Pat McIntosh - The Harper's Quine

‘A good point, ma mie,’ agreed her father. ‘It must have been someone she knew, someone she trusted, to enter the chantier with him.’

‘We know a little more,’ Gil said. There was not much blood, so he will not necessarily be marked.’

‘A negative.’

‘But useful. And we know that one of Sempill’s men-atarms fetched her sometime after Vespers. Indeed, I think I saw him come to Compline.’ He paused, thinking carefully. ‘I saw the whole party at Compline. One of the menat-arms was late, as I say, and one of Sempill’s friends arrived after him, but the rest were under my eye for the most part from the start of the service.’

‘Perhaps the man-at-arms — the gallowglass,’ said Alys, bringing the word out triumphantly, ‘was the one who killed her. Or could the husband have stabbed her after he left the church?’ She rose to replenish their beakers.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Gil with regret. ‘He left just before me, and when I reached the door he was already returning from the clump of trees opposite.’

Alys set the jug down and stood considering him, absently twirling a lock of hair round one finger.

‘He came from the trees,’ she repeated. ‘Not from the Fergus-Aisle?’-

‘No,’ agreed Gil. ‘Besides, I think even Sempill of Muirend is not so rash as to summon a woman openly in order to kill her. No, and I do not know who had time to get into the Fergus Aisle and out of it again before I saw them all together. It’s an easy enough climb over the scaffolding, or up the ramp for the barrow and down again, but it takes a moment, and the scaffolding would creak. On a quiet evening like yesterday you would hear it in Rottenrow.’

‘Perhaps the person had not left,’ said Alys. ‘And what about Davie? Did the same person strike him down?’

‘I saw Davie,’ Gil said, reaching for another bannock. ‘He was in the kirkyard before Vespers, with a lass. I took her to be the same one I saw him with earlier at the dancing.’

‘I do not know who she is,’ said Alys, ‘but the men might. It is urgent that you find her, you realize, whoever is to track down the killer.’

‘It is,’ agreed Gil.

‘I must see the boy,’ said the mason impatiently, setting down his beaker. ‘Where have you put him?’

Across the courtyard, sacks and barrels had been hastily stacked in the shelter of the new penthouse. In the vaulted store-room thus cleared, worn tapestries hung round the walls for warmth, and a charcoal brazier gave off a choking scent of burning spices. Next to it the boy Davie lay on a cot, curled on his side with bandages across the crown of his head and supporting his slack jaw. A small woman veiled in black knelt at the bed’s foot, her rosary slipping through her intent fingers, her lips moving steadily. A stout maidservant sat at the head with her spindle, and a gangling youth with a strong resemblance to the injured boy rose to his feet as Alys put aside the hanging at the door.

‘He’s no stirred, mem,’ he said anxiously. ‘But his breathing’s maybe a mite easier.’

‘I think you are right,’ Alys agreed, feeling Davie’s rough red hand. ‘He seems warmer, too.’ She turned to her father. ‘We washed the wound, and bandaged it, after we clipped his hair. Brother Andrew came, and said he thought the skull was broken, but to keep him warm and still and nurse him carefully and pray. So Annis is watching and Catherine is praying, and so is Will while he can stay.’

‘A broken skull,’ the mason said in some dismay. ‘It needs a compress of vinegar with lavender and rose petals, hot to his feet, Alys, to restore the spirits and draw excess humours from the brain.’

‘So I thought,’ she agreed, ‘but we are short of rose petals. Jennet is gone out to the apothecary for more.’

‘What came to you, boy?’ said Maistre Pierre, staring down at the waxy yellow face. ‘I wish you could tell me.’

The sandy lashes stirred and flickered. Annis leaned forward with an exclamation, and Catherine paused in her muttering. Alys dropped to her knees, her head near the boy’s as the bloodless lips twitched, formed soundless words. Then the eyes flew open and suddenly, clearly, Davie spoke.

It wisny me. It wisny me, maister.’

His eyes closed again. Alys felt his hand, then his cheek, with gentle fingers, but he did not respond. She rose, and turned to her father and Gil.

‘You must find his sweetheart,’ she said. ‘Before the killer does.’

Canon Cunningham was in his chamber in the Consistory tower, working at the high desk in an atmosphere of parchment and old paper. When Gil brushed past the indignant clerk in the antechamber and stepped round the door, his uncle was ferreting through more documents in a tray from the tall narrow cabinet behind him. At his elbow were the protocol books and rolled parchments for the Sempill conveyancing, with his legal bonnet, shaped like a battered acorn-cup, perched on top of the stack.

‘I’ll ring when I am ready,’ he said, without looking up.

‘May I have a word, sir?’ said Gil. At his voice the Official raised his head and favoured him with a cold grey stare. Gil, undaunted, closed the door and leaning on the desk gave a concise account of the morning’s discoveries. His uncle heard him in attentive silence, then stared out of the window at the rose-pink stone tower of the Archbishop’s castle, tapping his fingers on the desk.

‘James Henderson spoke to me at Chapter this morning,’ he said at last. ‘I think he has the right of it. She died on St Mungo’s land, St Mungo’s has a duty to find her killer.’

‘And to determine whether it was forethought felony or murder chaud-melle,’ offered Gil. His uncle glanced at him sharply.

‘Aye. Well, you were aye good at hunting, Gilbert, and you have shown some sense making a start on the trail already. You might as well continue. You’ll report to me, of course, and I’ll take it to Chapter.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Gil, blinking slightly at the unaccustomed praise.

His uncle looked again at the parchments at his elbow.

‘This must be replait, I suppose,’ he said, ‘at least until the poor woman is formally identified. Where will you begin? Where is the trail freshest?’

‘Two places, I think, sir,’ said Gil readily. He and the master mason had already found themselves in agreement on the same question. ‘The lass who was with the mason’s boy must be found, and I wish to speak to John Sempill of Muirend. And additional to that, St Mungo’s yard must be searched carefully, in case we find the great piece of wood with which the boy was struck down. The mason and his men are seeing to that just now. I passed Sempill in the waiting-room here,’ he added, ‘himself, Philip, two witnesses, and one of the gallowglasses.’

‘Well, well,’ said Canon Cunningham. He picked up parchments and protocol books, and moved to sit behind the great table, arranging his documents on the worn tablecarpet. Clapping the legal bonnet over his black felt coif, he continued, ‘Then let us have in Sempill of Muirend and see how he takes the news.’

John Sempill of Muirend, summoned alone, argued briefly with Richard Fleming the clerk in the antechamber, then erupted into the chamber saying impatiently, ‘Yon fool of a clerk says you don’t want my witnesses. Is there some problem, sir?’

‘There may be,’ said David Cunningham calmly. ‘Be seated, Maister Sempill.’

John Sempill, ignoring the invitation, stared at the Official. He was a solid, sandy man, inappropriately dressed in cherry-coloured velvet faced with squirrel, with a large floppy hat falling over one eye. Scowling from under this he said, ‘My damned wife hasn’t compeared, no in person nor by a man of law, but she’s left me anyway, I suppose you know that, so she isn’t concerned in this.’