Pat McIntosh - The Nicholas Feast

‘It is not signed,’ observed Maistre Pierre. ‘Nor witnessed.’

‘He would hardly get it witnessed still in the wax like this, even if it had any standing. His kin may take it as an instruction if they please, but if I know the Montgomery … He wishes his property divided equally between Ann Irvine, whoever she is, and Ralph Gibson. Poor boy,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Was this fantasy? Or folly?’

‘Should it be either?’

Gil tapped the frame of the tablet with a long forefinger.

‘He is pretending, here, to be legitimate. Either it was a private game, committed to writing, or he was deluding himself into believing it.’

‘Do not we all delude ourselves, at his age?’ Maistre Pierre took the long spill of paper back and folded it carefully with the larger sheet. ‘I myself was convinced from the ages of nine to twelve that I was of noble blood, snatched away at birth. I still remember the disappointment when I realized that I had no birthmark by which my true exalted parent could recognize me when I rescued him from drowning.’ He laughed, the white teeth flashing in his neat beard. ‘We lived, you understand, two hundred leagues from the sea.’

‘I see where Alys gets her love of romance,’ Gil commented. ‘Come and see if Patrick Coventry’s key will open the boy’s chamber. There is something strange there.’

William’s stair was easily identified by the huddle of students at its foot. As Gil and Maistre Pierre approached, first one boy and then another put his head in at the doorway and ducked out again grinning with bravado.

‘What are you doing?’ Gil asked, making his way through the group.

‘Listening for the ghost, maister,’ said Richie the Scholar.

‘A ghost?’ said the mason. ‘In broad day?’

‘There is no ghost,’ Gil said. ‘How can a spirit with no body make a noise?’

‘Like the wind does?’ said somebody else smartly.

‘I heard it, maister,’ said one of the Ross boys with pride. ‘It went Ooo-oo.’

‘You dreamed it,’ said Gil. ‘Stay down here, all of you.’

William’s door was halfway up the stair, and therefore had only a narrow wedge of landing. Maister Coventry and Maister Kennedy were waiting there, still in formal academic dress, both with the appearance of men who would rather be elsewhere.

‘Gil!’ said Maister Kennedy. ‘Thank God you’re here. Listen to this — there is something in there.’

They listened.

‘I hear nothing — ’ said the mason, but Patrick Coventry’s upraised hand cut him off. Then they all heard it, through the heavy oak door: a high-pitched sobbing, unearthly, dying off in a wail. Gil felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

‘No mortal throat made that sound,’ said Maistre Pierre through dry lips, and clutched at the crucifix on the end of his set of beads.

‘Does that open this door?’ Gil asked, looking at the key in the Second Regent’s hand. For answer, the small man fitted it into the lock and turned it. The tumblers clicked round. Gil lifted the latch and pushed, and the door swung ponderously open.

‘Christ aid!’ said Maister Kennedy.

The room was in complete disarray. Books and clothing were strewn about, the bed-frame yawned emptily and mattress and blankets were tumbled in a heap, a lute lay under the table.

‘Faugh!’ exclaimed Maistre Pierre. ‘What a stench!’

‘Yes,’ said Gil, relaxing. ‘What a stench, indeed.’

He stepped into the room, placing his feet with care, and halted. The mason moved watchfully to stand at his back, saying, ‘But what has happened here? Is this the work of devils? Is that why the stink — ?’

Gil, surveying the wrecked room, said absently, ‘No, I think not. Watch where you step, Pierre.’ He moved forward as the two regents followed them, staring round. ‘I think we can conclude,’ he continued, ‘that someone has found William’s key and made good use of it.’ He bent to lift the rustling mattress back into the bed-frame, and piled the blankets on top of it.

‘He had many possessions, for such a young man,’ said the mason, still watchful at Gil’s back.

‘And what in the name of all the saints was making that noise?’ said Maister Coventry.

‘That?’ said Maister Kennedy in alarm.

They all looked where he was pointing. A heap of clothing lay under the window, a tawny satin doublet, a red cloth jerkin, several pairs of tangled hose. As they watched, the jerkin moved, apparently by itself. The high wailing began again, and something appeared from the cuff of the sleeve and became a grey hairy arm.

‘Ah, the poor mite!’ said Gil. Under the mason’s horrified gaze he strode forward and lifted the clothing. The jerkin came up, swinging heavily, with a grey shaggy body squirming in its folds.

‘Mon Dieu, what is it?’ said the mason as a long-nosed face appeared through the unlaced armhole.

‘A dog,’ said Gil. ‘At least, a puppy. Wolfhound, deerhound — one or the other. Some kind of hunting dog, certainly.’

He disengaged the animal from the garment and set it on its feet, a gangling knee-high creature consisting principally of shaggy legs and a long nose. It promptly abased itself, pawing appealingly at his boots. He bent to feel at its collar. ‘Perhaps three or four months old, far too young to be wearing a good leather collar like this. That’s the source of the stink,’ he added. ‘Watch where you put your feet. Bad dog,’ he said to the pup, which flattened its ears and wagged its stringy tail, trying to excuse its lapse of manners.

‘William should certainly not have been keeping a dog in his chamber,’ said Maister Coventry.

‘That’s William for you,’ said Nick Kennedy.

‘Who do you suppose searched the place?’ said Maistre Pierre, watching Gil soothing the dog. ‘Was it the same person who killed the young man?’

‘Quite possibly,’ said Gil. ‘But it was certainly the same person who hit this fellow over the head.’ He lifted the pup again, its long legs dangling, and turned its head so that they could all see the blood clotted in the rough hair behind one ear. ‘I’ll wager he tried to defend his master’s property, eh, poor boy? — and was struck or kicked. When he recovered he began to howl, and the boys took him for a ghost.’

‘Poor brute,’ said Maister Coventry. ‘What a way to treat a young animal!’

‘What about this chamber?’ said Maister Kennedy, cutting across the mason’s comment. ‘Do we search it, or lock it, or send for John Shaw to get it redded up?’

‘I’m afraid,’ said Gil, ‘that we must search it ourselves. It should not take the four of us long.’

‘What are we looking for?’ said Maister Kennedy in resigned tones.

‘Anything the boy should not have had. Possibly papers, or money, or jewels.’ Gil settled the pup in a nest in the blankets and turned away. It promptly staggered out and pawed at his boots again.

‘Papers, you say?’ Maistre Pierre stared round again. ‘Gil, I see very little paper here. Surprisingly little, for a student’s chamber.’

‘What about the students?’ said Patrick Coventry. ‘There are a great many boys below in the yard working themselves into a terror about the ghost.’

‘Let them,’ said Maister Kennedy callously, stooping to lift a book. ‘Peter of Spain. This is the library’s copy, with Duncan Bunch’s own notes in it. Plague take the boy, I’ve been wanting this for months. As well they never saw the brute,’ he added, ‘or they’d have kent it for Auld Mahoun himself.’

‘And what do we do with it?’ worried Maister Coventry, shaking out the satin doublet. ‘We canny keep a wolfhound when we’ve forbidden the students to keep dogs.’