J. Tomlin - The Intelligencer

When Law told him about Blacader's murder, his face darkened, and he looked indignant. "You think my yard had something to do with that?"

"I thought mayhap he was followed from here. He was kilt almost the moment he was returned to Perth. I think it must have had something to do with his having been in Glasgow."

"Well, it had nothing to do with me. But he owed me money from staying here, and who kens if I will ever see it."

"I suppose his widow and his son will see to his debts," Law said. "They seem honest folk. But I just wondered if you saw anyone around the day he left. Mayhap someone followed him?"

The man frowned and shook his head. "It was an ordinary workday. He left earlier than usual, before prime rang even, but I was already breaking my fast." He thought it over. "I walked to the gate and closed it after them. It was a quiet morn with no one about."

Law strolled, deep in thought, back toward the inn. He might as well stop there for dinner and perhaps take a walk by the piers before he returned to the Spilled Flagon. When a hard grasp jerked him into an alley, Law had his dirk in his hand before the next breath. Shoving the point up under the Rat Catcher's chin, he growled, "You have a death wish?"

Dave Taylor raised both hands, a corner of his mouth curling in that sardonic half-smile. "Wheesht. I just dinnae want us to be seen together." His face was streaked with dirt and his hodden-gray tunic tattered.

It was a narrow passage between two buildings, stinking of piss and what smelled like a rotting carcass somewhere in the shadows. Law lowered his dirk a few inches and snarled, "What do you want?"

Taylor tilted his head toward deeper in the alley. "Back here. Now what are you doing in Glasgow-you and the minstrel?"

"A better question is, what are you doing here? Why grab me?"

The man sidled farther from the opening to where they were safe from being spied. "What do you think I'm doing? I am working for…" His eyes darted all around before he continued. "I'm working for my usual employer. He believes there are intelligencers working for someone and that someone is certainly nae the king. So he wants me to learn who."

Law slowly lowered his dirk and sheathed it. He chewed his lip for a few moments. "There was a secret murder in Perth a few days ago."

"Who?"

"I doubt you would ken who he was. No one special. He had a carter's yard, a man by the name of Neill Blacader."

Taylor's dark eyes glistened, catching the faint light. "And he had been in Glasgow?"

"One of his men saw him receive a message when they stopped at a tavern. Then, a few hours after he was back in Perth, he was dead."

"It could have been a robbery, aye?"

Law considered just telling Taylor to go to Perth to find out if he had so many questions, but it could be that he had answers Law was seeking. He wouldn't mind taking advantage of Taylor instead of the other way around-for a change. So he said, "Nothing was stolen as far as I could tell. And the blow to his neck nearly took his head off."

Taylor whistled softly. "That is unexpected. But the message?"

"Maybe the killer took it, but if so, it is passing strange that someone broke into his home and ransacked it, searching for something just the next day."

"They could have found the message then."

"Mayhap. But the chamber was broken up as though the seeker was in a rage." Law crossed his arms and propped a shoulder against the wall. "So the killer might have it, or it may be still hidden somewhere, though I dinnae have any idea where if it is."

"And you came seeking whoever passed the message."

"It came from someone who looked like a fisherman, one of Blacader's men said, but would a message come by fishing boat? Who would pass a message that way?"

Taylor snorted softly. "Dressing as something does nae mean that is what you are."

Law stared at the man who must have been referring to himself. What was he really? He shook his head and said, "Any road, Widow Gray at the Spilled Flagon said the man comes in there of an eve, so Cormac is keeping watch, and I'll return later." He tilted his head. "I dinnae see that it has anything to do with you."

Taylor hawked and spit at Law's feet. "If it is an intelligencer spying in Scotland, it has to do with the…with my employer. Aye, it is my business."

Law just scowled.

"I'll keep watch after dark near the tavern. Then I'll see which way he comes from and find a good place for an ambush. You follow when he leaves-carefully, mind. And we'll have him trapped between the two of us."

Law grunted a reluctant agreement. He did not trust the rat catcher, whether he still worked for Bishop Cameron or not, and that he still did remained to be seen. Still, the plan was not a bad one. Sext was tolling, so Law straightened and returned to the inn for his noontime dinner.

The tavern was crowded with travelers and well-off merchants. He found a place at the end of one of the long tables at the inn, and a girl set a raised pork pie, some roasted onions, a plate of bannocks, and a jug of ale before him. He took out his knife and spoon from his scrip and ate slowly, trying to piece together the puzzle of Blacader's murder. Whom would such a message as he carried have been for? Murder was hardly unknown in Scotland, but theft or a fight over a woman was what you expected to cause it. The friar who'd done murder not so long ago had been killing, so he thought, for God. What, by Saint Mungo's finger bone, was so important about a piece of parchment? And where was it?

A strong wind was whipping dark clouds across the sky when he left and strolled all the way down High Street to the Glasgow Bridge and past the piers. He took his time, stopping to buy a sticky sweet bun from a baker's window, and then strolling past a dozen fishing boats, their masts bobbing as men shouted and repaired nets or unloaded their catch. A fine rain began, so he raised his hood and pulled his cloak close. The sky turned to slate gray, and behind the heavy clouds, the sun must have been setting, so he headed for the Spilled Flagon, hand on his dirk. He kept darting his gaze into every murky corner, but he saw no sign of Dave Taylor.

When he walked through the archway into the muddy yard, light was shining through the slats of the closed shutters, and the sounds of voices, laughter, and Cormac's lute floated into the evening. Law ducked through the low door. There was torchlight and the light from the brazier warming the air. Every bench was crowded with people sitting elbow to elbow, and the girls dashed about with arms full of beakers and platters of steaming pottage. He pushed through a clump of men near the door. "A mug of that good ale, hen," he told Annie loudly to be heard over the clamor, dropping a coin in her hand.

Half a dozen men surrounded Cormac's corner, bobbing their heads and waving their mugs as Cormac loudly played and sang Liza Baillie . One was dressed in baggy trousers and a ragged blue coat stained with streaks of tar, but his face was weathered to a leathery brown, and dark, lank hair hung in his eyes. Law sauntered in that direction and dropped a groat into the hat on the floor that already had a dozen coins in it.

Cormac gave a little shake of his head, so Law straightened and wandered through the crowd. He found a spot where he could prop himself against the wall not far from Widow Gray where she was filling beaker after beaker and taking the coins from the girls to drop into a slot in a locked coffer at her feet. A spot opened at a table, but Law decided he could see who came and went better where he was.

Under one of the windows, a large group of apprentices in grubby tunics and hose began arguing, shouting insults and curses. Widow Gray glared at them and hammered on the top of the barrel with a mallet that lay conveniently to hand. One of the apprentices jumped to his feet and grabbed another by the neck of his tunic. All the others cheered. The widow shouted, "Stop that!"