Pat McIntosh - The Merchant's Mark

‘And you looked for him back before now,’ Gil stated. Riddoch nodded with reluctance. ‘When? How long overdue is he?’

‘A few days now.’

‘How would he carry the withies?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

‘He’d pack them on the old horse. Or if he got a double load,’ qualified Riddoch, ‘they might hire him a cart. And that’s another thing. We’ll need the beast shortly, to take our turn at the carts when we win the hay off the burgh muir. The laddie kens that.’

Gil turned a little to face Riddoch directly. ‘The barrel which should have reached Glasgow,’ he said, ‘the one we found empty in your barn the now, would have held books.’

‘Books?’ Riddoch laughed, with little humour. ‘I’d like to ha seen that!’

‘Seen what?’

‘When it was opened. A right laugh that would be.’ He looked at Gil. ‘And the one you did get? What was in it, maister?’

‘Brine.’

‘Brine?’ repeated Riddoch. He licked his lips. ‘Just brine? I mean — was there aught in the brine? Fish, maybe, or salt meat? Or — ’

‘Not salt meat, no,’ said Gil, grimacing. ‘We found a man’s head. And a few shavings of wood, very like what’s blowing about your yard.’

The cooper gaped at him.

‘A man’s head, in one of our barrels?’ said Mistress Riddoch from the door. She came into the room to stand beside her husband’s chair. ‘What like man, maister?’ she asked, her voice high and tense.

‘It’s no the boy, Jess,’ said her husband. They crossed themselves simultaneously.

How long had she been there, Gil wondered. Long enough to govern her countenance, though not her voice.

‘Past twenty but not thirty years, short dark hair, one ear pierced,’ said Maistre Pierre concisely, ‘and odd-coloured eyes. One blue eye, one brown.’

‘Nobody we ken,’ said Riddoch quickly. His wife looked down at him, opened her mouth, closed it again.

‘You’re sure of that?’ said Gil. ‘Mistress? Would you ken anyone like that?’

‘N-no,’ she said. ‘No. Nobody like that.’

‘Nobody we ken,’ repeated Riddoch. ‘Was there aught else with the head?’

‘What should there be?’ asked Gil, and the cooper looked wary.

‘Nothing, maybe. Just I wondered if there was, well, any more of him, or any of his gear perhaps, that might tell you who he was, Christ assoil him.’ He crossed himself again, and his wife and Maistre Pierre did likewise.

‘Maister,’ said Gil, ‘consider what we have found. The barrel that was missing off Maister Morison’s cart has appeared in your barn, empty.’

‘And has been there for no more than a few days, it is obvious,’ put in Maistre Pierre.

‘There is a great patch of dried blood on the cobbles in the yard.’

‘Blood?’ repeated Mistress Riddoch. ‘Where? What — ’ She looked down at her husband again, and bit her lip.

‘Under the pile of shavings, at the end of the barn,’ said Gil. ‘Socrates, here, found it when Simmie swept it clear.’ Socrates’ ears twitched at the mention of his name, but he kept his head pointedly averted from his master. ‘And I’d like another word with Simmie, maister,’ he added to the cooper.

‘He’s away an errand,’ said Riddoch. ‘He’ll be an hour or so, if ye can wait.’ His wife turned her head sharply to look at him. ‘Himself wanted a word carried out-bye,’ he muttered, in response to the question in her eyes. She pursed her mouth, and turned to Gil again.

‘A pile of shavings by the barn? But Riddoch never lets the men keep it there, for fear of fire. It’s only sense.’

‘Quite so,’ agreed Gil. ‘So who first moved the heap from its usual place?’

‘It doesny have a usual place,’ she said. Her husband sat silent. ‘The men just sweep up where there are the most scraps.’

‘And the barrel that reached Glasgow,’ pursued Gil, ‘contained a man’s head.’ He studied Mistress Riddoch for a moment. ‘When did you last put up salt fish, mistress?’

She jumped as if he had struck her, and one hand rose to cover her mouth.

‘Tuesday,’ she said. ‘It was late for the quarter-day, but himself had never sent for the rent. I had two baskets of herring off Lizzie Cowan on Tuesday morn, and just in time.’ She lowered the hand, and her husband put up his own to grasp it. ‘I made the brine on Monday, sirs. It stood in the vat in the storehouse overnight, to let the sand settle, and the barrels washed and waiting beside it.’ She looked down at Riddoch. ‘I said I was one short in the morning, Riddoch, didn’t I? I kent we’d washed six.’

‘You did, lass,’ agreed her husband heavily.

‘Was the storehouse locked?’ asked the mason.

‘No, no.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Who’d steal an empty barrel?’

‘Quite so,’ said Gil. ‘And it was Monday night there was the disturbance in the yard.’

‘But Morison’s own man said the thief got away!’ said Riddoch.

‘He did, didn’t he,’ said Gil. ‘I think I need to talk to Morison’s man.’

‘This is not the way we came,’ said Maistre Pierre. He looked out over the low hills towards the Forth and waved an arm. ‘We are going east.’

‘That’s right, it’s the way to Roslin,’ said Gil. Behind them rode the three men, deep in an argument about football. Socrates was ranging round the party, inspecting the scents of the neighbourhood and carefully ignoring his master.

‘And why are we going to Roslin? I thought you wanted to speak to Maister Morison’s carter, whatever his name is.’

‘Billy He’ll keep, I hope, though we do need to question him. We’re going to Roslin because Riddoch paid his rent this morning, in barrels of salt herring.’

The mason eyed him resentfully for a few strides, then continued, ‘And where are your books, do you suppose?’

‘They’ll be at Roslin too, I hope. With Oliver li proz e li gentil.’ Gil turned in the saddle to interrupt the discussion behind them. ‘Did you learn any more in the Black Bitch, Rob?’

‘No a lot, Maister Gil,’ admitted Rob.

‘The ale’s good,’ said Tam, grinning.

‘It’s been quiet since the court left,’ volunteered Luke, ‘but there’s been a wheen strangers in the place just the same.’

‘Would they notice strangers?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘A busy place like this?’

‘Aye, but I just said it’s been quiet, maister,’ Luke pointed out.

‘They noticed us,’ said Tam. ‘Brought out all the long tales. The serjeant’s boar run wild and slain two chickens, three geese and a dog, they said. Show me it, I said, and they said, No, it hasny been seen for days. A likely tale. And the burgh muir’s haunted, there’s been a gathering of corbies over the hill behind the Whitefriars this week past, there’s a black ship on the Forth if you see it you’ll be deid within the year — ’

‘Aye, Andro Wood’s Flower ,’ said Rob, to general laughter.

‘The corbies,’ said Gil. He shaded his eyes in his turn to peer into the light. ‘I had noticed them. A week, you said? And nobody took thought to look at what they’ve found?’

‘This close to harvest and all?’ said Rob. ‘Naw.’

‘Surely a week is too long,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘What is it, Maister Gil?’ asked Tam. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking we can take that track we passed a quarter-mile back,’ said Gil. ‘It seems to go the right way.’

‘Where is Socrates?’ wondered the mason.

‘He went off after a rabbit. He’ll find us when he’s forgiven me,’ said Gil confidently.

He turned his horse and rode back the way they had come, whistling now and then for the dog. Behind him the men grew silent; at his side the mason appeared deep in thought.