The Fourth Crow

Chapter Seven

He turned away from the dark cavity and took the candle into the next chapel. Wooden in the carved altarpiece, St Andrew supported his white-painted cross on one shoulder and raised the other hand in blessing; Bishop Wishart, that warlike man of God, lay austerely under the arch of his tomb between this chapel and that of Saints Peter and Paul beyond him. Nothing which might be of any help showed up in the leaping light.

‘But why?’ asked Maister Sim from where he still stood near the corpse. ‘He was a right scunner, never did aught you asked him without arguing, and times no even then,’ Galston stirred; Sim glanced at him, and went on, ‘but that’s no reason to throttle the man. He must ha done something to provoke it!’

‘Did anyone know he was here?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘Did you fellows know?’

‘He should ha been off duty by now,’ said Galston, ‘seeing he’s on early this week.’

The two vergers still standing by the Chapter House doorway looked at each other in the candlelight.

‘Aye, he was here first thing,’ said one of them, ‘he was, it’s- It was his turn to open up this week, he was here afore the songmen cam in for Prime.’

‘That’s right,’ said Maister Sim. ‘He was.’

‘He’d ha been free to get off home an hour or two since,’ Galston continued, ‘unless Maister Jamieson had work for him. When did you see him last, Davie?’

‘Afore Vespers?’ the man offered.

‘And who of the clergy should have been down here?’ Gil moved past the two men into the chapel of St Nicholas next to the Chapter House door, holding the candle high to look about him. Nothing seemed to be out of place here either. ‘There’s these four chapels, there’s Our Lady, there’s St Mungo himself.’ He nodded towards the other two shrines, placed in the middle of the pillared space, their banked lights showing gaps now as the candles set by the faithful burned out. ‘Which of the canons or their vicars is responsible for these altars? I’ll need to ask them when they said Mass, though I suspect none of them would be late enough in the day to be any help.’

‘I could do that,’ offered Maister Sim, ‘though maybe no till the morn’s morn now.’

‘Indeed,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘surely the most of them will be under their own roofs, thinking of retiring for the night by this.’

Or of going out to start the evening’s drinking, thought Gil, not meeting his friend’s eye in the candlelight.

‘Aye, Habbie, if you would,’ he said with gratitude, and would have continued, but beyond St Mungo’s shrine hasty feet sounded on the north stair, the stair which led out to the Vicars’ hall as well as the main church.

‘Maister Gil?’ Lowrie’s voice. ‘Here’s Maister Jamieson. He’s something to tell us.’

‘Indeed aye!’ Jamieson was right behind Lowrie as they threaded their way through the forest of stone, to emerge in the candlelight beside the corpse. ‘What’s this? Is the man deid in truth? How can that be? I was speaking wi him no an hour since! Galston, is that right?’

‘Aye, deid right enough, Alan,’ said Maister Sim.

‘An hour since?’ said Gil, hastening to join them. ‘Are you certain, man?’ Behind him he could hear his father-in-law rumbling dissent, and was aware of relief. An hour was hardly possible, given all that must have happened here. Jamieson, bending to look closer at the body of his henchman, said,

‘Aye, aye, Gil, it canny be longer, I’d stake my- How is he all wet like this? What’s come to him? Has he had Conditional Absolution?’

‘Tell me when you last saw him,’ Gil said. Jamieson straightened up, crossed himself, muttered a brief prayer and turned away.

‘No that long since,’ he said, frowning. ‘Let me see, it was afore Vespers I’d say, but no so long afore it.’ So at least two hours since, thought Gil. That’s more like it. ‘We’d been telling the dry stores, him and me, and trying to account what might ha gone missing this week. And it seems to me,’ he frowned, ‘as if something he saw, or something one o us said to the other, put him in mind o a thing, for he suddenly up and said, It canny be! It canny be! Like that, ye ken, all astonished. Surely no, he says. What canny be, Barnabas? says I, but he stood there like a stock wi one o the sack-ties in his hand, and then he says, Forgie me, Maister Jamieson, I’ll no be long, and starts out the door. I cried after him, Where are ye going, and he says ower his shoulder, I’ll no be long, I see it now, and that’s the last I saw him.’

‘What did you do?’ Gil asked, fascinated.

‘Oh, I gaed on wi the task. The poor we ha aye wi us, after all, I need to be sure o how much I can gie out in alms. To tell truth,’ Jamieson looked down at the corpse again and crossed himself, ‘I forgot about him, and about the time. It gied me quite a start when your man here chapped at the almonry door, let alone what he had to tell me.’

‘The length of cord, the sack-tie you called it,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Did he take it away with him?’

‘Aye, for I’d to find another to the second boll o barley. Canny leave it lying open all night.’ He bent to touch the corpse, tracing a cross on the darkened forehead. ‘Poor fellow, I canny believe it. Talking wi me, he was, no an hour since. I canny believe it. What came to him, Gil? You’ve no tellt me yet. He’s dreadful to see, he looks as though he’s been throttled, but he’s wringing wet forbye. Was he in the Girth Burn, or something?’

‘He was in the well,’ said Maister Sim. ‘St Mungo’s own well, yonder in the corner.’

Jamieson looked at him in astonishment, then turned to Lowrie who was watching quietly from the top of the steps.

‘You said that!’ he said. ‘I mind now. Throttled and put into the well, you said that, I mind it. Why? Who’d ha done that? It makes no sense!’

‘We need to find out,’ said Gil. ‘By what you say, it looks as though he left you to find someone. Given that he’s been dead well over an hour, I think it’s likely that person killed him, probably throttled him wi the sack-tie he was carrying. Aye, that one,’ he added as Maistre Pierre produced the cord he had unwound from the corpse’s neck. Pausing to acknowledge Jamieson’s shocked identification, he went on, ‘Can you mind anything more about when the fellow left you? What were you talking of? Did either of you say something that set him thinking, or was it something you handled, or-?’

‘No, no that I can think,’ said Jamieson doubtfully.

‘Maisters,’ interrupted Galston, ‘maisters, would you maybe take your questions away somewhere else?’ Gil looked round at the man, startled, and he bowed politely. ‘We’ll ha to shift Barnabas out o here, Maister Cunningham, and get tidied up, all afore locking-up time, and there’s no denying it would be a help if you clergy wasny here.’

‘I can see that,’ said Gil. He looked about him. ‘Aye, I think we’re done here, but I need a word afore I leave the building.’

Galston nodded.

‘We’ll be in the vestry,’ he said, and gestured his minions forward.

Lighting the way out to the Vicars’ hall, Gil was suddenly aware of the empty spaces round him, of the echoes from the upper church, the air movement between the squat pillars. The atmosphere of the place was tense, watchful, as if the whole building was waiting for him to move, to ask the right questions, to find the truth of what had just happened. As if its patron himself was looking for an answer. He paused as he went under the arch to the stairs, and glanced over his shoulder at the brightly painted shrine within its wrought-iron fence. Blessed St Mungo, he said to the saint in his head, I’ll do what I can, but you’ll have to help me. I need to know what to ask, who to speak to.

Just for a moment the shadows shifted in the elaborate vaulting above the shrine, like a stirring of tree branches in the wind.

The Sub-Almoner led them into the undercroft of the Vicars’ hall, and picked his way between the pillars and the stored ecclesiastical bibelots to the far end, where he unlocked a padlock which fastened a sturdy door.

‘This is the dry store, you see,’ he said, ‘and there’s the Vicars’ store alongside it. I’ve the key here, but there’s still goods walking out when my back’s turned, and out the Vicars’ store and all, so they tell me.’

‘Alan?’ Gil turned at the voice. It was William Craigie, descending the stairs from the hall above. ‘What’s amiss, Alan? The vergers is all at sixes and sevens. They should ha locked up by this.’

‘Oh, William!’ said Jamieson. ‘Plenty’s amiss. There’s no wonder the vergers is in disarray, here’s Barnabas dead and drowned in St Mungo’s own well.’

‘What?’ Craigie’s rich bass rose a couple of octaves. ‘In the well? What’s he doing there?’

‘Not drowned, in effect,’ said Maistre Pierre, sounding annoyed, ‘but strangled with a cord, a sack-tie-’

‘A sack-tie? Like the girl at the Cross?’ Craigie came closer, into the circle of their several lights. He looked shaken, his eyes huge with astonishment. ‘Here, is that someone slain within St Mungo’s? That’s- Does the Dean ken?’

‘The Dean is very clear that it happened outside St Mungo’s,’ said Gil without inflection.

‘But how did it happen? Who? When?’ Craigie shook his head. ‘I canny believe it.’

‘And I was talking to him no an hour since,’ said Jamieson.

‘It’s been some time afore Vespers,’ Gil supplied, ‘maybe a couple of hours ago.’ He considered the songman. ‘Where were you the now, William? Had you company? When did you last see the man?’

‘Me? I’ve seen no sign o Barnabas since this morning. Are you certain it’s him? Certain he’s dead?’ Gil continued to look hard at him, and Craigie’s tone became defensive. ‘I was in our hall the now, been there since Vespers, conning some o the morn’s music. You saw me there, Habbie, I spoke to you.’

‘Aye, so you did,’ agreed Maister Sim.

‘Are we to see inside this store, or no?’ Maistre Pierre demanded. ‘I wish to know what the dead man was seeking.’

The store was not large, and was uncomfortably crowded when they all tried to get inside. Lowrie backed out of the door again; Gil, thinking that it would have been more use for his father-in-law or the two songmen to withdraw, stood looking about him. The Almoner’s stock was neatly set out, like that in the office in the tower where he had been — was it only this morning? Sacks of grain hung out of reach of vermin, their canvas labelled with a stencilled tree in imitation of the badge the vergers bore and a single letter, O or B or W for the contents; barrels of donated goods stood against the wall, the contents identified in chalk on the lid. Rys, resns, aples, hering, read the nearest few. A grey sugar-loaf hung in a net beyond the barley, the nippers wedged in beside it.

‘You were checking the stores,’ he said again. ‘Where were you working?’

‘I was down that end, see,’ Jamieson waved a hand, craning to see past Maister Sim, ‘and Barnabas was here, checking the level of the barrel o rice, and I said to him, gie’s a hand to get this barley down. So he came and helped me lower the sack, and it was when he loosed it he held the sack-tie in his two hands, and says, It canny be!’ Jamieson looked from one hand to the other in illustration of this. ‘And then he up and went out of here, and the next I saw him, there he was stretched on the floor by St John’s chapel.’ He crossed himself, shaking his head sadly. ‘Aye, we none o us ken when our moment will come, though there’s no so many o us meet an end like that. You need to sort it, Gil, it willny do!’

‘How did you raise the sack, Maister Jamieson?’ asked Lowrie from the door. Jamieson looked blankly at him. ‘You said you needed Barnabas to help you lower it. Did you get it back up by yoursel?’

‘Oh, aye.’ Jamieson gestured at the ropes. ‘It goes up slow, that’s no trouble. But lowering it, when you lowse the rope it can run away, burn your hands, and then the sack splits if it hits the floor. So it’s best to ha someone to take a bit of the weight. Oh, I got it back up no bother.’

Beyond Lowrie, the shadows in the undercroft shifted, and he turned to look over his shoulder as footsteps approached. Keys clinked.

‘Maister Jamieson?’ It was one of the two vergers they had left in the Lower Kirk. ‘Maister Galston sent me. Is Maister Jamieson there? Only Maister Galston thought you’d maybe better take charge o this.’ The man ducked past Lowrie, peering about in the crowded little space for the Sub-Almoner. ‘See, it’s his keys, Barnabas’ keys, and is this no the key to your bonnie new padlock? You’ll want that.’

‘No, no, Matthew, he never had-’ began Jamieson, reaching automatically for the jangling assemblage.

‘No, this one, see. I’d swear it was as like, we all said that.’ The verger picked one out of the keys and held it up, the remainder of the bunch swinging from it. Jamieson checked, staring at it, then groped at his belt for his own ring of keys.

‘It is,’ he said. ‘It’s as like.’ He sorted out the right key, and held it against the other one. ‘It’s the same key, it is.’ He looked from Matthew to Gil, and back at the keys, incredulity fading slowly into stricken comprehension. ‘Christ aid us all, it’s surely no Barnabas has been thieving the stores all this while? The man I trusted?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Gil, striding through the twilight up towards the Stablegreen Port. ‘But it looks very much like it.’

‘That was a rare amount of money for a man like that to have in his kist,’ said Lowrie.

‘Either too much or not enough,’ said Gil.

‘What, you think he wasny acting alone?’

‘He canny have been.’ Gil paused, looking about them, and dropped his voice. ‘He’d been on duty since dawn, his turn to open up the building as Galston said, and that was him about to go off duty when he went to confront whoever throttled him. By what Galston told me, he’s tied to St Mungo’s all the hours of daylight, so when would he get the goods he’s pilfered off the policies and somewhere they could be sold? He must have had a confederate.’

‘Could that be who killed him?’

‘No telling, for now,’ said Gil resignedly. ‘It might be, it might ha been somebody else. We’ll see if Galston learns anything.’

‘And his chamber,’ said Lowrie, as they turned to move on.

Galston had listened in grim silence to the Almoner’s tale, and then had accompanied Gil and Lowrie to Barnabas’ lodging, a meticulously tidy chamber in the stone undercroft of one of the larger houses by the tennis court. Here he had watched bleakly while they had inspected the man’s belongings, which contained some surprises. There had been the coin in his kist to which Lowrie had already referred, along with two or three jewels carefully wrapped in scraps of brocade like relics; there had been a number of garments of good quality, several pairs of expensive shoes, a pile of handsome blankets on the bed. Gil, having heard Alys lately on the subject of blankets, was well able to estimate what those alone might have cost. Clearly the man was making a good income from whatever he was doing.

‘He’d kept back quite a bit, as well as selling the stuff on,’ Lowrie went on. ‘I saw a barrel of dried figs in his chamber, and another o apricots.’ Gil grunted agreement. ‘Galston did say he’d aye had a sweet tooth.’

The head verger had been burning with suppressed anger; Gil thought it was the man’s reaction to finding that one of his staff had injured St Mungo’s in such a way. The two songmen, on the other hand, had been full of indignation at the abuse of privilege, and Maister Sim had been proposing an immediate stock-take of the Vicars’ dry stores as well.

‘It might help us to know if anyone saw him, after he left the Almoner and before he was found dead,’ Gil had said as they locked Barnabas’ door again. ‘He might ha said something about who he was seeking.’

‘If anyone saw him,’ said Galston with quiet determination, ‘I’ll uncover it. And we’ll search the building the morn first thing, Maister Cunningham, my men by threes and reporting to me every quarter-hour. I’ll learn how he’s been getting the stuff out o St Mungo’s, if it’s the last thing I do. And soon’s I learn it, I’ll send you word, maister.’

‘Mind you,’ said Lowrie now, ‘those were maybe from the other store, the Vicars’ store, as Maister Sim said. I canny see who’d donate a barrel o figs to the poor, and if they did it would be right conspicuous, Sir Alan would ha noticed if it went missing.’

‘You can check that wi Alan in the morning,’ said Gil.

They went on through the gathering summer twilight, past lit windows and raucous alehouses, and halted within sight of the Trindle. Business seemed to be brisk despite the house’s bereavement; there was loud conversation inside the little building, and a group of men drinking companionably outside, under the sign.

‘Who is it we’re after?’ Lowrie asked.

‘Four names.’ Gil counted them off on his fingers. ‘Allen, Shearer, Syme and, er, Thomson. You can get on home, if you’d rather. It may not be easy to get them talking.’

‘I can at least watch your back, unless you want me to let Mistress Alys know where you are.’

‘Once was enough,’ said Gil elliptically, and Lowrie snorted.

Inside the house there was firelight, the stink of tallow candles, a powerful smell of unwashed people. Mistress Howie was presiding over the two barrels of ale, much as she had been that morning. Gil nodded to her, and to the girl — was it Mysie? — who picked her way over, avoiding the familiar hands of the customers, to ask what they wanted.

‘A jug of ale, lass,’ he said, ‘and can you point out any of Peg’s regulars to me?’

She gave him a sharp look, but did not answer directly.

‘If you sit ower there,’ she said, ‘on they two stools at the wall, I’ll bring your ale.’

Gil led the way obediently to a shadowy corner beyond the hearth, well aware that most of those present were watching him. He nodded to the groups on either side of the vacant stools Mysie had pointed out, getting a reluctant nod from those on one side, an unreadable glower on the other. Mysie returned, bearing a jug, accepted a coin from him, and looked beyond Lowrie at the less friendly neighbour.

‘Tammas Syme, will ye be wanting more ale?’ she demanded. There was a surly growl from the shadows. ‘Or you, Daniel Shearer? No? Then I’ll take that jug away.’

She bore the empty jug off, and Gil set his down by his feet, reluctant to drink from it when the house was so busy. The likelihood that it had been washed between customers did not seem good.

‘A fine night,’ he said to the two whom Mysie had addressed.

‘Well enough,’ said one of the men.

‘Never seen you in here afore,’ said the other sourly. His voice was hoarse. ‘Come to see the sights, are ye?’

‘I was here this morning,’ said Gil. ‘Getting a word wi the mistress and her lassies.’ He let that hang in the air for a moment, aware of ambiguity, then went on, ‘We were at St Mungo’s Cross this morning. The two of us.’

There was a faint stirring of interest in the shadows.

‘The lassie that worked here,’ he continued, ‘the one that was found at the Cross wi her face beaten so you’d not know her, left here last night to get a word wi someone.’

‘I heard that,’ said the less hostile of his hearers. Lowrie, beside him, was motionless.

‘I’m charged wi finding who did that to her,’ Gil persisted. ‘We ken it was never a man from this tavern, for she said to the other lassies that someone she never named was back in the town and she wanted to speak to him.’ Beyond Lowrie the silence grew deeper. ‘I’m hoping maybe she’d said something to one or another of the folk that were in here last night, might give me a hint who she’d gone to meet.’

He paused, and looked down at the ale-jug by his feet. After a moment one of his hearers rose, saying, still in that sour tone,

‘Well. I wish you good fortune, neighbour.’

He tramped off across the crowded tavern, stepping on any feet which were not withdrawn from his path. Nobody tried to object.

‘A bad business,’ said the man who had remained. He leaned forward and indicated the jug. ‘Are you-?’

‘Be my guest,’ invited Gil.

Perhaps the length of a Te Deum later they left the tavern, stepping into the street to find the twilight deepened into moonlit night. The sky was clear, with stars sprinkled about where the moonlight permitted; the shadows were very black, and Lowrie stared about warily, his hand near his whinger.

‘Yonder,’ said Gil quietly. ‘Between the two houses across the way.’

‘I see him. Do we go to him, or wait?’

‘We go part way.’ Gil stepped into the middle of the roadway, and stood still, casually studying the sky. The man lurking in the shadows waited a moment, and then came forward reluctantly, staying in the shadows.

‘I’m no coming out in the street.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Gil. It was the voice of the man who had left the tavern.

‘You’re looking for who that lassie wanted to speak wi.’

‘We are.’

‘Aye.’ Feet shuffled. ‘Mind, I’m no saying I heard this mysel.’

‘A course not.’

‘I never spoke wi the lassie. You understand that.’ Gil nodded, then wondered if the movement would show in the moonlight and made an agreeing noise. ‘But I heard. Someone said.’ He swallowed noisily and then said in a rush, ‘She never mentioned a name, just some fellow had been gone fro Glasgow three month, and was back, and she’d have something out wi him if it killed her.’

Lowrie made a small sound of pity. Gil waited.

‘That’s all,’ said the hoarse voice.

‘What did she call him?’ Gil asked. ‘She never used his name, she must ha called him something.’

‘No.’ A pause. ‘Aye, maybe she- Maybe she said, My fine gentleman, or the like. Kind a sharp, as if he was anything but.’

‘Thanks, friend,’ said Gil.

‘Neighbour,’ said the hoarse voice. Gil tilted his head, waiting. ‘Get him. She was just- She was just a tavern lassie, but she never deserved-’

‘No,’ agreed Gil. ‘She never deserved that.’

Matters did not seem much clearer in the morning. Nor had Euan come home, to Gil’s irritation.

‘He’ll be off about some ploy of his own,’ he said when the breakfast was brought in. ‘I’ll have a word or two to say to him when he does come home. Either he’s serving me or he’s not, and if he’s not he can take himself off. I could ha done wi his help today dealing wi Barnabas’ death, to let Lowrie carry on with the other business.’

‘Yes, indeed you must look into that. It seems astonishing,’ said Alys, ladling porridge into the new earthenware bowls, ‘that the man should have been thieving from the Almoner’s stores for so long and never been found out.’

‘Particularly when Alan Jamieson keeps a record of everything.’ Gil accepted a bowl and horn spoon, helped himself to a generous portion of butter from the dish on the plate-cupboard and strolled off across the hall, prodding the melting butter into the greyish mass of the oatmeal. Socrates followed him, looking hopeful.

‘I wonder how he got it out of the kirk,’ said Alys. ‘Surely he must have been seen.’

‘I wondered that too,’ said Lowrie. ‘There must be folk in and out that hall all the hours of daylight. Ah!’

‘Perhaps by darkness,’ Gil agreed. ‘Or perhaps it’s simply that a verger moving a sack of meal or the like is nothing to remark on.’

‘And he left his task, the Almoner said,’ persisted Alys, ‘taking the length of cord with him, and saying, I see it now. What was it that he saw? How the girl Peg was killed? Or who tried to strangle her?’ She sat down by the little table where the crocks were laid, waiting till her own porridge had cooled.

‘I thought at first,’ Gil admitted, ‘it was how the thefts were taking place, but it looks as if he knew all about those, even if he wasn’t solely responsible for them himself. It must be something else, I agree.’

‘So who did he go to meet? Or perhaps,’ she dug thoughtfully with the ladle into the crock of porridge, ‘perhaps we had better ask, who did he think he was going to meet? And why? Did he go to speak to his accomplice? Did he plan to accuse someone of throttling the girl who was at the Cross? And which of these would strangle him only for what he said?’

Gil set his bowl on the floor for the dog, and turned to the platter of oatcakes set on the plate-cupboard. Smearing more butter on one of these he observed,

‘Habbie asked around yestreen while we were searching the man’s chamber. He may not have spoken to everyone yet, but it seems plenty of folk were about. Most of the songmen, half the priests, Canon Goudie who’s Hebdomader, were all in and out. All the Masses to be said in the Lower Kirk were over by Nones, in the proper way. Anyone or no one could have been down there.’ He bit into the oatcake, catching the crumbs with his other hand.

‘It was not no one, clearly,’ said Alys. ‘Maister Lowrie, there is more porridge. Do you wish some?’

‘Galston might have learned something useful,’ said Lowrie, holding his bowl out. ‘Is that for this morning, then?’

‘Among other things.’ Gil tipped crumbs into his mouth, and reached for another oatcake. ‘Ask more questions about St Mungo’s. I wonder where all these goods were going to, whoever it was thieved it. I need to talk to the folk at St Catherine’s again, ask again about Annie’s background, who might have taken her in. I canny believe she’s sleeping in a ditch somewhere, a gently reared lassie, even in high summer. I need to talk to Otterburn, and we need to ask about, see if we can track down where Peg Simpson met her death. You could see to that, if you would. Someone must ha heard her being beaten so badly, it can hardly ha been done in silence.’ He bit into the second oatcake, and added through it, ‘I should never ha gone chasing after the cord yesterday afternoon, I’d ha done better pursuing Peg’s matter.’

‘So it’s Otterburn first?’ said Lowrie, scraping the last of the porridge. He set his bowl down for the dog as Gil had done. ‘Or d’you wish me to make a start on that immediately?’

Otterburn was in the courtyard of the castle, under a familiar striped awning.

‘There you are,’ he said as they approached. ‘I was going to send out to you.’ He nodded at the shrouded form set out in the shelter of the canvas. ‘Had her moved over here early on, seeing the quest’s for this morning. We ken what killed her now.’

‘Oh?’

‘Aye.’ Otterburn pulled back the shroud, revealing the battered face. Gil winced. Some of Peg’s injuries had faded as the swelling reduced, but the pallor of death was increasing and others were made more hideous by the contrast. The Provost glanced at him, nodded, and lifted the corpse’s head to swivel it on the thin neck. It moved easily, and much too far.

‘A broken neck,’ said Lowrie. ‘Poor lass.’

‘Aye.’ Otterburn set the head down gently and drew the shroud up. ‘And the women say she’d lain wi some man or other no long afore her death, but she hadny been forced.’

‘We know she was working that day,’ said Gil. Otterburn grunted. ‘She’d been out the back wi at least one man during the evening. No saying whether she lay with her killer or no, but I’d assume it was the same man broke her neck as left those marks on her.’ Otterburn grunted again, possibly in agreement. ‘We’ve left it a bit late, but I’d like Lowrie to see if he can find where she died. We’ve a sighting o a lassie on her own coming down from the Stablegreen Port about ten o the clock, and no idea where she went from there, assuming it was Peg. He can ask about, find out if anyone noticed a tussle or an argument outside their windows. Your men have heard o nothing like that, I suppose?’

‘No that Andro’s mentioned,’ said the Provost. ‘You can check wi him.’

‘And Annie Gibb?’

‘No a whisper. The men are saying St Mungo himsel has carried her off to Paradise, and the way things are going, it wouldny surprise me. And I’d a man Lockhart here afore Prime, wanting to hear what we’ve done about her. The good-brother, is that?’ Gil nodded. ‘Tellt him to ask you, bade him go and think what he or the rest o the party might ken that would help us.’ Otterburn grimaced. ‘Seems the old man’s in a poor way, this Sir Edward. No long to go, by the sound o it. Here, this is the lassie’s kirtle, or the kirtle you took out the Girth Burn, any road. What was it you were saying about it?’

He hauled the bundle of blue cloth out from under the bier, checked himself in the act of setting it on top of the shrouded corpse, and turned away to the mounting-block by the main door of the Archbishop’s apartments.

‘It’s near dry,’ Lowrie commented, and went to help him, spreading the tattered garment out in the sunshine with a proprietary air. ‘You see, the two sleeves have been laid open, from cuff to neck, and the laces cut and all.’ He turned the folds of wool. ‘And we thought — Maister Mason thought — this sleeve was cut wi shears, small ones such as a woman might have at her belt, and that one wi a knife, or at least a single blade. You see how different the cuts are?’

‘Aye.’ Otterburn bent to examine the frayed edges. ‘I see it. So, if this is this lassie’s kirtle right enough, you reckon it was two people stripped her, and then tied her to the Cross?’

‘That’s what we thought,’ agreed Lowrie, with a diffident glance at Gil. He looked down at the damp wool, then leaned closer, peering at something which he picked at with a forefinger.

‘What d’you see?’ asked Otterburn.

‘I’m no certain.’ Lowrie straightened up, studying his fingertip. ‘What do you think, sir? Maister Gil? It’s like wee sparkles of gold.’

‘Of gold?’ Gil bent to look. Otterburn craned over the mounting block, but shook his head.

‘I canny see that close,’ he confessed. ‘What’s he found?’

‘He’s right. Spangles, or powdered gold, or something.’ Gil touched his forefinger to Lowrie’s and inspected the result, a couple of minute gleams of colour. ‘Where on earth has that come from? Peg was hardly like to have gold dust about her, poor lass. The braid on her sleeves is coloured floss, no gilt there. I’d ha thought if she came by such a thing as a scrap o gold braid she’d ha sold it on the rag market.’

‘It’s only here, on the one sleeve,’ said Lowrie, turning the ragged cloth carefully, tilting his head to see where the bright specks caught the light. ‘I can see none on the other sleeve, nor on the body.’

‘Has it come off whoever cut her out her gown?’ suggested Otterburn. ‘Who goes about shedding gold dust?’

‘That would fit,’ said Gil. ‘If whichever one wielded the knife was scattering flakes of gold, that would explain why it’s only on that sleeve. But where’s it coming from? Off his hat? Off his clothes?’

‘Could be.’ Otterburn nodded gloomily. ‘Could be either. Is there any in the case clad in gold so far, Maister Cunningham?’

‘No that I’ve noticed,’ said Gil. ‘Silver braid on a doublet, but no gold braid so far.’

‘This is certainly gold,’ said Lowrie, still peering at the folds of cloth. ‘What about brocade? Could it be off a gold brocade sleeve?’

‘It could as easy be off a cope or a vestment, I’d ha thought,’ said Otterburn, ‘given she was found in the kirkyard.’

‘What, you’re suggesting it was one of the clerks stripped her?’ said Lowrie, startled. ‘But they’d never be wearing gold vestments out in the kirkyard?’

‘And she was certainly stripped in the kirkyard,’ Gil concurred. ‘We found the scraps of cloth in the grass.’

Otterburn grunted sceptically, and stepped away from the mounting-block.

‘Well, maisters,’ he said, ‘I’ll bring these specks o gold to the assize the day, but I doubt they’ll no see it as important. I’m hoping to bring it in persons unknown, for I’m inclined to agree wi you, her man’s no the one that’s broke her neck. He maybe knocked her about a bit but he touched her corp afore me willingly enough. Mind you, it’s going to confuse them,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘if I start talking about folk wi gold brocade sleeves. We’ll need to see who we get for the assize. Here, you better get on, if you’re to be back here for the quest.’

Leaving Lowrie to ask along the length of the Stablegreen whether anyone had heard an argument in the street on the night Peg Simpson died, Gil made his way to the cathedral, and tracked Galston to his covert, not in the vestry which was the domain of the Vicars Choral and the clergy but in the base of the north-west tower, on the floor below the Sub-Almoner’s office.

Here, under the vaulted ceiling, surrounded by stacks of lumber, a broken altarpiece, the benches for the college meetings in the Chapter House, the planks and beams for the seating before the west door at Pentecost, the vergers had made themselves comfortable. Several suspiciously ecclesiastical chairs had been padded with folds of elderly brocade, two lamps and a row of candle-stands were lit by wax candles, a brazier of glowing charcoal contested the chill of the ancient stones. The ropes for the cathedral’s three bells descended through a suitable aperture in the vault, and were gathered up to one side of the door.

There were only two people in the chamber, the useless Robert sitting with a cup of ale which must have come from the barrel set up under one of the narrow windows, and Galston, moving counters about on a cloth spread on a tall desk beside another candle-stand. When Gil tapped on the heavy door of the chamber Robert clambered to his feet, bleating some sort of welcome, and Galston looked up and came forward immediately.

‘Maister Cunningham,’ he said, raising his hat.

‘Finish your accounts,’ Gil recommended, ‘or you’ll lose your tally.’

‘Not accounts, maister,’ said Galston, ‘but the week’s duties to be rearranged.’ He crossed himself, frowning, and Robert said something faint about Aye, poor Barnabas! ‘I’ve questioned the men,’ Galston went on, ‘and put the fear o God into them, no to mention the fear o Tam Galston, and I have to say, maister, I’ve learned little enough to aid you, save that Robert here caught sight o Barnabas hastening through the kirk.’ Robert nodded eagerly. ‘He’d the cord in his hand, so he says, and when he spoke to him he said he couldny wait, he’d to catch someone afore he left the kirk.’

‘Did he say who it was?’ Gil asked Robert directly. The man nodded again.

‘Oh, aye, he did, poor Barnabas, at least he said, Where is he? I’ve to catch him afore he leaves the place.’

‘Did he name the man he was seeking?’

‘Oh, no, he never said a name.’

Gil met Galston’s glance over the blue-clad shoulder.

‘Did he say aught else, Robert?’ asked the head verger.

‘No, no, I doubt it,’ said Robert amiably, ‘he was in that much of a hurry, that was all he said. Where is he, I’ve to catch him, him and his sack-ties, he said, now see what’s come o’t. He’ll need to deal wi’t, he says.’

Gil caught Galston’s eye again, and said carefully,

‘What did he mean about the sack-tie, Robert, do you suppose?’

‘Why, that was what he was holding, was it no?’ said Robert, surprised. ‘Likely he was seeking him to gie it back to him.’

‘And did he say who he was seeking, to give the sack-tie to?’ Gil asked patiently. ‘Or what he had to deal with?’

‘No, no,’ said Robert with regret. ‘He never. But it was one o the clerks,’ he added.

‘What makes you say that?’ Gil prompted, while Galston rolled his eyes, his impassivity broken.

‘Well, we was all in here, the rest o us,’ Robert said, ‘and he’d ken that, we’re aye in here at that hour, getting a bit bread and ale that Maister Galston sees us, afore we set up for Vespers and Compline and then see to all for the morning. We waited for him a while, but he never came, so we just ate his share and all.’

‘Is that right?’ Gil raised his eyebrows at Galston, who nodded a little reluctantly. ‘And you were all in here? All the vergers but Barnabas, and Robert till he joined you?’

‘Aye, that’d be right,’ said Galston after a moment reckoning on his fingers, and Robert emitted a faint bleat of agreement.

‘That’s very helpful,’ said Gil. ‘My thanks, Robert.’ He dug in his purse and found a coin for the man, who accepted it gratefully, glanced at his superior and hurried out with an indistinct remark about the candles for Sext.

‘He’s truthful enough,’ said Galston drily. ‘He’s too much o a fool to make a good leear. We’re still searching the place, maister. We’ve found naught to interest you this far, but there’s still both the towers and the Vicars’ hall to go, there’s a few wee neuks in all o them might hold a barrel or a sack wi nobody noticing.’

‘Would he have access to the Consistory tower?’ Gil said. ‘The vergers go all over the building, I ken that, but he’d have no duties there, I’d ha thought anyone that saw him could question why he was there.’

‘That’s true, maister, but we’ll check just the same,’ said Galston, reverting to his previous manner. ‘One o my men has stole fro Holy Kirk, there’s nobody will say I was remiss in finding how it was done or in putting it right.’