Pat McIntosh - The Harper's Quine

‘I’ll come out with you,’ said Gil, as shouting floated up the stairs from the front door.

He and the mason followed Serjeant Anderson down and across the street, where a small crowd had gathered and was watching through the gates with interest as the Italian was dragged across the yard of the Sempill house. The mastiff was adding her contribution, but over the thunderous barking Gil heard a number of comments.

‘What’s he done?’

‘If he’s no guilty now, he will be by the morning.’

‘How will they get a confession? He doesny speak Scots.’

‘That’s no bother. Write something down and make him put his mark to it.’

The lutenist saw Gil and attempted to fling out a beseeching hand.

‘Signore avvocato! Aiutarmi, aiutarmi!’

The man holding his left arm buffeted him casually round the head, and he went limp.

‘What did you do that for?’ said the other man in disgust. ‘Now we’ll have to carry him.’

‘What did he say?’ Gil asked Maistre Pierre.

“‘Maister lawyer, help me.”’

‘What the devil is going on here?’ demanded John Sempill in his own gateway, his voice carrying without effort over the dog’s noise.

Euphemia Campbell uttered a shriek which hurt the ears, let go of her brother and sped across the yard to her protector, pursued vengefully by the dog until it was brought up short and choking at the end of its chain. A great waft of her perfume reached them on the evening air, making the mason sneeze, as she exclaimed shrilly, ‘Oh, John! John! He says Antonio killed Bridie Miller and maybe Bess as well!’

The Italian, hearing her voice, roused himself with an effort and broke free of the loosened grasp of his captors to fling himself at her feet, clinging to the hem of her dress.

‘Donna Eufemia! Donna mia, cara mia bella! Aiutarmi! Non so niente!’

‘Oh, God, the poor devil,’ said Gil, and moved forward.

Euphemia Campbell, staring down at her servant, said, ‘John, do something! He says he killed them!’

‘Oh, he did, did he,’ said John Sempill, and swung an arm. Everyone else stood frozen for a moment. There was a choking gurgle which was not the dog, and one of the constables stepped forward and tipped the lutenist over with his foot. The small man turned a dulling, incredulous gaze on his mistress. Then blood burst from his mouth and he was still.

‘Oh, God,’ said Gil again. The mason, beside him, was muttering what sounded like prayers. Euphemia Campbell stared open-mouthed at the dead man, and down at the blood on her gown. A groan escaped her, and she shivered.

‘Euphemia!’ said John Sempill. She turned to him, still shuddering, and he held her with one arm, staring hungrily down at her as the final drops of the lutenist’s blood dripped off his whinger into the dust of the courtyard.

‘Take me in, John. I must lie down!’

‘Now, I wish you’d not done that, maister,’ said Serjeant Anderson majestically, ‘but there’s no denying it’s saved me a bit of bother. Come on, lads,’ he said, beckoning his constables away. ‘We’ll away down the town. Don’t fret, you’ll get your groat, you’d made the arrest.’

‘It was murder,’ said Gil. ‘And the devil of it is, he’ll get away with it.’

‘You think the Italian was innocent?’ said Maistre Pierre.

They were riding along the north bank of the Clyde, and Dumbarton’s rock and castle were just coming into view ahead of them down the river. Maistre Pierre, on a sturdy roan horse, his stout felt hat hanging down his back on its strings, was the image of a prosperous burgess on a journey. Behind them, Matt had not uttered a word since they left Glasgow. Gil himself, in well-worn riding-boots and a mended plaid, felt that he did not live up to the quality of his own mount or Matt’s. David Cunningham had always had a good eye for a horse.

‘Innocent of the two women’s deaths, certainly,’ he said. ‘I saw him in St Mungo’s all through Compline, at the time when Bess was killed, which in turn makes it less likely that he killed Bridie Miller.’

‘I think so also,’ said the mason, ‘because how could he persuade a girl like Bridie to go apart with him when he had no Scots?’

‘Some men have no trouble,’ said Gil fairly, ‘but this one seemed to have eyes for nobody but Euphemia Campbell. And what she thought would happen if she screamed at John Sempill like that, is more than I can guess. She has known him several years, she must know how he acts first and violently and thinks after if at all.’

‘He certainly acted this time.’

‘And it was murder,’ said Gil again.

‘And he had been her lover also — the Italian.’

‘Yes.’

‘She seemed greatly moved by his death. I thought of Salome.’

Gil rode on in silence for a time, digesting this remark. On the other bank, the tower of Erskine dropped behind them.

‘And where had the gallowglass been?’ he said at length. ‘Sempill said they were on an errand and would be back on Sunday or Monday. Yet there was one of them last night. Matt,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘do you know where the Campbell brothers had been sent? Does Tam?’

‘No,’ said Matt.

‘And do you know where the horses may he while we are on Bute?’

‘Aye.’

‘Perhaps Matt should stay with them,’ suggested the mason. ‘We should be back by Monday, God willing, and can shift without him for two days.’

‘Aye,’ said Matt. Gil twisted in the saddle to look at him, a small fair man perched expertly on one of David Cunningham’s tall horses.

‘You could ask about for Annie Thomson,’ he suggested, and was rewarded by a lowering glance. ‘If I leave you alemoney, you could keep your ears open.’

‘Hmf,’ said Matt.

They rode on, in the growing warmth of a May morning. Birds sang, the distinctive smell of hawthorn blossom drifted on the air, making Maistre Pierre sneeze. Lambs bleated on the heights above them, and the cattle of Kilpatrick lowed on the grazing-lands, where the herd laddie popped up from under a gorse-bush to watch them pass.

It is beautiful countryside,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘So much cultivated, so pastoral.’

‘It’s nothing compared to Lanarkshire,’ said Gil, and Matt grunted agreement.

‘And this is an excellent road.’

‘It’s well used. Argyll took half the guns down here to the siege at Dumbarton in ‘89. They’d need to level the way for those.’

‘I had forgotten. Alys told me of seeing them go through Glasgow, and the teams of oxen hauling the big carts. I missed the sight. I was out looking for building-stone in Lanarkshire.’

‘You haven’t travelled this way, then?’

‘I have not. Parts of Ayrshire and Renfrewshire I know also, and the quarries about Glasgow, but not this ground. What is the stone hereabouts, do you know?’

‘Just stone, I suppose,’ said Gil blankly. ‘Isn’t it all?’

‘Assuredly not.’ The mason leaned over the saddle-bow again, peering at the road-metal under his horse’s hooves. ‘No, it is still too dusty to distinguish. However these hills have the appearance of trap, which is not good to build with, but makes excellent cobbles. Perhaps on the way back I explore a little. A piece of land to quarry out here, with a good road to Glasgow, would be a valuable investment.’

‘Be sure to contract for the mineral rights, then; Gil said, and got a quizzical look in reply.

Dumbarton town, tucked in the crook of the Leven behind its rock, was not impressive, a huddle of wattle-and-daub roofed with furze or turf. Here and there a stone-built structure had an air of greater permanence, but most of the houses looked as if they had sprouted, possibly by night, since the end of the siege of three years since. There did not appear to be a cobble-stone in the burgh.