A Pig of Cold Poison

Chapter Six

It was probably fortunate, Gil thought later, that the Serjeant greeted his request to speak to the prisoner again with nothing more offensive than:

‘Forgot what you’d asked him, have you? Aye, he’s still where he was. But you’ll ha to be quick, the Provost sent for him a bit back and I’ll have him up to the Castle for questioning as soon as Tammas Sproull gets back from his dinner. And the quest on Danny Gibson’s cried for the morn’s morn,’ he added, unlocking the door to the end cell.

‘I won’t keep him long,’ said Gil, biting back a sharper answer. He stepped into the cell as Bothwell got to his feet, looking alarmed. ‘I’ll shout when I’m done.’

The Serjeant barred the door and went away, grumbling under his breath. Gil looked at the prisoner, who said, ‘Is it — is it more questions? For I’ve said all I have to say, maister.’

‘Have you?’ said Gil. ‘That’s a pity.’ He sat down cautiously on the bench, and looked up at Bothwell. ‘You haveny told me all you have to tell, that’s for certain, and I’m getting a bit displeased about running round Glasgow finding out things you could have told me yourself in the first place.’ Bothwell eyed him warily. ‘Do you want to hear what I’ve learned?’

‘I’d sooner hear how my sister does,’ the young man admitted.

‘Well enough, but not best pleased wi you, for the same reason,’ said Gil. ‘Now, she found the pewter flask, the one you should have had in your scrip, under the counter when she closed up the booth, and the filler alongside it. She thought likely you’d been filling it and been interrupted by a customer. Tammas Bowster says you came late to the tryst at Goudie’s, saying there had been a rush of custom, which would fit wi that.’ Bothwell looked steadily down at him, his face giving away nothing. ‘Where did Agnes get the one you used in the play?’

‘I told you, it was one of ours,’ said Bothwell, startled into speech.

‘Your sister says not. The six you had from Renfrew are still in their wrappings where she stowed them.’

‘It was a spare one he …’

‘He what?’ prompted Gil as that statement halted in mid-air.

Bothwell bent his head and muttered, ‘I forget.’

‘Who gave you it, Nanty? It’s important. Your life hangs by that flask, you understand me? As things stand, the assize will likely find you slew Danny Gibson and you’ll be sent to Edinburgh for trial, and I wouldny give much for your chances there if you’ll not defend yourself.’

Bothwell turned away from him, shaking his head. Gil stared exasperated at his back, and said, ‘I’ll tell you what I think happened. I think Agnes gave you that flask, and I think she got it from somewhere in her father’s house. Had you agreed that beforehand? Is that why you left the pewter flask behind?’

‘No!’ said Bothwell, swinging round indignantly. ‘No, we never — are you saying I’d plotted wi Agnes to slay Danny? She wouldny do sic a thing!’

‘Then who did?’ demanded Gil. ‘Somebody poisoned Danny Gibson, and I need to find out how it happened, and if it was a mischance I’d like to know who keeps that kind of strong poison lying about Glasgow and why, so I can avoid him.’

‘No me, maister!’ said Bothwell. ‘I’ve no a notion what it was. Has Wat never sent to let you know?’

‘Not yet. Maister Renfrew thought it’s most likely one of the plant infusions, but he said he’d need time wi his books to be certain of it.’

‘A plant infusion.’ Bothwell stared at the wall for a moment, much as Renfrew himself had done. ‘Aye, there’s a few things that — you’d not believe what can brew up into pyson, maister. Yew, bindweed, monkshood, there’s half a hedgerow could kill and the other half cure.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ Gil said grimly. ‘Now will you tell me the truth about that flask, or will you hang for Agnes Renfrew? My deth ich love, my life ich hate, for a lady shene, is that it?’

There was a taut silence, which lasted and lasted. Finally Gil sat back and crossed one leg over the other. ‘Well, then, what will you tell me? How well do you know the lassie Renfrew? Have you had much converse wi her? What do you know of her family?’

‘N-nothing,’ admitted Bothwell. ‘I’ve not — I’ve not been that concerned to speak of them wi her — we met when he gave a feast for her birthday, two month since. All the craft was invited, and one or two neighbours, and there was dancing. We — she stood up wi me for a couple of branles, and a country-dance, and we’d a good laugh thegither, and I, I, I was right taken wi her.’

‘What did her father do about that?’ Gil asked.

‘Bid her dance wi young Andro Hamilton.’ Bothwell pulled a face. ‘She wasny well pleased, as you’d imagine. Thirteen, is he? He’s no more, certainly, though he’s a likely lad.’

‘And when did Danny Gibson meet her?’

Bothwell looked aside. After a moment he said, ‘He and I were chaffing at the booth a couple of days later, and Agnes passed by wi a basket, on her way to the baker’s. Danny was as taken wi her as I was, and she — ’ He stopped, and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘She was aye even-handed,’ he said. ‘If she spoke wi one of us she’d speak wi the other.’

‘She never had the chance to do that yesterday,’ observed Gil. ‘Where did she get the flask from?’ There was no answer. ‘Nanty, if you’ll not help me to the truth, I canny help you, and what will your sister do without you?’

‘Wed Adam Forrest?’ said Bothwell.

‘He’ll not take her if you hang for a poisoner.’

There was another pause, and finally Bothwell burst out with, ‘I canny tell you more than I have done, maister! Can you not see that?’

Descending the steps to the street, Gil spied his father-in-law approaching, conspicuous for his size even without the huge grey plaid round his shoulders. The mason, seeing him, altered his path to meet him, and clapped him on the back.

‘Ah, Gilbert! And what success so far?’ he asked.

Gil shook his head. ‘I seem to be going round in circles,’ he admitted. ‘Where are you bound just now?’

‘The new work. Well, it is hardly new,’ qualified Maistre Pierre, ‘but we have had to take that gable down almost to the foundations. I go to see how Wattie has progressed.’

‘I’m told Danny Gibson drank in Maggie Bell’s alehouse,’ said Gil. ‘I’ll cross the river with you, and we can get a jug of ale once you’ve spoken to Wattie.’

The suburb of the Gorbals was the usual haphazard mixture of poorer cottages and tall stone houses, the habitation of those who were either too poor to live in the burgh or wealthy enough to ignore the burgess regulations about indwelling. In the midst of these was the leper hospital, the roof of its little chapel of St Ninian rearing above the walls. Maistre Pierre’s new project was easy to pick out as they strolled down the steep slope of Bishop Rae’s bridge; the client was extending an existing stone house, which was swathed in scaffolding, propped with sturdy oak beams, and open down one side like a toy house Gil had seen once in the Low Countries.

‘I take it Maister Hutchison has moved elsewhere while you’re working,’ he said.

‘He has.’ Maistre Pierre grinned. ‘He has moved his family in with his good-mother, so he is very anxious that I finish. I tell him, if he had waited until the spring, it would all have gone much faster. At least we get the founds dug for the new wing.’

Waiting for the mason to finish listening to his foreman’s complaints, Gil gravitated to the smithy near to Maggie Bell’s tavern, where the usual crowd of onlookers was watching the smith and his two assistants. There was something endlessly fascinating about the way the iron came out of the fire, cherry-red or yellow or even white, soft enough to change shape under the clanging hammers, growing darker and duller as it took its new form.

‘Gil Cunningham,’ said a voice over the fierce hiss of the cooling-water. He turned, and found Nicol Renfrew by his side, grinning aimlessly. ‘I saw you at the Cross. What are you doing over this side the river?’

‘Getting a drink at Maggie Bell’s, when my good-father finishes speaking to his men.’

‘I’ll join you. You ken that’s where Danny Gibson drank?’

‘I do,’ said Gil, looking curiously at the other man. ‘Who told you that?’

Nicol shrugged again. ‘Folk tells me a’ sorts of things. I never remember who said the half of them. Maybe I saw him myself, or maybe it was Tammas Bowster, poor fellow.’

Maistre Pierre emerged from the building site, took in the situation, and waved at the tavern. Gil turned towards the wooden sign with its painting of St Mungo’s bell, saying, ‘You know Bowster? Do you know any more of the mummers?’

‘I know Sanders Armstrong,’ offered Nicol, ‘that’s their Bessie. And I know Geordie Barton that plays the pipes. But I don’t know Willie Anderson, I don’t like him.’

‘Did you know they were going to be at Augie’s house yesterday?’ Gil asked curiously.

‘I did.’ Nicol giggled. ‘Tammas tellt me. But I never tellt the old man. Did you see his face when he knew? I thought he’d have an apoplexy.’

Gil ducked in at the low door of the alehouse, and made for the corner where Maistre Pierre was already established with a large jug of ale and three beakers. Nicol wandered across the crowded room behind him, nodding to one or two people and bowing to Mistress Bell herself where she stood threateningly beside the barrel of ale.

‘I like it here,’ he said as he sat down.

‘It makes a change,’ said Gil.

‘My faither never crosses the river,’ countered Nicol. ‘Do you ken my minnie has a wee lassie?’

‘A lassie?’ Gil repeated. ‘Are both well?’

‘Oh, aye, they’re fine.’

‘My congratulations to your father,’ said Maistre Pierre heartily. ‘He must be pleased?’

Nicol shrugged. ‘Likely. I never asked him. Mally Bowen said it looks like him, they tell me, so at least he can stop casting that up at poor Meg.’

‘Casting up what?’ asked Gil.

‘He reckons she played him false,’ said Nicol as if it was obvious, ‘the same as my mammy did. But now he kens he was wrong.’

‘Here’s good fortune to the bairn,’ said Gil, recovering his countenance, and raised his beaker. They all drank, and he went on, ‘Tell me something, Nicol. How did you know it was the wrong flask Nanty Bothwell had yesterday?’

Nicol shrugged. ‘It just was,’ he said again.

‘Which one was it, then?’ Nicol gave him a doubtful look. ‘I’ve heard you can tell between them. It’s the patterns, isn’t it?’ Gil prompted, aware of Maistre Pierre watching in puzzlement.

‘They’re all different,’ Nicol said at last. ‘Same as people. Nanty should ha had Billy Bucket, that stays in his scrip for the play. He’s made of pewter and holds the smoking brew. But he never had him, he had one of the crock ones instead. Allan Leaf, it was.’

‘And where does Allan Leaf usually stay?’ Gil asked. ‘Not in Nanty’s scrip, I take it.’

‘No, not at all,’ agreed Nicol. ‘He’s often in my faither’s purse, for he holds his drops that Grace makes up for him.’

‘Where did you see him last, before Nanty had him?’

Another shrug. ‘Might ha been in the workroom. There’s three of them, you see, that do the same task, and when one’s done he puts him to wait and gets another from the cabinet. I just gave Blue Benet to Grace to fill up for him.’

Was there a reason, Gil wondered, why these were all men’s names? Was Nicol’s world peopled entirely by male objects?

‘That is very clear,’ said Maistre Pierre, refilling their beakers, ‘but if the flask you call Allan Leaf was in the workroom, which I am sure your father said was locked, how did it come to be in young Bothwell’s scrip?’

‘He did say that, didn’t he?’ said Nicol, and giggled. ‘Perhaps he flew.’

‘What are the drops for?’ asked Maistre Pierre curiously.

‘His heart, mostly,’ said Nicol. ‘Likely it’s something the Saracen learned Grace in Middelburgh when we were there.’

‘A Saracen?’ said Maistre Pierre, his eyes lighting up. ‘You have spoken with a Saracen medical man? Doctor or surgeon?’

‘He trades in materia medica,’ said Nicol with that sudden return to rationality which kept disconcerting Gil, ‘and has knowledge you would never credit of what all his stock can do.’

‘Who was the poison intended for, do you think?’ Gil asked.

‘Well, never for Danny, the poor devil.’ Nicol looked round the tavern, nodding again to Mistress Bell at the tap. ‘He drank in here, you ken, and there’s not a soul in the room that you’d say was his enemy. A decent lad.’

‘So it seems,’ said Gil. ‘I don’t believe Nanty poisoned him for your sister’s sake either, so what was it all about? I can make no sense of it. Who was the poison for?’

‘Why, for my faither, a course,’ said Nicol, opening his eyes wide. ‘Who else?’

‘For your — ’ Gil stared at him, then closed his mouth, swallowed and said, ‘Then who put it there? Whose doing might it have been? Robert?’

Nicol shrugged again in that irritating way.

‘Could ha been. Could ha been any of us,’ he said, and giggled. ‘Save maybe my minnie, poor lass, for though she’d likely have the will to do it she’d not have the skill.’

‘You are seriously suggesting,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘that one of your family has tried to poison your father?’

‘I’m never serious,’ said Nicol, and giggled again. ‘Well, no very often. I hate him, Grace hates him, Agnes hates him, Robert hates him, Eleanor hates him, Meg — ’

‘Maister Syme?’ Gil prompted.

‘Jimmy? No, he’s all right. There’s none of us hates Jimmy, save maybe Eleanor since she has to live wi him.’

‘But does he dislike your father?’

‘No, why would he? He’s wedded him to Eleanor and made him a partner. Jimmy’s done well enough out of it all.’

‘Why do you hate your father?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

Nicol gave him a sideways look. ‘He’s no easy to love,’ he said, ‘save as Holy Writ instructs us. I’ll respect him, I’m grateful when he insists on it, but I hate him as well.’

‘Was he not pleased when you came home?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

‘No,’ said Nicol. After a moment he half laughed. ‘We came in just at suppertime, and met wi Meg, poor lass, and they sent for Eleanor and Jimmy, and we all sat down to supper. We’d barely set a knife to the meat when Frankie said, You needny think you’ve any more claim on the business. I’ll make Grace’s bairn my heir afore you, he said.’

‘A pleasant homecoming,’ said Maistre Pierre, pulling a face.

‘Give him his due,’ added Nicol after consideration, ‘he was civil enough to Grace, made her welcome, said that about her bairn, mixed her a cup of hippocras wi his own hands after he’d made one to Meg.’

He reached for the jug and poured more ale into all three beakers.

‘But you say she hates him,’ said Maistre Pierre, puzzled. ‘Why should she hate him? She scarcely knows him.’

‘She’s seen what he did to me,’ said Nicol, as if it explained everything. Perhaps it did, Gil reflected, if Grace loved her husband.

‘I have always thought Maister Renfrew a good member of the burgh council,’ observed Maistre Pierre, ‘and a respectable burgess. He is well regarded in the burgh chamber.’

‘No guarantee of probity,’ Gil commented.

Nicol grinned at that. ‘A true saying,’ he said in Latin, ‘and worthy of all men to be believed. I saw your wife in our house, Gil Cunningham.’

‘She was to call there with some remedy for Mistress Mathieson,’ said Gil.

‘I wouldny know about that. She was talking to Grace. She’ll maybe learn more than she bargains for. Grace is a wise woman, and clever as well.’

‘So is Alys,’ said Gil.

‘Aye, they were cracking away. But you’ll need to have a care to your wee wife, Gil. She’d had a fright, I’d say.’

‘What makes you think so?’ said Maistre Pierre in concern.

Nicol shrugged. ‘Just by what Grace had given her. And the look of her. She wasny looking bonny.’

‘Did she say what was wrong?’

‘I never spoke wi her. What will you do about Allan Leaf and Billy Bucket? Will you tell the Provost? Only, I wouldny like to say all that afore the assize.’ He gave Gil a sideways, sheepish smile. ‘They would laugh. Folk do, when I tell them the names of things.’

‘I need to report to him,’ Gil said. ‘I’ll try to keep Allan Leaf out of it.’ And what was troubling Alys? he wondered apprehensively. Was it simply the fact of a near neigh-bour’s successful delivery, something which had reduced her to envious tears already this autumn, or had she uncovered some fact she would not wish to tell him? Either was possible, and the second would be easier to deal with.

‘But tell me,’ said Maistre Pierre curiously, ‘what would cause your father to believe your mother played him false? You are patently his son, you are all four like enough — ’

‘I hope not,’ said Nicol, and giggled. ‘I’ve no wish to look like Frankie Renfrew, I can tell you, for he’s never been — well, enough for that. It’s an auld tale, maister, and forgot long afore you came into Glasgow I suppose. My mammy was Sibella Bairdie, and she was widowed already when she wedded Frankie. I was born eight month after he bedded her, and he cast it up the rest of her life.’

‘But you — ’ Maistre Pierre stopped, looked carefully at the other, and shook his head. ‘If you do not wish to be told how you resemble him in the face, I will not say it, but consider only your hands. They are as like to Maister Renfrew’s as my daughter’s are to mine.’ He held his own big square paw out across the table. ‘You see, hers are the same shape, though smaller and finer made, and her fingernails grow like mine, each one. Study hers when you have the chance, and then study your own against — against Maister Renfrew’s.’

‘My hands.’ Nicol studied his, palm and back. ‘Well, well. Now Frankie’s hands I’d accept gladly, for he’s right defty, whatever his other faults.’ He looked at his hands again, right and left, rubbing at the nails with his thumbs, and then earnestly at Maistre Pierre. ‘You’ve given me a thing to think on, maister.’

‘I never heard the tale either,’ said Gil as they made their way back across the bridge. ‘I suppose as a boy I’d have no interest in such matters, and likely Renfrew kept it quiet enough at the time.’

‘Likely,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘But to raise a lad in the thought that he was some other man’s son, with evidence like that before him — my opinion of Renfrew is diminishing daily.’

‘You’ve given Nicol something to think about, as he said.’ They had left him with a fresh jug of ale at his elbow, considering his hands by Maggie Bell’s rushlights as if he had never seen them before.

Maistre Pierre shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, it can have nothing to do with Danny Gibson’s death. What did Mistress Bell have to say?’

‘Nothing new.’ Gil paused to peer over the parapet at the river muttering past the stonework of the great pillars. ‘She has a good memory. How long since we were there last? Eighteen month? Yes, it was May of last year, when we — just before you took on young John. She recalled my name, and asked after Nan Thomson’s daughter, who I think is wedded to some Dumbarton tradesman by now, so I have every hope that she’s right when she says Danny drank there regularly, never caused trouble and had no arguments with anyone. A likeable lad, she said, and would be sore missed.’

‘Well,’ said Maistre Pierre after a moment. ‘It had to be checked.’

‘It had to be checked. No, this that Nicol had to say about the flask is of more use. I think I have to stop procrastinating and beard his father in his workshop.’

‘Hmm.’ His companion leaned on the parapet beside him, considering the water below them. The Clyde was shallow here, running over sandbanks and around small islets, but occasional deeper pools showed dark brown in the yellowing late afternoon sunlight. Autumn-brown leaves from the trees further up the river bobbed on the current. After a moment Maistre Pierre said, ‘It was an accident.’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Who do you suppose is the intended target?’

‘The man himself, I’d have thought, as our friend said,’ said Gil, suddenly conscious that people were trudging past them up the slope of the bridge. ‘He’s the likeliest target in the house, I’d have said. Unless …’

‘Unless?’

‘Unless he prepared the stuff himself to deal with either his son or his wife.’

‘If they all dislike one another as much as the son suggests,’ said Maistre Pierre with distaste, ‘surely it could be intended by any one of the household for any other.’

‘The sister — the elder daughter — gave me the same impression,’ Gil said absently. ‘And she also made it clear any of them would be able to prepare the stuff. It was from her I got the idea our friend yonder might have recognized the flask, and she was right in that.’

‘Well.’ Maistre Pierre straightened up. ‘As you say. If the father is the target we must warn him, and if instead he is the poisoner, then by warning him we may save someone’s life. Let us do it now.’

They walked on in silence down the northward slope of the bridge and into the town, through the bustle of the Fishergate and Thenewgate preparing for darkness, shopkeepers bringing in goods which had been laid out for sale, a baker crying the last of his wares before the day’s end, an alewife overseeing the transfer of a large barrel from her brewhouse to the alehouse across the street. Two of the burgh’s ale-conners lurched past them after a good day’s work as they reached the Burgh Cross, and the Serjeant proceeded majestically down the Tolbooth stair. Gil hardly noticed them; he was considering the information he had, trying to construct a complete image from it. He felt there was still some vital piece missing, or perhaps more than one. It might help if he knew what the poison was; he wondered whether the Forrest brothers had learned anything useful.

‘Do you know what ails Alys?’ said Maistre Pierre suddenly.

‘What ails — no,’ said Gil, surfacing with difficulty. ‘That is, yes, in general,’ he amended, ‘though I don’t understand why it matters so much to her. Just now in particular it’s likely Meg Renfrew’s baby.’

‘I suppose. But our friend yonder thought she had had a fright.’

‘Yes,’ said Gil. ‘I am concerned. I’ll go home as soon as we’ve spoken to Maister Renfrew.’

‘I never thought you indifferent,’ said Alys’s father unconvincingly. ‘But so few things frighten her, I am puzzled.’

‘So am I,’ said Gil. He looked about him, and realized that they were before Renfrew’s door. ‘Sweet St Giles, the gossip-ale is skailing.’

It was indeed. The pend which led to the house door was full of hilarious women, clinging to one another and shrieking at some joke which Gil felt it was as well he had not heard. Two of them were supporting Agnes Hamilton, no easy task at the best of times, and calling for her servants to be sent for. Someone else, her headdress slipped forward over her face, was sitting on the doorstep alternately demanding lights and singing raucously about a hurcheon.

‘Meet we your maidens all in array, with silver pins and virgin lay,’ Gil said, with irony. He took a pace backwards, and exchanged a glance with the mason; as one they turned and made for the shop doorway.

Inside, James Syme and young Robert Renfrew started nervously at the jingling of the bells on the door, then relaxed as they saw two men entering. Robert stepped forward with an automatic smile, saying, ‘And how may I help you, sirs? We’ve apple-cheese the now, just new in. Were you wanting my faither?’ he went on, the smile diminishing as he recognized them. ‘Just he’s a wee bit taigled just now. Was it to offer good wishes for the bairn, or —?’

‘I can imagine he is,’ said Gil, ‘but I’d like a word just the same. We’ve learned a bit more about what happened yesterday, and I’d like his opinion of the matter.’

‘He’s in the house,’ Syme informed them as Robert returned to his position at the counter and helped himself to some sweetmeat from under the counter. ‘Maybe you’d have a seat till the passage is free?’ He inclined his head towards the other door, through which more shrieking laughter reached them. ‘It might be easier.’

‘Much easier,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘We’ll wait,’ agreed Gil.

‘Robert, is there a seat for the gentry?’

‘Yonder,’ said Robert unhelpfully, pointing. Syme tightened his lips, but brought two stools forward and seated them politely.

‘A bad business, yesterday,’ he said. ‘Has Wat found what the poison might be? He’s never sent word here, if so.’

‘I’ve heard nothing either,’ Gil said. ‘Is your sister Agnes still shut in her chamber, Robert?’

‘Likely,’ said Robert indifferently. He reached under the counter and brought out another sweetmeat, which he popped into his mouth. He did not offer to share the supply.

‘The lassie was quite overset,’ confided Syme unnecessarily. ‘It’s no wonder if she’s shut herself away. She’s young yet, and still inclined to be foolish, no like my wife.’

‘Hah!’ said Robert explosively, but did not elaborate. Gil eyed Syme speculatively, thinking that the man seemed to hold Eleanor in more regard than she did him.

‘I’d a word with Mistress Eleanor earlier,’ he said. ‘She tells me she and Agnes and your good-sister do a lot of the stillroom work for the business.’

‘That’s true,’ admitted Syme. ‘That’s very true. We’ve been able to expand the range, what’s more, since our good-sister came home. She has a few strange receipts from some learned Saracen she met in the Low Countries. Her rose comfits sell well, they’re not quite like any — ’

He was interrupted. The cacophony beyond the house door had been reducing as the good ladies of the High Street made their way out to go home, but suddenly a new, shrill, perfectly sober voice burst on their ears.

‘Do you believe my daughter now, Frankie Renfrew?’

‘Aye, I’ll believe her.’ That was certainly Maister Renfrew. ‘The bairn’s a Renfrew right enough. She’s the image of Agnes and Robert when they were born.’

‘Are you no to apologize, then?’

Syme rose, turning towards the door as if to cover it, stop the exchange somehow. Gil moved to look out of the green window at the wriggling shapes moving in the street.

‘Apologize? What way would I apologize? It’s your daughter should apologize to me, woman, forever leading me to think other.’

‘Just because Sibella Bairdie played you false, man, doesny mean all women’s to be tarred from the same pot. My Meg’s an honest wife, and you’ll treat her that way from now on, or I’ll have your hide for cushions, maister potyngar. And just you mind that.’

‘Oh, aye, I’ll mind it.’ The latch rattled, the door opened, Maister Renfrew stepped through into the shop, saying over his shoulder, ‘And maybe you’ll mind that this is my house, woman, and treat me wi civility.’

‘Aye, when you’re civil to my lassie!’

Renfrew shut the door on this retort, snarling, then caught sight of Gil and stiffened.

‘Oh, you’re back, are you?’ he said. ‘Were you wanting something?’

‘We are come to wish good fortune to the bairn,’ said Maistre Pierre hastily. ‘Are both mother and babe well?’

‘Oh, aye, well enough.’ Renfrew pushed his felt hat forward, scratched the back of his head, and sighed deeply. ‘I was a fool to marry again. I wish I hadny thought of it now.’

‘Me too,’ muttered Robert.

His father looked sharply at him, but Syme broke in, smiling, ‘Admit it, Frankie, there’s advantages to being a married man.’

‘Might we have a word, Maister Renfrew?’ said Gil.

‘What about? If it’s the poison Bothwell used, these two had as well hear it, it’s of as much interest to them as to me.’

‘Not entirely,’ said Gil. ‘In your workroom, maybe?’

Renfrew unlocked the workroom and led them in. Gil looked round again, admiring the long scrubbed bench below the window, light even this late in the day. There must be room for more than one person to work at a time.

‘All the potyngary work happens here?’ he said.

‘Aye, it does. What’s this about, maister? I’ve all to see to, and the bairn’s godparents to choose.’

‘Syme and his wife and your good-daughter,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘There, it is simple. Frankie, we are concerned for you.’ Renfrew frowned enquiringly at him. ‘We think that the flask that held the poison was one of those which should hold some drops which you take — ’

‘What? Havers, man, it was one of Bothwell’s own — ’

‘No, sir,’ said Gil patiently, ‘we are quite certain all Bothwell’s are accounted for, and so are those Forrest had. We should check what you’ve given out already,’ he added, with little hope, ‘in case it was one of those, stolen from whoever you sold it to, but we are quite certain it was — ’

‘Rubbish!’ exploded Renfrew. ‘How would he get hold of it? I never heard such nonsense. My workroom’s locked, the supply of flasks is still in the barrel there in the corner, all in their straw, and the spare ones Grace makes up for me are here — ’ He turned to the shelves beside him, and patted a small, expensive sample of the cabinetmaker’s craft. ‘In this cabinet.’

‘How many flasks do you use?’ Gil asked.

‘I keep three for the drops. Grace fills the three at a time, and puts them by here for me, and when I empty one, as I did this morn, I pass it to her. Then when I get to the third one she makes up a fresh batch.’

Gil frowned, working this out. Something did not tally.

‘You leave it all to your good-daughter?’ asked Maistre Pierre curiously.

Renfrew shrugged. ‘I can trust her well enough wi that. The receipt’s clear, she’s capable of following it right, and it makes her feel useful forbye. I maybe need to bid her strengthen it,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘I feel as if the humours are unbalanced again the day.’

‘Much has happened in the day,’ observed Maistre Pierre.

‘I’d have thought she was useful for more than that,’ said Gil. ‘She seems both skilled and competent.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Renfrew, with a sudden bark of laughter. ‘You’d be surprised. Aye, she’s a useful lassie, particular at making apple-cheese. I canny interest you in a box? Anyway, maister, the spare flasks,’ he picked open one of the many little doors in the cabinet, ‘would be with Grace, lying empty and waiting to be filled, or else here for my use. So it canny have been one of mine that Bothwell had, and when I think of the help I’ve given that lad, the advice and the stores I’ve put in his way, it fair makes my blood boil that he should misuse the craft that way.’

The doors of the cabinet bore labels with writing on them. Gil bent and looked closely, but found the words much abbreviated. Absint., Tanac., Alc. mol., he read. The open cavity was unlabelled and empty; there were stains on the light wood which smelled vaguely herbal, though the cabinet and the whole chamber smelled so strongly of spices and drugs it was hard to identify one odour. Maister Renfrew, appealed to, agreed that it was the same way as his drops smelled.

‘The last two or three you finished,’ said Gil, ‘did you give them to Mistress Grace yourself?’

‘Oh, likely. Or I’d gie them to Frankie or to Robert to pass on to her. So it gets to her, it’s no great matter.’

‘But none has been missed?’

‘And the one in your purse now, Frankie?’ asked Maistre Pierre across the denial.

‘It’s the right stuff,’ Renfrew said irritably. ‘I lifted it this morning and I’ve had two or three doses in the day. I ken my own receipt. What are you trying to show, Peter? Are you suspicioning Bothwell intended to leave it here for me?’

‘Not Bothwell necessarily,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘but we have wondered if it was intended for you.’

Renfrew stared at him, then laughed again.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I’ll not entertain it. That’s a daft idea. Besides, there’s nothing goes on in my workroom that I’m not in control of.’ He closed the little door, and looked at them curiously. ‘You’re serious in this, aren’t you, Peter?’

‘We are,’ said Gil. ‘Is there anyone in the house capable of brewing up such a poison?’

Renfrew shrugged. ‘Robert and James and me, we’re all busy at sic things from time to time. Nicol likely could and all, daftheid though he is, I trained him well. So aye, any of us, maister. But as I said, there’s naught occurs in my workroom but I’m in charge of it, whoever’s handling the bellows. No, I canny see that it could ha been aimed at me. Whatever sort of an ill-doer he is, Bothwell would never ha had the chance to set it in here, and nobody under my roof could do sic a thing, for reason that I take care of all the potyngary stuffs that would pyson a man.’

‘The workroom was locked yesterday, you say?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

‘It was. You saw me unlock it the now. It’s aye locked when I’m out of the house or when the shop’s empty.’

‘Is there another key?’ Gil asked.

‘Aye, Jimmy has a key, being a partner in the business, but he keeps it close as I do.’

‘And do you have any more idea what yesterday’s poison might be?’

‘None.’ Renfrew opened the workroom door, a little too quickly for his son who was revealed within a yard or so of the other side. ‘Robert, have you no work to occupy you?’

‘Aye, Faither,’ returned the young man, ‘but it’s all in the workroom where you were just now.’

‘Get on with it, then, afore I take a stick across your back,’ said his father sharply. ‘Jimmy, I think Peter and his good-son are just leaving.’

‘No,’ said Gil apologetically. ‘I need a word with your daughter Agnes.’

‘Wi Agnes?’ Renfrew stared at him. ‘Why?’

‘As you said yourself, sir,’ Gil pointed out, ‘one of her sweethearts has slain the other. I’d say Sir Thomas will want a word wi her and all, and it’s plain she can help me. I’ve given her most of the day, since she’s not left her chamber, but I must speak wi her now.’

‘You’ve no need to speak to Agnes,’ said Renfrew crisply. ‘An empty-heidit lassie like her can add nothing to what the rest of us saw.’

‘I’ll fetch her,’ offered Robert, still in the workroom doorway. Gil looked at the young man, and saw the smirk just vanishing from his face.

‘I come with you,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘I’d sooner speak to the lassie in her own chamber,’ said Gil, ‘with maybe one of the other women at her side.’

‘She’s nothing to hide from her faither,’ pronounced her father in menacing tones.

‘Then you’ll not need to be present, sir,’ suggested Gil.

Renfrew grunted sourly at that and turned to the house door. ‘You’d best come up, then,’ he said.

‘I’ll come and all,’ said Robert. ‘I want to hear what she has to say.’

With a faintly gleeful air he preceded them through into the house, up the newel stair into the hall, up a further flight.

‘What is a hurcheon?’ asked Maistre Pierre absently as they passed through a succession of ostentatious rooms, their wooden furnishings pale and new, and the hangings bright and fresh even in the dwindling daylight.

‘Hérisson,’ translated Gil. ‘Hedgehog.’

Finally Robert kicked at a shut door and flung it open, saying, ‘Agnes? Here’s the Provost’s men come to take you up for poisoning Danny Gibson.’

‘Robert!’ said Gil sharply, but it was drowned in Agnes’s shriek of terror. She had been lying on the handsome tester-bed which occupied most of the chamber, and she sprang up and off the bed on the far side, all in one movement, white-faced, petticoats flying, stammering:

‘No! No, I didny — I never —!’

‘Robert, you’re a fool!’ said his father.

‘Come, come, Agnes,’ said Maistre Pierre reassuringly. ‘You know enough not to pay attention to what your brother says, no?’

‘I never — ’ repeated Agnes, and then the sense of these words penetrated. ‘You mean it’s not — he was — ’ She swallowed, and turned a savage face on her brother, showing little even teeth. ‘Our Lady’s nails, I’ll pay you for that one, Robert, I swear it, if it’s the last thing I ever do.’

‘There was joye to sen hem mete, With layking and with kissing swete. Thank you, Robert,’ said Gil, without sincerity. ‘I’m sure your father can spare you now. Likely Maister Syme would like your help to close up the shop.’

‘Aye, get away, Robert,’ said Renfrew. ‘That was a daft trick. And we’ll ha none o your sarcasm, maister,’ he added. Robert gave Gil an ugly look and slunk out, and Renfrew entered the chamber, saying to his daughter, ‘Here’s Maister Cunningham wants to ask you about yesterday, Agnes. Speak up and answer him the truth, lassie.’

His face cracked in a half-smile, and the girl relaxed slightly, and came round the end of the bed. Her cheeks were wet, as if she had been weeping, and Gil saw that she was still trembling from the fright her brother had given her.

‘Shall we have some light, and then sit down?’ he suggested.

Seated by the opened shutters, he studied Agnes again in the light of the yellow sunset. She did not look as if she had slept; the blue eyes were dark-ringed, the gold curls uncombed, and she clasped and unclasped her hands, apparently unaware that she did so. Maistre Pierre was watching her with some sympathy.

‘You know your good-mother has a wee lassie,’ Renfrew said.

‘I could hardly miss it,’ said Agnes. Not so distressed as she seems, then, Gil registered.

‘Where did you find the flask, Agnes?’ he said abruptly. She reared back like a horse sharply reined in, and stared at him, mouth open, eyes very wide.

‘Find it?’ she said after a moment. ‘Me?’

‘You gave it to Nanty Bothwell on the stair,’ Gil said. Renfrew looked from his daughter to Gil, open-mouthed in indignation.

‘Why would I do that?’ she countered boldly. Definitely not so distressed as she seems, thought Gil. ‘What would I — does he say I gave him it?’

‘Never mind what he says,’ said Gil. ‘I’m interested in what you say. Where did you find it?’

‘What’s this about?’ demanded Renfrew. ‘My lassie never had aught to do wi the flask. I told you all that below stairs the now!’

‘I never had it,’ she said resolutely, shaking her head. ‘It was nothing to do with me.’

‘I’ve heard a different tale,’ said Gil. ‘You saved the play, you claimed. Where did you find the flask?’

‘Why would I have the flask?’ she said. ‘It’s nothing to do wi me, is it, Daddy? You keep all those things in your care, locked in the workroom, we never get a sight of them, what would I be doing passing one to Nanty Bothwell?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ said Gil. ‘Nanty forgot to lift the one he should have had with him, so he asked you to find him something that would do, when you slipped back here to fetch your good-mother a cushion.’

‘Why are you accusing her like this?’ demanded Renfrew. ‘What’s the proof you have?’

‘I never did anything of the sort,’ said Agnes, sounding alarmed. ‘You canny show I did, either!’

‘Aye, what proof?’ demanded Renfrew again.

‘She was seen talking to Nanty, out in the yard, when she left Morison’s house,’ said Gil. ‘And seen afterwards, talking to him on the kitchen stair. That was when she said she’d saved the play. You brought Nanty that flask, Agnes, and it killed Danny Gibson. Was that your intention?’

She turned her face away from the light, putting one hand up to cover her eyes.

‘Do you think I’ll ever forget how he died?’ she whispered. ‘You canny torment me like this, maister. Daddy, stop him! I never — ’

‘That’s nothing to say to the matter!’ said Renfrew angrily. ‘It’s all hearsay! How could she get the flask, let alone whatever was in it, when the key to the workroom was in my purse all the time?’

‘Did you know what you’d lifted?’ Gil asked. ‘Did you know it was poison? Did you plan to have one lad kill the other and be hanged for it?’

‘No, I never. Where would I get something like that?’ she asked, without looking round. ‘Tell me that, maister! My faither keeps control over all that moves in this house, and certainly over all that’s to do wi the craft. How would I find sic a flask, let alone poison to put in it to-’ Her face crumpled, and she covered it with her hands again. ‘Oh, the poor laddie!’

‘Danny died. Nanty will hang,’ said Gil deliberately, ‘unless we can show it was a mistake, that he’d no knowledge of what was in the flask. One of your sweethearts has died, but you could save the other one by telling me the truth, Agnes.’

‘That’s more than enough!’ exploded Renfrew.

He got to his feet and patted his daughter’s shoulder, and she turned to bury her face in the waist of his woollen gown, wailing, ‘Send them away, Daddy!’

‘Aye, never fret, my lammie. That’s all you get, Maister Cunningham. I’ll not hear any more of this nonsense, and I’ll answer no more questions myself. Away and tell the Provost it was Nanty Bothwell done it.’

‘How long will you stay in your chamber, Agnes?’ asked Maistre Pierre suddenly. ‘You are needed out in the house. Your good-mother is abed, there is the house to run — ’

‘I’ll see to what needs decided under my own roof, Peter Mason,’ said Renfrew angrily. ‘There now, my pet, they’re just away.’

‘If you change your mind, Agnes,’ said Gil, ‘you can send word to my wife.’