The Fourth Crow

Chapter Thirteen

‘I’d looked for you afore Terce,’ said Otterburn. ‘What’s all this at St Catherine’s? It’s got St Mungo’s going like a spilled byke. I’ve had the Dean sending to me afore I’d broke my fast, bidding me find the murderer by this afternoon, and a special despatch from my lord, the Stirling road must ha grooves in it by now, and you nowhere to be found.’ He pulled a sheet of paper towards him and unfolded it, to display a passage of William Dunbar’s neat secretary hand, with Blacader’s crabbed signature below it. ‘He’s to be in Glasgow this afternoon for the same meeting I’ve to find the murderer for, Christ aid us, and then he’ll pronounce the anathema and see to the reconsecration at the hostel. The most o that’s St Mungo’s concern, I hope he’s sent to the Dean as well, and our folk here ken how to prepare for my lord, but he’s expecting the King to follow him, which is no so good. Where were you, any road? Sit there and gie me your tale, and I hope it’s a good one.’

‘I was down at the shore.’ Gil drew up the stool the Provost indicated. Socrates sprawled across his feet with an ostentatious sigh. ‘Getting a word wi Stockfish Tam. Can you lend me three-four men the night? We might take the St Mungo’s thief if we’re careful.’

‘Oh, is that what you’ve been at? Aye, likely. That would be a good thing, and something to silence the Dean. We’ll get a word wi Andro about that directly. First let me hear about St Catherine’s. It’s a bad business, this, Cunningham. The woman’s lying in my storeroom, waiting till I call a quest on her. The family wants to get her in the ground, and I want to get her out my lord’s way.’

Gil summarised what he had found at the hostel. Lockhart listened attentively, his long gloomy face becoming even gloomier.

‘Inside or outside?’ he said at last.

‘Outside, I suspect,’ Gil admitted, ‘which is tiresome. It would be simpler by far if I thought one of the household was responsible, but they all speak for one another.’

‘Do they now?’

‘I think it’s genuine,’ said Gil. ‘The lassies in particular are too foolish to take their part in a plot.’

‘So who is there outside?’

Gil shrugged.

‘I’d ha said the Muirs were a good choice, but Henry tells me they were talking wi Canon Muir all evening till well after the time she died. Will Craigie’s another, but he seemed as shocked as any o the clergy by where she was killed, as well as being right squeamish over how it happened. Someone must ha come into the hostel, but who it was I canny guess.’

‘And nobody heard this door go? This door that makes an almighty thump when it closes?’

‘Door.’ Gil stared at the Provost, his mouth falling open. Closing it, he shook his head. ‘That was it. That was certainly it. Something was troubling me last night, something out of frame, you ken? We were standing in the yard at St Catherine’s, and the door was going like a weaver’s shuttle, and never a thump or a bang to be heard.’

‘So anybody could ha been in and out of the hostel at any time,’ said Otterburn intelligently.

‘I’d say so.’

‘I’ve had a look at her — this latest corp. Seems to me someone lost their heid wi her,’ Otterburn said, playing with one of the seals on his desk. ‘Had she other acquaintance in Glasgow?’

‘I need to establish that the day, no to mention what else she was up to, what her intentions were concerning Annie. I suspect she believed the girl was hiding somewhere and would turn up again unharmed, whatever she said when she spoke to me.’

‘It’s my belief and all,’ Otterburn admitted. ‘The lassie must ha had accomplices, they’ve carried her off somewhere secure.’ He set the seal down on the desk with a click. ‘Where will you hunt next? We’re short o time, Cunningham, you realise that I hope.’

‘I might call on my uncle,’ said Gil. ‘He’ll take offence if I don’t keep him abreast of the tale anyway, and he might have useful information.’

‘I heard it was well chewed through at Chapter this morning,’ said Otterburn obliquely. ‘No to mention this special session, this afternoon.’ You’re well informed, thought Gil without surprise. ‘Now what’s this about down the shore? What’s Stockfish Tam up to now?’

Stepping in at the kitchen door of Canon Cunningham’s house stone house on Rottenrow, Gil found his uncle’s housekeeper Maggie Baxter inspecting a vast sausage which she had just hauled dripping from its cauldron of broth. Several other members of the household stood about the kitchen table admiring the object on its platter and savouring its rich aroma. Shining pools of fat gathered about it, reflecting the firelight.

‘Aye, it’s done,’ pronounced Maggie. ‘Away up the stair and set the table. Is that you, Maister Gil? Set another place, Matt.’

Canon Cunningham’s taciturn body-servant raised a hand in acknowledgement as he turned towards the stair. Gil made for Maggie and kissed her broad red cheek in greeting.

‘Away wi you,’ she said, elbowing him off. ‘How are you, Maister Gil? How’s Mistress Alys? Away wi you and all,’ she added to Socrates. ‘Here, William, cut me a crust for the big dog, there’s a good laddie.’

‘She’s well.’ Gil watched as the kitchen boy obeyed, and signalled to his dog to accept the offered hunk of bread. ‘That’s a magnificent pudding, Maggie, but will it go round one more? I could do wi a word wi the old man.’

‘Aye, there’s plenty kale to sup wi it. What, is it about this business at St Catherine’s? I should think so. He’s right put out you haveny been round afore now asking his advice.’

This proved to be true. Once Grace had been said and the pudding cut into rich, spicy portions, the whole matter of the three deaths and Annie Gibb’s disappearance had to be gone over, in minute detail, before Canon Cunningham was mollified. Conversation down the table was stilled while the whole household, Maggie, Matt and the other servants, listened avidly to Gil’s account.

‘A very bad business,’ said the Canon when it was ended. He set his spoon neatly in his bowl. ‘Indeed, it amounts to a series of attacks on Holy Kirk itsel. Chapter was extremely difficult this morning, even without taking the matter of the sacrilege at St Catherine’s.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Gil. His uncle shot him a sharp look, but went on,

‘But are all these separate? We have,’ he enumerated on long fingers, ‘theft from the Almoner’s stores, apparently by one of St Mungo’s own servants, and the death of the same servant somewhere about the Cathedral lands. We have the loosing of a supplicant to St Mungo, a very dangerous matter, and her replacement by a dead whore. Whatever the Dean thinks of that form of supplication,’ he added, in a tone which gave some insight into the way in which Chapter had been difficult, ‘these are both serious offences. And finally, and worst of all, we have a woman, whom we can assume to have been defenceless, done to death by violence in a consecrated place. These are all crimes against Holy Kirk, but are they separate crimes, or all part of one campaign?’

The conversation further down the board had turned to an argument about whether the procedure required at St Catherine’s was exorcism or not, and Gil realised that his uncle had switched to Latin.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ he answered, in the same language. ‘I had assumed they are separate, because I see no way in which they are all connected, other than in time. That is, they have all happened in the past-’ He stopped in amazement. ‘The past two days. They may be connected, but I don’t see how.’

His uncle considered the empty platter before him for a time, then said,

‘The man Barnabas was presumably killed by his accomplice.’

‘My thought too.’

‘But who was that?’

‘I suspect it was one of the songmen, but I have no way of knowing which. They all live beyond their means, and all those I have spoken to were indignant about the theft from their stores as well as from the Almoner’s. I don’t even know for certain where the man was killed.’

Canon Cunningham nodded, his lean face below the black felt coif still intent on the congealed fat on the platter.

‘And the St Mungo’s Cross matter,’ he said. ‘How are Steenie Muir’s young kinsmen involved? Poor fellow, he is much distressed by the events at St Catherine’s, feeling he is in some way responsible for the death of the woman.’ His tone spoke volumes about the idea. ‘I remember his cousin Dandy, the father of these boys, who was a wild fellow in his youth. I believe Steenie had hopes that one of them might wed the missing woman.’

‘That appears to be so,’ Gil agreed. ‘Will Craigie the song-man has been promoting the match. I believe there is some agreement to mutual profit if it goes ahead.’

‘I can well believe it,’ said his uncle. ‘I have observed that William is perennially short of funds, and for good cause.’

Gil waited a moment, but when the Canon said no more he went on, ‘I do not think the brothers abducted Annie themselves, though I suppose they could have ordered it done. Canon Muir tells me he saw them to bed in person, after spending the evening talking with them.’

His uncle surveyed him with an eye as grey as St Columba’s.

‘Steenie Muir,’ he said with care, ‘fell asleep in Chapter this morning, in the midst of the discussion of the matter. The Dean was explaining to us how we felt about the custom when he began snoring. If he can sleep through the Dean explaining something on which he feels strongly, he can sleep through two young men leaving the house to go drinking.’

‘Oh,’ said Gil, and felt the case shift round him like ice on a half-thawed pond. ‘Oh!’

‘Precisely,’ said Canon Cunningham. He glanced at the windows. ‘Here, is that the time?’ he said in Scots. ‘I’ll be late for Chapter. You ken Robert Blacader’s to be there?’

‘His first outriders were arriving as I left the Castle,’ Gil began, and was interrupted by a furious knocking at the house door.

‘Maister Cunningham!’ a voice was shouting. ‘Are you there, Maister Cunningham? That lassie’s turned up! The stinking lassie’s come home!’

‘We sent straight to the Provost from here,’ said Alys. She tucked one hand into Gil’s, and stroked Socrates’ head with the other. ‘He must have sent his man out direct to find you. I wish you had seen them,’ she admitted, watching the Shaw household reunited on the other side of the hostel dining hall. ‘You’d be in no doubt but they were pleased to see her. Look at them now.’

Gil nodded. It had begun to rain again, heavy drops rattling on the shutters and the horn upper panes of the hall windows, but the mood inside was sunny. Even Lockhart was smiling, and looked as if a part of his burden had been lifted. His sisters-in-law were still almost hysterical with relief and delight, and Annie Gibb herself, in her ill-fitting borrowed garments, clearly felt this was a homecoming. The woman Meggot was mopping at her eyes with the tail of her linen headdress, the serving men were grinning, and Sir Simon, summoned from his darker considerations, was reciting a Te Deum before the crucifix. Well, he could hardly go into the chapel to give thanks, Gil thought grimly, and was startled to recognise their own maidservant Jennet at Meggot’s elbow, part of the rejoicing.

‘Has the doctor been told?’ he asked. ‘Can he leave his patient?’

‘Not yet,’ Alys said. ‘That is, he knows, and he came to the door of the men’s hall and spoke, but he is waiting until Sir Edward sleeps a little before he comes away. I think they are very much in love,’ she added.

‘What, Sir Edward and-’

‘No!’ She was laughing, realising he was teasing her. ‘Annie and her doctor. They hardly spoke, only looked, and then she came away.’

‘And you tell me he knew where she was?’ Gil reviewed the several conversations he had had with Doctor Januar. ‘Aye, he never lied to me, he simply concealed the truth.’

‘And when I spoke to him too,’ she agreed.

Behind them the door of the dining hall opened. Annie broke off what she was saying and turned; Doctor Januar smiled at her, faintly, reassuringly, and bowed to Gil.

‘I think you must have questions for me,’ he said. ‘I’ll take Annie to my patient, and come back here.’

By the time he returned, Lockhart was in low-voiced colloquy with Sir Simon and Alys was caught in conversation with the girls. Gil drew the man to a seat at one of the long tables, looking hard at his face. Sir Edward’s deathbed was clearly an ordeal for those who watched with him as well; the blue eyes were shadowed and heavy with disquietude.

‘I’ll apologise first, before I say anything else,’ said the doctor, and once again Gil realised he was staring. ‘Her location had to be a secret. If Dame Ellen had guessed that any of us knew where she was-’

‘I understand,’ Gil said, ‘though the Provost may take a different view. I imagine he’d have been round here by now in person, if he hadny to deal wi Robert Blacader.’ He thought for a moment, and said carefully, ‘I need to know what you saw or heard when you went out of here that night. Annie has told my wife what she knows, which is little enough. What’s your version?’

‘My version.’ Doctor Januar considered for a moment in his turn. ‘I left this place about midnight.’

‘Hold hard,’ said Gil. ‘Lockhart and the others were certain nobody had left the men’s hall.’

‘I made certain they slept soundly,’ said the doctor simply. ‘As well as my patient. I left about midnight, and made my way down this street here.’ He waved a narrow, elegant hand towards the hostel gate. ‘I may tell you, magister, that the door does not make a loud noise, or at least it did not when I closed it on my return.’ He frowned, and turned the blue gaze on Gil. ‘That is curious. It slammed behind me when I left, though I tried to close it quietly, but not when I returned. I had not thought of that before.’

‘Did it, now,’ said Gil. ‘It was quiet last night. I wonder if it has been greased recently. Go on.’

‘A little way down the street, I fell over a dead woman.’

‘How dead? I mean, how long had she been dead?’

‘She had barely begun to stiffen about the neck and jaw. I could still determine her neck was broken.’ Doctor Januar bent his head. ‘I am not proud of what I did next. It occurred to me that this poor soul could give us some time, that if Annie’s men-’

‘Yes, I know that bit. So you took her along with you. In a sense,’ Gil admitted, ‘you did her a favour, for it meant her death came to my attention. I haven’t yet tracked her killer, but I hope we’ll find justice for her. There was nobody about when you found her?’

‘Nobody. The place was silent, save for an owl over by the Cathedral.’

‘And you heard nothing stirring when you came back with Annie?’

‘We heard and saw one man,’ said the doctor precisely, ‘with a handcart.’

‘Ah! Where was he?’

‘He came out of Rottenrow, I think you call it, and wheeled the thing towards St Mungo’s.’ Januar grimaced. ‘We had hidden in the same shadow where I found the dead woman, and he did not see us. I heard him go in at a gate, and then a door opened and closed, and I heard the wheels no longer. It was dead of night, every sound carried.’

‘And that was all you heard.’

‘All I heard. Except-’ He paused, and bit his lip. ‘I’m not certain, you understand. I was weary. I thought I was weary,’ he corrected himself, ‘though now I know I am. When I came away from the house where I left Annie, it seemed to me something stirred, away down the street. I waited, and listened, but nothing more moved.’

‘A cat, maybe? A fox?’

Januar considered this, but shook his head.

‘Something man sized. I think I was not the only one out in the burgh that night.’

‘Will you come out and show me where you found the body?’

‘Indeed,’ said the doctor. ‘I am glad to do something for her. She has been on my conscience. She was one of the women of the town, I take it? One of the town harlots?’

‘She was.’

‘I thought so. I could smell the clap on her.’

‘Smell it?’ Gil repeated involuntarily, holding the hostel door open for his companion. ‘Wait a moment. I wanted to check these hinges.’

He leaned into the shadows behind the door and sniffed cautiously at the uppermost hinge. Socrates came back in from the street to see what he was doing, and snuffled curiously at the lower one. There was the odour of ancient wood and rust, and over it, quite certainly, mutton fat. Gil touched a finger to the iron loop and pin, and inspected more closely. There was fat smeared on the metal, recently enough not to have turned rancid.

‘I’m agreed,’ said Januar, sniffing with equal caution.

‘So the hinges have been greased,’ Gil said. ‘I wonder who by? I need to check with Bessie and her man.’ He stepped out into the street. ‘You were saying you could smell the clap on the dead woman.’

‘Oh, yes. The discharge has a very characteristic odour in the female subject. In the male, because of the difference in the way he is clothed, it is less apparent. Often the most prominent symptom to the onlooker is the choleric temper, which can go to extremes.’

‘A choleric temper,’ Gil said, aware that he was repeating things again.

‘Indeed. In the later stages of the disease it can give rise to uncontrollable rages.’ Januar paused, pointing at the wall of St Serf’s almshouse, below the chapel window. ‘I found her about here. I cannot be certain, but I think this was the gable. She lay with her head against it and her legs across the path, as if she was flung there and so broke her neck.’

‘Hmm,’ said Gil. ‘No chance anyone heard anything, the almshouse brothers would all have retired for the night by the time she died.’

‘I would say so,’ agreed Januar. Gil looked about him, considering the distance from the Girth Cross to where they stood. Socrates joined them, carefully quartering the area they were looking at. ‘She was in deep shadow,’ the doctor added. ‘That was why I fell over her.’

‘Aye, the moon was throwing strong shadows.’ Gil turned, to set off back to St Catherine’s. ‘My thanks, Doctor. You’ve given me a deal to think about.’

‘The Canon’s no here, Maister Cunningham,’ said Canon Muir’s servant. ‘He’s away to this special meeting o the Chapter, ye ken. It’ll likely be a while.’

‘No matter,’ said Gil easily. ‘It was just to confirm a couple o things, you’ll likely be able to tell me just as well.’

‘Me, maister?’ said the man dubiously. ‘I’m no privy to the Canon’s business, it’s no my place to tell things.’ He glanced over his shoulder, into the house. ‘And I’ve the Canon’s dinner to get, I’ve no time to-’

‘I’m happy enough in a kitchen,’ Gil assured him. ‘I’ll sit by while you work, so long as you can answer me.’

Reluctantly persuaded, the man led Gil through the dark entry of the house into a large, vaulted kitchen. Light from high narrow windows showed kists and presses, two broad dusty tables, a charcoal range with no fire in it, a wide hearth where another man rose, startled, doffing his cap to the stranger.

‘Here’s Nory, that’s servant to our guests,’ said Canon Muir’s man. ‘This is Canon Cunningham’s nevvy from across the way, Nory, that’s hunting down the lassie missing from the Cross that your maisters is hoping to wed wi.’ He caught up a basket of vegetables, a knife, a chopping-board, and drew another stool to the hearth. ‘Hae a seat, maister, and ask away, and you’ll forgive me if I get on wi my tasks like you said I should.’

Gil sat down, the dog leaning against his leg. The servant’s own name, he suddenly recalled, was William. He was elderly, though not as old as his master, and clearly set in his ways. Maggie would give a lot for a kitchen the size of this, he thought, and so would his own household, but here was this fellow ignoring its conveniences, chopping roots on a board on his knee, tossing them into a stewpot on the hearth.

‘And you’re caught up in the business at the hostel, aren’t you no, maister?’ William added. ‘What was it happened last night? The Canon was right distressed when he cam home, could gie me no sensible account o the matter. Was it the Deil himsel slew the woman right enough?’

‘What, in a chapel?’ said Nory derisively. ‘What did slay her, maister?’

Resignedly, Gil gave them as concise an account as he might of events at the hostel, while Socrates grew bored and lay down with his nose on his paws. They listened avidly, exclaiming in shock, and agreed that this was certain to have upset Canon Muir right bad, seeing as he was patron of the place. Eventually William recalled Gil’s stated errand.

‘Here we’re channering on about this, and you wi matters to see to, maister. What was it you wanted to ken?’

He arranged his ideas, and said carefully,

‘The night you and your maisters arrived in Glasgow, Nory.’ Both men nodded. ‘When did the household retire for the night? What time did the bar go on the door?’

The two looked at one another.

‘Couple hours afore midnight,’ said William definitely. ‘That’s when I aye put the bar up. The Canon doesny like it to be later.’

‘Was later than that,’ demurred Nory, ‘for my maisters was out in the town, you mind, it was well after midnight afore they cam in, I’d to get up and see them to their bed.’

‘I thought Canon Muir said he was still up when they came in,’ Gil said.

‘Oh, aye,’ said William. ‘He’d be asleep in his chair wi his mouth open, the sowl, thinking he was at his prayers or his books. He aye spends his evenings like that these days, maister. He wakened up when they cam in, which you’re right, Nory, it was after midnight, it must ha been well after it when I put the bar up. Then he seen them to their beds and gied them his blessing, and then Nory had to get them out their fine clothes and put young Henry’s shirt in the soak. That was never ale, Nory, was it?’

‘No,’ said Nory baldly. He was a skinny man, older than his charges though much younger than William, neatly and plainly dressed in dark blue.

‘I’d never let the Canon wear a shirt like that where he was going to get in a fight,’ said William, provoking a series of startling images in Gil’s head.

‘You think I’d argue wi them? Henry wears what he wants,’ Nory said. ‘The good broidered shirt, the high-necked doublet, he calls for it and I find it in his kist, and the same for Austin, if I value my skin.’

‘How’s his neck healing? Did that popilio unguent I gied you never work for it?’

‘No,’ said Nory again. ‘It’s right angry. Likely that collar’s rubbing it, no to mention getting the grease off the unguent all ower the lining. If I could persuade him to sit wi a hot cloth, it would maybe draw it, but he’ll no listen.’

‘It must be hard work,’ said Gil at a venture, ‘keeping garments as fine as those two wear. I’ve never had a man to tend my garments, not since I left my mother’s house, my wife sees to all. What’s involved?’

Nory gave him a quick, disparaging look which encompassed his well-worn black doublet and hose and the unfashionable sleeves of his good cloth gown.

‘Aye,’ he said inscrutably. ‘Well, it’s to keep them clean, which is no easy when your maisters is as careless wi their garments, and brush them to keep the moth away, and sew the braid back on when it gets torn off, and see their linen gets washed when needed, and-’

‘Tell him about that satin gown,’ urged William, casting another handful of chopped leaves into the pot.

‘He’s no needing to hear about the satin gown.’

‘Difficult to clean, was it?’ Gil suggested. ‘When was this?’

‘Just last night,’ said William chattily. ‘That bonnie sad red satin gown he had on, Deil alone kens what he was at wi it, for it cam home stained and stiffened, and I think he’s spilled Geneva spirits all down it forbye, did you no say, Nory?’

‘It’s no sad red, it’s marron coloured,’ said Nory.

‘Satin?’ said Gil, thinking of remarks he had heard his sisters make. ‘How do you clean satin? You’ll never send that to the wash?’

‘If I’d had it when it was first stained,’ said Nory, ‘I’d ha put oatmeal on it straight, but as it is, well! I’ve cut the braid off it, and put it to soak wi pearlash in the water, but I doubt it will be ruined, there’s as much dye coming out the thing, the water’s like blood already, and the canvas in the breast will shrink, see, and pull it in, and whose blame will it be when it canny be worn? No his, that’s for certain.’

‘Did he come in like that?’ Gil asked. What had Henry been wearing at the pilgrim hostel last night? Not red satin, he thought, or marron coloured either, whatever that was.

‘No, no, he gaed out in the marron satin after his dinner, and they were back an hour or so after, in and out the house like a whirlwind, and when I gaed up to see what they wanted I found this flung on the floor, and the other yin’s murrey velvet and all, though it’s no marked, Christ be thankit, and they’d took other gowns out the kist and gone out again, no thought o whether the colours consorted well or nothing.’

‘May I see it?’ Gil asked. ‘I’d like to ken what colour that is. My wife’s like to ask me,’ he invented, though Nory seemed unsurprised by his interest.

‘It’s in thon bucket,’ said William, adding a pile of shredded leaves to the stewpot. ‘By the wall.’

Nory was already rocking the leather bucket, dragging a quantity of wet dark-red cloth up from its depths. The water running off it was indeed red, though whether with dye or with something more it was hard to tell.

‘Course you canny tell the colour right when it’s wet,’ he said.

Extricating himself from Canon Muir’s kitchen, Gil made his way down Rottenrow, thinking deeply, the dog at his heels. With the facts he had collected today some of what he was investigating began to make more sense, though not all of it could be fitted into the same picture. It was still hard to see how the death of Barnabas was connected to anything else, and he was dubious about the attempt to strangle the dead girl at the Cross, but the rest appeared to follow a pattern. And with what Doctor Januar had told him, he hardly needed to worry himself about a motive, a reason for the deaths.

Both courtyards of the Castle were teeming with pack-animals, men in livery, clerics of all ranks, scurrying hither and yon. On the steps of the Archbishop’s lodging Otterburn, looking as near flustered as Gil had seen him, and Robert Blacader himself, in grim irritation, were surveying the bustle. Behind them the Archbishop’s rat-faced secretary, Maister Dunbar, was making notes in a set of tablets. Blacader’s glance fell on Gil, and he raised a hand and beckoned sharply.

‘Gilbert,’ he said, when Gil had elbowed his way to the foot of the steps. ‘What progress have you made? Have we a name for this grievous sinner yet?’

‘No with any certainty, my lord,’ said Gil, hat in hand, bowing over the proffered ring as he spoke.

‘Hmm.’ Blacader considered this, his heavy blue jowls stilled for a moment. ‘I’m to read the anathema tonight after Vespers. I suppose it can be done without naming him.’

‘That might be a good thing,’ Gil observed. The Archbishop scrutinised him, and nodded.

‘Fetch him out of cover, you mean. Aye, I suppose. We’ll go ahead with Quicunque vehementer percussit, then, whoever violently slew this woman.’ Gil, whose Latin was at least as good as the Archbishop’s, bowed at this and prepared to retreat, but his master gestured to him to remain. ‘Provost, you’ll send the Bellman out, I hope, wi the summons to Vespers and the ensuing. They’ve all to be there, I want as many of the burgh as possible to hear it, we’ll have no doubt what comes to any that desecrate a sacred building.’

‘The Bellman’s gone out already,’ said Otterburn. The Archbishop nodded, and looked about him, gathering up his retinue.

‘Gilbert, I want you wi me the now, I’ll go up to the hostel, St Catherine’s is it, and see the place. Canon Muir’s no fit to make sense, I need someone that kens what’s what. I need to ken whether the place is scrubbed clean, I’m no consecrating blood and brains. And as for St Mungo’s,’ he added, almost as an aside, ‘I canny think what Dean Henderson’s about, a course that chapel needs cleansing. We’ll ha the full process there and all. And this lassie that’s vanished and reappeared, well!’

Gil’s father had been wont to say that the husbandman’s best muck was on his own boots. After an hour of watching the episcopal equivalent of this, Gil was in no doubt, if he ever had been, that Robert Blacader was well fitted to be a prince of the Church.

Striding up past the Castle walls to the hostel at the Archbishop’s elbow, a retinue of secretaries and chaplains hurrying behind them, he had explained as much of the situation as he dared. His master had listened without comment, but when they reached St Catherine’s it was clear he had taken in all that was said. Sir Simon, Lockhart, Doctor Januar, had all been dealt with crisply and effectively, Annie had been confessed and apparently released from her vow of uncleanness on a technical detail of the original wording, her sisters-in-law and the rest of the household had been blessed. Some of the time had been spent at the bedside of the dying man, and the rest had gone on a thorough inspection of the chapel.

‘Cold water, lye, hot water, your grace, my lord,’ Bessie gabbled, bobbing in a sort of curtsy with every word. ‘And I scrubbed and scrubbed it. And the candlestock, cold water and sand, and the hangings pit to soak or burnt, a’ seen to, your grace, my lord-’

‘I can see that,’ said Blacader. ‘You have worked very hard, daughter. Well done.’

Bessie fell on her knees, crossing herself, and Sir Simon observed,

‘Bessie and Attie her man are faithful servants of the hostel, my lord.’

‘You’ll speak to William here,’ the Archbishop said, ‘about what’s needed for the reconsecration. All the moveable furnishings, books, hangings, vestments, all that, to be laid out on trestles for the thurifer. Seating for the deacons. William kens what’s needed.’ Behind him Maister Dunbar nodded resignedly. ‘We’ll sort it the morn’s morn after Sext.’

‘The morn?’ repeated Sir Simon in astonishment. ‘But my lord-’

Maister Dunbar murmured something in his master’s ear.

‘Well, the next day then. We canny leave it longer, the King’s Grace is for the Isles again and all the Court wi him. Which calls me to mind, I’ll want you wi us, Gilbert.’

Turning over this startling news, Gil made now for home and his dinner. His last trip to the Isles in May had been eventful, and had brought him once again to the attention of his King. Another trip could be interesting, though he would probably have to leave Alys at home again; it certainly meant that he had to find out who killed Barnabas, and Peg Simpson, and Dame Ellen Shaw, before he left.

Lowrie was in the hall when he stepped into the house, pulling off his boots while the women set up the table and Euan gathered up plaids and saddlebags to carry upstairs. Catherine had emerged from her chamber in anticipation of the meal. Alys was just pouring ale; seeing Gil she smiled, and reached for another beaker. Socrates padded forward to greet them both, tail waving.

‘Success!’ the young man said. ‘I’ve news aplenty, Maister Gil. But what’s happening in the burgh? What’s the Bellman crying? Did I see the Archbishop’s standard at the Castle?’

‘You did,’ Gil agreed, taking a pull at his ale. ‘Ah, I needed that. There’s been all sorts happening here. I’ve collected a deal of news too, and Alys has found Annie Gibb safe.’

‘Found-?’ Lowrie stared in awe at Alys over his ale. ‘Mistress, I truly believe there is nothing you can’t do. Where was she?’

Over the meal Catherine listened intently as they discussed the return of Annie Gibb, and what Gil had learned from the day, and finally turned to Lowrie’s errand over the second course, a dish of almond tartlets.

‘I found James Bowling easy enough,’ he said. ‘He dwells hard by the Cross, I’d to ask no more than two people afore I found him. He’s forty I suppose, stout burgess prospering well, it’s clear the town supports more than one man of law in good style. I gave him your letter, which he read, and sends greetings, very civilly.’ Gil bent his head in acknowledgement. ‘Then I tellt him the whole tale, as I had it last night a course, and asked could he shed any light on any of it. At which he hummed and hawed a while about confidentiality and the respect of his clients, till I mentioned the Archbishop, and reminded him how much we kent already, whereupon he agreed to answer questions but no to volunteer what wasny asked.’

‘I’d ha done the same, I suppose,’ said Gil.

‘Indeed, it shows a very proper attitude,’ said Catherine in French.

‘By which means I established,’ said Lowrie, nodding at this, ‘that William Craigie is altogether well kent in Ayrshire. It’s not spoken of but widely kent that he was one of a party that burned the kirk o Tarbolton, and a course as a priest he was hit wi a heavy penance for it. He’s to contribute stone for the rebuilding-’

‘The quarry!’ said Alys.

‘Exactly. He was fined coin and all, which he’s paying over a few merks at a time, and has been going the rounds of the men of law in Ayrshire, trying to get one of them to take on his case that he should ha been left the quarry you were asking Maister Mason o last night.’

‘Was it only last night?’ marvelled Gil. ‘Aye, before Attie summoned us to the hostel. Go on, Lowrie. This is extraordinarily useful.’

‘Why should he have been left it?’ Alys wondered. ‘Was there any reason?’

‘There was. Annie’s paternal grandmother was a Craigie. I think the land came to her father that way.’

‘And he claimed to be unrelated to Annie,’ said Gil. ‘Very good. Very useful indeed, Lowrie.’

‘Maistre le notaire, I believe you should go,’ said Catherine, glancing at the windows, ‘if you are to attend Vespers as the Archbishop ordered. I hope to hear an account of what passes.’

‘Did you ask about Annie? Or about the Muirs?’ Gil pushed back his chair, and the rest of the household took its cue to rise and begin clearing the table.

‘I did.’ Lowrie grimaced. ‘Annie’s vow is likewise well kent in the county, and the Muirs are just as notorious. It seems there’s nobody willing to entertain their suit for their daughters. Not either o them.’

The nave of St Mungo’s was crowded, and the people of the burgh were still pouring in by the south door. Gil led his household in and succeeded, by the use of his elbows and Euan’s extra weight, in placing them all sufficiently close to the heavy stone choir screen. Vespers had already begun, and the psalms for the day were floating through the screen; Gil made out both Habbie Sim’s tenor and Will Craigie’s bass.

‘What’s to do, maister?’ Kittock asked behind him. ‘Are we to be kept late? For my knees isny up to a long stand.’

Vespers wound to its close. Galston and the foolish Robert led the procession, in its full panoply of brocade vestments and gleaming metalwork, out through the choir screen and down the steps into the nave. The congregation in the knave knelt with a mighty susurration as the Archbishop passed, led by crucifer, lucifers, thurifer. The thurifer’s censer swung, spreading the ticklish smoke. The choir, following, divided left and right and took up position on the steps, while the two vergers led the procession of clergy away into the narrow north transept towards the vestry. On the steps the Sub-Chanter gave out a note, and the choir launched into one of the penitential psalms.

Gil looked about him. The Provost was nearby, with a small detachment of his men; they had left their weapons in the porch, of course, but their buff jerkins were conspicuous. Midway down the nave he could see Sir Simon and the party from the pilgrim hostel, and Maistre Pierre was easy to pick out even in this crowd. (Does Pierre know yet? he wondered. No, I must not be distracted.) He went on searching, and made out the Muir brothers by one of the pillars, and a number of off-duty vergers by another. Distantly down the nave he could see Peg Simpson’s man, the porter Billy Baird.

The choir embarked on another psalm, and the procession returned. Once again the processional cross, the two candles on their long bearing-poles, the smoking censer went past; they must have replenished the censer, Gil thought. A junior cleric bore a bell, another held a smaller candle, the Gospel returned on its cushion. But behind them came the clergy, stripped of their brocades and embroidered vestments, robed in black and purple as if it was Lent. A murmur ran through the crowd. Archbishop Blacader, the Dean, the Chanter, Canon Cunningham, Canon Muir — Gil counted twelve high-ranking priests following the archbishop up onto the platform before the choirscreen.

Blacader turned and faced the crowd. The choir found the end of the psalm, and stopped. Without preamble, the Archbishop began to speak in Latin.

‘Quicunque vehementer percussit,’ he declaimed, in a voice which carried effortlessly to the far corners of the nave, ‘whomsoever violently slew the woman Ellen Shaw in the chapel dedicated to St Catherine, desecrating its stones with her blood: let him be separate, with his accomplices, from the precious body and blood of our Lord and from the society of all Christians. We declare him excommunicate and anathema, we judge him damned. ’

As the weighty sentences rolled on, the heavy delivery and emphatic tone leaving their intent unmistakable, Gil looked about the church again. Otterburn, solemn but alert; the group of vergers long faced. Townsfolk frowning intently, trying to recognise the Latin words, one or two translating for neighbours. Many were crossing themselves, alarmed by the portentous recital. The clergy flanking Blacader watched impassively, their mourning robes in heavy dark folds, the ends of all their purple stoles stirring in the draught. Covered all over in purple and pall, Gil thought.

Blacader had switched to Scots.

‘Let him be damnit wi the condamnit, let him be scourgit wi the ingrate, let him perish wi the proud. Let him be accursit wi the heretics. Let him be accursit wi the blasphemer. Let him be-’

On and on it went. Accursed in drinking, accursed in eating, accursed in sitting, accursed in standing. Gil could see his father-in-law frowning, Lockhart and his entourage of women crossing themselves. Some people were sobbing aloud.

‘- saving only if he repent and mak amends,’ concluded the Archbishop. Gil counted silently, one, two, and all twelve of the black-robed priests stirred and said in deep unison,

‘Fiat!’ So be it.

Blacader reached out and took the bell, and tolled it once. It made an incongruously sweet sound in the midst of the daunting ceremony. He closed the Gospel on its cushion before him, with a thump which made the book-bearer stagger slightly, then took the single candle from its bearer, snuffed it and threw it down. It rolled down the steps, watched by all the people around it. A child wailed, and was hushed. There was a huge silence.

‘No! No, no, you canny!’ howled a voice. Blacader looked out across the heads as Gil turned, hunting for the source. ‘I’ll no have it, I’ll no let you!’

Austin Muir hurled himself towards the choirscreen, thrusting bystanders aside, his face contorted with fury. Behind him his brother snatched vainly at his gown and sleeves, calling for him to stop, to come back.

‘You’ll no snuff me out!’ declared Austin, as he reached the foot of the steps. He swooped on the candle and snatched it up. ‘Here, light it! Light me again!’

‘Austin!’ panted his brother behind him. ‘Leave it, man! Leave it be! He’s run mad,’ he said to the nearest man, who was pushing his wife out of danger. ‘Help me wi him!’

‘Light me again!’ demanded Austin, and sprang up the steps. The two tall candles were out of his reach, and their bearers hidden behind the ranks of the choir; he snatched the censer from the thurifer and knocked its cover off, prodding with the candle at the smoking grains of incense inside it. Behind Gil, Euan and the maidservants were attempting to drag Alys away to safety, some bystanders were pushing closer, other people were backing away, but Otterburn and his men were thrusting their way through the crowd. Gil followed Austin up the steps, elbowing bemused clergy aside, and tried to lay hands on the man.

‘Austin Muir,’ he said, ‘leave that be and come wi me.’

‘I’ll no!’ Austin straightened up, the chains of the censer in his hand, and backed away. ‘Get away! I have to light this!’

‘He’s run mad,’ said his brother again. ‘Austin, come away, man!’

‘I’ll no!’ Austin swung the censer now like a morningstar, scattering hot coals and smoking incense. A songman made a grab for it and was knocked aside in a smell of singed woollen vestment. Robert Blacader and his circle of clergy seemed frozen, staring appalled. Gil caught Austin’s eye and said,

‘Give me the candle, then and I’ll light it for you.’

‘Take me for a fool, do you?’ retorted Austin.

‘You’ll never light it if you throw incense all about,’ Gil said. Behind the man, Lowrie was moving carefully, quietly; the people around them were shouting, though the sound was miles away, and Otterburn and his men were at the foot of the steps now.

‘You’ll no get me that way!’ Austin said wildly, swinging the censer again. Another of the songmen tried to grapple with him and was struck by the weapon, falling sideways against his neighbour, who fell in his turn. Incense wafted everywhere, and people began to cough.

‘Put it down and give me the candle,’ Gil prompted. ‘Come on, man, be reasonable.’

‘Never!’ said Austin, shortened the chain round his hand and swung his smoking morningstar again. A huge waft of smoke billowed from it, and he choked, coughed, briefly withdrew his attention from his surroundings. Gil pounced, and Lowrie reached the man in the same moment. Gil seized the censer, Lowrie grasped his wrist and twisted it up behind his back. Gil handed the censer to the nearest pair of hands, and his uncle’s voice said, ‘Well done, Gilbert.’ Two of Otterburn’s men arrived to take a fierce hold of Austin, two more laid hands on Henry, and as Gil stepped back he finally heard the uproar in the building.

Canon Muir surged out of the black-gowned row of clergy, his purple stole awry, exclaiming in distress.

‘No! Och, no, there’s some mistake! Austin, Henry, you canny ha done sic a thing? Oh, my dear laddies!’ He attempted to pull one of Otterburn’s men away from Austin, and was firmly but politely put aside by another.

‘Take them away, lads,’ said Otterburn at Gil’s side. ‘That was well done.’

Blacader stepped forward and raised a hand for silence. To Gil’s amazement, he got it, in a spreading pool of stillness which flooded out from the foot of the steps. When the church was quiet, apart from the scuffling of Austin Muir being manhandled out of the building, his brother silent beside him and Canon Muir still lamenting behind the procession, the Archbishop scanned his flock with a minatory glare and said resonantly,

‘Sic a fate lies waiting for all who commit sacrilege, ye may be sure o that. Ye ha seen God’s justice done afore your een. Pray for that man’s repentance and forgiveness. Confess yir ain sins, find forgiveness yoursels. And now go in peace.’

He raised his hand again, and recited a lengthy blessing, then turned and to the obvious surprise of his remaining cohort vanished through the choirscreen arch into the chancel, towards the high altar. With some milling about they collected themselves and followed him, in silence and in due order, and after a few moments, as the buzz of conversation rose in the nave, the first words of Compline floated out.

‘Well!’ said Alys at Gil’s elbow. ‘Were you expecting that?’