Pat McIntosh - The Harper's Quine

‘When did you last see your wife, John?’ asked Gil.

The pale blue eyes turned to him. ‘Yesterday, making a May-game of herself at Glasgow Cross. Fine thing for a man to meet, riding into the town — his lawful wife, disporting herself in public for servant-lads and prentices to gape at.’

‘And that was the last you saw her?’ Gil pressed.

‘Yes. What is this?’ Sempill pushed the hat back. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Did you try to have word with her?’

‘Yes, I did, but the bitch never compeared for me either. What is this?’ he demanded again. ‘What’s she done, run off from the harper too?’

‘Not quite,’ said Gil. ‘When were you to have met her?’

‘Last night after Compline. Neil Campbell said he fetched her, but when I came out of the church she wasn’t to be seen. Turned hen-hearted, I suppose. You saw me,’ he added. ‘You came out of St Mungo’s just behind Euphemia.’

‘I did,’ Gil agreed.

‘Maister Sempill,’ said David Cunningham, ‘I think you should know that a woman was found in the Fergus Aisle this morning, dead. She has been provisionally identified as Bess Stewart of Ettrick, your wife.’

The blue eyes, fixed on his, grew round with shock. The broad face sagged and stiffened into a mask of astonishment.

‘Sit down, man,’ said the Official. John Sempill, still staring, felt behind him with one booted foot for the stool and sank on to it.

‘Dead,’ he repeated. ‘When? How? Had she been forced?’ he demanded.

‘No sign of that,’ said Gil. ‘She never went back to her lodgings. She must have died sometime last night.’

‘Dead,’ said Sempill again. ‘And in the Fergus Aisle? You mean that bit of building work in St Mungo’s yard? Why? What happened to her?’

‘That we hope to establish,’ said Gil. ‘Perhaps you can tell us a few things.’

‘So she didn’t run out,’ said Sempill thoughtfully. ‘Poor bitch.’ He looked up, from Gil to his uncle. ‘That means her interest in the Rottenrow plot is returned to me,’ he pointed out firmly. ‘We can continue with that transaction at least.’

‘That must be for you and your witnesses to decide,’ said Gil, rather taken aback. ‘My immediate concern is to discover who killed your wife and bring him to justice. Do you tell me that between the time you rode in at Glasgow Cross yesterday and now, you have not seen or spoken with her?’

‘That’s exactly what I said,’ agreed Sempill irritably. ‘The woman’s dead, what purpose is there in worrying at it?’

‘I think the Bishop — Archbishop,’ Gil corrected himself, ‘could enlighten you on that if your confessor cannot. What was the message that your man took, John?’

Sempill stared angrily at Gil for a moment, then evi-

dently decided to humour him.

‘That she should come up and meet me by the south door of St Mungo’s after Compline. And he delivered it. And he came into Compline and told me she was waiting out-by in the trees. The small belt of haw-trees,’ he elaborated, ‘by the south door. Is that dear enough? You can ask Neil himself if you choose. He’s over in Rottenrow.’

`Thank you, I will. Did you offer her a reason for the meeting?’

‘Aye, but what’s that to do with it?’

‘It will tell us why she would come up the High Street at that hour,’ said Gil mildly. ‘It was late to be out without a reason.’

Sempill stared at him again, chewing his lip. Finally he said, ‘I don’t know what Neil told her.’

‘Understood,’ agreed Gil.

‘I bid him tell her it was a matter of money. Her money. Knew that would fetch her,’ he said, grinning. ‘All Stewarts are thrieveless and she’s no exception.’ The grin faded as the two lawyers looked at him without expression. ‘I was going to offer her her share of the purchase if she agreed to this transaction.’ He nodded at the desk in front of him.

‘You must be desperate for the money,’ Gil said.

Sempill scrutinized this, failed to detect sarcasm, and said, ‘Aye. Well. The Treasury has a long memory. So we might as well go ahead with it.’

‘It seems to me as your conveyancer,’ said Canon Cunningham, ‘that it is only proper the matter should be replait — that it should be set aside to wait until you have identified the corpse yourself. Perhaps you would discuss this with your witnesses, Maister Sempill. And accept our condolences on your loss.’

‘Aye,’ said Sempill again. He glared at both Cunninghams, rose and withdrew with dignity, slamming the door behind him so that documents went flying about the room.

‘Well!’ said Gil, stooping for the nearest. ‘Why is he in such a hurry to get the money?’

‘Paisley Cross,’ said his uncle elliptically.

‘What was it at Paisley Cross?’ asked Maistre Pierre. He had been waiting near the door at the foot of the stair. Without the fur-lined gown he was less bulky but still big, an inch or two shorter than Gil but far broader. He had unlaced and removed the sleeves of his jerkin and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing muscular brown forearms decorated with silver scars. ‘This way, maister,’ he added.

‘It began two years since,’ said Gil, following him down the kirkyard. ‘The Crown granted Paisley burgh status and a market after Stirling field, you remember, and Renfrew took exception to another market two miles away from theirs.’

‘This I knew from Davie. Where does Sempillenter?’

‘The burgesses of Paisley bought stones to make a mar ket cross, and some evil advised persons of the said town of Renfrew,’ Gil quoted with relish, ‘came by night and broke up the stones. If Sempill of Eliotstoun — ‘

‘Ah, the Sheriff of Renfrew — ‘

‘Indeed, and head of the Sempills in the west, was not involved, he certainly knew who was. The Earl of Lennox and his son were charged with putting it right, and naturally they pursued the guilty with all rigour, given their — ‘

‘Great love for all Sempills,’ Maistre Pierre completed. ‘I begin to see. There would be fines to pay, of course. So this particular Sempill is being pursued by the Crown, and having to sell land to raise funds. Is he close kin to the Sheriff of Renfrew?’

‘Not close enough for Eliotstoun to pay his fines for him,’ Gil said, and realized his companion was not listening. He had come to a halt at the edge of the trees and was casting about.

‘Now where — ah, that peeled twig. We search for a weapon, we agreed, or a thing out of place. We have seen no weapon this far, but Luke found this, which is certainly out of place. We left it lying so you also could see where it was.’

He parted the bluebells in front of the marker. Gil leaned down and lifted the harp key which nestled in the long leaves. It was a pretty thing; the metal barrel that gripped the tuning-pins was set into a painted wooden handle. A love-gift, a musician’s gift, acutely personal. Surely the dead woman would have kept such a thing safe?

‘It has flowers on, it must be hers, not?’ the mason continued. ‘Has she been here? Was it she who struck the boy down?’

‘Her hands were clean,’ Gil pointed out. ‘She had not handled the kind of stick we are searching for. No, this came here another way.’

He recounted the incident he had seen just before the mason arrived. Maistre Pierre heard him out, and said thoughtfully, ‘She must have had a purse, to keep it in. I wonder what has happened to that?’

‘My thought,’ agreed Gil.

‘We must find these laddies and question them. It must be nearly noon — will they sing also at Nones? We can catch them then.’

‘More like two of the other boys,’ Gil said. ‘They take turns. It’s cheaper, and doesn’t tire their voices. I’ll speak to Patrick — no doubt he can help. Where are your men now? Have you asked them about Davie’s lass?’