The Merchant's Mark

Chapter Six

‘This is a handsome town,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘though it is smaller than Glasgow.’

Gil did not reply.

He was seated on a block of stone, throwing pebbles into Linlithgow Loch. The music and the drinking had gone on in the harper’s lodging well into the night, and even after the brisk two hours’ ride from Stirling in the sunshine his head still felt thick. Moreover, all through the merriment, the part-songs and snatches of consort-music, the ride in the bright morning, McIan’s comment had nagged at the back of his mind. Where your treasure is, there will your heart be. It no longer surprised him that McIan could quote Holy Writ; the surprise was that he had quoted it in Scots and not in Latin. But what did the harper mean by it? His heart, certainly, was with Alys, but there was precious little treasure involved, and until there was more he was reluctant to agree a date for their marriage. I am a Cunningham, he thought, rubbing a stone with his thumb, I won’t live on my bride’s money.

The mason turned to look up at Linlithgow Palace in the morning sunshine, with St Michael’s Kirk wrapped in scaffolding beyond it, and added approvingly, ‘And that is a well-run chantier. I have spoken with the master. He tells me the church has been many years rebuilding.’

Gil threw another pebble into the loch, and nodded. Socrates, loping back along the water’s edge, saw the splash and leaped in.

‘Where are your men?’ the mason asked.

Gil pulled himself together. ‘I gave them some drink-silver and sent them into the inn by the West Port.’

‘The Black Bitch, I think.’

‘Aye.’ Gil threw another pebble for the dog, who plunged joyfully after it, biting at the ripples. ‘I told them to find the whereabouts of the cooper’s yard for me.’

‘The tonnellerie? I have asked the master builder. It is the other way — along towards the East Port beside the tower, which he tells me belongs to the Knights of St John. I did not realize they were here.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Gil. ‘Their headquarters is a few miles away over the hill.’ He waved a hand vaguely south-west.

‘Is it, indeed? I had thought it much further south. That would account for the number of their servants one sees in the town,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Likely your men find my lad Luke in the Black Bitch too. Well, I got nothing of use at the dyer’s yard in Kilsyth. There had been no disturbance, and no orphaned barrels left lying about. And what have you learned in Stirling?’

Gil shook his head. ‘I think our dead man is not the musician, since I’ve a sighting of him here on Tuesday morning, but I’ll be happier about that if I can get another trace of him.’ The mason grunted agreement. ‘And I had no useful word concerning the other matter. Nobody would admit to knowing where it might have been hid, or to knowing who would know. .’ The mason grunted again. ‘Except,’ Gil added thoughtfully, ‘that William Knollys was very keen to send me into Ayrshire to talk to my father’s friends there.’

‘Into Ayrshire,’ Maistre Pierre repeated, raising his eyebrows.

‘Cumnock and thereabouts. So what we have to do here,’ said Gil, ‘is speak to the cooper, and ask after the musician.’

‘Do we also go out to the shore at Blackness?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘I understand it is not far.’

‘It could be worth the trip,’ Gil agreed, ‘but we may learn all we need here in the town.’

‘I have been thinking,’ said Maistre Pierre. He looked about, selected another disregarded block of stone, and seated himself. ‘Why put a severed head into a barrel? How many reasons can there be?’

‘Concealment,’ offered Gil. Socrates bounded out of the water, shook himself copiously, and sat down at Gil’s feet, staring intently at the remaining handful of pebbles. ‘We dule for nae evil deed, sae it be derne haldin.’

‘Yes, but where is the body? The rest of the man?’

‘Hidden somewhere else, I assume,’ Gil said.

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere in Scotland.’

‘Yes.’ His friend pulled a face. ‘And what is being concealed? The murder, or the fact that this man in particular is dead, or the place of his death? Or something else?’

‘And why should these need to be concealed?’ Gil wondered. ‘Both of the bodies we dealt with in May had been left openly where they were killed. Well, fairly openly,’ he qualified. ‘What was this man doing, that he had to be made to disappear?’

‘Presumably that is connected with the treasure.’

Gil stared unseeing at a journeyman mixing mortar in the distance.

‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘So the head was hidden in the barrel to conceal an unlawful killing, or the death of this man in particular, or his death in a particular place,’ he ticked the points off on his fingers, ‘or perhaps to get it past a watcher.’

‘Or to preserve it to accuse someone later,’ suggested Maistre Pierre. ‘It was put up in brine, after all.’

‘Mm.’ Gil thought about that. ‘If that was so, it may have been put in the barrel by someone other than the killer. We must keep it in mind, but it adds a complication and the question is already sufficiently complicated.’

‘Mon Dieu, oui!’ agreed the mason. ‘And the treasure? Why did the killer not simply take it with him, since he has apparently made his escape?’

‘Yes. That puzzles me. It surely means whoever put both in the barrel intended to keep track of it — of the barrel. I wish we had some idea of where the hoard has been.’

‘So does that mean the head was hidden for some longer purpose, not simply to conceal an unlawful killing?’

‘Perhaps.’ Gil got to his feet, and Socrates scrambled up looking hopefully at his face. ‘We need to find a name for the dead man. Once we have that, we will have something to work on, and perhaps we can discover where he was killed.’ He gestured towards the little town in the sunshine. ‘Shall we go find the men? They’ll be a stoup or two ahead of us by now.’

As they reached the foot of the Kirkgait, Maistre Pierre paused and stared eastward past the Mercat Cross along Linlithgow’s other, busier street. There was a cavalcade approaching among the bustle of women with baskets and journeymen with boards or bales of merchandise. Helmets glinted in the sunlight, bright badges and well-waxed boots collected the dust of the dry road.

‘Who is this with such a retinue?’ he wondered. ‘Do you know the blazon?’

‘Yes, and I know the leader,’ said Gil a little grimly. ‘Sinclair. I saw him in Stirling.’ He raised his hat as Oliver Sinclair reined in his horse, the ornaments on its bridle clinking. ‘Good day, sir.’

‘Good day again, young Cunningham.’ Sinclair grinned at him. ‘So Will Knollys never persuaded you into Ayrshire, then?’ Gil shook his head. ‘Probably wise, man. And what brings you this way?’

‘My good-father and I are tracking a murder,’ said Gil.

‘Oh, the man in the barrel?’ Sinclair nodded to the mason, and checked his horse, which was touching noses with Socrates. ‘This is you in hot pursuit, is it?’

‘Say rather, in cold pursuit,’ said Gil wryly. ‘The trail’s near a week old, and may be crossed. That’s what I want to find out.’

‘Good hunting, then,’ said Sinclair carelessly. He nodded again and nudged his horse on, summoning his men after him with a wide gesture of one arm. They clattered away east along the curve of the High Street, scattering chickens, pigs and burgesses as they went.

‘He never mentioned leaving Stirling when I spoke to him last night,’ said Gil, staring after them. ‘Not that I had much conversation with him,’ he added, after considering the point.

‘Perhaps it slipped his mind,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Come and let us drink.’

The taproom of the Black Bitch, which had probably been the hall when the sprawling building had been somebody’s house, was large and smoky from an ill-drawn fire, but clearly the ale was good, for even in mid-morning the room was busy and loud with gossip. Gil’s men and the mason’s Luke were there; Luke and Tam were sitting at one of the long tables, and Rob was in colloquy with the man in charge of the great barrel of ale on its trestle. Seeing them enter, he broke off his conversation and returned to his seat with a jug and two more beakers.

‘Talk the man in the Moon to death, that one,’ he said, grinning, as Luke moved along the bench to allow his master to sit down. ‘William Riddoch the cooper has his yard along near the East Port, Maister Gil, at the back of the first Cross tavern, and there’s been no musicians in the place since the court moved to Stirling.’

‘In the town,’ Gil questioned, ‘or here in the Black Bitch?’

‘Now that I don’t know,’ admitted Rob, ‘for I never thought to ask it. Will I go back and find out? Only it might take me till dinnertime, the way that fellow talks.’

‘We can ask further,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘But what did you mean, the first Cross tavern? Is there more than one of the same name? That must be confusing.’

‘Aye, well, I asked about that,’ said Rob, ‘and one’s the Spitallers’ cross wi the eight points, and the other belongs to the Sinclairs, so it’s got their badge on the board. You ken, their cross that looks as if it’s been chewed all up the edges.’

‘The engrailed cross,’ said Gil absently. ‘I suppose, if Balthasar was here to meet someone, as that singer in Stirling said, he might not have been playing.’

‘He’d be playing, maister,’ said Tam. ‘They’ll aye take the chance to turn a penny or two. I would myself, if I could play more than Two taps on ae tun.’

‘He’d lie at a smaller place than this,’ volunteered Luke, ‘like the one across the way. The Green Lion, or something. This is maybe ower dear.’

‘Will I go and ask?’

‘No, leave it, Rob. I don’t want to make too much of it. We can ask in the town.’

‘Lute strings,’ said Maistre Pierre, emerging from his beaker. They looked at him. ‘There is a butcher’s yard,’ he pointed out, ‘and the court spends much time here. Someone must make and sell strings out of all that gut. Perhaps our quarry has been sighted there.’

‘And there’s another thing, Maister Gil,’ said Rob, helping himself to the last of the jug of ale. ‘Drouthy work it is, talking to a man like that. When I mentioned the name, maister, he asked me was I looking for work, for it seems this cooper’s a man short. His laddie hasny been seen for near two weeks.’

‘Is that so?’ said Gil thoughtfully.

‘Our man was nobody’s prentice laddie,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘He was nearer thirty than twenty, I should have said.’

‘Just the same,’ said Gil, offering Socrates his beaker to lick, ‘we should keep it in mind.’

‘He was warning me off,’ added Rob, ‘for there was a thief in the same yard just the other night. I’d say the cooper’s luck’s away the now.’

The luthier’s workshop was halfway along towards the Mercat Cross, well up a steep narrow vennel which seemed to lead to the hillside south of the town. Inside, at a bench by a wide-open window, Maister Cochrane himself was working on the delicate rose of a lute, an array of small sharp carving tools by his elbow. Beyond him a journeyman was shaping the neck of another instrument with a drawknife; an apprentice in the corner was rubbing what smelled like boiled linseed oil into a finished lute. More instruments hung on pegs, lutes and vièles, a psaltery and something which might be a cittern. Neat stacks of wood were tucked into a rack at the far end.

As Gil and Maistre Pierre entered with the dog at their heels, the two younger men looked up, and the journeyman set down his knife and came forward, brushing curls of wood off his jerkin.

‘What’s your pleasure, my maisters?’ he asked. ‘A new instrument? Music, strings, a ribbon fairing for your sweetheart’s lute? We’ve all of those.’

‘Music?’ said Maistre Pierre, pricking up his ears. ‘You sell music?’

‘We do, maister.’ The journeyman turned to lift a wooden tray from a shelf. ‘We’re a bit low at the moment,’ he admitted. ‘The court cleaned us out before they left for Stirling, and the package we’re looking for from Edinbro’s no come in yet.’

‘No matter.’ The mason bent over the pages in the tray. ‘There will be something I do not have. These are good copies.’

‘You sell much music?’ Gil asked, watching his friend leaf through the loose sheets.

The journeyman shrugged. ‘When the court’s here, and the musicians, aye. Other times it’s a slow trade.’ He grinned. ‘There’s many of the gentry likes to have an instrument and strum it a bit, but playing a tune ye can put a name to’s another matter.’

‘So you sell to the King’s musicians?’ Gil said. ‘And how about the travelling sort, as well? Do they come here for new tunes?’

‘No that often. They’ll get the maist o their music in Edinbro,’ said the man regretfully, ‘what they don’t just learn each frae the ither by ear.’

‘Edinburgh,’ said Gil. ‘I don’t want to go that far. I was hoping you might have seen Barty Fletcher lately.’

‘Barty?’ said the journeyman. ‘Oh, we’ve seen him, aye. No for a week or two, right enough.’

‘A week or two?’ repeated Gil. ‘That’s a pity. I wanted a word with him.’

‘I seen him,’ said the apprentice, looking up. ‘I seen him in the town the other day.’

‘What day was that?’ asked the journeyman. Their master paused in his careful work, and turned to look at them. The apprentice thought briefly, and grinned, showing a chipped tooth.

‘The day we got that new barrel o lights and put them to soak. For I said to him, my maister’s just started a new load, there’ll be fresh strings in six weeks or so.’

‘Monday, that would be,’ said the journeyman. Socrates, who had been checking the smells of the place, reached his ankles, and he bent to offer the dog his hand to sniff.

‘I’ll just need to keep looking,’ said Gil.

‘Did he say aught?’ asked Maister Cochrane from his bench. Gil was reminded of McIan’s portentous question.

‘Aye, he did,’ nodded the boy. ‘He said that was good to hear and he’d be sure and call by before Michaelmas.’

‘Hmph,’ said Maister Cochrane, and turned back to his carving.

‘I take this,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘See, Gil, it is a piece by that Flemish fellow, and printed too. Alys was speaking of him recently. Myself, I prefer Machaut, but she seemed to find his music worthwhile.’

‘Ockeghem,’ agreed the journeyman, mangling the name badly. ‘A good choice, maister. The lady’ll ha pleasure out of that.’

Down on the High Street the men were still gathered round a well with a stone lion perched above the basin, deep in conversation with two maidservants. Gil and Maistre Pierre left them there and set off towards the East Port, and the imposing stone tower-house and its surrounding buildings which the mason had commented on earlier. The two taverns were next to it, one clearly more of a hostel for the knights of the eight-pointed cross and their guests, the other a sprawling structure very like the Black Bitch at the western end of the town. A group of men emerged from it as they approached, to stand in the sunshine with their ale. Light glinted on helmets, and on the chewed crosses stitched to sleeve or breast of their leather jacks.

‘The tonnellerie is up this vennel, I believe,’ said the mason, gesturing up the side of the tavern. ‘Do all these alleys lead on to the hillside?’

The cooper’s yard, as well as being up a vennel, was full of pieces of wood, but there the resemblance to the luthier’s shop ended. Looking out through the open window of the cooper’s best chamber, Gil could see a sloping cobbled yard nearly as big as Maister Morison’s. It held two large open sheds and a barn, and a neat kailyard climbed up the hillside beyond them. Quartered tree trunks lay drying in racks in one corner of the cobbled area, split planks were stacked in another. Finished barrels crowded along the fence opposite the gate, a scrawny journeyman with prominent ears was sweeping up shavings to add to the brazier which was putting up a thin column of blue smoke, and five or six men were working with hammer or knife.

To one side the big gates were open, and a cart laden with puncheons was being handled out to the waiting horses by several men in leather jacks. Another man was just vanishing into the barn. Clearly Maister Riddoch’s business was prospering well.

‘Near as noisy as a stoneyard,’ commented the mason.

‘What’s that you say?’ asked Maister Riddoch, bustling into the chamber. He was small, bald and neat-featured, his expression both anxious and wary. Over leggings and a worn leather jerkin he had put on his good stuff gown to entertain visitors. He flourished the matching hat of tawny wool in a jerky bow and went on, ‘Forgive me keeping you waiting, maisters, a wee bit business wi my landlord. A boneyard? Aye, it’s like a boneyard, now you say, wi the staves there and the puncheons here instead of the legbones and skulls. A good thought, maister!’ He laughed nervously. ‘A good thought. Now, Mistress Riddoch’s to bring a refreshment and you can tell me what’s the trouble. Something wrong with Augie Morison’s last load, you say? I’m sorry to hear that, for he’s a good customer. What is it, was aught damaged? Aught missing?’

‘No so much missing,’ said Gil, ‘as changed.’

‘Strange, you say?’ Riddoch had put the hat on, and it slipped sideways as he tilted his bald head sharply to catch Gil’s words. He pushed it straight, staring hard at Gil. ‘What way, strange?’

‘One barrel had been exchanged,’ said Gil, pitching his voice louder.

‘Never in my yard, surely!’ Riddoch had obviously heard that clearly. He swallowed. ‘One o the pipes o crockware, was it?’

‘The small barrel. The puncheon.’

‘Puncheon.’ The man swallowed again, and and nodded. ‘I mind it. One o my make. He had it lashed on the back o the cart. But his man aye sleeps the night in the barn,’ he averred. ‘How would anything get near the cart without waking him?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Gil.

The door opened, to admit a comely young woman with a tray in her hands, and Riddoch turned to her. Socrates, at Gil’s feet, raised his head, his nose twitching.

‘Mistress, here’s these gentry telling me a strange thing. One o Morison’s last load was the wrong puncheon when he got it home.’

She paused in setting down the tray, to exchange a long look with her husband.

‘The wrong one?’ she repeated. ‘Saints preserve us! What way the wrong one?’

‘It was a different barrel,’ said Maistre Pierre, eyeing the contents of the tray appreciatively. ‘Mistress, what is this you offer us? It looks very good.’

Mistress Riddoch blushed becomingly, and laid the tray on the stool by the hearth.

‘There’s ale,’ she said unnecessarily, indicating the jug, ‘and today’s bread, and a dish of potted herring. Riddoch’s very partial to a bite of potted herring to his midday piece, whether it’s a fish day or no.’ Her eyes met her husband’s again in an anxious smile. ‘And some pickled neeps,’ she added, moving the little dish into sight from behind the ale-jug.

‘Was it marked?’ asked Riddoch.

‘It was well marked,’ said Gil, wishing he had got a list from Andy. ‘Two shipmarks at least — Peterson and Maikison, I think — and several merchants’ marks including Maister Morison’s.’

‘But not Thomas Tod’s,’ contributed Maistre Pierre, ‘though the barrel we expected had been lifted from Tod’s ship on Monday.’

‘Saints preserve us!’ said Mistress Riddoch again, looking from one to another of them. She had a plump, sweet face under her white linen headdress, and now wore a serious expression as she counted on her fingers. ‘Monday, you say? So it lay here on Monday night?’ She turned to her husband again, biting her lip. ‘Who else’s cart lay here on Monday, Riddoch?’

‘But how did Augie’s man not notice it was the wrong puncheon?’ worried Riddoch, not answering her. ‘I mind the man well, he seems a sharp fellow, and helpful enough. Offered to watch the barn on his own last time he was here, let the other carters go drinking round at the tavern. Right enough I suppose that would ha been Monday.’

‘Nobody noticed the exchange, until it came home and we were about to open it,’ said Gil. ‘I suppose they were alike in size.’

‘Then it must ha been another of my puncheons,’ said Maister Riddoch positively. ‘Any that works wi barrels, maister, will tell ye — a barrel out of one yard’s as different from a barrel out of another as kale is from neeps. It’s like hand-write. I’ve heard Maister Abernethy the notary say he kens the hand-write in this document or that. Barrels is the same. Every man has his ain way of doing things.’

‘So also in my craft,’ said Maistre Pierre. He and the cooper exchanged glances. ‘So this puncheon that came home to Glasgow must have been switched for another of your make.’

‘Monday,’ said Mistress Riddoch again. She faced her husband and raised her voice a little. ‘It was Monday night the thief was in the yard, Riddoch. Could that be it right enough?’

‘Monday?’ He counted on his fingers as she had done. ‘Aye, mistress, you’re quite right, it was Monday night. But that canny be the answer — he was nowhere near the carts, whoever he was.’

‘A thief?’ Gil repeated innocently. ‘Did you take him?’

‘No, we never. I heard something fall over in the yard,’ said Mistress Riddoch, concentrating on pouring ale, ‘so I looked out, and I thought something was moving, so I woke Riddoch, and he rose and put his boots on, but he found nothing. I’ve tellt you, husband, whoever it was, they were moving about near the gate.’

‘There was nobody to see when I went out,’ said the cooper. ‘Time I got on my boots, he was away.’

‘You say you saw something moving?’ said Maistre Pierre to Mistress Riddoch.

‘Aye,’ she said, handing him a cup of ale. ‘It was a clear night, and the moon near full, you ken, so the yard was well lit. There was a banging, like something going over, and a kind of shouting, and it woke me, and when I looked out I saw …’ She faltered, and glanced at her husband.

‘I tell you, you were dreaming, Jess,’ he said sternly. ‘Better safe than sorry, and you did right to wake me, for there had been someone in the yard, but there was nothing like what you thought you saw. There was nothing taken, and never a great roll of stuff here that night.’

‘I wasny dreaming,’ she said, as if she had said it often already. ‘I was dreaming before I wakened, about the yard and the men working, but what I saw was never part o my dream.’

She handed Riddoch his ale, and began to cut the loaf on the tray.

‘What did you think you saw?’ Gil asked.

‘Movement,’ she said, and paused in her work. ‘Like, maybe, two or three men. There was certainly two in the light, and I thought another moving in the shadows by the barn.’

‘What were they doing?’

She looked at her husband, and back down at the loaf. ‘I couldny see what the man by the barn was up to. If there was one,’ she added, before her spouse could comment. ‘But the two out in the moonlight were bent over some big thing, I couldny make it out. Almost like as if it was someone lying on the ground, it was. So then I woke Riddoch, and he woke the men, and then I had to help him wi his boots.’

‘There was nothing of the sort in the yard when I got down,’ said Riddoch firmly.

‘Aye, for they never waited while you went down and got the door open,’ she responded, and sawed another wedge off the loaf. ‘I tell you, husband, I saw them go when I looked out again.’

‘How many?’ asked Gil. ‘Did they have a puncheon with them?’

‘I never saw a puncheon. One was away up the kailyard. Likely he went out the back yett. And the other — the other went by the barn.’ She paused, biting her lip, and began spreading potted fish.

‘Did you see what he looked like?’ asked Maistre Pierre, watching her hands.

She shook her head. ‘Like a big man in a black cloak,’ she said, and hesitated, with another glance at her husband. ‘And he was carrying something, it might ha been the same thing that was on the ground. I never saw what it was, except it was long and seemed heavy — maybe like a roll of cloth, or a side of meat, or such. Then he stepped into the shadow next the gate, and Riddoch cam back from waking the men, and wanted his boots on,’ she went on with more certainty.

‘This man in the cloak,’ said Gil slowly, ‘was he one of the two you saw earlier standing in the moonlight?’

‘She never saw anything,’ said Riddoch.

‘N-no,’ said his wife, thinking hard. ‘It’s hard to say, maister, but I think the two I saw first were smaller.’ She shut her eyes, the better to conjure up the image she needed. ‘I tell ye what, sir, one of them had a hat wi a feather, it might ha been him that was away up the kailyard, and the other wasny in a cloak.’

‘So there were three men in the yard,’ said Gil. She gave him a serious look, and nodded.

‘At least three. You saw only the one man at the yett?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

‘Aye.’ She shivered. ‘Just the one.’

‘Augie Morison’s man saw nothing of that kind, and so I said to — ’ said the cooper, and bit off his words. After a moment he continued, ‘He tellt me — Morison’s man tellt me he woke, and came to the barn door, and saw one man running for the gate. I asked, what was he wearing, and he said he thought just shirt and hose. And right enough the gate was opened.’

‘Aye,’ said his wife.

‘Shirt and hose,’ repeated Gil. Mistress Riddoch handed the platter, and he took a slice of bread smeared with a generous portion of potted herring. Maistre Pierre was already chewing. ‘I’d ha thought a man would dress in darker clothing if he was planning a theft.’

‘Aye, he’d left,’ agreed Riddoch, helping himself as the platter went past him. ‘Whoever he was. And Morison’s man swore he was never near the carts. There was three carts in that night,’ he recalled.

‘Madame, this is excellent,’ said Maistre Pierre with enthusiasm, reaching for another portion. Socrates watched the movement of his hand, nose twitching. ‘Is it your own work? What do you put with the fish? I am sure my daughter would like to know.’

‘The secret’s in the salting,’ confided Mistress Riddoch, dimpling in pleasure at the compliment. ‘I salt my own, ye ken, and I put a chopped onion in the brine to every dozen fish. Will you have some more ale, maister?’

‘And then nutmeg when you pound the salted fish?’ said Maistre Pierre speculatively, and took another mouthful. ‘And is it galangal?’

Gil took his own ale and a second wedge of bread over to the window, thinking about what he had heard. Out in the yard Maister Riddoch’s men were hard at work with hammer or drawknife. In the centre of the open space a man was working with an adze. Lifting a long narrow plank from the stack beside him he trimmed one end, first one side and then the other, with quick even strokes of the adze, then tossed the stave in the air, caught it the other way up and set about shaping the other end. Gil found himself watching, fascinated.

‘That’s David Seaton,’ said Maister Riddoch at his elbow. ‘No a stave-maker his like in the country, I dare say. I’m no equal to cutting staves now, I’m too stiff for it, but I think he’s as good as I ever was.’

‘He’s been well taught,’ said his wife from across the room. Riddoch did not look round, but the corners of his mouth quirked. ‘Is it time for the men’s noon piece, husband?’

‘Aye, call them in, lass,’ he said. ‘We can serve ourselves wi the rest in here.’

‘May we look at the barn, once we have eaten?’ Gil asked, as Mistress Riddoch bobbed to her guests and left. ‘I’d like to understand how the cart was stowed on Monday night.’

‘I can see you would,’ said the cooper, nodding, ‘but it seems to me it’s most likely Augie’s men loaded the wrong puncheon at Blackness. I’ll show you the barn, maisters, and anything else you’ve a notion to see.’

Gil broke the last of his bread in half and gave a portion to Socrates, watchful at his feet. The dog took it delicately and swallowed it whole, and Gil held out the other piece.

‘When you’re ready, maister,’ he said.

They went out through the hall, where Mistress Riddoch presided over the long board, and the men and three maidservants were addressing barley bread and stewed kale. Once in the yard, the cooper showed an inclination to explain the entire process of making a barrel, and Maistre Pierre took this up with interest. Gil listened, looking carefully about him at wood-stacks and benches, the workspace in the two open sheds, and the brazier with its smouldering fire. Nothing seemed to be amiss.

‘You’ll have to be wary of the fire,’ he suggested.

Riddoch nodded. ‘Aye, you’re right, maister, particular when it’s windy. The shavings blow about.’ He looked at the heap of shavings waiting to be burned, and tut-tutted. ‘That lad Simmie! I’ve tellt him and tellt him, and he aye gathers the scraps too close to the barn. Simmie!’ he shouted at the house. After a moment the young journeyman who had been sweeping earlier appeared in the doorway, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Simmie, get this moved, now.’

‘Now?’ repeated Simmie, taken aback.

‘Aye, now, afore you finish your kale. If the wind were to change, and sparks blow into they scraps there, the barn would go up afore we kent what was happening, and then the whole yard, and you’d have no living, Simmie. So get it moved.’

Simmie scowled, but rolled up his sleeves and came across the yard to lift his besom.

‘’S none o my part to sweep the yard,’ he muttered. ‘If we hadny run out of withies I’d be making hoops, no sweeping the yard. When that lazy Nicol gets back, I’ll black his ee for this, see if I don’t.’

‘What was that?’ demanded his master.

‘And another thing, maister,’ added Simmie aloud. ‘You’ve been on at me all week to move it, every time I sweep it here, but you put this heap here your very self the other day, so why are you — ’

‘I never did, you daftheid!’

‘Aye, you did, maister. For it wasny me, nor any of the other men, and the lassies wouldny come out sweeping in the yard — ’

‘What are you talking about, man?’ demanded Riddoch.

‘Just the other day,’ repeated Simmie. ‘I cam in at the day’s start, and all the shavings in the yard was swept up, but they wereny where I’d put them the night before, they were here.’

‘They must have blown, you great lump. I’d never put them here. Now get them over where they belong, and stop arguing.’

‘No arguing,’ muttered Simmie, bending to his broom. ‘I’ll get that Nicol for this, so I will.’

‘What day was that?’ Gil asked casually. Riddoch turned to look at him. ‘What day did Simmie find the chips swept over here?’

‘What way?’ repeated the cooper. ‘It must ha been the wind.’

‘What day, maister,’ said Simmie, pausing to lean on his broom. ‘What day? Well, it wasny yesterday.’ He thought deeply. ‘It might ha been Wednesday,’ he admitted.

‘Tuesday? Monday?’

‘No Monday. I’d a heid like a big drum on Monday, I’d no ha noticed a deid ox in the yard.’ He grinned, and mimed pounding on his skull. ‘Might ha been Tuesday.’

‘Tuesday or Wednesday,’ said Gil, and the man nodded. ‘And the chips and shavings were all swept over here?’

‘Aye. Just like this. A neat job someone had made of it.’

‘Well, get on with it, and make a neat job of it now,’ said his master, ‘or you’ll no get your kale.’ He marched past his henchman and pushed open one leaf of the door to the barn. ‘You wanted to see this, maisters.’

The barn was a substantial building, nearly as big as Maister Riddoch’s house, but without the upper floor. Gil stood while his eyes adjusted to the light which filtered under the eaves; over his head swallows darted in and out to nests of shrieking young among the rafters. The floor was packed earth, swept clean; stacks of barrels, bundled staves, folded canvas cart-aprons, spare workbenches, were ranged round the walls

‘Augie’s cart was here first, if I mind right,’ said Riddoch, pointing with his left hand, ‘so it would lie there, up this end, this corner. Now whose was next?’ he wondered. ‘He was bound for Leith, I mind that. It’ll come to me. That lay in the other corner, side by side wi Augie’s. And last in was a great pipe o clarry wine, off a ship at Blackness and bound for Irvine, though why he never brought it ashore at Irvine in the first place — that’d be down here, near the door. Last in and first out, it was, out on the road so soon as the gates was open, for my lord Montgomery must have his clarry wine it seems. There was just the great pipe on the cart.’

‘I know Montgomery,’ said Gil rather grimly. ‘If it was just the one pipe of wine, our barrel can’t have come off his cart. What about the other? What sort of load was it?’

‘A big load,’ said Riddoch. ‘Mixed. More than a dozen puncheons and kegs, off different coopers, and a hogshead or two and all. Salt fish, the most of them, by what the man said. But how would a barrel jump from one cart to another, maister?’ He led the way to the end of the barn, while the swallows whirred and twittered overhead. ‘See — Augie’s cart lay here, maybe this wide. Robert Henderson’s — aye, I kent it would come to me. He’s a Kilsyth man. Robert Henderson’s lay here, there would be more than an ell between them, and a full puncheon’s no light weight. It wouldny happen by chance.’

‘No,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘And Augie’s man said the fellow he saw never came into the barn?’

‘This does not make sense,’ complained Maistre Pierre. ‘Three thieves who stole nothing, a barrel which vanishes, a watchman who did not see it.’

‘But did it vanish?’ Gil looked about him. ‘Where would you hide a barrel, Pierre?’

‘Maister?’ Simmie’s large ears were outlined against the light at the barn door. ‘Could you call your dog, maybe?’

‘The dog?’ Gil strode towards him. ‘What’s he up to? Socrates!’

‘It’s just he’ll no leave this bit alone,’ explained Simmie. ‘He’s found a scent he likes, and I canny sweep round him.’

‘Socrates!’ Gil stepped out into the sunlight. Shading his eyes he found his dog sniffing intently at the newly swept cobbles by the end of the barn. ‘Come here!’ he said sharply. Socrates wagged his stringy tail, but gave no other sign of hearing. His head was down, his muzzle close to the stones, and the rough grey coat was standing up on his shoulders and spine. Gil seized the animal’s collar to pull him away, and realized he was growling quietly.

‘What have you found?’ he said. ‘Leave it! Leave!’

‘What’s drawing him?’ asked the cooper. ‘What’s he scented? Have we emptied a load o fish there, or what?’

Gil bent to look closer at the patch which interested the dog.

‘There’s something caked between the stones,’ he reported. He rubbed at it and sniffed his fingers.

‘What is it?’ said the cooper.

‘Gilbert!’ called Maistre Pierre sharply from inside the barn. ‘I think you were right. Come look at this!’

He was poking about at the far end of the barn, near the place where Morison’s cart had stood. As Gil entered the barn towing a reluctant Socrates he turned his head, and indicated a shadowy corner.

‘Look here!’ he said dubiously. ‘It has been opened and emptied, but it is very like the barrel we had, the head here has by far less birdlime on it than on the goods beside it, and though the light is bad I think it has both Maister Morison’s own mark, and also Tod’s shipmark. Could this be our missing barrel?’

‘Aye, very likely it is,’ said Gil in Scots, ‘for what the dog wouldny leave out there is a great patch of blood. I’d say it’s no more than a few days old.’

‘Blood?’ repeated Riddoch in growing dismay. ‘In my yard? What’s been going on?’ He looked from one to the other of them. ‘What was in the barrel you had home, anyway?’

‘Let us get this one outside,’ requested Maistre Pierre, ‘and we will tell you.’

Out in the light, the puncheon he had found was indeed very like the one which had reached Morison’s Yard. Gil thought he recognized several of the marks, and the additional brand on head and flank seemed to be a fox’s head, which was presumably Thomas Tod’s mark. It was dry inside, and held a few handfuls of the chopped lint which had padded the contents. Gil shook the barrel so that the lint shifted, and something white showed under the fluffy clumps. Letting go the dog, who immediately slipped back to the interesting cobbles, he leaned in to extract a folded paper.

‘Is that the docket?’ said Maistre Pierre hopefully.

‘It is indeed.’ Gil scanned the small looped writing. ‘Well! He has done us proud — Pierre, we must find this load. Look at this!’ He handed the sheet to the mason, who bent to inspect it.

‘What was in the barrel that went to Glasgow?’ asked Riddoch again, frowning. ‘You’re very close about it, maisters.’

Gil looked directly at him, dragging his mind back to the matters of most concern.

‘Maister,’ he said, ‘what like is your missing laddie?’

The frown drained from the cooper’s face, leaving open-mouthed dismay.

‘Nicol?’ he said hoarsely, and crossed himself. ‘Christ aid us, what’s come to him?’

‘Can you describe him?’ pursued Gil. ‘What colour is his hair? His eyes? What age is he?’

‘Now that I can tell you,’ said Riddoch, licking his lips. ‘He was born the same year as the King’s brother Prince James. He’s sixteen past at Corpus Christi. Sinclair never — I–I beg you, maister, if you ken aught about him, tell me now. He’s my son.’

‘Does he resemble you, maister?’ asked the mason, looking at the neat-featured face before him.

‘They tell me he does, aye.’ Riddoch looked from one to the other of them, not daring to repeat his question. ‘His een are grey. Like his mother’s, God rest her soul.’

‘Then all I can tell you is we ken nothing about him,’ said Gil.

Riddoch clutched at the rim of the barrel in front of him, as if for support.

‘Our Lady be thanked for that!’ he muttered, crossing himself again.

‘Now can you tell us in return,’ said Gil, ‘who found and emptied this barrel?’