The Fourth Crow

Chapter Fourteen

‘Not entirely, I’ll admit,’ Gil said.

They were briefly gathered in the little solar, after an extended session with Otterburn and the Archbishop. Otterburn’s satisfaction with the outcome of the anathema was as great as his master’s, though with a slightly different slant.

‘Two o these deaths tidied up,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘They’ve confessed, the both o them, though to hear them Austin thought he was protecting Henry when he broke the one lassie’s neck, and again when he took a candlestock to the other dame, and Henry reckoned he was protecting Austin when he got him away and tried to conceal it.’

‘Austin has repented very completely,’ said the Archbishop in Latin. ‘His brother will also repent of his part in the whole affair once we have discussed it with him. A very good outcome, Gilbert, and I commend your part in it, as well as that of your servant Lawrence.’

‘Aye,’ said Otterburn rather drily.

‘I was certain it was one of those two,’ said Gil now in answer to Alys, ‘but I’ll admit I still thought it was Henry did the actual killing. Austin never showed any sign of a quick temper, though I suppose his brother kept him on so short a leash he never had the chance.’

‘Little surprise he broke,’ said Lowrie. ‘I hope I never hear another anathema. The way the clauses mount up, threat upon threat,’ he demonstrated a growing stack with both hands, ‘must be designed to generate fear, and by Christ’s nails it does.’

‘It is indeed designed to be terrifying,’ commented Catherine, ‘and it would be a foolish person who was not struck by fear.’

‘But what did happen?’ Alys asked. ‘Did the Provost learn why the women died?’

‘They were both finding fault wi Henry, and that roused Austin,’ Gil said. ‘Peg was convinced it was one of them had infected her wi the clap.’

‘Surely not!’ said Alys. ‘It would have been as likely the other way around, I should have said.’

‘It could have been either,’ Gil said, considering this. ‘I’d ha thought both parties were equally advanced in the complaint, though Januar said the rages were a sign in the later stages of the disease, and Peg showed no such sign as yet.’

‘So perhaps she was right,’ said Alys thoughtfully. Lowrie was scarlet, looking increasingly awkward, and she smiled kindly at him and said, ‘In any case, she was convinced of it.’

‘She was,’ agreed Gil, ‘and demanded some reparation for it, out in the street where all could hear, said Austin.’

‘Including the man Johnson, I assume,’ said Lowrie, relief in his tone.

‘Exactly. Then she went for Henry when he refused her. He marked her face the way we all saw it, but she managed to scratch his throat, and then when Austin flung her off, she struck the wall and broke her neck. That’s probably no hanging matter, but at least we ken the truth now. As for Dame Ellen, it seems she’d already summoned the brothers to meet her in the chapel after the hostel dinner hour, and by the time they came she’d heard Johnson’s wife and guessed who it must ha been that he heard arguing. According to Henry she was abusing him for a’ things, for spoiling her plans by losing his temper, and his brother seized the candlestick and struck her down. Austin should certainly hang for that, and maybe Henry as well.’

‘He did more than strike her down,’ said Lowrie, grimacing.

‘She was an unpleasant woman,’ said Alys, ‘but nobody deserves to die like that.’ She shivered slightly. ‘That night when Annie was at the Cross has been a busy one. My- My good-mother,’ she went on resolutely, ‘spoke of crows, of shadows, about young Berthold. Indeed it seems as if the night was full of shadows, of people like crows on a wall watching and waiting for one death or another. There was the doctor moving about, and making use of Peg’s death,’ she counted, ‘and then there was whoever it was tried to strangle her, and the Muirs swaggering through all of it after they killed her, though I suppose they are not like crows. Three crows, like the song.’

‘Not entirely like the song,’ said Gil. ‘And those are all linked to Peg, not to Berthold. We don’t know of any connection between them.’

‘And has anyone spoken to Berthold lately?’ she wondered. ‘Now that we know more about what was happening, perhaps we can reassure him enough for him to tell us what he saw.’

‘A good point,’ said Gil. ‘But best dealt wi tomorrow.’

Alys lifted the wine jug. ‘Will you have some more, Gil? Lowrie?’

‘No if I’m to go out again,’ Gil said. ‘There’s the matter o Stockfish Tam and his customer to see to. No, I’ll no take you, Lowrie, we’ve been over that.’

‘I’ll admit, I’m about ready for my bed,’ said Lowrie, ducking his head in acknowledgement of this. ‘Forty mile, a long discussion, and a day of Euan’s conversation. I’m about done.’

‘So we still don’t know,’ said Alys, pouring wine for the rest of them, ‘who killed Barnabas and who tried to strangle a dead woman at the Cross. Do you suspect someone?’ she asked Gil.

‘I do,’ he said, ‘but I’ve already been wrong once. We’ll see what happens in a few hours.’

‘There’s no a lot o cover,’ said Tam dubiously to the captain of the Castle guard. ‘No place to hide. Yir men’s going to show up like a deid sheep on the shore.’

‘I brought the best yins,’ said Andro. ‘No that that’s saying a lot,’ he added, and the three fellows behind him stopped grinning. ‘So we’ll hope they can lie in concealment wi’out alerting the quarry. How did yir man reach you afore? Where did he wait for you?’

‘Under they bushes.’ Tam pointed.

‘But it’s a different man, mind,’ Gil said. ‘No telling what he’ll do.’

‘Aye.’ Andro looked about him. The night was cloudy, and a brisk wind had got up, making sufficient noise in the trees to cover movement. ‘We’ll ha two o you lads in the sail shed, I think, and you and me, Richie, ahint yon bushes. Where will you lie up, Maister Cunningham?’

‘I think,’ said Gil, who had had time to consider the matter, ‘I’ll sit out by the brazier. No need for Tam to be the bait, our man has no notion of who he’s to meet so far as we ken, and in the dark he’ll not get a right sight of me.’

‘Here-’ began Tam.

‘Aye, that would work,’ said Andro.

‘No, it’s no right,’ protested Tam. ‘I’m no one to stand by-’

‘You’ll come wi Richie and me,’ said Andro, ‘so we’ll cut off his retreat if he tries to flee that way. What time do you look for him?’

‘Any hour fro now on,’ said Tam, still dubious. ‘Maister, I’m sweirt to let you take my place, I am that!’

‘Did I hear something?’ said one of Andro’s men.

‘Aye. Places,’ said Andro, low voiced, ‘and nae mair argument. Bring that light, Richie.’

Sitting on a balk of wood by the brazier, Gil warmed his hands and listened. The river rippled past ten feet away, chuckling quietly to itself. He could hear small movements in the sail-shed behind him as the two men lurking there settled down, and occasional more distant stirrings which must be night birds, small animals, a hunting fox. His own lantern gave a little light; now they were in place, Andro’s men had shut theirs and showed no sign.

The row of small houses belonging to the shore folk, set well back from the strand, was silent. Beyond that, the burgh seemed to be asleep, except for the occasional barking dog; on the opposite bank Govan slept as peacefully.

The sound which had alerted Andro’s man came again, a shifting of stone on stone. A footfall, or the sound of a wheel, Gil wondered. Surely he wouldn’t bring the cart down tonight, he thought, he can’t be certain of meeting his man. Another footfall, a scuffle, a muttered curse. A light bobbed into view on the rough ground at the foot of St Thenew’s croft, came closer. Stopped by the nearest clump of bushes.

‘Stockfish Tam?’ said a hoarse whisper.

‘Who’s asking?’ Gil responded in the same tone.

‘I am,’ said the other unhelpfully. The light bobbed forward as if its bearer had taken a couple of steps. ‘Are you Tam?’

‘What do you want wi Tam?’ Gil countered.

‘I think you ken what. You’ve got something for me, something that belongs to Holy Kirk.’

‘And if I have?’ Persuade him closer, so that Andro can cut him off. Bring him down onto the strand. ‘Where’s the other fellow?’

‘He’ll no be coming. As you well know. Come on, where’s my money?’

‘Yours? I thocht you said it belonged to Holy Kirk.’ Sweet St Giles, Gil thought, we missed a trick here, we should have had a purse ready to tempt him wi. He reached for his own purse, and hefted it so that the contents clinked and scraped together. ‘It’s here. Come and get it, then.’

The light advanced another few steps, and halted. Watching tensely, Gil saw a shadow move behind it, and then another.

‘Come to the fire,’ he invited, ‘and get your due.’

‘Bring it to me.’

‘It’s you that wants it,’ Gil returned, ‘no me. It’s here if you’ll come for it.’ He clinked his purse again.

After a long moment, the light moved forward. Boots crumped on the sand and pebbles of the shore. Gil rose to his feet.

‘Now!’ he shouted, and the night was full of running men and shouting. A tussle developed, people were swearing, but the dark shape Gil had his eyes on dropped its lantern, and moved to pass him with quick crunching steps, making for the bridge. He launched himself full length, and found he was rolling on the sand with an opponent who, though he was a handy fighter, lacked Gil’s advantages. Street-fighting in Paris was a hard school, but an effective one. He dodged an attempt to claw at his ear, got one hand under the other man’s jaw, used his knee efficiently, came out on top and trapped a flailing arm under his thigh.

‘Light here,’ he called, getting a grip on the throat. ‘Lights, and a rope!’

‘Have ye got him?’ It was Andro. ‘Oh, well done, maister. They eejits were fighting theirsels. I’ve got his arm, you can let go now, let him up. Lachie! Get ower here, man!’

The gasping quarry was hauled to his feet and held firm, crowing for breath, while Andro bound his arms to his sides. Gil lifted the lantern, and held it up to see the man’s face.

‘Good e’en to you, William,’ he said. ‘You’re out ower late, for one that’s to rise and sing Matins and Lauds.’

‘I deny that absolutely,’ said William Craigie.

‘You expect us to believe you?’ said Otterburn, peering at him gloomily across his desk in the candlelight.

‘Killing a man in the High Kirk? Hiding his body so he canny have absolution? What kind of priest do you think I am?’

‘One that would steal from Holy Kirk,’ Gil said.

‘That’s different,’ said Craigie implausibly. ‘I was about St Mungo’s that afternoon, I grant you that, but I never saw Barnabas till after he was dead.’

‘Where were you?’ Gil asked.

‘I was in our hall, the songmen’s hall, for a time. Then that daft Robert cam to say Dame Ellen was seeking me,’ Craigie swallowed, ‘and when she’d done I went back to the hall, for I’d a notion to con some of the music for the next day. I tellt you that at the time, Gil. There was one or two folks in and out,’ he recalled hopefully, ‘Sim and Dod Arthur for one.’

‘So who was Barnabas seeking?’ Gil asked. ‘He went off wi a sack-tie saying I see it now, what did he see? What had it told him?’

‘How the Deil should I ken? I wasny the man’s keeper! Though I failed him in that,’ the prisoner added, his voice dropping. Gil studied his bent head.

‘And what about Peg Simpson? You deny that you put a cord about her neck?’

‘The lassie at the Cross? Was that her name?’ Craigie muttered a swift prayer in his rich bass. ‘No, Gil, I wasny about that night. I was at the cards in the hall till midnight, then I gaed to my bed. Dod Arthur was there, and John Ross, and we convoyed one another home.’

Gil made a note of the names, and flicked open a different leaf of his tablets.

‘What’s your claim to a property called Hallrig? By Tarbolton, I think.’

‘Hallrig?’ Craigie stared at him. ‘None whatever.’

‘And yet I’m tellt you’ve been going the rounds o men o law in Ayrshire, looking for one to take on your claim for it. Convenient, certainly, for you to own the property, what wi the quarry.’

‘I have not!’ said Craigie incredulously. ‘I’ve never- I haveny been into Ayrshire in the past year! No, no, it belongs to the Gibbs, it left the Craigies forty year since. And who goes to law over one property? It would cost more than the plot’s worth by the time the bill cam in.’

‘Why did you tell me you were no kin o Annie Gibb?’

The prisoner attempted to shrug, despite his bonds.

‘It was easier than trying to explain.’

‘Ach!’ said Otterburn. ‘I haveny patience for this. Take him away, Andro, and the Archbishop can question him in the morning. And the Dean,’ he added.

Gil thought the departing Craigie flinched at this.

‘Well, Cunningham,’ continued the Provost as the door banged shut behind prisoner and escort. ‘What d’you make o that? I’d say you could accompany the King’s Grace to the Isles again wi a light heart.’

‘I’m less certain. Craigie’s lied to me, more than once, but he was quite determined the now he was innocent o the verger’s death.’

‘Well, we’ll get more out him in the morning when the fire’s hot for the pilliwinks. I’m for my bed. It’s been a long day. I hope I’ll see you betimes, maister, there’s the quest on Dame Ellen and the verger and I’ll need your evidence, even wi a signed confession for the woman. I’m no risking another sic verdict as I had for the hoor.’

‘No, I agree,’ said Alys, curling warm and relaxed into the crook of Gil’s arm. ‘It sounds as if there is at least some doubt.’

He rubbed his cheek on the crown of her head, and stretched out his legs between the rumpled linen sheets. It was extraordinarily good to have some time alone with his wife, and she seemed to feel the same, to judge by the way she had responded when he had slipped into bed beside her.

‘It would be very tidy,’ he said regretfully, ‘but while he denies it so firmly we must at least consider if there is another solution.’

‘Who stood to benefit from the verger’s death?’ She was twirling her fingers in the hairs on his chest. ‘We assumed his partner in the thefts had killed him to prevent some accusation being made. Could the man have set off to accuse someone else, who then killed him? Or could someone have killed him to protect Craigie?’

‘Craigie lacks powerful friends,’ said Gil. ‘That’s half his trouble.’

‘And the girl at the Cross.’ Her hand stilled, flat against his breastbone. ‘Whoever did that to her thought he was killing Annie Gibb. Who would have benefited from Annie’s death? What happens to her property at her death?’

‘Likely it would have reverted to the various families,’ said Gil, ‘with fat pickings for any men of law who get involved. It’s always a problem when there’s no will.’

‘What about the property with the quarry? Was that hers outright, or was it a life interest?’

‘A life interest, I think, and then I suspect reverts to her father’s family.’ Gil was trying to recall the documents he had seen. ‘Why does one never take enough notes the first time?’

‘So the Shaws would not get it. But they would get back all the lands she had from her marriage, I suppose, since there are no — no children. Could Sir Edward have ordered her killed? His daughters would benefit.’

‘He seems truly fond of her,’ said Gil. ‘Besides, why go to this trouble and expense, not to mention the pain of the journey, when he could have ordered her killed in his own house and concealed the whole matter?’

‘Lockhart?’

‘He wasn’t out of the hostel. That’s the other thing. If whoever throttled Peg was connected with Annie’s family, he must have come out of the hostel, and the doctor told us he made certain the men were all asleep.’

‘And it was hardly Doctor Januar who did that,’ she said slowly, ‘since he knew well the girl was dead already. And then there is the door to consider. The door that went three times. Why three? Did two leave together and come back separately, or what?’

‘Ah, no,’ he said. ‘The door has been greased. It shuts quietly now. The hostel servants know nothing about it, it’s none of their doing. I suspect it was greased between the time the doctor left the hostel and the time he returned. It smells like mutton fat, and Bessie said they had mutton that night, and not since.’

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘So anyone could have gone out and back again, at any time in the night after that, except that they were all asleep in the men’s hall, and Dame Ellen was adamant nobody stirred out of the women’s hall. What a conundrum it is. Could it have been someone else entirely? Annie’s father’s kindred?’

‘Which is wide, by what I recall.’ Gil grimaced into the darkness of their curtained bed. ‘We need to ask more questions in the morning. I must get out to the hostel betimes, before the quest.’

‘I will come with you.’ She curled closer, and he rolled over to embrace her again, relishing the silky feel of her skin against his. All of plesur she is wrout, he thought. Her hand stirred across his chest, and halted again. ‘Gil,’ she began, and stopped.

‘What is it?’ he asked after a moment.

‘Yesterday,’ she said in a small voice, and then, ‘I should not tell you.’

‘Is it about Ealasaidh?’ he prompted, after another moment. She drew a tiny breath. ‘Jennet told me what she heard.’

‘You know.’

‘I know.’ He drew her into a tight clasp. ‘I’m here, sweetheart. We are together. We can weather this.’

She buried her face in his shoulder, and he felt her tears hot on his skin.

‘I know,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘But oh, it is hard.’

The Castle courtyard was thronged and noisy with the Archbishop’s servants, making preparations for the arrival of King and court. The morning was sunny, with a brisk wind which added to the movement of the scene, snatching at plaids and gowns, sending litter whirling in corners. Otterburn, glumly surveying the bustle from the steps of his lodging, nodded to Gil as he approached, and raised his red felt hat to Alys.

‘Good day, mistress. I hear we’ve you to thank for finding the missing heiress.’ Alys curtsied acknowledgement of this. ‘I should take you on the strength, you’re worth any four o Andro’s lot. All I need now is to learn who killed the verger, and we’re done.’

‘What time is the quest?’ Gil asked. ‘Have I time to question the Muirs, and maybe Craigie and all?’

‘My lord’s dealing wi Craigie right now.’ Otterburn glanced at the sky. ‘It’s called for after Sext, you’ve an hour or two. I’ll ask you to go down to the cells, it’s ower busy above stairs here.’

Austin Muir was in a poor state for questioning. Dragged out of his cell with his chains clanking, he fell to his knees in the passageway saying,

‘Did he lift the curse, Maister Cunningham? Will you tell him to lift the curse? I’m no wanting snuffed out like the candle!’

‘If you confessed,’ said Gil, and took a step back as the manacled hands snatched at his gown. ‘As the Archbishop said last night, if you’ve confessed and repented, you’ll no be snuffed out, though you may hang for what you did.’

‘I had to do it!’ The man was snivelling. ‘She kept on at Henry, I’ll no let her flyte at Henry like that, I had to stop her.’

‘What was she on at Henry about? What was she saying to him?’

‘All sorts, she was saying, and none o it true. About he killed the lassie from the tavern and put her at the Cross, and where had he put Annie Gibb, and the like. None o it true, we was never near the Cross in the night. You’ll no let them snuff me out, maister, surely?’ The hands came up again, imploringly.

‘D’you want him taken into the light, Maister Cunningham?’ asked Andro, hauling the reluctant Austin to his feet. ‘There’s more light in the guardroom, and a table forbye. Come on, you. Gie’s a hand, Richie, he’s no for moving.’

More light did not improve the prisoner’s appearance. He had a black eye and a badly grazed jaw, and his velvet gown had suffered in the struggle to arrest him as well as in the cell overnight, with loops of braid hanging loose between the greenish patches of slime from the damp stonework. He crouched between the two men-at-arms, shivering, and said pleadingly,

‘I’m no wanting to be accursit, nor any o those things. You’ll tell them, maister, won’t you?’

‘The Archbishop said you confessed, Austin,’ said Gil. ‘Have you repented o what you did? Can you tell me what you ken about Dame Ellen?’

‘Dame Ellen! She was a wicked woman,’ said Austin. ‘She’d promised us all sorts, and land and money forbye, if we did her bidding, and none of it cam about. She cheated us, and then she called Henry sic names as there was no standing for it.’

‘What were you to do for her?’ Gil asked. Austin shook his head.

‘I canny mind. All sorts. We’d to take letters for her all across Ayrshire, to men o law, and ride in her escort when she cam to Glasgow, and make up to Annie Gibb. I didny like doing that, she wasny nice in her ways.’

‘Was that all you had to do?’ Gil asked, ignoring Andro’s snort of amusement.

‘She had us call at the hostel every day while she was there.’ The prisoner began rocking back and forward. ‘And then she’d more for us to do. She wanted us to go and see Annie Gibb in the night when she was tied up at the Cross, I’m right glad we never did that, we’d ha found the man that strangled her, maybe he’d ha strangled me. Or Henry. I was feart to go near it. Henry tellt her what was what about that, but she threatened him we’d never get the land nor the money.’ The rocking intensified. ‘And now see what’s come o’t all, we’ve neither land nor money nor Annie Gibb and I’m to be curst like a jackdaw.’

‘Austin,’ said Gil. He hunkered down, to look into the man’s face. ‘Is that all you did for her? You killed nobody for her?’

‘Killed? No.’ Tears were dripping onto the ruined gown. ‘Who would we kill for her? Mind, she asked us to, she wanted Annie Gibb slain, seeing we wouldny wed her, so her lands would all go back to the family they cam from, but Henry tellt her no, we wereny getting caught up in sic a thing.’ Austin’s manacled hands came forward again in appeal, reaching for Gil’s arm. ‘Maister, will you tell him to lift the curse? I’m no wanting to be snuffed out like yon candle.’

‘Has he seen a priest the day?’ Gil asked Andro.

‘No yet. There’s been no word about what to do wi him.’

‘He might make better sense if he was confessed again.’ Gil disengaged himself and straightened up, looking down at the rocking prisoner. ‘Take him away. I’ll speak to my lord about a priest for him.’

Henry Muir was even less helpful. Rather more resilient than his brother, he was resentful rather than tearful, but it seemed to Gil he was frightened too. As well he might be; he faced death or imprisonment for his part in two killings, and a heavy penance from the church. He was disinclined to answer questions, nevertheless, even those relating to his signed confession.

‘I can see you were protecting your brother,’ Gil said at length, ‘and he was protecting you. But you could help me now, at no cost to yoursel, and maybe do yoursel some good as well.’

Henry gave him a sour look, and shrugged one shoulder so that his chains clattered.

‘Will I get the pilliwinks heated?’ suggested Andro hopefully. ‘Or the boot, maybe?’

‘What’s this about taking letters across Ayrshire for Dame Ellen?’ Gil asked, ignoring this. ‘D’you ken what she wrote in them?’

‘No.’

Well, that was an answer of sorts.

‘When did she ask you to kill Annie Gibb?’

Another sour look, but no answer.

‘Put him back,’ said Gil in resignation. ‘The Provost can deal wi him later.’

In the outer courtyard of the castle, matters were being set up for the quest on Dame Ellen Shaw and Barnabas the verger. A table had been carried out to the foot of the steps from the main hall, and Otterburn’s great chair set behind it, with a stool for Walter the clerk at one end. Walter himself was already standing by, clasping the worn red velvet Gospel book and directing matters crisply while the wind snatched at his long gown. The area for the members of the assize had been roped off. People were gathering, standing by in gossiping knots; Maistre Pierre was in discussion with Andrew Hamilton the joiner, other neighbours were present. The two central actors in the proceedings lay on trestles under a wildly flapping striped awning, and to Gil’s surprise he saw Alys there, with the boy Berthold at her side.

As he looked, Alys raised the linen cloth from the battered countenance of Dame Ellen. Washed clean of blood the woman’s face was, he knew, a less fearsome sight than it had been by candlelight in the chapel where she died, but both of them flinched from the sight. Alys gathered her resolve and looked again, and spoke coaxingly to the boy. After a moment, perhaps not to be outdone by a young woman, he also looked, visibly forcing himself to gaze steadily at the ravaged countenance. Then he glanced at Alys, apparently surprised, and said something, with complicated gestures.

Elbowing his way through the crowd, Gil reached them just as Alys laid the linen sheet down, pulling it straight, tucking the edges under so that the wind would not catch it. The boy ducked away from him, but she looked up with a troubled expression.

‘Berthold has just said he has seen Dame Ellen, arguing with someone,’ she said. ‘Tell Maister Gil, Berthold.’

Berthold swallowed, opened and shut his mouth a couple of times, and shook his head helplessly.

‘Meister Peter?’ he said, craning to look about him. ‘Lucas? Ich kann nicht-’

Alys patted his arm in reassurance.

‘Try, Berthold. Try to say it in Scots.’

‘Come over here.’ Gil drew them both away from the two bodies, into a relatively quiet corner.

With encouragement, Berthold succeeded in explaining that he had indeed seen the woman before. He was certain it was her; he tapped his own front teeth, and gestured at the corpse under its flapping shelter.

‘When did you see her?’ Gil asked, thinking hard. The boy had been kept at home since the same day that Peg had been found at the Cross; it must have been the day before, the day the Glenbuck party had arrived in Glasgow.

‘After,’ said Berthold, and mimed eating something in his hand. ‘After food.’ Gil nodded. ‘In, in kirkyard. She spoke. Verärget.’

‘Argued?’ guessed Gil. Berthold nodded in his turn.

‘Sie stritt mit ihn.’

‘Who did she argue with?’ Alys asked.

‘A man, a man of the kirk.’

‘A priest?’ Gil conjectured.

‘Nein, nein.’ Berthold patted his skinny chest, below his left collarbone, then drew an oval shape like a badge there.

‘One of the vergers.’ Alys looked up at Gil.

‘What did they quarrel about?’ Gil asked, but that was more than the boy could answer; he shrugged, grinned beseechingly, spread his hands. ‘Then what?’

The man had dropped something, and the woman had picked it up. ‘Schnell, schnell,’ said Berthold, miming someone pouncing on the item. They had argued more. Berthold wound an invisible cord about his hand; the woman had insisted on keeping it, and sent the man away.

‘Where did he go?’ Gil asked.

‘In kirk,’ said Berthold.

‘And the woman?’

She had seen Berthold watching, and threatened him, so he had run away, back to the masons’ lodge.

‘A cord,’ said Gil. ‘Berthold, come here.’

He led the reluctant boy back to the two corpses, and uncovered Barnabas’ face. It had smoothed out, and was by far more recognisable than it had been immediately after he had been dragged out of the well. Berthold considered it for a few moments, then looked at Gil and nodded.

‘Es war dieser Mann. This man.’

‘I must say,’ said Otterburn, ‘I could ha done wi hearing this an hour or two sooner. You say the woman had words wi the man that’s dead. What about?’

‘I wonder if she knew of Craigie’s thefts. She was trying to support his money-gathering, I suppose she was aware of his penance. She was certainly writing to men of law in Ayrshire, I suspect with a view to claiming property on his behalf, and without his knowledge. I need to question him, once Blacader is finished wi him. So yes, she might have tried to instruct Barnabas about the matter, which he would not have taken well.’

‘And then she lifted a cord and kept it. Is that the cord she strangled him wi? Why would she strangle him, any road?’

‘No, I think she used that cord on Peg Simpson. Barnabas was strangled wi the cord he had in his hand when he went off from the Almoner’s store.’

‘On Peg Simpson. You’ve still no explained why, either o them.’

‘I think,’ said Gil carefully, ‘she had just realised that her schemes for Annie’s marriage were coming to naught. So she slipped out in the night, greasing the hostel door hinges so that she could return in silence, and strangled the girl at the Cross. She was very insistent that nobody had left the women’s hall, but she was our only witness for that. I suppose she could have made certain they all slept soundly, just as the doctor did in the other hall.’

‘Aye,’ said Otterburn, not particularly encouraging.

‘I think Barnabas either recognised her part in what happened to Peg, or suspected Craigie of involvement as we originally thought. It was his misfortune to meet Dame Ellen rather than Craigie, whether it was in the Lower Kirk or out in the kirkyard as the Dean would prefer to believe.’

‘She was a big strong woman,’ said Otterburn thoughtfully.

‘And she had done it before,’ said Gil. ‘Sir Edward died peacefully, a couple of hours back, but he made a deposition in his last hour, witnessed by Sir Simon and myself.’ He drew the folded paper from his purse. ‘It’s interesting reading.’

Otterburn shot him a wary look, but took the paper and unfolded it.

‘All circumstantial,’ he said after a moment.

‘But it all points in the same direction,’ Gil observed. ‘She had tried to strangle her brother with a cord when they were children, and he was never satisfied that her first two husbands hanged themselves. That detail of the bruising on the first fellow’s neck is very convincing.’

‘Aye, but that was twenty year or more ago. No way to tell now.’ Otterburn laid the document flat and smoothed it onto his desk. ‘Does it satisfy you?’

‘I think it fits better than accusing Will Craigie,’ Gil admitted. ‘He’s still swearing he did not kill Barnabas, and I’m inclined to think it’s the truth.’

‘Aye,’ said Otterburn again. ‘It would be tidy, I’ll admit. It’s no like you to go for the tidy solution.’

‘I’m none so sure it is tidy,’ Gil said. ‘We still don’t know just why Barnabas died, or why Peg Simpson was throttled, though we can guess, and it’s still no clear whether Habbie Sim was involved or no. In some ways it would be neater if we could blame Craigie, but he swears innocence o both those crimes.’

Otterburn folded the paper and handed it back to Gil.

‘Well, we’ll put it to the assize, though what they’ll make of it Deil alone kens. And now I’d best make a start on this quest, afore my lord sends out to know what we’re up to.’

‘So that abominable laddie,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘had the answer to your questions the whole time?’

‘Not all of them,’ said Gil.

The day had been longer than he liked. The assize had accepted his evidence and brought in the verdicts Otterburn required of them, but its aftermath had included a long and difficult interview with Robert Blacader and a very painful one with John Lockhart. The Archbishop had been rather less surprised than Lockhart to learn that Dame Ellen had been malefactor as well as victim, but saddened to realise that she had died without being confessed and absolved of her crimes, particularly those against Holy Kirk.

‘A lesson to us all, Gilbert,’ he said in his rich Latin. ‘Death can strike at any time, and without warning. That unhappy woman has died in the midst of her villainy, with no opportunity for repentance or amendment of life. I hope our two songmen, Craigie and Sim, will learn from her example and make full confession and restitution for their sins.’

Lockhart had been more realistic about the consequences.

‘It falls to me, I suppose,’ he said in harassed tones, ‘as good-son, to order all, Sir Edward’s burial and Dame Ellen’s, and executing his will, and dealing wi her property, and I’ll have the first hairst, the wheat field, to get in as soon as we’re back in Lanarkshire. As for what to do wi these daft lassies, I’m at my wits’ end. Annie will wed her doctor and be off my hands, and I’m glad of it, for she’s by far less biddable than she was, but the other two, well! My wife will take them under her eye, but I’ve to get them to her first.’

‘Maybe Mistress Forrest would mind them the now,’ Gil suggested. ‘She seems a capable woman.’

‘Aye, maybe,’ said Lockhart dubiously, and then with more enthusiasm, ‘Aye, you could be right. A good thought, maister. And meantime I can get a word wi Sir Simon about getting Sir Edward in the ground, and who I should ask about whether Dame Ellen’s fit to put in a kirkyard, or if she’s to go out at a crossroads somewhere. I canny believe it o her, she was aye a steering argumentative woman, but you never think o sic wickedness in someone that’s kin, even by marriage. I don’t know, if I’d seen what would come o’t I’d never ha got involved in this whole enterprise.’ He rose to leave Otterburn’s office, where Gil had taken him to explain his findings, and offered his hand. On the doorstep he turned back. ‘At least Sir Edward’s got his release now, and dee’d at peace, sic a grace as that was.’

Maistre Pierre had appeared at the back door after dinner, apparently in the hope of picking over the outcome of the case, so now they were once more in the comfortable little solar, with its windows firmly shuttered against the insistent wind, and Lowrie was handing wine. Catherine accepted her glass from him and remarked,

‘The boy knew a great deal more than anyone realised, I think, including himself.’

‘He’s confirmed the time of Peg Simpson’s death,’ Gil agreed, ‘which I could ha done with knowing earlier, as well as this tale of the argument in the kirkyard.’

‘But what did he fear?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘What kept him silent?’

‘I think,’ said Alys, ‘so far as Luke and I can understand him, he had hidden from the battle at the Cross, by going up the Stablegreen beyond St Nicholas’. He saw the Muirs, and described them well, going up the street and down again.’

‘To call on Dame Ellen at the hostel?’ interrupted her father.

‘We think so,’ agreed Gil.

‘When they returned,’ Alys continued, ‘there was a woman with them, arguing, who must have been Peg Simpson. They passed him, and he didn’t see what happened. But when the battle ended and all turned for home, he set off down the Stablegreen, and found the woman lying dead in the street.’ She grimaced. ‘He seems to have decided that some of the other prentices must have killed her, rather than the Muirs. That was what frightened him.’

‘What, that they might come after him if he told anyone?’ Lowrie said in surprise. ‘He’s no very sharp, is he?’

‘No,’ said Maistre Pierre with feeling.

‘He is barely fourteen, and without friends in a strange country,’ said Alys.

‘I suppose. But when did he see these other two arguing in the kirkyard?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘Some time when he should have been working, most likely.’

‘That was in the afternoon of that same day,’ Gil said. ‘Dame Ellen must have been newly arrived in Glasgow.’

‘Then how did she know the man?’ Alys wondered. ‘What did they argue about?’

‘I know!’ said Lowrie. ‘Barnabas kept saying he tellt the woman that he wouldny have an eye to what happened at the Cross. You mind? When we were called to the dead woman?’

‘So he did,’’ recalled Gil. ‘I took it he was talking about Annie herself, but it must ha been Dame Ellen. Likely she accosted him, asked him to watch, and got an earful.’

‘Oh, yes!’ said Lowrie. ‘He’d never have obliged anyone like that. More than my place is worth,’ he quoted, and grimaced.

‘And then he dropped the cord and she insisted on keeping it.’ Alys was nodding. ‘It fits better, Gil. It explains why he went looking for her, and why she killed him.’ She made a face. ‘You know, when I spoke of crows, I did not expect Berthold to be the fourth crow. The one who was not there at all.’

Gil turned his head as two figures passed the window. The house door opened and closed, and there was a scratching at the chamber door.

‘Maister Gil?’ It was Euan. ‘There’s a chiel here for you from Canon Muir’s house, he was getting a crack with us in the kitchen and now he is wishing to get a word wi you. I tellt him you were busy and private,’ he went on importantly, ‘but he’ll not listen. Will I be sending him away?’

‘No, you will not,’ said Gil, on a reflex. ‘I’ll come out. Who is it?’

It was the man Nory, neat in his dark blue garments, with his bundle at his feet, and he had come to take service with Gil.

‘You’ve put an end to my service wi the Muirs, maister,’ he said reasonably, ‘and it was very clear to me when I seen you afore that you’ve need o a man to see to your garments. So I’ve heard about your household, and here I am, and I’ll ha the same as you pay this fellow,’ he nodded at Euan, still listening suspiciously from across the hall, ‘and my keep, and a new suit o clothes at New Year.’

‘Will you now?’ said Gil, looking at him in amazement.

‘That seems like a good idea,’ said Alys, tucking her hand through Gil’s arm. ‘What else will you do? The garden? Sweeping the house?’

‘A garden?’ Nory brightened. ‘I’ll lend a hand to the garden, mistress, and gladly. And I can work in sugar-plate, make saints and subtleties for the table, if you’re so inclined. And I suppose,’ he conceded, ‘I can take on the household tasks the women canny manage. But my main duties would be looking after your man’s clothes and himself as well.’

‘It’s a very different household from your last one,’ Gil warned him. Nory nodded.

‘Be a pleasant change.’

‘Well!’ said Maistre Pierre, when they reported this, returning to the solar. ‘Your household increases daily, Gilbert. You will be Provost yourself before you know it.’

‘Sweet St Giles, I hope not!’ said Gil.