The Fourth Crow

Chapter Eight

Carefully not looking at the row of fat beeswax candles which lit the chamber, Gil settled down to question the man about the vergers’ duties. He was surprised by how extensive they were. He was aware of the cathedral servants, always moving about the building in their blue belted gowns, the embroidered badge on the breast displaying St Mungo’s tree and bell, but he had never had cause to list how many things had to be done in such a big, important kirk.

‘Oh, aye, maister,’ said Galston. ‘And if it’s no done by the clergy, it’s done by my men.’ Gil raised an eyebrow, and Galston expanded: ‘So if it doesny mean going about in a procession, it’s a vergers’ matter, and if it does mean a procession, there’s one or maybe two o my men there wi the rod or the mace, put a bit dignity into it.’

‘And the watch and ward of the building?’ said Gil, keeping his own counsel about that. ‘How is it kept secure by night?’

‘Aye,’ said Galston, a little uncomfortably. ‘See, maister, we’ve aye jaloused if there was to be trouble, it would be someone after the treasure, which is kept well under lock and bars by the Thesaurer, or after the holy relics, or the altar-furnishings out there in the kirk, or maybe after the Body o Christ itself,’ he crossed himself, ‘where it’s kept in the tabernacle. So it’s the kirk itself we keep watch on, and we do that by me sleeping in here.’

‘In here?’ repeated Gil, startled. He looked about him, but could see no signs of permanent residence. Galston nodded at the nearest stack of lumber.

‘I’ve a straw plett and some blankets stowed ahint the Easter Sepulchre yonder, maister. I get them out when the place is barred for the night. It’s warm enough in here, wi the brazier going, and if I were to hear anything I’m right handy for the bell-ropes.’

‘You are that,’ Gil agreed, recognising the wisdom of this. One man could hardly hope to defend a building this size, but he could raise the alarm. ‘It’s a big building, mind, for a man to guard on his own.’

‘I’m no on my own, maister,’ said Galston with a simplicity which rebuked. Gil nodded in acknowledgement of this point, and went on,

‘So you’d say Barnabas has never shifted aught out of here by night?’

‘No out o the main building. The Consistory clerks sees to locking up their door,’ Galston nodded towards the south-west tower, ‘and I lock the outside door to this tower after the Almoner and them has gone.’

‘Which leaves us,’ said Gil deliberately, ‘the Vicars’ hall and its undercroft.’

‘It does,’ agreed Galston. He eyed Gil in the light of the candles, then lifted a snuffer and began extinguishing the nearest. ‘You reckon the goods have left here by night, then, maister?’

‘It seems likeliest.’ Gil found another snuffer and started at the other end of the row. ‘Given that Maister Jamieson’s been aware of a shortfall for a while now, he’d ha noticed if anything was being shifted by daylight, you’d think.’

‘Aye, Canon Jamieson would notice,’ agreed Galston, still intent on the lights. ‘So it might no ha been Barnabas, right enough.’

‘All things are possible under God,’ Gil observed. Galston changed hands to cross himself, and gave Gil a wry look by the remaining light.

‘That’s the kind o thing the clergy says,’ he remarked. ‘It’s well seen you’d a narrow escape fro that yoursel, Maister Cunningham.’

Locking the tower door behind them — ‘There’s as many holds keys to this, you might say there was little point,’ observed Galston, replacing the jangling bunch at his belt, ‘but there’s less point still in inviting Jockie Pick-Purse to make a profit on his confession’ — they made their way through the hum and bustle of a morning in St Mungo’s. Sext was just ended, so the Masses were beginning again at the many lesser altars in the nave, and the devout were making their way to hear their favoured saint commemorated. As the Hebdomader and choir, led by Robert with the verger’s silver-tipped wand of office raised high, emerged through the massive archway of Archbishop Blacader’s choirscreen, another three vergers appeared on its walled top, casting about the casing of the Cathedral’s smaller organ, their lanterns throwing dim, leaping shadows onto the smoke-darkened sandstone walls of the nave. Across the church, three more were engaged in a hissing argument with one of the clergy about who should have access first to St Moloc’s altar.

‘I’m surprised it’s business as usual,’ Gil commented, ‘considering what happened in St John’s chapel last night.’

‘Aye, well,’ said Galston. ‘Barnabas wasny slain inside St Mungo’s, Dean Henderson was very clear about that. He’s permitted me to put a rope across, keep folk out St John’s at the least till it’s cleansed and censed, but he’s no for shutting down the whole kirk. The faithful need to get in, he says.’ His gaze slid sideways to meet Gil’s. ‘Them and their pence,’ he added softly.

Reckoning a day’s probable revenue from the various collecting-boxes about the building, Gil saw how this position could appeal to the Dean. Himself, he was very uneasy about it; he had no way of telling where the verger had died, but the treatment of the body alone must surely amount to sacrilege within St Mungo’s. Perhaps the Archbishop would have a different view. He waited for the last brocade folds of the Hebdomader’s procession to vanish along the north choir aisle towards the vestry, and made for the doorway to the Vicars’ hall.

‘Robert’s maybe no the wisest man in the place,’ remarked Galston, following him, ‘but he’s well able to conduct a procession.’

Behind the heavy door the undercroft of the Vicars’ hall was not, as Gil had expected, busy with blue gowns and lanterns. There was a buzz of conversation away round to the left; picking his way among the pillars, the vaulting leaping over his head in the lantern light, he discovered a group of six or ten of the vergers arguing over something. He would have approached quietly, but Galston stepped past him and advanced on the assembly exclaiming,

‘Now, lads, what’s this about! Why are you no searching this place like I tellt you to?’

‘We have done, Maister Galston,’ said one of the nearest. Gil recognised Matthew, and Davie beyond him. ‘Only we’ve found this, see, and we was wondering if it’s what we was seeking.’

‘And what is it, then? Stand back and let me look.’ Galston put Matthew bodily aside and plunged into the gathering. Gil, following, saw him check in surprise. ‘The handcart? That’s nothing new, you daftheids!’

‘No, but this, see,’ said someone else.

In the pool of light from the lanterns, under a wing of the vaulting and surrounded by more stacked lumber, the St Mungo’s handcart stood slightly aslant in what was obviously its designated niche. A bundle of pale brocade had been opened up on the flat bed of the cart, revealing linen lining and a row of black metal hooks, and within the folds a fat leather purse and a small wooden box which was oddly familiar.

‘It was stood like that, the cairt,’ said the verger Davie, ‘and I came ower to set it straight, see, and found this laid on the top o’t. So we opened it up and this is what we found,’ he waved at the bundle, ‘and the worst thing is, look at the wheels!’

Galston stepped back, almost treading on Gil’s foot, to inspect the wheels, and Davie swung his lantern down so that the shadows sprang up the walls around them. The wheels were caked in mud, and even in the lantern-light the scratches on the paint of the spokes were clear to see.

‘Well!’ said Galston. ‘And who’s had this out wi’out permission?’

‘And that’s it, Maister Galston,’ said one of the men. ‘We were just trying to work that out, and there’s none o us has had the cairt out in weeks, no since the Pentecost benches was put by, and it was washed and stowed away proper then. You seen it yoursel, and approved all. So we were just goin’ to come and find you, seeing it was a thing out o place like you said, and then we thought to look at this bundle on the top o the cairt, and then you cam in that door.’

‘Aye,’ said Galston in a sceptical tone. ‘And what is the bundle, then?’

‘It’s a man’s short gown,’ said Gil. Galston looked over his shoulder and then back at the folds of cloth in the lantern-light. ‘I’m more interested in the purse and that box, but they’re all three strange things to find hidden in here.’

‘They might no ha been hid,’ argued the man Matt fairly. ‘They might just ha been forgot.’

‘Aye, but whose are they?’ said Galston, putting his finger on the nub of the matter. ‘Maister Cunningham, will you take charge o these?’

‘I will,’ said Gil after a moment, ‘if you’ll study them wi me before they leave St Mungo’s.’ Galston met his eye, and nodded. ‘Is there aught else?’

‘Nothing else,’ he said to Otterburn an hour or so later. ‘They’d searched the building thoroughly enough, I’d say.’

‘And these,’ said Otterburn, prodding the purse as it sat on his desk. ‘Did you learn whose they might be?’

‘The gown,’ said Gil, loathing the taste of the words in his mouth, ‘and the box, which has a set of Tarots in it, are Maister Sim’s.’

‘What, Habbie Sim the songman?’ Gil nodded, and the Provost stared at him inscrutably for a moment, then said, ‘Awkward for you. Will I question him on it?’

‘I’ve spoken to him, in Galston’s presence,’ Gil said. Otterburn’s expression flickered with — was it surprise? Respect? ‘He agrees the gown’s his, a good one o yellow brocade faced wi green taffeta, says he’s not seen it for four days or so, likewise the cards. I can confirm,’ Gil went on carefully, ‘and will swear to it, that the last time we met for cards Habbie wore a green checked wool gown, and said he had mislaid his cards. He was asking if any of the fellows had picked them up by mistake. We’d to use someone else’s set that evening.’

‘And this?’ Otterburn prodded the purse again. It chinked faintly. ‘Have you counted it?’

‘Five merks and fourpence ha’penny. Habbie says he has never seen it. I thought he was telling the truth,’ said Gil, still speaking with great care, ‘but I’d be glad if you’d question the Head Verger as to what he thought.’

‘Ah.’ Otterburn nodded approvingly. ‘It’s a useful thing, is a legal training.’ He glanced at the open window, where the noise from the courtyard entered increasingly loudly. ‘And now, I’ve a quest to direct out there. Is that lad o yours back yet from talking to the Stablegreen folks?’

‘He is,’ said Gil. ‘I met him in the yard. I think he has news for you, though it maybe takes us no further forward. One or two of those he spoke to mentioned a man who had heard a scuffle outside his window, the night we are concerned wi, and looked out to see a woman arguing wi two men. But it seems the fellow walked to Kirkintilloch the day, about a dog he wished to purchase. He might be back the night, he might no. Lowrie needs to go back when he’s at home.’

‘Wi two men?’ repeated Otterburn. ‘And you thought it was two men cut her out o her gown and bound her to the Cross?’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Ah-hah! That would fit, that would fit, maister!’

‘It might,’ agreed Gil cautiously.

‘Aye. Well, come and we’ll see about this quest. I bade the Serjeant be sure and pick me a biddable assize this time, the last two he’s found me have been packed wi fools.’

‘They did what?’ said Alys incredulously, and set the ladle back in the kale-pot. ‘They brought it in-?’

‘Against Annie herself,’ agreed Lowrie, his eyes dancing. ‘The Provost was quite displeased.’

‘It is a thing most extraordinary,’ said Catherine. Further down the long board, small John shouted as his little plate was set in front of him.

‘And what of Annie’s kin? What did they say?’

‘They were none of them present.’ Gil spooned kale, and frowned at it. ‘I’m surprised Otterburn never cited any of them as witnesses, at the very least to swear to the time Annie was last known to be at the Cross.’

‘That does seem strange,’ Alys agreed.

‘I think he sees the two matters as entirely separate,’ Lowrie observed.

‘But what did he do? He could not let it stand, surely?’

‘He directed them again,’ Gil said, grinning at the recollection. ‘It was as much his own doing as the assize’s. He should never have tried to get the cuts in the cloth past them.’

‘What cuts are these?’

‘Lowrie discovered them.’ Gil gestured at the younger man to explain, and addressed himself to his meal.

The scene in the courtyard had been one to relish; the assize, duly sworn and cautioned, had listened to the evidence placed before it, inspected the cuts on the blue kirtle, asked some questions about Annie Gibb which had alarmed Gil, and retired to consider its verdict. Less than an hour later, it had filed out into the courtyard again, and the spokesman, asked if he had a verdict to pronounce, had squared his shoulders and said importantly,

‘Aye, Provost, that we do.’

‘And what is it, man?’ demanded Otterburn. ‘How do you find this woman met her death?’

‘We find,’ said the spokesman, a well-built man whom Gil recognised as the keeper of an alehouse on the Briggait, ‘that Peg Simpson met her death by being unlawfully killed by this woman Annie Gibb-’

‘What?’ said Otterburn sharply, his colour rising.

‘And then bound to St Mungo’s Cross after she was dead, and then throttled wi a sack-tie stole from the almoner, which was a most sacrilegious thing to ha done,’ continued the spokesman. ‘And we find Annie Gibb guilty o murder, and she should be put to the-’

‘You’ll find no such thing in my court, Dandy Greenhill!’ said Otterburn. ‘The lot o ye, get back in that chamber and stay in it till ye’ve decided what I tellt ye to decide! It’s clear as day, persons unknown, two o them!’

‘See, I tellt ye,’ hissed Greenhill at one of his fellow-assizers. ‘Provost, we’ve talked it through-’

‘Well, ye’ll just ha to talk it through again,’ said Otterburn. ‘Walter, you’ve never wrote that down, have you? I’m no having that stand as a verdict.’

‘He got his verdict the second time, persons unknown,’ said Gil now, helping himself to another slice of the sausage which went with the kale. ‘The bystanders seemed to agree wi that,’ he added. ‘I heard more than one saying the assize was trying it on, maybe hoping for another wee refreshment for their second session. They were disappointed, if so, Otterburn sent in a jug of water from the Castle well.’

‘And these two men who were arguing with a woman,’ Alys said, smiling at this. ‘Is there any description?’

‘Several,’ said Lowrie, ‘none compatible with any other, from folk who’d heard the tale. Big men, wee men, in armour, in hodden grey, wi swords, wi cudgels. I’ll need to get a word wi this man Johnson when he gets back from Kirkintilloch. He dwells right on the Stablegreen, so he could well ha heard something useful. I spoke to his wife, but she’d seen nothing, and couldny recall what he said yesterday about it. Oh, and the folk at the Trindle had never heard o the man Barnabas. I described him, but they were certain there had never been one of the vergers in the place.’

Gil nodded.

‘Barnabas showed no sign of recognising Peg when we took her from the Cross, though a course we all thought she was Annie at that point. I asked his fellows, and none o them had ever heard him mention a woman, or the Trindle itself. That bears that out, then.’

He paused to consider the afternoon, as the women cleared away the kale and sausage and set out a dish of little almond tarts. Alys handed the dish round; when all at the head of the table were served she sent it further down, where it was greeted with a shout of ‘Pie! Pie John!’ Catherine began cutting her pastry into little pieces with her eating-knife.

‘Lowrie, you can get over to Vicar’s Close after we’ve eaten,’ said Gil. ‘Talk to Habbie Sim’s man, see if he minds when he last saw that gown, yellow brocade faced wi green taffeta, and the box wi his Tarot cards. Oh, and see if you can make out where Barnabas had the apricots and figs from. I meant to ask them that this morning and all, but it slipped my mind.’

Lowrie nodded, colouring up. Catherine said, in French,

‘I do not think Maister Sim has robbed St Mungo’s. He is a good son of Holy Church.’

‘Nor do I,’ said Gil, ‘but I’m too close to him to handle that part of the matter.’ She inclined her head in agreement. ‘It’s a bit near even to send Lowrie, but I’m no certain any of Otterburn’s men would ask the right questions of his man, and Otterburn himself would simply frighten the fellow.’

Crossing the outer courtyard of the pilgrim hostel, the dog at his heels, Gil met Sir Simon just leaving the chapel.

‘Maister Cunningham,’ said the priest, nodding. ‘And have you aught to report?’

‘Nothing,’ said Gil. ‘I was hoping you might have news.’

Sir Simon grimaced.

‘None, neither good nor bad, maister. Sir Edward is still wi us, weaker but in his full wits. I will say, that doctor is right clever wi the medicines the way he keeps the old fellow’s pain at bay and yet allows him his mind clear. And there’s no sign o Annie Gibb. Were you wanting a word wi any of them? The doctor’s here, a course, and I believe the women’s come back fro St Mungo’s, but the good-son’s got the men out searching the Stablegreen again.’

‘I want to talk to the two men that were guarding Annie that night,’ Gil said. ‘One o them said he’d come from her father’s house.’

‘Now, I think that’s the one that’s stayed behind,’ said Sir Simon. ‘In case there should be errands to be run, ye ken.’

Fetched from the men’s hall, the man Sawney was willing enough to talk.

‘Aye, I last had an answer from her just about midnight,’ he assured Gil. ‘She was sounding like hersel, asking me to set her free, though she said she had no cramp nor anything in her feet, we’d bound her wi good attention to that. And the next time, maybe an hour later, I thought she was asleep. I wish I’d gone closer,’ he admitted, ‘we’d maybe ha had a better chance o finding her if we’d kent sooner she was flown.’

‘You’d kent her a while,’ said Gil, letting this pass.

‘Aye, from she was a wee thing,’ the man agreed. ‘I mind her on her first powny, wi her hair down her back. A bonnie lass, and a loving. I served James Gibb afore she was born, ye ken, maister, and a good man to serve he was and all. Deid now, a course, and Marian Wallace o Crosslee deid and all, Our Lady be thanked, and no knowing what’s come to her wee lassie.’

‘Her mother, you mean?’ Gil said, recalling the names in the documents he had seen at Sir Edward’s side.

‘Aye, that she was. A good lady, and well dowered, or so I heard.’

‘What was her dower? Was it lands, or money?’ Gil asked hopefully, but Sawney shook his head.

‘I’ve never a notion, maister. See, I was never out o Tarbolton till we rode to Glenbuck wi Annie. If the mistress’s lands was ever mentioned by name, other than Crosslee where she cam frae, I’d no ha taken any mind, I only heard they was plenty.’

‘And it all went to Annie,’ Gil said.

‘The whole lot went to Annie,’ said Sawney, ‘no matter what her kin said.’ Gil raised his eyebrows. ‘See, there was some talk o a bit land wi a mill, or a mine, or something o the sort, gey profitable, that James Gibb’s cousin laid claim to, though he wasny even the same surname. Away ayont Cumnock, it was. His man o law tried to serve a bit paper on Annie, the cousin’s man I mean, after her faither was deid, but Sir Edward and his man saw them off. That’d learn them, said Sir Edward,’ he grinned at the memory, ‘to take her for an unprotected lassie.’

‘His man of law, you mean?’ That must be land from her father’s property, not her mother’s dowry. Unless it was entailed, James Gibb would be entitled to leave it as he wished.

‘Is that no what I said?’

‘So her mother,’ said Gil, trying to sum this up, ‘came from Renfrewshire, this place Crosslee, and had lands about there maybe.’

‘Oh, I wouldny ken about that.’

‘And there was her father’s land in Ayrshire, about Tarbolton and Cumnock.’ Sawney nodded. ‘Had Annie no connection about Glasgow? No land here, maybe an agent, any kin or friends dwelling in Glasgow? Or even in Rutherglen?’

‘No that I ever heard, maister,’ said Sawney earnestly. ‘If her mother’s lands was by Crosslee, like you said, that’s ayont Paisley, or so I’ve heard. That’s no so far distant fro’ Glasgow, I suppose.’

‘Was any of the people about James Gibb’s house from Glasgow?’ Gil persisted, clutching at straws. ‘Other servants, Mistress Wallace’s women, any like that?’

‘No that I can mind.’ Sawney shook his head. ‘Maister, it’s six year since I set een on any o them, and the household was all broke up when my maister dee’d, I’ve never a notion. What’s more, if any o them had a connection wi our Annie, sent her news or the like, the rest o the house at Glenbuck would ha got to hear of it, you can be sure o that.’ He met Gil’s sceptical glance, and jerked his head towards the women’s hall. ‘Dame Ellen doesny let much stir about the place wi’out she has a finger in the matter. Or her whole hand,’ he added rather bitterly.

‘Aye, and it’s as well somebody does,’ pronounced Dame Ellen from the doorway of the hall. She advanced on Gil, simpering, her two nieces peering out of the door behind her. ‘I’m sure you’ve more to be about, maister, than let this fellow keep you back from your tasks. Away back to the stable, Sawney, and clean that wheen harness.’

‘It’s cleaned,’ muttered Sawney.

‘I sent for him,’ said Gil, raising his hat to Dame Ellen and then to her nieces, at which they giggled nervously. ‘He’s been a great help.’ He nodded dismissal to the man, who escaped with something like relief on his face. ‘Did Sir Simon say you’d gone over to St Mungo’s the day?’

‘We were there all morning.’ She folded her arms, hitching up her substantial bosom, and jerked her head at her nieces. ‘Away back to your needlework, you lassies, and Meggot can oversee you. Aye, sir,’ she gave him a smile with far too many teeth in it, ‘we were in St Mungo’s, making our devotions at his tomb, praying for an easy passage for my poor brother. I’ve left coin for a couple Masses the day, to relieve his going. They’re a wee bit ower-set the day, even my kinsman,’ she added, her tone souring. ‘Seems as if none o them can think beyond this fellow put down the well. What’s a well doing in a great kirk, anyway? Just asking to have things put down it, so it is. I never heard o sic a thing afore.’

‘It’s said to be St Mungo’s well itself.’

She gave him another of those dreadful smiles.

‘So my kinsman tells me. Any road, that’s where we’ve been.’

‘I hope it gave you comfort,’ he said conventionally. ‘Tell me, madam, whose idea was it to bring Annie Gibb to St Mungo’s? What prompted the journey? It’s a long road, particularly with your brother in such a sad way.’

‘Aye, my poor brother,’ she said again, and crossed herself. ‘Why, it was his idea, maister. Took the notion into his head to see his good-daughter cured afore he departs, and nothing would do but we must all convoy him to Glasgow town in a great procession.’

‘And if she was cured? What did he plan for her then?’

‘Oh, sir, I’ve never a notion. He never discussed the likes o that wi me.’

Did he not? thought Gil sceptically. But I’ll wager you discussed it with him, even if you got no answers.

‘You never thought o wedding her to one o your Muir kinsmen?’ he asked.

‘I did,’ she admitted, with another toothy smile, ‘but the lassie never favoured either o them, even had she no been melancholy-mad. A pity, they’re two bonnie laddies, and well to do, at least Henry is, but there you are, lassies will be lassies.’

‘Is there anyone else that came seeking her particularly?’ he asked. ‘Anyone that might think it worthwhile stealing her away, wedding her by force?’

‘Oh, is that what you’re thinking now?’ She stared at him in amazement. ‘Oh, no, sir, that’s never what’s come to her, surely! I fear the only way we’ll find her now is by leaving her to lie under whatever dyke till she’s stinking. I tell you, it’s like to break my poor brother’s heart if he’s to meet his end no knowing what’s come to her.’

‘Lockhart’s out searching, so I believe,’ Gil observed. She showed her teeth again.

‘If he feels he’s being useful, I suppose. Well, I’ll not keep you back. You’ve enough to do, I don’t doubt.’ She nodded to him, and turned away to the women’s hall.

As the heavy door swung shut behind her, hasty feet sounded in the passage from the outer courtyard, and Henry Muir burst from the entry, his brother on his heels.

‘Where’s my- Oh, it’s you,’ he said, frowning at Gil. ‘Where’s Dame Ellen? Do you ken aught o this new matter at St Mungo’s?’

‘New matter?’ Gil raised an eyebrow. Muir shook his head impatiently.

‘Another death. One o their vergers, so the Canon told us, bound wi ropes and put down a well. A right strange thing. He said he was strangled and all. Is it aught to do wi Annie? Or this other hoor that was in her place?’

‘Aye, but Henry, that wasny-’ began his brother. Muir lifted a threatening hand, and Austin fell silent.

‘No connection that I can see,’ Gil said. ‘It seems as if the man was thieving goods from the Almoner’s stores, and I wonder if his death is linked to that.’

‘Oh.’ Muir stared at him, frowning, and Gil studied the man in return. He was garbed today in a high-necked doublet of dark red velvet, the breast and stiff collar embroidered with silken pinks and bright green leaves, the cuffs of its tight sleeves turned back with, yes, gold brocade.

‘You were out again the night Annie went to the Cross,’ he said. Muir gave him a challenging nod. ‘Where did you go?’

‘Down the High Street.’ The other man snorted in what seemed to be amusement. ‘There was some kind o prentice ploy on at the Girth Cross, daft laddies all about the place and getting shoved into the burn, we’d to avoid them. We never went near Annie, if that’s what you’re asking. Her own servants had an eye to her, we’d no need to get involved.’

‘And yet I heard you’d a notion to wed her yourself,’ said Gil. ‘It would ha been a nice attention, to keep watch for her.’

‘Where did you hear that?’ demanded Muir, but his brother was grinning and nodding.

‘Oh, aye,’ he said, ‘Henry’s right inclined to Annie, or he was, till she-’ He broke off as Muir turned to glare at him.

‘Till she what?’ Gil asked innocently.

‘Till she vanished,’ said Muir aggressively.

‘What were you wearing that night?’

‘Wearing? Why? D’ye think I have aught to do wi her disappearing?’

‘No,’ said Gil mildly. ‘I just wondered what sic a well-dressed fellow as yourself might wear to go out on the town.’

‘Oh, that’s easy tellt,’ said Austin irrepressibly, as his brother glanced up and down Gil’s well-worn black garb, ‘for it was your blue brocade, and the satin doublet under it, was it no, Henry, and I had on my grey velvet. Aye, it was the brocade,’ he went on, ‘for you got ale on your good ’broidered shirt, Nory was right displeased at you, though it never went on the brocade.’

‘Will you be quiet?’ demanded his brother. ‘Haud yer wheesht and let wiser folks talk. Which is just about a’body in Glasgow,’ he added bitterly. Austin shuffled back a couple of steps, with what might have been meant for an ingratiating grin.

‘So what time did you get back to the house?’ Gil asked casually. ‘I wonder if you saw anything that might be helpful.’

Muir shrugged.

‘We were in bed by midnight, so it must ha been afore that.’ He paused to consider. ‘There was the prentice battle, like I tellt you, and a few folk going home from their drinking. Nothing I can mind.’

‘There was the man wi that handcart,’ said Austin, ‘that I heard when we went up Rottenrow.’

‘There was no handcart, you daftheid!’ said his brother. ‘I tell you, you imagined it, or you’re making it up!’

‘Aye, Henry,’ said Austin docilely. ‘But how did I hear it if I’m making it up?’

‘Any road, I’m wanting a word wi that doctor,’ Muir continued, ignoring this. ‘Doctor Christian, or whatever his name is. I want to ken how does our kinsman.’

‘He hasny long, I believe,’ said Gil.

‘Aye, but how long is that?’ he demanded. ‘How long does whoever’s stole Annie away have to keep her hid?’

‘Keep her hidden?’ Gil repeated. ‘Are you thinking it’s someone Sir Edward would never contemplate wedding her wi? That he’s waiting till her guardian’s gone?’

‘What else would it be, man?’ said Muir contemptuously, while Austin grinned and nodded behind him. ‘And if I’d thought it would work, I’d ha done the same. I just wish I’d kent who it was that was after her, I’d ha dealt wi them aforehand. All that land, to go out o the family!’

‘Sir Edward did not wish to see her wedded at all, I thought,’ Gil offered.

‘Foolishness,’ said Muir. ‘Leave her property all unstewarded? Sheer waste. And what is this about the second death, then?’ he demanded, with an abrupt reversion to his subject. ‘The auld fool hadny a plain tale to tell, he’s right stonied by it all and makin’ no sense. When was it?’

‘Yestreen,’ Gil said. Muir frowned.

‘Yestreen. So when was he killed? Who was it? One o the vergers, you said.’

‘Aye,’ Gil said. ‘A man called Barnabas. He was found some time after Compline, and had likely been dead no more than a couple of hours.’

Muir was still frowning, working something out. Austin said,

‘Oh, well, that’s no a worry, Henry-’ He stepped back, not fast enough to avoid the swinging backhander, and recovered himself to stand rubbing his mouth and nose, staring at his brother in dumb reproach.

‘So no that long afore Vespers,’ said Muir, as if nothing had happened. Gil nodded agreement. ‘But why? It’s a daft thing to do, put a man down a well in a kirk!’

‘Daft thing to do, to throttle a lassie after she’s dead,’ Gil observed.

‘What d’you mean by that?’ demanded Muir, hackling up.

‘Why, that it’s a daft thing to do,’ said Gil. ‘No other.’

‘He’s right there, Henry,’ said Austin, ‘the one’s as daft as the other. Here, d’you think it was-’

‘Will you haud your wheesht?’

‘D’you think it was what, Austin?’ Gil asked.

‘Nothing,’ said Austin, rubbing at his mouth again. ‘Forgot what I was going to say.’

‘Henry, Austin, I thought I heard you,’ said Dame Ellen in the doorway of the women’s hall.

‘There you are!’ said Muir in the same breath. ‘Madam,’ he added. She gave them both a simpering smile.

‘You’re here in a good hour, laddies. You can escort me over to St Mungo’s, till I offer another prayer for my poor brother.’