The King's Corrodian

Chapter Five

‘You should ha been there, maister,’ said the novice Mureson, and sat down heavily on the side of the bed. The black cat appeared from under the other bed and rubbed against his legs.

‘Clearly,’ said Gil, handing the young man a cup of spiced ale. ‘I wish we had something stronger to offer you. Tell me it again.’

‘I shouldny be here out my place.’ Mureson scrubbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his habit. ‘But we’re all at- Christ aid me, I think I’ll ask to transfer to the Charterhouse.’

‘They have their disagreements, too.’ Alys entered the chamber, a steaming beaker in one hand, a second candlestick in the other. ‘Drink this. It will settle you.’

‘Aye, I suppose they must.’ Mureson took the beaker, looked helplessly from that to the ale, then set both on the floor and buried his face in his hands again. ‘But to hear Auld Harry accused!’ he said from behind them. ‘It’s no to be borne!’

‘Tell me again,’ Gil prompted.

After a moment, the young man emerged from hiding, and took a cautious sip of Alys’s draught. Surprise crossed his face, and he took another.

‘It began the usual way,’ he said shakily. ‘Auld Harry, Faither Henry, read the chapter, and Faither Prior led us wi the prayers we aye use, and minded us it’s our duty to confess all faults and wickedness, from the least to the greatest, in ourselves or our brothers.’ He was using the Latin phrases unconsciously. ‘So a couple o the lay brothers confessed to gossip and argument, and then afore they could withdraw, afore we novices could speak — I mean, Adam aye finds something to confess — afore he could start, Sandy Raitts and Thomas Wilson rose both at once, on opposite sides o the chamber, and began, Accuso. Faither Prior tried to make them speak one at a time, and wait till we’d left, but they shouted him down, the both o them, accusing one another first and then Faither Henry as well, and there was all the folk about them shouting, and us novices trying to defend our teacher.’ He scrubbed at his eyes again, took another mouthful from the beaker, and gulped it down.

‘Accusing him of what?’ Alys asked. She set the candlestick down on a kist and sat beside Mureson on the bed, at a modest distance. The cat jumped onto her knee and settled down, watching the young man. ‘What are they all supposed to have done?’

‘Of killing Andrew,’ said Mureson, as if it was obvious. ‘And burning the infirmary. And burning Pollock. All of it.’ He gulped another mouthful, and licked his lips. ‘And then, and then, I’ve no notion who started it but they was all fighting, and Brother Dickon got his men thegither and swept all us novices out wi him, and bade me let you ken, so I cam here.’ He sighed, and sat back, peering into the empty beaker.

‘How did each react to the accusations?’ Gil asked. ‘Raitts and Wilson denied what each other had said, I take it.’

‘Oh, aye. Shouting about it all across the Chapter House. And Faither Henry, he rose when they accused him, and then he just stood there. Shook his head a couple o times but said naught. No that he’d ha been heard, save he went into his lecturing voice.’

‘They were still arguing when you left?’ said Alys.

‘Arguing? Arguing it out wi their fists, they were. It was a rammy like a market day. Never seen sic a thing, mistress. I should transfer to the Charterhouse,’ he said again.

‘Our Lady may counsel you differently,’ she said, leaning forward to lay a hand on his sleeve.

‘Did either man adduce any evidence?’ Gil asked. ‘Claim to have seen or heard aught that might back his accusation?’ He considered Mureson’s face, and his more composed posture. ‘Drink your ale, and go over it again for me if you can. Start where they both stood and said Accuso. Did they point? Name one another?’

The young man’s fists clenched. He looked down at them, and carefully opened them out and laid his hands flat on his knees.

‘Aye. They rose, in the same moment, and pointed, and said each other’s names. And then turned and pointed at Faither Henry, accused him by name and all. The rest o us began shouting, and Faither Prior bawling for silence over it all, and Faither Henry rose and said naught, just stood there. Then Raitts and Wilson both started denying it, saying, It was you was abroad in the night and would gie no reason.’

‘They both said that?’ asked Alys. Mureson glanced at her and nodded.

‘And then — it was Wilson, I think — pointed at Faither Henry and said, You and all, abroad in the night. What were you both at, whispering in corners? And Raitts turned on him and all. I thought they two was friends,’ he said, and scrubbed at his eyes again. ‘Auld Harry spends as much time in the library. They’ve aye seemed at ease thegither.’

‘And then what?’ prompted Gil. ‘Did they say anything more about the accusations?’

‘No.’ Mureson thought a moment. ‘No, I think they didny, for that was when the fighting began. And then Brother Dickon whistled his men thegither, and-’ His face twisted, and he turned away from the light.

‘I’ve met your teacher,’ said Gil, ‘and the librarian, but no the man Wilson. Tell me about him. Does he bear office?’

‘Aye.’ Mureson drew a deep breath, and accepted the change of subject. ‘He’s sub-factor, collects the rents from the town and sees to the maintenance of the properties the house holds there. Oversees an altar in St John’s Kirk, that we have the gift of. Deals wi Andro Pullar about the rest o the rents.’

‘You’re very clear on all that,’ said Gil.

‘Oh, aye. I’ve been assisting him these two month, till Yule there. It’s how we learn all the workings o a house like this.’

Gil nodded. That made good sense.

‘And the man himself?’

Another deep breath, and a check, and Mureson said defensively, ‘You canny expect me to say ower much about my fellows.’

‘So you have little good to say of him?’

‘I never said that.’ Henry White’s teaching suddenly showed in the young man’s manner. ‘He’s a punctilious member of the House, does his duties assiduously, conducts himsel modestly at the Office-’

‘But what sort of man is he?’ Alys asked. Mureson’s mouth twisted, and he turned his face away again. ‘We are investigating murder here, brother, you ken that. We need to hear anything that might be relevant.’

‘Aye, but if I tell you something — about Brother Dickon, or Patey, say — and it’s no relevant,’ said Mureson a little desperately, ‘then I’ve slandered a friend to no purpose.’

‘We canny tell,’ said Gil, ‘whether a fact’s to the purpose or no, till the matter is ended. We need all the information.’

The young man shook his head, still keeping his face averted.

Alys said gently, ‘You must pray over it. Our Lady will show you the rights of the matter, I am very sure of that.’

He turned back to look at her, and after a moment nodded.

‘You’re wise, mistress. I’ll-’

There was a tapping at the door. Gil, the nearest, opened it, and found Jennet outside.

‘If you please, maister,’ she bobbed a curtsy, ‘here’s some more o the novices, saying this fellow’s sought for, to say Compline wi the rest o them.’

‘Sandy?’ It was Munt, behind Jennet, looking as shaken as Mureson and peering over the girl’s shoulder for a sight of his friend. Socrates, beside him, nudged his hand, and he petted the dog’s soft ears absently. ‘We’re to, we’re to, we’re to say Compline. Now. And an Act o Contrition afore it. The whole o the house, never mind how hoarse some o us are yet. I doubt we’ll be on our knees most o the night.’

‘It’s deserved,’ said Calder out of the shadows behind his friend. The cat jumped down off Alys’s knee and slipped under the bed again. ‘We should never ha come to sic behaviour. It’s no worthy.’

‘Aye, so we should be on our knees,’ said Mureson. He rose, but hesitated. ‘You two go ahead, I’ll be right ahint you.’

‘Are you fit for it?’ Munt asked, rather anxiously. ‘There’s, there’s, there’s one or two’ll be absent by what I hear. You’d never be missed if it’s too much.’

‘No, he should be there,’ said Calder. ‘The whole o us needs to ask forgiveness.’

‘I ken my duty,’ said Mureson. ‘I’ll be right ahint you, never fear.’

Munt withdrew unwillingly, the dog following him, Jennet following the dog. Mureson turned to Gil and gestured to him to close the door. When the heavy planks thudded into place he produced, from within his habit, a linen bundle.

‘This is Andrew’s,’ he said simply, holding it out. ‘He asked me to take it, keep it safe, when he was confined. It’s- we’re no supposed to have personal possessions, let alone … well, you’ll see when you look at it.’

‘Where was it?’ Gil asked, taking the folded linen. It was warm from contact with the young man’s body; there seemed to be papers in the bundle, and one or two small objects with hard corners.

‘He’d a hiding place. Under the planks o his bed, right cunning. I think you should have it now.’ Mureson edged past Gil towards the door. ‘I need to go, maister. Thank you for — for all you’ve said. And you, mistress. And for the draught, whatever it was, it was right helpful.’ He ducked in an embarrassed bow and slipped out.

Gil followed him, saying, ‘If you think of aught else, come back and tell me as soon as might be.’

‘I will, maister.’ Mureson bowed again, and hurried across the wide chilly hall of the building to where Munt waited with a lantern in each hand. ‘God send you all rest the night.’

Another of the penitential psalms arose deep-voiced in the cloister, broken by coughing, and figures moved in the shadows beyond the dark windows of the hall. The two novices looked up in alarm, and left hurriedly; Gil assumed they could join the procession from the end of the slype, probably unnoticed except by their immediate fellows.

‘What’s amiss, maister?’ It was Tam, in the doorway behind him, hand casually near his dagger. ‘They didny seem happy. Is it another body?’

‘No this time,’ Gil answered. ‘I dare say you’ll hear soon enough — the Chapter meeting turned to fighting, scandalous behaviour in a house o religion, and there’s three o the brethren accused by their fellows o killing the novice.’

‘Three?’ Tam whistled. ‘A conspiracy, like? Will you question them? I suppose you’ll no be wanting to persuade them,’ he said with faint regret.

‘Likely no,’ said Gil, ‘but if I do, I’ll call for you.’

In their chamber, Alys had already unfolded the linen bundle and was contemplating what it held in some dismay.

‘Look at this,’ she said in French as he entered. ‘The young man did indeed have a girl in the town. See, here is a fairing, one of those badges lovers buy, and these documents seem to concern a house and payments of money. How should he have money to give her?’

‘I hate to think.’ Gil lifted a paper she had not yet unfolded. ‘Does it locate the house? One of us could call on her.’

‘Indeed, one of us should,’ she said seriously. ‘She may not yet know of his death. The name of the dead is not at large in the town.’ She leafed through the open documents. ‘It names her here as Margaret Keithick, and there is no mention of a husband, present or late.’

‘Ah!’ said Gil, turning the sheet he held to show her. ‘Here is where the money comes from. I’d know Andrew Halyburton’s hand anywhere. Your father is right, it gets worse every time one sees it.’

‘Andrew Halyburton? The Scots factor in Middelburg? You mean the young man has been trading into the Low Countries?’

‘Yes, and to some purpose. This has been a profitable venture, whatever he sent.’

‘Clearly his fellows did not know,’ she said, ‘by what you told us at supper.’

‘Nor did the Prior.’ Gil reached for another folded paper. ‘Aye, this is the same, from six months ago. Not quite such a profit, but still well worth the venture. Halyburton is an excellent factor. He knows the market there in the Low Countries. He can turn a pretty penny for a venturer.’

‘And then there is this strange collection of oddments.’ Alys poked at them. ‘A stone with a cross painted on it, a mount from a bridle with someone’s badge on it, and this.’ She unwrapped a scrap of brocade, like the oddments a church might use to wrap its relics in. ‘See, a pilgrim badge of St James, and silver at that. Someone has been to Spain and back.’

‘Curious.’ Gil turned the bridle-mount in his hand, but failed to make out the crest in the candlelight. ‘A collection of treasures, I suppose, with meaning for Andrew if for nobody else.’ He smoothed the document on his knee and looked at Alys. ‘I think we keep all this to ourselves meantime. The Prior will have to know of it eventually, but for now it may give us an advantage over someone.’

She nodded, and lifted the remaining folded paper. It seemed to be a smaller sheet than the others; she opened it out carefully, and stared at it.

‘Ah, mon Dieu!’ she said. ‘Look at this, Gil.’

A drawing showed faint in the candlelight. A woman, modestly dressed, her head bent tenderly over the infant on her lap, another child by her knee.

‘The Virgin and Child with St John?’ Gil offered. ‘We know Andrew had a great devotion.’

She frowned.

‘I wonder. There is far more than six months between these children, more like three years, I should say, and the drawing has been kept hidden, although such a subject could be displayed without discredit. Could this be his mistress?’

‘With two children? He started young, in that case. I suppose he was twenty-two or three.’

‘Perhaps they are not his.’ She was studying the faces. ‘We never saw him, of course.’ Gil repressed the thought of the sight of Andrew Rattray as he came out of the ashes of the infirmary, and leaned over to see the image better. ‘This looks like a real woman,’ she went on, ‘rather than an ideal. Her hands are not perfect. See how short this little finger is?’

‘Many limners prefer to use models, rather than draw from imagination,’ he observed.

‘Yes, but they would draw Our Lady perfect.’ She began folding the papers. ‘We should visit the man of law who acted in this as well, I think.’

‘So Andrew was breaking the Rule, by keeping a mistress, by trading on his own account without turning the money over to the Order, though how he managed any of that as a novice, confined to the house, is beyond me. But is all this sufficient reason for anyone to kill him?’ Gil added the papers he had looked at to the bundle.

‘You said one of the novices mentioned that he left the priory at night,’ Alys pointed out. ‘I suppose we know now where he went.’ She began to fold the linen round the little collection, and paused, looking at the finely hemmed margin. ‘This is a kerchief, and good quality linen, at that. I suppose it must be hers, whoever she is. Poor woman, she will grieve for him.’ She tucked in the last corner to secure the package, and pulled up the hem of her gown to reach her purse, hanging between gown and kirtle. ‘Shall I keep it for now, or will you?’

‘You keep it.’ Gil got to his feet. ‘I have more papers to deal with, or at least tablets.’ He kicked lightly at the kist on which she had set the second candle. ‘I should have studied Pollock’s effects before this.’

‘There has hardly been time,’ she observed, straightening her skirts. ‘Do you wish help, or shall I hear what else the servants have to say? Perhaps Euan is returned by now.’

‘I doubt it.’ He moved the candle and opened the kist. ‘Aye, the men may have learned more from the lay brothers. Alys?’

‘What?’ She turned from the door, and the candlelight lit the razor’s-edge outline of her nose. He held out a hand, smiling at her.

‘Kiss me first.’

Armed with the lingering memory of the kiss, he began to sort through Leonard Pollock’s property. It was a task he generally enjoyed, when faced with an array of documents from which he could piece together an individual’s life and activities; but when, as now, the documents were entangled in a mass of clothing and other effects, none of it very clean, it was less to his taste. The clothes he slung over the raised lid of the kist, thinking he would get Nory to tend to them later. They were all of good quality, and would certainly have kept their owner warmer than the other members of the community, though the moth had got into some of the furs. They seemed to him to represent a considerable sum of money, perhaps invested over a number of years.

By the time he reached the bottom of the kist he had a total of ten sets of tablets laid on the floor beside him, together with a bundle of five or six folded documents. He tapped round the sides and base of the kist to check for hidden compartments; finding nothing he rose from his knees, drew the candles more conveniently, and sat down to study his finds, supervised by the cat.

‘He’s kept all his records,’ he said in French. ‘Ten years’ worth of notes of extortion and favours, identified by initials, with one or two names in full. Young Rattray was one.’

‘I remember,’ said Alys suddenly. ‘You had just mentioned him when the dog found — found the man’s foot.’

‘Indeed, yes.’

They were seated together by the sinking fire, to talk over the day’s findings. The servants had been despatched to bed, Socrates was sprawled by the ashes, and the moment of privacy seemed very sweet.

‘So who else was named?’ Alys asked, tilting her head on his shoulder to look up at Gil’s face. ‘I recall two others. Brother Dickon said they were men of Perth, I think.’

‘Those two, yes. There were some I recognised, members of this community. I must ask the Prior for a list of the brethren, so I can establish whether he had any victims outside the walls. He kept no record of the alleged misdeeds, I suppose that was all in his head, but the returns are listed. Candles, small sums of money, items like a chicken or a haunch of beef which he sold on.’

‘He sounds a very unpleasant man.’

‘That seems to be the consensus.’

‘What are the names he mentioned?’

Gil drew his own tablets from his purse, opened them and tilted them to the single candle. The lines of writing showed up palely in the dark wax, more of a prompt than a script.

‘Billy Pullar and Jaikie Wilson,’ he recalled. ‘Dickon said those were men of Perth. Certainly Pullar is a local name. Young Rattray, Thomas Wilson and Sandy Raitts were all named in full.’

‘Oh!’

‘Quite so. And there were payments under their initials, all three.’

‘Henry White is not named?’

‘No. But there were also James Anderson, Edward Gilchrist — the Infirmarer, the Cellarer — with no payments noted either by name or by initial, and a P.S. whom I take to be the novice Simpson, who said he resisted the extortion.’

‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘His secret was merely a lost book, serious enough but hardly a great misdeed. In a community like this,’ she paused, ordering her words, ‘the person challenged I suppose would have to set the initial demand, at least, against the possible penance if the misdeed was revealed.’

‘Pollock would have pitched his demand to take that into account.’

‘Yes. But then, if one succumbed, gave him what he asked, that is a further misdeed, and the longer it goes on, the deeper one is mired. And one can tell no one, because that is to risk making public whatever it is he has discovered.’

‘I need to pursue Pollock’s acquaintance in the town tomorrow. Today has been chiefly devoted to young Rattray. Do we know, is he any kin to Sir Silvester?’

‘Sir-? Oh, Mistress Buttergask’s friend? Gil, I never thought to ask her.’

‘You were thinking of Pollock at the time.’ He tightened his arm about her shoulders. ‘I would have expected the Prior to mention it if they were connected. Did she say Sir Silvester was away? I should probably get a word with him when he returns, but her statement was quite definite, you think?’

‘She described what she thought she saw very clearly,’ Alys agreed. ‘It sounded to me like the smoke from the — the burning — towering over the house and then blowing away.’

‘Yes.’ Gil considered his notes in the flickering light. ‘I wonder what really happened? How could someone have got in to set the man on fire? The whole house was sealed, one way or another. I’d have said barely a draught of air could enter.’

‘If we continue to ask questions,’ she said with confidence, ‘we will find the answer. So tomorrow you will look for these two men in the town?’

‘To begin with, at least. Likely Brother Dickon can tell me where to find them. And you? What will you do?’

‘I return to the Greyfriars. I hope Brother Michael may have more advice.’

He looked down at the black woollen crown of her head in puzzlement, but did not pursue the matter. She drew herself out of his clasp and stood up, reaching for his hand.

‘Jennet will be asleep by now,’ she observed. ‘You will have to unlace me.’

Gil tucked his tablets away with the free hand, and got to his feet.

‘I expect I can manage that,’ he said.

‘The entire house,’ said Prior Boyd. ‘Wi the exception o the lay servants and the outdoor men, a course. If they’re holding silence they canny be accusing each other o breaking the Rule. At least, no so easily,’ he added sourly. ‘My apologies, Gilbert, if it makes your task the harder, but the health o the community comes first. If you’re needing to question a man, we can have him in here and he can speak afore me.’

‘As you wish, sir,’ said Gil, preserving his countenance with some difficulty. This would indeed make his task harder; the entire community had been sentenced last night to dwell in silence, when not reciting the Office, until the Prior should lift the ban. He had been summoned after Chapter to hear the news, but it had already been brought to them with their morning bread and ale by one of the kitchen men, who was nearly as dismayed as Gil.

‘How Brother Augustine’s to get by, I canny tell,’ the fellow had said, rubbing his jaw. ‘I’ve a thick ear already, only for asking what he was signing me about, and he’s broke a platter ower Billy’s head for fetching him oatmeal instead o rye flour.’

‘Since the outdoor conversi are not included in the injunction,’ continued the Prior now, switching to Latin, ‘I have instructed Brother Dickon to give you all pos sible assistance. I hope with this support you may pursue your investigation with due haste, which is now become essential.’ He paused, and Gil raised an eyebrow. ‘I have received a letter from Stirling. The Crown is taking an interest.’

‘It had to happen,’ said Gil. ‘The man was a Crown official, after all. Just who is taking an interest, sir? Surely not the King’s Grace himself?’

The Prior crossed himself, an expression of alarm on his face.

‘Our Lady forfend! My correspondent does not say, only that there have been inquiries from the Treasury about the matter.’

‘Inquiries?’ said Gil. ‘More than one?’

‘More than one.’

‘Pollock would ha been there in Knollis’s time,’ Gil said thoughtfully in Scots. ‘Maybe I should go ower his papers again, see if there’s aught in them that might interest the Treasury.’

‘Aye, afore they send someone to see for theirsels,’ agreed his kinsman. ‘How long will this take, Gil? I need the matter settled, whatever the cost, and I’m aware that will be high. But once we ken which of us is guilty and all’s dealt wi, maybe the house can quiet down again and we can address oursels to God’s work as we’re charged.’

‘I’m nowhere near finding the answer,’ said Gil. ‘I need to ask more questions. How long will you keep the community silent?’

The Prior spread his hands in acceptance of the point, then rose as the little bell began to ring for Terce. Feet scuffed in the cloister outside as the brothers moved in silence towards the church. Gil held the door for the older man, bent his head for the blessing, and watched him pace off after the last of his flock; then, pulling his plaid up round his neck against this morning’s biting wind, he made for the infirmary courtyard.

He remembered this place in high summer, with bees buzzing in the lavender hedge and a rosebush bending over the path; it was set between the infirmary itself, the side of the Chapter House, and a high wall over which he could see bare apple trees tufted with grey lichen, and he recalled that it had seemed to collect the sun’s warmth and hold it, distilling it into a healing peace. Little of that remained now; the garden was ruined, hidden under stacks of half-burned timbers and broken roof-tiles, and the dismal smell of burning still hung over everything. He picked his way through the various obstacles to the well, and leaned on the parapet to peer in.

The water surface was perhaps five feet down, but the well seemed to be deep; beyond the reflection of the sky, with his head black against it, he could see the first course of the stonework, but below that all vanished into darkness. He stood for a while, thinking what a suitable metaphor this made for his situation, and considering what to do next. A trip into the burgh of Perth seemed inevitable, but the question was whether to deal first with the man of law named in young Rattray’s papers, or with Pollock’s mysterious visitors. None could be approached until he had a direction for them, which would have to wait until the Office was ended and Brother Dickon and his cohort were free.

‘Maister?’ It was Nory, on quiet feet. ‘Maister, that’s that Euan come back fro the town. Claims he’s got word for you.’

‘Has he, now?’ He straightened up. Nory came to his side, looked in disapproval at the smears of soot on his hands and shirt-cuffs, and glanced into the well.

‘Leckie in the kitchen was saying that’s twenty foot deep,’ he observed. ‘Likely that’s where the missing knife is gone. He’d no hang onto the thing, after he’d slain the laddie, and it’s the handiest place to put it.’

‘My thought and all,’ Gil agreed. He wiped his hands on his hose and turned away. ‘Let’s hear what Euan has to say for himself.’

Euan was seated in at the fire, a mug of ale in his hand. He rose when Gil entered the chamber, grinning.

‘Your good health, maister! Here I’ve learned all sorts, and found the man Pollock’s accomplice and everything you need.’

‘And where were you last night?’ Gil enquired.

‘Och, no, I wasny intending that, and I’m sorry for it, so I am. See, maister, I was on my way back here when who should I meet, in yon street wi all the leatherworkers, but Alistair MacIain that’s an Ardnamurchan man, and him a good fellow, even if he is from Acharacle. And afore we knew it, it was nightfall and the gates was shut, so I was going home wi him, and we were talking the most o the night, what wi all the doings from Ardnamurchan I had to tell him.’

‘Did you get Brother Euan’s simples?’ Gil interrupted.

‘Och, yes, I did that, and they are waiting for him now in that wee house where he was yesterday. I told Brother George, that’s there watching the old man, what I had fetched. But I was telling you, maister, I’ve been hearing all sorts that you need to ken, and one of Alistair’s neighbours was a friend o the man Pollock and was forever visiting him here and talking of how he was an important man and kent all kind o secrets.’

‘Was he, now?’ Gil sat down. ‘Go on, then. What’s his name?’

‘It’s a Jaikie Wilson, that’s a journeyman leather-worker to a saddler in the town, and cousin to the rent collector here. So that’s likely his accomplice, see, and probably set fire to him and all,’ said Euan earnestly. ‘And I can be taking you there, at least to Alistair’s house, and he can direct you to the other fellow.’

‘Never heard o him,’ said Jaikie Wilson firmly.

‘Och, the leear!’ exclaimed Euan. ‘When there’s the whole o Perth telling us you visited the man regular.’

Wilson was an unprepossessing scrawny individual in an out-at-elbows doublet and stained hose; tracked down at his employer’s workshop, he had come reluctantly to talk to Gil. Now he scowled at Euan and said, ‘I’ll no take that from a filthy Erscheman that canny tell the truth himsel!’

‘That’s enough,’ said Gil before Euan could reply. ‘Wilson, you’re named in Pollock’s papers and notes, and Brother Dickon tellt me you were there often visiting the man.’

‘Oh, that Pollock!’ said Wilson ingenuously. ‘I thought you meant another one. Aye, I suppose I did call on him now and then. My faither served him one time,’ he divulged. ‘But I gaed to Maister Tammas at St John’s Kirk after the — the fire, and he dowsed me wi holy watter and that, and he says I’m no contaminate.’

‘And what did you do for Pollock?’ Gil asked. ‘Carry messages? Carry errands?’

Wilson shrugged thin shoulders.

‘Aye, now and then,’ he said again. ‘Nothing important.’

‘Like what?’ Gil prompted.

‘Like nothing much.’ Gil leaned against a rack of oxhides and continued to watch the man; after a moment Wilson looked uneasily aside and said, ‘Maybe like carry papers to one or another in Perth, and one time a word to some man o law in the High Street.’

‘And what else?’

Another shrug.

‘I’d to take the answers, hadn’t I?’

‘What was in the papers?’

‘I wouldny look at them,’ said Wilson indignantly. ‘They was all sealed, forbye.’

‘And the word to the man of law? Who was it? What had you to tell him?’

‘Oh, I canny mind. I carry that many messages for my maister.’ The man looked across the workshop to where his master and another journeyman were conferring over a cutting-board strewn with scraps of leather, and trying to pretend they were not listening to the conversation. ‘It was Maister Andro Pullar at the sign o the Pestle, just up from the Speygate.’

‘And you said to him?’

‘I tellt you I canny mind.’ He was still not looking at Gil. ‘Here, I better get on wi my work.’

‘So if that’s all you did,’ said Gil, ‘why did you visit Pollock so often?’

‘Likely he would be carrying all the gossip o Perth to the man,’ said Euan. Wilson threw him a dirty look and said nothing. ‘Or so I was hearing,’ added Euan airily.

‘Hah!’ said Wilson, and gathered up the bundle of leathers he had been working on when his master had summoned him to speak to Gil. ‘Believe an Erscheman, you’ll believe anything.’

‘And how about Billy Pullar?’ Gil asked. ‘D’you ken him?’

‘Is that his accomplice, maister?’ said Euan with enthusiasm. ‘Likely they both set fire to the man thegether, and-’

‘I never!’ said Wilson in alarm. ‘I never had aught to do wi that, I tellt you, Sir Tammas at the kirk sained me and I never heard o this Billy Pullar any road! I’ve tellt you all I ken, maister.’

‘He must have visited Pollock when you were there,’ Gil commented. ‘The burgh’s no that big, I’d ha thought you’d ken the other journeymen well enough.’

‘Well, I don’t, then.’ Wilson clutched the stack of leathers closer and turned away. ‘I need to get on, maister.’

‘And I think you’re kin to the factor at the Blackfriars,’ Gil said. ‘He’s another Wilson. Is that right?’

‘Oh, him,’ said Wilson in disparaging tones. ‘Aye. My da’s second cousin, he is. Good day, maister.’

‘You don’t sound as if you welcome the kinship,’ Gil said, straightening up.

‘Him?’ said Wilson again. ‘No likely. Aye round the door after money, for all he’s-’ He bit off the words.

‘For all he’s what?’ Gil prompted.

‘I need to get on. Good day to ye, maister,’ said Wilson firmly.

‘For all he’s what?’ Gil said again, refusing to be dismissed. ‘For all he’s stealing the convent’s money? For all he’s raising the rents beyond reason? What’s he doing, man?’

‘I never said that!’ said Wilson. His master looked hard at them across the workshop, then moved towards them in a casual way. ‘I ken naught about the fellow. I’ve never spoke to him, saving he’s been in the house after money.’

‘So what were you going to say about him?’ Gil pressed. He nodded at the saddler, who had been named to him as Maister Richie Henderson, but returned his attention to Wilson, who was now staring down at the armful of leather he held. ‘Tell me about Brother Thomas Wilson,’ he invited.

‘I can tell you about Brother Thomas,’ said the saddler, a grim set to his jaw. ‘More than Jaikie, I’ll warrant, for all he’s kin.’ He jerked his head towards the far window where a litter of papers and a rack of drawers suggested accounts and records. ‘Come yonder, maister, and hae a seat, and I’ll tell you all you wish to hear. Jaikie, you can get on wi that harness for Sir Silvester, as I bade you earlier.’

It was a sorry tale Maister Henderson unfolded, but one Gil had encountered before; as the Blackfriars’ factor Wilson handled coin on a daily basis, and some of the thin, slithering slips of metal were prone to slither into his sleeve rather than into the convent’s strongbox.

‘He’ll say the rent’s gone up,’ said Maister Henderson, ‘so you find the extra coin, and next quarter the same again, but somehow at the year end it’s still the old rent on the parchment. Or he’ll demand an extra in kind, say a mart beast or a dozen fowl, and it’s never recorded.’

‘Have you complained to Faither Prior?’

‘I complained to Wilson, said I’d take it to the Prior, and he says, Take it if you like, he kens all. He signs the accounts, he says.’

‘Does he now?’ Gil wondered. ‘Myself, I’d not adhibit my handwrit to accounts I hadny verified, but there’s some are more trusting than that.’

‘Aye, well,’ said Henderson resentfully. ‘I tried to argue the matter, and got, If you don’t like the rent, you can find another workshop. Which is no so easy, let me tell you, maister, what wi the light you need for the work and the storage for the skins and that. It’s no just every place you can walk into and set up shop.’

‘I’ll look into it,’ said Gil. ‘You keep a record, I take it?’

‘Oh, I do.’ Henderson glanced at the rack of drawers. ‘Mind, it’s my word against his, but you’ll get the same tale from the most o the Blackfriars’ tenants in the town.’

Extracting Euan, who had got into a discussion about the best cattle to supply the hides the business used, Gil stepped out into the Skinnergate and looked about him.

‘Will we be going back out to-’ Euan said hopefully, and shut his mouth on the convent’s name. ‘It will be time for dinner, maybe.’

‘No,’ said Gil, turning towards the centre of the burgh. ‘We’ll find this man of law.’