The King's Corrodian

Chapter Ten

‘No, I agree,’ said Alys. ‘That man could hardly kill twice, and nearly a third time, and not show it. But could he have done it otherwise? What reason could he have?’

‘Plenty for Wilson,’ said Gil, ‘to judge by what I saw yesterday. Sweet St Giles, was it only yesterday? Less for White — they are reputed to have got on well, but I suppose encountering him after killing Wilson, he might have stabbed him to prevent him talking of it. In which he is successful so far,’ he added. ‘White is still in his swound, though I suspect Brother Euan is keeping him that way.’

‘And the boy Rattray?’ Alys bent to throw another log on the fire. It spat and sparked as the flames licked at the bark.

‘Raitts had as much opportunity as any in the place,’ said Gil slowly, thinking about it, ‘but I cannot tell that he had any reason, any more than he had reason to kill the other novices.’

‘He had more reason to kill the one named Simpson,’ Alys observed wryly, ‘if he misused a book. I suppose he might be protecting whatever secret Pollock had discovered about him, if any of the others had learned it. He did say Wilson was talking about him in the town?’

‘Aye, though he said he was talking about him, not asking questions about him. And I suppose either of the others could have learned something by accident.’

‘What other reason could there be for killing the two who are dead?’

‘You don’t think Pollock was killed?’

‘Not deliberately, no. And not by the same person, I am certain. I should have more to tell you later.’ She glanced at the light through the high windows. ‘I hope Tam comes back soon. What do Rattray and Wilson have in common?’

‘Little, I’d have said.’ Gil considered the two. ‘They’re an essay in contrasts, indeed. The novice a promising man, a good scholar, ardent, devout. Wilson not one of the world’s learned, known to be peculating in the matter of the rents, not greatly devout. What did the other boy say of Wilson?’

‘He was careful to say nothing,’ said Alys, ‘though he was less clever than Father Henry about concealing the fact.’

‘We can assume he at least knew about the rents,’ agreed Gil.

‘Why was the man in the library?’ Alys wondered. ‘Was he looking for something, or meeting someone — the person who killed him, perhaps — or hiding from someone?’

‘No sign that he tried to run, by what they described who found him,’ Gil said. ‘That’s a good point. Why was he there? I suppose, with the rule of silence at the moment, any wanting to have a conversation would need to use secrecy.’

‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘so it must have been someone he had no reason to fear. I should not think he would meet secretly with the librarian. How would you persuade such a man to meet with you in private?’

‘Ask for pastoral advice?’ Gil suggested.

‘Yes, that would work. He would have been flattered, I suppose. But who? Nobody else admitted to being out of his place.’

‘Nobody we’ve not accounted for, and I’d checked with Brother Euan that none of his helpers vanished for any length of time.’ Gil sighed. ‘The trouble is, because he has Raitts locked up, Boyd sees no purpose now in my questioning the rest. He has sent to the Provost, to say there has been a death and the man responsible is taken, and also to the Bishop, and refuses to lift the injunction of silence. I suppose I can still speak to the servants, the outdoor men, the folk in the infirmary, who are not enjoined, but not the others.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Now I’ve warmed up?’ He looked about him. ‘Take the dog for a walk, outside this place, and think. Will you come with me?’

‘No,’ she said regretfully, ‘for if Tam has been successful I have something to do.’

Bundled in his plaid over the leather doublet, his hands encased in thick woollen mittens, Gil strode briskly along the banks of the Town Ditch, nodding to the occasional passer-by, with Socrates loping happily around him. There seemed to be interesting smells and trails everywhere, to judge by the way the dog’s long nose twitched and snuffled near the ground. At least one of us has something to follow, Gil thought, and glanced to his right where the Blackfriars’ easternmost outbuildings sat behind their wall. What was going on in that place? Who had killed two men, injured a third, for no reason he could make out? Raitts made an unconvincing villain, though his protestations of innocence were not wholly convincing either. What was he up to, Gil wondered, wandering about the place in the dark, hiding in the library from strange women.

No, the answer had to lie somewhere with what linked the three dead or injured. All were Dominicans, though one was a senior man, one an ordinary friar, one a novice. That was hardly the answer; it did not single them out in their community, and failing the work of the Devil their attacker must be a member of the same community. Two were able scholars, the third must be a cunning man if he had practised the deceit over the rents for any length of time. White was a priest, he did not know about Wilson, and he could probably assume the young man Rattray was not yet priested. In most ways he could think of, the three men were different rather than similar. So what linked them?

He paused, looking about him. The path he had followed along the bank was about to join the muddy network of tracks and roadways through the next patch of suburban building, clustered about the northwest port of the burgh. Several dogs of mixed size and type were surveying Socrates warily from a gap in a fence, and a handful of hens scurried for cover in the damp bushes. He whistled to Socrates and turned back, passing a man with a stout kist on his shoulder, a smell of new wood drifting after him. Probably delivering it somewhere, Gil thought.

Working his way back along the Ditch, he reviewed what he knew of the three men, trying to call each to mind, though the image of Rattray as an eager, ardent young man sat badly with the thought of his smoke-blackened, contorted remains. Put them together, he thought, and how do they act? In his mind’s eye the three drew together into a group, heads bent, manner quiet and decorous. Father Henry appeared to be praying aloud, the other two paying close attention, their beads in their hands.

Then the image of Rattray turned and looked straight at Gil. He could see the bright red curls about the boy’s brow, the earnest pale face, the freckles across the cheekbones. Blue eyes met his, and the lips moved.

‘I took him for my brother,’ the young man said, his voice hoarse and intense. ‘Get him. Mak him confess.’

‘I’ll get him,’ he answered aloud. ‘Trouthe the shal delivere, hit is no drede.’

‘Mak him confess,’ said the hoarse voice again as the image in his head was dispelled.

‘Maister?’ said another voice entirely. ‘What are you at?’

He looked about him, blinking, and found he was standing at the very edge of the Ditch, with Tam at his elbow and Socrates at his knee both staring anxiously at him. Rapid red-brown water, thick as lentil broth, gurgled coldly a few inches from the toes of his boots. He stepped back in some alarm.

‘A wee bit close,’ said Tam. ‘Lucky I seen you, maister. What were you about, so near the edge?’

‘I–I was thinking,’ said Gil. ‘Wasny looking where I was going. Thanks, man!’

‘Aye, well.’ Tam cast a look at the Ditch. ‘You couldny rely on the dog to haul you out o that.’ He turned to walk along with Gil. ‘I’m glad I found you, but.’

He fell silent. Gil looked along his shoulder at the man. He had known him for years; Tam was not a lot older than Gil, had run at his stirrup in the hunting grounds of Lanarkshire, and it was clear now that his henchman wanted to ask something.

‘Out wi’t,’ he said. ‘What is it troubles you?’

‘No troubles, maybe,’ said Tam awkwardly. ‘No troubles so much as — aye, well, I’m troubled. See, I ken the mistress mentioned this lassie to you.’

‘Lassie?’ Gil searched his memory, and then recalled Alys’s tale of yesterday’s encounter. ‘You mean the young man’s sister?’

‘Aye.’ Tam stared hard at a flock of chaffinches squabbling under a bush, until Socrates loped over to investigate and the little birds flew up. ‘See, I’d to take back the lantern she lent us, the day, and I got talking wi her. She’s — she’s in a right uneasy position, maister, wi her brother deid, and the two bairns to protect, and she’s feart her man catches up wi her.’ He stopped speaking, biting his lips. Gil made an encouraging noise. ‘I was wondering, maister, if you’d maybe ha a word wi her. Advise her, maybe. She’s no certain how the law stands, and nor am I.’

‘You’ve a notion to her,’ Gil said. Tam coloured up under his fair thatch of hair.

‘I have,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve little hope, she’s outside my station in life, but I canny think when I was as taken wi a lassie. She’s valiant, she’s true, she’s stalwart. Her man scarred her face, sic a sight as it is, poor lass, but she doesny hide it. And the wee laddie — did the mistress say he’s blind? His faither did that to him, but he’s a merry wee boy. Minded my voice as soon as he heard it, asked straight off for another story.’

‘What d’you want me to say?’ Gil asked, reflecting that his uncle, whose servant Tam was now, would not be pleased if his groom suddenly left to support a family in Perth, and would be even less pleased if he brought another man’s wife to Glasgow.

‘I’m no right certain,’ said Tam. ‘What is there to say? You’re the man o law, Maister Gil, no me. Could her man insist she brought the bairns home? Can he order her back to him? It’s that kind o thing she’s fretting on.’

‘Aye to both,’ said Gil, ‘if the wee one’s still nursing.’

‘I thought that,’ said Tam grimly. ‘He’ll ding her to death if she goes, and likely the bairns and all. Hah!’ he said, without humour. ‘Yon woman last night wants her man back, will he, nill he, and here’s this lassie hiding from her man. It’s a strange world, this.’

‘Where does she dwell?’ Gil asked. ‘Can you take me there now?’

Despite Alys’s description and Tam’s warning, Gil had difficulty hiding his dismay at the sight of Mistress Rattray’s face. The thought of a man who could do this having charge over the two infants in the room was a chilling one.

‘It’s right kind in you to spare me the time,’ she was saying now. ‘Your man tells me you’re a man o law yourself? I suppose you’ll ha seen sights like this afore.’ She indicated her scars.

‘There’s nobody seen the like o’t,’ said her maidservant unhelpfully. She was seated by the other window with a basket of mending and was putting stitches in a small shirt; she had become quite flustered by Gil’s arrival, and Mistress Rattray had had to deal with the buttered ale herself while Tam introduced Socrates to the little boy, encouraging the child to feel the soft ears and long nose; the dog bore all with patience, dignity and the occasional friendly swipe of a long tongue, which made Drew giggle.

Keeping the pity out of his voice, Gil said honestly, ‘No. No where it showed,’ he qualified, thinking of Bess Stewart’s missing ear.

‘Aye, well,’ she said, pouring buttered ale into cups, ‘he did a bit o that and all.’

‘Have you witnesses,’ he asked, accepting the wooden beaker, ‘who could swear to you having those marks afore you left your husband?’

‘Andrew-’ she began. Tears started to her eyes, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘I canny keep it in mind,’ she said, turning her head away, ‘that he’ll no support me mair.’ She swallowed, and straightened up. ‘Annie would swear to it.’ Annie nodded, looking up from her mending. ‘Those that were ser vants in the house afore I left it might speak for me and all.’

‘Eppie Craigo,’ said the maidservant.

‘Aye, you’re right, Annie. There’s maybe one o my neighbours, sir, Eppie Craigo that’s mairriet on Will Guthrie the apothecary, it was her Annie fetched to me that night once Skene was in his bed. She’d mind that, I think — it was the middle o the night.’

Gil nodded.

‘That might be enough. I’d recommend, mistress, that if he resorts to the law to get you back, you offer to return and walk about Montrose openly telling folk how you got the marks.’

‘Och, no, she couldny do sic a thing!’ exclaimed Annie. ‘And make him the speak o the town? I never heard the like!’

Mistress Rattray flinched, gritted her teeth, nodded reluctantly.

‘But mostly,’ Gil went on, ‘I’d suggest you keep out his sight. Is Perth far enough away, do you think? I take it you cam here because your brother was here?’

‘Aye.’ She looked round the chamber, drew a deep breath and let it out. ‘There’s naught to keep me here now, I suppose. I’ve neither kin nor acquaintance anywhere further afield, though. I’ll need to gie it thought.’ Tam, across the chamber, now playing finger-games with the boy, looked up at that, but did not speak.

‘You were close to your brother, I think,’ Gil said gently. ‘My wife tellt me he would come to you here once a week or so.’

‘Aye. He said he couldny rest without he knew I was safe. I’ve no notion how he got out the place, I’d ha thought it would be all barred and bolted, but he never got caught.’

‘Did his friends ken where he went?’

She shook her head.

‘We reckoned to tell nobody I was here. I go by Margaret Keithick, was my mother’s name, and it’s Annie does the most o the marketing.’ She stopped speaking, gazing at something Gil could not see. In the cradle by her feet the baby snuffled, stirred, found her thumb and fell asleep again. ‘It seems hard,’ she said at length, ‘when I’m in the same town, that I shouldny get to his burial. D’you ken when-?’

‘It’s no arranged yet.’

‘And madam your wife said,’ she went on, recollecting something, ‘that you’re looking into how he — into who — have you discerned anything yet? Who was it killed him?’

‘I’ve no discovered that yet,’ Gil said. ‘It’s certain it was one o the community, for there’s no sign any stranger got in, and there’s been another death and a man injured and all.’

‘Lord ha mercy on us!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is one o the brothers run mad, or something? Are they all taen to quarrelling like dogs? What’s ado, maister?’

‘I wish I knew,’ he said. ‘What can you tell me about the place? What did your brother say about the other men?’

‘Madam your wife asked me the same,’ she said, ‘and I could tell her nothing, but it set me thinking. I mind a wee bit more now.’ Gil made an encouraging noise, and she sat back, gathering her thoughts. ‘He spoke a lot o the fellows he studied wi, Patey and two called Sandy and another. They seemed to be good fellows, aye good-humoured and helping one another con their books. There was what he called second-year men — is that right? — that he got on wi and all, though one named Robert annoyed him a lot, he said he asked daft questions. There was the man that guards the books, whatever his name is, Andrew got across him a time or two, whether he wanted to look at a book he shouldny, or what, I’m no certain. His tutors, he’d a great respect for them, thought the sun rose and set in Faither Henry, and Faither John was near as important. Faither Prior he spoke well o and all.’

‘But?’ said Gil as she slowed down. ‘Did he mention others?’

‘I asked him about that one Wilson,’ said Annie without looking up. ‘Seeing I’d heard o him in the town, how he keeps asking more on the rent than’s due, so I asked the laddie, and he laughed.’ She sounded resentful. ‘It’s no a laughing matter, that.’

‘Och, Annie, he said as much himself,’ said Mistress Rattray. ‘What he said was, he’d heard the same, and one o his fellows better no hear o’t afore the Prior did, for that he reckoned all Dominicans should live perfectly by the Rule. That was what he laughed at, no the cheating on the rents.’

‘Still,’ said Annie. She bit off her thread, shook out the little shirt and folded it. ‘Will I make a start on the dinner, mistress?’

‘Did Andrew speak o any more? Any other names?’ Gil asked, when Annie had stumped out through a door in the far corner. Tam and the little boy were now playing with the ball that jingled. Mistress Rattray looked at them and smiled wearily.

‘The factor, what’s his name, Paterson? Patonson? One like that — he was assisting him a while afore Yule, found him honest enough but easy confused wi reckoning coin, was what he said.’ She grimaced. ‘I said, he wasny put in there to pass judgement on his fellows, and he said, no, but when the judgement was thrust at him he couldny help it. That’s about all I mind, maister. I hope it’s some help.’ She scrubbed at her eyes with the cuff of her kirtle. ‘I still canny take it in, that I’ll never see him mair.’

The fire in the guest hall was burning low. Gil kicked the logs, sending out sparks which flew up the broad chimney, and threw some more wood on. There seemed to be nobody about, so he sat down to wait for dinner, Socrates leaning against his knee.

On leaving Mistress Rattray’s house, he had gone into Perth, to spend a fruitless hour before the statue of St Giles in St John’s Kirk, turning over the two puzzles in his mind and coming to no sort of conclusion about either, other than to strengthen his conviction that the Prior was holding the wrong man. Whatever Alexander Raitts had been doing skulking about the cloister in the dark, it was not meeting Thomas Wilson in secret, nor knifing Henry White in an accidental encounter.

And where was the knife? It was an ordinary kitchen knife, with no sheath, no belt, no means of securing it to one’s person; whoever used it must carry it in his hand, perhaps hiding it in his sleeve until he came to use it. When not using it, he must presumably conceal it somewhere, but Brother Dickon and his men had searched the place, even to the point of looking behind the books in the library. So where was it hidden?

Out across the chilly great hall, the door to the yard opened. Socrates scrambled to his feet and Brother Dickon’s voice said, ‘Maister Cunningham?’

‘In here!’ he called, rising. ‘Come and warm yourself.’

‘I’ll no deny that’ll be welcome.’ The lay brother entered the small chamber, paused to return Socrates’ greeting, and drew a stool to the hearth. ‘Thocht I seen you come in,’ he added. ‘Drifting about like a boat wi no rudder.’

‘I’m not certain what to do now,’ admitted Gil. ‘My wife’s about some work she reckons will tell us what happened to the man Pollock. I can do little more there until she completes it, and it seems as if my other task’s done.’

‘Is it, now?’ asked Brother Dickon, without looking at him. The black cat padded in, raised its tail in greeting to Socrates, and jumped onto the lay brother’s lap.

‘You’re no convinced either?’ said Gil after a moment.

‘Convinced? I’m convinced we’ve got the wrong man.’ He turned his head to meet Gil’s gaze. ‘Aye, you and all. Sandy Raitts never killed anyone, no wi a knife any road. I can see him going wood-wild and battering a man’s head in wi a rock or the like, but no a knife.’

‘Was he in the library when you searched it, after Rattray was killed?’

‘He was.’

‘How did he behave?’

‘Better than I expeckit. He tried to chase us out, a course, Jamesie and me, wi our big boots and dirty hands, but when I showed him our hands were clean and minded him we’d a knife to seek, he let us proceed. A knife? In here? he said, and looked right troubled for the idea. Oh, you need to find that! Heaven forfend it’s in my library! he says. Sat there like a hawk on a perch and watched every move we made, especial when Jamesie laid hands on any o the books, but that was all.’

‘And when you finished?’

‘That was the odd thing. I said to him, We’re done, we’ve found no knife, brother, your library’s no been used as a hiding-place, and he crossed himsel and said, Our Lady be thankit. As if he’d really been feart it might be.’

‘I wonder …’ said Gil. Then, as an idea came to him: ‘Who searched the novice dorter? Was it you yoursel?’

‘No. Likely it would be Archie and Dod. Never fear, they’ve searched a house afore this, they’d ken to look under the mattress, feel the pillow, that kind o thing.’

‘Would they look for a hiding-place under the boards o the bed?’ Gil asked. What had the boy said? No, that was all, he had given them no more detail. ‘I ken one at least had something hid there.’

‘Had he, now?’ said Dickon, stroking the cat. ‘Right. I’ll ask Archie. And I suppose we’d best search the brothers’ dorter and all.’

‘It might be wiser,’ Gil concurred. ‘Is there any way you can search without folk noticing? We’d not want to spread alarm.’

‘No, I’m agreed there,’ said Dickon ambiguously. ‘Leave it wi me. And I’ll no be arranging to meet any o the brethren in secret, either.’ He stared into the flames for a space. ‘I might get a word wi the prisoner, but. Ask him what he meant by that. Had he maybe seen something made him suspicious, or the like, made him think there’d been someone in the library.’

‘What, is he still locked away here?’

‘Aye, and two o my lads told off to watch he doesny get out. Seems the Provost’s depute sent to say he’s from home the now, spent Yule at his landward property, can we keep Brother Sandy till he gets back. They’ll no want to pay for feeding and guarding him, likely. And the Bishop rode out early to one o his other properties, though likely he’ll come back when he hears o this. It’s no Father Prior’s best day.’

‘It gives us a bit of time, though. Aye, get a word wi Raitts if you can. I wondered,’ said Gil slowly, ‘whether he did stay in the kirk until Matins. One o the two that were watching over Andrew Rattray agreed he’d seen him, the other didny. Do you mind who they were? Was it Pullar and Simpson, or was that when they changed over?’

‘I can find out, get a word wi them,’ said the lay brother. ‘Though I think it’s no matter. Likely Thomas was already stiffening when we found Faither Henry.’ He jerked his head at the windows. ‘Any word from the infirmary?’

‘I called in there,’ Gil said. ‘No change, in either. One hanging on by a thread, one still asleep. Brother Euan seems confident Father Henry will wake, though he won’t say how clear his head will be when he does.’

‘Aye,’ said Dickon. A small bell began to ring outside, and he gathered himself to rise. ‘I thocht it was about dinnertime. Get away back to your kitchen, cheetie-cat, and catch some more mices. I’ll report, maister, soon’s I learn aught worth the telling.’

Alys came in from the kitchens, Jennet behind her, as he crossed the hall, and he paused to greet her and went out. The women came to join Gil by the fire.

‘I don’t see why they all complain about Brother Augustine,’ Alys observed. ‘I find him most obliging.’

‘I thought you had gone out,’ he said, taking her hands in both of his. ‘You’re cold.’

‘I’ve been making more of the cough mix. Tam isny returned, so I wished to be occupied.’

‘That’s my fault,’ he said guiltily. ‘I kept him back.’

The other men came in as he was explaining, stamping their feet and complaining of the cold, and the kitchen servants appeared to set up the table just as Tam entered.

‘That’ll be fine, mistress,’ he reported to Alys. She nodded, but did not clarify matters to Gil, from which he concluded that he was not to be forgiven yet for causing a delay.

Settled over a hot platter of fresh fish with braised turnips and, inevitably, stewed kale, the men began to report their morning’s work, and Gil recalled that he had had no chance to rescind last night’s instructions. Well, no harm done, he thought. Better than leaving them idle.

Euan got in first. ‘You would be astonished, maister,’ he began, dipping his bread in the sauce, ‘if you was hearing how many different parts the brothers is coming from. Three from Aberdeen, four from Caithness, there is even a man from Galloway that is an Ersche speaker and all, though his accent would strip paint off a door, says Brother Euan. The most o them are coming from the burghs, so he says. Only one or two are off the land, and Faither John that is novice-master is an Edinburgh man himself.’

‘That’s what I’ve heard too,’ Gil admitted.

‘So I was asking what quality of folk they might be,’ Euan swept on, ‘and it seems they are not mostly o baron ial stock like yoursel, maister. Faither Prior is of high degree, indeed, and Faither Henry, and Edward Gilchrist that is the cellarer,’ he counted off the names with the fingers of his free hand, ‘and one other he said. Och, and the one they have locked away for stabbing folk and all, their librarian, he said. I said, was he certain, for it hardly seems a noble thing to be stabbing folk in the dark and in secret, and he said, indeed, you had only to look at the man’s manner to see he was used to servants and a household.’

‘That Brother Augustine, that’s in the kitchen,’ said Jennet, ‘he’s from Dunkeld, like the Bishop, so one o the servants tellt me.’

‘That’s interesting, Euan,’ said Gil. ‘I hadny thought of that. So there’s no that many would ha learned to kill a pig or use a dagger as part o their upbringing.’

‘Och, now, that would be a different matter,’ said Euan airily, helping himself to another portion of the fish. ‘For when they were killing their own pigs last autumn, there was four or five of the brothers stepped forward to the task when Faither Prior required it. And one o the novices is the son o an armourer and is not the only one, so Brother Euan was saying, that kens which end o a dagger is the sharp one.’

‘If they’re out on the road collecting alms,’ offered Dandy, ‘I suppose they’ll ha to drive off robbers now and then.’

‘A staff’s the more usual weapon,’ said Gil. ‘That’s a great help, Euan. Was there much custom for Brother Euan’s ministrations? Were there many visitors to the infirmary?’ he elucidated, at the man’s blank look.

‘Och, indeed there was, and no all o them coming as patients. All the novices happened by one time or another to ask how was their teacher, and half the brothers was there asking for him and for Faither James. He’s at peace, is Faither James, just lying quiet, sinking slow. An easy way to go. Faither Prior sat wi him a good while.’

‘I hope you wereny in Brother Euan’s way,’ said Alys.

‘Och, indeed no, mistress!’ protested Euan. ‘I was a great help to him, so he said, watching over the sick and tending a pannikin he had on the fire and that, and mixing an ointment to him. It was making a nice change, so it was, working wi all that herbs. Maybe I could take to that.’

‘Ah, you’d get them all mixed up, you daft Erscheman,’ said Dandy.

Gil broke up the argument which promised to develop by saying, ‘Did you learn anything, Dandy?’

‘No a great deal the day,’ said the man, reddening. ‘We turned to the horse-harness, seeing we got the ox-graith ready yesterday, and mostly it was tales o the beasts they’d kent, and the days they were under Brother Dickon as men-at-arms to the old King. Jamesie was saying Brother Dickon minded the man Pollock from yon time, and had no good to say o him. Nor did any o them. They said the same as you heard yesterday, Nory, that there was a couple o different folk asking for the man since he dee’d, and one wi a white rose badge on his breast and an orra way o speaking. That’s about it,’ he said deprecatingly.

‘It’s worth something,’ Gil said. ‘You canny catch a fish every time you cast in the river. Thanks, man. Nory? Did you learn aught?’

‘I did,’ said Nory, with quiet pride. ‘I found how their wash is managed, and spoke wi the chiel that deals wi’t. Seems there’s a couple women come in once a fortnight, and it’s all done in the outer yard where the beasts is kept, and this time o year it’s dried in the great barns. So we howkit through the bags o wash, and a savoury task that was, let me tell you, and we found this.’ He leaned down and lifted a bulging scrip which Gil had vaguely noticed when he came into the chamber, and from it produced, like a juggler in the marketplace, a bundle of stained cloth. Shaking it out he revealed a shirt of greyish linen, rusty-brown marks blotting its cuffs and breast.

‘Oh, well done, man!’ said Gil.

‘I’d say,’ Nory commented, ‘he’s stripped to his drawers, as the gowk here said, and put his sark back on after he’s done his work. These marks is more like they came off him, rather than if it caught the fresh spray.’

‘I think you’re right,’ said Gil, considering the stains. ‘Some o those are smears rather than full marks. There wasny a pair o drawers the like?’

‘No, though we looked,’ said Nory, grimacing.

‘May I see it?’ said Alys, and Nory handed it across the table.

‘I wonder that he never thought to burn the sark, with the fire there to hand,’ said Euan.

‘He’d have to account for it if he did,’ Nory pointed out. ‘Why have you no shirt, my son? I burned it in the infirmary, Faither. And why did you do that, my son?’

‘To burn away my sins, Faither,’ offered Dandy, with an assumption of piety.

Across the men’s laughter Gil said, ‘And whose is this sark? When did it come down for the wash?’ And that’s the crux of the matter, he thought.

‘It was in a bag wi the indoor lay brothers’ shirts,’ said Nory, ‘but Barty, that’s the chiel at sees to gathering in the wash, reckons it’s more like one o the novices’, though he canny say which o them.’

‘Is it marked in any way?’

Alys turned the garment before handing it to him, with the inside of the neckband visible.

‘Aye, you’ve found it, mem,’ said Nory. ‘No a lot o help, is it? I’d say he’s picked it out, mysel.’

Taking the bundle of coarse linen, avoiding the stains, Gil turned the neckband to the grey light from the windows. Two or three smudges and tufts of red thread stood in the linen, caught in the weave, where one would expect to find initials or a press number. He knew his own shirts and Lowrie’s, like the rest of the household linen, were carefully numbered and initialled by Alys, and could see that it made sorting the clean linen far easier; it seemed reasonable to assume that the friars used some similar system to identify their linen, but it would be easy enough to check.

‘Can I see it, maister?’ said Dandy. Gil handed him the bundled shirt, and he rose and went to the window. Alys followed him and they bent together, peering closely at the neckband.

‘And when was it put in the sack, do you reckon?’ Gil asked Nory.

‘Now that,’ said Nory regretfully, ‘I couldny well make out, maister. It seems they get the wash done once a fortnight. They change their linen weekly, on a Saturday, to be clean for Sunday, and their beds once a month, but they put the soiled linen in a bag in the dorter, which isny collected till the Monday, and lies in the washhouse waiting till the women comes in, seeing they’ve other washes to do in the week. Likely they do for some o the other friars and all. There’s enough work about here for a whole guild o laundrywomen.’

‘When were they here last?’ Gil asked.

‘They’re due the morn.’

‘So the bag you found this in could ha been lying in the washhouse since last Monday? Ten days?’

‘It could,’ agreed Nory, ‘and Barty reckoned it for one o the ones that cam down last week no this week, though he did say he thought there’d been someone at the heap. So if our man brought this down himsel privily, rather than put it in the bag in his own dorter, he’d ha plenty sacks to choose from to put it into, and it did kinna look like that. It was right at the top, as if he’d just pushed it in the neck o the bag and pulled the cord tight.’

‘And the infirmary burned on Monday night,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘No, he’d not want to put this out in the dorter, have it lying for a week afore the bag was collected, risk someone seeing the stains and commenting. Very good work, Nory.’

Nory accepted this with a prim smile, and Alys said, ‘Gil? We think we can see what this mark is.’

‘It’s no very clear,’ agreed Dandy, ‘but you can see where the needle went in, maister, where the stitches has been. You get the same kinna thing on a bit leather when it’s come unstitched, though this is away finer work, a course. It’s letters right enough.’

‘We think an A and an R,’ said Alys.

‘Oh, Dhia!’ said Euan. ‘So they have locked away the right man indeed, have they? What could that be but Alexander Raitts?’

Alys glanced at him, but did not comment.

‘Andrew Rattray,’ said Gil. ‘Robert Aikman.’

‘What, he was not content with cutting the other fellow’s throat, he had to be stealing his sark and all?’ said Euan in shocked tones.