A Pig of Cold Poison (11 page)

‘I’m well enough,’ he said indifferently. ‘That’s Gil Cunningham’s wife, is it no?’ He nodded to Alys, and smiled slyly. ‘I know what you’ve given her.’

‘Only a speck,’ said Grace.

‘And why are the two of you in here talking, anyway? You should be at the gossip-ale getting drunk wi the rest of them. The hall’s full of drunken women.’ He giggled again.

Grace patted his cheek. ‘That’s your answer,’ she said. ‘We’d no wish to get drunk, Alys and me, so we’re in here talking instead.’

Alys watched them. The cloud on which she appeared to be floating was descending slowly, and she was thinking more clearly. Apart from her own, the only marriage she had observed at close quarters was Kate’s. Both were love matches; she thought this one was not, though it was evident the two were fond of one another, and she wondered what Grace had brought to the marriage. Perhaps her skill, if it was that great.

‘You never talk to me,’ said Nicol discontentedly. ‘You talk to Frankie, and Meg, and all them. I wish you’d talk to me instead.’

‘I’ll aye talk to you, my loon,’ said Grace, turning to look intently at his face. ‘Sit down now and talk wi the two of us. Do you need some of your drops?’

‘No, for I’m going out. I’ve a message to you from the old man. He bade me tell you,’ he ticked them off on his fingers, ‘the shop’s about out of lavender water, he wants more brought down, and where was the small glass gourd, oh, and his drops is getting low. Here’s Blue Benet.’ He handed her another of those painted flasks, studied his hands, and giggled. ‘Aye, that’s the lot. Now I’m away out.’

‘Will you be back for supper?’

‘Aye, likely. I’m going to tell Tammas Bowster that Meg’s brought home her bairn.’

He slouched out of the room, and Grace watched him go, tight-lipped. After a moment she sighed, and smiled, and said, ‘He’s a kind man, my Nicol, whatever else. Did you ken his mother?’

‘No, for she died long before we came to Glasgow. Maybe Agnes Hamilton knew her,’ Alys suggested. ‘Is it you makes up Maister Renfrew’s drops? I saw him taking some yesterday. And Nicol has some as well.’ She heard herself giggling as Nicol had done. ‘Drop, drop, drop, everyone has drops. Do you make his too? Does Robert have drops?’ She closed her mouth firmly, alarmed by the words which were falling out of it. Dropping out of it. What is wrong with me? she wondered. Where are my manners flown to?

‘No,’ said Grace quietly. ‘It’s his father makes those up.’ She came to sit down, gave Alys another of those sharp, assessing looks, and nodded. ‘Aye, you’ll do. Do you want to sleep a bit? Put your feet up on the bench.’

‘No, I don’t want to sleep.’ It seemed like a very bad idea. There might be dreams waiting. ‘I’d rather talk,’ she said hopefully. ‘Tell me how you met Nicol. Did you love him when you were wedded?’ That’s better, said the watchful voice in her head. You can ask any woman that kind of question.

‘I favoured him,’ said Grace, smiling slightly. ‘He’s well learned, and mostly civil, and the – the man that taught us both would have us wed.’

‘Was that in Middelburgh? Will you go back there?’

Grace sighed. ‘I’d like to. We’d friends there, and elsewhere in the Low Countries.’

‘Then why not go?’

‘Frankie won’t hear of it. Now we’re here, he says, we can stay and take a hand in the business. Which doesny please the rest of them.’

‘Why not? I’d have thought they’d like the extra help.’

‘Aye, but there’s the extra outgoings.’ The other girl sighed again. ‘And the questions it raises about Nicol’s place here.’

‘Surely he is the eldest son?’

‘Aye, and Frankie sent him into the Low Countries to learn his trade,’ Grace said rather bitterly. ‘But now he’s learned it, Frankie won’t hear what he says. All he does is cry him down a fool. I’d say he’s decided Syme and wee brother Robert can be bent to his purpose better than Nicol ever could. So Nicol’s to stay here and do nothing, while his father takes me for –’ She bit that off.

‘Why did you come back to Scotland?’ Alys asked.

Grace gave her a rueful look. ‘You’re full of questions the day, aren’t you no? Well, I suppose that’s my doing, and you’ll mind little enough of it the morn.’

‘I like to know things,’ said Alys happily. She had come down from her cloud now, but was feeling pleasantly relaxed, though some of her thoughts did not seem to be in her control. ‘So why did you come back, if Nicol dislikes his father so much?’

‘I’m not right sure,’ said the other girl. She rose and went to the window, looking out of the glazed upper portion over the bleak garden and fiddling with the turn-button on the shutter below it. ‘Time we gathered the last of the autumn simples,’ she noted. ‘I suppose Nicol was determined, and I’d a notion to see where he grew up. But all we’ve done in coming here is make Frankie the more resolved that Nicol’s to have no part in the business, or the proceeds, and nothing like his share of the property in the old man’s will.’

‘He has his rights,’ said Alys, ‘but that’s unkind. It’s a father’s duty to see his children established in the world.’

‘Aye, well, he says he’s already done more than Nicol deserves.’ Grace left the window, and looked down at Alys, the grey eyes considering her carefully. ‘I should start another batch of his drops. It takes a day or two while the virtues combine.’

‘Maister Renfrew’s drops? I saw him take them,’ Alys said again. ‘They worked right well, and quickly at that. Is it his heartbeat that troubles him, or the threat of an apoplexy?’

‘Excess of choler, properly, together wi he’s no a young man though he will behave as if he’s twenty. I think I have all the simples here to put to them.’

‘Then I should get away and leave you to your work.’ Alys rose, finding her legs more certain than they had been. ‘I’m right grateful for your help, Grace.’

‘Och, never mention it,’ said Grace. ‘Are you fit to go home alone yet? Aye, I think you are. Had you a lassie wi you? I’ll call her.’

‘N-no,’ said Alys, with sudden decision. ‘Jennet’s in the kitchen here. Send and tell her, if you would, I’ve stepped next door to see my good-sister, so she may go home in her own time. Kate will want to hear the news of –’ She swallowed. It was all still there in her head, waiting to pounce. ‘News of Meg.’

It was probably fortunate, Gil thought later, that the Serjeant greeted his request to speak to the prisoner again with nothing more offensive than:

‘Forgot what you’d asked him, have you? Aye, he’s still where he was. But you’ll ha to be quick, the Provost sent for him a bit back and I’ll have him up to the Castle for questioning as soon as Tammas Sproull gets back from his dinner. And the quest on Danny Gibson’s cried for the morn’s morn,’ he added, unlocking the door to the end cell.

‘I won’t keep him long,’ said Gil, biting back a sharper answer. He stepped into the cell as Bothwell got to his feet, looking alarmed. ‘I’ll shout when I’m done.’

The Serjeant barred the door and went away, grumbling under his breath. Gil looked at the prisoner, who said, ‘Is it – is it more questions? For I’ve said all I have to say, maister.’

‘Have you?’ said Gil. ‘That’s a pity.’ He sat down cautiously on the bench, and looked up at Bothwell. ‘You haveny told me all you have to tell, that’s for certain, and I’m getting a bit displeased about running round Glasgow finding out things you could have told me yourself in the first place.’ Bothwell eyed him warily. ‘Do you want to hear what I’ve learned?’

‘I’d sooner hear how my sister does,’ the young man admitted.

‘Well enough, but not best pleased wi you, for the same reason,’ said Gil. ‘Now, she found the pewter flask, the one you should have had in your scrip, under the counter when she closed up the booth, and the filler alongside it. She thought likely you’d been filling it and been interrupted by a customer. Tammas Bowster says you came late to the tryst at Goudie’s, saying there had been a rush of custom, which would fit wi that.’ Bothwell looked steadily down at him, his face giving away nothing. ‘Where did Agnes get the one you used in the play?’

‘I told you, it was one of ours,’ said Bothwell, startled into speech.

‘Your sister says not. The six you had from Renfrew are still in their wrappings where she stowed them.’

‘It was a spare one he …’

‘He what?’ prompted Gil as that statement halted in mid-air.

Bothwell bent his head and muttered, ‘I forget.’

‘Who gave you it, Nanty? It’s important. Your life hangs by that flask, you understand me? As things stand, the assize will likely find you slew Danny Gibson and you’ll be sent to Edinburgh for trial, and I wouldny give much for your chances there if you’ll not defend yourself.’

Bothwell turned away from him, shaking his head. Gil stared exasperated at his back, and said, ‘I’ll tell you what I think happened. I think Agnes gave you that flask, and I think she got it from somewhere in her father’s house. Had you agreed that beforehand? Is that why you left the pewter flask behind?’

‘No!’ said Bothwell, swinging round indignantly. ‘No, we never – are you saying I’d plotted wi Agnes to slay Danny? She wouldny do sic a thing!’

‘Then who did?’ demanded Gil. ‘Somebody poisoned Danny Gibson, and I need to find out how it happened, and if it was a mischance I’d like to know who keeps that kind of strong poison lying about Glasgow and why, so I can avoid him.’

‘No me, maister!’ said Bothwell. ‘I’ve no a notion what it was. Has Wat never sent to let you know?’

‘Not yet. Maister Renfrew thought it’s most likely one of the plant infusions, but he said he’d need time wi his books to be certain of it.’

‘A plant infusion.’ Bothwell stared at the wall for a moment, much as Renfrew himself had done. ‘Aye, there’s a few things that – you’d not believe what can brew up into pyson, maister. Yew, bindweed, monkshood, there’s half a hedgerow could kill and the other half cure.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ Gil said grimly. ‘Now will you tell me the truth about that flask, or will you hang for Agnes Renfrew?
My deth ich love, my life ich hate, for a lady shene
, is that it?’

There was a taut silence, which lasted and lasted. Finally Gil sat back and crossed one leg over the other. ‘Well, then, what will you tell me? How well do you know the lassie Renfrew? Have you had much converse wi her? What do you know of her family?’

‘N-nothing,’ admitted Bothwell. ‘I’ve not – I’ve not been that concerned to speak of them wi her – we met when he gave a feast for her birthday, two month since. All the craft was invited, and one or two neighbours, and there was dancing. We – she stood up wi me for a couple of branles, and a country-dance, and we’d a good laugh thegither, and I, I, I was right taken wi her.’

‘What did her father do about that?’ Gil asked.

‘Bid her dance wi young Andro Hamilton.’ Bothwell pulled a face. ‘She wasny well pleased, as you’d imagine. Thirteen, is he? He’s no more, certainly, though he’s a likely lad.’

‘And when did Danny Gibson meet her?’

Bothwell looked aside. After a moment he said, ‘He and I were chaffing at the booth a couple of days later, and Agnes passed by wi a basket, on her way to the baker’s. Danny was as taken wi her as I was, and she –’ He stopped, and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘She was aye even-handed,’ he said. ‘If she spoke wi one of us she’d speak wi the other.’

‘She never had the chance to do that yesterday,’ observed Gil. ‘Where did she get the flask from?’ There was no answer. ‘Nanty, if you’ll not help me to the truth, I canny help you, and what will your sister do without you?’

‘Wed Adam Forrest?’ said Bothwell.

‘He’ll not take her if you hang for a poisoner.’

There was another pause, and finally Bothwell burst out with, ‘I canny tell you more than I have done, maister! Can you not see that?’

Descending the steps to the street, Gil spied his father-in-law approaching, conspicuous for his size even without the huge grey plaid round his shoulders. The mason, seeing him, altered his path to meet him, and clapped him on the back.

‘Ah, Gilbert! And what success so far?’ he asked.

Gil shook his head. ‘I seem to be going round in circles,’ he admitted. ‘Where are you bound just now?’

‘The new work. Well, it is hardly new,’ qualified Maistre Pierre, ‘but we have had to take that gable down almost to the foundations. I go to see how Wattie has progressed.’

‘I’m told Danny Gibson drank in Maggie Bell’s alehouse,’ said Gil. ‘I’ll cross the river with you, and we can get a jug of ale once you’ve spoken to Wattie.’

The suburb of the Gorbals was the usual haphazard mixture of poorer cottages and tall stone houses, the habitation of those who were either too poor to live in the burgh or wealthy enough to ignore the burgess regulations about indwelling. In the midst of these was the leper hospital, the roof of its little chapel of St Ninian rearing above the walls. Maistre Pierre’s new project was easy to pick out as they strolled down the steep slope of Bishop Rae’s bridge; the client was extending an existing stone house, which was swathed in scaffolding, propped with sturdy oak beams, and open down one side like a toy house Gil had seen once in the Low Countries.

‘I take it Maister Hutchison has moved elsewhere while you’re working,’ he said.

‘He has.’ Maistre Pierre grinned. ‘He has moved his family in with his good-mother, so he is very anxious that I finish. I tell him, if he had waited until the spring, it would all have gone much faster. At least we get the founds dug for the new wing.’

Waiting for the mason to finish listening to his foreman’s complaints, Gil gravitated to the smithy near to Maggie Bell’s tavern, where the usual crowd of onlookers was watching the smith and his two assistants. There was something endlessly fascinating about the way the iron came out of the fire, cherry-red or yellow or even white, soft enough to change shape under the clanging hammers, growing darker and duller as it took its new form.

‘Gil Cunningham,’ said a voice over the fierce hiss of the cooling-water. He turned, and found Nicol Renfrew by his side, grinning aimlessly. ‘I saw you at the Cross. What are you doing over this side the river?’

‘Getting a drink at Maggie Bell’s, when my good-father finishes speaking to his men.’

‘I’ll join you. You ken that’s where Danny Gibson drank?’

‘I do,’ said Gil, looking curiously at the other man. ‘Who told you that?’

Nicol shrugged again. ‘Folk tells me a’ sorts of things. I never remember who said the half of them. Maybe I saw him myself, or maybe it was Tammas Bowster, poor fellow.’

Maistre Pierre emerged from the building site, took in the situation, and waved at the tavern. Gil turned towards the wooden sign with its painting of St Mungo’s bell, saying, ‘You know Bowster? Do you know any more of the mummers?’

‘I know Sanders Armstrong,’ offered Nicol, ‘that’s their Bessie. And I know Geordie Barton that plays the pipes. But I don’t know Willie Anderson, I don’t like him.’

‘Did you know they were going to be at Augie’s house yesterday?’ Gil asked curiously.

‘I did.’ Nicol giggled. ‘Tammas tellt me. But I never tellt the old man. Did you see his face when he knew? I thought he’d have an apoplexy.’

Gil ducked in at the low door of the alehouse, and made for the corner where Maistre Pierre was already established with a large jug of ale and three beakers. Nicol wandered across the crowded room behind him, nodding to one or two people and bowing to Mistress Bell herself where she stood threateningly beside the barrel of ale.

‘I like it here,’ he said as he sat down.

‘It makes a change,’ said Gil.

‘My faither never crosses the river,’ countered Nicol. ‘Do you ken my minnie has a wee lassie?’

‘A lassie?’ Gil repeated. ‘Are both well?’

‘Oh, aye, they’re fine.’

‘My congratulations to your father,’ said Maistre Pierre heartily. ‘He must be pleased?’

Nicol shrugged. ‘Likely. I never asked him. Mally Bowen said it looks like him, they tell me, so at least he can stop casting that up at poor Meg.’

‘Casting up what?’ asked Gil.

‘He reckons she played him false,’ said Nicol as if it was obvious, ‘the same as my mammy did. But now he kens he was wrong.’

‘Here’s good fortune to the bairn,’ said Gil, recovering his countenance, and raised his beaker. They all drank, and he went on, ‘Tell me something, Nicol. How did you know it was the wrong flask Nanty Bothwell had yesterday?’

Nicol shrugged. ‘It just was,’ he said again.

‘Which one was it, then?’ Nicol gave him a doubtful look. ‘I’ve heard you can tell between them. It’s the patterns, isn’t it?’ Gil prompted, aware of Maistre Pierre watching in puzzlement.

‘They’re all different,’ Nicol said at last. ‘Same as people. Nanty should ha had Billy Bucket, that stays in his scrip for the play. He’s made of pewter and holds the smoking brew. But he never had him, he had one of the crock ones instead. Allan Leaf, it was.’

‘And where does Allan Leaf usually stay?’ Gil asked. ‘Not in Nanty’s scrip, I take it.’

‘No, not at all,’ agreed Nicol. ‘He’s often in my faither’s purse, for he holds his drops that Grace makes up for him.’

‘Where did you see him last, before Nanty had him?’

Another shrug. ‘Might ha been in the workroom. There’s three of them, you see, that do the same task, and when one’s done he puts him to wait and gets another from the cabinet. I just gave Blue Benet to Grace to fill up for him.’

Was there a reason, Gil wondered, why these were all men’s names? Was Nicol’s world peopled entirely by male objects?

‘That is very clear,’ said Maistre Pierre, refilling their beakers, ‘but if the flask you call Allan Leaf was in the workroom, which I am sure your father said was locked, how did it come to be in young Bothwell’s scrip?’

‘He did say that, didn’t he?’ said Nicol, and giggled. ‘Perhaps he flew.’

‘What are the drops for?’ asked Maistre Pierre curiously.

‘His heart, mostly,’ said Nicol. ‘Likely it’s something the Saracen learned Grace in Middelburgh when we were there.’

‘A Saracen?’ said Maistre Pierre, his eyes lighting up. ‘You have spoken with a Saracen medical man? Doctor or surgeon?’

‘He trades in
materia medica
,’ said Nicol with that sudden return to rationality which kept disconcerting Gil, ‘and has knowledge you would never credit of what all his stock can do.’

‘Who was the poison intended for, do you think?’ Gil asked.

‘Well, never for Danny, the poor devil.’ Nicol looked round the tavern, nodding again to Mistress Bell at the tap. ‘He drank in here, you ken, and there’s not a soul in the room that you’d say was his enemy. A decent lad.’

‘So it seems,’ said Gil. ‘I don’t believe Nanty poisoned him for your sister’s sake either, so what was it all about? I can make no sense of it. Who was the poison for?’

‘Why, for my faither, a course,’ said Nicol, opening his eyes wide. ‘Who else?’

‘For your –’ Gil stared at him, then closed his mouth, swallowed and said, ‘Then who put it there? Whose doing might it have been? Robert?’

Nicol shrugged again in that irritating way.

‘Could ha been. Could ha been any of us,’ he said, and giggled. ‘Save maybe my minnie, poor lass, for though she’d likely have the will to do it she’d not have the skill.’

‘You are seriously suggesting,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘that one of your family has tried to poison your father?’

‘I’m never serious,’ said Nicol, and giggled again. ‘Well, no very often. I hate him, Grace hates him, Agnes hates him, Robert hates him, Eleanor hates him, Meg –’

‘Maister Syme?’ Gil prompted.

‘Jimmy? No, he’s all right. There’s none of us hates Jimmy, save maybe Eleanor since she has to live wi him.’

‘But does he dislike your father?’

‘No, why would he? He’s wedded him to Eleanor and made him a partner. Jimmy’s done well enough out of it all.’

‘Why do you hate your father?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

Nicol gave him a sideways look. ‘He’s no easy to love,’ he said, ‘save as Holy Writ instructs us. I’ll respect him, I’m grateful when he insists on it, but I hate him as well.’

‘Was he not pleased when you came home?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

‘No,’ said Nicol. After a moment he half laughed. ‘We came in just at suppertime, and met wi Meg, poor lass, and they sent for Eleanor and Jimmy, and we all sat down to supper. We’d barely set a knife to the meat when Frankie said,
You needny think you’ve any more claim on the business. I’ll make Grace’s bairn my heir afore you
, he said.’