Pat McIntosh - The Harper's Quine

‘If he killed Bess,’ he said aloud, ‘then he might have a reason for killing Bridie. But if not the one, then not the other.’

Glancing at the window, he was surprised to realize that it must be well after Vespers. He unlocked his legs, and rubbed the circulation back into them, reflecting that Aristotle had less application to real life than he had hoped.

By one of the hall windows, David Cunningham and the mason were discussing a fine point of contract law over a plate of Maggie’s girdle-cakes. They greeted him with pleasure, but returned immediately to the question of what constituted attendance on site, dark red head and black coif nodding in time to one another’s words. Gil looked in the small cupboard for a wine-cup, and failing to find one made for the kitchen. The mason’s voice floated after him as he went down the stairs.

‘And at Cologne, a friend of mine …’

Maggie and the men were round the kitchen fire, gossiping. Gil found a cup and was returning to the stair when one of the stable-hands said, ‘Maister Gil, did ye know the serjeant’s planning to make an arrest?’

‘I did not,’ said Gil. ‘Who is it?’

‘He never said,’ admitted the man regretfully. ‘But it’s someone for the lassie Miller, that had her throat cut in Blackfriars yard.’

‘It was not her throat,’ said Maggie quickly, with a glance at William the kitchen-boy. ‘I spoke to Mally Bowen that washed her.’

‘And I saw the body,’ said Gil. ‘She was knifed in the ribs, poor lass. When is the serjeant planning this, Tam?’

‘He never said that neither,’ said Tam. ‘Just that he knew who it was. I got this off his man Jaikie when we went to fetch the horses in.’

‘Ah, hearsay,’ said Gil.

‘It’s just as good,’ said Tam. ‘Jaikie knows all the serjeant’s business, he tells me all kind of things.’

‘I hope not,’ said Gil.

‘Never worry, Maister Gil; said Maggie cheerfully. ‘The half of it’s likely made up.’

Up in the hall, the Official and Maistre Pierre had moved on to the question of whether the stoneyard at the quarry qualified as the site. Gil sat down and poured himself wine, quite content to listen to the argument, but they left it unresolved and turned to him.

‘Well, Gilbert,’ said his uncle. ‘I have had a profitable discussion with your friend here. He has a very generous suggestion to make concerning the harper’s bairn which we can put to John Sempill when we can meet him.’

‘John’s out this evening. What would that be?’ Gil asked.

‘Provided the harper agrees,’ stipulated the mason.

‘Oh, understood. But I would be greatly in favour of it, as the boy’s legal adviser. Maister Mason is offering to foster the child into his own household and raise him.’

‘Alys would like that,’ Gil said.

Alys’s father nodded, smiling fondly at the sound of her name. ‘So long as she stays under my roof,’ he added.

‘And we must hope that will continue to be possible.’ The Official glanced at the mason, and a portentous look passed between them. ‘A very profitable evening, Maister Mason.’

‘More than I have had,’ began Gil, and was interrupted by a furious barking.

‘What is going on across the way?’ His uncle craned to look out of the window. ‘Why, there is the serjeant at Sempill’s door.’

The gate to the Sempill yard was open, and through the gateway they could see Serjeant Anderson making his stately way to the house door, taking the long way round past Doucette, who was out at the end of her chain hurling abuse. The burgh’s two constables trailed cautiously after him.

‘Has he decided to arrest John Sempill?’ Gil speculated. Maggie arrived, with another hastily poured jug of wine, and stood staring across the street.

‘I tried to get a word with Tammas Sproull,’ she said with regret, ‘but he was past the kitchen gate before I could speak to him.’

The serjeant vanished into the house, his men after him. Someone emerged briefly to shout at the dog, who went sullenly back to her kennel. Maggie inspected the plate of girdle-cakes and lifted it to be replenished.

‘They’re taking a while,’ she said hopefully. ‘He’s maybe putting up a fight.’

‘He’s not there, whoever it is,’ said Gil, looking along the street. ‘Here they all come-back- from Compline.’

Philip Sempill, James Campbell, resplendent in their expensive clothes, picked their way along the muddy street. Euphemia Campbell and her stout companion followed, the Italian just behind them, and to Gil’s great annoyance one of the two gallowglasses came into sight bringing up the rear.

‘Sempill said those two had gone on an errand. I want to talk to them.’

‘Could that be why he denied them?’ said his uncle, still watching the Sempill house. The returning party crossed the yard, the dog emerged to bark and was cursed back to her kennel, and all six vanished into the house as the serjeant had done. ‘You might as well fetch more girdlecakes, Maggie. They’ll be a while longer.’

On the cue, the door of the Sempill house opened. The mastiff rushed across the yard bellowing threats, and the constables and the gallowglass emerged dragging a struggling figure. The swaying group got itself down the stairs with difficulty, followed by the serjeant. Behind him came a gesticulating James Campbell, seriously impeded by his sister, who was clinging to him and screaming. They could hear her quite clearly above the dog’s clamour.

‘My!’ said Maggie with delight.

‘Who is it?’ said David Cunningham. ‘Who have they arrested?’

‘The Italian,’ said Gil. ‘He’s found his foreigner.’

The serjeant, ignoring the Campbells, sailed across the street to hammer on the Cunningham house door. Maggie, muttering, was already on her way to answer it. They heard her questioning the caller through the spy-hole, then the rattle of the latch, and her feet on the stairs again.

‘It’s Serjeant Anderson,’ she announced unnecessarily, stumping into the hall. ‘Wanting a word with the maister.’

‘And with Maister Gilbert Cunningham and all,’ said the serjeant, proceeding into the room in her wake. ‘Good evening, maisters.’

‘Well, well, Serjeant,’ said the Official, pushing his spectacles up and down his nose. ‘What is this about, then?’

‘Just to inform you, sir,’ said the serjeant, with some relish, ‘that we’ve just lifted the man that knifed Bridie Miller. Seeing Maister Gilbert Cunningham was seeking her the length and breadth of the town these two days, I thought you’d want to know we’ve got the man, since he’s likely the man you want as well.’

‘But what proof have you — ?’ Gil began.

‘Well, I looked at the body,’ said Serjeant Anderson, ‘and I saw she’d been stabbed with a wee little knife with a long blade. And I thought, Who carries a knife like that? An Italian, that’s who. And where is there an Italian in Glasgow? In Maister Sempill’s house. So we’re just lifting the Italian and his wee knife now, and if you’ll come down to the Tolbooth in the morning, when I’ve got him to confess to my killing, we’ll see if we can get him to confess to your killing.’

‘But that’s not proof!’

‘Proof? We’ll get a confession in no time, and who needs proof then? I’ve a burgh to watch, Maister Cunningham. I’ve more to do than go about asking questions,’ said the serjeant kindly. ‘It’s far quicker my way.’

‘Serjeant, I thank you for your offer, but I saw the Italian inside St Mungo’s at the time Bess Stewart was killed. He’s not my man, and I’m not certain he’s the man you’re after either. Why should he kill Bridie Miller?’

‘Why should anyone kill a bonnie lass?’ said the serjeant. ‘One reason or another, no doubt. Now I’d best get back to my men, so if you’ll excuse me, sirs — ‘