The Stolen Voice

Chapter Thirteen

‘I’m that sorry, Maister Gil,’ said Tam yet again, over the head of the man bandaging him.

‘You did your best, man,’ said Gil. ‘None of us was expecting an attack.’

‘That’s it,’ agreed Ned, his hands round a pot of hot spiced ale. ‘We never expected sic a thing that close to Perth.’

They were in the guest hall of the Blackfriars’ convent, a high light chamber with painted walls and a long table down its centre, where the injured men had been carried when they reached the gatehouse. By the time Gil arrived at the run, with Mistress Doig on his heels, Brother Infirmarer had made his decisions, told off two of his lay brothers to see to Tam and Ned, and was just following Donal as he was borne to the Infirmary. His assistant, crucifix in hand, was kneeling over a fourth man who lay groaning on the bloodstained flagstones.

Mistress Doig had dropped to her knees beside him in silence, seizing the injured man’s hand. Gil stood by, staring in horror, while the sub-Infirmarer recited words all too familiar to everyone in the room and Tam said urgently in his ear:

‘They came down on us no a mile fro the town, Maister Gil. There was six o them, we was lucky to get away, and it was Mitchel there they was after, they were out to kill him!’

‘Looks as if they’ve succeeded,’ said Ned beside him.

Gil stepped forward as the sub-Infirmarer reached the blessing, and hunkered down beside the dying man. The narrow, dark-browed face was glistening with sweat, blood bubbled on the bluish lips, and he whimpered as another spasm of pain jerked through his body. The two deep wounds to chest and belly would see him off within a few minutes, to judge by the sub-Infirmarer’s manner.

‘Mitchel,’ he said quietly, ‘who killed Jaikie Stirling?’

Mitchel groaned again, and Mistress Doig threw him an angry look.

‘Leave him at peace!’ she said. ‘He’s more to think on than that! Brother Euan, can you gie him nothing for his pain? I’d not — ’ She choked on the words. ‘I’d not leave a dog to suffer this way.’

‘I can,’ admitted the sub-Infirmarer in his deep gentle voice, ‘though whether he’ll get the good o’t is another matter.’ He turned away to receive a small bottle from his servant, unstopping it with big deft hands. Gil leaned forward, looking into Mitchel’s eyes.

‘Who killed Maister Stirling?’ he asked again. The man drew a shuddering breath, twisted away from his gaze, and gasped, faint and high-pitched:

‘Wha — ? Wha?’

‘He doesny ken what you mean,’ said Mistress Doig. ‘Here, my laddie, drink this.’ She almost snatched the little cup from the Infirmarer, lifted Mitchel’s head, eased water between his bloody lips. He swallowed once; she tilted the cup again, but this time the water ran out at the sides of his mouth.

‘I feared as much,’ said the Infirmarer. ‘No, daughter, no use giving him the rest.’

Gil sat back and crossed himself, muttering a prayer. He was almost stunned with anger. Someone had taken advantage of his own action, had made him partly responsible for this man’s death, and by it had snatched the information Mitchel carried out of reach, out of Gil’s own grasp. He rose and stepped back from the little group, Mistress Doig in her knotted headdress and striped gown, Brother Euan and his servant with their tonsured heads bent, and Mitchel with his face already relaxing into the painless depths of the next world. He looked younger than Gil had expected, not much past thirty perhaps. Biting back his anger, he joined Tam and Ned where they were seated at the long table, their helmets discarded beside them. The other Infirmary lay brother was still smearing salve into the long slash on Tam’s knee.

‘The horses have taen no hurt,’ said Ned now, ‘and they’re saying young Donal will be well enough, wi God’s help, and get a scar to fright the lassies wi.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Gil. ‘I wish none of you had been hurt. Who was it? Did you get a look at them?’

Ned shrugged, and winced as the movement shifted his bandaged arm.

‘I took it they was Murrays,’ he admitted. ‘They’re no likely to be MacGregors, this close to Perth, and besides he,’ he jerked his head at the dead man, ‘he was a MacGregor, though I suppose — ’

‘Aye, it means nothing,’ agreed Gil. ‘Tam? Did you jalouse anything?’

‘They were after him,’ said Tam, ‘like I tellt you, Maister Gil. The first two made for Donal and me, the next two got past us and went straight for him, and I’d say they wereny looking to take him prisoner. Him and Ned took them on, and Donal and me struck one of ours down and took the last two from behind, and then — ’ He swallowed, and winced as the man at his side tightened the bandage. ‘Then we ran for the town, and them after us, such as could still sit a horse, and when we cam by the barn the lay brothers cam charging out, right handy wi brooms and pitchforks they are, and we turned there, and then we saw how Mitchel — ’ He swallowed again. ‘I’m right sorry, Maister Gil, I never — ’

‘Leave it, Tam,’ said Gil, reaching out to grip the man’s hand. ‘And thank God you came out alive. Ned, is that how you saw it and all?’

‘Close enough,’ agreed Ned.

‘It’s the lay brothers that gets me,’ said Tam, with a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘They come down to the roadside at the charge, wi their brooms and pitchforks levelled like they was pikes. You’d ha thought they was a regiment.’

‘Likely the Murrays did think they were a regiment,’ observed Ned, ‘the way they cut and ran.’ He took another swallow of his spiced ale.

‘That’s Brother Dickon’s doing,’ said the man who was bandaging Tam. ‘He’s got the outdoor men well trained. The hounds of the Lord need a stout collar, he aye says.’

‘They’re that, all right,’ said Ned. ‘Saved our skins, they did, and I’d like to shake them all by the hand and buy them a stoup of ale for it.’

‘I’ll pass on your thanks,’ said the Dominican, gathering up his materials, ‘if you’ll thank God and His Mother for it first.’

‘Oh, aye!’ said Ned, shocked.

When Gil stepped out of the hall Mistress Doig was seated on the porter’s bench in the courtyard, her expression grim. She looked up as he approached, impaling him with a hot dry stare. There was blood on her cheek; she must have kissed the dead man.

‘What’s he got tangled up in?’ she demanded. ‘Was it you sent for him? Why you and no his own maister?’

‘You were close?’ Gil said gently, sitting down beside her. She turned her face away.

‘First cousins,’ she said. ‘My mother wouldny let me wed him.’

Revising his estimate of her age sharply downwards, Gil said, ‘I’ll pray for him. He died confessed and shriven, that must be a comfort.’

‘Aye,’ she said bleakly, ‘and why? What for? Your man said those Murrays, or whatever they were, went for him a purpose.’

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ he answered. ‘What can you tell me about it?’

‘Me?’ She stared at him again. ‘What would I ken? Him and Doig never let on.’

‘So he was in something with Doig,’ he prompted. She nodded at that, looking down. ‘What did you see? Did he come to the house with word for him? Bring messages?’

She nodded again.

‘He’d turn up once in a while, saying he’d the evening free,’ she said. ‘I was aye glad to see him. Then one time I saw him slip Doig a letter o some kind.’

‘Can your man read?’

‘Oh, aye. Read and write and cipher.’

‘Did you ask them what it was about?’

She looked at him.

‘You’ve questioned Doig, maister,’ she said bluntly. ‘How would I get any more out of him than you?’

‘I’m not wedded to him,’ Gil pointed out. Her trap of a mouth twitched at that, but she said nothing. ‘Was the letter for Doig, or for him to carry overseas?’

‘He never tellt me.’

He pressed her a little, but she would not admit to knowing anything more, and he was unhappy about trading on her obvious grief. This was probably not the best time, either, to question Tam and Ned about Mitchel’s reaction to his summons, he realized, and it was probably the only way he would find out anything now about the man’s involvement in Stirling’s death. He would have to come back out here later in the day, when the two might have recovered their spirits in the care of the convent Infirmary.

‘Will I walk you home, mistress?’ he offered. ‘Is there a neighbour would sit with you?’

She shook her head, but rose to her feet, wearily, as if she carried a great burden.

‘I’ve the dogs’ dinner to see to,’ she said. ‘That won’t wait.’

Making his way towards the Red Brig, Gil turned his next move over in his mind. He was uneasily aware that he needed to speak to the Sheriff or his depute; he knew he would have to carry the word of Mitchel’s death to the Bishop’s household. On the other hand, he still had a lot to find out, and neither task seemed likely to contribute to that. He paused beside Cornton’s yard, looking over the planks of the fence at the silent sheds and drying-racks. If nobody drove his men to work, he thought, the tanner would find no business left when he was released. And that was what he had to do next: he must speak to Mistress Cornton.

The tanner’s house was quiet, though when he rattled at the pin he could hear footsteps beyond the sturdy door. After a moment a shutter opened and the girl Eppie popped her head out, saying in a subdued voice:

‘My mistress is no weel, maister, can your business wait? Oh,’ she went on, recognizing him. ‘It’s you, is it? Was it you that got my maister thrown in the jail?’

‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I hope I can get him out. Can I get a word wi your mistress, lass?’

‘Wait and I’ll speir,’ she said, and withdrew, closing the shutter. He waited on the fore-stair, watching the traffic in and out of the port, aware of voices inside the house, one querulous, one persuasive. Eventually Eppie’s wooden soles clattered, and the door swung open.

‘Just a wee word,’ the girl said, and then in a whisper, ‘and if you’d persuade her to take a morsel to eat, maister, it would be a kindness. I think she’s swallowed nothing since Martin prentice came to the door to tell us. Will you come up, sir?’ she added, more loudly. ‘My mistress is abed, but she’ll receive you.’

He was shocked by the change in the woman. Stepping into the upper chamber from the newel stair he found her lying back against the pillows of a handsome carved tester-bed. Her hair was straggling from under a night-cap tied beneath her chin, her shoulders were wrapped in a quilted garment of some sort, and the bright embroidered counterpane and pillow-bere showed signs of having been spread in haste and made her flushed face look almost purple by contrast. He bowed, concealing his dismay, and said:

‘I’m glad you could see me, mistress, but I’m right sorry to find you like this.’

‘Can you help him?’ she demanded, ignoring this. ‘Can you get Cornton out of the jail? I never thought I’d be married on a man that got put in the jail.’

He came forward to sit down, and she reached out a claw-like hand to grasp his. Eppie placed herself by the neatly bagged curtain at the bed-foot, saying, ‘Now, mistress, there’s none of us believes it was him.’

‘His customers will,’ she said urgently. ‘It’s no good for trade, and besides I canny bear it, to think of him in all that dirt and the rats and all — ’

‘If you can tell me a thing or two,’ Gil prompted, ‘it might help him.’

‘I’ll try,’ she said, staring at him, her grasp on his hand tightening. ‘But I’m that dizzy, my head’s going round like a mill, I canny think clearly.’

‘That’s no wonder,’ he said with sympathy, and she managed a weak smile in response. ‘What man was it they arrested with your husband?’

‘Oh — ’ she said faintly, groping for the answer.

‘That was Robin Hutchie,’ supplied Eppie. ‘He found the corp, so Martin prentice said, and Willie Reid said he should ha raised the hue and cry instead of just telling our maister, so he must be arrested.’

Gil nodded. The constable was following the proper procedures, but it was hard on the man Rob.

‘And then he arrested Maister Cornton,’ he said.

‘Well, no at first,’ said Eppie, ‘by what Martin said, for he didny find it easy. But he lifted him away in the end.’ She became aware that her mistress was weeping, and said awkwardly, ‘We’ll make him regret it, mistress, dinna fear.’

‘Tell me, mistress,’ said Gil, ‘The day you last saw Maister Stirling, can you mind if your husband was home that evening?’

‘Oh,’ she said again through her tears. ‘Oh, what evening would that be? I canny mind, maister.’

‘It was the third evening the bairns was here,’ said Eppie. ‘You mind, mistress, the maister said that was two wet beds and he wasny sleeping in a flood again, and — ’ She bit off the words, looking embarrassed, and Gil pulled a face.

‘It’s hardly to be wondered at, poor bairns,’ he said, ‘but you can see his point. Where are they today?’

‘I took them to my sister’s,’ said Eppie a little defiantly. ‘She’s got two near the same age, she said she’d take them the now till we’re a bit — ’

‘My poor lassie’s bairns,’ whispered Mistress Cornton.

‘That was wise, when the house is as troubled. But that evening,’ Gil returned to the point, ‘Maister Cornton was wanting to talk about where the bairns would sleep, is that right?’ Mistress Cornton nodded. ‘Was he home all the evening?’

‘Oh, he was,’ agreed Eppie, ‘for once it was decided we’d to move a couple of kists and a truckle-bed, and me and Rob Hutchie was kept busy all the evening shifting them, and the Maister taking charge and telling Rob he was doing it wrong.’

‘Would you swear to that, lass?’ Gil asked her. She nodded emphatically. ‘That ought to be enough. Tell me another thing, though. Is Maister Cornton a good shot?’

‘A shot?’ Mistress Cornton stared at him. ‘What wi, a shot?’

‘Wi an arrow,’ said Eppie. ‘Aye, he’s no bad. He goes to the butts of a Sunday, maister, like the rest o them, though I’ll say this,’ she gave a subdued giggle, ‘he’s soberer when he comes home than my last maister.’

‘A course he is,’ said Mistress Cornton, with dawning indignation.

‘Aye, that’s better,’ said Eppie obscurely.

‘Does he have a bow?’ Gil asked.

‘Oh, aye, he’s got a right good one,’ Eppie said.

Her mistress nodded. ‘From William Pitmedden, that’s the armourer along the street, one of a batch he brought in from the Low Countries.’ The quilted covering fell away from her arms as her fingers described a long elegant curve. ‘It’s a right bonnie thing, the way the grain shows in the layers and the different colours of the wood.’

‘You mean it’s a longbow?’ Gil said hopefully.

‘Oh. aye. He doesny like a crossbow. He’s aye said there’s nothing like a longbow.’

‘He’s aye arguing wi Brother Dickon about it,’ said Eppie, with another subdued laugh. ‘You’d no think a lay brother would be in favour of a crossbow, would you?’

‘Does Brother Dickon shoot at the butts too?’ Gil asked, amused by the idea.

‘Shoot at them?’ said Eppie scornfully. ‘He oversees it all, orders who’ll shoot next, tells them how to do better. He’s in charge, is Brother Dickon.’

The Blackfriars’ Infirmary had its own small garden, where Brother Euan the Infirmarer grew his herbs and where his patients might take the air. On a day like this it was warm and peaceful, full of the scents of the herbs and the chirping of a colony of sparrows in the holly tree which stood at one corner. Both of the day’s ambulants were sitting there when Gil found the place, Ned dozing and Tam with his injured leg propped on a stool and a stout stick beside him. He looked up when Gil approached, and pushed the fair hair out of his eyes. His face was drawn, and pale under the tan, but he seemed to have no fever.

‘I hoped you’d come back, Maister Gil,’ he said. ‘There’s things you ought to hear, I couldny tell you at the time.’

‘I thought that,’ said Gil. ‘How’s the leg, first?’

‘None so bad,’ the man claimed.

‘Poor way to get a day off,’ Gil said. ‘Tell me these things I ought to hear, then. Start at the beginning. What happened when you got to Dunkeld? Was it easy to find the man?’

‘Oh, aye, no problem. He was lodged in the Bishop’s palace, one of the household, just as you surmised. So we went there, the three of us, and spoke to the heid-bummer, fellow called Geddes, the depute steward, and showed him your letter.’

‘How did he take that?’ Gil asked.

Tam grinned crookedly. ‘He wasny best pleased, for it seems Mitchel had been helping wi some heavy work needed about the place, shifting bales and sacks of goods and that, and he seemed to think you might wait till he’d finished.’ He shifted his foot on the stool, and went on, ‘We came to an agreement about that, wi a wee bit persuasion, and he swore to it that the fellow has been in Dunkeld since the date you asked him about in the letter, and then he sent for the man, and after a bit he came to this fellow’s chamber.’ He hesitated again. ‘I’m no glad I did that, maister, for all it was by your command.’

‘Tam, I think he killed James Stirling and hid the corp,’ Gil said, irritated by this. ‘If I’m right, he’d have hung for it. Instead he’s had a quick death, and been shriven at that.’

‘Aye, but he said he never,’ said Tam. ‘See, maister, he took one look at us, still in pot and plate,’ he gestured to indicate a helmet, ‘and the letter in the other fellow’s hand, and he goes, I never done it. I never killed him.’

‘Well, that’s a bad conscience speaking!’

‘That’s what the other fellow said. What’s his name, Geddes. And Ned and Donal made certain to be atween Mitchel and the door. But he said it again, no, he never killed him, he just helped put him away. And he’s carrying on, and swearing by all sorts and more besides, and he keeps saying he never killed him.’

‘Put him away,’ repeated Gil.

‘That’s what he said. So then Ned says, How did you put him away? Where did you put him? And he says, Into the tan-pit where Doig showed me. We cut a hurdle out the fence, he says, and carried him into the yard wi’t, and then he tells us they took the planks off a tanpit and tipped him in, and covered him up. Filthy job it was, too, and the dogs barking all the time, but he said it never took them that long, and Doig tied the hurdle back into the fence, and you’d never ha known he was there. He said he’d show you what tanpit it was, and he swore to the whole tale, offered to go up the High Kirk and swear by Columba’s relics.’

‘He’s right,’ said Gil, staring at Tam. ‘You’d never have known it. So who did kill Stirling? Did you ask him that?’

‘Oh, we did. Often and often. He aye said he didny see who shot him, all he saw was the man fall down among the dog-pens and when he got to him he was dead. He said, he didny ken what to do, whether to set up the hue and cry or no, for it seemed to him it could ha been someone on the track or in any of the yards or houses about, he said, but just then Doig cam back to the yard and found him there wi the corp, and created a stushie. Wouldny have a dead man found on his ground. And I think,’ said Tam, the crooked grin appearing again, ‘Mitchel wasny too keen what Doig’s woman would say when she found out. Is she some kind o kin? And that’s why he went along wi Doig’s plans to hide the corp.’

Gil considered this, gazing at a brown butterfly which was sunning its wings on the bed of marjoram nearest them.

‘It’s a good story,’ he admitted. ‘But did the man say why he and Stirling were in the Doigs’ yard? What took him there?’

‘He said,’ said Tam doubtfully, ‘it was an order from their lord. From the Bishop.’

‘From the Bishop?’

‘That’s what Ned said. And Mitchel said, Aye, he was sent from the house to find Maister Stirling, that was still walking on the meadow by the Blackfriars, and bid him go to the dog-breeder’s yard and ask for a bar of her soap against fleas, for the wee dog.’

‘Sent? Who by?’

Tam shrugged.

‘We tried asking that, but he just said it was the Bishop’s errand. He seemed mighty certain it was the Bishop’s message and all.’

Gil contemplated the idea. It did not seem to fit into the picture at all. He visualized Stirling, summoned from his meditation by the Ditch. He would have walked round to Mistress Doig’s yard taking Mitchel with him, waited in the yard for Mistress Doig herself to return, perhaps talked to some of the dogs again. Did the liver-and-white bitch go for him too? he wondered. Then, almost silent, wholly unexpected, the crossbow bolt struck home, Stirling dropped dead. But who held the crossbow? And by whose order?

‘Maybe the Bishop right enough?’ Tam suggested. ‘Could he ha wanted rid o him?’

‘Maybe.’ Gil stared at the butterfly again. ‘Did Mitchel say anything else at all, Tam? Why was he in Dunkeld? Who sent him there? Did he mention the hat?’

‘Oh, that was the mimmerkin’s idea, by what he said. Mitchel had to leave it by the Ditch so folk would think he’d fell in. As for who sent him to Dunkeld, he never said, only that he was ordered there as soon as he showed his face the next morning, no even time to let his kinsfolk know he’d be away.’

‘And then kept there kicking his heels, with nothing but maintenance work to do, for two weeks,’ said Gil. He sprang to his feet and strode up and down, as if that would make his mind work more clearly. He was nearly there, he knew it. Some of the cords that linked this knot to the one in Balquhidder still had to be loosened, but he was fairly sure of why James Stirling had been killed. If he could just establish who it was who had killed him, he could take the whole thing to the Bishop, and account for his summons to Mitchel MacGregor in the same breath.

‘Did you say the man was shot, Maister Gil?’ said Tam.

‘Aye, with a crossbow.’ Gil paused in his pacing. ‘He was enticed out to the dog-breeder’s yard, and someone shot him while he stood waiting there.’

‘I was out that way when we were in Perth afore,’ said Tam. ‘It’s right in the midst of other yards and gardens, is it no? How would he get close enough?’

‘It must have been a longish shot, but our man could have hidden close to the yard. He could even have stood on the track itself and aimed across several fences. I’m certain he was a good shot, it had struck the base of the skull just where it needed to.’

Tam nodded his understanding of this, but said gloomily, ‘And how would you find out who in Perth would be that good a shot? There must be plenty folk can use a bow.’

‘Near a’body can use a bow,’ concurred Ned, suddenly opening his eyes. ‘That’s what for they all goes out to the butts on a Sunday.’

‘And there’s my answer,’ said Gil. ‘I need to find Brother Dickon.’

Making his way back to the Bishop’s house by the busy streets, he thought through all he had learned so far today. It was extraordinary how the two problems had proved to be linked; he wondered briefly if Blacader had suspected that, or if he had simply assumed that his quaestor could handle two sets of questions at once. Either possibility was gratifying, he considered, stepping round a stout burgess who was bargaining with a patten-maker.

Deep in thought he might be, but his senses were alert, and when the man darted out of the crowd, the short blade glinting as it rose, it did not take the stout burgess’s cry of ‘Ware cutpurse!’ in his ear to rouse him to action. Almost before he knew it his whinger was in his hand, his other arm was swinging up across the attacker’s throat, his blade was striking the knife aside. He stared, briefly, into a worried, sweaty face under an ordinary blue bonnet, and dimly noticed a leather doublet, hempen shirtsleeves, bare forearms, a smell of horses. The stout burgess was still shouting, and lunging forward to help. His whinger came round again almost of its own volition, caught the weapon hand.

His assailant cried out and ducked sideways, dropping the dagger, and took to his heels through a rising torrent of exclamations and grasping hands. Gil turned and pushed after him, shouting ‘Stop thief! Hold him!’ through an eddy of noise which built up along the street as people turned to see what was happening, exclaimed, reached for one man or another.

With some trouble, he managed to get as far as the corner of the Northgate, and realized he had lost his quarry. He stood still, heart hammering, breathing deeply and staring over the heads, but there was no disturbance to the cheerful bustle of the street. The man must have ducked down a vennel, or else simply stopped running and lost himself in the crowd. Every other man in the burgh wore a blue bonnet, and in this weather many were in doublet and shirtsleeves, he would never pick him out by his clothes.

‘Did you ever!’ said a voice in his ear. It was a stout citizen in a blue stuff gown and felt hat, clutching his own purse securely at his belt and puffing slightly. ‘I never saw sic boldness! To try for your purse in broad day, and then to get away like that!’

‘Was it you that shouted?’ said Gil, understanding. ‘My thanks, man.’

‘It’s up to us all to keep an eye to each other’s purse,’ declared the burgess, ‘and Our Lady be thanked he never got your money.’

It wasn’t the money he was after, Gil thought, turning towards the Bishop’s house again. That blade was going for the heart. Now I know I’m close to the solution.

‘Do you say, Maister Cunningham,’ said George Brown formally, ‘that you have discerned who slew Jaikie?’

‘I have, sir,’ agreed Gil. At the Bishop’s side Rob Gregor bleated in what seemed to be dismay. ‘And I think I’ve learned more than that.’

‘Well, let me have his name, maister,’ requested the Bishop. His dog, curled in the basket by his feet, raised its head to look at Gil.

‘First, could we have your steward in, with Maister Stirling’s kist?’

‘His gear’s all in order,’ said Maister Gregor. ‘I packed it up mysel, my lord, when Wat asked me, and made a list and all.’

‘Why do you want Wat present?’ asked the Bishop over his chaplain’s assurances.

‘If he could bring the kist,’ Gil said, ‘I’ll make all clear.’

Brown rang the bell on his desk and gave the order, then sat in brooding silence, his round face shadowed and serious, until Currie arrived with two servants bearing the kist by its rope handles.

‘Wat,’ the Bishop said. ‘Set it down there and wait. Maister Cunningham has something to tell us.’

Currie turned a startled face to Gil, but dismissed one of the servants and muttered in the ear of the other, the man Noll, who looked sharply at his superior then nodded and went out. Jerome bustled across the chamber to inspect the kist, snuffling at the leather strap which held it shut. Currie bent and patted the dog, then stood back against the wall to wait as he was bidden.

‘Well, maister?’ said the Bishop.

Gil settled himself on the padded backstool, gathering his concentration, wishing Alys was present. If I could explain a head in a barrel to the King, he thought, I can explain a man in a tanpit to a Bishop. But I’d sooner be more certain of the facts.

His audience was waiting.

‘We know,’ he began, ‘that Maister Stirling was party to the negotiations for the English treaty, and we know that some of the terms of the treaty have got to ears or eyes they should never have got to. We also know,’ he said carefully, ‘that Maister Stirling was at the sang-schule in Dunblane along with Andrew Drummond, and also with David Drummond, who vanished, and William Murray, who is now Precentor at Dunkeld.’

‘He’s told me that often,’ said Maister Gregor happily. ‘At least, no about the laddie that vanished.’ He paused, finding his master looking at him, and bleated in faint apology.

‘But are the two connected?’ asked the Bishop.

‘More than you’d think,’ said Gil. ‘You’ve described him to me as an able man, my lord, a good secretary, well content with his position here.’ Brown nodded. ‘I’ve also heard of his humour, of his trick of making clever remarks at other folk’s expense, though he seemed not to make enemies by it.’

‘Och, no, he was a right good friend,’ protested Maister Gregor, ‘you could never take offence at what he said — ’ He subsided as his master looked at him again.

‘Now, the day he vanished, Stirling went out to see about the rents as you bade him, my lord.’ Brown nodded, his mouth tightening. ‘Then he saw his own tenants, and then he went out to the dog-breeder’s yard, looking for Doig himself rather than Mistress Doig. I think you’d given him no errand there, my lord.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Brown. He bent and scooped up his dog to set it on his knee. ‘I sent him out about the rents, he’d no errand to the dog-breeder that day. So what had he to do wi this man Doig?’

‘Doig,’ said Gil carefully, ‘seems to run a regular messenger service to the Low Countries. It was Doig called away the singer that’s gone missing from Dunblane, though I’ve no proof he spoke to the two men here in Perth. He’s good at shifting information, and I think now he’s shifting people as well.’

‘I knew it,’ said Currie in deep regret. ‘I feared it. So Jaikie was — ’

‘Hold your peace, Wat,’ said the Bishop, still caressing Jerome.

‘I thought so too,’ said Gil. At his tone Brown looked up from his dog. ‘In Mistress Doig’s yard, Stirling met Canon Drummond, who was also looking for Doig. They got into conversation, which the woman described to me as being like two dogs circling one another with their fangs showing. Stirling made some of his clever remarks, and the two of them ended up going off to the Ditchlands to talk the whole afternoon.’

‘So was it Drummond?’ said Brown. He reached for his tablets. ‘I’ll send to Dunblane and have them summon him — ’

‘He’s in Balquhidder,’ Gil said. ‘No, my lord, I think it wasn’t Drummond. I’ll come to why not in a wee while.’

‘So what came to him?’ asked Brown. ‘Maister Cunningham, I ken you’re a busy man, and so am I. I’d be grateful if you’d get on and tell me what I’m needing to know.’

Gil nodded, but continued in the same measured tone.

‘I’ve asked Drummond what they spoke of, and he claims the secrecy of confession — that each of them confessed to the other. I’ve learned from one or two other sources that they spoke of betrayal and forgiveness.’

‘Betrayal!’ said Currie. ‘Who had he — ?’ The Bishop glanced at him, but said nothing.

‘Drummond,’ pursued Gil, ‘went on into Perth and likely had a bite to eat, found Doig and had a word wi him, then spent the rest of the evening in St John’s Kirk afore St Andrew. I’ve a good witness for that.’

Bishop Brown nodded his understanding, but Maister Gregor said, ‘Oh, no, surely no, if he’d just slew — ’

‘Hold your tongue, Rob,’ said Brown.

‘Now,’ said Gil carefully, ‘Stirling had been accompanied on his errand. One of the household servants had gone with him.’

‘Very proper,’ said Brown, ‘but if that’s so, why did the man no come forward after, when Jaikie never returned home? Or is that — ?’ He turned an appalled gaze on his steward. ‘Wat, has one o our men — ?’

‘I’d vouch for all of them, my lord,’ said Currie.

‘He’s made his confession,’ said Gil ambiguously. ‘It seems Stirling sent him back to the house, saying he’d walk on the Ditchlands for a space.’

‘You mean you’ve spoke wi him? Who is it?’ demanded Currie.

‘A man called Mitchel MacGregor,’ Gil replied.

‘Mitchel?’ exclaimed Currie, with a faint echo which must have been Maister Gregor. ‘Christ preserve us, what’s he done?’

‘I thought he was in Dunkeld,’ said Brown.

‘He was,’ agreed Gil. ‘He is now in the care of the Blackfriars.’

‘Oh, what a terrible thing! Will Wat send to the Black-friars, my lord,’ asked Maister Gregor, ‘and get him fetched here? Or will you go out to question him yoursel maybe?’

‘Go on, Maister Cunningham,’ said the Bishop rather grimly, ignoring this.

‘Mitchel returned here,’ said Gil, ‘and was sent out again with a message for Stirling, bidding him go to the dog-breeder and ask her for some of her soap against fleas.’

‘Fleas!’ exclaimed Currie. ‘The wee dog’s never had fleas!’

‘And who sent him this errand?’ asked Bishop Brown.

‘He seemed very clear,’ Gil said with care, ‘that it was an errand for yourself, my lord.’ Brown shook his head. ‘So Stirling went to the Doigs’ yard, with the man Mitchel, and found Mistress Doig from home walking the dogs.’

‘Aye, they’ll need to be exercised,’ agreed Maister Gregor. ‘They get melancholy if they don’t get exercised.’

‘Rob, hold your tongue,’ said Brown again. ‘Wat, where are you away to, man?’

‘I’ll just send a couple men out to the Blackfriars,’ suggested Currie from the door, ‘the way Maister Gregor says, and they can — ’

‘We’ll hear Maister Cunningham out,’ said his master, ‘and then I’ll determine what’s to be done. Stay here and close that door. Come on, Maister Cunningham, let’s get this done wi.’

‘Mitchel says they waited in the yard,’ Gil continued, ‘talking to the dogs or the like, for a wee bit, and then Maister Stirling fell down dead.’

Three shocked faces stared at him.

‘But he’d been shot wi a crossbow bolt,’ said the Bishop, recovering first. ‘Was it no Mitchel that shot him?’

‘He swore it was not,’ Gil said. ‘He said he never saw who loosed the bolt.’ And that’s entirely hearsay, he thought, and would never stand as evidence at law, but it serves my purpose.

‘You’re fairly taking your time,’ said the Bishop irritably. ‘I suppose you’re making it clear, man, but we’ve still the two questions. Who killed Jaikie, and how did he get into the tanpit? Was it Andrew Cornton right enough? I’d thought it wasny, but — ’

‘Maister Cornton spent the entire evening in his own house,’ said Gil. ‘They were moving furniture. His maidservant will swear to it.’

‘Aye, but surely a man’s own household will swear for him — ’ began Maister Gregor.

‘There’s one of my household done me a very ill turn,’ said Brown grimly. ‘Go on, maister. Who was it, then, if it wasny Cornton?’

‘I want to check something first,’ said Gil. He bent and drew the kist towards him, startling Jerome as it rumbled across the floorboards. ‘There was a crossbow in this kist when we checked it before, you mind that, Maister Currie?’

‘Aye, there was, and a good one,’ agreed Currie. ‘It’s right on the top, next his razors.’ He came forward and helped Gil to unfasten the strap and open the lid. ‘You see, it’s well kept, well oiled — ’

Gil pushed the pup away, lifted the crossbow and drew it out of its linen bag. The weapon was, as Currie said, a good one, and well cared for. He turned it over, admiring the finish and shaping of stock and crosspiece. Not an ounce of spare timber, he judged.

‘An arbalest!’ exclaimed the Bishop. ‘I never knew Jaikie had an arbalest.’

‘Nor did I, my lord,’ said Maister Gregor.

‘Our Lady save you, my lord, it’s no an arbalest,’ said Currie over the old man’s remark. ‘You’d never get an arbalest into thon wee kist. It’s a crossbow, just.’

‘It’s a crossbow,’ agreed Gil. ‘Not my weapon, but my brother Edward was skilled with the crossbow.’ He held it up, sighting along the stock, then passed it to Currie, whose hands closed on it covetously. ‘It’s a bonnie thing, but it’s unusable.’

‘Unusable?’ said Currie sharply, staring at him. ‘How’s it unusable?’

‘There’s no means of bracing it.’ Gil gestured at Maister Gregor’s inventory lying in the open lid of the kist. ‘There should be a belt-hook, or a goat’s foot, or the like.’

‘I thought that,’ remarked Maister Gregor proudly.

Seeing the Bishop’s blank look, Gil explained, ‘It’s the means of bracing the bow so it can be loosed, my lord. The arblaster sets his foot in yon stirrup at the nose of the bow,’ he pointed, and Currie raised the weapon, which he was still cradling. ‘Then he attaches something to the cord, and straightens up, and that draws the cord and lodges it there — ’ He pointed to the nut that held the cord braced till the bow was loosed, and the Bishop peered closer and looked away again, shuddering.

‘It’s an unchristian weapon,’ he declared. ‘So you’re saying Jaikie couldna loose this?’

‘Nobody could loose it,’ Gil said, ‘because nobody could brace it.’

‘I thought that too, you ken,’ repeated Maister Gregor. Everyone else turned to him, and he ducked his head and bleated in faint dismay at the attention. ‘When I put all Jaikie’s gear by,’ he said almost pleadingly. ‘I saw there was no means to brace the cord, and I saw there was no bolts to it and all.’

‘So why is it in his kist, if he couldny use it?’ demanded the Bishop.

‘I think it isn’t his. I think someone hid it among his gear,’ said Gil. Brown met his eye across the chamber, but was silent. ‘Maybe in haste, so that he forgot to lodge the belt-hook and the bolts there too.’

‘What use would that be?’ wondered Maister Gregor. ‘He could never use it, whoever it belongs to, while it was in Jaikie’s kist.’

‘Maister Gregor,’ said Gil. The old man looked at him, still frowning in puzzlement. ‘Did you tell me you had walked in the garden that evening, the evening Maister Stirling died?’

‘I did, I did that, though a course,’ he qualified, ‘I never knew Jaikie was dead then.’ He crossed himself and murmured something. Gil waited till he finished, then went on:

‘I think you said my lord was there too, with Jerome.’ The chaplain nodded. ‘Do you recall that, my lord?’

‘I do,’ said Brown. ‘Wat, be still. Where are you off to, man?’

‘You’ll want a couple of the men — ’ Currie began.

‘Be still,’ said Brown again, quite mildly, and the stew-ard’s feet were rooted to the spot. ‘I also recall that the supper was late, and I can see by the way you hold it that you know every inch of that dreadful weapon. Wat, why did you kill Jaikie?’

‘No!’ Currie fell to his knees, his plump face suddenly glistening with sweat. ‘No, I never, I didny! It wasny me!’

‘I’m told you’re the best shot with a crossbow in Perth,’ Gil said, and then with sudden comprehension, ‘and Mitchel named you as he died, man.’

‘I never — I never did! I had to!’

‘Who was it then?’ asked the Bishop, looking very solemn, his voice gentle. ‘Who killed Jaikie Stirling, Wat, if it wasna you? Or why would you have to? A man never has to kill, Wat, you ken that.’

‘Maister Gregor knows why he killed him,’ said Gil.

‘Oh, aye,’ agreed Maister Gregor. ‘Er — me? Ken why? Why?’

‘Tell me again,’ Gil invited, ‘the crack Jaikie made at Wat’s expense that day at the noon bite. Tell my lord.’

‘At the — oh! Aye, it was right comical.’ He recounted the tale of the new way to cook mutton yet again, clearly unaware of what he was saying. Gil met the Bishop’s eye.

‘Write it down,’ he repeated, ‘and sell it in the Low Countries. Maister Stirling had realized who was selling information. He had to be killed before he told you.’

‘Why did he no tell me first off?’

‘I was doing no sic a thing!’ protested Currie, scrambling to his feet. ‘I never — I would have — ’

‘The man Mitchel?’ said Brown to Gil. Gil shook his head.

‘Mitchel is dead,’ he said. ‘My men were attacked outside the town as they brought him to Perth today. But I’ve spoken to Doig, I’ve spoken to his wife, and — ’

‘Stop him!’ exclaimed the Bishop. Gil spun round, in time to see Currie dive out of the door, fling himself across the next room and on to the stair. He plunged after him, followed by an excited Jerome, as shouting and the sounds of a fight broke out below them.

‘Let me pass, you fools!’ howled Currie. ‘I’ve an errand won’t wait! Let me pass!’

‘Hold him, lads!’ Gil shouted, swung himself down the newel stair after the steward, and leapt on to the battle at its foot. The two Stronvar men he had posted there, Ned’s henchmen, were having trouble holding Currie. More of the Bishop’s servants were appearing in answer to his cries for help, but with Gil’s assistance they were held off and the man was overcome, his arms pinned at his sides, the point of Gil’s dagger under his chin, while his master came down the stair at a more dignified pace.

‘Take and bind him,’ the Bishop said, ‘and send to the constable to come for him. Treason is a plea of the Crown,’ he said to his servant, ‘and by Christ I’ll see you tried and hung by the Crown for this, clerk or no clerk, Wat Currie. And bid the constable release the man Cornton now.’

‘I still don’t see how Jaikie got into the tanpit,’ said Maister Gregor. ‘And the badges and all, what had the badges to do wi’t?’

‘Nor I,’ admitted Bishop Brown. ‘Can you tell us that, Maister Cunningham?’

After the steward had been removed, still struggling and protesting his innocence, the two churchmen had spent some considerable time at prayer. Gil had occupied himself in searching the man’s own chamber, with two of the Bishop’s men as witnesses. He had found documents sufficient to condemn Currie out of hand, notes of the content of the English treaty, a half-written letter to a Fleming whose name Brown recognized (‘Margaret of Burgundy uses him,’ he said cryptically) and other papers which the Bishop immediately confiscated and placed in his own locked kist.

‘The badges have nothing to do with it,’ Gil said, ‘excepting that they led us to find Stirling’s body. He’d given his badge of St Dymphna — ’

‘That was her!’ exclaimed Maister Gregor. ‘Diffna!’

‘To Andrew Drummond, for reasons connected with whatever they confessed to each other that afternoon on the Ditchlands. It was sewn on to the hat, he’d have had to cut it off, and I suppose loosened the Eloi badge at the same time, and that fell off when Doig and the man Mitchel were getting his body into the tanyard.’

‘I see,’ said the Bishop. ‘So it’s St Eloi’s doing, or perhaps St Dymphna’s, that he was found and can be given Christian burial.’

‘It is,’ agreed Gil, taken with this. ‘If — I’ll not speculate what they discussed — ’

‘No, of course not,’ the Bishop said quickly.

‘- but if it’s what I suspect, then it would be agreeable to St Dymphna to have it cleared up and all forgiven. I can see that she might protect him so far.’

It would have been more to the point if she had prevented his death, he thought, but did not say so in this company.

‘If either confessed the other,’ said Maister Gregor, ‘then Jaikie died shriven. Had you thought of that, my lord?’

‘That’s a true word, Rob,’ said the Bishop, much struck. ‘And a comforting thought, at that. But the man Mitchel — ’

‘He was shriven by the Infirmarers,’ said Gil quickly.

‘Aye, and sore need of it. He was far from blameless,’ said the Bishop with disapproval. ‘He was Currie’s own servant, I suppose he obeyed him without question, but — ’

‘And Mistress Doig is his kinswoman,’ Gil said. ‘I suppose that led Currie to Doig, or the other way about.’

‘I’ll have the woman out of that yard,’ said the Bishop. ‘She’ll not remain on my doorstep. As for her husband, I want him found.’

‘He’s a slippery character,’ Gil said. ‘You may find all he’s done is carry letters, with no certain knowledge of their content.’

If you can find either one, he thought, recalling the sight of Doig and his wife leaving Glasgow a year since, an hour ahead of the pursuit, with the largest mixed leash of hounds he had ever seen.

‘And who is St Dymphna, anyway?’ asked George Brown, Bishop of Dunkeld.