The Counterfeit Madam

Chapter Six

‘Just the one,’ confirmed James Syme.

‘Can you describe him?’ Gil studied the apothecary across his workbench, aware of Lowrie at his side doing the same. Syme was a handsome young man with golden hair and an irritating way of speaking, as if he was confiding a secret. Married to his partner’s elder daughter, on the older man’s death he had found himself in charge of the flourishing business and was managing it well and methodically. Any observations he had made were likely to be accurate.

Now Syme set down the pestle with which he was reducing dandelion leaves to a green paste, and turned to lift a ledger from the shelf behind him. Across the shop his assistant looked up, and returned to a similar task.

‘Yesterday,’ he murmured. ‘Early. Aye, here it is, Maister Cunningham. Root ginger, cloves, flowers of sulphur, a bottle of the restorative for the hair, senna-pods, rhubarb, and a wee box of the anise laxative. Suffered badly wi her belly, the poor lady.’ Gil forbore to comment. ‘Fourpence, another fourpence, two pence for the ginger and again for the cloves, the bottle, the other matters, that came to three shillings and a penny, and the lad handed it to me in silver-’ He gazed briefly out of the window. ‘Aye, he was alone. Taller than me, near your height I’d say, well-set-up fellow wi brown hair, big ears, very civil.’

‘Alan,’ said Lowrie confidently. Gil nodded. It certainly did not sound like Attie.

‘And no sign of the other man, maybe waiting outside?’ he prompted.

‘Not that I saw.’

‘Have you checked the coin the lad gave you?’

‘Checked it?’ Syme stared at him, then looked at the pyne-pig on the shelf beside the ledger. ‘No — no, I–I never thought. We’ve no much trouble wi false coin here, Nanty has more down by the Tolbooth, one or two a day he gets or so he says.’

Only one of the handful of silver threepenny pieces in the tin box was false. Syme looked at it, biting his lip.

‘There was more,’ he said. ‘Like I said, maister, the lad gave me three shillings in silver. Three groats,’ he poked through the thin coins, which slid away from his finger, ‘and eight threepennies, and two ha’pennies. I hope we’ve no given out false coin in change. I’ve a reputation to consider.’ He caught up the counterfeit and held it out to Gil. ‘Maister, I’m assuming you’re looking into the business, since you’ve asked me about it, or at least that you can gie this to the Provost. I’d as soon it was out of my hands.’

‘I’ll pass it to the Provost,’ Gil said resignedly.

‘There was an odd thing, though,’ Syme went on, fastening the box down. ‘Yestreen, when we’d a gathering, the three apothecary houses in the burgh, as we do, we were speaking o this. Aye, I’d best let you hear what Nanty had to say.’

‘She wanted to tell you herself,’ Kate said, ‘and it’s a day or two since I saw you, I thought this was the best way.’ She peered across the window space at Gil. ‘Are you well? There’s all sorts o tales about the town.’

‘Oh, is that it?’ Gil grinned at his favourite sister.

They were in the hall of the house at Morison’s Yard, where Kate’s husband Augie Morison ran his business, a few doors down the High Street from Maistre Pierre’s dwelling. Kate herself spent a lot of time in this big, light window-bay, seated in her carved wooden chair with her crutches propped close at hand.

They had already discussed the health and amazing development of Kate’s baby son, godson to Gil and Alys, who it seemed was asleep upstairs. Now Gil set his beaker of ale down on the tray beside him and sat back, leaning against the pale oak panelling. ‘You want the tale from the horse’s mouth? You should ask at Lowrie here, he rescued me out of the place.’

‘The bawdy-house? I thought you were well in charge, maister,’ offered Lowrie, palming another of Ursel’s little cakes. ‘Sending out for your clothes and all.’

‘No, Alys came by this morning to see Edward and tellt me the gist of it,’ Kate said, ‘and since she was here when Nan and the girls came back she heard their tale too and went off saying she’d send to you to look in. So what like are these paintings?’

‘No as bad as they’re reputed. Naked goddesses and the like, all very tasteful.’

‘I never saw them,’ said Lowrie regretfully. ‘The back o the house is quite plain.’

‘Magdalen Boyd wants to cover them in limewash.’

‘She would,’ said Kate. There were light hasty feet on the stair leading down into the hall, and her stepdaughters burst into the room, followed by their nurse making chiding noises about their behaviour. Both girls checked at sight of a stranger, but Kate smiled, and held out a hand. ‘Here, my lassies, come and make your curtsies.’

The older girl came obediently, smiling shyly at the guests, and curtsied as directed. The younger flung herself across the chamber, ended up at Gil’s knee, fixed him with a penetrating grey stare and said,

‘Uncle Gil, we found the man that’s making the bad pennies.’

‘I’ll tell him!’ said her sister indignantly. ‘It was me that found him!’

‘Now, lassies,’ said their nurse. ‘That’s no way to-’

‘It’s Uncle Gil,’ said the younger girl, ‘don’t have to be polite.’

‘Ysonde!’ said Kate. ‘Come here! Wynliane, go and tell your uncle what you saw.’

Wynliane, almost eight, with her father’s blue eyes and soft fair hair, came to Gil’s side, glancing doubtfully at Lowrie. Her new front teeth had come in, and she looked more like Augie than ever. Gil introduced them, and Lowrie doffed his hat, making the child blush. Her nurse said bracingly,

‘Tell Maister Gil about it, like your mammy bids you. Good day to you, maister,’ she added. ‘I hope you’re well? We went to the market this morning, me and the lassies,’ she explained, ‘for they’ve a penny or two for spending.’ She glanced significantly at Kate, now occupied in explaining to Ysonde just why a young lady should be polite to everyone, and Gil recalled that his sister’s birthday was approaching. He nodded his understanding, and stout Nan smiled and gestured to Wynliane.

‘Me and Nan and Ysonde,’ the child agreed, ‘and we went to all the stalls, and bought Ursel a col- colandrain-’

‘Colander,’ prompted Nan, her black brows rising in amusement.

‘Yes, for the kitchen, and we bought — I bought-’

‘Something,’ Gil supplied. ‘And did you get pennies back?’

Wynliane nodded gratefully. At Kate’s side, Ysonde drew herself up, fixed her stepmother with a direct grey stare and said dramatically,

‘Is this sothe, my moder dere?’

Gil suppressed a grin as he recognized the quotation, and concentrated on Wynliane. ‘And one of them was a false coin, was it?’

The older girl nodded again.

‘Do you still have it?’ Nod. ‘Will you show me it?’

She held out her hand. Sticking to her palm was another of the threepenny pieces, cross side uppermost.

‘I saw it was false first!’ proclaimed Ysonde. She crossed to them in a sort of travelling curtsy, bobbed another one at Lowrie, and gabbled, ‘I ask your pardons, Maister Gil, Maister Lowrie, for my discourtesy. I saw it was false first,’ she repeated, duty done. ‘For I asked Da how he knew when it was false coins and he showed me how to look.’ She grabbed at the coin, her sister snatched it out of reach, and Nan separated the two children expertly. ‘Look, it’s easy seen. Let me show them!’

‘Let me hold the coin,’ said Gil, ‘and then you can show me. Which stall was it this came from?’

‘I’ll show you first,’ said Ysonde. She bent her curly head over Gil’s hand, pointing out the distinctions and obscuring the coin, while Wynliane in her soft voice said,

‘The man was rude.’ She bit her lip, leaning her head against Nan’s broad waist. ‘He shouted at Nan. When we told him it was false coin.’

‘And then he was in the chapel,’ supplied Ysonde. ‘And he fighted with the other man, and they knocked each other down and rugged them down in inches.’

Recognizing a line from the Hallowe’en play which had taken place here in this hall, Gil repressed a grimace. Kate said,

‘Now, Ysonde. Let Wynliane tell it to your uncle the way you both told it to me this morning.’

‘Ysonde, will you show me the coin?’ suggested Lowrie, holding his hand out. Gil passed him the slip of silver and Ysonde followed it importantly. Wynliane began to explain the tale, with help from Nan.

They had told the man on the stall that the coin was false, but he had been angry, and accused Nan of trying to pass false coin back to him out of her own purse. Ysonde had been certain the coin was one the man had given her sister, but Nan was less sure.

‘So we just left it,’ she said, ‘and I wish now I’d argued the matter.’

‘What stall was this?’ Gil asked. Kate, at the other side of the wide window space, looked elaborately out at the men stacking huge yellow-glazed crocks in the yard.

‘A sweetmeat seller,’ Nan mouthed. He nodded understanding.

‘And then we went to St Mungo’s,’ Wynliane continued.

‘That’s Little St Mungo’s out the Gallowgate,’ Nan amended. ‘I’ve a fondness for the wee place, seeing I grew up next it.’ Gil knew the little chapel, a crumbling structure outside the eastward yett of the burgh in which his uncle took an interest; small as it was it contained three or four altars to different saints, screened off with hangings of mouse-nibbled brocade. ‘We went to say our prayers, did we no, my lass?’

Wynliane nodded.

‘And the man was there,’ said Ysonde from where she stood beside Lowrie. ‘Him and the other man was fighting.’

‘They were arguing,’ Nan corrected. ‘We were saying our prayers to Our Lady, all quiet in her wee chapel, and these two came in, and that busy arguing they never heard us.’

‘They were shouting,’ agreed Wynliane, burrowing against Nan’s apron.

‘The sweetie man said it was a cheat,’ said Ysonde, ‘and trying to get him in trouble, and then they fighted, and fell down battling each other. And then the priest came and stopped them,’ she said regretfully.

‘There was all blood,’ said Wynliane.

‘You never told me that, lass,’ said Kate.

‘Naught but a bloody nose, mem,’ said Nan reassuringly.

‘So one of them blamed the other for passing him false coin,’ Gil interpreted, ‘and there was a fight. Did you learn any more? Who were they?’

Nan shook her head.

‘I’d say they were maybe neighbours,’ she said. ‘They wereny kin, they wereny alike at all, but they seemed to ken one another right well. The one we’d spoke to, I never heard his name, but the other one,’ she paused, frowning. ‘Sir Tammas cried him, was it Miller?’

‘Miller?’ Gil repeated. ‘You’re sure of that?’

‘No.’ She shook her head again. ‘I was a wee bit taigled, you’ll understand,’ she glanced significantly at Wynliane, ‘and no paying that much mind. Miller or a name like it, Wright or Carter or the like.’

‘And I said,’ said Ysonde importantly, ‘we had to tell you, cos Mammy Kate said you was asking all about the false coins in Glasgow.’

‘Very right,’ said Lowrie. She gave him one of her rare smiles, accepting the praise as her due.

‘Then what?’ asked Gil. ‘Did they hear you? Did they go on talking?’

‘The dusty man said,’ Ysonde recalled with a sudden attack of accuracy, ‘the priest was an interfering auld ruddoch, and the sweetie man was a greetin-faced wantwit, and then he stamped out-’

‘Ysonde!’ said Kate.

‘You swored,’ said Wynliane, equally shocked.

‘Did not!’ retorted her sister, going red.

‘Did so!’

‘You’d never use words like that yoursel, would you?’ said Lowrie encouragingly. ‘You were just telling us what the man said.’

‘Well, it was what he said,’ she iterated, lower lip stuck out ‘And the sweetie man told the priest the dusty man was getting him in trouble, and then he went away too.’

‘That’s about it, Maister Gil,’ agreed Nan. ‘I’m hoping it was worth dragging you down here for, but it doesny seem like much to me.’

‘What did they look like?’ Gil asked. ‘What were they wearing?’

‘The sweetie man had a belt,’ said Wynliane. ‘With a namel buckle.’

‘Aye, that’s right, lassie,’ agreed Nan. ‘A pretty thing, it was, save the enamel was chipped. Otherwise,’ she thought briefly, and shrugged. ‘He was clad like any working man in Glasgow, I’d say, a leather doublet, a blue jerkin under it. I never noticed his hose, they were maybe hodden grey or the like, but he’d a blue bonnet on his head. He was a young fellow, maybe five-and-twenty, no so much as thirty. I never took much of a look at the other, but,’ she paused to think again. ‘I’d ha thought him a wee bittie younger by the way he spoke.’

‘Why did you call one of them the dusty man?’ Lowrie asked Ysonde. She looked up at him, scowling, from where she stood within his arm. ‘Was he dusty?’

‘Don’t know. That’s what the sweetie man called him.’

‘I think I’ll take a walk down to St Mungo’s,’ Gil said. ‘Can you come wi me, Lowrie?’

The young man nodded, and removed his arm from about Ysonde, saying,

‘I have to go now.’

There was a brief argument, but Ysonde was eventually persuaded that the two men could find the chapel by themselves. Wynliane put up her face to be kissed, saying,

‘Will you come back and tell us?’

‘Maister Gil will tell you, I expect,’ said Lowrie.

‘No, you’re to come,’ ordered Ysonde. ‘Say you’ll come.’

‘If I’m permitted,’ Lowrie said. Gil exchanged startled glances with Kate, but Ysonde accepted this reluctantly, and they took their leave.

Out in the street, glancing at the sky, Gil said, ‘We’ve likely time to go by Little St Mungo’s now. Then I could do wi a word wi your man Attie.’

‘So could I,’ said Lowrie absently. ‘That’s a lively wee lassie of your sister’s. How old is she? The two o them are her stepdaughters, you said?’

‘Ysonde? She’s five or six, I think. She’s a wildcat,’ Gil said, ‘and about as ready to gentle.’

‘But sharp as a,’ Lowrie paused, swallowed, and visibly changed what came next, ‘sharp as a new pin. Quoting from Floris and Blanchflour at six!’

‘It’s one of their father’s favourites. He’s likely read it to them a few times.’

‘Oh, is that it?’ Lowrie stepped aside to avoid a marauding pig. ‘If she grows up aught like madam your sister she’ll be a rare gem.’

Sir Tammas Dubbs, priest of Little St Mungo’s, was a worn elderly man in worn elderly garments, with a long knitted scarf wound round his neck. He was about to say Nones with the clerk who was shuffling about in the chancel waiting for him, and was unwilling at first to listen to Gil’s questions.

‘There’s a many fights atween folk in this parish,’ he said brusquely. ‘I pay no mind, other than try to stop them killing one another.’

‘These two wereny killing one another,’ Gil said. ‘They were arguing because one said the other had got him into some trouble over some coin.’

There was a resonant thump on the end wall of the little building. The clerk, to Gil’s astonishment, erupted from the chancel and hurried to the door, trailing a muttering stream of curses. Sir Tammas turned to watch him go, and said over his shoulder,

‘Aye, well. And half my parish wi him, I’ve no doubt.’

‘One of them might be called Miller.’ Sir Tammas turned abruptly and stared at Gil, then looked away again. ‘And the other sells sweetmeats along the Gallowgate, and has an enamel buckle to his belt.’

Outside the clerk was shouting indignantly. Impudent young voices answered him, and a taunting chant began. The priest clicked his tongue in annoyance, and shook his head.

‘I’ve no idea who it might ha been,’ he said. ‘Like I tell ye, there’s fights all the time.’

‘What, in here and all?’ Lowrie asked. Sir Tammas glanced at him, but did not answer.

‘Have you had any trouble wi false coin?’ Gil moved casually so that light fell on the priest’s face.

‘None. Now I must go, my sons, you’re holding back the Office.’ Sir Tammas raised his hand, muttered a perfunctory blessing, and strode to the door, the ends of his scarf flying. As soon as he stepped outside the mockery stopped, and after a moment priest and clerk returned and crossed to the chancel without looking at Gil. They were barely within the dark archway, and the priest’s cracked elderly voice had just risen in the first words of the Office, when there was another thump on the wall. Sir Tammas checked, then continued. The Office should not be interrupted.

Gil, grinning at Lowrie, went quietly to the door and stepped out. He was just in time to surprise the next boy swinging on the knotted rope hung from the eaves. Distracted, the youngster misjudged his timing, and instead of kicking off from the gable he thumped into the stonework, let go the rope, and fell in a winded heap at the foot of the wall.

‘Ah, ye bausy juffler, Dod Armstrang!’ said the lad next in line, without sympathy, and leapt for the swinging rope. Clinging with both hands he kicked expertly at the stonework and twirled away in a circle, grinning widely and back-heeling the recumbent boy’s shoulder as he spun past. ‘See, that’s how ye dae’t. No, it’s no auld Dubbsie, it’s a pair o fine daft chiels fro the town.’

Seeing the truth of this, three or four more boys came back to their game, staring at the strangers. Gil raised his hat to them, at which they giggled, and nudged one another. They were a ragged crew, barefoot and clad in handed-down hose and jerkins, one or two lacking a shirt, all very dirty.

‘I’m looking for two men that were here earlier,’ he said. ‘Maybe you saw them?’

The boys looked sideways at one another, and the fallen one pulled himself to his feet. The lad in possession of the rope jumped down, staggering slightly, and said,

‘Maybe. Maybe no. What’s it to you?’

‘It might be worth something,’ Gil said, reaching for his purse. All their eyes followed the movement.

‘Who was it you were looking for?’ demanded the spokesman.

‘A man that sells sweetmeats from a stall, and has an enamel buckle to his belt,’ Gil said hopefully.

‘That’s-’ began one of the smaller boys, and was elbowed by his neighbour.

‘And who else?’

‘Aye, but that’s-’

‘The other one might be called Miller.’

‘Miller? Naw,’ said the spokesman quickly, ‘we never seen neither o them.’

‘Aye, but Jamsie,’ protested the smaller boy who had spoken. Jamsie turned and seized him by the ear.

‘Shut yer gub! Come on, the lot o yez, we’re away out o here. We never seen them, maister,’ he added to Gil, ‘and if you’re wise, you never seen him neither.’

‘Well!’ said Lowrie behind Gil, as the boys scattered. ‘That’s interesting.’

‘It is,’ agreed Gil. He looked about him. St Mungo’s stood a short way from the East Port, beside the road which led out to Bothwell and Cadzow, surrounded by the undisciplined huddle of small houses which lurked at the gates of any sizeable burgh. Those who could not afford to live in the burgh lived outside it, as did a few tradesmen wealthy enough to ignore the rules about indwelling of burgesses, their bigger properties set back from the road and the middens. Off to their left a track ran past the west end of the chapel, down to cross the Poldrait Burn. ‘If we cut through here, we come out at the back of-’

‘At the back of the College,’ Lowrie agreed, ‘or we could go on up the mill-burn to the Drygate.’

There was a great deal of coming and going at Canon Aiken’s house, but Maister Livingstone came down to the door himself as they crossed the yard.

‘How far have ye got?’ he asked without preamble. ‘Lowrie, where ha ye been all the morning? They’re saying now we canny put her in the ground till there’s been a quest on her, and her murderer named.’

‘Till there’s been a quest, at least,’ Gil agreed. ‘Has Otterburn told you when it might be?’

‘The morn’s morn, he said, and he’d his men here asking all kind o questions. What like was this purse that’s missing, and where was her comb, and the like. I’m no her tirewoman, I said, ask at her women. If Marion canny tell them, Annot will.’

‘And did she?’

‘Did she what? Oh, tell them? I’ve no idea, they spoke wi her in yonder,’ Livingstone nodded towards the black-draped range where Dame Isabella was clearly still lodged, ‘but they went away satisfied, I suppose she had something to say. I was dealing wi Andrew Hamilton for a coffin.’

‘Greyfriars will take her, sir,’ Lowrie put in.

‘First time in her life she’s been welcome, I’d say,’ said the older man. ‘Come up and have a glass of Malvoisie, maister, if you’ve the time.’

‘Gladly,’ said Gil, with a feeling that the day might improve slightly now, ‘but I want a word wi your man Attie. Is he about? And maybe Annot and all.’

‘Oh, he’s about,’ said Livingstone, ‘for all the use he is, and the house going like St Mungo’s Fair, what wi folk coming to pay their respects and see what she died o. Come away up and I’ll see if they can find him.’

One of Livingstone’s green-liveried servants bore a tray with a jug of Malvoisie and three glasses into the hall. Attie followed him, looking like one going to his execution, and while Livingstone served out the wine and waved Gil to a seat by the hearth the man stood against the wall, mangling his velvet bonnet and trying to be invisible. He came forward reluctantly when ordered.

‘Attie, I’ve spoken to Maister Syme,’ Gil said bluntly. ‘How long were you and Alan together yesterday morning, in truth?’

‘Well,’ Attie licked his lips. ‘Well. Aye, well, no very long, to say right, maister. We went — we gaed — see, there’s this lassie serves Fleming the weaver, and, and, and her and me had got talking the day we cam into Glasgow, and I seen her again the other nicht, and here she was at their back gate in the morning, so, well, Alan went on by the path to the High Street, see, and I stayed daffing wi the lassie, and it wasny but a moment afore Alan came back,’ he assured them earnestly, ‘for we’d no more than tellt each other where we came from and who we served, and then I had to go back along wi Alan.’ He ground to a halt and looked in apprehension from Gil to Livingstone, who was inflating slowly with anger.

From the door Lowrie said, ‘What’s the lassie’s name, Attie?’

The man turned towards the calm voice with relief.

‘Bess Wilkie, Maister Lowrie, and she’s eighteen year old and comes fro Partick, and she likes serving Maister Fleming in cause of she’s learning all sorts of weaving and how to work wi wool and all sorts, and he’s a good maister,’ the words tumbled out. ‘She’d tell you hersel, maister, I’m sure, or Maister Cunningham, you’ve only to ask the lassie!’

Further questioning gained little more information. Attie had stood at the gate talking to the girl Bess for what had seemed to him a short time, while Alan went to the High Street along the path by the mill-burn and returned with the apothecary’s package tucked in the folds of his plaid.

‘I’m right sure it was the package,’ he said earnestly, ‘you ken the way a potyngar wraps things, that way they have o folding the paper.’

Returning to Canon Aiken’s house they had taken up their position in the outer chamber of their mistress’s apartment, to wait until she should call for them. But the next to enter her chamber had been Annot, and she had found the old woman dead.

‘I’d swear to that,’ he assured them, wringing his bonnet in sweating hands, ‘I’d swear on any bones you set afore me, and the True Cross, and you could take me into St Mungo’s and I’d swear it afore the saint hissel. It’s the truth, maisters.’

‘But why should we believe you now,’ Lowrie asked, ‘when you’ve lied already?’

‘No to mention the delay you’ve caused to learning who killed your mistress,’ said Livingstone, ‘so we canny get her in her coffin. Here, what’s the right story about the other two lads? Where did Billy and Nicol go, tell me that?’

‘I wouldny ken, maister,’ said Attie miserably, ‘for I never saw them till they cam back here and waited along wi Alan and me.’

‘Were you talking about where you’d been?’ Gil asked. ‘Did they say aught about their errand?’

The man stared at him, obviously applying some thought to the question.

‘Aye,’ he said after a moment. ‘They did.’

‘Well?’ prompted Gil.

‘They said it hadny been a pleasure. I mind now,’ he produced, ‘they were saying one they cried Dusty was a right cross-grained fellow, Billy had naught but a sweering off him when he took some word to him, and Nicol said, Aye, the man Campbell was the same.’

Lowrie met Gil’s eyes across the hearth, and said to the servant,

‘That sounds as if they were separate errands.’

‘Aye, it does,’ agreed Attie, in faint surprise.

‘You told us yesterday,’ said Gil, ‘that these men, Nicol and Billy, had been sent to ask when the Campbells would be home.’

‘I did that, maister,’ agreed Attie. ‘That was what she bade them do.’

‘What Campbells are these? Are they the same as the man Campbell that Nicol spoke to?’

Attie shook his head warily.

‘I wouldny ken, maister, it wasny my errand, see, and they never said aught about that, just what I recalled the now. But it seemed to me,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘as if they kent a bit more about it all than I did, when the mistress gied them their orders.’

‘Can you mind what her words were?’ Lowrie asked. ‘Was there any sign they were to go different ways?’

Attie applied more thought, but shook his head.

‘I canny mind, Maister Lowrie,’ he said. ‘All I mind her saying was, You two, go and find out when the Campbells will be back in Glasgow. And she called them a few names and all.’

‘What did she call them?’ Gil asked, wondering if the names might be significant. A signal of some kind, an indication of where the men should go?

Attie looked anxious.

‘Just the same as ever, maister. Billy Blate, Nicol Runsch, ca’d Nicol a useless weed of a fellow and Billy a spiritless fool. None of it true, neither.’

‘I’ve heard her use both those by-names,’ Lowrie said. Gil nodded, discarding the idea, and gestured to Livingstone, who set down his glass and led Attie from the chamber, his expression grim. ‘Where will you go next,’ he asked diffidently.

‘I need a word wi John Sempill,’ said Gil with resignation.

‘Is Eck Livingstone finished wi that parchment yet?’ demanded Sempill. ‘I need it back, Maidie needs to show she’s-’

‘John.’ Magdalen Boyd turned to Gil, closing her book and laying it in her lap. Today she was wearing another gown of undyed wool, this one of light soft brown; it gave her pale skin some warmth. ‘Maister, I’m sure you’ll see, I’d sooner that parchment was back in our keeping, so long as we can be certain the land’s mine.’

‘It’s yours all right, no question!’

‘I’ve no knowledge of the matter,’ Gil said truthfully. ‘I’m here about your godmother’s death.’

‘Nothing to do wi us,’ said Sempill. ‘And if the Living-stones couldny keep the old termagant safe, why should that concern us?’ He glanced at his wife’s expression and swiftly changed attitude. ‘Mind, it’s vexed Maidie. If it’s no an apoplexy, like Eck says, then the sooner you get someone taken up for it the better we’ll like it.’

‘Then someone’s to hang for it,’ said Lady Magdalen quietly. ‘How should that please me, John?’

He looked at her, baffled, and Gil seized the opportunity.

‘Did either of you ever set eyes on her purse of silver?’ he asked.

‘Purse of silver?’ repeated Sempill. ‘What purse? Where did she keep it? No, I never saw sic a thing,’ he added belatedly.

‘Never,’ said Lady Magdalen simply. ‘I knew she was well to do, but we never spake of money, only of land. Is it missing, sir?’

‘It is. What’s more, it’s missing out of her jewel-box, and the rest of the contents left untouched.’

‘That’s all Maidie’s now,’ said Sempill, possessive and inaccurate.

‘Perhaps she gave it to someone herself,’ suggested his wife.

‘Who could she have given it to?’

‘How would we ken what the old beldam was up to in Glasgow?’

‘John.’

Does he know it went missing in Glasgow, thought Gil, or is he simply making an assumption?

‘Maister,’ said Lady Magdalen, turning her gentle smile on Gil, ‘I wasny close to my godmother, but I held her in regard. She met a sorry end, and I’d like to ken why, and see the miscreant given time to repent. We’ll help any way we can, the both of us.’

‘It would help if I could speak wi the two of you separately,’ Gil said. She looked at him attentively, but said,

‘I’ve no secrets from my husband, sir. Ask what you will of me, then I’ll leave you and John thegither.’

‘I’ve no secrets either,’ began Sempill. She put a hand on his wrist.

‘You can speak plainer without me, I’ve no doubt,’ she said.

Nor have I, thought Gil. In fact he had little to ask Lady Magdalen, and she had less to tell him. They had met in Glasgow three days since at Dame Isabella’s instigation, and the old woman had learned only then of the plan to disinherit small John in exchange for the two plots on the Drygate.

‘I think she only thought of bargaining with you after that,’ said Lady Magdalen. ‘She’d promised me the other property in Strathblane more than once.’

‘Aye, she had,’ muttered Sempill.

‘I think she aye intended I’d get that and your sister would get the one by Carluke. I suppose she’s maybe settled it all in her will.’

‘Have you inspected either property?’ Gil asked. She shook her head, the dark wool of her veil swinging by her jaw.

‘The rents come in on time, no need to worry the tenants. John sees to all for me.’

Gil glanced at Sempill, who tucked his thumbs in the armholes of his leather doublet and looked back rather defiantly.

‘And one other thing. Yesterday after I left you, when I was inspecting the toft on the Drygate, I was struck down and thrown in the Molendinar.’

Sempill guffawed.

‘I heard about that. And rescued birk-naked fro the bawdy-house, weren’t you!’

‘A dreadful thing,’ said Lady Magdalen, and her husband subsided. ‘I hope you took no lasting harm, maister?’

‘I’ll live,’ he said. ‘Have you any idea what they might be up to, that they took exception to a stranger?’

‘They’re half of them wild Ersche on that toft,’ said Sempill. ‘No saying what they’ll take exception to. Was you robbed? I’d take it on and double the rents if I was you.’

‘I don’t know why they would attack you, maister,’ said Lady Magdalen. ‘I was shocked when I heard of it. Young Lowrie, that was waiting on my godmother, he told me of it when we,’ she bent her head, ‘when we went to pay our respects.’

Sempill crossed himself in a perfunctory way, then looked quickly at his wife. She was smiling sadly at Gil.

‘If that’s all you’ve to ask me, sir,’ she prompted. He rose politely, and she made her farewells and left, her feet sounding lightly on the stair. Gil sat down again and looked at Sempill, who had not moved.

‘Well, John,’ he said. The other man eyed him warily. ‘Tell me where you went yesterday morning, then.’

‘I went to see,’ began Sempill, and stopped as the thought quite visibly reached him that Gil must have spoken to the Livingstone household. ‘Nothing to do wi you,’ he finished.

‘Well,’ said Gil, ‘you said you went to see Dame Isabella, you didny see her that morning, and now she’s dead. What’s more,’ he persisted as Sempill opened his mouth, ‘I ken fine you had words wi her the night before through her window, and she threatened you. So where did you go yesterday? Did you set out to find someone who’d nail her for you?’

‘If you ken so much,’ said Sempill, ‘you can find out for — no, I never did!’

‘You’d not rather tell me your version first?’ Gil suggested.

‘It’s none o your business. What’s it to do wi the matter, any road?’

‘So it was you that hired someone to kill her, then?’

‘I never said any such thing!’

‘And what was it she threatened to tell your wife? What have you been at, John?’

‘I’ve done naught against the law!’ Sempill said, bristling. ‘Just because I disobliged the old witch, she was threatening to tattle to — any road, it’s naught to do wi her death, I tell you!’

‘So where were you, if it’s that harmless?’

‘Nowhere you need to ken.’

‘The bawdy-house?’

‘No! I’ve no need to frequent sic places now,’ said Sempill, making a recovery, ‘no like some of us.’

‘And Lady Magdalen kens all about Euphemia, does she?’ Two could play that game.

‘Aye, she does!’

‘Well, was it the other toft, the next one?’ Gil persisted, unconvinced.

‘What would I go there for?’

‘And what about these two properties in Strathblane? What are they like, anyway?’

‘As to that,’ said Sempill disobligingly, ‘you can ask at Eck Livingstone, seeing he made claim to them both. Likely he kens the tenants’ birthdays and all.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Gil. ‘And I’ll be back, when I’ve other questions. You’ve been a great help, John.’ He got to his feet, enjoying the faint look of alarm on Sempill’s face. ‘Oh, one other thing. You mind those two gallowglasses you had working for you? Neil and Euan Campbell, I think their names were. Have you seen aught of them lately?’

‘Them?’ Sempill studied the question with suspicion.

‘Them. It was Euan brought me the boy’s keep at the quarter-day, so I ken you’ve seen him at least this year.’

‘Aye, so he did. No, I haveny seen them since then. They’re not working for me, any road, just I saw Euan and I kent he would find you. He was glad enough for a bit extra work.’

‘What were they doing when you saw Euan? Who are they working for, if it’s not yoursel?’

Sempill shrugged.

‘I didny ask,’ he said.

‘You’d no need to,’ said his cousin Philip, coming into the hall from the screens passage. ‘They were under your hand, coming and going for Dame Isabella.’

‘Oh, so they were,’ said Sempill, glaring at him. ‘But mostly they were going, which is why I’d forgot.’

‘For Dame Isabella?’ Gil repeated in surprise. So were those the Campbells that her men were to ask after, he wondered. And yet Attie did not seem to know them. ‘Going where?’

‘No idea,’ said Sempill. ‘And now if you’re about done, Gil Cunningham, I’ll see you out of my cousin’s house.’

‘No need to trouble,’ said Philip, ‘I’ll do that.’ He waited politely for Gil to step out of the front door and followed him down the fore-stair. Pausing at its foot he said conventionally, ‘A bad business this.’

‘Very,’ said Gil.

‘You won’t have had a chance to look at the land in Strathblane? The one that might go to your sister?’ Gil looked at him, startled, and Philip caught himself up and went on, ‘No, that’s daft, it’ll never happen now. Unless the old lady made a will, I suppose.’

‘Not the portion out by Carluke?’

‘There’s no argument about Isabella’s right to that,’ Philip said, ‘no other interest in it, and it’s been in her family for years, or so she said. Whereas the other patch, well …’

‘You think an inspection would be worthwhile. Why?’

‘I just wondered about it. It seems to be gey profitable, it’s remarkable that the old dame would let it out her hands.’

Their eyes met. Then Philip glanced away, up at the sky, and shook himself.

‘No point standing out here in the drizzle,’ he said. ‘Will you be at the quest? It’s called for the morn after Terce.’

‘I suspect he is right,’ said Alys, her eyes on Jennet and Nancy who were were folding the cloth from the long board. ‘How far is it? Can you be back in a day?’

‘No more than twelve miles,’ Gil answered, ‘and sixteen hours of daylight. I should think so, unless I find something untoward out there.’ He dipped his hands in the basin placed ready near the door, and reached for the towel. ‘I could go tomorrow, rather than hear the quest on Dame Isabella, but there are still questions I need to ask in Glasgow. The morning’s lasted longer than I intended.’

‘I’ll be at the quest, never fear,’ announced Ealasaidh from the hearth, where she was watching small John playing with his wooden horse. ‘I can bring you word of what’s said, and maybe I can be translating for Forveleth nic Muirteach, too, if need be. Will you be going to hear it, lassie?’ she asked Alys.

‘I will.’ Alys stepped back as another maidservant emerged from the kitchen stair with a laden tray. ‘Set it yonder on the small table, Annis. He can serve himself.’ She lifted the small salt down from the cupboard, checked to see how full it was, and gestured at the stool drawn up to the table. ‘Come and eat, Gil. The Provost will not reveal all he knows, I suspect, though the Serjeant might. Did you speak to the woman Annot?’

‘I did,’ he said, seating himself obediently, ‘before I left Livingstone’s house. She described the missing purse for me, blue velvet with gold braid and a tassel. I asked her how she kent it was silver in it, if she wasny allowed to touch it, and she admitted to having looked one time.’

‘Did she count it?’

‘Near twenty-eight merks, all in threepenny pieces.’

‘That was a good look,’ said Ealasaidh darkly. Alys threw her a quick smile, but said,

‘More of the false coin, do you think?’

‘I’d be surprised if it wasn’t, at this rate,’ Gil agreed. ‘What puzzles me is, where was she getting it? Sweetheart, this is more than I deserve, after missing dinner.’

‘Is it enough?’ She came to put her hand on his shoulder. He bent his head to rub his cheek against her fingers, and saw a flicker of something bitter cross Ealasaidh’s face; then Alys spoke again, and it was gone. ‘What are the questions you need to ask? Can I help?’

‘You can,’ he admitted. ‘I think you might get more from Annot than I have been able to learn, maybe even from the other woman if the Serjeant would let you near her. I’ve still questions for Otterburn and the men who searched Clerk’s Land last night, and I want to go back there myself.’

She looked down at him in alarm.

‘Take my father, or at least take a couple of Otterburn’s men,’ she said.

‘Take me where?’ asked Maistre Pierre, stepping into the hall from the courtyard. ‘We have a loose tile above the drawing-loft, Alys. Ah, Gilbert, what progress do you make? What did you learn of this woman who is taken up for it?’

‘She never did it,’ said Ealasaidh firmly. ‘I am as certain as I am of my life. My brother bade me tell you the same, before he left for Dumbarton. He is still talking of deceit and falsehood and a false face. And she spoke the truth,’ she added, ‘when she said she had no knowledge of the sack of money.’

‘You think?’ said Gil, spooning raisin sauce over the turnips on his plate. Since this had been his own conclusion he merely went on, ‘And did she know the folk on the toft? Was she telling the truth when she said she was just passing through?’

‘Of that I have no knowledge,’ admitted Ealasaidh, her dark brows drawing together. ‘Not all she spoke was truth. She is more frightened than she appears.’

‘She’d be a fool otherwise,’ Gil said. ‘Pierre, are you busy? Could you spare me the rest of the afternoon?’

Maistre Pierre, on hearing what Gil’s errand was, enlisted Luke’s presence as a further bodyguard, and all three walked up the High Street, the dog at Gil’s heels, past houses and pends where working people were just stepping out into the afternoon drizzle to return to whatever task earned their daily kale. At the Castle Socrates raised his head to sniff at the strong smell of boiling stockfish which drifted from the buttery; the same air had found its way into Otterburn’s chamber, where it mixed badly with the spices he had cast on the brazier.

‘Put you off your supper, it would,’ he complained, holding a pomander under his long nose. ‘Never could stand the smell o stockfish. What did they find yestreen? Apart from the woman wi two names, you mean? See us your notes, Walter.’

His clerk searched briefly in one of the trays at his end of the table, and passed over a sheet of paper. Otterburn turned it for Gil to read.

‘Three households and an extra workshop, as you can see, one house holds a single man working his lone, two wi married men though only the whitesmith keeps a journeyman. Whom my lads lifted on suspicion o theft, though we had to let him go, his maister swore he’d given the fellow the stuff himsel, no that I believed him. Also one fine for a fire too close to the thatch, same household, which got us a few curses so Andro said but at least they moved the fire down the yard a piece.’

‘A fire in the open yard? What did they burn?’ Maistre Pierre asked.

‘Wood scraps, shavings, some old rags, a hantle kale stalks. Stink and smoke and no great heat, so Andro said.’

‘And that’s the lot.’ Gil was studying the page of neat writing. ‘They never looked at the workshop, and not at the hammermen’s graith either, I suppose? What mells they have, what other kind of tools? Were they looking for coin, or silver, or the like?’

‘No, it was just the usual,’ said Otterburn. ‘Checking there was a fire-cover to every hearth, counting the windows, frightening the weans. Here, are you thinking it was someone from Clerk’s Land nailed the woman Torrance?’

‘Not entirely, though it could ha been,’ said Gil. ‘Then again, it could ha been anyone in the burgh, by what I can make out. Has the Erschewoman been questioned again?’

‘Aye, wi my own interpreter,’ said Otterburn, ‘no that it made any odds, she lied like the wife of Ananias, or else she claimed she couldny mind.’

‘I’d like to know where she was all day,’ said Gil. ‘It might lead us to the missing servants.’ He turned the paper round and passed it back to Otterburn. ‘We’ll away and question them on Clerk’s Land again, see if we can find out why they assaulted me.’

‘See if you can provoke an effusion of blood this time,’ recommended Otterburn, ‘then we can take the whole lot up.’