A Rip in the Veil (39 page)

“But still,” Alex sighed.

“Aye well; they’d have hanged soon enough anyway, vermin that they are.” With that Mrs Gordon hurried off, saying something about finding some lard for the piecrust.

*

Two days later, Matthew was halfway to the stables when Captain Thomas Leslie rode into the yard, looking as if he wished he could be anywhere but here. With him came four cavalry soldiers, a minister, and a slight man in a huge hat. Matthew came to a halt, noting how Alex appeared in the kitchen doorway, neat in sober green and with a linen cap on her head.

Captain Leslie shook his head at the sight of her, and leaned out of his saddle to say something to the minister. Even from where he was standing, Matthew could hear the minister’s caustic reply along the lines that the captain should not meddle with things he had no knowledge of, and then the minister was off his horse, strutting across the yard towards Matthew.

“Master Graham,” he said. “There are questions I have to discuss with you regarding your wife.” Matthew swept out his arm to welcome both the minister and the captain inside.

“And you,” Matthew added, nodding in the direction of the unknown man, who for some reason was wearing a full length cloak, gloves and an antiquated lace collar that succeeded in covering most of his lower face.

“This is Mr Olivares,” Captain Leslie introduced. “He’s accompanying Minister Weir.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Matthew saw Alex take a step back. He struggled to keep his face bland, while inside he was churning with questions. Hector Olivares, here? For what purpose?

“Mistress,” Olivares said, bowing in the direction of a pale Alex who succeeded in bobbing him a responding curtsey, before flattening herself to the wall to allow him inside.

“He’s a witch hunter,” Leslie said, “much in demand. He and Master Weir were called to investigate some unfortunate incident in Lanark, when they came upon the wretched robber in an inn. The fool was damning himself with every drunken word he uttered.” He frowned down at a spot on his grey coat.

“Ah,” Matthew nodded, trying to sound unperturbed. Witch hunter; it made his intestines twist.

“Besides,” Captain Leslie said, “there seems to be some truth in his unhinged story. One of my men…” He waved in the direction of his mounted soldiers. “…insists he saw a woman in outlandish breeches a year or so ago.”

“Really?” Matthew shrugged.

The coming hour was extremely uncomfortable. Minister Weir directed himself only to Matthew, and Hector Olivares retreated to stand in a corner, his strange jewel eyes boring into Alex. Matthew frowned, not quite sure what to do. Alex shifted closer to him, clasped her hands in front of her, and dropped her eyes to the floor, but every now and then he saw her lashes flutter as she peeked in the direction of Olivares. And Olivares, God curse him, well he continued to stare at Alex in a way that had Matthew seething inside.

“But why?” Minister Weir asked, eyeing Alex as if she were a cow. “Why would you take up with a strange girl?”

“I told you; I found her on the moor, distraught. Was I to leave her there, all alone?”

“And her father, is he dead?”

Matthew saw the trap in time; say yes and they’d be asked to show them where he was buried.

“I don’t know, and nor does my wife. She has no recollection at all. One moment she was riding pillion behind her father, the next she wakes up badly burnt, both father and horse are gone.”

Olivares’ mouth twisted into a derisive smile.

“Hmm,” Minister Weir said, “and she’s from Sweden?”

Matthew nodded.

Minister Weir wrinkled his nose as if at the smell of something distasteful, and leaned towards Matthew.

“Is she of the right faith?”

Matthew drew himself up straight, well aware of how intimidating his height was to men as small as the minister.

“I’m a man of the faith, Minister Weir. Do you think I’d risk my bairns not being properly raised?”

The little man looked discomfited and muttered an apology.

*

After a hushed little conference between the minister and Olivares, the minister nodded a couple of times, smoothed down his dark coat and cleared his throat.

“Well,” Minister Weir said. “It’s best you ride in with us.”

“Why?” Matthew asked.

Minister Weir gave him a sharp look. “We have a man in jail who says he saw a woman kill his two companions almost a year ago – a foreign woman, just like your wife.”

Matthew laughed. “And you believe him? Would any woman you know be able to overcome two men on her own?”

Minister Weir insisted, despite Matthew’s protestations that of course his wife had not done something like that, and finally Matthew went out to saddle Samson, giving Alex a supporting look as he left.

She was having problems standing straight. Would the moss-trooper recognise her? And if he did, would his word count for more than hers? As she exited the house, Hector jostled into her, his eyes far too close.

“Scared?”

“Why should I be?” she said stiffly. “I’ve never done anything wrong.”

“Oh I would be, if I were you.” He sniffed her. “You smell like a witch, Alex Lind. And I’m the witch hunter, remember?” She reared back from him, but he came after. “I bet you’ll scream, they all do when we torture them.” He snickered and bowed to allow her to precede him.

Alex walked across the yard on sheer willpower. She even managed to smile at Captain Leslie when he offered her his hands to boost her onto the horse, but once on Samson’s back she slumped against Matthew, noting how Minister Weir and Olivares were huddled together, the minister’s eyes fixing on her.

“Oh, God.”

Matthew’s arm came round her like a supporting bracket. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

“I think so, and I don’t like this witch hunter thing. He just told me I smelled like a witch. It scares the shit out of me.”

“Mmm,” he breathed.

*

No sooner had they left Hillview behind, before Hector rode up to the minister, a hushed conversation springing up between them that involved many looks in the direction of Alex, who shrank back against Matthew’s chest. The minister said something, the two men shared a little laugh, and Matthew decided there and then that this was enough.

“Is it common?” he asked in a carrying voice.

“Common? Is what common?” the minister said, sounding irritated.

“For ministers of the Kirk to consort with papists.”

“Papists?” Minister Weir squeaked. “What are you on about?”

“Him,” Matthew said, pointing at Hector. Every single head but Alex’s swivelled to stare at Hector who fidgeted in his saddle.

“Hector?” Weir laughed. “You must be mistaken, Mr Graham. Hector is a witch hunter of great repute.”

Matthew raised his brows. “Really? That’s mighty strange, seeing as we had him arrested as a spy last time he was here.”

“A spy?” Captain Leslie looked the small man up and down, taking in the broad-brimmed hat, the enveloping cloak.

“Absolutely,” Matthew said, “he’s a Spaniard. And he asked so many questions that we sent him off in chains to Edinburgh as a royalist spy – and a papist.”

“I had no idea,” Minister Weir said in a shocked voice, his eyes flying all over the place. Matthew almost smiled; this wee man was a most incompetent liar.

Matthew adopted a grave mien and nodded repeatedly. “No, because if you did, you’d have denounced him.”

“Of course.” Minister Weir looked at Hector as if he expected at any moment to see horns protrude from his forehead.

“Nonsense,” Hector said sharply. “All this is nonsense. It’s just an attempt to discredit me.”

Matthew looked Olivares up and down. “You’re definitely a Spaniard, and a papist – all Spaniards are, more or less.”

“Prove it!” Hector scowled at Matthew.

“We can catechise you. It will be easy enough for Minister Weir here to verify if you’re of the faith or not, and I’m sure Minister Crombie will be glad to help – as will I, and no doubt the captain as well.” Matthew smiled wolfishly at them both.

*

Minister Weir had gone the colour of dirty linen, an unhealthy yellow tinged with grey. He sat ramrod straight in the saddle and nailed his eyes into Hector.

“Well? Are you? A papist?” He cringed when Hector rode in so close their thighs crushed against each other, and a little sound escaped him when Hector grabbed him by the arm, effectively putting the minister between himself and the others.

“You know I am,” Hector said in an undertone. “After all, that’s how you blackmailed me into participating in your little scam.” He twisted his fingers hard into the minister’s arm. “Fix this, fix it or I’ll tell them everything.” He rose in his stirrups, menace oozing from every square inch of him.

“A papist!” Minister Weir called out. “Oh my God, Mr Graham is right! Look, he threatens me! Arrest him, I say! Kill him on the spot if need be!”

“What? Why you twofaced little shit!” Hector turned to face the others. “This minister isn’t exactly what he —” As if by chance, Minister Weir crashed into him, nearly unseating them both.

“A papist, a papist! Jesus sweet, he intends to kill me! Do something, Captain Leslie!”

Hector opened his mouth to say something, the minister shrieked as if in agony, and the captain spurred his mount towards him, shadowed by two of his men.

“I wouldn’t try anything foolish,” Hector said, drawing his sword. The soldier closest to him lunged, Hector wheeled his horse, rammed the sword into the side of the unfortunate man, and set spurs to his mare.

“Go on! After him!” Captain Leslie waved his hand in the direction of the rapidly shrinking Hector and turned to frown at the minister. “You didn’t suspect?”

“Had I done so I’d have turned him over to the authorities immediately.” The little man shook his head. “Terrible…no doubt he planned to murder me in my sleep.”

“Yes,” Captain Leslie said, “although it seems to me he must have had ample opportunity to do so already.” He frowned, mouth pursing as he studied the minister.

Matthew caught his eye, nodded; aye, there was a whiff of something rotten in all this. Not that it greatly concerned him – not now, with Hector Olivares no more than a dwindling speck on the horizon.

“I assume this means we can ride back home,” Matthew said.

Minister Weir scowled at him. “Assume? What does the papist spy have to do with the two murdered men?” He drew his cloak around him, regaining his dignity in leaps and bounds.

“Well, I thought —”

“You thought wrong!”

Matthew sighed and settled Alex closer to him. “It’ll be alright,” he whispered. “Your word will count for more than that of a drunken rogue, and we know there were no other witnesses.”

“You think?” Alex relaxed somewhat. “At least you got rid of Hector Olivares. For now,” she qualified.

Chapter 32

Simon was waiting for them when they rode into Cumnock.

“There’s a new witness,” he said as he helped Alex down. He inclined his head in the direction of a cloaked figure standing a way off. Alex and Matthew stared as Mrs Gordon winked at them from below her hood. “Gavin rode her in; the moment she saw the minister come riding down your lane, she set off.”

Once in the makeshift court room, Minister Weir rubbed his hands together, apparently recovered from the incident with Hector. He allowed his eyes to rest for an instant on the audience before looking Alex up and down in silence. A long silence. If he’d expected her to fidget, he had another think coming. Alex pasted a bland smile on her face – sort of like screwing down a lid on a can bulging with hairy worms – the worms in question being her guts.

“You!” the minister barked, pointing at one of the soldiers, and the man jumped.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re Isaiah Smith, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I am.” The soldier straightened up.

Shit; not him again. Alex kept her eyes on her toes.

“Well? Is this her?”

“Her?” Smith sounded bewildered.

Minister Weir sighed, smoothed down his voluminous sleeves, and approached the soldier.

“Is this the woman you saw on the moor? The woman with breeches?”

“I couldn’t say,” Smith said after having looked at Alex. “I never saw her properly, it was dark. And when I rode after her, I mostly saw her…err…well, her arse, begging your pardon. Very snug, those breeches.” A titter flew through the room, making the minister frown.

“But it was a woman you saw?”

“Oh, yes, I recognise a good female arse.” Smith chewed his lip for some moments. “Now if I were to see the mistress’ bottom, then maybe—”

“Smith!” Captain Leslie bellowed, pre-empting Matthew who was on his feet, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

“I was just saying,” Smith muttered.

“And her hair? Was it long or short?”

Smith scrunched up his brow. “Uncovered, it was uncovered and short.”

“Was she alone?”

Smith scowled. “No. If she’d been, I’d have collared her. She was with a man.”

“Hmm,” the minister said, looking at Matthew. “And the man, would you recognise him?”

“No. I was mostly looking at—”

“Yes, yes, we know.” The minister waved him silent. “Well,” he said to Captain Leslie, “your man’s description matches that of our other witness: a man and a woman, and the woman in outlandish clothes. Do women wear breeches in Sweden?” He swung to face Alex, who took a step back.

“No,” she said, wrinkling her nose at his sour exhalations. “But they do in Turkey, and in China, as I hear it.”

The minister frowned, clapped his hands together and a man was dragged into the room. Alex struggled to remain calm, hands relaxed where they rested against her skirts, face demurely lowered.

“Is he sober?” the minister demanded of the guards.

“As much as he ever is,” the elder of the guards retorted.

“So, is it her?” Weir asked, waving his hand in the direction of Alex.

The man squinted at Alex. His hair hung in a matted mess, and even from the distance of a few metres, Alex had the distinct impression he was crawling with lice.

“I don’t know,” the man said.