St Mungo's Robin

Chapter Six

‘You were lucky to catch me at home,’ said Maister Agnew in legal Latin. ‘Aye, Hob,’ he added as his servant brought in a tray, ‘just leave the jug there.’

‘Aye, but you’ll no be spilling this one?’ said Hob bluntly. He was a wizened man with a scrubby beard; his livery jerkin and hose, closely examined, were quite new but he wore them as if they were out at the elbows and knees.

Agnew gave him a black look, and flapped a dismissive hand, saying, ‘You’ll take a glass of Malvoisie, Maister Cunningham? I believe you’re about to be wed, so we’ll drink to that.’

‘And keep it off the matting,’ said Hob as he reached the doorway. ‘Once in a week’s enough.’

‘Hob! Get away hame!’ said Agnew. His man snorted, and ducked out of the door. ‘You’ll ha to excuse him, Maister Cunningham. He’s been too long wi me. Some wine, then?’

The wine was golden in the glass but belied its promise. Gil kept his face straight, and said reassuringly in Latin, ‘I won’t keep you, if you’re promised somewhere. But there are a few things I hope you might shed light on, regarding Deacon Naismith’s death.’

‘You said that before,’ said Agnew. He was remarkably like his brother, but his hair was fashionably longer, his face was fatter, and the lines at mouth and forehead signalled his presence in the day-to-day world of the Consistory. ‘He was with me about this time last evening, after supper, for an hour or so, but I never saw him again after that.’

‘Was that here?’ asked Gil innocently, looking round the hall where they sat. He had friends among the cathedral songmen, who made up most of the inhabitants of the two rows of identical houses of Vicars’ Alley, so the size and shape of the room were familiar to him. This one was brightly painted with false panelling in black and red, with vases of stiff improbable flowers depicted on the red squares. The beams which supported the floorboards overhead were also decorated, with vines wriggling along their length, and the shutters at the window had more flowers, startlingly unlike the ones which would be visible in the little yard outside in summer. ‘Is it new painted?’

‘Handsome work, isn’t it?’ agreed Agnew in Scots. ‘You’d not believe what George Bowster cost me, first and last, but it was well worth it. It’s Eck Sproat your gudefather’s got in, I hear? I hope he’s as good,’ he said dubiously, and returned to Latin for the business of the evening. ‘No, I saw Deacon Naismith in my chamber in the Consistory tower. The clerk that brought him up to me asked how long we would be, since it was time they were away, so I am certain it was late. The Deacon stayed while we dealt with the matter that brought him.’

‘And what was that?’ Gil asked.

‘He was planning great changes in his life,’ said Agnew easily. ‘Some more of this Malvoisie?’

‘No, thank you. I’ve another call to make. Changes, you said? So naturally he would turn to you, since you conveyed so much of his other property.’

‘Naturally,’ agreed Agnew, smiling slightly.

‘He must have come to you in the first place as the bedehouse’s man of law.’ Agnew nodded. ‘Perhaps you can tell me about the financial arrangements there. Is the Deacon in complete control, or is there other supervision?’

‘The Deacon is in control,’ said Agnew, pursing his lips and nodding. ‘I dare say the founder’s family have the final direction of their own donations, but the other properties are at the Deacon’s disposal entirely, those that are outright gifts.’

Improvident, if true, thought Gil.

‘So he made the most of the opportunity,’ he said aloud.

‘Naturally The very most, indeed.’ Gil raised his eyebrows and Agnew confided, ‘I have sometimes wondered if he was altering the terms of some of the dispositions.’

‘Dear me,’ said Gil. ‘Without your concurrence, I assume.’

‘Oh, I assure you! I would certainly have advised against it if he had consulted me.’

‘How long have you acted for the house?’

‘Ten or twelve years, I suppose.’

‘And how long had Maister Naismith been in place? How did he come by the post?’

‘Four years at Candlemas next,’ said Agnew promptly. ‘As to how he came by it, I can claim no knowledge, but I recall him saying that he had been master of a smaller house at Irvine before he came to Glasgow. He has — had friends in Lanarkshire, perhaps they knew the founder’s family.’

‘I can check that,’ said Gil, ‘if it becomes relevant. And you said he was planning changes. Are you able to say what they were?’

‘Well, it can do no harm to tell you, I suppose, since it cannot come to pass now. He was hoping to be married, and had great intentions for the bedehouse, and for his property round the burgh of Glasgow and elsewhere.’ Agnew felt in his sleeve, then looked about him. ‘No, of course, they’re in the tower. I have the notes for the new will I was to draw up for him in my other tablets.’

‘Had you drawn up the previous will? Did the principal legatee remain the same?’ Gil asked neutrally.

Agnew took another sip of his execrable wine, and considered his answer.

‘No,’ he said at length. ‘The principal legatee was not the same. It was originally — I expect you can guess who it was, I hear you’ve already questioned her. The new will would have left most of his property, including the house by the Caichpele, to his wife. Contingent on the marriage taking place, of course.’

‘Of course.’ There was a pause. ‘And who was that?’ Gil prompted.

Another sip of the Malvoisie.

‘It was to have been a kinswoman of mine. Widowed, you understand, with a nice little settlement in coin and land. The marriage was in my hands.’

‘Very provident,’ said Gil, wondering how the widow felt. ‘So the Deacon was planning to be married, and wished to rearrange the disposition of his properties,’ he summarized. ‘I’m sure you’d have wanted to drink a toast to that. Did you discuss anything else? Did it affect the almshouse, or any other individual? Was he making provision for Mistress Veitch?’

‘Very little, in my view,’ said Agnew, assuming an air of disapproval. ‘And that conditional on the child she’s carrying being a son. No, there was nothing to be writ down that affected the almshouse.’

‘I see.’ Gil set his glass on the fine rush matting. ‘So this took you an hour or so.’

‘We had to disentangle his ideas somewhat. You know what it can be like.’

Gil nodded. ‘And then?’

‘He left, without saying where he was going. And then I left.’

‘Not together?’

‘No, he was ahead of me, by — oh, not by as much as a quarter-hour. I had papers to straighten, notes to make for this morning. I never saw him alive again.’ Agnew bent his head and crossed himself.

‘Did it seem as if he was going home, or to meet someone else?’

Agnew looked up in surprise. ‘I never thought of that.’ He considered briefly, gazing at the wriggling vines along the roof-beams. ‘No, I would not say he was going home, though who he was going to meet I could not speculate.’

‘Did he seem in any way worried? As if there was anything wrong?’

‘No, no,’ Agnew assured him. ‘He was considerably annoyed, for I think — ’ He broke off, but then shook his head. ‘It can do him no harm now to divulge these matters, and may do some good. I got the impression that the former principal legatee, or perhaps her family, had raised objections to his change of plans which the Deacon felt were not justified. He said that it was his business, and none of theirs.’

Gil nodded, appreciating this version of what Eppie had called a roaring tulzie.

‘Did he feel he had got the better of them in argument?’ he asked. ‘Did he anticipate any kind of retaliation?’

‘Some legal action, you mean?’ said the other man of law. Gil held his peace. ‘None was mentioned, nor any threat of violence. Yes, the Deacon seemed to feel he had got the best of the discussion. Do you imply that this had some bearing on his death?’

‘I imply nothing,’ Gil said mendaciously. ‘I must ask about everything, because somewhere in his last hours lies the answer.’

‘Ah. Yes, of course.’ Agnew crossed himself again, and took another sip of wine. Gil cleared his throat, and changed the subject slightly.

‘After the Deacon left, you also went out, you said.’ Agnew nodded. ‘Where did you go yourself?’ The other man began to assemble an offended look. ‘I must ask everyone who saw him,’ Gil pointed out.

‘Oh.’ The expression changed, and Gil realized he knew what was coming next. ‘Well. To tell truth, Maister Cunningham, I was with — I was with a lady.’

‘A lady? Would she be willing to confirm that, if it came to it?’ The expression changed again. No, she would not, Gil deduced. ‘Not publicly, of course,’ he added. ‘We can be discreet about it.’

‘Aye. Very possibly,’ said Agnew, licking his lips. Who on earth was he seeing, Gil wondered.

‘Does that mean,’ he pursued as tactfully as he could, ‘that you wereny home all last night?’ And was the whole of Glasgow lying with a lover, he thought sourly, or just everyone connected with this death except me?

‘It does,’ agreed Agnew, and licked his lips again, rather anxiously.

‘It must be a worry for you,’ Gil said, to get away from the subject, ‘all this happening at the almshouse. Is your brother secure there?’

‘Not as secure as I would like,’ said Agnew, interpreting the word differently from Gil’s intention. ‘I hope it may not prove to be his doing that the Deacon is dead, though whether the poor fellow is responsible for his actions is arguable at the least. His mind is a fugitive and a wanderer upon the earth, a sad case.’

‘It seems unlikely that it was your brother who killed him,’ said Gil. ‘The signs tell me a different story.’

‘It’s kind of you to reassure me,’ said Agnew, and drained his glass. ‘Now, can I tell you anything else?’

All six of the bedesmen were seated in the pool of candlelight round the fire in the hall, discussing the morning with Maister Millar. Gil stood at the open door for a few minutes, studying them.

Despite the livery they were far from identical. (But why should they be identical? he thought.) Of the two who used sticks Anselm was frail and scrawny, with his spectacles still sliding off his nose; Duncan was big and bald and wore that flourishing moustache. There was the stooped Cubby with the trembling-ill, his hand shaking badly as he listened to Millar explaining why they needed to find the Deacon’s cloak, and Barty with his head cocked anxiously to catch the words. There was Humphrey, with his blank smile. The sixth was another lean white-haired fellow, taller than the others, who was sitting slightly aloof from the circle and looking on with sour amusement. As Gil watched, this man glanced round, met his eye, and rose and moved stiffly to meet him.

‘Salve, magister,’ Gil said, pulling off his hat and bending one knee like a schoolboy.

‘Salve, puer,’ returned Maister Veitch.

‘I’m sorry to see you here in this place, maister.’

‘No need, Gibbie, no need. I’ve been well cared for till now, and the danger we were in’s been averted.’

‘What danger, maister?’ said Gil. ‘What can you tell me?’ He looked about him. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk, sir, and I’ll see if Mistress Mudie can give us — ’

‘Sissie has her hands full,’ interrupted Maister Veitch, lifting one of the row of lanterns from the shelf by the door, ‘and I’d as soon no drink anything the now, for reasons you’ll well understand when you come to be my age, Gibbie. No,’ he went on, opening the lantern, and set light to the candle within from the one set ready on the shelf, ‘come to my lodging out this rain, and you’ll listen to me. You’ll be looking for Naismith’s enemies, I assume? There may be more than you bargained for. Millar’s a good man, but he’s too much faith in other folk’s goodness.’

‘Is that right, sir?’ said Gil. He followed his old teacher out into the dripping garden. ‘So who would you suggest might have killed him?’

‘Anyone inside these gates, for a start,’ said the old man bluntly, opening his door.

The little house was a commodious place for one person, smaller than the Douglas lodging but significantly bigger than Millar’s chamber above the hall. The outer room contained a chair, a settle and two stools round an empty hearth, and a small desk for a scholar stood against the opposite wall, with five books on the shelf above it, and an inkstand and a stack of paper lying ready. The door to the inner chamber stood ajar in the fourth wall.

‘I’ve begun work on that study I always wanted to make,’ said Maister Veitch, and cracked his cloak like a blanket to shake the rain off it, so that the candle flames danced wildly. Hanging the heavy swathes of cloth on a peg behind the door he bared his head, revealing a thick white thatch receding at the temples, and flourished his velvet bonnet at the settle before hanging it on another peg. ‘Hae a seat, Gibbie.’

‘The Early Fathers?’ recalled Gil, and got an approving nod.

Seated in his own great chair, marking off his points on gnarled fingers with the same gestures he had used when expounding the mysteries of Latin declensions in the dusty schoolroom in Hamilton, Maister Veitch set out his view of the situation in the almshouse.

‘He’d set each of us against him,’ he said in the scholarly tongue, ‘all six of the brothers, for different reasons, long before yesterday’s announcement. Sissie, whatever she says, had no reason to love or respect him. Millar, a good man and a good scholar, had a very different vision for the bedehouse from the one Naismith followed. And I regret to say the fellow’s dealings with my kinswoman Marion have been far from honest.’ He paused, one forefinger on the other, then moved on to the thumb. ‘Which I suppose,’ he added in Scots, ‘wad gie me the mair cause to dislike him, though I know I didny kill him.’

‘But what had he done to them all?’ asked Gil.

Maister Veitch began his count on the other hand.

‘As to Duncan Fraser, I’ve no idea,’ he admitted. ‘He’s forgotten all his Latin beyond Paternoster and Ave, you’ve likely noticed, speaks only the Scots tongue he spoke as a boy, somewhere beyond Aberdeen or Tain. The rest of us canny make out a word he says, poor fellow. But if you mention Naismith’s name, he turns purple, so we’ll assume there’s ill feeling there.’ He paused, considering. ‘Cubby Pringle with the trembling-ill — he leaves down crumbs for the birds, which was always worth a laugh from the Deacon, but there’s worse. Cubby was put out of his parish after he spilled the Blood of Christ over the Bishop’s Easter cope. He’s done more penance than he needs for it already, but Naismith cast it up at him as a joke every time Cubby spoke to him.’

‘They’d never wash the wine out of a cope,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘I take it the thing had to be destroyed? And that was attached to Maister Pringle’s name?’

‘Precisely.’ Maister Veitch paused again. ‘He made a mock of Anselm in the same way, about a matter Anselm takes seriously.’

‘The ghostly brother at the Mass?’

‘Oh, you’ve heard about it, have you? Aye, Anselm’s aye on about it. He claims to see him far more often than the rest of us, claims he actually talks to him — I’ve no seen him at all, myself — and he lets us all know. He’s childish, poor fellow. And Barty and I both had a serious difference wi Naismith about the way he uses the bedehouse’s income.’

‘Ah,’ said Gil.

‘It’s only since I was here,’ said Maister Veitch, ‘maybe a year, that we’ve tried to discuss it wi him. Till then I suppose he assumed none would notice.’ He smiled a thin teacher’s smile in the half-light. ‘Anselm’s beyond matters like that, we’d no ken if Duncan did notice, and Cubby’s too good a man to be aware of it, like Andro. Barty says he’d had his suspicions, and once I began asking about this and that we uncovered more and more.’

‘Per exemplum?’ Gil prompted, and got another approving glance.

‘There was a silver crucifix when I came here,’ his teacher said. ‘There was still plate in the hall two year since, Barty says. The meals we’re served are wholesome enough, Sissie sees to that, the good soul,’ he grimaced, ‘but we get meat less often and it’s cheaper meat these days.’ He spat at the empty grate in the small hearth. ‘And that’s another of his penny-pinching decisions — we’ve no to get a fire in our own lodgings now. He said it was for safety, and I suppose in Anselm’s case or Humphrey’s that might be true, but we all kenned what he was at.’

‘Where is the money going?’ Gil asked.

‘Into his pocket, we assumed,’ said Maister Veitch. ‘And only yesterday he called us all thegither and announced, among other things, that he would be taking back — those were his words — all our books, since old men ha no need of books, in order to sell them for the bedehouse funds.’ The indignation quivered in his voice. ‘Those books by the desk are mine, dear-bought over a lifetime, and Barty’s two are his. There’s a many missed meals behind each one of them.’

‘Your books? What did you say to him?’ asked Gil in dismay.

‘We tellt him they were ours,’ said Maister Veitch bitterly, ‘but he reminded us that the brothers hold their property in common. I kent that, but I wouldny ha accepted the place if I’d no been assured that books was a different matter. I’ve had time, this past year, to make a start on the Early Fathers, I’ll no see it snatched away.’

Gil eyed his teacher with sympathy. After a moment he said, ‘And yet the man was a clerk — he could read, I think.’

‘A stickit clerk,’ said Maister Veitch in contemptuous Scots, then, reverting to Latin, ‘He was parish clerk to my nephew William in Irvine at one time. It seems he wished to be a priest himself, but there was neither money nor patronage to support him to his ordination. This gave him a dislike of priests and learning, and even William found him difficult and snatched the opportunity to get him another post, first in Irvine and then in Glasgow out of his way. Had I known him better, I would have waited for a place in Hamilton, rather than come here myself.’

‘An unpleasant character,’ Gil said thoughtfully. ‘And had he given the bedehouse folk any other cause to dislike him?’

‘Oh, he had. As well as bullying Sissie about the accounts — ’

‘Bullying her?’

‘Oh, it was all done very civilly but I’ve heard him. He aye forgot,’ said Maister Veitch with another thin smile, ‘that my ears are near as sharp as they ever were. He went over the household outgoings wi Sissie every day after the noon bite, and he’d aye a suggestion about how it could ha been less. She was near weeping the last time I heard them,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘for he’d said we wereny to have wine any more, even on feast days, but only ale. But then he went on to press her about some receipt he’d promised Andrew Slack the ’pothecary She was reluctant to give it over, since it was her granny’s and no to be handed on to just anybody, but he pressed her to it, and if she was to expect any reward for it, my name’s no Frankie Veitch. Much more like that Naismith and Slack would split the profits to be made.’

‘We found two or three receipts in his purse,’ said Gil. ‘And what about these changes he was to make? His marriage, and the use of the hall, and so on.’

‘Aye,’ said Maister Veitch. ‘Aye, he called us all into the hall, after he’d done bullying Sissie, and told us he was planning changes. Andro was to give up his lodging and take one of the empty houses. Sissie was to have another, I think, and she was to leave off the housekeeping, be our nurse only, and be paid less for it. But none of the empty houses is fit to live in. The thatch leaks, the shutters willny fasten. One of the hearths is fallen in.’

‘Was this the first you’d heard of these changes?’

‘It was. Sissie asked who would oversee the housekeeping and the kitchen, and Naismith said she had no need to worry about that, for he was to be married, and his wife would take all into her own hands. And afore he left the hall,’ said Maister Veitch slowly, ‘I said, to him alone, did my niece know of this, and he answered that it was nothing to do wi her. Which I took to mean that he was proposing to marry some other woman.’

‘You don’t know who?’

‘I do not.’

Gil was silent for a space. At length he said, ‘And the sixth brother?’

‘Eh? What did ye say?’

‘You’ve told me about five of the bedesmen,’ Gil prompted. ‘The sixth is Maister Humphrey that quotes the Apocalypse. What quarrel did he have wi Naismith?’

‘Ah.’ Maister Veitch turned to stare into the empty grate. Gil waited. After a pause, the old man said, ‘Do you ken the tale, Gibbie?’

‘No, sir,’ said Gil blankly.

‘Ah. Maybe it was before you left me and came to the school here in Glasgow. Aye, it would be fifteen year or more since. Humphrey Agnew was studying Theology at the college here, wi an altar to mind out at St Thomas beyond the Stablegreen Port.’ Gil nodded. He was acquainted with the crumbling little chapel of St Thomas Becket, which like most churches of its dedication in Scotland was the best part of three hundred years old and looked it. ‘He and a fellow student went fishing one day, no in the Clyde but further afield, up to the Kelvin.’

‘Ah,’ said Gil. ‘Fishing. They used the irresistible bait?’

‘A consecrated Host.’ Maister Veitch pursed his lips, nodding. ‘Which Humphrey stole. Bad enough, though there’s aye a few does it. But the other fellow put his foot in a pothole in the riverbed, and lost his footing and was swept away and drowned. A judgement, I suppose you might say.’

‘A severe judgement,’ said Gil, ‘for a crime which could be said to injure only himself. And Humphrey? What happened to him? Did he escape the judgement?’

‘He went mad,’ said Maister Veitch baldly.

‘Mad? He’s known to be mad, then? I wondered, from something his brother said. So what’s he doing here? Surely there’s some better place for him — one of the big hospitals, Soutra, St Leonard’s?’

‘He didny run mad immediately,’ qualified his teacher. ‘He was ill wi grief for a while, and then it seemed he was back to himself, and he finished his studies. Then he began to see people as birds — I’ve heard him call Naismith a cuckoo and a shrike, which didny best please the man. And then it seems, bit by bit he began to abhor water. First it was rivers, as ye’d understand, and then wells and buckets, and got so he couldny lave the vessels after the Mass, and then couldny witness others at the same task.’

‘Ah, that’s what Nick meant.’

‘Very likely. It’s a problem every morn at the end of the Mass,’ confirmed Maister Veitch. ‘Now he gets difficult if he’s out in the rain, as well as if he’s angered at something. He starts by quoting the Revelation, and then he gets violent. I’ve seen him try to throttle his brother Thomas.’ He sighed. ‘Sissie can control him for now, but he should really be a place he can be shut away, poor fellow, for if he gets any worse we’ll have the whole of Glasgow coming in to bait him like a bear.’

‘I’d a word wi his brother before I came round here, but not about this. I never knew before that he’d such a problem in his life,’ said Gil. ‘Poor devil.’

‘So I’d no recommend you question Maister Humphrey direct,’ said Maister Veitch drily, ‘without a guard. Your father-in-law would be a good candidate.’

‘I’ll maybe no disturb Maister Humphrey at all, then,’ said Gil, ‘but I could do with a word with Anselm if I may.’

‘I wish you luck,’ said Maister Veitch in the same dry tone. He leaned forward to see out of the low window. ‘No, your luck’s out, Gibbie. There’s a light in his lodging. Sissie’ll be helping him to his bed. Try the morn.’

Out in the street, Gil considered the sky. It was too cloudy to be helpful, but he thought the time could not be much past eight o’clock. The taste of Maister Agnew’s Malvoisie was still in his mouth. Nick Kennedy won’t be teaching, he thought, and set out towards the college.

The taverns of the Upper Town were brightly lit and noisy, but the streets were quiet. At the Wyndhead he became aware of another lantern bobbing towards him from the Drygate on hurrying feet, its patch of light catching a drab skirt, an apron, the ends of a checked plaid. He paused politely to let the woman go past him, and raised his own light to show his face. The other lantern checked, and then came forward hesitantly.

‘Is that you, sir?’ The voice was young. ‘You that was at my mistress’s house the day,’ she qualified. ‘Talking to Eppie and Danny and all.’

‘Aye, that was me. You must be Bel,’ Gil hazarded. Reassured, she came forward into the light of his lantern, smiling shyly. ‘Is that you away home now? It’s a long day for you.’

‘It’s no so bad,’ she said. ‘It’s no a bad place at all. Danny’s a cross thing, but Eppie and me has a good laugh, whiles, and the mistress is easy enough.’

‘Are you bound down the High Street? Can I see you to your door, lass?’

Bel giggled, and bobbed a curtsy by way of assent. Gil turned, offering his arm as if she was a lady, which extracted another giggle and a nervous clutch at his sleeve, and they made their way on down the hill by the light of the two lanterns.

‘That must have given you all a turn, Maister Naismith’s death,’ Gil suggested. ‘How’s your mistress now? She seemed in a great shock this afternoon.’

‘She was awfy quiet over supper, even wi her brother there,’ admitted Bel. ‘My, he’s the bonnie man,’ she digressed, like Eppie. ‘The big handsome fellow he is, it’s no surprise wee Frankie’s that taken wi him. She was at him again the night, Sing to Frankie, Unca John, sing. Same as last night. He’d even to sing the same song. Some foreign song he learned while he was away at sea.’

‘Was Frankie upset by the shouting last night?’ Gil asked.

‘I missed the worst o’t,’ confessed Bel with regret, ‘for I was early away, but Eppie said she was. She said it was as good as a play, save that the wee one was screaming, for my mistress was weeping, and the maister was shouting that he’d leave his property where he wished and she’d no claim on him whatever she said, and her brother was roaring like the devil on a cart, raging up and down wi his gown swinging, trying to say the maister owed her for her maidenhead, and he said — ’ She stopped. Gil made an interrogative noise. ‘Forget what I was saying,’ she said unconvincingly

‘He said?’ Gil prompted.

‘I forget!’ she said again.

‘And at supper,’ said Gil after a moment, steering them both past a sagging midden. ‘What was it he said at supper? You were there, were you no?’

‘Oh, that was about altering his will,’ she said in some relief, ‘like Eppie tellt you, sir. And he’d other plans. He never said what they were,’ she added regretfully, ‘but I suppose they’ll all come to naught now.’

‘Aye, likely,’ agreed Gil.

She came to a halt under a lantern at the mouth of a vennel and let go his arm. ‘This is me here, maister. And thank you kindly for your company, sir.’ She bobbed to him. ‘I’ve been right glad of it, sir, for there was someone watching the house when I came out.’

‘Watching the house?’ Gil repeated. ‘Mistress Veitch’s house? How do you know?’

‘I seen him when I came out,’ she assured him. ‘He was standing in the corner atween the two houses across the vennel, but I got just a glimp when I put my own light up to be sure I’d shut the kitchen door right.’

‘What, just standing there?’

She nodded, her plaid falling back from her face in the light from the lantern overhead.

‘Standing watching the house, looking up at the lighted windows above. A big wicked-looking man wi a great black beard. I’ll be keeping an eye out when I go to work the morn, you can believe it, sir.’

‘Nobody you knew? Had he a weapon?’

She shook her head.

‘Never seen him afore in my life,’ she asserted. ‘I never saw a sword or nothing, but likely it was hid under his cloak. So I was right glad of your company the now, sir. My thanks on it.’ She bobbed again, and turned away into the narrow space between the houses. Gil waited until her lantern vanished into the shadows, and went on down the street, frowning.

‘Your sister’s to lie at the castle?’ said Nick Kennedy, pouring wine. ‘Oh, aye, the guest-hall they keep for visiting religious. Well, it saves your uncle having to fit her and her folk in at Rottenrow. And what like is Agnew’s lodging?’

‘Very comfortable,’ said Gil. He accepted a glass of sweet golden Malvoisie and said thoughtfully, ‘What can you tell me about the man Naismith, Nick?’

Maister Kennedy fitted his feet beside Gil’s on the box of smouldering charcoal on the hearth.

‘No a lot, you know,’ he said, and paused to consider the wine in his own glass. ‘Patey was right, this is no bad. I must tell John Shaw that. The last barrel he got for us wasny fit to drink. Sharp as verjuice, and I’d swear there’d been a cat at it.’

‘I think I had some of the same shipment from Agnew the now,’ said Gil.

His friend grinned, and went on, ‘No, I’ve no much information about Naismith. He’d been in Irvine, so he said once, but he came from, let me see, somewhere out into Stirlingshire, away up the Kelvin. Lenzie or somewhere like that,’ said Maister Kennedy, an Ayrshire man.

‘Did you see him wi the old men? The brothers? How was he wi them?’

‘Ah.’ Nick peered into his glass of Malvoisie again, but found no inspiration in it. After a moment he said, ‘I’ll tell you this, Gil. For all Sissie Mudie talks like a cut throat, she’s a good nurse to those old men, and she kens herbs like no other, and to see her wi poor Humphrey Agnew would lesson anyone in charity. But even wi her in the place, I’d not have cared to put any kin of mine there under Naismith’s governance.’

‘Is that right?’ said Gil.

Nick shot him a glance, and said, ‘What do you know, then? I’ve seen that expression afore.’

‘I’d a word wi old Frankie Veitch. He taught me my letters in Hamilton, before I came here to the grammar school.’

‘You know everyone.’

‘No quite. I didny know this man Naismith,’ Gil said, ‘and I don’t much like what I hear of him. An orgulous knight, as Malory says.’ He related Maister Veitch’s assessment of the inhabitants of the bedehouse, and Nick nodded.

‘I’ve heard the Deacon, making a game of one or another of them. None of that surprises me. But I wouldny say …’ he paused, ‘I wouldny say any of the old men had the strength to stab a man three times, nor to drag him out where we found him, even old Veitch. Sissie might,’ he added dispassionately, ‘and Andro’s a different matter, but you’ve seen what a nervish, loup-at-shadows creature he is.’

‘Aye.’ Gil held out his glass. ‘Is there any more of that Malvoisie? We wouldny want it to spoil. Tell me, was Naismith a man of habit? Was he at Mass every morning?’

Maister Kennedy paused with the jug in his hand. ‘Most mornings, I’d say, but not every morning.’

‘And in his own stall?’

‘When he was there? Oh, aye. Well, usually. Odd times he was late, he’d slip in at the tail and sit near the choir door.’

‘Oh.’ Gil accepted the returned glass. ‘Next to Anselm?’

‘Oh, you’ve heard about that, have you,’ said Nick, as Maister Veitch had done. ‘No, he wouldny sit next to Anselm. I’m told it can be gey cold in the stall next to Anselm.’

‘Lowrie thought he saw him in that stall this morning, but Millar said it was more likely this other — ’ He stopped, shaking his head.

‘Mm,’ said Nick. ‘No this morning.’

‘You’re very sure.’

‘Sure enough.’ He gave Gil a doubtful look. ‘You’re no priested, this may not make sense to you.’

‘Try me.’

‘Aye, well. I don’t see Anselm’s friend myself but — Look, when you say a Mass, it’s no always the same. Sometimes your words come right back at you as if you were standing next a wall, and sometimes they vanish as if you were speaking down a well,’ said Nick hesitantly, ‘but sometimes — sometimes it’s as if something — someone else you canny see joins in wi you, and the whole thing takes a life of its own. You ken?’

‘Like prayer,’ said Gil simply.

Nick nodded in relief. ‘Aye, exactly. Well, in St Serf’s, when it’s one of the good Masses, the better Masses I mean, then when we go to get a sup of porridge wi the old men, Anselm will be yapping on about his friend being there. It aye happens. And once or twice, when Naismith was making a joke of it at Anselm, trying to make out he’d seen the extra brother himself that day, I could tell what Anselm was going to say for it hadny been one of the uplifted Masses.’

‘And?’

‘It wasny one this morn. What was Anselm saying?’

‘Anselm agreed wi you. So far as he was making sense at all,’ Gil qualified.

Nick’s dark-browed face split in a grin, then became serious. ‘So who did Lowrie see? The boy’s sharp-eyed and sensible, I’d believe he saw something, so who was it?’

‘That’s one of the things I need to find out.’ Gil took another sip of wine. ‘You mentioned Humphrey Agnew, Nick. How was Naismith with him?’

‘No bad, for all his faults, and for all the names Humphrey called him. Better than the poor soul’s brother, at all events. I’ve seen Naismith help Sissie to get Humphrey out the way and calmed down when his brother’s got him rampaging.’

‘The brothers Agnew don’t get on?’

Nick shrugged. ‘Tammas never humours Humphrey. He starts reciting the Apocalypse and Tammas says, No need for that now, or Calm down, Humphrey. Humphrey tells you the Deacon’s a shrike and Tammas tells him no to be ridiculous. A quarter-hour of that and Humphrey goes for his throat, tries to throttle him. Nearly got him a couple of times that I’ve seen,’ he asserted, ‘but the Deacon dragged him away and Sissie got Humphrey out the room. The poor man ought to be somewhere he can be locked up, but he’s happy at St Serf’s.’

‘Why a shrike?’ Gil wondered. ‘He says he’s a robin now, because he’s dead. Oh, and Pierre and I are hoodies.’

‘All in black as you are, wi a grey plaid, I can see how he’d think you were a hoodie,’ said Nick, ‘but a robin? Maybe like the one in the bairns’ rhyme? Who killed cock-robin?’

‘I, said the sparrow, wi my bow and arrow,’ recalled Gil. ‘But it was a dagger killed Naismith, no an arrow. I wonder who he’s cast as the sparrow? And do you tell me you have to wait till he’s out of sight after the Mass before you can lave the vessels?’

‘Oh, aye. Or he starts on the Apocalypse again and then gets violent, it seems. I’ve never taken the chance. Let’s talk of something more cheerful. How’s the wedding plans going? Got the bed set up yet?’

‘The painters are still at work.’

‘It’s to be hoped they finish afore the great day,’ said Nick, ‘or we’ll all be covered in paint when we put you to bed. Oh, aye, my new gown came home.’ He got to his feet, setting down his glass, and went to the kist at the foot of his own bed. ‘Wat Paton’s man brought it round this afternoon. Now is that no braw?’ He shook the garment out and held it up, a long gown of dark red velvet with a heavy fur lining. ‘Mind, I still think we should ha been both of us in our Master’s robes, but I’ll do you proud as your groomsman in this, will I no?’

‘We’d be more symmetrical in academic dress,’ Gil agreed, ‘but I’ll tell you, we’ll be warmer in these. Mine’s much the same, but cut in blue brocade. We’ll make a good turnout.’

‘And I’ll get years of wear out of this,’ said Nick, in satisfaction. ‘Provided the moth doesny get into it.’ He stroked the fur again, and folded the rich material with care. ‘I’d ha stood up for you anyway, Gil, you’d no need to bribe me like this. And have you got the rings ready?’

Gil thought briefly of the two circles of gold in their little silk pouch, stowed in his uncle’s strongbox for safety. His was quite plain, set with a single dome-cut garnet; Alys’s was the most delicate work he could commission in Glasgow, ornamented with linked hearts and the single word, SEMPER. Always. He found he was rubbing his ring finger, and stopped.

‘Aye, the rings are ready,’ he said.

By the time Gil left the college, after a quick word with Patrick Coventry the second regent, depute to the gentle Principal Doby it was late. The rain had stayed off, but the cold wind whipping dark clouds across the stars was not an improvement. He paused outside the great wooden yett, hitching his plaid up higher, and considered what to do next. Of the options which presented, going home to the house in Rottenrow was the more sensible and less attractive.

He turned downhill, towards his lodestone.