Pat McIntosh - The Harper's Quine

‘In a way,’ agreed Gil, accepting a cup of wine and adding water. ‘I am Gilbert Cunningham of the Consistory Court.’ He waited until the familiar chill in his stomach dispelled itself, and continued, ‘I’ll drink to a successful conclusion with you. Perhaps John has already explained that Bess Stewart his wife was killed last night in the kirkyard of St Mungo’s. We need to find out who did it and take him up.’

‘Why?’ said Campbell of Glenstriven. ‘She was an adulterous wife, she’s dead. Why bother yourself with her?’

‘That comes well from you, James Campbell!’ said Sempill indignantly.

‘I spoke nothing but the truth.’

‘She was a Christian soul killed on Church land,’ said Gil, ‘and she died unshriven of her adultery. St Mungo’s owes her justice. Moreover, the manner of her death must be clarified before John’s sole right to the land can be certain.’

‘Why?’ said Sempill blankly. ‘What’s that to do with it?’ Behind him there was a pause in the chatter at the other end of the room.

‘You mean in case it was John killed her?’ said Campbell of Glenstriven.

Sempill’s colour rose. ‘I never set eyes on her last night!’ he said loudly. ‘I wanted her agreement, she’d to turn out today and sign her name — I never killed her!’

‘I have not said you did,’ said Gil. ‘Just the same, that’s why the sale must wait.’

Philip Sempill looked up from his wine. Physically he was a paler imitation of his cousin, fair rather than sandy, less stocky, quieter in speech and movement and less forceful in manner. Like him, he was wearing an old leather jerkin, which contrasted oddly with James Campbell’s wide-sleeved green velvet gown.

‘Och, well,’ he said, his voice sounding thickened. ‘Ask away, Gil. We’ll answer you, at least.’

His cousin stared at him.

‘You got the rheum, Philip? You can stay away from Euphemia if you have, I don’t want her getting sick just now.,

‘It’s nothing much,’ said the fair man. ‘Gil?’

Gil hesitated, considering. The three men watched him; the two women had gone back to their sewing, but he was aware that Lady Euphemia flicked him a glance from time to time. Squaring his shoulders, he began:

‘You were all at Compline.’ The three men nodded. ‘Was the kirkyard busy when you went down to St Mungo’s?’

‘I wouldn’t say so,’ said Philip Sempill. ‘A few folk coming down from the Stablegreen and Rottenrow, a last few youngsters going home to a beating for staying out. I saw a couple in that stand of haw-bushes.’

‘Would you know them again?’ Gil asked.

The other man shook his head. ‘Likely not. Oh — the boy had striped hose on. The Deil knows where he got such a thing in Glasgow.’

I saw them,’ said Euphemia Campbell, breaking off her chatter. She had a high pretty voice with a laugh in it, and a dimple came and went in her cheek as she spoke. ‘But they were further down the hill. I wondered where he got the striped hose too. Surely not in Glasgow, I never saw such a dreary place. I swear you can buy better wares in Rothesay.’

‘When did you see them?’ Gil asked.

She giggled. ‘It must have been later, mustn’t it, if they were in the haw-trees when Philip saw them? Maybe after Compline when we all came out?’

I never saw them,’ said Sempill suspiciously.

‘Maybe you were looking at me,’ she cooed. He stared at her as if he could not help it, and she smiled at him so that the dimple flashed then turned back to her sewing and her chatter, with what appeared to be a highly coloured account of how she had purchased the linen. Her waitingwoman nodded in time to her words.

‘Did you see anybody in the kirkyard after the Office?’ Gil asked. The men exchanged glances, and all shook their heads.

‘Not even Bess, damn her,’ said Sempill. ‘I told you — Neil came into the kirk, said he’d left her in the hawbushes, but when I went out she’d gone.’ He stared at the empty fireplace, chewing his lip. ‘Not a sign of her. I checked through the bushes — you can see right through, but I went to the other side. I looked down the kirkyard, and not a thing was stirring.’

‘You are sure of that?’ said Gil.

‘I keep telling you. Besides,’ he added, undermining this statement, ‘I assumed she’d run off. If she could do me an ill turn she would.’

‘We were close enough behind to see him moving about in the haw-bushes,’ said his cousin, and James Campbell nodded and muttered something that might have been agreement.

‘And were you all together during Compline?’

Once more they exchanged glances. After a moment Campbell said, fiddling with his embroidered shirt-duffs, ‘There was some coming and going to other altars. You know the style of thing. I was gone long enough myself to say a prayer to St James and come back to the others.’

‘I left money for candles to St Thomas,’ agreed Philip Sempill. ‘It took me the length of a Gloria, I suppose. John was the only one who stood the Office through. Oh, and one of the men. Euan, maybe.’

‘I thought you were watching us, Maister Cunningham,’ said Lady Euphemia, looking up with her needle poised above her seam. ‘Did you not see where we all were?’

‘My attention may have wandered,’ said Gil drily. Sempill frowned, looking for the insult, but Lady Euphemia cast her eyes down again, and the dimple flashed. ‘And the wee dark fellow?’ Gil continued. ‘What is he, a musician? Where was he?’

‘Antonio?’ said James Campbell dismissively. ‘He’d likely be listening to the music. I’ll swear he thinks in tablature.’

‘Never in Scots, that’s for certain,’ said Sempill. Gil, turning to set down his wine-cup, caught sight of Euphemia’s expression. She was listening to her companion, but her needle had paused again, and her mouth curved, softly crooked as if she was recalling the taste of stolen fruit.

‘And afterwards?’ he continued. ‘ou all came back to the house together?’

‘Oh, yes. And sat together afterwards. We were up here for an hour or so listening to lute music.’ Philip Sempill looked round, and Campbell of Glenstriven said,

‘Aye, that sounds about right. And playing at the cards; he added.

‘Even the two gallowglasses?’

‘Neil and Euan?’ said John Sempill dismissively. ‘They’d be in the kitchen, likely, you could ask Marriott Kennedy.’

‘And what about the dead woman?’ Gil asked. ‘Tell me about her. Why would anybody want to kill her?’

Three pairs of eyes stared, and there was a pause in the chatter behind him.

‘I took it to be some beggar or broken man,’ said Sempill after a moment. ‘Why should it have been deliberate?’

‘I hoped you could tell me that.’

‘She was a quiet body,’ said Philip Sempill thickly, shaking his head.

‘Quiet!’ exploded his cousin. ‘She scarcely had a word, and that not civil.’

‘That was after you took your belt to her.’

‘And why would I not? I needed an heir — she knew I needed an heir — and then she lost it, the clumsy bitch. So after that she never spoke to me. And if she had I’d have clouted her round the lug for what she cost me.’

Rage boiled up, a physical presence in Gil’s chest. He put up a hand to finger his upper lip in concealment, taking a moment to compose himself, astonished at the strength of the response. Never condemn, his uncle had said, you’ll get the story clearer. He had been referring to pleas of divorce, but it applied just as firmly here.

‘Cost you?’ he asked, when he was sure of his voice.

‘Aye. Well. My uncle. He’s made it clear I have to settle down, not only wedded but with an heir, if I’m to get his estate. So she lost the brat, and ran off before I could get another, and if the old ruddoch dies at the wrong moment the whole lot goes to Holy Church and I’ll not get my hands on it, may they both rot in Hell for it.’