A Pig of Cold Poison (15 page)

‘Grace asked him if he needed some of his drops,’ said Alys, and unaccountably blushed darkly in the candlelight. ‘Perhaps that’s what has changed him.’ She made a note. ‘And Robert?’

‘Robert dislikes everyone,’ said Gil. ‘His father, Agnes, probably Syme, certainly Nicol, possibly his stepmother. But he’s not someone I could imagine leaving a flask of poison about unlabelled by accident.’

‘So that if he left it,’ said Alys, ‘it was where his intended victim would pick it up. It becomes more and more important to know where Agnes got it from.’

‘Nicol said that everyone likes Syme,’ said Maistre Pierre reflectively, ‘but it does not mean that Syme likes everyone.’

‘I’d say he’d no good opinion of young Robert,’ agreed Gil. ‘And I suppose it would be to his benefit to be rid of Renfrew, though the method might be bad for trade.’

‘And the women,’ said Alys, writing busily. ‘I think we can dismiss Meg as poisoner, though not as victim. She has no training, and –’

‘She must know stillroom work,’ Gil observed. ‘If she learned that a given receipt would brew up poison, she would be as able to follow it as you would. And Frankie said much the same of Grace Gordon,’ he recalled.

‘I suppose you’re right.’ She made more notes on her list. ‘Does Grace have enough reason to poison anyone, so far as one ever does? She loves Nicol, I think, though it was not a love-match, and surely she hardly knows his family. But Meg’s marriage is certainly not a happy one,’ she added. ‘She might wish to be rid of Maister Renfrew. I know I would, if I was wedded to him.’

‘Would you use poison, in such a case?’ Gil asked, half serious. She looked up at him, shook her head, and went on writing. ‘We can probably leave Eleanor out of it, in that she lives elsewhere now, but Agnes is fully capable of making and using such a thing.’

‘But if it was hers,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘she would not have given it to Bothwell, unless she intended the result.’

‘I think we must include Eleanor,’ said Alys. ‘She is probably about the house daily.’ She bit the end of her stylus, and studied her list. Gil looked over her shoulder, and said:

‘It gets us nowhere, you know. It looks as if everyone in the household would cheerfully dispose of any of the others.’

‘We need to find out where in the house Agnes got the flask from,’ said Alys. ‘It’s a pity her father insisted on being present when you spoke to her.’

‘I don’t know how we do that. Likely she won’t confess to you either, now we’ve had that tale from her. I have no direction yet from the Archbishop, so I can’t question her more pressingly,’ said Gil. ‘And you know, whoever brewed the stuff itself has committed no crime so far, unless it was Agnes after all. There’s no law about making up poisons, only about using them on fellow Christians.’

‘There is the moral crime,’ said Alys. ‘The burden of guilt in having provided the means of Danny Gibson’s death.’ She shook her head wearily, and closed up her tablets. ‘It must be wrong to do this. It’s one thing to draw up such a list as a – an exercise for the mind, it’s another entirely to use it to speculate on which of our neighbours might be planning to poison another. These are Christian souls, and –’

‘If it offers a means to prevent a Christian soul from committing murder,’ said Catherine unexpectedly, ‘your list has done that person a great service,
ma mie
.’

‘As always, madame, you are right,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘And now, I suppose, having decided that we cannot decide, we had as well go and sleep on it. Will you go to the quest on Danny Gibson, Gilbert?’

‘I think I must,’ said Gil, watching Alys brace herself. For what? he wondered. For privacy with him? For what he might ask her? ‘Sir Thomas may change his mind and decide to call my evidence.’

Crossing the dark drawing-loft, the light from their candle making leaping shadows of wonderful curves and angles from the wooden patterns which hung from the ceiling beams, he reached out to take her hand. She did not withdraw it, but let it lie quietly in his, and when he drew her to a halt she stood beside him, her shoulders tautly braced. The dog sat down and leaned against her knee, looking up at her face.

‘What is it, Alys?’ he asked her. ‘Something is wrong. Can I help? Can I put it right?’ She shook her head. ‘Is it something I’ve done?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, Gil, it isn’t you.’

‘Is it something about Christian Bothwell? Or about Agnes?’

‘No! No, it’s nothing like that.’

‘Wouldn’t it help to talk about it, then?’

‘No.’

‘Have you tried prayer?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about a distraction? Would that help?’ He let go of her hand to reach up and caress the line of her jaw within the drape of her black linen hood, and she reared back to snatch at his wrist and freeze, staring at him, her eyes round and dark with distress in the candlelight. Socrates reared up to paw at both of them, whining anxiously.

‘Very well,’ Gil said gently, his heart knotted in sympathy. ‘Not that. Come to bed, sweetheart, and sleep on it. Things may look different in the morning.’

For a moment he thought she would speak; then she turned obediently and moved on through the bounding shadows towards the other door, the dog adhering to her skirts. He followed, riven with anxiety. In the eighteen months since he had first met her he had grown used to her companionship, to her – Yes, he thought, her friendship, she is my good friend as well as my lover and spouse. It put the whole world out of frame if that conjunction did not agree, and he did not know how to put it right.

‘I thought we would come to visit anyway,’ said Alys. ‘It’s company for everyone.’

‘I’m right pleased to see you,’ said Kate, looking hard at her face. What did she see? Alys wondered. Was it all there to read in her eyes? ‘Babb, will you tell the kitchen?’

They had risen in the morning to the news, brought in by the men who had fetched the water, that the bellman was crying the quest on Danny Gibson put off for two days. Sir Thomas’s rheum must be worse, Gil had speculated. So after hearing Mass and praying for her mother and everyone else who should be remembered on All Souls’ Day, none of which helped the turmoil in her head, Alys had gathered up John and his nurse and made for Morison’s Yard.

‘Onnyanny!’ announced John behind her from Nancy’s arms. ‘Onny
anny
!’

‘Ysonde and Wynliane,’ she corrected. ‘Are the girls upstairs?’

Kate laughed, shook her head, and reached for her crutches. ‘We’re all going out into the garden for some fresh air. Nan took the girls down first, and we were about to follow.’

Alys looked about the hall, and realized that Mysie was wrapped in a huge striped plaid and holding Edward bundled in a sheepskin. Kate herself was also warmly clad.

‘Onnyanny!’

‘We’ll just get you down these steps, my doo,’ said Babb, returning from the kitchen door. ‘Do you lassies want to take they bairns down the garden first?’

Mysie, taking the hint, set off with Nancy. As they crossed the yard John could be heard remarking, ‘Baba. Onnyanny baba.’ One arm in its bright red sleeve emerged from Nancy’s plaid and gestured at Edward.

Maister Morison’s property, like all the other tofts on the east side of the High Street, was much longer than it was wide and sloped down towards the mill-burn, divided from its neighbours by neat whitewashed fences of split palings shoulder-high on either side. Beyond the yard, past the barn and cart-shed which belonged to the business, past the kaleyard where hens pecked about among the autumnal plants and the kale waited for its first frost, they reached the little pleasure-garden. The low box hedges enclosed only well-dug earth at this time of year, the grassy paths bare of daisies or buttercups, but the spot was sheltered and in the thin sunshine warm enough to sit in. By the time Kate and Alys reached it, Wynliane and Ysonde had borne John off to take part in their game, the three nursemaids had tipped all three benches upright and already had their heads together discussing diet and feeding, and Edward was awake and happy to be handed over to receive attention from his mother and godmother.

‘Has Gil learned anything more?’ Kate asked, unwrapping her son a little. Babb surveyed the garden, checked that her mistress wanted nothing more, and strode off towards the house.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Alys, relieved to be discussing this rather than her own affairs. ‘He spoke with your neighbour’s eldest son,’ she pointed unobtrusively towards the Renfrew house, and Kate nodded approval of the ellipsis, ‘who thought the poison might have been meant for his father, and that any of the household might be responsible.’

‘No help,’ said Kate, and made kissing noises at Edward. ‘None of them had the chance to put it in place, I’d have thought.’ She grimaced, then smiled reassuringly at the baby. ‘I’d like to get it cleared up, it’s worrying Augie. He’s hardly slept, these two nights.’

And nor did I last night, thought Alys, too busy thinking about – No, put it out of your mind, don’t – The images came hurtling back to confront her, and she drew a shivering breath. Meg struggling with her mother and the two midwives, the dirt and smells and indignity, the screaming and pain –

A sermon she had once read listed the five dangers to the soul newly freed from the body,
Demons, punishment, the remnants of sin, doubt of the way and shrieking
. She felt she understood the last one now.

‘I spoke to my lassies again, did Gil say?’ Kate said, holding her son upright. Inside the swaddling bands and the multiple woollen wrappings his legs kicked against her knees. ‘No, it’s since I saw him. Stand up, wee mannie, stand up.
What
a clever boy! They had another thing to say about – about the lass next door.’

Alys made an enquiring noise, not trusting her voice.

‘They both said, when she crossed the kitchen,’ Kate recalled, ‘and went on to the stair, she was just behind Andrew Hamilton.’

‘Andrew – the wright? Or his son?’said Alys, startled.

‘Oh, the boy, I’d think,’ said Kate, eyes dancing. ‘I doubt my lassies noticed the carpenter, he’s away too old for them. Young Andrew’s a likely laddie, he’ll disturb a few folk’s dreams when he gets his growth, and these two are no so much older than he is.’

‘What was he doing in the kitchen?’ Alys wondered.

‘Likely went out to the privy. He’d come back in by the kitchen to see about Ursel’s gingerbread, I’ve no doubt. Which reminds me, Ursel said there was marchpane fancies, tell Gil, but the laddie who died would have none of them. Quite sharp in refusing, he was.’

‘And yet he smelled of almonds when he was stricken down,’ said Alys. ‘That must be the poison right enough. Gil has learned that it might have been made from nuts, almonds I suppose. I never heard of such a thing.’

‘Nor did I.’ Kate bounced her son, who blew bubbles at her. ‘A bababa! A bababa, then!’

‘Did your lassies notice whether Nanty Bothwell followed Agnes?’

‘Isa didn’t notice. Mina said he did, but that it was a good bit after. I think since Bowster found the two of them talking it can’t have been that long. Long enough no to be obvious, I suppose.’

‘And Andrew Hamilton was ahead of them on the stair,’ said Alys thoughtfully. ‘So did he hear what she said to Bothwell?’

‘We could ask him,’ said Kate. ‘It might help Gil.’

They looked at one another.

‘Will you call at the house,’ Kate went on, ‘or will I send John to get him round here just now? He’s more like to tell us what he heard if his mother isn’t listening.’

‘His mother was at the gossip-ale last night, and past hearing anything much when I saw her. I’d think she had a sore head today.’

‘Yes, Babb told me she snored all afternoon at mine. Right, then. If you step up into the yard you’ll likely find John Paterson.’

The steward’s nephew was very willing to leave his task and go to look for Andrew Hamilton, but warned Alys shyly it might take some time to find him.

‘See, mem, I’ve no notion where they’re working the now,’ he admitted. ‘I’d heard they’d finished one task, but there’s two more places I could look.’

‘Then go and look, if you will,’ said Alys, and returned to report this to Kate, who was unfastening her gown preparatory to feeding Edward.

‘It’s worth the try,’ Kate said, applying her son to her breast. ‘There’s a clever boy!’ She looked up, and studied Alys’s face again. ‘Had Meg a bad time of it?’ she asked. ‘The word that reached me wasny good.’

‘She did.’ Suddenly Alys was back in that space between the bed and the window, Meg’s screams echoing in her ears while the other women knelt doing dreadful things –

‘Alys.’ Kate’s hand reached across the guzzling baby to clamp down on hers. ‘Alys, how much did you see?’ She hesitated, unwilling to put it into words. ‘Screaming and pain and blood?’ She nodded in relief. ‘Look. Never let it worry you. It’s not that bad. You forget, Alys.’

‘How?’ she burst out. ‘How can you forget that?’

‘When you’ve a new baby,’ Kate declared, ‘you’ll forget your own name. I think nursing rots the brain,’ she added, looking down at Edward. ‘No, the recollection of the crying-time vanishes away immediately. Ask Meg about hers and see what she says. Mother and Margaret both promised me, it would be bad at the time but you forget afterwards, because the bairn’s such a delight, and do you know, they were right.’ She smiled anxiously into Alys’s face, and shook the hand she held gently. ‘Never fear, lassie. My mother’s right about most things.’

‘That’s true,’ said Alys, mustering a shaky smile.

‘Put it out of your mind just now. You’re not …?’

She shook her head, trying to control the turmoil of feelings in her body.

‘Believe it, Kate, you’ll be first to hear after Gil and my father,’ she said, ‘if I ever –’

‘Baby Floris is getting fed,’ announced Ysonde, materializing beside them. ‘Wynliane, Baby Floris is –’

‘No need to tell all the neighbours,’ said Kate, laughing, as Wynliane hurried to join her sister. The two girls hung cooing over the baby, who rolled his eyes at them and redoubled his efforts, possibly in case of interruption. Alys looked about her.

‘Where is John?’ she asked.

‘In bed,’ said Ysonde. ‘It was his bedtime.’ She pointed at the further box hedges. ‘We made him a wee bed down there in among the hedge.’

‘Is he there now?’ Alys rose and went to look. There was no sign of the little boy. ‘Ysonde, he isn’t here. Where can he be?’

‘He must have runned away,’ said Ysonde. ‘He’s a naughty boy.’

‘I don’t see him.’ Alys stared about the garden, but saw no sign of a bright red tunic.

‘Ysonde, go and help Mistress Alys find John,’ prompted Kate. ‘Both of you. Nancy,’ she called, ‘where did John go?’

The cluster of women broke open, and three faces turned towards them. Nan, the older woman, was the first to realize what was being said, and got quickly to her feet.

‘Can he get through the fence?’ she asked. ‘A limber wee laddie like that, he’d get in anywhere.’ She turned toward the nearest of the neat fences which lined the long boundary.

‘The mill-burn!’ exclaimed Alys, her heart leaping into her throat. ‘Could he –?’

Edward screamed indignantly as Kate sat up straighter. She hastily shifted her hold on him, and he fell silent and resumed his meal.

‘Alys, go out and look on the path,’ she recommended. ‘It’s so muddy down there you’ll see his wee footprints easily if he’s got out. Nancy, Mysie, go and look in the kaleyard and then up in the yard, ask the men if they’ve seen him.’

‘Would he go so far?’ Alys asked, hurrying down to the gate. ‘When did we – when did you see him, Ysonde?’

‘Last night,’ said Ysonde. ‘It was his bedtime, I telled you.’

‘No, my lassie, not in your game,’ said Kate. ‘John might have run somewhere he shouldn’t be and we need to find him. How long ago was he here?’

‘Just a wee bit ago,’ offered Wynliane. ‘He was being our wee boy.’ She looked about. ‘Could he be hiding under the hedges?’

‘Maybe you should look,’ suggested Kate, and the two girls began to scurry round, bending to look under the little box hedges and calling ‘John, John!’

‘There’s no gaps in this bit fence,’ said Nan to Alys as she struggled with the gate. ‘I’d say he’s no out there, mistress, but you have to check.’ She hurried past, scanning the close-set palings. Alys stepped out on to the path which ran along the bank of the mill-burn, past the ends of the long narrow properties whose frontage was on the High Street. No small red-tunicked person was visible, no prints of the little leather shoes of which John was so proud showed up in the muddy, much-trodden surface. She looked up and down, saw a pair of workmen approaching, a woman with a basket of washing coming the other way. No sign of John, and surely if they had seen him they would wave, or shout, or –

‘Mistress!’ It was Nan’s voice, urgent. ‘He’s next door. In the physic garden.’

She turned and ran to the foot of the Renfrews’ garden. There was a gate, much like the Morisons’ gate, but little used. She wrestled with its latch, struggled to drag it through the mud, squeezed through into the garden, past a barrel standing just inside the fence.

‘John?’ she called. ‘Where’s John? Come to Mammy Alys!’

No answer.

‘He’s yonder, mem, I can see him,’ said Nan, her head just visible. She put an arm over the fence to point up the slope. ‘Yonder, beyond the peas or whatever that is.’

The red tunic was visible, through the dried stems on the trellis. Not peas, surely, something more medicinal. She hurried up the path, past the midden. The Renfrews had been poisoning rats, there was a little heap of the creatures with a dead crow next them. Briefly aware of relief that John had not found that, she went on. In Kate’s garden there were voices, which must be Mysie and Nancy returning.

‘The men haveny seen him, my leddy.’

‘We’ve found him. He’s next door in the physic garden.’

‘Our Lady save us, what will he be at? There’s all sorts there he could put in his mouth!’

‘What’s he eating?’

She rounded the trellis, and the same question hit her like a flung stone. John sat on the ground, beaming up at her, his mouth smeared with fragments of something, brighter red than his little woollen tunic. He held out his hand, showing more crushed berries.

‘Morple,’ he said happily.

She knelt beside him in the earth, alarm surging up through her body, tightening her chest. With shaking hands she persuaded his mouth open, raking inside with an experienced finger, extracting broken fragments of fruit. He objected, rearing backwards, pushing at her hand, but did not bite.

‘What is John eating?’ she asked him. ‘That’s not good, John. Bad berries.’

‘Goo’ bez,’ he contradicted, opening and closing his fat little hand on the pulpy mass. She scraped them off his palm, and scooped him up, looking round.

‘Where did you get the berries, John? Show me.’ Her heart was hammering as if it would leap out of her mouth. What the fruit was poisonous? What if he– how could she face her father? How could she face the harper, the boy’s father?

‘Morple,’ he said again.

There was nothing with berries on it where he pointed. She set him on the ground again, saying, ‘Show me, John. Where were the berries?’

He looked round him, up at her, and round the garden again. More voices over the fence, men’s voices.
Have you got him? Aye, there he’s over the fence in the physic garden. Christ aid, what’s he found there?
She ignored them, intent on the child.

After a moment John trotted off towards a shaded corner by a laurel bush. Not the laurel, she thought, please blessed Mary I beg of you, not the laurel!

They’ll eat anything at that age
, said the voices over the fence.
My cousin lost one afore he was two, from eating unripe elderberries. What’s the bairn got?