Pat McIntosh - The Harper's Quine

‘We can learn nothing here, surely!’ the mason bawled, his mouth inches from Gil’s ear.

‘It will clear in a while,’ Gil answered. ‘Many of these have yet to go home for supper.’

A girl appeared in front of them smiling hopefully. She wore a greasy canvas apron, but she herself seemed fairly clean.

‘What’s your will, maisters?’

‘Two mugs of ale,’ said Gil, trying not to look down her bodice. She held out her hand for the money, contriving to brush his hip with hers, and slipped away through the crowd. When she returned, Gil said to her, ‘Does Annie Thomson work here, lass?’

‘Why? Will I no do?’

‘I am suited, thanks. I want a word with Annie.’ Gil produced another coin. ‘Can you point her out to me?’

‘She’s out the back the now. Here she comes.’ She jerked her head at a girl just pushing in from the kitchen. Gil, peering in the dim light, thought he recognized the build and movements.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and dropped the coin into the cavity being thrust at him. He got a gap-toothed grin, and the girl slipped away again.

‘Is that the girl you saw with Davie?’ asked the mason.

‘I think it is.’ Gil was watching, trying not to stare. The big-framed girl with the black brows distributed the food she had brought in, a plate of fried meat here, bannocks and cheese there. The bell of St Ninian’s began to ring, and several groups of customers downed their drinks and left.

‘Are these all going to hear Compline?’ said Maistre Pierre incredulously.

‘Probably not,’ said Gil, claiming two stools at the corner of a table. ‘But master or dame will bar the door when the Office is done, and there you are in the street shouting to be let in.’ He frowned, as the girl who had served them paused by Annie Thomson and spoke in her ear, jerking her head towards their side of the room. Annie answered, without looking round, and went out to the kitchen again. Something about the set of her back made Gil uneasy.

Under the other window, a large group began singing. Gil could make out neither words nor tune above the hubbub, but Mistress Bell straightened up, glared at the singers, and rapped on the ale barrel with an old shoe which lay conveniently to her hand. This had no effect, so she tried again, shouting, — ‘No- singing!’

The noise receded, leaving the singing isolated like rubbish cast up by the tide. One or two of the singers, realizing what was happening, fell silent, but the rest roared on, oblivious to tugged sleeves and nudged ribs. Mistress Bell, leaving her post at the barrel, stalked across the room in a widening hush, and bellowed, ‘No singing in my house!’

The singing broke off in a ragged diminuendo.

‘Och, Maggie, it’s just — ‘ began one of the minstrels. Mistress Bell tucked the shoe behind her busk, removed his beaker and gave it to his neighbour, then lifted him by one arm and the seat of his hose, and carried him without another word to the door. Someone standing by it hastily opened it for her and she stepped out, dropped her burden in the gutter, dusted her hands together and marched back into the house.

‘And the rest of ye,’ she said, withdrawing the shoe in a threatening manner.

Under her eye the rest of the group finished their drinks and left quietly, while the other customers pretended not to watch. Finally, satisfied, Mistress Bell went back to the tap of the great barrel, making shooing motions at the huddle of grinning serving-lasses in the kitchen doorway.

‘Monday!’ she shouted after the last miscreant. He nodded, and slunk out. She nodded at another table. ‘And you, Billy Spreull. Ye’ve had enough the night. Finish that and get away to your bed.’

‘Ah, Maggie,’ said the man next to the red-faced customer she had addressed.

‘Will I cross this floor?’ she offered, elbows akimbo.

‘No, no,’ said Billy Spreull hastily. ‘We’re jush — just going, Maggie.’

‘Mon Dieu!’ said the mason devoutly, as the noise returned and Billy and his friend left.

‘The singers are barred until Monday,’ Gil interpreted. ‘Habbie Sims told me about this place. It’s the only alehouse the Watch never has to clear.’

‘Surely the Watch has no jurisdiction outside the burgh?’

‘They come over occasionally. Probably to drink at Maggie’s.’ Gil peered into his beaker. ‘Maistre Pierre, look into that corner, and tell me what you see.’

The mason turned to cast a casual glance beyond where the singers had been.

‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Two of those we discussed earlier. So Maister Campbell was not meeting them. I wonder what he was doing?’

‘Further,’ said Gil, his back to the Sempills, ‘I no longer see Annie Thomson. She has not returned to watch the house being cleared, like the other girls. Do you need another drink?’

‘My turn.’ The mason crooked a finger at the girl who had brought their ale. ‘Two more mugs of that very good ale, hen, and where is Annie? Has she left? We wanted to ask her a question.’

‘She’s likely out the back again, her belly’s bothering her,’ said the girl, lifting their empty beakers. ‘It’s funny — there’s another two fellows asking for Annie over there, and I never noticed her spitting pearls.’

Another group of customers left. By the time the girl returned with their drinks, the room was half empty.

‘Could you find Annie?’ Gil said. ‘It’s important.’

‘That’s what the other body said,’ she retorted, tossing her head at him. ‘What’s Annie been up to?’

‘Nothing you wouldn’t do, I’m certain,’ said Gil. He produced another coin, and made it slide in and out between his fingers. The girl watched it, fascinated. ‘Find Annie for us?’ he coaxed.

‘Joan!’ shouted her employer across the room.

‘I’ll try,’ she said grudgingly, and hurried off.

‘Where did you learn that trick with the coin?’ the mason asked.

‘Paris.’

‘I must remember not to play cards with you.’

Gil grinned. I don’t cheat at Tarocco. No need.’

Joan came back into the room, a loaded tray of food in her hands. She distributed this to a group at the long table beyond where the Sempills were sitting, to the accompaniment of complaints that it was cold, and began collecting empty beakers. Pausing by Gil’s elbow she announced, ‘Annie’s no there. She was to bring that tray in, and she’s just no there.’

‘Not in the privy?’ Gil prompted, dismayed.

‘Can- ye no understand? I’m saying she’s no there.’

Gil dropped the coin after its fellow.

‘Thank you for looking,’ he said. ‘Where might she have gone?’

‘Joan!’ shouted Mistress Bell again.

‘The deil knows,’ said Joan, and whisked off. Gil turned to look at Maistre Pierre.

‘Another broken scent,’ he said, and felt something nudge at his memory.

‘Perhaps that formidable woman at the tap could tell us more,’ suggested the mason. His eyes flicked beyond Gil, and he sat back a little, so that Gil had a moment’s warning before John Sempill of Muirend said at his shoulder,

‘And what brings you out this side of the Clyde, Gil Cunningham?’

‘I was born this side,’ Gil pointed out unwisely.

‘Aye, but ye don’t hold the Plotcock and Thinacre now. How’s your mother?’

‘She’s well, John. Regrets her sister Margaret yet,’ said Gil, giving as good as he got. ‘Do you know Maister Peter Mason?’

Sempill nodded at the mason, hooked a stool out with his foot and hunkered down, hitching up the hem of his short black gown to avoid sitting on it. Firelight glinted on the jet beads on his doublet.

‘You were at Bess’s funeral. Sit down, Philip, in God’s name, don’t stand over me like that.’ His cousin sat obediently beside him, staring heavy-eyed at the wall behind Gil’s head. Sempill looked at him and shrugged. ‘Gil, I want a word with you.’