Chapter Nine

‘My maister?’ said Hob, standing in the doorway of the house in Vicars’ Alley. ‘Maister Agnew? What’s that to do wi you, might I ask, maister?’

‘He told me himself,’ improvised Gil, ‘but I never made a note of it, and now I’ve forgotten what hour he said he got home. Were you here that evening or had you gone away early?’

‘No to say early,’ retorted Hob, his scrubby beard twitching. ‘No to say early,’ he repeated, ‘but I still canny see what’s it to do wi you.’

‘I’m hunting whoever it was killed Deacon Naismith,’ Gil said soothingly, ‘and Maister Agnew was the last person we ken saw him.’

Hob snorted.

‘That daft pair o women Sissie Mudie’s got in her kitchen,’ he said. ‘They’re saying it’s the Deil cam for the Deacon. No, it wasny my maister. He was elsewhere that night.’

‘Was he, now?’ said Gil. ‘D’you mean he never came home? How d’you know that?’

‘When you’ve been wi the one maister as long’s I have,’ said Hob, ‘you can tell these things.’ He leaned against the doorpost, looking challengingly at Gil. ‘Was there anything else you were wanting, maister?’

‘So where was he?’ Gil began to play in a meaningful way with the strings of his purse. Hob glanced down and curled his lip. ‘Tell me what you know.’

‘No a lot,’ said Hob dismissively

Gil opened the purse and took a coin from it. ‘It would help if I knew where everyone was,’ he suggested, making the coin appear and disappear between his fingers.

‘Aye, I suppose,’ said Hob, and stood upright away from the doorpost. ‘You’d best come in for a bit. It’s cold standing here. But I’ve the supper to see to,’ he warned.

Following the man into the painted hall, Gil paused and added a second coin to the one in his hand.

‘You were away before Maister Agnew came back in the evening,’ he prompted. Hob nodded, his eye on Gil’s fingers. ‘What time would that be?’

‘Soon as I’d syned out the supper-dishes. He gaed out when he’d eaten, took his tablets and a bundle of papers wi him, so I took it he’d some business to attend to. I seen to the crocks and gaed out myself.’ He leered slightly. ‘I’d company to see.’

‘And you’re saying your maister was from home that night. Had he been back and gone out again, do you suppose?’

‘Oh, aye. He’d been at the Malvoisie, sticky glasses all ower the hall. It’ll no last, the way he’s going through it.’

‘Glasses? Brought someone home, had he?’

Hob shrugged, and hitched his jerkin back up one shoulder.

‘Maybe. Maybe no. There was one rolled away in a corner past where he’d spilled the stuff, it’s as like him no to bother lifting it, just fetch himsel a clean one off the cupboard.’

‘If it was dark, he might not see it,’ said Gil thoughtfully. Hob grunted, in a tone which clearly conveyed scepticism. ‘And then he went out again. Where would he be going, would you think?’

‘I’m no paid to watch him like a wet-nurse, ye ken,’ Hob retorted.

‘Just the same, I’ll lay money you’ve a good notion where he slept that night,’ Gil hazarded, making the two coins slide about in his fingers so that one appeared, then the other. ‘I take it he was from home the rest of the night?’

Hob wagged his head from side to side, the motheaten beard twitching as he pursed up his mouth.

‘Likely he’d trysted wi his – er – wi someone for midnight, or some such daft hour.’

‘Why would he do that?’ wondered Gil.

Hob shrugged again, watching the travelling coins. ‘How would I ken? But he came home afore it was light, and he’d no come far, for he wasny wet, and he was –’ The man gave Gil another sideways leer. ‘He’d wrestled a match or two in the night, I’d say. He was about done. No best pleased to see me, either,’ he added. ‘It’s a poor thing, when a man gets cursed for coming out early to his work.’

‘It seems unfair,’ agreed Gil. ‘She lives near here, then?’

‘Aye.’ Gil raised his eyebrows and waited, but Hob gave him a disagreeable look. ‘The maister’ll tell you hissel if he wants you to ken.’

Gil tossed one coin up, then the other, and caught them in his other hand.

‘And his cloak was dry?’

‘He wasny wearing a cloak.’

‘No?’ Gil groped on the rush matting for the coin he had dropped, and straightened up. ‘No cloak? And his hat?’

‘No hat neither.’

The coins made their way into Hob’s palm, and Gil turned to leave.

‘It’s quite a chamber this,’ he commented. ‘What wi the paint and the matting. Is it easy to keep? We’ve a lodging to furnish out the now.’

‘Aye, so I’ve heard.’ Hob leered again. ‘Easy enough, when the maister doesny spill things on it. He’d a full glass of Malvoisie overturned on the strip yonder the other day, so he tellt me. So he turned it, to save getting our feet sticky. So he tellt me,’ he repeated, and opened the door for Gil. ‘But Tammas Hogg two doors up tellt me a good way to sort that, so we’ll try it the morn’s morn. And now I’ll say good day, maister, for I’ve his supper to get started.’

Leaving Vicars’ Alley in the dying light, Gil strode along with his head down, thinking hard. He passed the little chapel of St Andrew, aware of the sounds of the Office from within, and made his way round the western towers of St Mungo’s. Here the most senior of the men of law who inhabited the Consistory tower were already leaving, early lanterns lit, discreet murmurs of conversation dropping as he came past. He slowed his pace and raised his hat to one or two, but went on to the Wyndhead and turned left into the Drygate.

Marion Veitch’s house was lit and busy. His nose told him they were to have mutton stew with broad beans for supper; Eppie’s expression when she opened the door told him the moment was not convenient.

‘I’ll not keep your mistress long,’ he said reassuringly. ‘It’s another thing I want to ask her. Or you might know the answer,’ he added.

‘Well,’ she said with reluctance. ‘Come in out the cold and I’ll ask her. What was it you were wanting to ken?’

‘Something about the Upper Town.’

Her eyebrows went up, but she left him by the light of two candles and went up the narrow stair to report to her mistress. He heard the conversation as a series of hissing whispers, over the little girl’s quiet singing. Then feet moved on the boards, and Marion came down, the fur lining of her dark brown gown sweeping the stairs, the candles glinting on the gold chain on her bosom. She seemed more alive than she had yesterday, her movements brisker, but her face was not encouraging.

‘It’s ower late for calling, Gil,’ she said. ‘Unless you were able to stay for your supper? It’s mutton.’

‘And beans,’ he agreed. ‘No, Marion, I thank you, I’m bidden to the Masons’ the night with my sister. How are you the day?’

Over their heads the child laughed, and began her song again. It seemed to be nonsense: ‘Vendy may vendy may, esty sack o kay-o.’ Or was it French?

‘I’m managing,’ said Marion, a trifle impatiently. ‘What was it you wanted to ask?’

‘Do you know if Thomas Agnew,’ he began, saw how maladroit the question was, and carried on perforce, ‘has a mistress?’

‘Do I ken?’ she repeated. ‘No.’ She began to turn away.

‘Do you know of a woman by the name of Chisholm, or something like that,’ he hazarded, ‘somewhere in the Upper Town? No far from Vicars’ Alley. Or would any of the household know?’

‘No,’ she said again. ‘Gil, I canny stand here and talk, I’ve as much to see to. Come back a time when I’m less taigled and we’ll talk all you please.’

He got himself out of the house with civility, and paused out in the wynd. Above him, the child was still singing.

‘Kate and for ailos, kate and for ailos,’ went the little voice. A man laughed, and answered her. Gil stared up at the window, but someone slammed the shutters shut, without looking out. Along the house-wall the kitchen door opened. As he looked round a head popped out, and was followed by the rest of the maidservant Bel. She beckoned sharply, and he moved towards her.

‘It’s no Chisholm, maister, it’s Dodd,’ she said rapidly. ‘Ellen Dodd, and she dwells in the next wynd but two down the Drygate on the other side. I’ve a cousin in the same wynd.’

‘And Agnew calls there?’ The girl nodded, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Bel, many thanks. Is all well in the house here?’

‘Oh, aye,’ she said, and broke into a huge smile. ‘Better than well. I’ll need to go, maister.’

She slipped back in out of the rain, and he was left looking at the shining silvery planks of the oak door.

‘Well, well,’ he said aloud, and turned to make his way back to the street.

The next wynd but two on the other side of the Drygate was another pocket of small houses, all lit and bustling as the supper was prepared. Gil stopped at the first house, asked for Mistress Dodd, and was directed further along.

‘Another man calling on her, is it?’ said the maidservant who had answered the door, peering at Gil in the light from behind her. ‘Well, that’s no surprise.’

She withdrew and shut the door before Gil could defend himself, and he heard the bar thudding into place.

Mistress Dodd’s house proved to be a modest structure with sagging thatch and crooked shutters. When Gil rattled the latch one of these was flung back and a head popped out, white kerchief-ends swinging.

‘Who’s that at this hour?’

‘Does Mistress Ellen Dodd dwell here?’ he asked.

‘What if she does?’

‘I’d like a word with her, if I may.’

‘And who’s asking? What’s it about?’

‘I’m a man of law,’ he said reassuringly. ‘My name’s Gil Cunningham. I’ve a couple questions for the mistress. It won’t take long.’

The woman snorted, and withdrew. He heard female voices within, and after a moment the door was unbarred.

‘You’d better no be long,’ said the maidservant sourly. ‘Her supper’s about ready.’

She lit him across the outer room and into a small chamber, clearly painted by the same hand as Agnew’s hall in lozenges of red and green, with pots of blue flowers in them. At its centre, standing to greet him, was a lady who somehow matched the chamber well.

‘I’m Ellen Dodd,’ she said, assessing his sober dress with one swift look. ‘Are you from the Consistory Court? There’s no harm come to – to my friend, is there?’

‘No, no,’ he said, and introduced himself and his position. ‘I’m looking into this matter of Deacon Naismith’s death.’

She crossed herself at the mention, and waved him to a stool, sitting down opposite. She was a well-rounded woman, dressed in a kirtle of blue wool with a loose gown of black velvet over it, and gave the impression that either garment, firmly fastened though they were, could slide off at any moment. Curls of tawny-coloured hair escaped from her French hood.

‘I’m no particular friend of Deacon Naismith,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard o the man, for certain, but I’ve never met him that I ken, I’ve no information for you there.’

I never thought it,’ said Gil. ‘What I have heard . . .’ He paused, looking for the words, and she leaned forward as if eager to hear them. ‘. . . is that you may be able to confirm what another person told me.’

‘Me?’ She sat upright, spreading one small plump hand on her black velvet bosom and displaying two valuable rings. ‘Oh, if I can help you, maister, I surely will. Who was it? What did he tell you?’

He, thought Gil.

‘The last I know of Naismith’s movements,’ he said cautiously, ‘he was with Maister Thomas Agnew in the Consistory tower, for maybe an hour, after supper that evening.’

‘Oh,’ she said faintly, making big round eyes.

‘Maister Agnew,’ he pursued, ‘tells me he left him, and a little later he went out himself to call on someone, and spent the rest of the night there. I believe you might know something of that?’

She looked down modestly at the rush matting under their feet.

‘I –’ she began. Was she blushing? Gil thought not, though the candlelight made it hard to tell. ‘Well, indeed, maister. I confess that’s the case indeed. Maister Agnew spent that night wi me in this house.’

The face remained downturned, the hand spread on her bosom, but she was looking sideways at Gil under her lashes, and the corner of her mouth quirked, inviting Gil to consider how Agnew had spent the night. Som can flater and some can lie, he thought, and some can sett the mouth awrie. No accounting for tastes.

‘Thank you indeed, mistress,’ he said obtusely. ‘When did he arrive? Can you recall?’

‘Perhaps the middle of the evening?’ she suggested. ‘More than an hour after I’d eaten my supper, if I mind right.’

That fits, he thought. ‘And when did he leave? Late, I imagine,’ he said, giving her the oblique compliment she seemed to expect. She looked gratified, but shook her head.

‘No, no, it was early. Before it was light,’ she assured him.

‘You mean he was here the whole night? Most of the hours of darkness?’

‘Aye, that would be it,’ she said complacently. Al nicht by the rose ich lay. But this one’s flower was long since borne away, he guessed.

‘And had he a cloak with him? Do you recall which one it was?’

‘A cloak?’ she repeated. ‘Er – I think he did.’ Again the inviting glance, the quirk at the corner of the mouth. ‘I never saw him to the door,’ she admitted. ‘I wasny dressed for it.’

Gil made his way back up to the Wyndhead in the rain, deep in thought. It was full dark now. The more public-spirited burgesses had already lit the lanterns or torches which they were required to hang out at their house corners, and the deep shadows between these were broken by more lanterns, borne by people hurrying homewards as their working day ended. As he passed the end of Marion Veitch’s wynd, he nearly collided with her brother, cloak pulled up about his nose and head down against the rain.

‘You again,’ said Veitch, recoiling. ‘Seems to me I keep meeting you round here. Here or the bedehouse – Frankie was just saying you’re never away from the place.’

‘I’m still trying to find who killed the Deacon,’ said Gil mildly. ‘Your sister will be the better for knowing the answer.’

‘I doubt that,’ Veitch flung at him, tramping past towards the house. Gil watched him to the door, then plodded on up the busy street.

Reaching the crossing, he was unsurprised to see Maistre Pierre’s bulky form appear out of the darkness, illuminated by his own lantern.

‘Not a productive day,’ said his friend. ‘What have you discovered?’

‘One or two things,’ said Gil. ‘I’ve spoken to the Widow Napier, and I’ve just had a word with Agnew’s mistress. I was going round to the bedehouse to see how Humphrey is.’

‘I join you.’ Maistre Pierre turned to stroll with Gil, lantern held low to light their steps. ‘The men have found a many ladders,’ he reported, ‘but none of them the right size. If the uprights were the right distance apart, the feet were too big to have made those prints. I have a list of those places they were found, so we do not repeat the work tomorrow.’

‘Good work, just the same.’

‘They did not think so. I had a full account of which households were friendly and which took exception to being asked such a thing. Luke seems to have met with most success.’

‘Luke’s a good laddie.’ Gil checked as he recognized an approaching figure. ‘Good e’en to ye, Maister Agnew.’

‘E’en,’ said the other man of law hoarsely, and paused. His face appeared drawn and strained in the pool of light from their combined lanterns, and he had a soft cloth wrapped about his throat.

‘Have you been calling at the bedehouse again? How is your brother, poor fellow?’

‘Aye,’ agreed Agnew, speaking with difficulty. ‘Better. At’s prayers.’ He bent his head and crossed himself to indicate his meaning.

‘That must be some relief to you,’ said Gil. Agnew nodded, smiling, and put his free hand to his wellwrapped throat.

‘Forgive,’ he said. ‘Home.’

‘I hope your man can give you something to soothe that,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Red wine with syrup of cherries in it would be good, or a little poppy syrup perhaps.’

Agnew nodded and smiled again, raised his round felt hat and walked on. Gil looked after him, frowning.

‘I’m surprised he got access to his brother,’ he said quietly as they continued up the street. ‘Sissie would be watching him like a hen with one duckling after this morning’s scene.’

‘Perhaps she was busy with the supper,’ suggested Maistre Pierre.

It was a bad moment to call at the bedehouse too. The old men were gathered round the fire in the hall, discussing the morning’s events, while the kitchen-boy and one of the women set up their table and spread a mended linen cloth. The brethren greeted them as familiars, but Cubby said straightly ‘The half of Glasgow’s been here the day. Frankie’s nephew’s just left us. You’ll no be wanting to stay while we get our supper, will you?’

‘No, no,’ Gil assured him. ‘We’re expected at home soon.’

‘The meals are the highlights of our day,’ Maister Veitch said. ‘When Humphrey doesny outshine them.’

‘Where is that poor man?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘We met his brother on the way.’

‘His brother?’ Maister Veitch looked from him to his neighbours in some concern, and craned to see out of the window. ‘There’s been no shouting,’ he said, ‘and there’s no light at his window. I hope he’s no ill.’

‘Shall I go and see?’ Gil suggested.

‘Better to let Sissie ken, and she’ll see to him. He’s been as jumpy as a squirrel all day, and no wonder.’

Gil went out obediently and found Mistress Mudie just overseeing the dishing up of the supper. She greeted him with disfavour, but when he explained his presence she snatched up a lantern, lit it and set off indignantly into the garden.

‘– never kent that man was here again, if he’s done my poppet any harm I’ll see him in the Bad Place for it, what a way for anyone to treat his brother –’

Gil, standing in the doorway of the main range, watched her trotting down the path to the door of Humphrey’s darkened lodging. She rattled at the latch, and opened it, her loving words floating through the rain, and stepped in.

She cried out, and dropped the lantern. It fell with a crash, and went out, and in the sudden dark she screamed and screamed.

‘Pierre, bring lights!’ Gil shouted, hurrying down the garden. ‘Bring lanterns!’

Inside the little house he bumped first into Mistress Mudie, her familiar herbal smell overlaid with sharp terror, and then into Humphrey. It had to be Humphrey, he smelled of damp wool and almond milk like Humphrey, but he was taller than Gil, and moved oddly as he recoiled from the encounter. Mistress Mudie was still screaming, huge ragged sounds that tore at the ears. Humphrey bumped into him again, and Gil realized what was wrong just before Maistre Pierre appeared at the doorway with a lantern.

‘Mon Dieu!’ he said. ‘He has hanged himself!’

‘We must cut him down!’ said Gil. ‘Set the light there and hold him for me!’

He dragged a stool from the hearth and stood on it, drawing his dagger to saw at the rope as the mason raised the black-faced body on his shoulder. Several of the bedesmen arrived at the door, exclaiming and asking questions to which there was no answer. Maister Veitch and the deaf Barty failed to make Mistress Mudie sit down, but did succeed in halting her dreadful screams, and Millar pushed his way into the house as Maistre Pierre set Humphrey’s body carefully on the ground. Mistress Mudie flung off Barty’s restraining grip and threw herself to her knees beside her darling, fumbling with the rope at his throat. She got it free and flung it aside, then fell to patting and rubbing at the limp and bloody hands, all the while making a thin wailing sound which made Gil’s hair stand up.

‘What’s happened?’ Millar demanded unnecessarily. ‘Humphrey! What’s he done? Christ and His saints, is he dead?’

‘I would say so,’ pronounced Maistre Pierre, who had been feeling for a heartbeat. ‘He must have been hanging for a quarter-hour at least, maybe longer.’

‘The candle is cold,’ said Gil, feeling it and setting it back on the mantel-shelf. Millar looked at him blankly, and back at Mistress Mudie sobbing over Humphrey’s body.

‘But why?’

‘His brother was here again,’ said Maister Veitch. ‘So Gibbie says.’

‘Aye, he was, but –’

‘We met him on the road,’ Gil expanded. ‘He said he’d left Humphrey at his prayers.’

‘I doubt he’s persuaded the poor soul it was him killed the Deacon,’ speculated Cubby from the doorway. ‘And he’s hanged himsel for remorse.’

‘We canny tell it was remorse,’ said Maister Veitch argumentatively ‘He’s no left a note or anything, has he?’

‘Why other would he do sic a thing?’

‘Maybe he realized he was mad.’

‘He knew he was mad,’ Gil said. ‘Just today he asked Mistress Mason to pray for him because he needed it, he said.’ And her prayers would be doubly important now, he reflected.

‘What a thi – what a thing to happen!’ exclaimed Millar. ‘St Serf protect us! Oh, this is a dreadful time! And I’ll ha to send to le – to let Agnew ken. He was here just the now, asking me about the Deacon’s papers. And the Deacon laid out in the washhouse already, and now another grave to be ordered –’

‘We cannot leave him here on the floor,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Where can we lay him?’

‘On his bed,’ suggested Gil.

Mistress Mudie was prised away from the body with difficulty, and it was borne through and laid on the narrow bed in the inner chamber. Gil drew the checked blankets back to the foot of the bed, and laid the sheet over the engorged face, but Mistress Mudie snatched the linen away and tucked the blankets round Humphrey as if he was asleep, then dropped to her knees beside the bed, hands over her face, and rocked helplessly back and forward, sobbing thinly.

‘Who can not wepe com lerne of me,’ said Gil quietly. Maister Veitch glanced at him and nodded.

‘Far’s wir supper?’ demanded Duncan from the garden. ‘It mun be spiled by noo.’

‘Sissie,’ said Millar, bending over her. ‘Sissie, will you see to the supper?’

She shook her head, still rocking over the body.

‘Leave her,’ recommended Maistre Pierre. ‘Surely the kitchen can serve it out by themselves? The old men must eat.’

‘Eat? Surely not! I don’t think I could,’ said Millar.

‘When you get to be our age, Andro,’ said Maister Veitch in the house doorway, ‘you see these things different. We’ll hae our supper, and I’ll say Grace if you’ve no mind to.’

‘Aye, do that, Frankie,’ said Millar gratefully, and turned to speak to Gil just as heavy footsteps sounded in the passageway in the main building. Millar swung back, wearing the expression of a man who has reached the end of his endurance, and two muddy men in jacks and steel helmets tramped across the garden carrying lanterns. The badge painted on their worn leathers was clearly visible, the Douglas heart on a white ground.

‘Christ and his saints preserve us, I thought Sir James was to be here the morn’s morn,’ said Millar faintly.

‘He set out early, a cause of the weather,’ said the first man-at-arms. ‘He’ll be at the door in a quarter hour or so. Is the lodging open, maister? We’ve a couple pack-loads of hangings and such out in the street.’

‘I feel guilty,’ said Gil with some compunction, ‘leaving Millar in such a hideous case, but I do not feel I can face my godfather just now.’

‘Difficult, is he?’ said Maistre Pierre.

They were in a tavern at the top of the Drygate, where they had taken brief refuge from the cold wind after stopping at the chapel of St Nicholas’ bedehouse. The house was packed with other people who had the same idea, but they had managed to get two seats, and a harassed girl had brought them a jug of ale and two beakers. Gil poured for both of them, and said in French, above the noise of the place,

‘Quite apart from what’s just happened at St Serf’s, he’ll be full of questions about the marriage and doubtful jokes. Did you hear the one about the bridegroom and the turnip, that kind of thing. I was at his daughter Janet’s wedding. Neither bride nor groom knew where to look at one point.’

‘We all have kin like that. Mine are in France, I thank God. What do you make of what has just happened at St Serf’s?’

‘A sorry thing. What do you?’

Maistre Pierre shook his head. ‘It might have been suicide.’

‘No note, as old Veitch said.’

‘The man was deranged. He might not have seen the need for a note.’

‘He was priested, and what’s more, he recalled it this morning.’

‘I have known priests take their own life before now. Lives,’ the mason corrected carefully.

‘There was no stool near where he was hanging, that he might have stepped off.’

‘That is a stronger argument. And his fingers had bled.’

‘He bit his nails badly,’ Gil observed. ‘They had bled before.’

Maistre Pierre finished his ale, and reached for the jug. ‘So the only sign is the absence of a stool.’

‘Perhaps Sissie kicked it out of the way when she went into the house.’

‘I saw none closer than the hearth.’

‘We can hardly expect to get sense out of Sissie tonight.’

‘True. Let us leave the question for now. What else have you found today?’

Gil leaned forward, to avoid having to shout, and described his afternoon: Marion Veitch’s demeanour, his encounter with Hob, and what he had learned from Mistress Dodd and the Widow Napier. Maistre Pierre listened, frowning, and tapping his beaker on his knee.

‘So Veitch lied,’ he said. ‘I wonder what he was doing. Do you think he was hiding from the Watch, or was he here in the Chanonry stabbing the man Naismith?’

‘One or the other,’ said Gil, ‘though if he was truly hiding from the Watch I do not know why he lied to me. When I saw him, he had not the look of a man who had spent the evening drinking.’

‘Sailors are hard-headed.’

‘True.’

‘Could he have done it?’

‘I would have said so. Moreover, there is a path along the riverbank which would bring him home without going through the burgh. Provided he knew the ground,’ Gil qualified.

‘Leaving his sister to be the extra worshipper at Mass in the morning.’

‘Aye.’ Gil pulled a face, peered into the jug, found it empty, and put his beaker down beside it. ‘We had best go home. I need to wash before I bring Dorothea down to supper.’

‘Before we go,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘what is the one about the bridegroom and the turnip?’

‘And he gave us his blessing, only this morning,’ said Alys. ‘That was a grace, that he remembered his calling before he died.’

Dorothea nodded and crossed herself, murmuring Amen, and Maistre Pierre did likewise.

The supper was long since cleared away; the household had retired to the kitchen to exchange new tales with Agnes the lay sister, and family and guests were seated round the brazier in the hall of the mason’s big stone house. The three women were together on the high-backed settle, Alys’s honey-coloured locks gleaming in the candlelight between Dorothea’s black veil and Catherine’s black flowerpot cap and embroidered gauze. In the shadows at the edge of the group, Herbert the secretary murmured softly over his beads.

Gil moved his feet from under Socrates, and said, ‘I wish I was certain of what had happened.’

‘You think,’ said his sister, ‘that it might not have been his own action?’

‘It was one or the other,’ said Gil. ‘Either he hanged himself, from grief or remorse or the realization that he was mad, or someone did it for him.’

‘How easy would that be?’ speculated Alys. ‘I thought you said Humphrey nearly had the better of it this morning. Could one of the old men have the strength? If it was his brother –’

‘Has anyone else a reason to kill him?’ asked Dorothea.

‘Not that I can see, and I can’t see why his brother would kill him either,’ admitted Gil. ‘He’s been – he was well supported and well cared for there in the bedehouse, no need to worry about him.’

‘– then surely,’ Alys persisted, ‘after this morning’s fight, his brother would find it the more difficult to get the better of him and hang him. His hands were not bound, were they?’

‘What, like an execution? No, and his fingers had bled recently, though that’s no proof.’

‘Was the rope marked with his blood?’

‘What rope was it?’ asked Dorothea. ‘Where did it come from?’

‘I asked,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘It was the length they use to keep the yett open when needful. It hangs on the back of the yett mostly. It was wet with the rain,’ he added, ‘there were no marks to see on it.’

‘On the back of the yett,’ repeated Alys. ‘Out at the street? How did Humphrey come by that? Mistress Mudie would never have let him go out across the yard.’

‘He might have slipped out without her seeing,’ said Gil. ‘After all, Agnew got in without her seeing him twice today.’

‘So either,’ said Alys, ‘Maister Agnew went in, with the rope, and got the better of a man who nearly killed him this morning –’

‘– who left him still badly shaken when Pierre and I met him this evening,’ Gil added. She nodded acknowledgement.

‘– or some mysterious other got in very quickly and did the same between Agnew leaving the bedehouse and Mistress Mudie finding him and then left unseen, or else Humphrey went out to the gate after his brother left and got the rope, and – and –’ She covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh, the poor man. And poor Mistress Mudie.’

Catherine nodded and reached for her beads. Dorothea put her hand over Alys’s other one and said, ‘None of these seems very likely, and none of them has a reason. Do you suppose it’s connected to the death of the Deacon, Gil?’

‘More logical to assume it is,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘And how far have you got with that?’

‘Not very. Oh, Maggie handed me back this.’ He dug in his purse and drew out the length of linen they had found in the trees. Was it really only the previous day? ‘Cluttering up her kitchen long enough, she said.’ He spread it out across his knee. Maistre Pierre reached out and drew the stand of candles closer, and they all peered at the strip of cloth. Stiff from drying above the kitchen fire, it was creased and marked, but the quality of the cloth was obvious.

‘And the stitching,’ said Alys, leaning forward to touch the hemming. ‘This is fine work. And see, a little ornament at either end, done in the same thread.’

‘Are you sure it’s a neck-kerchief and not a household towel or such?’ said Dorothea.

‘No,’ said Gil. ‘All I know is where we found it and what the dog thought of these.’ He traced the dark stains on the cloth. ‘Hard to be sure in this light, but by daylight it certainly looked like blood.’ Catherine crossed herself again and renewed her efforts with her beads. ‘I’d say someone had wiped his blade here, but this bigger stain is more as if he had staunched a wound.’

‘Or wiped up a splash of – of whatever it was,’ said Alys. ‘May I see?’

Gil handed it over. Their eyes met, but she took the piece without any attempt to touch his fingers. She and Dorothea scrutinized it carefully, paying close attention to the embroidered ends. After a moment Dorothea said, ‘Look here, Alys. Is it an initial? A mark of some sort?’

‘You are right,’ said Alys, tilting her head. ‘What is it? Could it be N?’

‘It could,’ said Dorothea doubtfully, ‘or it could be two letters. What about I V?’

‘For John Veitch?’ said Gil with reluctance.

‘Marion does fine sewing,’ said Dorothea. Brother and sister looked at one another.

‘John had cause to kill the man, for certain, though I don’t know yet what Marion inherits under Naismith’s original will, and he lied to me about where he was that night.’

‘Could he have done it?’ asked Alys.

Gil nodded, sighing. ‘Not only could he have done it, I don’t know who else might, since the last person to see Naismith has someone to swear to his whereabouts later.’

‘We have two deaths to consider now,’ said Alys. Gil looked up at the We and she smiled faintly at him. ‘If the Deacon was killed outside the bedehouse it could have been almost anyone, I suppose –’

‘Except that whoever it was, he knew a lot about the customs of the house,’ said Dorothea.

Alys nodded. ‘John Veitch had good reason to kill him, as you say, Gil, and he has lied about where he was that night, and here is this scarf which may be his, found in the Stablegreen, but would he have known all the things the killer evidently knew?’

‘His uncle could tell him those,’ said Gil.

‘Or the woman helped him,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘Surely if it was his uncle who helped, John had no need to carry the body round to the Stablegreen,’ objected Dorothea. ‘The old man could have told him enough to put it in the Deacon’s lodging, where it would never have been found till the morning.’

‘Maister Veitch would have known Sissie was listening,’ said Gil. ‘All would have to sound as usual.’

‘And why would John find it needful to kill Humphrey?’ said Alys.

‘We know he was at the bedehouse this evening,’ said Gil. ‘I met him on the Drygate, Pierre, just before I met you. Oh, and there was a man above in Marion’s house when I called, teaching the child another song. I wonder if it was this fellow Elder.’

‘Why might John Veitch kill Humphrey?’ asked Maistre Pierre rhetorically. ‘Had Humphrey perhaps seen or heard something to his disadvantage?’

‘Humphrey said nothing that made any sense about the night the Deacon died,’ said Gil, ‘except something about seeing a light in the Deacon’s lodging, but that only confirmed Sissie’s account.’

‘Perhaps he had said something to the other bedesmen,’ offered Dorothea.

‘I need to ask,’ agreed Gil. ‘I must question them about this afternoon, but it was hardly the moment when we were there, what with Duncan demanding his supper and my godfather arriving at the door.’

‘It doesn’t work, does it?’ said Alys. ‘What about Humphrey’s brother? He was the last man to see the Deacon, so far as we know. Could it have been him?’

‘I haven’t yet found a reason, and I doubt now if he had time,’ said Gil. ‘His mistress says he was with her that night, from an hour after supper – he must have gone straight there after Naismith left him.’

‘But he could have killed his brother,’ said Alys thoughtfully.

‘Why?’

‘You don’t need a sensible reason to want to kill a brother,’ said Dorothea. Gil looked at her in astonishment. ‘Or a sister,’ she qualified the statement, and smiled at him. ‘Not a sensible reason, just a strong one.’

‘He had the opportunity,’ persisted Alys, ‘if he was in the bedehouse just before Humphrey was found, and he might have managed to get the better of him and –’ She pulled a face, and Dorothea nodded.

‘Or what of the bedesmen?’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘I should say the only one with the strength is your teacher, Gil.’

‘He had a strong arm when I was a boy,’ agreed Gil, ‘but he’s past sixty now, could he have carried Naismith any distance, or lifted Humphrey to get him suspended the way we found him? I admit he’d enough reason to kill Naismith, and living with Humphrey would drive anyone to murder I would think, poor soul.’

‘Still questions to ask,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘Many questions,’ said Gil. Tomorrow I’d like to find this mysterious friend of John’s, who might tell us something to the purpose, and locating the weapon and the place Naismith was killed would be good.’

‘And the ladder,’ supplied Maistre Pierre.

‘Look for an unclaimed lantern and a patch of blood somewhere about the old men’s houses. Question the old men themselves about Humphrey. And there is probably more. But chiefly, what I would like to find would be a clear reason for someone to kill either man. I still think Naismith’s death may lie in the accounts.’

‘Yes,’ said Alys. ‘It hangs on that. Too many had the opportunity.’

Dorothea nodded agreement.

‘I wish you were free to help me,’ Gil said, looking at Alys. She met his eye and nodded seriously.

‘There is all to supervise here,’ said Catherine in French, breaking off her prayers.

Gil studied the row of faces opposite him. He was certain that Catherine approved of Dorothea, and that Dorothea liked Alys; he no longer trusted his ability to read Alys’s response to his sister. He tried to tell himself it hardly mattered, that Dorothea would return to Haddington and he might not see her face to face again in this life, but it was still important.

‘I have been thinking,’ announced Maistre Pierre, ‘that a likely place to find two sailors is in a tavern, no? Suppose after we escort Sister Dorothea back to the castle, you and I were to go drinking?’