The Counterfeit Madam

Chapter Three

‘We were wedded just before Martinmas,’ said Magdalen Boyd. Gil eyed her, wondering how to put his next question. She saw his expression and smiled faintly. ‘John and I deal excellently well,’ she said. ‘I’ll not deny it was a matter of convenience for both of us, but I’ve found great good in him.’

‘You have?’ said Gil before he could help it. ‘I mean — I’m glad to hear that.’

It was probably not yet Terce, but he had begun the day before Prime recording an exchange of sasines on a muddy toft away along Rottenrow. After a short but frustrating interview with Canon Cunningham, which the older man had ended by claiming an early appointment at his chamber in the Consistory Tower, he had crossed the street to the gates of the town house which had once belonged to John Sempill and was now the property of his cousin Philip. Lady Magdalen had greeted him pleasantly, sent out to find her husband, and sat down to talk to her guest; a tray with small ale and little cakes had appeared immediately.

‘He’s that attentive,’ she went on, ‘far more than my first man, and he manages my estates for me, which is something I found a great burden, for I’ve no understanding o these things.’

Gil stared at her in fascination, trying to reconcile this image of John Sempill with the man he knew. After a moment he abandoned the attempt and said,

‘Tell me more about these two tofts on the Drygate. How did you come by them?’

‘They were a part of my tocher when I was first wedded,’ she said. ‘My brother purchased them in ’89. There’s no need for you to worry about them, they’re mine to dispose of as I please, wi John’s consent, and you can see I have that.’

So the feu superior was either the Archbishop or the burgh, he thought, and the records should be in Glasgow. That simplified that.

‘Did you ken who were the tenants?’

She nodded, going faintly pink across the cheekbones.

‘The wester toft, the one where there’s all the workshops, we took on wi the most of those tenants in place. The other one, the house-’ She bit her lip. ‘My brother purchased that from one of the Walkinshaws. I think it was where their mother dwelt afore she founded the almshouse. We had one tenant or another in it for a year or two, and then this — woman and her business offered me a good rent, and my brother thought I should accept.’

‘You’ve had no dealings direct with her?’

She shook her head.

‘My brother dealt wi’t first, and then John since we were wedded, and I think he’s had no need o speaking wi the woman, she’s sent the rent in good time each quarter-day. To tell truth, maister, I’ve never been in the house. I was right concerned, what Maister Livingstone said about the paintings. Are they — are they-?’

‘The ones I saw were seemly enough,’ he assured her, ‘though the subjects themselves were a touch wanton. A few painted drapes and they’d be fit for anyone’s een.’

‘Hmm.’ She did not sound convinced. ‘Or maybe a good coat o limewash. So have you come to a decision, maister?’

‘Not yet,’ said Gil. ‘I’d like a closer look at all the workshops, and a wee while wi the accounts. But it’s beginning to look like a right generous offer.’

She gave him another gentle smile.

‘It’s only right that John’s heir should be his own get,’ she said, ‘but I’d not want to see the other bairn lose by it. His mother was gently bred, after all.’

So is his father, in his own country, thought Gil, but said nothing. She nudged the plate of little cakes towards him, but anything she might have said was drowned out by the arrival of John Sempill, flinging wide the house door and exclaiming,

‘There you are, Gil Cunningham! I was out in the town looking for you.’

‘I sent word I’d meet you here,’ Gil said mildly, rising. Sempill snorted angrily, but slammed the door behind him and came forward to salute his wife, his belligerent expression softening as he looked at her.

‘Did you get a word wi Dame Isabella, John?’ she asked. ‘Is all clear now?’

‘Aye,’ he said airily. ‘She’s — showed me how it happened. Likely there’s more to discuss,’ he added, ‘I’ll need another word wi her. What’s ado here?’

‘We’ve been talking o the two tofts on the Drygate,’ said his wife. ‘Maister Gil would like to see the rent-rolls.’

He dragged another backstool beside hers and sat down.

‘Aye, I suppose,’ he said ungraciously. ‘I’ve got them in the kist in our chamber. Is that what you’re here for?’

‘Part of it,’ Gil said. ‘I’ve to find out the history of these lands out in Strathblane and all, and I hoped you might help me there. Did I hear you say you’d taken the one Dame Isabella named to be Lady Magdalen’s property already?’

Sempill scowled at that.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘But I’ve just said, I was mistaken. It’s never been Maidie’s. I’d mixed up the two names. See, they’re too much alike,’ he went on more fluently, ‘Balgrochan and Ballencleroch, and it’s Balgrochan that’s been Maidie’s all along. She showed me that last night, and the old — woman’s confirmed it now, may she-’

‘John.’

‘I think you had that from Dame Isabella too,’ Gil said, looking at Lady Magdalen. She nodded. ‘Was there ever any thought that it might no ha been hers to dispone?’

‘We’ve got the dispositions,’ said Sempill before his wife could speak, ‘all sealed and witnessed. The lands o Balgrochan are Maidie’s own, I tell you.’

‘John.’ She put a calming hand on his wrist. He subsided, and she said direct to Gil,‘To tell truth, my god-mother’s Livingstone kin by marriage put up some tale o it being part of the heriot land at the time, but I took it she would ken what she’d a right to. I set it down to them no wishing to see the land go out o the family. I’m beginning to wonder, now, if she’s maybe been mistaken. She’s well up in her age, after all, she might be getting — for all she’s so vigorous, you ken-’

‘Childish? A course she is!’ said Sempill. ‘And has been for years, at that.’

Lady Magdalen bit her lip, and Gil nodded understandingly.

‘Might I see the documents?’ he prompted. Husband and wife exchanged another look.

‘If you would, John,’ she said. He rose obediently. ‘Best to fetch them down here, I think, the light’s better here.’

Does she put something in his meat? Gil wondered as Sempill left the hall. Lady Magdalen watched him go, with what seemed like genuine fondness, then turned to Gil again.

‘I think you’re no long wedded yoursel, maister?’ she said. ‘And to a French lady, am I right? You speak French, then?’

‘I was four years at Paris,’ he replied.

‘Paris! My brother studied there and all. Did you like it?’

‘I did,’ he said briefly, images of the city and the university drifting in his head. The raucous narrow streets of the Latin quarter, the stationers, the book dealers, and the great church of Our Lady on its island in the river, looming over all. He blinked, and found Lady Magdalen offering him another of the small cakes.

‘So did my brother,’ she said, nodding. ‘Travel is a wonderful thing, though the food can be strange, so I’ve heard.’

‘They eat bread and meat, just as we do.’

‘But snails as well, so they say, and garlic in everything. Oh, John, you were quick, that was clever.’

‘Aye, well, they were to hand.’ Sempill thrust the bundle of documents at Gil and went to sit down beside his wife, who gave him another of those encouraging smiles. Gil set the rent-rolls to one side and lifted the third item, the title-deed, to inspect it before Sempill changed his mind.

‘This is the wrong docket,’ he said after a moment.

‘It’s the one I put back in the kist last night,’ said Sempill aggressively. ‘It canny be the wrong one.’

‘None the less,’ Gil said, ‘it’s the title to Ballencleroch, no Balgrochan. The one the Livingstones dispute.’

‘What? Let me see!’

‘John.’ Lady Magdalen put one hand on his wrist, and stretched out the other to Gil. ‘May I see, sir?’ She took the crimped and pleated parchment and looked briefly at the heading, then at the seals at its foot, and nodded. ‘Aye, I’m agreed. My godmother must have given us back the wrong document yestreen. She must have the other still in Attie’s bag.’

‘Aye, you’re right,’ said Sempill in faint surprise, peering over her shoulder. ‘The auld — woman must have been mistook in that and all. We’ll ha to get the right one off her.’

‘Might I see that one?’ Gil accepted it back and spread it flat, studying the peripheral wording. It seemed clear enough and perfectly in order; Thomas Livingstone and Isabella Torrance his wife had taken sasine of the lands detailed, in joint possession, on a date in 1490. He drew out his tablets and found a clean leaf.

‘What are you writing?’ demanded Sempill suspiciously.

‘The names of the witnesses,’ Gil replied. ‘And the factor who acted for the Earl of Lennox. One of them might recall the name of the man of law, if Dame Isabella won’t tell me. I need to establish who has the right to this land before my sister’s marriage.’

‘I’d as soon it was put straight too,’ agreed Magdalen Boyd. ‘She’d not hear my questions yestreen, grew angry when I tried to persist, so I left the matter, but-’

‘Here’s her man Attie now,’ said Sempill, straightening up to stare at the window. ‘Just crossing the yard.’

‘Maybe she’s sent the other deed,’ said his wife. Sempill snorted, and turned to watch one of his cousin’s servants make her way across the hall in response to the knocking at the door. Gil finished making notes and checked carefully again that the name of the man who had drawn up the document was not recorded, and suddenly realized that both Sempill and his wife were exclaiming in surprise and shock.

‘But what can have happened?’ Lady Magdalen said. ‘She was in good health yesterday. John, did you see her just now? Was she well?’

‘Just — oh, just the now? Same as she was yesterday — in full voice,’ said Sempill, ‘calling me for all sorts over nothing. I’d no ha looked for her to drop down dead either. What happened, man?’

‘We’re no certain,’ said the man Attie, his livery bonnet held against his chest. ‘She was well enow when Annot left her to — to her prayers, but when she returned there she was-’ He crossed himself, and Sempill did likewise, pale blue eyes round with astonishment. Lady Magdalen bent her head and murmured something. ‘We’re thinking maybe she took an apoplexy, or her heart failed her, or the like. Maister Livingstone’s sent for a priest, but-’

Gil looked round the dismayed faces and pulled off his own hat.

‘Are you saying Dame Isabella’s dead? This morning?’

‘Aye,’ said Sempill sourly. ‘So the man says. Trust the auld woman to thwart me in her last deed. So you can just fold that up and let me have it back,’ he added, pointing at the document Gil still held.

‘John,’ said his wife reprovingly. ‘There’s none of us can ken the moment of our death.’

‘But how?’ Gil asked. ‘What came to her?’ His mind was working rapidly as he spoke. Lady Magdalen’s transaction would probably be unaffected, but Tib’s marriage gift would almost certainly not reach her now, so the question of whether the lands in Strathblane were Dame Isabella’s to dispose of was a matter for the Livingstone family and not for him. He began to fold the crackling parchment. ‘What came to her?’ he repeated.

Attie shook his head.

‘We’re no certain,’ he said again. ‘Annot left her in her chamber, like I said, and when she gaed back in, there she was on the floor, and stone dead.’

‘Did you fetch a priest to her?’demanded Sempill.

‘Maister Livingstone has sent for one, Attie says,’ Lady Magdalen reminded him.

‘Has anyone else seen her?’ Gil asked. ‘You’re certain she’s dead, no just fallen in a stupor? An apoplexy can be-’

‘I’m no sure,’ admitted Attie, ‘for I never saw her, but Annot’s in the hysterics and Maister Livingstone tellt the household she was dead, bade me bring word here and then go for the layer-out. Will you wish to see her afore she’s washed and made decent, mem?’

‘N-no,’ said Lady Magdalen doubtfully. ‘No, I’d sooner wait till she’s in her dignity. Send my condolences to Maister Livingstone on the death of his kinswoman, Attie, and say I’ll come down afore suppertime.’ She seemed even paler than usual; Gil, suddenly recalling her condition, and certain her husband would never think of doing so, reached for the ale-jug and filled her beaker.

‘You should drink a little,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel steadier.’

‘Aye.’ She took the beaker from him. ‘My thanks, maister. Attie, will you go down to the kitchen, tell them the news, bid them see you right. I–I-’ She put her other hand to her head, and smiled weakly. ‘I canny believe it. She’s aye been so robust, I’d ha thought she’d go on for ever.’

‘Do you need to lie down?’ said Sempill, belatedly recognizing her distress. ‘Attie, send her woman up to her! And you’ll have to leave,’ he added to Gil. ‘We canny be looking at all this stuff the now.’

‘I’ve questions yet,’ Gil said mildly, reaching for the nearer rent-roll as the man Attie bowed and retreated to the kitchen door. ‘See your wife right, man, and then we’ll talk.’

The craftsmen of Clerk’s Land were hard at work, to judge by the hammering sounds from the several houses. Armed with the details from the rent-roll and Sempill’s sour comments on each tenant, Gil made his way along the muddy path, identifying the buildings and their occupants, making a note of necessary repairs and at the same time turning over in his mind the likely effects of Dame Isabella’s death on her various schemes. It seemed hard to believe, given the old woman’s forceful presence in Maistre Pierre’s house and then in Canon Cunningham’s only the day before, but sudden death could take anybody. He knew Canon Aiken’s house where the Livingstones were lodged, further down the Drygate; he could call on them later to condole, if that was the right word in the circumstances.

The children he had heard yesterday were wailing again inside the house nearest the road, though a man’s voice shouted at them from time to time. ‘That’s Adkin Saunders, pewterer,’ Sempill had said, ‘an ill-mannered dyvour, and his wife’s a great Ersche bairdie wi no respect for her betters. They pay their rent, but,’ he had added with reluctance. The pewterer was seated by the window, intent on shaping some vessel over a mould, his hammer tapping busily, though he cast a sideways glance at the intruder. Further down the toft two women were talking shrilly in Ersche; presumably one of them was the man’s wife. What had she said to Sempill, Gil wondered.

‘There’s Danny Bell, that’s a lorimer, he doesny dwell on the toft but come in to his workshop by the day. Has a dog as ill favoured as himsel, but at least he’s taught it to do his bidding.’ That was complimentary, by Sempill’s low standards; the man was a stringent judge of dogs. ‘And Dod Muir, that’s an image-maker, works in wood and metal and all sorts, wee hurb of a niffnaff. Both of them pays their rent right enough and all.’

At least, he reflected, peering into a low ramshackle shed and finding an assortment of barrels and a stock of small pieces of wood, at least Dame Isabella did not seem to have died by violence. This must be the image-maker’s woodstore, and yonder was certainly the lorimer’s workshop, with the scraps of leather round the door and pieces of horse-harness hung in the window; the lorimer himself, a young man with startling red hair, was visible at his bench working with leather-punch and hammer. His dog, a small shaggy creature with sharp ears, lay in the doorway and watched Gil suspiciously.

Two of the children from the pewterer’s house ran past him as he moved on, heads down as if fearing pursuit. He hoped they had got out to play for a while. The image-maker was not at home, his house shuttered and silent; the man sounded inoffensive, to judge by Sempill’s contemptuous description.

He moved on down the path, past another long low house with an open barn at its further end.

‘Then there’s Noll Campbell,’ Sempill had said, tapping the rent-roll. ‘I’ve had more trouble wi him than the whole — It’s another hallirakit Erscheman, a right sliddery scruff, wi a mouthful o abuse for any that speaks wi him, one that would sell his granny for dog’s meat. Makes enough to keep a prentice, but will he ever ha the rent together for the quarter-day? No him! I wish you well o him.’ There was a vindictive tone in his voice; clearly this Campbell and Sempill had crossed more than once.

In the barn, the whitesmith straightened up and stared at him under black scowling brows, tongs in hand; behind him in the shadows another man turned to look. That must be the apprentice. Gil nodded at them, and the smith bent to his work again, tap-tapping at what seemed likely to become a lantern.

Beyond the building was a kaleyard with a drying-green, where the women were still arguing in Ersche over a piece of linen. The children ran back up the path, and the two women paused as he came into sight, gazing open-mouthed at him, two Highland women with brows as dark as the smith’s, one young and slender, the other older and heavier. Both were clad in brown linen aprons tied on over loose checked gowns, whiter linen folded and pinned on their heads.

‘Good day to you,’ he said, raising his hat to them. ‘Is that Danny Sproat’s stable down yonder?’

One of them nodded. The older one said civilly enough, in accented Scots,

‘Aye. Aye, it is. But you will not be finding Danny the now. He iss out with the cart and the donkey, just, and not back before tomorrow so he was saying.’

‘I’m only wanting a look inside the stable,’ he said reassuringly. They looked at each other, and the one who had spoken gathered up the disputed washing.

‘Bethag will show you,’ she said, turning towards the houses. ‘There is a way of opening the door, to be keeping the donkey in, you ken.’ She added something in Ersche; the other woman gave her a sharp look, then smiled awkwardly at Gil and gestured towards the small building at the foot of the toft. He followed her, looking about. The kaleyard seemed to be divided up; none of the households would get a living from it, but it would provide all with some green vegetables for most of the year, assuming the donkey did not get through the woven hazel fence.

The door was well secured, though he could probably have opened it without difficulty. Bethag dragged one leaf open and nodded at the shadowed interior; he peered in, identifying stall and manger for the donkey and the standing for the little cart it pulled. The woman spoke in Ersche, pointing at the far wall.

‘What is it?’ he asked. She gave him that awkward smile again and crossed to open a shutter above the cart standing, and by its light showed him a place where the planking was splintered and gnawed. Something scurried over their heads in the low rafters, and she looked up apprehensively. ‘Aye, you get rats in a stable. You need a dog here. Can Danny Bell not bring his dog down to sort matters?’

She nodded, and moved to the door, pointing at the feed sack with a sour, unintelligible comment. He looked about again, comparing the small building with the rent he knew Sproat paid and finding it reasonable, and turned to follow her out.

Pain stabbed savagely at his head, and the world went dark.

The next thing he was fully aware of was of lying facedown on grass, soaking wet and shivering, with an upheaval in his stomach which became a paroxysm of vomiting. As it passed off and he collapsed shuddering on one elbow again, a pair of booted feet came into his field of view, followed by a swirl of dark red broadcloth.

‘You see, madam, there he’s, just like I said! And he’s lost his hat!’

He knew the voice. Who was it?

‘Aye, just like you said. Good laddie, Cato, you did very well here. Now gie me a hand to lift him.’ Strong hands seized him, dragged him upright. Pain knifed through his head, the world swung around, and a face came close to his, a bright mouth, painted eyes, gold-edged veil. ‘Well, he’s no been drinking. Come away, son, we’ll get you indoors. Can you walk?’

‘I seen them put him in the burn!’ Cato was at his other side, urging him on. One foot in front of the other, teeth chattering, an expert grip on his elbow holding him up, he moved forward. Grass, a muddy path, more grass. Steps, a gate. A gravel path with weeds. Cato still prattling about the burn. Who had been in the burn? Was that why he was so wet? They were in a house now. The bawdy-house. What was it called? Why did his head hurt? The bawd-mistress was talking too.

‘Cato, I said you’re a good laddie, but you can be quiet the now. Come away in, son, we’ll have you in here by the brazier. There, you can lie down a bit. Cato, send Agrippina to me wi the good cordial, and bid Strephon put some broth to heat, and then fetch me some towels, two o the big ones, I’d say, till we get him dried off.’

Expert fingers were working at his clothes. He tried to push the hands away, mumbling an objection, and there was a firm grip on his chin.

‘Look at me. Look at me, Gil Cunningham.’ He opened his eyes, and found Madam Xanthe’s painted face close to his. ‘You’re wringing wet, we have to get you out those clothes and dry afore you take your death. I’m no threat to your wee wife, man.’ She moved back a little. ‘Ah, Agrippina. See me a glass o that stuff. Come up a wee bit, laddie.’

The cordial was fiery and sweet, bit his throat on the way down but sent warmth through him and seemed to clear his head. He looked about him, as Madam Xanthe dragged his jerkin off and started on the points which fastened hose to doublet. He was half-lying on a padded bench, in a chamber he had not seen before, well lit and full of women’s gear, a basket of spinning and another of sewing on the windowsill. It seemed odd to find such a thing in a bawdy-house.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Did the boy say I was in the burn?’

‘I seen you!’ Cato arrived with an armful of linen towels. ‘It was some o them next door, they carried you out the back gate and threw you into the mill-burn.’

He stared at the boy, trying to work out what this could mean.

‘And it was me got you out,’ Cato continued proudly, ‘for I saw you wereny right awake, and I thought maybe you’d not get out afore you got to the millwheels, so I ran down the bank and I got you out! I never got your hat, but,’ he added deprecatingly.

‘I was in the stable,’ Gil said after a moment. ‘Oh, my head!’

‘And then I came and fetched madam. Right lucky you was back, madam, so it was!’

‘Here,’ said Madam Xanthe, pausing in her activities, and felt round his skull with gentle hands. ‘Is your head broke?’ He flinched as she touched a tender spot. ‘No, the skin’s whole, but there’s a lump like a hen’s egg below the crown here. You’ve had a right dunt, I’d say. What were you at in the stable, that they took exception? No stealing a ride on the donkey, I hope, I’d hate to think o the sight.’

He shook his head, and immediately regretted it.

‘I don’t recall.’ He braced himself as she bent to haul one of his boots off. ‘I was. I was talking to.’ He paused, and the faces swam up in his memory. ‘Sempill and his wife. And then,’ he shivered again, and Agrippina came forward and began loosening the strings of his shirt. ‘Aye, she’s dead.’

‘Who’s dead?’ Madam Xanthe said sharply, staring up at him, the red paint on her lips suddenly stark against her white skin. He swallowed.

‘Dame — Dame Isabella. The man came to tell us. So I needny concern myself wi her lands.’

‘Dame Isabella,’ repeated Madam Xanthe, as Agrippina dragged his shirt over his head and began rubbing at his back and chest with one of the towels. ‘Aye, well, small loss her. Now we’ll ha your small-clothes off. Never fret, we’ve all seen one of those afore. Will you have me send to your wife for dry clothing, or will you borrow what we can find round the place?’ She tittered, with a brief return of her usual manner. ‘It all depends, I suppose, whether you want her to know you’re here.’

That was easy. He must be late for dinner already. Let them know now, explain the situation later. And it would take some explaining, he felt.

‘Send home, if you would,’ he said, giving up one arm to Agrippina’s ministrations. ‘Does the laddie ken where-’

‘I ken where!’ said Cato. ‘It’s the big house right by the Blackfriars.’

By the time the boy returned Gil felt much more human. A bowl of hot broth and a hunk of bread had warmed him and steadied his stomach, only his hair was still damp, and he was beginning to remember what had led up to the moment when someone must have struck him on the head.

‘I stepped out of the stable,’ he said. ‘The woman was ahead of me, it wasn’t her-’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ observed Madam Xanthe with irony from her seat by the window. He looked up, startled, and she met his gaze directly for a moment before the arch smile spread to her eyes. ‘I’d not like to think she’d felt the need to strike you down. You’ve a name in this town, Maister Cunningham.’

That seemed too difficult to work out. He went back to his ruminations.

‘It must ha been someone behind the door. What did the boy see?’

‘All he said to me was that he’d seen them next door throw you into the burn. If he’d seen you struck down he’d ha let us all know.’

‘I suppose nobody else was looking out,’ he said without much hope.

‘Ah, now, there’s a thought. Bide here.’

Draped like an antique statue and without his boots, he was hardly likely to go anywhere, but he said nothing, merely put his aching head back against the panelling behind him and considered what to do next. He had a good case against the tenants of Clerk’s Land, and it seemed he had at least one witness, though how good the boy Cato would be before the bailies was another matter. His immediate instinct was to accept the property on small John’s behalf and evict all the tenants, pausing only to double the rent, but the due process of the law might be a better weapon, and in any case there remained the question of why they had treated him like this. All he had done was look at the premises, make a few notes, and speak civilly to two of the women. Were they hiding something, he wondered, and if so what?

Shortly Madam Xanthe reappeared, followed by a towheaded girl in a low-cut dress who trailed a strong scent of musk and violets and paused inside the door, eyeing Gil speculatively.

‘Cleone was at her practice by the window,’ announced Madam Xanthe, ‘like a good lassie. Though it’s all good lassies in this house, a course,’ she added with another sly, sideways glance. ‘Tell Maister Cunningham what you saw, my dear.’

‘Aye, well,’ observed Cleone pertly, ‘I wouldny ha been at my practice if I could ha been sleeping, but what wi her snoring-’

‘What, again? She’ll have to go at the quarter if she canny stop that, it’s no attraction. Go on, what did you see? Was this the man?’

Cleone eyed Gil again. Her eyes were blue, with dark rings round them.

‘The one I saw was wearing black.’

‘Aye, and his black is all wet and hung up in the kitchen. He doesn’t go about draped in sheets for every day. Get on wi’t, girl.’

Cleone shrugged, causing an interesting change in the scenery of her low neckline.

‘There was those two next door, squabbling away in Ersche, and this man or one like him, clad all in black, came down the path and spoke to them. Then one of them, I think it was the Barabal one, went off up among the houses and the other one took him down to look at the donkey’s stable.’

Gil nodded in spite of himself, and winced as pain stabbed in his head.

‘And then what?’ he asked. ‘What did you see?’

‘I was studying the tablature a wee while,’ Cleone admitted, ‘but when I looked up there was a man ahint the door of the stable, and when you stepped out he struck you on the head wi his mell. And then they took and carried you out the gate, and dropped you in the water, and then I saw Cato running down our path. So I went back to my practice.’

‘Could you identify him?’ Gil asked. ‘Could you say who he was?’

She looked at him with those blue eyes, smiling earnestly.

‘It was Dod Muir,’ she said. ‘I’m right certain.’

‘The image-maker,’ Gil said, and she nodded.

‘Why did you not go out to help Cato?’ demanded her mistress.

‘Because I wasny dressed. You’re aye telling us no to show off our-’

‘Aye, that’ll do. You’re certain o what you saw?’

Cleone shrugged again.

‘It wasny Campbell nor Saunders. It wasny Danny Bell, he’s easy enough to make out, wi his hair. It wasny Sproat the donkey man, for he’s no in Glasgow. Who else would it be?’

‘You tell me, girl,’ said Madam Xanthe in exasperation. ‘Was it Dod Muir or no?’

‘Aye, it was,’ said Cleone.

‘Aye, well. So there you are, Maister Cunningham. Dod Muir the image-maker it was, if this lassie’s to be trusted, and if I was you I’d take him to law and double his rent as well.’

‘You could be right.’ He managed a smile for Cleone, who said with sympathy,

‘Is your head right sore? Ag- Agrippina’s got a rare bottle for a sore head.’

‘Aye, that’s a good thought, lass. You get back to your practice,’ said her mistress briskly, ‘see if you can master I long for thy virginitie for the night, and I’ll-’ Her head turned, and she peered out of the window. ‘Is that the laddie back? Who’s he brought wi him?’

With him? Not Alys or Pierre, surely, Gil thought in alarm. Though Alys, he acknowledged to himself, would probably find the visit both interesting and entertaining.

It was neither Alys nor Pierre; it was Lowrie Livingstone, even more embarrassed than Gil to discover him in such a situation.

‘I’m right sorry to trouble you,’ he said, backing into a corner of the chamber and knocking over the basket of spinning, ‘just we really needed to find you, but if you’re no feeling up to it we can maybe-’

‘No, we can’t,’ said Gil, emerging from the neck of his shirt. ‘Tell me again. Mally Bowen said-’

‘She says she’s no willing to lay the old — dame out until you’ve looked at her. It was you she named, no her husband the Serjeant. So I’m sent out to find you, and I’d just come to your house when this fellow,’ he nodded towards Cato, who was now grinning speechlessly at Cleone, ‘fetched up at the door saying you were here at the bawdy-house and needed your clothes.’

Gil covered his eyes.

‘Is that what he said?’

‘He did explain,’ Lowrie assured him. ‘Though I don’t think he mentioned you’d been struck on the head.’

‘That’s no worry. I’d sooner my wife was annoyed than anxious,’ Gil said, cautiously resuming the process of dressing. Alys had sent the old doublet and the summer gown; it did seem likely she was annoyed. But she had remembered boots, a hat, and his old purse. ‘So Dame Isabella’s still waiting to be laid out. She’ll have to wait a bit longer now, she must have begun to set. Did Mally Bowen say what was troubling her?’

‘No.’

Madam Xanthe swept back into the chamber, shooed Cato and Cleone out and handed Gil a glass of something dark.

‘Drink that,’ she ordered him, ‘it should help your head. Your clothes are nowhere near dry, Strephon tells me. I’ll send them back the morn, if you can manage without till then.’

‘I’ll find something to put on my back, I’ve no doubt,’ said Gil. He swallowed the mixture cautiously, recognizing the familiar tang of willow-bark, and returned to the task of fastening his points. ‘We’ll send to fetch them. One of the men would be glad of the errand, no need to take Cato from his work.’

Lowrie gave a crack of laughter at this, and went red as Madam Xanthe looked more closely at him.

‘Well, here’s a likely young gentleman,’ she said, approaching him. He backed into his corner again, looking alarmed, and she put out a long finger and tipped his chin up. ‘Oh, aye, you’d get a free entry any evening you care, young sir,’ she pronounced, relishing the ambiguity. Gil, deliberately looking away to find his way into the summer gown, said in French,

‘Are you sure he’s up to your weight?’

‘Oh!’ Madam Xanthe tittered, but released Lowrie and said in the same language, ‘He’s your steed, is he? I’d not thought that of you, maistre.’

Gil turned to meet her eyes directly.

‘I’m in your debt and Cato’s,’ he said, ‘for this morning’s support, but that doesn’t give you the right to affront me or my friends. Nor does it come well from you to do so,’ he went on, with a slight emphasis on the vous.

The arch gaze sharpened slightly, then she looked away, with that annoying titter.

‘Oh, get on wi you,’ she said in Scots. ‘Away and get about your business, and then go and comfort your wee wife. Or deal wi Isabella Torrance, if that’s what’s needed.’

‘She’s still in her chamber,’ said Maister Livingstone.

They had found him in the first-floor hall of Canon Aiken’s substantial house, pacing anxiously before the hearth, though scattered documents on a nearby bench suggested he had been trying to deal with legal matters. ‘We’ll no get her laid out now till she softens,’ he went on. ‘I’ve sent for Mistress Bowen to come back, she can let you know what troubles her about the corp. She wouldny tell me, and she’d said naught to Annot.’

‘And you’ve no idea?’ Gil prompted. The other man shook his head.

‘She shut the door,’ Lowrie said, ‘shut herself and Annot in, and then, oh, barely a Te Deum later she’s back out with her basin and towel, hustles Annot out by the arm, saying she had to talk to you first.’

‘But is there some doubt about how Dame Isabella died?’

Livingstone shrugged.

‘I’d not have said so. Her woman came wailing to me first thing, Oh, she’s deid, my lady’s deid, and I went wi her to see, and there’s the old carline on the floor of the chamber like she’d just fallen there, lying there in her shift, eyes open, mouth open, you’d think she’s seen a ghost. No doubt that she was dead, but I saw no sign of any injury or the like, no signs that suggested poison to me, save a wee bit blood at her nose, which I take to mean an apoplexy.’

‘It sounds like it,’ Gil agreed. ‘Has the corp been touched since Mistress Bowen left? Has anyone been into the chamber?’

‘I wouldny cross a layer-out. I ordered it left alone. Annot made some outcry about prayers for her mistress, but I bade her stand at the door wi her beads, and set two of our men on to keep the rest away. The priest said he’d send a couple of bidders up from St Agnes, but he took little persuasion himself to go away meantime.’ Gil looked startled, and both Livingstone men grimaced. ‘She’d loosed her bowels,’ the elder explained, and put a hand to his nose. ‘It’s a bit-’

‘There’s Mistress Bowen now,’ said Lowrie as a hinge creaked outside. ‘Will we go down to meet her?’

The house stood round three sides of a courtyard, so that the hall windows looked out over the knot-garden and the little fountain at its centre, as well as the gate opposite. To judge by the ladders and stacked timber there were carpenters working on one of the shorter wings, though they did not appear to be active today. Dame Isabella and her entourage were lodged in the other wing, where a set of three linked chambers at ground level had been made comfortable with hangings and padded furniture. The first of these seemed full of people, though this resolved into the man Attie and two grooms in green livery talking about crossbows, several elderly women in the dark habit of St Agnes’ almshouse praying industriously for the departed, and Mistress Bowen, a spare body in middle age bundled in a blue striped plaid, the long ends of her white linen headdress tied up on the top of her head for a day’s work, her towel and basin in her arms.

‘Good day to ye, maister,’ she said, and bobbed a curtsy to all three men impartially. ‘I’ll be glad to get this sorted and get the poor soul her rights.’

‘Aye, well, it might ha been easier if you’d tellt me what was wrong at the first,’ said Maister Livingstone sourly, but she ignored him and led the way into the second chamber. By the far door a tearful Annot looked up as they entered, and hauled herself up from her knees, folding her beads into her hand.

‘And time too!’ she said. ‘She’ll be set by now, no hope of making her decent afore evening, it’ll be the morn afore she-’

‘You’ll not tell me my job,’ said Mistress Bowen, and laid a hand to the door. ‘Has she been disturbed since I left, maister?’

‘Only if Annot’s been in,’ said Livingstone.

‘No! No!’ disclaimed Annot. ‘At least,’ she bit her lip, and they all looked at her. ‘I couldny bear to think of her staring like that, I laid a cloth to her face!’

‘I tellt you to leave her alone,’ said Livingstone in annoyance. Gil ignored them and followed Mistress Bowen into the chamber.

The first thing one noticed was the stink, which caught at the throat and made one gag. The next was Dame Isabella herself, sprawled in her filthy shift like a stranded porpoise, half on her side. The cloth Annot had mentioned covered her face, long locks of grey hair snaking from under it across the polished floorboards. A pantofle of scuffed embroidered velvet had fallen off and lay a yard or so away; the other was still wedged on the plump foot over its defiled stocking. Gil closed his eyes briefly, muttering a prayer for the dead, thinking again how death stripped all dignity from a human being.

‘Amen,’ said Mistress Bowen, crossing herself.

‘Is she just as you left her?’ he asked. ‘What was it you wanted to show me?’

‘Aye.’ She had shed the plaid and tied on an apron. Beneath it she wore a working woman’s short-sleeved gown of grey wool; now she began to roll up the sleeves of kirtle and shift, baring wiry forearms. ‘In this calling, maister, you get to ken the signs of a death. Heart trouble, apoplexy, old age. Poverty.’ Gil nodded, wondering if his belly would hold out against the smell in the chamber. ‘Whether a death’s been expected or no.’ She bent, feeling one of the outstretched arms with a professional air. ‘Aye, aye, she’s progressing well. Now, poverty’s no been a problem here,’ she measured the girth of the arm with a wry smile, ‘but just the same it didny seem right to me. So I’d a good look at the corp. There’s no saying what more I’ll uncover when I get her right washed, but to start wi I found,’ she twitched the linen cloth away, ‘here’s what I found.’

The face was hideous, as Maister Livingstone had implied, staring eyes and open mouth giving the impression of someone gazing into Hell, the trickle of blackened blood caked in the wispy moustache adding to the horror. Gil, unable to help himself, reached out and tried to close the eyelids, and discovered they were set wide as they were.

‘See here,’ said Mistress Bowen, and he realized she had put back a handful of the thinning hair and was pointing at the old woman’s ear. It was delicately whorled, pink, quite incongruously pretty and scrupulously clean. It was a pity when convention demanded that women had to hide attractive features, he reflected, thinking of Alys’s long honey-coloured hair which now he only saw at night.

‘Look closer,’ prompted Mistress Bowen. ‘Someone’s stoppit her lug.’

He looked obediently, and looked again. Half-hidden within the hollow of the ear was a black dot, like the ticks he had to extract from Socrates’ coat if they went out onto the Dow Hill.

‘It’s no a tick,’ said Mistress Bowen when he mentioned this. ‘Touch it.’

He got down on one knee and inspected the mark. It was raised, roughly square, and not black as he had first thought but dark as iron, with flecks of rust-red which -

‘Sweet St Giles!’ he said, and crossed himself. ‘It’s a nail.’

He put out a finger to test the thing. It was iron, cold iron. No, not cold, he recognized, nearer lukewarm, cooling with the corpse.

‘Aye,’ said Mistress Bowen grimly. ‘Now how did that get there?’

‘Murder,’ he said. ‘We need to send for the Serjeant.’