Pat McIntosh - The Harper's Quine

The writing was neat and accomplished, the spelling no wilder than Gil’s own. Admiring the economy of ‘elhus’, Gil commented, `That’s in the Gorbals — the Brigend. By the leper-house. I’ve heard of it.’

‘Well, even on the other side of the river they must drink,’ said the mason, putting the paper back in his pouch. ‘Come, let us leave this place, I have seen enough of it for now.’

‘I want to look at something else.’ Gil set off up the slope. ‘You know, if you found yourself a son-in-law who could move in with you, Alys would not have to go away.’

‘I thought of that. The trouble is, I would have to live with him too, and she and I would look for different qualities. It isn’t easy. You’ll find that yourself when you — ‘

‘If I am to be a priest,’ said Gil, the familiar chill knotting in his stomach, ‘I will never have to seek a son-in-law.’

‘The two are not necessarily separate. Many of those in the Church have children and acknowledge them. Look at Bishop Elphinstone in Aberdeen. His father did well by him, from all one hears.’

‘A vow is a vow,’ said Gil, ‘and a promise is a promise. Robert Elphinstone’s father was not yet priested when he was born — and by what my uncle says he would never have been allowed to marry the lady anyway. No, some are able to break their vows daily and still sleep at night, but I am not among them.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘I want to look in the haw-bushes opposite the south door where the gallowglass left Bess Stewart waiting for her husband. These bushes.’

‘What do you hope to find?’

‘After two days, not a lot.’ Gil stepped into the ring of trees, looking round in the dappled, scented light. ‘Now if I was a woman waiting for someone I barely trusted …’

‘he weapon is not here,’ said Maistre Pierre doggedly, and sneezed.

‘No, I agree. Whoever struck the boy, wherever he has gone, he kept hold of the weapon. How tall was she?’

‘About so? A little more than.Alys?’

Gil measured off the level which Alys’s head had reached as she tied the fringed black silk on his arm before the funeral. Holding out his hand at that height, he turned from tree to tree, parting the young leaves and peering under them. Maistre Pierre did likewise at the other side of the circle, sneezing from time to time. Birds chirruped above their heads.

‘What are we looking for?’ the mason asked.

‘Any sign that she was here. There were hawthorn flowers in her headdress, but there are other haw-bushes. If we find nothing, it does not disprove Euan’s story, but …’ Gil paused, looking closer at the spray of may-blossom he was holding back. ‘Ah. Come and look at this.’

Maistre Pierre obeyed, with another explosive sneeze.

‘The smell of these flowers!’ he complained. ‘What have you here?’

‘There.’ Gil pointed. ‘A scrap of thread, look, on that thorn.’ Carefully he dislodged it. ‘The shade of green is certainly very like Ealasaidh’s plaid.’

The mason, covering his nose with one big hand, peered at the little twist of colour.

‘And this atomy,’ he said, wondering, ‘tells us she was here.’

Gil looked round.

‘She stood under this tree,’ he agreed, ‘waiting while Euan went into the kirk and her killer came out to meet her. May I have that paper? It would do to keep it safe.’ He folded the wisp of yarn close in Alys’s writing and stowed both carefully in his purse.

‘You know, it’s a strange thing,’ he added, looking round at the encircling trees. ‘We had evidence, and now we have more, that Bess was here. We have repeated sightings of Davie and whatever girl it was — they were here, they were there, they were yonder down the slope. But after all the people went in to Compline we have no sign of anyone else in the kirkyard. It’s as if whoever struck Davie was as invisible as his weapon.’

‘Perhaps it was the same person that stabbed Bess.’

‘No,’ said Gil regretfully. ‘We abandoned that hypothesis early, remember. The knife is not here — if it was the same person, then he still had the knife, so why use an invisible stick? We are missing something, Maistre Pierre.’

The mason, turning away, sneezed explosively,

‘Let us go away,’ he said plaintively. ‘I will not miss these confounded flowers. What do we do now? Go down to cross the river and question Annie Thomson?’

‘That, or go to my uncle’s house,’ said Gil, following him out of the kirkyard. ‘I set Maggie that keeps house for us to find out what she could, and my uncle accepted Sempill’s invitation this afternoon. There may be information. Or — wait. Do you speak Italian? I’ve only a little.’

‘Italian? I do. Oh, you think of the musician? Why not, indeed? We question him, and then we are next to your uncle’s house.’

‘My thought also. The lassie Thomson will keep, I hope.’

The mastiff had clearly been shut up for the afternoon, and was still raging fruitlessly in the darkness of her kennel as Gil and the mason crossed the courtyard of the Sempill house. When she stopped baying to draw breath they heard her claws scraping on the stout planks which contained her.

‘I hope that creature is securely chained,’ observed Maistre Pierre.

‘Sempill claims she is,’ Gil answered.

The house door was open, and within was a noisy disorganized bustle of servants shouting and hurrying about with plate and crocks from the hall. Euphemia’s stout companion backed out of a door with an armful of ill-folded linen, shouting, ‘And the same for your mother’s brat, Agnes Yuill!’

‘My mother!’ Another woman erupted after her into the screens passage, brandishing a bundle of wooden servingspoons. ‘I’ll tell ye, Mally Murray, what my mother says of yon yellow-headed strumpet! It’s no my place to dean blood off her fancy satin — ‘

Catching sight of their audience, she turned to bob a curtsy. ‘Your pardon, maisters,’ she said in more civil, tones, tucking the spoons out of sight behind her skirts. ‘What’s your pleasure? Are you here for the burial, for if so I’m feared you’re too late.’

‘It’s that lawyer,’ said Mistress Murray, her plump face suspicious. ‘If ye’re wanting a word with Euphemia, maister, it’s no possible, for she’s away to lie down. She’s had a busy day of it, what with one thing and another.’

‘No, I thank you,’ said Gil. ‘No need to disturb her if she’s in her bed. Would you ask Maister Sempill if we might get a word with the Italian musician?’

‘What, Anthony?’ said Mistress Murray. ‘You’ll no get much out of him. If he’s got ten words of Scots he’s no more.’

‘Nevertheless,’ said Gil politely, ‘we would like a word with him.’

She stared at them, then sniffed and said, ‘Aye, Agnes. Away and tell the maister what they’re asking.’

‘Where is he?’

‘How should I know? I wish that friend of Marriott Kennedy’s had stayed longer. We could ha done with her.’ Mistress Murray hitched her armful of linen higher and set off purposefully for the door at the far end of the passage. Agnes shrugged, and ducked back into the hall, past two men carrying a bench.

After some time, during which the visitors had ample opportunity to study the temperament of the household, she returned, dragging the alarmed lutenist.

‘The maister says, what’s your will wi him, maisters?’ she reported. ‘You can talk in the yaird, he says, and no to be long, for he’s wanted to play for them up the stair.’

‘Agnes!’ said the Italian, twisting in her grasp. ‘Cosa succede?’

‘May we speak to you?’ said Gil. ‘I wish to ask you some questions.’

The mason translated, and the musician stopped squirming and gaped at him.