The Nicholas Feast

Chapter Twelve

‘I’m glad you came by, Maister Cunningham,’ said Maister Coventry, waving him to a stool by the window of his chamber in the Arthurlie building. ‘We were wondering what success you have achieved in the matter of William’s death.’

‘Call him by his first name, for God’s sake, Patey,’ said Maister Kennedy from the other side of the chamber. ‘We’re all equals here, and he’s in minor orders at least.’

Maister Coventry raised his eyebrows at Gil, who nodded.

‘I should be honoured,’ he said. ‘As to what I have achieved in William’s matter, the answer is very little. The people with a reason to kill the boy had no opportunity, and the people with an opportunity had no reason that I can discern.’

‘Who had a reason?’ demanded Maister Kennedy.

‘Most of the Faculty, I suspect,’ said Maister Coventry before Gil could answer. ‘It’s good fortune that all were together at the critical moment.’

‘What is the critical moment, anyway? When was he killed, exactly?’

‘I think,’ said Gil carefully, ‘that he was throttled just about the time the Dean rose at the end of the play. Certainly he was dead and locked in the coalhouse by the time we all gathered in the Fore Hall again. I can’t say closer than that yet, and I may never be able to.’

‘Oh,’ said his friend. He stared out of the window at the wet tree-tops of the Arthurlie garden, his lips moving, and finally said, ‘Aye, that was it. D’ye ken, Gil, unless he spoke to whoever killed him, I must be the last to have had any converse with the boy.’

Gil, noting with interest that William was no longer that little toad, said, ‘And what did you converse about?’

‘Well, no to say converse. You mind when his tail got ripped and he marched off the stage.’ Gil nodded. ‘He stopped behind the curtains and got out of the dragon costume. Then he took up his gown — ’

‘His gown?’ Gil interrupted. ‘You mean he had taken it backstage with him?’

‘Aye.’

‘So he had planned to go snooping,’ said Patrick Coventry thoughtfully.

‘Very likely. Anyway after he had his gown on, and done up all the wee hooks and fastened his belt — ’ Maister Kennedy stopped and grimaced. ‘His belt. Aye. He set off towards the door. I got a hold of him and said something about, You’re not going, are you? He says, Yes, I am, my part’s finished. All this in whispers, of course. I said, Who the — who do you think you are? I decide when you’re finished, I said, and he shook me off and answered me back, looking down his nose that way he had, For the first time in my life I know exactly who I am. Then he went off out the door and the next time I saw him he was dead. Wasny that a strange thing to say?’

‘Strange indeed,’ said Maister Coventry. ‘But he was in a strange mood that morning. I thought he seemed elated, out of himself in some way.’

‘I wonder what was in the package from his mother,’ said Gil. ‘And what he did with it.’

‘You think she sent word of who his father was?’ asked Maister Kennedy.

‘I think that might explain a great deal,’ said Gil.

‘Had he never known his father’s name?’ asked Maister Coventry curiously.

‘Montgomery claims that he himself never knew, but had his suspicions,’ said Gil. ‘Though of course there is no saying what the boy had been told.’

‘If anyone else knew it,’ said Nick Kennedy, reverting to realism, ‘William would pick it out of the air. So maybe she’d sent him some kind of proof, then?’

‘Was that why his chamber was searched?’ speculated Maister Coventry.

Gil shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? I feel we are close to a solution, to finding justice for the boy, but the last links in the chain elude us. So many strange things have happened — William’s chamber searched, yours searched, Nick, the pile of William’s papers burning in Jaikie’s brazier.’

‘I have another strange thing to recount,’ said Patrick Coventry. ‘This is why I sent word to you, Gilbert.’ He hesitated. ‘I still — I don’t know its significance.’

‘Spit it out, man,’ said Maister Kennedy bracingly, ‘and let Gil judge for himself.’

‘You know, I think, that I am studying for a bachelor’s in Sacred Theology,’ said the Second Regent, taking refuge in the Latin again. Gil nodded. ‘I should have been at the lecture our chaplain gave on Sunday at two o’clock, save that I was at the feast. So I asked one of my fellow Theology students in advance if I might copy his notes.’

‘We’ve all done it,’ said Maister Kennedy.

‘What with one thing and another,’ said Maister Coventry, ‘and the Montgomery boy having a nightmare, and the death of Jaikie our porter, it was not until yesterday before Vespers that I asked Alan Liddell for his notes in order that I might copy them. But he had no notes. I do not like the implication of what I am saying, but I must say it. Father Bernard did not teach at two o’clock on Sunday. There was no lecture.’

‘None?’ said Gil. ‘Did he cancel it, or not turn up to deliver it?’

‘He cancelled it,’ said Maister Coventry, nodding approval of the question. ‘Alan said he was present in the Theology Schule while they were gathering, and left the room less than a quarter-hour before he was due to start. He was gone for a little time, and returned just after the ringing of the two o’clock bell in order to dismiss the class, saying he was unwell and would give the lecture on another day.’

‘Class is ambitious,’ said Maister Kennedy. ‘There are five of you when you’re all there.’

‘Unwell in what way? Did he specify? Did he seem as normal?’

‘Alan did not tell me that, though he did say that Father Bernard seemed quite distressed, as if ill in truth. I think he said he was trembling. He said that two of the students offered to fetch help, or assist their teacher round to the House, but these offers were spurned.’

‘Well!’ said Gil. ‘Father Bernard went to some trouble to make me think he had taught as usual, although,’ he qualified, reviewing the conversation, ‘I don’t think he lied outright. What did his class do? Did he leave first, or did they?’

‘Alan did not say. It seems the class went up to the Laigh Hall, since it was raining, and held an informal disputation which lasted till the college dinner.’

‘So they would not have seen where their teacher went next.’

‘Probably not,’ agreed Maister Coventry.

‘So Bernard Stewart skipped a lecture,’ said Maister Kennedy. ‘So what? Is it important, Gil?’

‘It might be of great value,’ said Gil cautiously. ‘It confirms something I had suspected. I heard Wycliff mentioned in the Laigh Hall that afternoon. The ship of faith tempestuous wind and rain Drives in the sea of Lollardy that blaws. How close to the wind of reform does Father Bernard sail, Patrick? Is he at risk from a charge of heresy?’

‘Such a charge as William was hinting at on Sunday? It’s hard to teach theology without mentioning ideas which have been thought heretical at one time or another. Wycliff in particular appears from time to time.’ The Second Regent peered out at the much-trampled grass under his window. ‘I should have said Bernard was not at risk. As Dominicans go he is hardly a radical, so if any charge were to be laid his Order would support him without hesitation.’

‘Then William’s hints were an empty threat?’

‘Not completely,’ said Maister Kennedy unexpectedly. ‘There would be questions asked, his teaching suspended, delays to his students, confiscation of his books till somebody got here from Cologne to read them. Bloody inconvenient. And he’d lose the income from the chaplaincy.’

‘That goes to the Order,’ said the Second Regent.

‘Oh, aye, so it does,’ said Maister Kennedy without inflection.

‘It would be an extreme response nevertheless,’ said his colleague, ‘to kill in such a calculating way merely to avert a great inconvenience.’

‘We keep coming back to this,’ said Gil. ‘Those with a reason had no opportunity, those with opportunity had no reason that I can uncover. And yet the boy is dead.’

‘And his funeral is this morning,’ said Patrick Coventry.

‘Christ save us, it is,’ said Maister Kennedy. ‘I’d best be away. I’ve to rehearse the order of the procession with John Shaw. What a day, what a day,’ he mimicked.

‘And I have a lecture to deliver.’ Maister Coventry began searching his desk. ‘More Euclid for the bachelors, though I do not think they will listen. Perhaps Michael will have conned his answer by now.’ He lifted a sheaf of notes. ‘Gilbert, will you attend the funeral?’

‘After Sext, isn’t it? Yes, I’ll try to be there. And after it I have to present some kind of case concerning who killed the boy.’

‘The Dean will speak for most of the morning,’ Maister Kennedy warned him. ‘I’ve seen the notes.’

Gil left by the main door of the college, nodding to the Dominican lay-brother he found on duty there, and turned down the hill and in at the pend of the Masons’ house. Crossing the courtyard, he heard a succession of anguished barks from inside the main block. They continued until the door opened, and the wolfhound hurled itself out and down the steps, to rear up and paw at his jerkin, pushing urgently at his hand with its long muzzle.

‘I always thought wolfhounds were dignified creatures,’ said Alys in the doorway. She was wearing the blue linen gown again, its colour turning her honey-coloured hair to tawny and emphasizing the warm creamy tones of her skin. Impeded by the dog, he hurried up the steps to embrace her, and she returned his kiss, then held him off with a hand on his chest, looking up into his face. ‘What is it, Gil?’

He made a wry face.

‘I had matters out with my mother last night. She would not be persuaded, and in the end I told her I would be married in spite of her views.’

‘And what did she say to that?’ asked Alys, looking troubled.

‘Nothing, at first. Then she compared me to my grandfather Muirhead.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘It wasn’t a compliment, if that’s what you mean. I assured her that she could be certain of our loving duty, and that I spoke for you as well.’

‘But of course.’ She looked up at him, then hugged him tightly. He clasped her close, relishing the warm slender armful she made. The pup, seated at his feet, pawed at his hose again. He looked down at it, and Alys drew away a little as her father crossed the hall.

‘Father, come and hear this.’

‘My mother will not be persuaded,’ Gil explained, ‘and I have told her I’ll bide by my uncle’s advice.’

‘Well, well, you must take one or the other,’ said the mason robustly. ‘There is no middle way in this case. Are you hungry, Gilbert? Come up and be seated.’

‘I’m not hungry. I called by the college, to speak to Maister Coventry, and he offered me bannocks and cheese too, but I’d not long broken my fast,’ said Gil, following Alys into the little panelled closet. ‘To be fair, my mother did say some very gratifying things about Alys. She dislikes my marrying at all, not the choice I have made.’

‘I call on her, perhaps,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘We do the thing with all formality.’

Gil sat down, and the pup clambered on to his knee.

‘That would likely be well received. I had a long word with my uncle this morning, and he asked me to say the contract is nearly ready.’ He looked at the dog, which was licking industriously at his right wrist. ‘What has this fellow done with his collar?’

‘Oh, he must have got it off!’ Alys exclaimed. ‘Jennet said he was kicking at it half the night. It seemed to be irritating him after you made it looser.’

‘It will be in the kitchen,’ said her father.

‘Yes, very likely. I will look for it shortly. What did you learn at the college?’ Alys asked.

‘That Father Bernard didn’t give the lecture he claimed to have at two o’clock.’

‘Ah,’ she said.

‘So where was he?’ wondered her father.

‘Searching William’s chamber, I should say,’ said Gil.

‘And for what?’

‘For whatever was in the package I gave William. The more I look at this,’ said Gil, ‘the more I think that package was the base from which the whole action sprang. As soon as the boy opened it, he began a course of actions which caused someone to kill him.’

‘You think it contained money? Some instruction, perhaps? Some vital piece of information he could sell to English Henry?’

‘What, a deed of purchase for the realm of Scotland, made out in Edward Longshanks’ name? No, I don’t think that. Consider — William’s first act was to attempt to speak to Father Bernard, though Bernard claims he didn’t have time for him. Then he spent the next two hours accosting various people in public. I watched him doing it. None of the people he spoke to seemed to be glad of the conversation.’ Gil paused, counting them off in his mind. ‘Aye. Father Bernard, David Gray, the Principal, the Steward. Some of his fellow students. I think I have got an account of all those.’

‘Extortion,’ said the mason. ‘We knew that.’

‘Yes, but several of the people who mentioned his extortion methods said in so many words that he would gather secrets and then come privately and ask for money. Not in front of the entire Faculty of Arts, not in a manner so obvious that it caught my eye. He asked awkward questions, very publicly, at the Faculty meeting. He nearly spoiled the play, and when his costume was damaged he went off without waiting for the end, as if it was all beneath his dignity.’

‘He was practising making a will,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘Yes. I thought he was pretending to be legitimate. What if I was wrong — what if he had just discovered he was entitled to the name he used in the will?’

‘An attested birth record, you mean? Or some sort of authenticated statement of his parentage?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And it went to his head,’ said the mason slowly, ‘so that he no longer behaved with secrecy. Ye-es.’

‘He does seem to have been naturally arrogant,’ Gil said. ‘He would certainly feel that a Montgomery had no need to act in secret.’

‘Then what was his parentage?’ asked Alys. ‘And why should it cause someone to kill him? I thought you thought Father Bernard might be his father.’

‘Only because he knew exactly how old the boy was,’ said Gil fairly. ‘That’s the problem. Two problems. There are a lot of Montgomery men old enough to be his father, and he didn’t mention his parentage in the will, so we don’t know his father’s forename. And even if he is a Montgomery, why that should provoke someone in the college to kill him I can’t see at all.’

‘Was not his mother a Montgomery?’ asked Alys. ‘He was entitled to the name anyway.’

‘He has never used it,’ said Gil.

‘Better one’s foster-mother’s name, I suppose,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘than use one’s mother’s name like any unacknowledged bastard.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Gil. ‘But if he is doubly entitled to the name, he has double reason to use it now. And yet we come back to this: why should that get him killed?’

‘As you said, there are no Cunninghams in the college just now.’

‘Our Lady be praised, you had someone with you all the time we need to worry about,’ said Alys. ‘But isn’t the boy Ninian a Boyd? I thought the Boyds were also enemies of the Montgomery.’

‘He is,’ said Gil. ‘If Ninian did it, he and his friends are all three of them in it together, for their story hangs together. I don’t think it was Ninian, though I’m keeping an eye on him.’ He freed one hand, patted the breast of his doublet, causing the now somnolent dog to raise its head and look at him, and drew out the red notebook. ‘We must deal with this before Hugh Montgomery sends for William’s gear. If we can destroy the pages, by accident, and return the binding to the family, then honour is satisfied all round and nobody is in danger.’

‘The kitchen fire, I think,’ said Alys, taking it. ‘What did you learn from it?’

He grimaced. ‘He was an unpleasant boy. Parts of it are a record of student misdemeanours, rules broken and goods expropriated, and the small sums and favours he extorted in return for silence. They add up well, but they are mostly in placks and pence. Other parts are lists of word or deed of his seniors. That list of chance remarks Maister Forsyth mentioned is in there. And finally there is a long section headed with a large D which I take to be material from Doig the dog-breeder, with some very rare and curious facts in it. A lot is in William’s private code,’ he admitted, ‘which I may not have read correctly, but I think I have the key to most of it.’

‘And you simply destroy that?’ said the mason.

‘My uncle agrees with me,’ said Gil airily. ‘The material is not for dissemination.’

‘Ah.’

‘I shall go and burn it,’ said Alys.

She slipped out, and her father said, ‘I am still at a loss about last night’s game of cards. What were you doing, losing all those tricks, giving away so much information? Information again,’ he added in disgust.

‘As Montgomery said, it’s the currency of this reign. I suppose,’ said Gil slowly, ‘I was using him. He’s no fool, and he may be more subtle than I allow, but I have given him such facts and suspicions as I pleased to give him, and I hope he will make good use of them even if he suspects he was fed them for that purpose.’

‘What, the list of the boy’s possessions?’

‘And the possession of them,’ Gil reminded him. ‘Has he sent for them yet?’

‘Not yet. What else?’

‘Well, I hope I’ve convinced him that we don’t understand the cipher disc, though I don’t rely on that. And I’ve drawn his attention to Jaikie’s death, and flown him at Billy Doig, and Bernard Stewart. Whether he’ll stoop on either we’ll just have to wait and see.’

‘More metaphor,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘And what — ’

He was interrupted by a voice on the stairs, exclaiming in gruff French, ‘Where is that dog? Where is the bad dog?’

‘Catherine? He is here,’ the mason called, raising his eyebrows at Gil. ‘What is the matter?’

‘This wicked dog!’ Catherine stumped into the little room, brandishing the missing collar. ‘Look what he has done to his handsome collar. We found it in his corner just now. It is quite destroyed!’ She thrust the object at Gil, who took it. The pup, wakened by the commotion, raised its head to seize one end of the leather and tried to start a game with it.

‘No,’ said Gil firmly, pinching the animal’s jaw to make it let go. He pushed the pup off his knee and fended it off with one foot while he inspected the damage to the collar. The padded centre-section had been well gnawed. The leather was torn and wet and the straw packing was escaping, but something white also showed in the gap. Gil drew it out carefully.

‘The lining is coming out. He has chewed up the stitching. You must beat him for such destructive behaviour, maistre!’ declaimed Catherine.

‘He’s only a baby,’ said Gil absently, unfolding a curving spill of paper. ‘All young animals chew things. I dare say he is cutting teeth, they always are at this age. Would you beat John, madame, for chewing — ’ He stopped speaking to stare.

‘What is it?’ asked Catherine. ‘Is it something important, maistre? The dog man was here again this morning asking for the collar. Is that why he sets such value on it?’

‘I don’t know if this is what Billy Doig wants,’ said Gil, ‘but it is certainly something I want.’ He passed it to the mason, and continued, ‘You know the dog man, madame?’

‘Not to say know him.’ She sniffed. ‘I know his wife by sight, for I see her every day exercising the dogs out there.’ She gestured to the window, with its view down the long garden and across the Mill-burn.

‘On the Dow Hill? Did you see her yesterday?’

‘I did. My sight is good at a distance, maistre, and I saw her clearly from the demoiselle’s chamber where I was attending your lady mother as she washed the dirt of the roads from her person.’ She stared across the burn. ‘As clearly as I see her now, indeed.’

‘What?’ Gil twisted round to look. ‘Sweet St Giles! Pierre, see this.’

The mason rose to join them at the window and watch the cart jolting up across the Dow Hill. On it were piled a precarious heap of household goods, and what seemed, from this distance, to be the kind of basket in which puppies were transported if necessary. Beside it and leading the fat pony trudged the small chess-piece figure of Maister Doig, and behind it his wife was attempting to control the largest mixed leash of dogs Gil had ever seen.

‘Pray God they do not start a rabbit,’ said Maistre Pierre after a moment. ‘What do we do about that?’

‘Little we can do,’ said Gil, still watching.

‘But he is escaping.’

‘We have no proof he killed Jaikie,’ said Gil slowly, ‘only a strong supposition. Short of a witness in the street yesterday or a signed confession, there is no case worth bringing against him. Even if we did bring a case, he could always claim it was a fair fight, or an accident. There might be blood-money for the man’s kin, but I hardly think Doig would hang.’

‘A fair fight? A man that height, against one like Jaikie?’

‘Precisely,’ said Gil.

‘So it does not matter,’ said Catherine, ‘that the dog has destroyed his collar? Is he not to be scolded for his misdeed?’

‘I’ll scold him,’ Gil promised her. She grunted at him, and stumped out muttering darkly, passing Alys in the doorway.

‘So is this paper what I think it is?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘Alys, look at this. It was in the dog’s collar.’

‘I’m sorry I was so long,’ she said, handing Gil the singed covers of the notebook. ‘Nancy was feeding John by the fireside, and he spilled his sops on my gown.’ She looked over her father’s arm at the paper he was holding, and read, ‘Hodie in matrimonies — This day, the morrow of the feast of All Souls, 1475, were joined by me in holy matrimony Isobel Montgomery and — and who? The paper is torn. Oh, how tantalizing! What can the missing name be? Is there nothing to tell us?’

‘Say rather, it’s chewed.’ Gil took the page, piecing together the damp flaps of the ragged lower margin. ‘That’s an A.’

‘A-L,’ said Alys, pointing with a slender finger.

‘E,’ contributed her father.

‘Then there is a piece missing completely. But that is definitely an N, and a D.’

‘Alexander?’ wondered Alys.

‘I think it must be. And we know the surname. We have the name of William’s father.’

‘Alexander Montgomery,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘But is this a reason to kill the boy?’

‘There is another name missing,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘The officiating priest usually signs this kind of document. It says This day were joined by me- I think he did put his name to it.’

‘You think that was why William wanted to speak to Father Bernard?’ said Alys.

‘You mean it was his name? He married them?’ The mason craned his neck to see the ragged edge of the paper. ‘No, there is no more writing. The dog must have eaten it. May I assure you now, I shall not follow him round the yard waiting for the facts to emerge.’

‘Nor I.’ Gil sat down again, looking at the fragile document. ‘If Bernard Stewart did marry these two, he would be in some trouble, even sixteen years later, both from the Montgomery for going against his wishes, and from his Order for marrying two people who were within the forbidden degrees of relationship.’

‘Surely he could brazen it out?’ suggested the mason.

‘One of the pages in the notebook was headed B.S. and contained a number of reformist quotations which I would not like to have imputed to me,’ said Gil. ‘What if William did have speech with Father Bernard on Sunday morning? He — Father Bernard told me he had to arrange for the music to be carried to St Thomas’s, and therefore had no time for the boy, but John Shaw itemized the music in the list of things he had had to see to.’

‘So he did,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘I remember.’

‘If William showed Father Bernard this document,’ said Gil, ‘or at least told him he now had possession of it, and threatened to report him for heresy if he would not support a claim of legitimacy — ’

‘I should think Father Bernard would be desperate,’ said Alys.

‘He would lose either way,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘But is it sufficient reason?’ Gil looked up as the Blackfriars bell began to ring. ‘Plague take it, that must be for the boy’s funeral! I meant to borrow a Master’s gown and hood and join the procession, but it’s too late now. I must go as I am and slip in at the back. Pierre, are you coming? Does Mistress Irvine go?’ He folded the paper with care and tucked it into his purse.

‘Brother Andrew forbade it,’ said Alys. ‘She is still sore stricken with grief. Gil, I know you have no gown, your own won’t come back for several days. That kind of mending is specialized work. But at least let me find the funeral favours, so Lord Montgomery won’t be offended.’

‘It was Montgomery’s men who ruined my gown,’ Gil pointed out, but she had hurried off up the stairs.

Blackfriars kirk was half-full. Gil made his way in by the west door just as the first singers of the University procession reached the north porch, and was surprised by the numbers already present, and the buzz of conversation in the nave.

‘I suppose half the town is here out of interest,’ said his friend behind him.

‘You could be right,’ Gil answered him, staring over the heads. Seats had been placed nearest the nave altar for the Dean and Principal and other senior members of the college, and the small stout Dominican who had laid Jaikie out was keeping space behind these for the ranks of scholars, not without some difficulty. On trestles before the altar, with candles at head and foot, lay a solid elm coffin. Hugh Montgomery had evidently decided to do the thing properly. He and his henchmen were standing on the south side of the church, their predatory stares directed at Father Bernard who was fidgeting about on the altar steps. The procession sang its way into the nave and filed into its places. Dean Elphinstone, in his silk gown and hood with the red chaperon pinned to his shoulder, glared along the length of the coffin at Lord Montgomery while the scholars, behind him, worked their way through an elaborate setting of the funerary sentences. Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live … But some of the singers were younger than the dead boy, Gil reflected. It seemed unkind to put these words into their mouths. And what Patrick Paniter, chanter at St Mungo’s, would make of their rendering of his setting did not bear thinking about.

The last of the sentences wound to a close, and Father Bernard lifted up his powerful, musical voice in the opening words of the funeral Mass. Gil, half attending, surveyed the congregation and turned over in his mind what he must say to the Faculty afterwards.

As Maistre Pierre suggested, a number of those present were probably moved by curiosity. A burial following a murder that touched the college and also the landed class would be a great draw. But the Provost’s steward was here as a courtesy to the college, and there was also a scattering of journeymen from within the burgh. Gil recognized James Sproat’s junior man, come straight from the cordiner’s shop with his leather apron bundled under his arm. William must have been a good customer, he reflected.

The Dean was speaking. The Latin phrases flowed elegantly over the heads of most of his hearers, who took the opportunity to continue their various conversations. Two men near Gil appeared to be compounding some transaction concerning their masters’ goods, to be ratified by their principals later in the week. Behind the Dean the scholars stood in obedient silence with the younger regents watching them. Gil saw Maister Kennedy glare at Walter. At the other end of the same row Ralph Gibson was weeping openly, and Patrick Coventry put his arm about the boy’s shoulders.

In the middle of the ranks of bachelors, both junior and senior, Robert Montgomery stood, head tipped back, glaring down his nose at the Dean’s back. Gil glanced at the other side of the church, and found Hugh, Lord Montgomery, in identical pose, glaring at the Dean’s face.

‘They breed true, these Montgomery men,’ said the mason, who had evidently seen where he was looking.

‘They do,’ said Gil, adding absently, ‘Lyk as a strand of water of a spring Haldis the sapour of the fontell well.’

He was very close to the solution, he was certain. He could feel the shape of the argument. But there was still something missing, something which did not quite support his proof.

The Dean’s address wore on, but from the back of the church, what with the surrounding noise, Gil could hear only the occasional word. Those phrases he did catch seemed to convey the wish, rather than the hope, that William’s time in Purgatory would be shortened by his academic achievements and the respect he had borne his teachers. Maister Kennedy’s face as he heard this was studiously blank, and Gil recalled that his friend had seen the Dean’s notes.

The Dean reached a benediction, and seated himself. One of the Theology students leaned forward and gave out a note, marking the beat with his hand raised above his head, and the scholars launched into another funerary setting.

‘I must go outside,’ Gil said to Maistre Pierre, and got a nod in reply. He slipped out of the open west door into the yard, and stood for a moment in the brighter light, looking about him. To his right, at the corner of the church, was the bell-tower whose base served as mortuary chapel. It seemed likely that Jaikie was still laid out there. To his left the cloister wall extended south of the church, with the small guarded gate by which guests entered or the friars went out into the burgh to preach. In front of him, stretching to the back walls of the small properties on the High Street, the lumpy grass of the public graveyard was broken by a few bushes and the occasional marker of wood or stone. A mound of fresh earth near the bell-tower indicated William’s immediate destination. Trying not to think about that, or about the clump of bigger bushes in the far corner where a girl had been stabbed ten days since, Gil wandered along the cloister wall. One of Montgomery’s men emerged from the church and strode to the gate, where he leaned against the pillar watching Gil and stropping his dagger on his leather sleeve.

There was an elder-tree by the gatehouse, covered in creamy platters of blossom. Gil stopped beside it, breathing the mixture of the rank odour of the leaves and the sweet, heavy scent of the flowers, and the porter put his head out of his lodge, hand raised to deliver the customary blessing.

‘The funeral’s in the kirk, my son,’ he said. ‘Oh, it’s yourself, Maister Cunningham. Not seeking any more bodies in the kirkyard, are you? We’ve enough for the moment.’

‘I think Dean Elphinstone feels the same way,’ Gil said. ‘No, I was admiring the bour-tree.’

‘We’ll have a good crop of berries off that in the autumn,’ said the wiry Dominican. ‘The cellarer makes a good wine with them.’ He smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘Good for coughs and colds, that is.’

‘Better a linctus with cherries,’ said a familiar voice behind Gil. He turned, to see both the harper and his sister approaching. The watcher at the gate glowered after them.

‘And upon you, brother,’ said McIan in reply to the porter’s blessing. ‘Good day, Maister Cunningham. We came for the burial, but I think we are late.’

‘The boy’s no yirdit yet,’ said the porter. ‘They’ll come out in procession shortly. Wait up yonder by the college wall if you want to be nearer.’ He surveyed them with a bright eye, assessing the need for his professional services. ‘It gars any man look over his shoulder for his own fate, to see so young a laddie put in the ground.’

‘I have much to be thankful for,’ said McIan, and his sister nodded. ‘With God’s help, my own son is brought back from the brink of death. I came to offer prayers for the kin of this boy, since they have lost what I have regained.’

‘We were by the house the now,’ said Ealasaidh to Gil. Her severe expression cracked into a fond smile. ‘It seems the bairn will feed himself, so Nancy says, and shouts with wrath because his sops go everywhere but into his mouth.’

‘I mind that stage,’ said Brother Porter unexpectedly. ‘My sister’s eldest ate porridge with his fingers till he was two. Mind you, he canny count beyond ten with his boots on,’ he added. ‘How old is your boy?’

‘Not eight months,’ said Ealasaidh proudly. Brother Porter looked properly impressed. Behind them the west door of the church was opened wide, and the processional cross was borne out, followed by the singers. Gil ignored them. He found himself thinking of his nephew, who as an infant had borne a strong resemblance to Maister Forsyth. But then, he reflected, most babies looked like Maister Forsyth.

The last fragment of the picture fell into place.