Pat McIntosh - The Nicholas Feast

She nodded. ‘Are you looking for one person, or two?’

‘One person at the moment,’ said Gil. ‘It is simpler. But I agree, it could almost be two, or even three. However I am reasonably confident,’ he added, ‘that we have not yet spoken to the person who searched William’s chamber and struck this fellow over the head.’

‘I must see to that.’ Alys drew the animal to her by its collar, and studied the injury. ‘It’s a clean cut — if we wash off the blood, it should heal well enough.’ She patted the pup, which was wagging its stringy tail at her, and lifted the tray of empty dishes. ‘It all hinges on the order in which things happened after the play,’ she continued thoughtfully, her gaze on Gil again.

‘You see that too?’

‘I do not,’ said the mason. ‘Surely it is enough to find out who searched the chamber?’

‘If the regent’s key opened both the coalhouse and the boy’s chamber, other keys may do likewise,’ Alys pointed out. ‘How many such keys are there? Who has them?’

‘We need to ask,’ said her father.

Alys put the tray down again, and looked from one to the other. ‘Could the Dean be right? Could it be a passing malefactor, or a discontented servant?’

‘Easily,’ said Gil, a little grimly. ‘And two of the servants at least had a reason to dislike the boy.’

‘No, but wait. If I understand you, this limehouse is in a closed pend by itself, or at least with the coalhouse, so only people with business there would pass the door. If William was not killed by the boys who put him in the limehouse — ’

‘I’m reasonably sure of that,’ Gil said. ‘They were shocked and frightened by news of his death, and greatly relieved when I told them how he had died. Having seen their acting,’ he added, ‘I am certain they were sincere in this.’

‘Then how did the person who killed him know he was there?’

‘A good question,’ said Gil.

Her elusive smile flickered. ‘That always means there is either a very good answer, or no immediate one.’ She collected more scraps off the dishes on the tray and put them absently into the wolfhound’s plate, where they were immediately swept up by its long pink tongue. ‘Which is it?’ Gil shook his head in reply. ‘Who had the chance? When was he killed?’

‘Just after the play ended,’ said Gil, ‘there was a great clap of thunder and the rain began.’

‘I heard it,’ she said, nodding.

‘All of the cast and many of the other students scattered to shut windows or put books out of danger. Ninian Boyd found William poking round their chamber, and knocked him down. By the time they had tied him up and carried him downstairs most of the others had gone back to the hall where the feast was, to get at the sweetmeats, so they thought they were unseen, but one of the scholars helping at the feast overheard them and told the kitchen hands. I think this all happened before the Dean rose to retire from the place where we saw the play, so none of the masters knew at this point.’

‘What of the other students?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘Theology, the Laws?’

‘We must ask, or get someone to do it for us.’

‘But suppose someone found out where William was,’ Alys persisted, ‘never mind how for the moment, would it have been possible for him to get to the limehouse, do away with the boy, and move him, unperceived by anyone else? In broad day? Who had the chance to do that?’

‘Conspiracy,’ said her father.

‘You must question all of the kitchen people,’ Alys said. She rose and lifted the tray. ‘Someone may know something, or have told someone else, or been overheard. Nobody pays attention to servants.’

She backed out of the door with her tray, and they heard her feet on the stairs.

‘There is still no reason to throttle the boy,’ said Maistre Pierre, sitting back in his great chair. ‘Or none better than another.’

‘And there is this question of the smell of cumin on the belt he was throttled with.’ Gil poured more ale for them both. ‘None of the people who ate the spiced pork had the opportunity, and none of the others ate the spiced pork. I think,’ he added. ‘Perhaps I should also ask the kitchen if any of them tasted it.’

‘Very likely they did.’ The mason sighed. ‘I had misgivings when I saw the messenger from the college, and I was right. At least there are no Campbells this time, but only that supremely unpleasant Lord Montgomery.’

‘Who is son-in-law to the Great Campbell himself,’ said Gil. Maistre Pierre looked enquiringly. ‘His wife is a daughter of Chancellor Argyll,’ Gil confirmed. ‘He is uncle-by-marriage to John Sempill’s late mistress.’

‘I should have guessed,’ said the mason in disgust.

‘What is more, he seems determined to cleanse Ayrshire of Cunninghams.’

‘I know he has killed more than one — ’

‘With his own blade he has killed my kinsman Alexander Lord Kilmaurs, the head of the house, on Sauchie Muir in ’88,’ said Gil with restraint, ‘and Alexander’s son Robert in ’89, in an armed encounter outside the court at Irvine. He has burned and harried and confiscated Cunningham property the length and breadth of north Ayrshire, the district called Cunningham, and in Lanarkshire as well.’ The baby wailed, elsewhere in the house. ‘And it is this man’s kinsman for whom we are charged to win justice. I would feel better about that if I knew what degree of kinship there was.’

‘A very unpleasant man.’ The baby wailed again, closer, and Maistre Pierre sat up. ‘That infant has still not eaten, I would judge. Why is Alys bringing him upstairs?’

‘Because Nancy wishes to hear Vespers at Grey-friars.’ Alys, returning with the tray, was followed into the little room by the silent girl who was the baby’s nurse. ‘There, Nancy, give him to me now and go with the others.’

‘Poor little one,’ said the mason as the swaddled bundle changed hands. ‘He is still hungry?’

‘Mistress Irvine’s remedy, that we tried this morning, came straight back up.’ Alys bounced the baby hopefully. ‘The cattie rade to Paisley, to Paisley, to Paisley. No, the milk with honey and a little usquebae is still the best, and he won’t grow big and strong like his daddy on that, will he? The cattie rade to Paisley, upon a harrow tine.’

The baby grizzled at her.

‘Which daddy?’ said Gil.

‘Well, the harper calls daily,’ Maistre Pierre pointed out, ‘whereas Maister Sempill has not been here once since we fostered the bairn. Let me hold him, Alys, and you may see to the dog.’

‘The difference lies between knowing it is your bairn, as McIan does,’ suggested Gil, ‘and simply needing it as a legal heir, like Sempill. No,’ he said firmly to the pup, which was goggling at the baby.

‘Let John see the dog,’ said Alys, sitting down. She lifted the rag and the bowl from the tray, and captured the pup between her ankles. ‘See, baby. What’s this?’

Child and dog stared at one another, and the baby stopped wailing. Alys, taking advantage of the pup’s distraction, washed the dried blood out of the rough hair and inspected the injury. Gil watched the deft movements of her slender hands, and suddenly found himself imagining her tending to him like that. Would she wear the same look of intent concern? he wondered, and then thought, This is foolish. But the image lingered.

By the time Alys was finished the baby was reaching out towards the dog.

‘As I thought,’ she said, smearing the wound with something green from a small pot. ‘A clean cut. It should heal well. There, little one,’ she said to the pup, releasing it. ‘Is that a doggie, John?’

John made a remark, waving his arms. The doggie moved closer. The mason took a firmer grasp of the baby, ready to move quickly if necessary, but Gil shook his head.