’s best chamber, with an offended dog at his feet, Gil repeated the question.

‘Who emptied the barrel, maister?’

‘I’ve no a notion,’ said Riddoch firmly. He had found a new confidence; Gil, eyeing him, regretted reassuring the man about his son. And yet, in conscience, he thought, could I have left him in anxiety any longer?

‘Where has your son gone?’ he asked. ‘Was he alone?’

‘He went into Stirlingshire,’ said Riddoch cautiously. ‘He’s done the journey afore, he kens the road. For withies,’ he added.

‘Where do you get them?’ asked the mason curiously. ‘I should have thought there was a supply closer to hand.’

‘We get them at a good price from his lordship,’ said Riddoch.

‘Sinclair, you mean?’ said Gil casually. Riddoch froze a moment, then nodded. ‘Has the boy been away long?’

‘Aye.’ This appeared to be surer ground. ‘We’ve kin there, he was to visit his uncle.’