The Stolen Voice

Chapter Twelve

It was indeed the young people from Glenbuckie, and it seemed to be a formal deputation. Jamie Beag at their head, dressed once again in the elaborately folded plaid, the yellow-dyed shirt and velvet bonnet he had worn the previous day to greet the mourners, bowed deeply to Sir William, and behind him his sisters and cousin curtsied and stood silent, faces hidden. Jamie cast one quick glance at the door of the kirk, his colour rising, and said in Scots:

‘I have a word for Sir William from me and my uncle, as the tenants of Dalriach.’

‘Have you now?’ said Sir William, glowering at him under his eyebrows. ‘And what might that be? Do I need to hear it now, or can I get on wi this matter of your uncle Davie or whoever he is?’

‘It concerns D — Davie,’ said Jamie, very upright, quite expressionless. At the hesitation Ailidh turned her head to look at him, but did not speak. Why is he so embarrassed? Gil wondered.

‘Go on, man,’ said the Bailie.

‘We have been talking it through, all the matter of the fire and the death of my grandmother and the death of Iain mac Padraig,’ Jamie said, still without expression, ‘and we are concluding that it was the Good Folk that caused all of it.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Sir William.

Jamie nodded, but Andrew said, ‘I’ve decided no such thing, nephew, and you know that!’

‘It was us on the farm that decided it this morning,’ said Jamie steadily. ‘So you will see there is no need for Sir William to be concerning himself with it at all.’

‘Right,’ said Sir William. ‘So you tell me it was nobody set the fire, and nobody caused the bairn’s death — ’

‘Excepting the Good Folk,’ agreed Jamie.

‘No such thing!’ said Andrew again, but Ailidh drew her plaid away from her face and said quietly, speaking to him direct:

‘My uncle’s wife is agreed to that, in particular.’

‘Caterin?’ said Andrew, arrested. ‘She agrees?’

‘She does,’ said Ailidh.

The two younger girls nodded silently. One of them was Caterin’s daughter, Gil recalled. He looked from one fair-skinned Drummond face to another, and then down at Alys in dismay. Her hand tightened in his, and she nodded, as silent as the Drummond girls; she also had recognized the nature of the bargain which had been struck. So had Sir William, it appeared, and what astonished Gil was that he seemed to accept the matter. The woman will get away with it, he thought, only so that Davie can go free. Is that justice? And who set the fire in any case?

‘Well,’ said Sir William. ‘In that case, you might as well ha your kinsman out of the kirk here. But afore he goes, I want the truth from him.’

He flung round and strode back into the little kirk, taking those around him by surprise. There was a minor scuffle at the door, as Gil tried to give way to the younger Drummonds, whom he felt to have the best claim to be next after Sir William, and first Andrew and then the Stronvar men-at-arms tried to push past. In the disturbance Andrew Drummond’s hat fell off. Gil moved towards it, but Alys got there first and snatched it up.

‘Your hat, Canon,’ she said, brushing it with her cuff, and turned it to make sure it had suffered no damage.

‘My thanks,’ he said in his harsh voice, hand out. She paused, admiring the bright badge.

‘Whatever saint is that?’ she asked innocently. ‘It’s a pretty image, with the sword and the lamp like that. I can’t read the name — is that D-I — ?’

‘DIMPNA. It’s St Dymphna,’ he said, hand still extended. She apologized and gave him the hat. ‘My thanks,’ he said again, and turned away before she could ask him anything else.

‘Well done,’ said Gil softly. She gave him a quick smile, and preceded him into the kirk.

By the time he got to the low arch, the Bailie was within the small chancel saying, ‘Right, my laddie. You’ve sworn to your innocence of the charges. And your kin here, if that’s what they are, have decided there’s no charge to bring in any case, so come out of the shadows, will you, and tell me who you are.’

Davie stared at him, eyes and mouth wide and dark in the dim light.

‘No charge?’ he repeated.

‘The woman’s changed her mind,’ said Sir William.

‘Caterin has said it was all done by the Good Folk,’ said Alys, beside Gil. Davie caught his breath on a little sob, and put the back of one hand to his mouth. Ailidh, right by the pillar at one side of the arch, looked at him and then round the rest of the company, and slipped in to stand close to him.

‘Did you hear me, laddie?’ said Sir William, raising his voice a little. ‘I bade you tell me who you are.’

Davie laughed unsteadily, and took his hand down.

‘I told you that already,’ he said, ‘but I’ll swear it again. Here on St Angus’ own grave, I swear to you that I am Davie Drummond.’

‘Aye, but which Davie Drummond?’ demanded Sir William. That’s the right question, thought Gil. ‘Are you the one that vanished away thirty year syne, or are you another? Tell me that, now, while you’re standing on St Angus’ grave!’

‘Who could I be if I wasny that Davie?’

‘Don’t play games wi me, laddie.’ Sir William was becoming angry. ‘Andrew, what do you say? Jamie? You lassies? Is he your kin, the one that vanished away, or is he another?’

Outside, a bell rang, once, twice. It left a humming silence, which seemed to last for ever. Then the door of the little kirk creaked open, and a dark figure appeared against the light.

‘Sir William?’ Robert Montgomery’s voice. ‘Are you here? I’ve a word for you from Sir Duncan, and it’ll not wait.’

Sir Duncan had very little time left. He lay propped on a stack of cushions, sheepskins, folded plaids, to raise him a little on the hurdle on which they had carried him out of his house. Below the kirk the slope of the land made a half-bowl, and the old man had been set down at the centre of this, another very elderly man who must be the clerk kneeling at his feet and weeping. By his side Robert stood, holding the bell; from time to time he rang it twice and then stilled it. Gil would have liked a closer look at it, for it was clearly very old, a box-shaped thing with an extraordinary sweet, carrying sound.

The inhabitants of the Kirkton, leaving whatever occupied them, leaving the hay unturned and the beasts to mind themselves, were gathering in silence on the slopes of the bowl. The sound of the bell must be audible clear along the glen; people could be seen in the distance, making their way in knots of two and three and five, hastening to its summons. Occasionally Sir Duncan raised a hand in blessing; his flesh was so transparent that Gil was surprised when it cut off the sparkles of the sun on the river beyond.

He was uneasily aware that he should set out for Perth as he had planned. There was much to find out there before he could come to any conclusion about James Stirling’s death. He had said as much to Alys, but she said seriously, ‘You may learn more here before you go, Gil. Wait a little longer.’

He had already learned a little. Following Sir William along the path through the kirkyard, he had found Robert Montgomery at his elbow.

‘They’re saying Davie’s safe now, Maister Cunningham,’ he had said abruptly. ‘Is that right?’

‘The woman has withdrawn her charge of arson,’ Gil agreed.

Robert sighed faintly in relief, and crossed himself.

‘St Angus be praised,’ he said. ‘And I’ve a word from the old man for you.’ Gil raised his eyebrows. ‘I was to tell you, he minds no stranger the same week you asked about, but he had spied a bodach in the glen himself the week afore it.’

‘Well, well,’ said Gil. ‘My thanks to Sir Duncan.’ He put his hand briefly on the young man’s shoulder. ‘You’re doing him good service, Robert.’

Robert looked at the hand and then at Gil, gave him a swift startled smile, and slipped off round the people in front of them with his head down, leaving Gil himself to recognize yet again that extraordinary feeling of sympathy for a Montgomery.

He had lost sight of Alys now; she might be with the Drummond girls. Sir William, abrogating responsibility for the scene before them, was sitting on the kirkyard wall, watching the parish gathering and chewing his lip. He had got no answer from Davie Drummond, and it clearly rankled. And where was Davie? Gil wondered. Come to that, where was Doig?

He moved quietly away among the gathering crowd, and made for the priest’s own house. He could hear voices as he approached it, but Doig was seated just inside the door as he had been before, and the conversation ceased before he came close enough to catch words. He rattled politely at the pin nevertheless, and said:

‘I hoped I’d find you, Maister Doig. And is Davie here too?’

‘I am,’ admitted Davie reluctantly as he pushed the door wider.

‘It’s you again,’ said Doig in hostile tones. ‘I suppose you’d better come in. At least you’ll no disturb the auld yin. Did you ever hear o sic a thing as that?’ He jerked his head in the direction of the gathering parish.

‘I have,’ said Davie. He was sitting on one of the painted kists across the room, swinging his bare feet against the wood with regular soft thumps. ‘When St Angus himself died, the whole parish came to say farewell to him, and he sat out there in his preaching-place, that he made by a miracle — ’

‘Oh, like St Mungo,’ said Gil, appreciating this.

‘I wouldn’t be knowing,’ admitted Davie.

‘Aye, well, I suppose this one’s near enough being a saint,’ said Doig sourly.

Gil looked from one to the other. They were clearly acquainted, and Davie was comfortable in the older man’s presence, though just now both were watching him closely. And now he knew that there had been a bodach before the young David vanished, and one when he returned. Robert had clearly not recognized the significance of the message; his mind was probably occupied by his concern for the dying man.

‘Davie,’ he said. ‘Is your father still alive?’

‘James Drummond died years ago,’ said Davie.

‘Not your grandfather. Your father.’

The two of them stared at him, Doig impassive, Davie apprehensive.

‘What I think happened,’ Gil said slowly, ‘was that thirty years ago someone was paid to snatch David Drummond away, on his way back to Dunblane just at this time of year, and take him to the Low Countries and sell him to some kirk or other as a singer.’ Davie’s gaze slid sideways to Doig, but Doig’s eyes were unwaveringly fixed on Gil. ‘I think David prospered where he ended up, maybe even married, had a son anyway. Then this summer the son came back, was dropped off in the same place where his father was snatched, climbed over the pass and was taken for his own father by old Mistress Drummond, who was near blind at close quarters though she could count the sheep on the hillside.’

‘That’s a good tale,’ said Doig approvingly. ‘You should get a harper to set it to music.’

‘What year were you born, Maister Doig?’ Gil asked.

‘Forty-seven,’ said Doig, without thought.

‘So you were sixteen when you lifted David Drummond.’

‘I never said I — ’

‘Sir Duncan saw the bodach the previous week. Was it your own business at that time, ferrying information and singers abroad, or were you the junior partner?’

‘You’re talking nonsense,’ said Doig. ‘What would the likes of me do that for? How would I do it?’

‘I’ve met you before, Maister Doig,’ Gil pointed out. ‘So did you bring Davie in by Perth, or by Leith and Dunblane?’

‘Why would I do either?’

Abandoning that for the moment, Gil looked at Davie.

‘Where is St Dymphna’s shrine?’ he asked. ‘This Irish saint that cures the mad.’

He could see, even in the poor light within the house, how Davie considered the question and found the answer harmless.

‘Gheel,’ he replied. ‘So they say.’

‘Gheel,’ repeated Gil, sounding the guttural at the beginning of the word. ‘Where good singers are always wanted, Maister Doig? No wonder that laddie took you for the Devil himself, wi your leather cloak down your back like wings, talking about Hell at the window.’

‘Where?’ said Doig. ‘What window would that be?’

‘Did he so?’ said Davie, laughing rather madly. ‘Billy, you’ll need to keep that quiet, or the Bishop’s men’ll no come calling.’

‘What Bishop was that?’ Doig said, with that monitory stare.

‘Och, maybe I dreamed it,’ said Davie, suddenly deflated. Gil made no comment, but got to his feet.

‘Davie, I’d like to know what you’ll do next. Robert Blacader put me in here to find out who you are, and now I’ve discerned that my task’s done, but if I can assure him you’ll not pursue a place in the choir at Dunblane he’ll be happier.’

‘Was that what fetched you here?’ said Doig in amazement. ‘One old woman’s daft notion?’

‘I’ve no notion to sing in the choir at Dunblane, maister, and I’ll swear it by any saint you care to name.’

Gil studied him for a moment.

‘Will you talk to my wife?’ he suggested. Davie nodded. ‘Good. She can likely help you, she’s an ingenious lassie. Now I’ve to get to Perth afore supper, so I’ll leave you.’

‘And, by the Rood, I’ll be glad to see you go,’ said Doig.

‘It’s quite a tangle,’ said Bishop Brown. He leaned back from his desk and stroked his dog’s soft head. ‘But are the two matters connected other than by the man Drummond?’

Gil hesitated, staring out of the study window at the evening sunlight on the fields across the Tay and trying to put his thoughts into words.

‘There’s a pattern,’ he said at length, ‘and it seems to me it involves both matters. All three, indeed,’ he added, ‘though I’m certain the three singers are safe enough in Gheel.’

Getting the explanation and apology for his sudden departure accepted had not been easy. The Bishop was inclined to be affronted by what he saw as desertion, and Gil had had to invoke Blacader’s original commission and stress its priority. He had still not been offered any refreshment, though he had missed supper, and he had only achieved this private interview by insisting on it.

‘So what will you do now?’ asked Brown. ‘Where will you hunt next?’

‘I’ll need a word wi your steward,’ Gil said, ‘to learn if there’s been any answer to those questions we were having cried through the town. Then I’ll have to ask more questions.’

‘Aye questions,’ said the Bishop. ‘I need answers, maister. You’ll ha heard, maybe, that there are folk in the Low Countries know more than they should about the English treaty?’ Gil nodded. ‘I want to learn whether my secretary was Judas or Sebastian, and I want it afore we bury him.’

‘I’ll be out first thing,’ Gil promised, appreciating the reference, ‘and I’ll keep you informed, sir.’

‘Aye, do that,’ said the Bishop. ‘But my carpenter tells me he’ll no keep long, tanpit or no tanpit, lead coffin or no lead coffin, so I’d be glad if you brattle on wi’t, maister.’

Jerome suddenly jumped down from his knee and bustled over to inspect Gil’s boots, tail going. Gil bent to make much of the pup, and Brown’s expression softened.

‘Whether he’s traitor or martyr, that’s one thing Jaikie did for me,’ he said, ‘fetched me my wee dog.’

‘He’s a bonnie pup,’ Gil said. ‘A good memorial, sir.’

‘Maybe,’ said the Bishop. ‘Well, if that’s all you’re wanting to let me know the now, you’d best go and get a bite to eat and shift your clothes. Wat will see to all for you. And he’ll tell you,’ he added, ‘the constable has took up the tanner for Jaikie’s death. I’m no convinced, but the Shirra gave his approval.’

‘Andy Cornton the tanner?’ said Currie, pouring ale for Gil. ‘The constable lifted him, oh, about noon yesterday, and one o his journeymen and all. Quite a scene it was, so they say, his men wereny for letting him go quietly and the constable had to break two o their heads. He denies any connection wi Stirling’s death, a course, but what I say is, Willie Reid must ha had something to go on, whatever my lord thinks.’

‘Have they been put to the question?’ Gil asked. ‘This is an uncommon good pie,’ he added, and cut himself another wedge. The steward, when applied to, had taken him to his own chamber and sent a man for a tray of food; Gil hoped the two men at arms who had ridden in with him were as well looked after.

‘We keep a good kitchen,’ said Currie, nodding at the compliment. ‘Question? No, by what I hear, they’re waiting for you to come back afore they proceed.’

Gil chewed on the mouthful of meat and pastry, thinking guiltily that if he had not gone to Balquhidder he might have prevented the arrest.

‘I learned a few things, these two days, just the same,’ he said aloud. ‘I’ve found the second badge, for a start.’

‘So I can send the bellman round, can I, to tell folks no to bring me any more lead St Jameses?’ said Currie with a rueful grin. ‘What’s it doing at Balquhidder, then?’

‘Andrew Drummond has it. He says Stirling gave it to him.’

‘St Peter’s bones, why’d he do that?’

‘He didn’t tell me,’ said Gil evasively.

‘That’s no like Maister Stirling,’ said Currie, ‘he set great store by those badges, I’d never ha thought he’d part wi one. Oh — speaking o the bellman, the Precentor at St John’s Kirk, what’s his name? Kinnoull, that’s it, he sent to say he’d a word for you about something the bellman was crying.’

‘Did he say what? There were several things we sent to the bellman about.’

‘Never a word. That was all the message, sent wi one of the laddies in his choir.’

‘I’ll go by the kirk tomorrow,’ Gil said, glancing at the window of the chamber where they sat. ‘It’s near sunset now.’

‘Your man Tam’s late,’ said Currie anxiously. ‘He’ll maybe no get into the town if he’s much longer.’

‘I’m not looking for him till the morn,’ Gil said.

‘You’re no? Just the lads you had wi you thought he’d come ahead, they were right confounded when they didny find him here already wi his boots off.’

‘No, no, I sent him an errand, and two more men wi him.’ Gil selected a plum from the dish of fruit and bit into it. ‘They should be here by the morn’s noon. Where are Cornton and his man held?’

‘They’re in the Tolbooth, in chains by what I hear, and they’re saying his wife’s in a rare taking, poor woman.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Gil.

Maister Gregor, accosted in the hall before Prime next morning, was disinclined to chat. It took Gil a little work over his bowl of porridge to persuade the old man to think about the evening his friend had vanished.

‘It’s none so easy,’ he said glumly, ‘for a course I didny realize then that he’d vanished, so I took no note of the evening, any more than I did the previous one.’

‘I can see that,’ Gil said. ‘It was that day you had the argument about the shoe, did you tell me?’

‘Aye, it was.’ Maister Gregor rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his old-fashioned buttoned gown. ‘To think it was near the last words we spoke, it fair makes me greet.’

‘But you were friends again by noon?’ Gil prompted.

‘Aye, we were, you’re right. Jaikie cam to sit by me here at the board, see, and we shared a mess of boiled mutton wi two Erschemen from Lorne and spoke Latin wi them. Their Latin wasny very good,’ the old man recalled, ‘they couldny understand the most o what I said to them. And Wat was on about a new way to cook mutton, wait till I tell you this.’ He recounted his friend’s witticism again, obviously forgetting that he had already told it to Gil.

‘What happened after that?’ Gil asked.

‘Why, Jaikie went out about my lord’s errands, about the rents, and I went to copying the diocesan returns for my lord. They go to Rome, you’ll understand, maister, so they’ve to be in a good clear hand, and my lord’s aye commended mine.’

‘A dull task,’ said Gil, pulling a sympathetic face. ‘How long did that last you?’

‘Aye, but a needful. I stayed at that till Vespers, and then seeing the supper was a wee thing late I walked in the garden for a bittie. My lord was there and all, wi his wee dog, and he asked me where was Jaikie,’ he rubbed at his eyes again, ‘and a course Jaikie never cam here again.’

‘I think my lord had a great trust in Maister Stirling,’ said Gil. Maister Gregor nodded. ‘Did he tell you anything about the English negotiations while he was caught up in them?’

‘Me? No, no, I kept away from that,’ said Maister Gregor virtuously. ‘I think my lord was feart I’d let something slip at the wrong time,’ he added. Surprised by this show of self-awareness, Gil nodded. ‘And a course Jaikie was maist discreet. Never a word till all was signed and sealed, and then it was only a bit gossip about the ambassadors,’ he said with regret, and sighed heavily. ‘Aye me, it’s hard to think I’ll not see him again in this life.’

St John’s Kirk was busy with folk making their morning observations. Several priests were saying Mass at different altars, their bright vestments catching the light, the incense rising up into the high roof past the gleam of the huge silver chandelier on its chain, and another two appeared to be showing some relics to a group of pilgrims. Enquiring for Kinnoull led Gil to the choir itself. It was empty and quiet just now, between Prime and Terce, except for the Precentor poring over the great choir-book on its stand while the clerks of the choir refreshed themselves with a jug of ale in the vestry.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said as Gil made his way through the curtained doorway in the choirscreen. ‘I sent you word, did I no?’

‘You did,’ agreed Gil.

‘I think we’ll use this one the day.’ Kinnoull spread the great pages flat, and drew the bar down on its hinge to keep the book open. ‘I’m still short o basses since the Moncrieff lads left us, maister, and it limits which settings of the Mass we can use, it limits them. You’ve no idea where they’ve gone, I suppose?’

‘The Low Countries, I suspect,’ said Gil.

‘Aye, I feared as much,’ said Kinnoull, nodding gloomily. ‘They’ve more wealth than us, maister, we’ll never get our singers back now. Where in the Low Countries?’

‘A place called Gheel.’

‘Never heard of it. Well, maister, I’ll ha to get on, we’ve Terce to sing, but just afore you go, was it you was looking for where Andrew Drummond o Dunblane ate his supper one night?’

‘It was,’ agreed Gil, without much hope.

‘I thought it was. Well, I canny help you there, maister, but I can tell you where he was after it. He was in here.’

‘In here?’ repeated Gil, startled. ‘You know him, do you?’

‘Oh, I know him well. I’m fro Dunblane mysel, maister. So when I saw him here in St Andrew’s chapel, I said to mysel, You’re not wanting disturbed, man, I’ll just leave you be.’

‘He was at prayer?’

‘That’s what I’m telling you. He spent the most of an hour or maybe more on his knees afore St Andrew. I was in here, looking through the choir-book just as you find me now, maister, and when I’d finished I should ha gone out and locked the place, but I didny want to chase Andrew Drummond away. Times you can tell when a man needs a quiet word.’

‘So you weren’t close enough to tell whether he’d been drinking.’

‘Drinking? No, I smelled no drink. Frying, maybe, I’d say he’d had fried bread to his supper, but no drink. Anyway I just sat here till he left.’

‘And what time would that be?’ Gil asked hopefully.

‘Near curfew,’ said Kinnoull confidently, ‘for I’d to hurry mysel to get a jug of ale afore they rang the bell. And now I’ll have to hurry mysel to lead the choir in for Terce.’ He gave the great book one last glance, and moved away from the stand. ‘But when I heard the bellman asking where Andrew ate his supper, I thought to mysel, that might be what the man needs to hear.’

‘It is,’ said Gil. ‘My thanks, maister. It’s something I needed, right enough.’

‘I can ask,’ said Brother Dickon. ‘But it was two weeks afore we sought him, maister, and I’d ha thought if any o my lads — my brethren,’ he corrected himself, ‘had found aught like that, they’d ha said so at the time.’

‘I agree,’ said Gil, ‘it’s a long shot, but I have to check.’

‘So you want to know,’ said the senior lay brother, a wiry grizzled fellow with a scar across one eye, ‘if there was any sign o a struggle, or a patch of blood.’

‘Any sign of where the man died,’ Gil agreed, wishing he had brought Socrates. But even the dog might have difficulty after two weeks, he thought, supposing the man did die out on the Ditchlands.

Brother Dickon jerked his head at the open doorway.

‘We’re just come from Terce,’ he said, ‘so you’ve catched us all thegither. Come and wait while I ask them.’

Gil rose and followed him out of the snug porter’s lodge into the first courtyard of the convent, where half a dozen lay brothers, bearded men in the black Dominican habit with the black scapular instead of white, were clattering across the outer courtyard in their sturdy boots, making for the gate. Brother Dickon summoned them with a piercing whistle and a wave of his arm, and all six came to stand obediently before him, hands tucked into their wide sleeves, heads bent, faces half hidden by their hoods. Dickon glared at them, and they looked sideways and shuffled into a straighter line.

‘Aye,’ he said at length. ‘You’ll do. Listen, lads. Er, brethren. You mind the other day when we had to hunt for that clerk that got hissel missing?’

He propounded Gil’s question accurately, and glared along the line of black hoods. There was silence for the space of an Ave, then one of the hoods rose and its wearer said diffidently, ‘Permission to speak, sa — er — Brother Dickon?’

‘Speak up, Brother Archie.’

‘I don’t think any of us seen anything like that.’

Heads were shaken all along the row.

‘Damage to any of the bushes?’ Gil said hopefully. ‘Signs of a struggle?’

‘Christ love you, maister,’ said Brother Dickon tolerantly, ‘there’s struggles to damage the bushes any evening a lad walks his lass across the meadow.’

‘Aye, and it’s never — ’ began a mutter from under one of the hoods.

‘That’ll do, Brother Dod,’ said Brother Dickon.

‘Does that happen most evenings?’ Gil asked. ‘Would there have been youngsters there the night Maister Stirling vanished?’

‘Likely enough,’ said Brother Dickon, and heads nodded along the row. ‘But as for minding whether or no, two weeks after it, it’s more than I can do. Any of you lads?’

Clearly, none of his troop remembered either. Gil looked from them to the spare, upright figure of their superior, and said, ‘I’ve another question, if I may. Was any of you along the Skinnergate that evening? I realize,’ he said mendaciously, ‘you’d not be in the alehouses, but I wonder if anyone saw Andrew Drummond there in the street.’

Brother Dickon’s expression was wonderfully ambiguous. After another, longer, pause, the same man as before spoke up.

‘I was on the Skinnergate after our supper,’ he admitted. ‘I’d to fetch a harness to the white-faced mare, that Will Lorimer was mending for us.’

‘And did you see the Canon, Brother Archie?’ demanded his superior sharply. Brother Archie nodded.

‘I did and all,’ he said. ‘He was just going into the Northgate as I cam out of Lorimer’s shop. He never saw me, but. He’d the duarch wi him, the mimmerkin that dwells at the dog-breeder’s yard.’

‘And what time would that be?’ Gil asked.

Archie shrugged. ‘After supper. I’d gone into the town, I’d spoke wi Lorimer, I’d shown him why he should do the work as a gift. Eight o’ the clock, maybe?’

‘You’d swear to that?’ Gil said. Archie looked at Brother Dickon.

‘Aye, lad, brother, you can swear to it,’ Brother Dickon informed him.

‘I’ll swear to it, maister,’ said Brother Archie.

‘That’s excellent,’ said Gil. ‘My thanks, brother.’

‘Is that all you’re wanting?’ demanded Brother Dickon. ‘For they’ve to get on wi stacking the great barn afore the tithes come in.’ When Gil nodded, he jerked his head at the row of men. ‘Right, lads, get on wi’t.’

They bowed, in unison, the black hoods falling forward over their brows. Then they turned and clattered towards the gate, rather self-consciously not walking in step.

‘What did you do before you took the habit, brother?’ Gil asked curiously, watching them go.

‘Serjeant-at-arms to the old King,’ said Brother Dickon.

Mistress Doig was not at home. Several of the dogs he had seen on his first visit were absent as well, so it seemed likely she was exercising them out on the common land to the north of the suburb, as she had described. Most of the remaining dogs barked at him when he entered the yard, but he stood quietly, and after a while they settled down again, though one liver-and-white bitch pressed her muzzle into the corner of her pen and snarled steadily. He ignored her, and took the opportunity to examine the premises with more attention than before.

Out here beyond the burgh walls — no, the Ditch, he corrected himself — the ground was not laid out in the long narrow even-sized tofts which were usual inside a town. The Doigs’ premises consisted of the house set at the further end of the ground with the yard in front of it and a long shed to one side. The yard was perhaps twenty-five or thirty paces long, and the same width as the dyer’s yard, fenced all round with woven hurdles lashed securely to solid posts. Within this space the pens had been constructed of solid timber, the lowest planks half-buried to prevent enthusiastic inmates tunnelling out, the higher ones separated enough for the occupant to see something of the world. None of them was against the boundary, so that a lean person such as Mistress Doig or Gil himself could walk right round the fence.

The liver-and-white bitch, getting no reaction, had given up her harangue to lie down within her kennel, but when he moved to explore the layout of the yard, she leapt out with a savage snarl, provoking the other dogs as well. He recognized why Mistress Doig had no hesitation in leaving the premises unattended; two of her neighbours had already looked out to see what was going on, alerted by the noise. Waving politely to them, he picked his way round the double row of pens, peered into and then behind the shed, studied the hurdles which composed the fence, leaned over to see into the tanyard.

‘She’s out wi the dogs,’ said a voice over the barking. He looked up, and saw one of the neighbours still watching suspiciously from the property that lay between him and the Blackfriars’ track. ‘She’ll no be long.’

‘I can see that,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll wait for her. Likely she knows I’m here by now, wi the dogs barking like this.’

‘Aye, likely.’ The man stood watching him. He was clad in a worn leather jerkin and blue workman’s bonnet, and held a knife in one hand and a slat of wood in the other; probably he was one of the many manufacturers of small-wares, little boxes and wooden combs, needle-cases and tablet covers, who could be found scraping a living in the suburbs of any burgh. That would explain the litter of timber and shavings lying all about the yard, Gil realized.

‘Is trade good?’ he asked casually, picking his way over to the fence.

‘It keeps us.’

‘There’s a lot of buying and selling in Perth, I think, what wi the overseas merchants and the like.’

‘They’re no wanting Ally Paterson’s wares,’ said the man resentfully. ‘It’s all sheep fells and salt salmon they take out o Perth, and they bring in stuff to compete wi decent craftsmen and take the bread out our mouths.’

Recognizing his duty, Gil enquired further, and found himself bargaining over the fence for a handful of wooden combs and several tiny boxes which might hold a needle. The things were well made; he was sure Alys would not want them, but they might make gifts for someone.

‘You keep an eye out for one another in these yards,’ he commented, counting out the sum agreed.

‘I’m sorry if I was a bit sharp,’ said Paterson obliquely, and handed the goods over bundled in an oddment of striped woollen cloth. ‘You’ll ha heard, maybe, Andy Cornton the tanner’s in trouble the now wi a dead man in his tanpit, and there was a wee bother in Mistress Doig’s place the other week and all.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Was there any harm to her? Or the dogs?’

‘No, I’d say not,’ said Paterson drily, ‘for I heard her complaining to her man about it after. No, just something set the dogs barking and her man was shouting, right angry he was, about folk coming into his yard and misbehaving theirsels, and right enough there was a couple men there earlier though I never learned what they’d done, for I was at my supper at the time,’ he admitted with regret. ‘So when I seen a stranger, and I ken she’s out — ’

‘Very wise,’ said Gil, ‘and I’m sure Mistress Doig would do the same for you.’ A fresh outbreak of barking made him look over his shoulder, in time to see the dog-breeder herself approaching her gate, towed by a mixed leash of half a dozen excited animals. ‘Good day, mistress,’ he offered, and raised his hat to her.

‘You again,’ she said.

‘Oh, aye,’ agreed Paterson. ‘And you’ll mind Ally Paterson next time you’re needing a comb, maister.’

By the time Gil extricated himself from the conversation, Mistress Doig had returned the dogs to their various pens, screamed at the others for silence and obtained it, glowered at her neighbour and at Gil, and was waiting in the midst of the yard, arms folded, to learn his business.

‘I’d a good word wi himself in Balquhidder,’ he began, making his way past the liver-and-white bitch again.

‘Is that where he is?’ she retorted, in unwelcoming tones.

‘He was saying he misses the dogs.’

She snorted at that. ‘Aye, well, he kens what he can do about it.’

‘You were to show me the fence.’

Her eyes widened, but she said without moving, ‘What about the fence, then?’

‘The new mended spot,’ he prompted.

She studied him, glanced briefly at Paterson still standing in his doorway watching them, and said sourly, ‘Come in the house.’

The house was a single room, though it had a fireplace with a chimney in one gable. Mistress Doig stalked in ahead of him, tossed her plaid on to the bed, pointed to a stool and said, ‘You can as well be seated. Now what’s this about? I’ll not discuss my business or Doig’s afore the neighbours.’

‘The new mended spot on the fence,’ he repeated. She hooked a second stool away from the wall with one foot and sat down, giving him another hostile stare.

‘I’ve no notion how that came about. I heard him shouting when I was out wi the dogs, maybe it was about that. He’d mended it by the time I cam back, he was just putting the tools past in the shed. Same evening you were asking me about afore,’ she added, ‘after I’d had the two priests in the yard. I’d enough to do wi the dogs when I came in, the ones I’d left here were in a right tirravee wi him shouting and all, I never heard what came to the fence. Maybe Doig and our Mitchel had a fight,’ she speculated, without much conviction.

‘Not round by the fence, surely?’ said Gil. ‘It’s a tight squeeze for a burly fellow like Doig, I’d have said, let alone starting a fight in the space.’

She shrugged. ‘He never said.’

‘Mind you, the damage is none so bad,’ he pursued. ‘Did he just have to cut a new cord and tie the hurdle to the stobs again? Or was there more to it than that?’

‘I’ve no notion,’ she said again. ‘Doig never said. You’ve been round and looked at it yoursel, then?’

‘I have. It’s well trampled, for such a simple repair, I wondered if you’d had a bit trouble.’

‘I keep telling you,’ she said impatiently, ‘I wasny here and Doig never let on.’

‘Did your cousin not tell you what happened?’

‘I’ve not seen him since. Likely he’s away a message for his maister.’

‘He’s away, is he? Who carries the word instead of him, then?’

‘That daft fellow that was wi you the other day. Peter.’ She snorted again. ‘No more sense than turn up here asking for Doig so all the neighbours can hear.’

‘What’s Maister Doig doing now that he’d as soon keep quiet?’ Gil asked casually.

‘Why ask me? If you’ve spoke wi him in Balquhidder, you ought to know,’ she retorted. ‘You’re mighty full o questions every time I see you, maister, and answering them’s never done me any good. I think I’d as soon you left my yard.’ She rose and shook out her striped homespun skirts, and stood glaring at him. ‘And I’ll no look for you — ’

‘Mistress Doig!’ shouted a voice outside. ‘Mistress Doig, are you there? You’re socht!’

She snatched up her plaid and hurried out to the yard, Gil following. Paterson was out at his door again, shouting; another two or three neighbours were hastening down their gardens with excited cries.

‘What’s amiss? Who wants me?’ she demanded.

‘It’s the Blackfriars!’ called another neighbour. ‘See, there he comes yonder! It’s your man, I doubt!’

‘Doig!’ she said, on a breathless little gasp, and froze on the spot.

‘No, it’s not her man,’ said someone else, ‘it’s her cousin. He’s carried in dead, and asking for her.’