Pat McIntosh - The Nicholas Feast

‘Senior bachelors are always a trial,’ said Gil sympathetically. ‘We’ve lost one — ’

‘He’s a junior,’ said the mousy-haired boy quickly.

‘Have you seen William Irvine, Agnes?’

‘I have not, the saints be praised. I can’t be doing with that laddie, aye on my back about the cost of this and that and who’s getting extra food at the buttery door. Away and look for him elsewhere. And you, Gil Cunningham, come back when I’m less taigled and tell me if your minnie likes your marriage.’

She brandished the ladle again, and the three senior bachelors slid past Gil and thudded down the stairs. Gil took off his bonnet and bowed, but Mistress Dickson was already retreating into her kitchen where someone demanded to know if he had pounded these roots enough. Gil descended to the courtyard, where the tenor and the mousy-haired boy were making exaggerated gestures of relief.

‘Thank you, maister,’ said the third student, a stocky fellow with a round red face. ‘Agnes can be a bit — ’

‘She can indeed,’ Gil said. Beyond Maister Coventry, Richie the Scholar and the Montgomery boy appeared from one stair and disappeared into another, like rabbits in a warren.

‘Did the harper no say William was behind a lock?’ asked Lowrie the tenor. ‘Why don’t we check the cellars while we’re here?’

Gil met Patrick Coventry’s blue glance.

‘But have we a key?’

‘I have one,’ said Maister Coventry. The three students had already plunged into the vaulted passage behind the kitchen stair, and were trying doors.

‘Not in the wellhouse. Look in the feed store, Michael.’

‘William? You there? No, not a sign.’

‘Not in the feed store. What about the limehouse?’

‘The door’s open. Didn’t we — shouldn’t it be barred?’

‘St Eloi’s hammer, it’s dark in here. He’s no here.’

‘He’s no here?’ repeated the tenor, on a rising note of incredulity.

‘Don’t think so. Fiend hae these sacks — ’

‘Don’t lick your fingers, you fool! Try that corner.’

‘No, he’s no here.’

‘Should we look in the coalhouse?’

‘Aye, try the coalhouse.’

‘But we left him — ’

‘Wheesht, you gormless — ’

‘The coalhouse is locked.’

‘Isn’t it always locked?’

‘No in the daytime. The kitchen needs in to get coals for the dinner.’

‘It’s locked now. William? You there?’

‘Stand back, please.’

Maister Coventry, after some ferreting under his brocade cope, had produced a large key. As two more students came running across the courtyard he fitted it into the coalhouse lock and turned it. The door swung outwards, boxing the three senior bachelors into the dark passage beyond it.

‘He’s no in the library,’ said someone behind Gil, ‘and John Hucheson says he’s no been there, and Walter says his chamber door’s locked.’

‘Speak Latin, Ralph,’ said Maister Coventry, ‘and stand back out of the light. William?’ He peered into the coalhouse. ‘William?’

‘What is it? Have we found him?’ said someone else from the courtyard.

Gil, looking over Maister Coventry’s head, shaded his eyes against the light from the courtyard, and suddenly turned to the students at the mouth of the passage.

‘Go and tell Maister Kennedy to come here,’ he ordered, ‘and bring a good lantern.’

‘You gentlemen too,’ said Maister Coventry, closing the door over so that the group beyond it could emerge. ‘Go and send Maister Kennedy, and then wait in the Outer Close.’

‘Why?’ said Lowrie. ‘Is William there? But how did he get in there?’

‘Is he — is he hurt?’ asked the mousy-haired one. The stocky boy said nothing, but stared at the door as he edged past it into the courtyard, then suddenly broke into a run. His friends galloped after him, and they went into the tunnel to the outer courtyard in a tight knot. Gil watched them out of sight, then reached over Patrick Coventry’s head and opened the door again.

‘Is it William?’ asked the Second Regent.

‘I think it must be.’ Gil stepped forward, cautious in the dim light. ‘Ah, there is a window.’ He unbarred the shutters and turned to look at what lay at the foot of the heap of coal, nearest the window, furthest from the door.

‘Lord have mercy on us,’ said Maister Coventry. ‘Are you certain? It doesn’t look like — ’

Gil swallowed hard, suddenly regretting the Almayne pottage.

‘The clothes are William’s,’ he said, ‘and the build and the hair are William’s. He has been strangled, which is why he is unrecognizable. And look at this. Look what was used to strangle him.’

He bent to close the bulging eyes so far as was possible. The effect, if anything, was worse. Averting his gaze, he lifted the end of the leather strap which lay across the shoulder of the blue gown.

‘This is someone’s belt,’ he said.

‘The poor boy,’ said Maister Coventry.

‘There’s worse,’ said Gil, still peering at the body. ‘Look — his hands are bound.’

Producing a set of beads from his sleeve, Patrick Coventry bent his head and began the quick, familiar muttering of the prayers for the dead. Gil stepped past him and out of the coalhouse as the sound of hasty feet in the courtyard heralded Maister Kennedy.

‘Nick,’ he said.

‘Where is the boy? What’s come to him? Andrew and Ralph said — ’

‘Nick, are you wearing any sort of belt?’

His friend stared at him, his mobile brows twitching.

‘My belt? No, as a matter of fact, I’m not. No room for a purse under this, and no need for one over it, in these robes.’

‘Do you have one? Where is it?’

‘In my chamber. Do you need it? What’s happened, Gil?’

‘William’s dead,’ said Gil bluntly. ‘He’s been strangled, with someone’s belt, and his hands are tied with another one. Whoever makes enquiry into this will be very interested in belts.’

Nick Kennedy looked from Gil, to Patrick Coventry still murmuring prayers, to the shadows in the coalhouse.

‘Christ aid,’ he said. ‘He will, won’t he. Let’s have a look.’

Gil slipped past the Second Regent and into the dim space again, positioning himself carefully away from the window. Nick, following him, checked visibly at the sight of the distorted face and lolling tongue.

‘Christ aid,’ he said again. ‘You wereny mistaken about the strangling. Well,’ he said to the indifferent corpse, ‘I’ve threatened to throttle you myself often enough, but I suppose I’m sorry now someone’s done it. Poor laddie. Should we no move him, Gil?’

‘William is certainly beyond aid,’ Gil pointed out. ‘There is little point in moving him, and I think we should notify the Dean and the Principal first. Moreover, this is clearly secret murder, and I know last time I viewed a body I could have done with seeing her where she died.’

Nick looked from the corpse to the shadowy heaps of coal and stacked wood.

‘If you say so,’ he said. ‘Well, I’d better tell them. Will you bide here or come with me?’

Gil, who had been giving some thought to exactly this question, said, ‘Would you say, Nick, we three have been within sight of one another the whole time, since the end of the play?’

Both men stared at him. Maister Coventry’s lips still moved, but Maister Kennedy’s mouth had fallen open. After a moment he recovered it.

‘St Peter’s bones,’ he said, without inflection. ‘Someone did this, didn’t they? And I threatened to throttle him. I swear by the Rood, Gil, I’ve never been so glad in my life to have taken a driddle in company. We were maybe not all three in sight of one another, but none of us could have got here from the Arthurlie garden with time to do this and be back before the other two noticed he’d gone.’