A Pig of Cold Poison (12 page)

‘A pleasant homecoming,’ said Maistre Pierre, pulling a face.

‘Give him his due,’ added Nicol after consideration, ‘he was civil enough to Grace, made her welcome, said that about her bairn, mixed her a cup of hippocras wi his own hands after he’d made one to Meg.’

He reached for the jug and poured more ale into all three beakers.

‘But you say she hates him,’ said Maistre Pierre, puzzled. ‘Why should she hate him? She scarcely knows him.’

‘She’s seen what he did to me,’ said Nicol, as if it explained everything. Perhaps it did, Gil reflected, if Grace loved her husband.

‘I have always thought Maister Renfrew a good member of the burgh council,’ observed Maistre Pierre, ‘and a respectable burgess. He is well regarded in the burgh chamber.’

‘No guarantee of probity,’ Gil commented.

Nicol grinned at that. ‘
A true saying
,’ he said in Latin, ‘
and worthy of all men to be believed
. I saw your wife in our house, Gil Cunningham.’

‘She was to call there with some remedy for Mistress Mathieson,’ said Gil.

‘I wouldny know about that. She was talking to Grace. She’ll maybe learn more than she bargains for. Grace is a wise woman, and clever as well.’

‘So is Alys,’ said Gil.

‘Aye, they were cracking away. But you’ll need to have a care to your wee wife, Gil. She’d had a fright, I’d say.’

‘What makes you think so?’ said Maistre Pierre in concern.

Nicol shrugged. ‘Just by what Grace had given her. And the look of her. She wasny looking bonny.’

‘Did she say what was wrong?’

‘I never spoke wi her. What will you do about Allan Leaf and Billy Bucket? Will you tell the Provost? Only, I wouldny like to say all that afore the assize.’ He gave Gil a sideways, sheepish smile. ‘They would laugh. Folk do, when I tell them the names of things.’

‘I need to report to him,’ Gil said. ‘I’ll try to keep Allan Leaf out of it.’ And what was troubling Alys? he wondered apprehensively. Was it simply the fact of a near neigh-bour’s successful delivery, something which had reduced her to envious tears already this autumn, or had she uncovered some fact she would not wish to tell him? Either was possible, and the second would be easier to deal with.

‘But tell me,’ said Maistre Pierre curiously, ‘what would cause your father to believe your mother played him false? You are patently his son, you are all four like enough –’

‘I hope not,’ said Nicol, and giggled. ‘I’ve no wish to look like Frankie Renfrew, I can tell you, for he’s never been – well, enough for that. It’s an auld tale, maister, and forgot long afore you came into Glasgow I suppose. My mammy was Sibella Bairdie, and she was widowed already when she wedded Frankie. I was born eight month after he bedded her, and he cast it up the rest of her life.’

‘But you –’ Maistre Pierre stopped, looked carefully at the other, and shook his head. ‘If you do not wish to be told how you resemble him in the face, I will not say it, but consider only your hands. They are as like to Maister Renfrew’s as my daughter’s are to mine.’ He held his own big square paw out across the table. ‘You see, hers are the same shape, though smaller and finer made, and her fingernails grow like mine, each one. Study hers when you have the chance, and then study your own against – against Maister Renfrew’s.’

‘My hands.’ Nicol studied his, palm and back. ‘Well, well. Now Frankie’s hands I’d accept gladly, for he’s right defty, whatever his other faults.’ He looked at his hands again, right and left, rubbing at the nails with his thumbs, and then earnestly at Maistre Pierre. ‘You’ve given me a thing to think on, maister.’

‘I never heard the tale either,’ said Gil as they made their way back across the bridge. ‘I suppose as a boy I’d have no interest in such matters, and likely Renfrew kept it quiet enough at the time.’

‘Likely,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘But to raise a lad in the thought that he was some other man’s son, with evidence like that before him – my opinion of Renfrew is diminishing daily.’

‘You’ve given Nicol something to think about, as he said.’ They had left him with a fresh jug of ale at his elbow, considering his hands by Maggie Bell’s rushlights as if he had never seen them before.

Maistre Pierre shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, it can have nothing to do with Danny Gibson’s death. What did Mistress Bell have to say?’

‘Nothing new.’ Gil paused to peer over the parapet at the river muttering past the stonework of the great pillars. ‘She has a good memory. How long since we were there last? Eighteen month? Yes, it was May of last year, when we – just before you took on young John. She recalled my name, and asked after Nan Thomson’s daughter, who I think is wedded to some Dumbarton tradesman by now, so I have every hope that she’s right when she says Danny drank there regularly, never caused trouble and had no arguments with anyone. A likeable lad, she said, and would be sore missed.’

‘Well,’ said Maistre Pierre after a moment. ‘It had to be checked.’

‘It had to be checked. No, this that Nicol had to say about the flask is of more use. I think I have to stop procrastinating and beard his father in his workshop.’

‘Hmm.’ His companion leaned on the parapet beside him, considering the water below them. The Clyde was shallow here, running over sandbanks and around small islets, but occasional deeper pools showed dark brown in the yellowing late afternoon sunlight. Autumn-brown leaves from the trees further up the river bobbed on the current. After a moment Maistre Pierre said, ‘It was an accident.’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Who do you suppose is the intended target?’

‘The man himself, I’d have thought, as our friend said,’ said Gil, suddenly conscious that people were trudging past them up the slope of the bridge. ‘He’s the likeliest target in the house, I’d have said. Unless …’

‘Unless?’

‘Unless he prepared the stuff himself to deal with either his son or his wife.’

‘If they all dislike one another as much as the son suggests,’ said Maistre Pierre with distaste, ‘surely it could be intended by any one of the household for any other.’

‘The sister – the elder daughter – gave me the same impression,’ Gil said absently. ‘And she also made it clear any of them would be able to prepare the stuff. It was from her I got the idea our friend yonder might have recognized the flask, and she was right in that.’

‘Well.’ Maistre Pierre straightened up. ‘As you say. If the father is the target we must warn him, and if instead he is the poisoner, then by warning him we may save someone’s life. Let us do it now.’

They walked on in silence down the northward slope of the bridge and into the town, through the bustle of the Fishergate and Thenewgate preparing for darkness, shopkeepers bringing in goods which had been laid out for sale, a baker crying the last of his wares before the day’s end, an alewife overseeing the transfer of a large barrel from her brewhouse to the alehouse across the street. Two of the burgh’s ale-conners lurched past them after a good day’s work as they reached the Burgh Cross, and the Serjeant proceeded majestically down the Tolbooth stair. Gil hardly noticed them; he was considering the information he had, trying to construct a complete image from it. He felt there was still some vital piece missing, or perhaps more than one. It might help if he knew what the poison was; he wondered whether the Forrest brothers had learned anything useful.

‘Do you know what ails Alys?’ said Maistre Pierre suddenly.

‘What ails – no,’ said Gil, surfacing with difficulty. ‘That is, yes, in general,’ he amended, ‘though I don’t understand why it matters so much to her. Just now in particular it’s likely Meg Renfrew’s baby.’

‘I suppose. But our friend yonder thought she had had a fright.’

‘Yes,’ said Gil. ‘I am concerned. I’ll go home as soon as we’ve spoken to Maister Renfrew.’

‘I never thought you indifferent,’ said Alys’s father unconvincingly. ‘But so few things frighten her, I am puzzled.’

‘So am I,’ said Gil. He looked about him, and realized that they were before Renfrew’s door. ‘Sweet St Giles, the gossip-ale is skailing.’

It was indeed. The pend which led to the house door was full of hilarious women, clinging to one another and shrieking at some joke which Gil felt it was as well he had not heard. Two of them were supporting Agnes Hamilton, no easy task at the best of times, and calling for her servants to be sent for. Someone else, her headdress slipped forward over her face, was sitting on the doorstep alternately demanding lights and singing raucously about a hurcheon.

‘
Meet we your maidens all in array, with silver pins and virgin lay
,’ Gil said, with irony. He took a pace backwards, and exchanged a glance with the mason; as one they turned and made for the shop doorway.

Inside, James Syme and young Robert Renfrew started nervously at the jingling of the bells on the door, then relaxed as they saw two men entering. Robert stepped forward with an automatic smile, saying, ‘And how may I help you, sirs? We’ve apple-cheese the now, just new in. Were you wanting my faither?’ he went on, the smile diminishing as he recognized them. ‘Just he’s a wee bit taigled just now. Was it to offer good wishes for the bairn, or –?’

‘I can imagine he is,’ said Gil, ‘but I’d like a word just the same. We’ve learned a bit more about what happened yesterday, and I’d like his opinion of the matter.’

‘He’s in the house,’ Syme informed them as Robert returned to his position at the counter and helped himself to some sweetmeat from under the counter. ‘Maybe you’d have a seat till the passage is free?’ He inclined his head towards the other door, through which more shrieking laughter reached them. ‘It might be easier.’

‘Much easier,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘We’ll wait,’ agreed Gil.

‘Robert, is there a seat for the gentry?’

‘Yonder,’ said Robert unhelpfully, pointing. Syme tightened his lips, but brought two stools forward and seated them politely.

‘A bad business, yesterday,’ he said. ‘Has Wat found what the poison might be? He’s never sent word here, if so.’

‘I’ve heard nothing either,’ Gil said. ‘Is your sister Agnes still shut in her chamber, Robert?’

‘Likely,’ said Robert indifferently. He reached under the counter and brought out another sweetmeat, which he popped into his mouth. He did not offer to share the supply.

‘The lassie was quite overset,’ confided Syme unnecessarily. ‘It’s no wonder if she’s shut herself away. She’s young yet, and still inclined to be foolish, no like my wife.’

‘Hah!’ said Robert explosively, but did not elaborate. Gil eyed Syme speculatively, thinking that the man seemed to hold Eleanor in more regard than she did him.

‘I’d a word with Mistress Eleanor earlier,’ he said. ‘She tells me she and Agnes and your good-sister do a lot of the stillroom work for the business.’

‘That’s true,’ admitted Syme. ‘That’s very true. We’ve been able to expand the range, what’s more, since our good-sister came home. She has a few strange receipts from some learned Saracen she met in the Low Countries. Her rose comfits sell well, they’re not quite like any –’

He was interrupted. The cacophony beyond the house door had been reducing as the good ladies of the High Street made their way out to go home, but suddenly a new, shrill, perfectly sober voice burst on their ears.

‘Do you believe my daughter now, Frankie Renfrew?’

‘Aye, I’ll believe her.’ That was certainly Maister Renfrew. ‘The bairn’s a Renfrew right enough. She’s the image of Agnes and Robert when they were born.’

‘Are you no to apologize, then?’

Syme rose, turning towards the door as if to cover it, stop the exchange somehow. Gil moved to look out of the green window at the wriggling shapes moving in the street.

‘Apologize? What way would I apologize? It’s your daughter should apologize to me, woman, forever leading me to think other.’

‘Just because Sibella Bairdie played you false, man, doesny mean all women’s to be tarred from the same pot. My Meg’s an honest wife, and you’ll treat her that way from now on, or I’ll have your hide for cushions, maister potyngar. And just you mind that.’

‘Oh, aye, I’ll mind it.’ The latch rattled, the door opened, Maister Renfrew stepped through into the shop, saying over his shoulder, ‘And maybe you’ll mind that this is my house, woman, and treat me wi civility.’

‘Aye, when you’re civil to my lassie!’

Renfrew shut the door on this retort, snarling, then caught sight of Gil and stiffened.

‘Oh, you’re back, are you?’ he said. ‘Were you wanting something?’

‘We are come to wish good fortune to the bairn,’ said Maistre Pierre hastily. ‘Are both mother and babe well?’

‘Oh, aye, well enough.’ Renfrew pushed his felt hat forward, scratched the back of his head, and sighed deeply. ‘I was a fool to marry again. I wish I hadny thought of it now.’

‘Me too,’ muttered Robert.

His father looked sharply at him, but Syme broke in, smiling, ‘Admit it, Frankie, there’s advantages to being a married man.’

‘Might we have a word, Maister Renfrew?’ said Gil.

‘What about? If it’s the poison Bothwell used, these two had as well hear it, it’s of as much interest to them as to me.’

‘Not entirely,’ said Gil. ‘In your workroom, maybe?’

Renfrew unlocked the workroom and led them in. Gil looked round again, admiring the long scrubbed bench below the window, light even this late in the day. There must be room for more than one person to work at a time.

‘All the potyngary work happens here?’ he said.

‘Aye, it does. What’s this about, maister? I’ve all to see to, and the bairn’s godparents to choose.’

‘Syme and his wife and your good-daughter,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘There, it is simple. Frankie, we are concerned for you.’ Renfrew frowned enquiringly at him. ‘We think that the flask that held the poison was one of those which should hold some drops which you take –’

‘What? Havers, man, it was one of Bothwell’s own –’

‘No, sir,’ said Gil patiently, ‘we are quite certain all Bothwell’s are accounted for, and so are those Forrest had. We should check what you’ve given out already,’ he added, with little hope, ‘in case it was one of those, stolen from whoever you sold it to, but we are quite certain it was –’