Pat McIntosh - The Merchant's Mark

‘What puzzles me,’ said Gil, ‘is who the axeman and his friends were working for.’

‘Someone who knew the money was being moved,’ said Maistre Pierre after a moment. Both the other men looked sharply at him.

‘Aye,’ said Gil. ‘Of those, I think we can leave out the Preceptory itself, and you, sir.’

Sinclair bowed ironically. ‘Narrows it down very little,’ he observed.

‘Precisely,’ said Gil. ‘I’m still involved in Nelkin Fletcher’s death. It seems more than likely it was the axeman killed him, and I’ve no doubt the Provost of Glasgow would be happy enough to bring it in as murder by a stranger when I take home what I’ve found so far, but Augie Morison’s been suspected and the only way to clear him completely is to get a name for the man behind the axeman. With proof.’

‘Proof might be harder to come by,’ said Sinclair absently. ‘And we never got a name for the fellow himself, either. I wish my fool of a steward hadny let him get away.’

‘So do I,’ said Gil. ‘Was it foolishness, or something else, sir?’

Sinclair’s eyebrows went up at this. ‘That’s for me to deal wi, d’you not think? And I will, you may believe it.’

‘Oh, I do,’ Gil agreed, meeting the other’s eye. ‘Anyway, I think the axeman’s name may be Carson. And he has certainly learned the grief of falling from a high place.’

Sinclair’s mouth quirked as he too recognized the quotation. He considered Gil for a moment, but did not comment.

‘I wonder where the two who ran went to?’ said Johan.

‘Are ye for Rottenrow, Maister Gil,’ asked Tam as they picked their way along the Gallowgait, ‘or are ye going straight to your sweetheart?’

The warm dusk was deepening fast. Gil had paid off Sinclair’s escort outside the gates; they could command a lodging at a house Sinclair owned near the crumbling Little St Mungo’s chapel. He and Tam had only got into Glasgow after a brisk and personal discussion between Tam and the gate-wards, who were just about to go off duty and were reluctant to unseat the great bar which held the gate shut. Most of the houses they passed were quiet, the fires smoored so that only a trickle of smoke floated from chimney or thatch, the shutters firmly latched against the night air. Taverns here and there spilled lamplight and laughter, and some of their patrons were ambling homewards, forming a shifting hazard to horse traffic. Gil’s horse was too tired to resent this, but the pack-mule seemed to be looking for an opportunity to kick.

‘I ought to go to Rottenrow,’ he said now, in answer to Tam’s question. ‘They need to know about Rob.’

‘But the lassie needs to ken what’s come to her da,’ the man said. ‘I’ll take the mule on to our house, maister, and break it to them there. Will I take your beast and all? And the dog?’

‘The dog will stay wi me.’ Gil looked down at the animal, wedged snoring across his saddlebow. ‘Tam, I’m grateful. Ask Maggie not to bar the door yet.’

At the mason’s house there was candlelight in the hall windows. Crossing the shadowy courtyard, Gil wondered where Alys would be waiting. On the settle by the empty fireplace, with a stand of candles and a book? Upstairs, in her father’s panelled, comfortable closet, with a book or her lute or the monocords, practising some of the keyboard music which arrived occasionally from France? He whistled to Socrates, and rattled at the front door latch.

‘Oh, Maister Gil,’ said Kittock, opening the door to him. ‘The mistress is no here.’

‘No here?’ he repeated.

‘Madam Catherine’s in the hall,’ she said, bobbing a curtsy. ‘Come you in and get a word wi her. Is the maister no wi you, sir?’

In the hall, on the settle by the empty hearth, Alys’s aged aristocratic nurse Catherine was seated under a branch of candles, staring at the wall-hangings while her fingers moved automatically with thread and hook. The long strip of lacy stuff twitched across her black skirts as she worked. As Gil stepped into the hall she looked round and set down her work.

‘Bon soir, maistre,’ she said. ‘Welcome home. Is our master not with you?’

‘I left him in Roslin.’ At her invitation Gil sat down opposite her.

‘Where? I trust he is well.’ She paused to acknowledge Socrates, who had padded forward to nudge her hand with his long nose.

‘He has taken some hurt. I left him well looked after,’ he assured her. Inevitably this was not enough; he had to detail the mason’s injuries and treatment while she listened with a critical frown. Finally he managed to say, ‘Where is Alys, madame? She should be told.’

‘I regret,’ said Catherine disapprovingly in her beautifully enunciated French, ‘the demoiselle has not been home today. She spent yesterday with your sister, monsieur. Then she went out early this morning and she is not returned. She sent word a little time ago that she would remain the night with your sister.’

‘You mean she’s in the Upper Town, madame?’ said Gil in some chagrin.

‘But no,’ replied Catherine, her toothless mouth primming up again. ‘The demoiselle and your sister are both at Morison’s Yard.’

‘Whatever are they doing there?’ he demanded. ‘Did Alys say why she would not be home?’

‘I sent one of the girls for her more than an hour ago,’ said Catherine in mounting indignation, ‘and that was all the word she brought back. What her father would say if he heard of it — though perhaps,’ she added, as if she had just thought of it, ‘they are still trying to restore matters after the burglary.’

‘Burglary?’ Gil stared at her. ‘Where? What burglary? What are you telling me, madame?’

‘A thief broke into Maister Morison’s house last night. He took nothing,’ she assured him, ‘and he was captured. By your sister, I understand, sir.’

‘Kate?’ said Gil in amazement. ‘Sweet St Giles, how did she manage that?’

‘I have not heard,’ said Catherine resentfully.

‘I must go and see what is happening.’ Gil looked at the dog, who had flopped on to his side and was already snoring faintly. ‘I’ll leave Socrates with you, if I may — he’s had a hard day, poor beast.’

The sky to the north was still light, but the first stars were pricking above the Tolbooth as he walked the short distance down the High Street. The leaves of Morison’s great yett were shut, but one of them yielded to pressure, and he stepped cautiously into the yard. Barn and sheds were dark shapes in the twilight, the racks of Morison’s wares were gathering pockets of shadow, and an occasional reflection gleamed on the rim or flank of a glazed pot; but even by this light it seemed to Gil there was less clutter underfoot.

The house door stood open, light spilling on to the steps. The hall was lit, but so also was the kitchen at the end of the range, and beyond it from the door of one of the outhouses came lamplight, voices and steam, a crashing of wooden buckets, and splashing water. Laundry? he thought. At this hour of night?

‘Hello,’ he called. ‘Is anyone home? Alys? Kate?’

‘Gil!’ It was his sister’s voice. Her crutches scraped and thumped, and she appeared at the house door, outlined against the light. ‘Gil, Our Lady be praised you’re back. Are you safe?’

‘Quite safe,’ he said, startled. ‘Is all well here? What’s this Catherine tells me? Where’s Alys, anyway,’ he demanded, getting to the nub of the matter.

‘She’s busy,’ said Kate. ‘She’ll be out in a little while. We never thought it would take so long. Come in, Gil. We have — we have something to tell you.’

‘What is it?’ he asked, alarm gripping his throat. ‘Is Alys — ’