The Fourth Crow (27 page)

‘She did not. First I’ve heard of this,’ said Lockhart, reddening in annoyance. ‘Christ’s nails, she was a steering woman!’

‘You heard nothing from outside the chapel?’ Gil asked.

‘Is that no what I’m saying? Only,’ persisted Sawney, ‘the mistress, she cam away right annoyed and saying something about
Never a penny you’ll get for sic lees as this,
and the woman sweering at her all across the yard, so I wondered maybe if it was her cam back and slew her acos she never gied her her reward.’

‘Was there a reward promised?’ Gil asked, disentangling this.

‘Aye,’ said Lockhart. ‘No a great one, just for information concerning Annie.’

‘What like was the woman?’ Lowrie asked from Gil’s side. Sawney looked at him, and shrugged.

‘Just ordinar.’

‘She’d a red kirtle,’ said the man next to him.

‘It was green,’ said the one at his other side.

‘An apron?’ Lowrie asked. ‘How big was she? Was she carrying anything?’

Some argument established that the woman had been middling sized, heavily built, wearing an apron and a good headdress and a red, blue, or possibly green kirtle with short sleeves, and had worn no plaid.

‘So she hadny come far,’ Sawney explained. ‘I took it she was come in from the street hereabouts.’

Gil raised an eyebrow at Lowrie, who nodded.

‘It could be the woman I spoke to,’ he agreed. ‘Agnes Templand, the name is.’

‘Will I go round wi a couple of the lads to take her up?’ Lockhart suggested, pushing back his stool. ‘Fetch her to the Castle, see what the Provost makes of her?’

‘No,’ said Gil, ‘but Lowrie could take your lads if you will and speak to her, see if her apron has blood on it. I’d say whoever killed Dame Ellen would be foul wi blood, and brains and all.’

‘She could change it,’ objected Sawney.

‘If she’s changed it,’ said Lowrie, ‘then we’ll ask to see the other. Come on, man, you’ll do, and you – Rab, is it?’

‘A moment,’ said Gil. ‘Sawney, tell me something. The night your mistress Annie was at the Cross.’ The man ducked his head, grimacing as if the words had stabbed him. ‘When you spoke to her, after the prentices had finished their battle and gone home. Was that before or after midnight?’

‘After midnight?’ Sawney stared, visibly trying to recall. ‘Aye, I’d say so. I canny mind right, maister, but I’d say aye, it would ha been after midnight. By where the moon was,’ he reflected, ‘it must ha been. Aye, aye, maister, after midnight it was.’ He nodded, touched his knitted bonnet, and hurried after Lowrie.

‘And your other two men,’ said Gil to Lockhart, wondering how reliable this might be, ‘if you’ll permit it, could go out and find the Muir brothers, let them hear Dame Ellen’s dead. Sir Simon has sent to their uncle, as patron, but the brothers are likely out in the town.’

‘I should ha thought o that,’ said Lockhart, reddening again. ‘Tell truth, Cunningham, I’m right owerset by this. Steering auld witch she might ha been, but I’d thought she’d go on for ever. Certainly never thought o her meeting her end like this, deserved or no.’ He jerked his head at the two remaining men, who nodded and slipped away after Lowrie and their fellows. Lockhart watched them go, then said gloomily, ‘So what’s happened, man? What did come to her? I saw her where she lay,’ he grimaced, ‘wi her brains all ower the tiles, they’ll ha to cleanse that chapel all ways, let alone the sacrilege, and it seemed to me like a madman’s work.’ His gaze slid sideways to Gil. ‘Is there any chance. Is it likely?’ He swallowed. ‘Could it ha been Annie?’ he finished in a rush. ‘Slipped back into the place and taen her revenge on the old—’ He stopped. Gil waited for a moment, then said,

‘Revenge?’

‘Aye, revenge. For years of—’ He stopped again, and shook his head. ‘Maybe no.’

‘Years of what?’

‘No. Forget it. I never meant—’

After another pause Gil said,

‘Did Dame Ellen spend much time in the chapel?’

Lockhart shrugged.

‘I’d not have said so, I thought she was more ower at St Mungo’s. She’d a right devotion to Our Lady in the Lower Kirk, but there’s St Catherine in the Upper Kirk and all. You could ask at the lassies, they might tell you.’ He glanced across the hall to where Alys was talking soothingly to Dame Ellen’s nieces, aided now by Sir Simon. Nicholas still had the hiccups. ‘If you can get a word o sense out them. My wife got the wits for all three o them, I can tell ye, maister. She’d not be owerset by a wee thing like this.’

‘They’re very young,’ said Gil, as he had said to Dame Ellen.

‘They’re old enough to be wed,’ retorted Lockhart, much as she had done.

‘So how did Dame Ellen deal wi Annie?’

‘Ach.’ The man hesitated. ‘Wi a firm hand. Aye you could say that, a firm hand.’

‘Too firm?’ Prompting the witness, thought Gil.

‘Away too firm, I’d ha thought. Ruled her like they two heedless lassies, wi commands and duties and
Get to your needlework when I order it.
She was a— She was a steering woman, Cunningham. You ken two o her husbands hanged theirsels?’

‘What? Two?’ repeated Gil incredulously.

‘Aye. The third one, her last, dee’d o his own accord, his heart they said, afore she could drive him to it. Small wonder she’s been left on Sir Edward’s hands these six or seven year. Annie’s a good lass, save for this daft vow she took, and I’ve aye wondered if that was as much to get her out from under the auld wife’s rule as to mourn her man.’

William Craigie, predictably, was the first of those summoned to arrive at the hostel. He came hurrying in, a great cloak over his plaid despite the mildness of the night, a lantern bobbing in his hand, staring nervously about the darkling courtyard as if he expected Dame Ellen’s corpse to appear before him.

‘What’s this, Gil?’ he demanded. ‘What’s afoot? A fellow came to tell me, there’s been another death. Is that right? Is it my— Is it Dame Ellen right enough? What’s come to her? Some accident, surely, she was well enough this morning!’

‘Aye, Dame Ellen,’ said Gil baldly. ‘D’you want to see her? She’s in the chapel.’

‘What, is she laid out and received already?’ Craigie turned to follow him.

‘No, she died there.’ Gil paused, hand on the chapel door, to study the other man’s reaction. ‘By violence,’ he added.

‘By violence? In the
chapel
?’ repeated Craigie. He raised his lantern to see Gil’s face; by its light his own expression was one of horror and deep dismay. A churchman’s reaction. Was it too deep, Gil wondered; was his response genuine, or assumed? ‘Who would do sic a thing? That’s terrible! Here, it wasny the same as at St Mungo’s? Has someone copied— Was she throttled like Barnabas?’

‘No. Her death has been very different,’ Gil said, pushing the chapel door open. Sir Simon, seated on the wall-bench again with his beads in his hand, looked up briefly and returned to his prayers. Craigie stepped in, halted as he took in the scene before him, and turned his face away, one hand over his mouth.

‘Christ aid the poor woman,’ he said, ‘what an end. Here, Gil, she wasny forced as well, was she?’

‘I think not,’ said Gil. ‘There’s no sign of it, certainly. Just had her head beaten in wi Sir Simon’s candlestick.’

‘No mine,’ said Sir Simon without raising his head. ‘It’s St Catherine’s.’

‘Aye,’ said Craigie indistinctly, then hurried out of the chapel. Gil followed, and found him in the yard, heaving drily, his lantern swinging by his knee. ‘You’ll forgive me,’ he managed after a moment, ‘I canny stay in there. The smell—’

‘Rich,’ Gil agreed. Craigie breathed deeply a couple of times, then straightened up with a slight laugh of embarrassment.

‘Never could abide the smell o blood. I couldny ha made a flesher.’

‘Fortunate you went for Holy Kirk instead.’ Gil considered the other man. ‘What way was Dame Ellen kin to you? Are you also kin to her nieces? To the missing woman?’

‘No to the lassies,’ said Craigie, shaking his head, ‘and certainly I’m no kin o Annie Gibb’s. As for – for the depairtit, she’s no true kin o mine, but a connection by way o two or three marriages. It suited her to call me kin, but, well—’

‘Had you any benefit from the claim?’ Gil asked casually. ‘A busy, devout woman like Dame Ellen could be some assistance to a man in Holy Orders, I’d ha thought.’

‘If she was, she’ll no be again,’ said Craigie, and clapped his round felt hat back on his head. ‘You’ll ha to forgive me, Gil, I’m turned all tapsalteerie wi this. Sacrilege like that, and in Glasgow. Who’d ha thought it, even after what came to Barnabas.’ He took another deep breath, and let it out. ‘Assistance. Aye, she’d promised me she’d put a word in for me here and there about Ayrshire and Lanarkshire. She’d a wide acquaintance, and a few o them has fine benefices to hand out.’

‘Had she now?’ said Gil. ‘Yet I’d heard you had words wi her the day.’

‘I did,’ agreed Craigie, after the smallest check, deep regret in his tone. ‘It shames me to admit it, I used language unbecoming a son of Holy Kirk to her. Mind you, the provocation was great,’ he added. ‘The depairtit called me for everything while she was reproaching me.’

‘
Wantoun of word, and wox wonder wraith
? What was it about?’ Gil asked.

‘It’s no matter now,’ said Craigie, still with that deep regret. ‘The plans can come to nothing.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Gil, ‘I need to hear all she was involved in this last day or two, anything that might ha gone wrong, that might ha provoked sic a death.’

‘Gilbert!’ The other man took a step backwards, raising his hands as if to defend himself. ‘You never— You canny think I’d—’

‘Where were you these two or three hours? Since Vespers, say.’

‘At John Ross’s lodging, where the lad found me. Several of us had dinner sent in from one o the bakehouses after Vespers was done, and sat down to the cards. Ask at them. Ask at Habbie or John or Arthur.’

‘I will,’ said Gil. ‘So what was it Dame Ellen expected of you? What had you planned thegither? Was anyone else involved? I think you hadny completed some task or other.’

‘You’re gey well informed,’ said Craigie stiffly.

‘Aye, well, if you have your discussion here in the yard, you’ll expect to be heard. So what was your task?’

‘Oh, it’s at an end now, no purpose in pursuing it. Poor woman, she’ll do neither hersel nor any other any good now.’

‘William,’ said Gil, summoning patience, ‘I need to hear what it was. Would you rather discuss it somewhere private? We could go back in the chapel, if you like, or Sir Simon would maybe let us use his chamber. Did the matter concern Annie Gibb? I think,’ he said, with a sudden recollection of Canon Muir’s ramblings, ‘you’ve been promoting this match wi Henry or Austin Muir for her, am I right?’

‘Aye, that was it,’ said Craigie, in a kind of sulky relief.

‘So how does that stand the now, wi the lass still missing and no suspicion where she might be?’

‘Oh, it’s all in abeyance, o necessity, though my kinswoman would never accept that, kept urging me to carry the matter forward.’

Interesting, thought Gil, recalling his own interviews with Dame Ellen.

‘Where do you think she might be?’ he asked casually. ‘Annie Gibb, I mean. Where did Dame Ellen think she would return from, if she was still on the market to be wed?’

‘No telling. No telling.’ Craigie shook his head. ‘I’d not think she’s still in Glasgow, you’d ha found her by now, surely. Our Lady alone kens where she’s got to, let alone who set her free, how she got away.’

‘Who could ha done this, would you think?’ Gil nodded at the chapel door. ‘Who’d ha had reason to beat Dame Ellen down like that?’

‘Oh, how would I know? You’re Blacader’s quaestor, no me. She was,’ even by lantern-light it was visible that Craigie controlled his expression, ‘she was a steering woman, generous though she could be, it’s likely she ordered the wrong person to do her bidding.’

‘What’s ado here?’ demanded a sharp voice. Booted feet tramped on the flagstones of the courtyard, and two dark figures emerged from the shadows. Light from Craigie’s lantern glimmered on gold and silver braid, then showed Henry Muir’s face, irritated and impatient. Behind him his brother grinned vaguely, and a Shaw serving-man slipped away into the hall. ‘Oh, no you again! And you and all,’ Henry added to Craigie. ‘Yon fellow says the auld wife’s found dead, is that right? Wi her head beat in? She wasny forced as well, was she?’

‘No, Henry, she—’ began his brother.

‘What did I say?’ Henry turned on him, hand raised, and Austin took a step backwards.

‘Dame Ellen is dead,’ Gil confirmed, ‘and by violence. Will you see her?’

‘No need o that, surely,’ muttered Austin, and flinched at his brother’s sharp movement.

‘We’ll see her,’ said Henry grimly, and flung away towards the chapel door.

Inside the little building, he stared impassively at the grisly sight which Dame Ellen presented in the candlelight, signed himself and muttered a prayer, while his brother peered over his shoulder with a kind of prurient, timorous avidity which Gil found more distasteful than Henry’s reaction.

‘She’s crossed someone for the last time,’ said the older brother after a moment.

‘Did she cross many folk?’ Gil asked.

‘Oh, aye.’ Henry laughed shortly. ‘Easy as breathing. I’ll no speak ill o her afore her face,’ he added, and stepped past Gil to the door. ‘Come on, you.’

‘Will you touch her?’

‘I’ll no!’ said Austin before Henry could answer, ‘for she’ll get up and ca’ me for all things if I do, same as she did on life.’

‘Did she so?’ said Gil. ‘I thought she had a fondness for you both.’

‘Never stopped her miscalling me,’ said Austin, watching anxiously as his brother turned back and bent to touch one of the claw-like hands. ‘Mind her, Henry, she’ll up and fetch you a wallop—’

‘Haud your tongue, daftheid,’ said his brother. ‘She’s cold and stiffening. Why’s she no been washed and laid out, Cunningham? It’s no decent to keep her lying here in her blood. She’ll be past doing anything with afore long.’

‘She could be washed now,’ Gil agreed. ‘And the purification of the chapel can begin.’

‘Oh, aye,’ said Henry in a strange tone. ‘Aye, it’ll take a deal o purifying.’