Pat McIntosh - The Harper's Quine

‘Her purse? There was no purse at her belt. I must talk to you,’ said Gil, ‘but this is not the moment.’

‘Aye, I must return to my guests. You will come back.’ It was not an order.

Alys handed the baby back to the other girl and rose.

‘The bairn will be better with Nancy,’ she said, ‘and we should be gone. My father the mason sends his sympathies, maister harper.’

A fine rain was now falling. They walked through it in silence back to the White Castle, Gil turning over the harper’s words in his mind. As they reached the pend Alys paused, and he looked down at her.

‘I feared you might lead me on up the High Street,’ she said, smiling at him.

‘I’m sorry — I was discourteous.’

‘ou were thinking,’ she pointed out. ‘And so was I. Will you come in, Maister Cunningham? My father will be home, it is near Vespers.’

The mason was brooding in his closet with a jug of wine. Alys showed Gil in and slipped away to see how Davie did, and Maistre Pierre said with sour enthusiasm, ‘Sit down, lawyer, and have some wine, and we consider where we are at. I think we are no further forward than this morning.’

‘I would not agree,’ said Gil. ‘We have named the lady, and arranged for her burial. Father Francis will accept her — he is willing to believe that since she had gone to meet her husband she may have repented of her adultery. And I told you I have spoken with Serjeant Anderson. He has no wish to meddle in something concerning the Chanonry.’

‘Of that I have no doubt. But in everything else we have raised up two problems where one was before,’ complained the mason.

‘What do we know?’ said Gil. ‘She went out before Compline, to meet her husband after the Office in St Mungo’s yard. She was not waiting for him when Compline ended. I think most likely she was already dead inside the Fergus Aisle by then, for otherwise surely she would have come out to meet him when she heard the Office was ended.’

‘I suppose so,’ agreed Maistre Pierre, scratching his beard with a loud rasping. ‘But how many people could have killed her? We do not look for a beggar or robber, no?’

‘I do not think it, although her purse is missing. Why should she follow such into the chapel? There were no signs of violence — fresh violence,’ he amended, ‘other than the wound that killed her. Her husband is the most obvious, but he was inside St Mungo’s at the time I think she died, and I would swear he was shocked to learn of her death today. I saw the gallowglass come in — I suppose he could have directed her there and then killed her. There is also James Campbell, who has an Italian dagger, and I sup pose the Italian lutenist must have such a knife, but I do not know why either of them should have killed her.’

‘The husband could have killed her quick, there in the trees, before the rest came out of Compline,’ Maistre Pierre offered, ‘and come back later to move her out of sight.’

‘Why would he need to move her?’

‘The man-at-arms knew where he was to meet her. He needed to cover his tracks.’

Gil considered this. ‘No, I don’t think so. Sempill is capable of it, but you saw the body. She lay where she was killed. Who else?’

‘This wild woman with the difficult name?’

‘Euphemia Campbell, you mean?’

‘No, no, the other. The harper’s sister. How is it pronounced — Yalissy?’

‘Ealasaidh,’ Gil corrected. ‘I think it is the Ersche for Elizabeth.’

‘You amaze me. Could she have killed her? Followed her up the hill and knifed her for jealousy where she could put the blame on the husband? She seems like a woman out of tragedy — Iphigenie, perhaps, or some such. Or could it have been the harper, indeed?’.

‘The harper is blind.’

‘But he was her lover. Who better to get close, his hand round her waist, the knife in his. sleeve, a kiss to distract her and the thing is done. If he thought she was returning to her husband?’

‘These are wild suggestions,’ Gil said slowly, ‘and yet we are dealing with secret murder here, the reasons may be as wild as any of these. Euphemia Campbell suggested that Bess had taken other lovers, and that one of those might have killed her, but that seems to me to add unnecessary complication to the matter.’

‘It lacks unity of action, for sure; said the mason, peering into his wine-cup. ‘Did she have other lovers?’

‘I have no corroboration. I hardly liked to ask the harper today,’ admitted Gil. ‘And it seems to me that a woman illused by her husband would be slow to trust other men.’

‘There is another to consider,’ said Alys from the doorway. Her father looked up and smiled at the sight of her.

‘How is the boy?’ he asked. She came forward to sit beside him, straight-backed and elegant in the faded gown.

‘Still in a swound, but I think his breathing is easier. Kittock reports that an hour or so since he gave a great sigh, and said something she didn’t catch, and from that time he has ceased that snoring. It is a good sign.’

‘God be praised,’ said her father.

‘Amen. But we must consider, father, whether Davie might not be the person you and Maister Cunningham are seeking.’

Both men looked at her, Gil in some surprise.

‘The boy would not hurt a fly,’ said her father. ‘He’s a great soft lump,’ he added in Scots.

‘But suppose his girl finally said no to him and went off home,’ she offered. ‘There is Mistress Stewart standing in the haw-bushes, he makes a — an improper suggestion, as I suppose all men do at times, and she is angry with him. Then the argument grows heated and he kills her and runs away and is struck down — No,’ she finished. ‘It doesn’t work.’

‘It does not account for her presence in the Fergus Aisle,’ Gil said, ‘but you are perfectly right, we must consider everyone who had the opportunity. Even your father. Even me.’

‘Why would you kill her, father?’ she said, turning to look at him. He looked at her quizzically and shrugged, declining to join in. ‘In fact you were at Compline in the Greyfriars’ church with Catherine and me and half the household, so we may all stand surety for one another. And you, Maister Cunningham?’

‘Oh, I went out for a breath of air during Compline, and she took me for a priest and wished to make confession, at which I grew angry and knifed her,’ Gil said, and pulled a face. ‘It isn’t funny.’

‘Would it anger you, if one took you for a priest?’

‘Yes,’ he said simply.

‘But I thought one must be a priest, to be a lawyer.’

‘It isn’t essential,’ Gil said carefully, ‘but I have no money to live on. To get a living, I must have a benefice. To be presented to a benefice, I must be ordained. My uncle has been generosity itself, but he is not a young man, and his own benefices will die with him.’

‘So you must be a priest.’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

The familiar chill struck him. When it had passed, he said, ‘I will be ordained acolyte in July, at the Feast of the Translation of St Mungo. I’ll take major orders, either deacon or priest, at Ember-tide in Advent, and my uncle has a benefice in mind for me. Then I can say Masses formy father and my brothers. It will be good,’ he said firmly, ‘not to have to rely on my uncle. He has fed, clothed and taught me these two years and more, and never complained. At least, not about that,’ he added.

‘And then you can practise law in the Consistory Court? Is there no other way you may practise law?’

‘Alys, you ask too many questions,’ said the mason.

‘I beg your pardon,’ she said immediately. ‘I am interested.’

‘I am not offended; said Gil. ‘Yes, there are other ways, but I need the benefice. It always comes back to that — I must have something to live on.’