The Harper's Quine (23 page)

‘Do you think the harper will accept Sempill’s offer?’
enquired David Cunningham, stirring almond butter into
his porridge.

‘Who knows?’ said Gil. ‘I think it is more a matter of
whether Ealasaidh will accept.’

‘It seems as if the bairn may well be a person of sub stance in his own right, even without being declared John
Sempill’s heir.’

‘Aye, and sorting that out might prove illuminating.
Have you ever been to Rothesay, sir?’

‘I have not. You take a boat from Dumbarton, likely, you
could ask the harper’s sister. Eat your porridge, Gilbert.
You think you need to go to Rothesay?’

‘We are not doing well on the direct trail. Davie’s elusive
lass is the only witness, and the tracks are confused.’ Gil
stared out of the window at the house over the way, where
nobody appeared to be stirring. ‘But before I can answer
the question of cui bono with certainty I need to talk to the
man who drew up the dispositions.’

‘That would be Alexander Stewart. He was in Inveraray
but I heard recently he has now settled in Rothesay, which
is certainly easier to get to. I can give you a letter for him.
I will give you a docket for the Treasurer here as well. St
Mungo’s should pay for the journey.’

‘And I am curious about Bess’s first husband,’ Gil said.
‘He was a Bute man, so I suppose their marriage would
have taken place in Rothesay.’

‘Likely so. I would have heard, otherwise. When will
you go? Not today, surely. It is Friday.’

‘So it is!’ said Gil, dismayed. With the holiday on Tuesday, my reckoning’s out. How long does the journey
take?’

‘Four or five hours to Dumbarton by horse, I should
think. Another five with a good wind after that, or several
days’ waiting if the wind is wrong.’

‘Better if we leave in the morning, then, rather than this
afternoon. Maister Mason goes too, I will need to speak to
him.’

‘And what’s for today?’ said the Official, scraping his
bowl. ‘This other lass that’s dead?’

‘I must be careful,’ said Gil, ‘not to offend the serjeant.
But, yes, if he won’t ask questions, I must.’

As Gil reached the Wyndhead, Maistre Pierre in his working clothes emerged from the High Street, followed by his
men.

‘Good morning, maister lawyer! I have thought, no one
will put to sea on a Friday, so we will get a day’s work
done and travel tomorrow. I cannot pay these sloungers to
play at football any longer.’

‘Then I will go and get a word with the harper,’ said Gil,
nodding to the grinning men. ‘Will you stay at St Mungo’s
all morning?’

‘Indeed not. Once Wattie knows what is doing he will
work better without the maister breathing down his neck.
I meet you at Blackfriars? After Terce?’

Gil agreed to this, and the mason marched purposefully
off along the flank of the Bishop’s castle, heading for the
gate into St Mungo’s yard. Gil turned and made his way
down the hill, past the houses of the Chanonry, past
thatched cottages and the ale-house from which Ealasaidh
had been thrown out. The street became busier as he
descended, with people going out for work, taking down
the shutters on the burgh’s scattered shops, beginning the
day’s round of housework.

At the mouth of the wynd that gave on to Blackfriars
kirkyard he paused. He ought, he felt, to go and inspect
the scene of Bridle’s death as soon as he might. Then again,
it had probably been well trampled when she was found.
He stood for a moment, considering, then shrugged and
turned to walk on, and a voice called across the street,
‘Maister Cunningham! A word with you, maister!’

The odd-eyed lutenist, Balthasar of Liege, crossed to
him, avoiding a gathering of kerchiefed women who to
judge by their gestures were discussing the death of Bridie
Miller.

‘Good day to you, sir,’ he said as he reached Gil, and
made a flourishing bow in the French manner. Gil,
amused, responded in the same style, and the huddled
women stared at them both.

‘Shall we walk on?’ suggested the lutenist.

‘I am bound for the Fishergait,’ Gil said, falling into step
beside him.

‘To call on Angus and his sister?’ Gil nodded. ‘You’ll be
a bit early. I went round there after things broke up yesterday, and we made rather a night of it. Harry was there -
you saw him at the funeral maybe - and a couple more
singers that knew Bess. The neighbours were not very
pleased with us.’ Quick gestures suggested a displeased
neighbour at a window. ‘We sank a lot of eau-de-vie
between us, and the Mclans had the lion’s share. They’ll
neither of them be fit to talk before Nones, I would
estimate.’

‘Thank you for the advice.’

‘That wasn’t why I stopped you.’ Balthasar halted, to
look Gil earnestly in the face. ‘Something came back to me
I thought you might find important.’

‘Oh?’ said Gil encouragingly.

‘And when I heard of this new killing down in the town
it seemed even more important.’

‘Go on,’ said Gil, well used to the kind of detail which
witnesses thought important.

‘You mind I said I’d met Bess on the way up the High
Street on May Day evening? Well, when I saw her, I’d just
come out of an ale-house, and across the street there’s a
vennel, and in the vennel there’s a couple playing Maygames, if you follow me. His hand down her neck, and so
on, and a lot of giggling. I was just thinking the fellow was
well dressed to be tousling a servant-lass in an alley when
I heard Bess coming up the hill, talking away in Ersche.’

‘Yes?’ said Gil.

‘Well, the fine fellow opposite heard her too, and he
reacted. Grabs his lass by the hand, looking alarmed, and
tiptoes away along the alley with his back to the street. He
didn’t want Bess Stewart to see him.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t want anyone to see him,’ Gil
suggested.

‘There were others abroad who didn’t worry him. He’d thrown me a wink already. The point is, I saw him at the
burial.’

‘Ah. Who?’

. ‘One of the two who came in with the husband. Not the
cousin, the other one. The very decorative one.’ He struck
a brief pose, quite unmistakable.

‘James Campbell of Glenstriven,’ said Gil, grinning.

‘Aye, that would be the name. I knew him when I saw
him, but it took till this morning to fit it together and think,
That’s odd.’

‘Was he avoiding Bess, or the gallowglass with her, do
you think?’

‘Ah …’ The musician paused, casting his mind back.
‘No way to be. sure, of course, but I think it was Bess’s
voice he heard first, that caused him to hide. I take your
point, maister. But now here’s another girl dead, and the
word is that she knew too much about Bess’s death. I just
wondered if this fellow with the bad conscience was connected . in some way.’

‘It is certainly possible,’ Gil said cautiously. ‘Thank you.
This may prove to be valuable.’

‘Glad to be of use to somebody,’ said Balthasar offhandedly. ‘If you’ll forgive me, I have to go and see about
some lute-strings. I’m due in Kilmarnock tomorrow.’ He
performed another grand flourish, to which Gil replied,
and strode jauntily off in the direction of the Tolbooth.

Well! thought Gil, staring after him. That rearranges
matters slightly. He turned and walked slowly up the hill,
deep in thought. James Campbell had come into St
Mungo’s late, just ahead of the gallowglass who reported
Bess’s arrival. He had certainly been in the market yesterday morning, talking to a girl with a basket. (A basket of
what?) He carried a narrow Italian dagger.

‘But what reason?’ he said aloud. ‘Why should he -?’

His own voice startled him. Looking about him, he was
astonished to find himself in the courtyard of the mason’s
house. As he took this in, the house door opened, and Alys
appeared, smiling broadly.

‘Maister Cunningham! My father is gone out, but there
is good news. Come in, come in and hear it.’

‘What news is that?’

She stood aside for him to enter.

‘Davie has wakened. Just a short while ago. He is weak,
and he can remember nothing - but he is awake and in his
right mind.’

‘Christ and his saints be thanked!’

‘But yes, I was just going to do that when I saw you in
the yard. Kittock is feeding him. I am sorry - I know it
can’t help you, since he doesn’t remember - but I can’t
stop smiling.’

‘You are so fond of the boy?’

‘He is a good laddie,’ she agreed, ‘and we are all fond of
him. Come and sit down, and Catherine shall bring you
bread and ale while I see if he is still awake and able to
speak to you.’

‘I have only just broken my fast,’ Gil pointed out.

The smile became apologetic. ‘Catherine will insist. Sit
here, Maister Cunningham. I won’t be long.’

He went over to the window, rather than sit in her
father’s great chair, wondering at himself. If she had not
opened the door, what would he have done? It could have
been very embarrassing. Bad enough hanging about on
street corners like any servant laddie, hoping for a glimpse
of … Even if it paid off and you got a word with the lass,
it was certainly something Uncle David would call
undignified.

‘Eh, bonjour, maistre le notaire,’ said a gruff voice at his
elbow. He turned to find the small woman in black
studying him. Seen close up, her liver-spotted hands and
wrinkled nutcracker face reminded him of nothing so
much as a mummified saint he had seen once in a small
church north of Paris. Behind her a servant-girl carried a
tray with a jug and two little glasses. ‘You are admiring
our garden, no?’

‘I am indeed,’ he said, seizing gratefully on this topic.
‘Who works it? Is it the demoiselle?’

‘She orders it. It is not so good as the one we had in
Paris, but it is pleasant to look at.’ She sat down, straightbacked, and waved him to another stool. ‘You will take our
elderflower wine, maistre? This is also Alys’s work. She can
bake and brew with the best.’

The wine was light and delicate in flavour. Gil drank her
health, and took a marchpane sucket from the tray when it
was offered, saying, ‘Had you a large garden in Paris?’

‘Sufficiently large.’ She sipped elderflower wine. ‘And
you, maistre? Does your family own land for a garden?’

‘My uncle has a very agreeable garden in Rottenrow,’ he
answered.

‘And your parents? But perhaps they are no longer
alive.’

‘My mother lives. She has a charming garden to stroll in,
and a good kail-yard.’

She lifted her little glass of wine again, turning it gracefully by the foot in her twisted fingers.

‘You visit her, one hopes? She is not far from Glasgow?’

‘Of course. Her home is near Lanark, not thirty miles
away,’ he supplied, recognizing the style and purpose of
the questions. She must be more governess than nurse, if
she took it upon herself to inspect her charge’s acquaintance like this. Her hair, which appeared to be still black,
was dragged back into a cap like a flowerpot and covered
by a fine black linen veil through which the embroidery
showed; her neck and bosom were concealed by a snowy
linen chin-cloth. The style was old-fashioned; he remembered his grandmother in something similar. It was certainly not that of a peasant or even, he reflected, a woman
of the tradespeople. Her French, despite her want of teeth,
was clear, elegant, but not that of Paris.

‘One hopes she does not lack,’ she was saying now. ‘The
lot of a widow is not easy.’

‘Bishop Muirhead was her cousin, and her remaining
kin will not see her reduced to begging.’ It felt like the
bidding round in a game of Tarocco.

‘Ah, she is a Muirhead?’

‘Of Lauchope. And the present Dean of St Mungo’s is
also a kinsman.’ Gil smiled at the black eyes glittering at
him, and drained his glass. She replenished it without
consulting him.

‘And your father, maistre? What land did he hold?
I believe he fell at the late battle, just before we came into
Scotland.’

These cards were not so good.

‘He did,’ agreed Gil. ‘With my two older brothers. We
held lands here in Lanarkshire, near to my mother’s dower
lands, but I am heir to nothing, because all was forfeit after
the battle, and there were no funds to recover it with.’ And
was that Hughie’s doing too? he wondered, for the first
time.

‘And so you must be a priest,’ said the gruff voice. ‘One
must condole with you and your mother. And our master
thinks you do not wish to be a priest.’

‘I have no choice. I must live on something.’

‘Is this a right way to approach Holy Church?’

‘I have prayed over it,’ he admitted, ‘but St Giles has not
yet shown me another path.’

`Perhaps you have not prayed enough, or asked in the
right way.’ She set her little glass on the tray and rose.
‘Alys has not returned, which makes me think the boy is
still awake. Come and see him, but do not start asking him
questions.’

In the tapestry-hung store-room, Alys and one of the
maidservants were watching while Brother Andrew, the
nearest thing the burgh possessed to a doctor, examined
his patient by the light of a branch of candles. The boy was
a curious yellowish white, and had lost substance so that
all the angles of his bones showed through the skin, but he
was answering the little Franciscan’s questions about his
physical state coherently enough.

‘And what is the last thing you remember?’

Alarm crossed the thin face.

‘I was playing at football. Did I take a tumble? I’ll need
to get up! The maister’ll need me to mix the mortar.’

‘Do not worry about that, Davie,’ said Alys. ‘You can
mix mortar again when you are well.’

Brother Andrew nodded approvingly at her, and drew
the cover over the boy’s chest.

‘Your dame is quite right,’ he said comfortably. ‘You are
proof of the good effects of strong prayer and careful
nursing. You have been ill, laddie, but you will recover if
you he quiet and get your strength back. I will come and
see you again tomorrow.’