Pat McIntosh - The Harper's Quine

Never to hold a bairn like that and know it was one’s own.

Does any man know that? asked a cynical portion of his mind.

A man married to a good woman can be reasonably sure, he answered himself. Unbidden, the image of Alys with the child on her hip rose before him.

And what about her? The mason must find her a husband. He would look for a good match for her, but Sybilla Napier’s family had accepted his brother Hugh, and presumably Bess Stewart’s kin had thought John Sempill a good match. Would Alys go to a man who would abuse her like that? Or one who would sell her books?

Coherent prayer on his own behalf was beyond him, but he bowed his head and petitioned every saint he thought appropriate for Alys. When he ran out of requests he simply knelt, emptying his mind, concentrating on the wind which blew Gabriel’s painted garments.

After a while he became aware that, although nothing had changed, he felt lighter, as if a burden had been lifted. Unlocking his stiffened limbs, he rose and took up the remnant of his candle, and made his way to the attic and sleep.

‘Do you think the harper will accept Sempill’s offer?’ enquired David Cunningham, stirring almond butter into his porridge.

‘Who knows?’ said Gil. ‘I think it is more a matter of whether Ealasaidh will accept.’

‘It seems as if the bairn may well be a person of sub stance in his own right, even without being declared John Sempill’s heir.’

‘Aye, and sorting that out might prove illuminating. Have you ever been to Rothesay, sir?’

‘I have not. You take a boat from Dumbarton, likely, you could ask the harper’s sister. Eat your porridge, Gilbert. You think you need to go to Rothesay?’

‘We are not doing well on the direct trail. Davie’s elusive lass is the only witness, and the tracks are confused.’ Gil stared out of the window at the house over the way, where nobody appeared to be stirring. ‘But before I can answer the question of cui bono with certainty I need to talk to the man who drew up the dispositions.’

‘That would be Alexander Stewart. He was in Inveraray but I heard recently he has now settled in Rothesay, which is certainly easier to get to. I can give you a letter for him. I will give you a docket for the Treasurer here as well. St Mungo’s should pay for the journey.’

‘And I am curious about Bess’s first husband,’ Gil said. ‘He was a Bute man, so I suppose their marriage would have taken place in Rothesay.’

‘Likely so. I would have heard, otherwise. When will you go? Not today, surely. It is Friday.’

‘So it is!’ said Gil, dismayed. With the holiday on Tuesday, my reckoning’s out. How long does the journey take?’

‘Four or five hours to Dumbarton by horse, I should think. Another five with a good wind after that, or several days’ waiting if the wind is wrong.’

‘Better if we leave in the morning, then, rather than this afternoon. Maister Mason goes too, I will need to speak to him.’

‘And what’s for today?’ said the Official, scraping his bowl. ‘This other lass that’s dead?’

‘I must be careful,’ said Gil, ‘not to offend the serjeant. But, yes, if he won’t ask questions, I must.’

As Gil reached the Wyndhead, Maistre Pierre in his working clothes emerged from the High Street, followed by his men.

‘Good morning, maister lawyer! I have thought, no one will put to sea on a Friday, so we will get a day’s work done and travel tomorrow. I cannot pay these sloungers to play at football any longer.’

‘Then I will go and get a word with the harper,’ said Gil, nodding to the grinning men. ‘Will you stay at St Mungo’s all morning?’

‘Indeed not. Once Wattie knows what is doing he will work better without the maister breathing down his neck. I meet you at Blackfriars? After Terce?’

Gil agreed to this, and the mason marched purposefully off along the flank of the Bishop’s castle, heading for the gate into St Mungo’s yard. Gil turned and made his way down the hill, past the houses of the Chanonry, past thatched cottages and the ale-house from which Ealasaidh had been thrown out. The street became busier as he descended, with people going out for work, taking down the shutters on the burgh’s scattered shops, beginning the day’s round of housework.

At the mouth of the wynd that gave on to Blackfriars kirkyard he paused. He ought, he felt, to go and inspect the scene of Bridle’s death as soon as he might. Then again, it had probably been well trampled when she was found. He stood for a moment, considering, then shrugged and turned to walk on, and a voice called across the street, ‘Maister Cunningham! A word with you, maister!’

The odd-eyed lutenist, Balthasar of Liege, crossed to him, avoiding a gathering of kerchiefed women who to judge by their gestures were discussing the death of Bridie Miller.

‘Good day to you, sir,’ he said as he reached Gil, and made a flourishing bow in the French manner. Gil, amused, responded in the same style, and the huddled women stared at them both.

‘Shall we walk on?’ suggested the lutenist.

‘I am bound for the Fishergait,’ Gil said, falling into step beside him.

‘To call on Angus and his sister?’ Gil nodded. ‘You’ll be a bit early. I went round there after things broke up yesterday, and we made rather a night of it. Harry was there — you saw him at the funeral maybe — and a couple more singers that knew Bess. The neighbours were not very pleased with us.’ Quick gestures suggested a displeased neighbour at a window. ‘We sank a lot of eau-de-vie between us, and the Mclans had the lion’s share. They’ll neither of them be fit to talk before Nones, I would estimate.’

‘Thank you for the advice.’

‘That wasn’t why I stopped you.’ Balthasar halted, to look Gil earnestly in the face. ‘Something came back to me I thought you might find important.’

‘Oh?’ said Gil encouragingly.

‘And when I heard of this new killing down in the town it seemed even more important.’

‘Go on,’ said Gil, well used to the kind of detail which witnesses thought important.

‘You mind I said I’d met Bess on the way up the High Street on May Day evening? Well, when I saw her, I’d just come out of an ale-house, and across the street there’s a vennel, and in the vennel there’s a couple playing Maygames, if you follow me. His hand down her neck, and so on, and a lot of giggling. I was just thinking the fellow was well dressed to be tousling a servant-lass in an alley when I heard Bess coming up the hill, talking away in Ersche.’

‘Yes?’ said Gil.

‘Well, the fine fellow opposite heard her too, and he reacted. Grabs his lass by the hand, looking alarmed, and tiptoes away along the alley with his back to the street. He didn’t want Bess Stewart to see him.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t want anyone to see him,’ Gil suggested.

‘There were others abroad who didn’t worry him. He’d thrown me a wink already. The point is, I saw him at the burial.’

‘Ah. Who?’

. ‘One of the two who came in with the husband. Not the cousin, the other one. The very decorative one.’ He struck a brief pose, quite unmistakable.

‘James Campbell of Glenstriven,’ said Gil, grinning.

‘Aye, that would be the name. I knew him when I saw him, but it took till this morning to fit it together and think, That’s odd.’

‘Was he avoiding Bess, or the gallowglass with her, do you think?’

‘Ah …’ The musician paused, casting his mind back. ‘No way to be. sure, of course, but I think it was Bess’s voice he heard first, that caused him to hide. I take your point, maister. But now here’s another girl dead, and the word is that she knew too much about Bess’s death. I just wondered if this fellow with the bad conscience was connected. in some way.’