Friend & Foe (22 page)

The place where Harry’s corpse was found was some way from the steps, and it did not take long for Hew to understand that someone else had put him there, hidden from the tower, and safer from the tide. The sergeant of the guard was sent to fetch the watch, and came back with a face on him as black as any storm. The Richan boy had left his post, and could not be found.

Hew returned to Giles, who had turned Harry’s corpus safely on its back, and had covered it, for decency, with a linen cloth, as though Harry was asleep, wrapped up in his sheet, with nothing sticking out but a tuft of bright red hair.

‘Is it possible,’ asked Hew, hoping it was not, ‘that Harry could have crawled to the rock where he was found?’

‘Not possible at all,’ Giles said with a frown. ‘For he was dead before he fell.’

He lifted up the futeman’s hair, and with his pincers pulled a stone, deep embedded in his skull.

‘Jesu,’ whispered Hew.

‘Who here is a perfect shot?’

There was no clearer answer then. It had to be the Richan boy.

Patrick was dismayed. ‘This is very bad. I pray to God that news of this will not alarm the king. The young man must be quickly caught, and as quickly hanged.’

He found his privy clerk kneeling in the chapel, where he did not hesitate to interrupt his prayers.

‘Here ye are. Why is it, when I want you, you are always on your knees? If ye were the archbishop, and I were Ninian Scrymgeour, you could not be more pious, nor as little use to me. Come, take down a letter.’

‘Your pardon, Lord Archbishop,’ the little clerk said, meekly. ‘I sought the good Lord’s guidance. I am sore at heart. For I cannot help but fear that I maun be in some small way accountable for that poor man’s death.’

Patrick raised an eyebrow. ‘Aye? And why is that?’

‘It was I who telt him that a boat was expected, and that soldiers were required to open up the gate. I meant no more, of course, than that they should look out, and be ready to admit it when it comes. He misunderstood me, and opened it himself. Sin he lost his footing there, I count myself in conscience, art and part to blame.’

‘That boat has not come yet, and we are out of claret, since the king has drunk us dry.’ Patrick was reminded: ‘Still ye need not fret, for you were not to blame for Harry Petrie’s death. According to Giles Locke – and sin he is our Visitor, reporting to the Crown, on all unnatural deaths, we maun take his word for it – Harry did not lose his step, but was dead before he fell. Someone took a shot at him.’

‘Dear sweet Jesu, who?’

‘A proper oath and question, for a pious clerk! The suspect is yon Orkney archer. Now the loun has fled, there is a hue and cry for him. Tam Fairlie warned me that the man was feeble-mindit, no richt in the head. I should have listened to him.’

‘Tam Fairlie is a brute. He plagued yon Orkney archer, all but to distraction. Harry was his friend. And if John Richan murdered him, that devil drove him to it.’

Patrick had never heard the timid clerk speak forcefully, and he received this comment with alarmed astonishment. ‘You must not say that. Never shall ye say that, nor think it may be true. Tam Fairlie is a proper soldier. You are far too soft, and you can have no notion what it takes to make these puling laddies harden into men. The sergeant does his job. A fine help ye would be, if ye were ever called upon to march in our defence, quivering and scummering, and jabbing wi’ your pen.’

Ninian said, stiffly, ‘I should find it difficult, my lord, with one hand on my sword and the other on my spectacles.’

‘Bless you, so you would,’ Patrick chuckled. ‘Stay with what ye ken, and ye will prosper best. I want you to write me a letter to the earl of Orkney, telling him of these events. It were bad enough that a murder should take place, so close upon the visit of the king, that it may be considered to have prejudiced his safety. John Richan must be caught, and speedily despatched. So you maun tell the earl, since Richan is his man, that if he should return to him, he maun have him brought to us in irons, or see him hanged himself. He will not take too kindly to it, and it must be feared that it is like to hinder us in our present cause, but that cannot be helped. Write thus to him, with gentleness and pleasing tricks and flattering . . .
good my sweet lord . . .
nay
, dear beloved earl . . . dear brother of my
heart . . . fah, say simply,
Sir, of your man John Richan, we were much deceived in him
. . . And we maun dare to hope it will not spoil the match between our daughter and his son. For even above that,’ he concluded gloomily, ‘we maun put our duty of allegiance to the king.’

The hue and cry was called, and Hew and Giles went home. Giles was unusually quiet, and since his views on death were in general philosophical, Hew began to wonder what was on his mind. At last, his old friend said, ‘As a man of law, what you would advise, if I told you I intended to commit a crime?’

‘I should advise you not to.’ Hew saw that he was serious. ‘What crime? Tell me, Giles.’

‘The robbing of a corpse. Harry had a pocket, a small leather pouch. And folded in his pocket, I found this.’ He showed the paper up. ‘It is directed on the outside to a Master Jo. Colville, Master of Requests.
Master of Requests
. Now that is a prodigious office, and the very gateway to the Privy Council.’ Giles was clearly shaken by the letter in his hand.

‘I know the man,’ said Hew. ‘At least, his worth in court. He pitched his tent in Gowrie’s camp, and now has lost his charge, and fallen out of favour with the king.’

‘You are well-informed.’

‘He was Andrew Melville’s friend,’ remembered Hew. ‘And once a student here, who took orders in the Kirk. But since he sought preferment, and neglected his own flock, Andrew has not kept his faith with him. A climber after fortune. Andro does not suffer those.’

‘Then Patrick’s friend, perhaps?’ suggested Giles.

‘I should not have thought so. Colville was complicit in the raid upon the king, and put out in a paper it was wise and just. Now that the king is free, he may be short of friends. But why would Harry write to him?’

‘It is not a letter,’ answered Giles. ‘Rather . . . you must see,’ he handed it to Hew, ‘for I can make no sense of it.’

The paper had been marked out into squares. Those in the lower half mapped out the south face of the castle, drawn to careful scale; the fore tower and the vaults below, with several places circled, and the open fosse. On the top half was a sketch of the trance and nether hall, open to the works, in Giles’ house. The places where the workmen had dug out the walls and floor were also clearly marked.

Hew exclaimed, ‘This is a map of your house.’

‘More precisely, the works in my house,’ Giles agreed. Which, you will apprehend, demands a question. Why would Harry Petrie have it in his pocket? How can he have come by it? I have no understanding he was ever in my house, though I know John Richan was.
This is a skilled and detailed plat, no slight scribbler’s sketch. And, I must confess, that I do not well like to come across it here. It makes me think that all our moves are closely marked and watched. What does it mean, Hew? Can it have to do with the coming of the king? What, then, should I do?’

Hew rolled the paper up and tucked it in his sleeve. ‘I have no idea,’ he smiled. ‘My advice to you, is that to rob a corpse is a most dreadful crime, that would be the ruin of a man in your profession, and, if it came out, is like to see you damned. The saving grace for all of us is that you are quite blameless of so grave a crime, for
you
have not committed it. As to what it means, I will find that out.’

Chapter 21

The Master of Requests

Hew began with Meg, who was uncooperative. ‘There is no way on God’s earth that John could have killed Harry. That boy did not have a bad bone in his body. He was gentle as a selkie, and he would not hurt a soul. John has run away, and it had nought to do with Harry. He telt to me beforehand that he meant to go.’

‘What did he tell you?’

‘His confidence is private, Hew, and telt to me in trust. Tis no concern of yours.’

‘Suppose that Harry kent of it, and had tried to stop him?’ Hew suggested.

‘He would not do that. Harry was his friend. He gave him . . .’
money for the boat
, she began to say, before doubt closed in dark. She turned her face away.

‘Did he tell you,’ Hew persisted, ‘where he meant to go?’

‘No. He did not say. And I am not certain what was in his mind.’ Still, she did not look at him. ‘He was distracted, when I saw him last.’

‘Then you must allow he may have had a part in this?’

‘I do not allow that he would kill his friend. And do not examine me, Hew. I am not a student in your class, nor am I a witness in your court.’ Meg stood her ground.

‘Aye, then, very well. But if you do know where he is, you ought to say. Twere better he were found, for no place here is safe for him. And he cannot go home, for already the archbishop has sent letters to the earl, to warn of his arrest. There is no escape for him.’

Meg made no response. Whatever the confusion milling in her heart, she would not be drawn.

Paul, by contrast, spilled out all he kent, of Harry and the builders, and the visit to the cellar, and the inn in Huckster’s Wynd, where the soldier liked to drink, with a cousin he called Bess.

‘He asked to see the works. He said it was his father who had built the house. I thought no scrap of harm in it, to let him look below.’ Which resolved at least the first part of the mystery: where Harry Petrie found the pattern for his plan.

‘You do not think it somehow caused the poor man’s death?’ Paul concluded anxiously.

‘I’m sure that it did not.’ The truth was, Hew had no idea. For want of any better lead, he went down to the inn. The streets were quiet now since all the lords had left, departing like a flock of birds that would not see another spring. They left behind a trail of dust, of empty flagons, cups and kegs, muddy floors and dirty sheets. Harry’s cousin Bess was sweeping out the yard, and was visibly affected to hear of Harry’s death. ‘How horrible,’ she said, to die in such a way. Did she ken a man called Colville, Hew inquired? The lass was too distraught, or too innocent perhaps, to hide the fact she did. ‘There is a man ca’ed that . . .’

‘Whit matter is there here?’ An older wife appeared, who saw the lass’s tears, and glared at Hew accusingly.

‘I brought you some sad news.’

‘Harry Petrie’s deid.’ The lassie blew her nose. ‘And this man wants to speak wi’ Master John.

The woman shot the girl a warning look. ‘There is no one here that answers to that name. Go back to the bar, and tak a drop of
aquavite
. You have had a shock. How best can I help you, sir?’ She turned back to Hew.

The alehouse in the vennel had no truck with passing trade; it was not a place where strangers lingered long. It was not, indeed, that they were made unwelcome; the alewife and the lasses there would serve their wants as quick enough, with just as bright a smile,
yet they would sense a lull, a stillness to the place, and did not feel at ease. To those who came and stayed, from commerce, kirk or faculty, and settled in the corners, brooding with their cups, the house gave up its secrets, and became a second home. It lacked the ready roughness of the harbour inn, the raucous rant of sailors and of merchants passing through, but opened to the street, as a common drinking house, and kept its darker secrets buried underground.

The woman who had charge of it was known as Violet Rose, though the owner of the house was the vintner, Robert Zeman, famous for his imports of fine and sweet new wines, the lure that drew the masters from the colleges and kirks. Even Andrew Melville had consulted Robert Zeman, for a bottle for his nephew to prepare his wedding toasts. And Robert Zeman, true to form, had brought out just the thing, sweet and mellow, light and subtle ‘like your ain sweet lass’.

Robert’s link to Violet had never been quite clear; they were not man and wife; nor did they share a private life in any manner likely to cause trouble at the kirk. Robert was away a lot, and Violet was in charge. She was a handsome, well-built wife, of thirty-four or -five. And at this time of year, as every year for fifteen years, someone left sweet violets by her chamber door. These she pinned to her kirtle, or wore plaited in her hair, peeking dark and shyly from her close white cap, or planted into pots, with yellow buttercups.

‘I have a letter for John Colville,’ Hew explained to Violet. ‘Found in Harry’s things. Since there is no direction, I cannot send it on.’

‘There is a man called Colville, comes from time to time,’ Violet said impassively. ‘And though he is not here at present, he may well be back. You can leave it, if you like.’

‘I must put it in the hand of the man himself. I am,’ and Hew embellished here, ‘Harry’s man of law, and the paper, do you see, is concerning something left.’ He knew no better way to flush John Colville out.

Violet nodded. ‘
If
I see John Colville, I will let him ken. Whit place will he find you at?’

‘Hew Cullan, at St Salvator’s. I will be there tonight.’

As Hew had supposed, he was not left waiting long, for he had barely settled down to his supper in the hall, when the porter came to call for him. To Hew’s irritation, Colville had not come himself.

‘My master understands that you have in your possession a property of his,’ the servant said. ‘He has sent me to collect it.’

‘Then you must tell your master he must come himself, for I will release it only to his hand.’

‘My master is a busy man. He has to leave tonight, and has no time for this. If you have his property, then ye must give it up.’

‘I am a lawyer, sir, and first I must establish if it is his property, in which case I will surrender it only to his hands. There are certain rules which must be observed.’

‘In which case,’ said the servant, ‘he will see you at the inn, in a quarter of an hour.’ Hew suppressed his smile. Colville had prepared, it seemed, for this contingency. Hew also was prepared, and left the folded paper locked up in his desk, having no intention of releasing it to Colville, before he understood what that might mean for Giles. He felt his spirits quicken as he set out through the gloom.

In the cavity below the common drinking house, the cellars burrowed down into a warren of small cells, where a man might brigue and deal, throw dice or tumble with a lass, or drown a sorrow in his cups, without the bray and bruiting of the fractious world. In a corner of this cavern, hidden from the glare, Hew found Master John. Colville had a cold. His eyes were dull and swollen, heavy with fatigue. Yet his response to Hew was civil.

‘The lawyer, from the college? Sit ye down, my friend. Violet tells me that ye have a letter in my name. You maun excuse my manners than I did not come and fetch it. My business here is brief, and my health is poor. Do you have it here?’

‘It is in my house.’

‘Ach.’

Hew sensed a shadow passing over Colville’s face; in the greasy lamplight, he could not be sure. The man looked frail and tired.

‘Then, sir, I must ask you to direct it with a messenger; for I have nor the time nor will to follow to your house, and nor do I play games. Send it to my wife at Stirling, and I am obliged to you. I shall not be there.’

‘It is not as simple as that. For it may be exhibit in an inquest of the Crown. It must be kept as proof.’

‘In proof of what?’ Colville asked.

‘The man who left it died, and Giles Locke, who is the Visitor here, has opened an inquiry to the cause of death. The manner is suspicious. Among this man’s effects were a paper with your name on it. He was a soldier at the castle, in the privy guard of the archbishop Patrick Adamson. His name was Harry Petrie.’

‘Petrie?’ Colville shook his head. ‘The name means nothing to me. I have no dealings with the castle. What does Patrick say?’

Colville, noticed Hew, was on first names with the bishop. Given their connections, that was not so strange. They both had trained as preachers in St Mary’s College. Both men were ambitious, though their paths had parted since.

‘That he knew nothing of the dead man, except he was his futeman, who had been there at the castle since its last incumbent. An honest, simple soldier, born and bred. I think, perhaps, you met him, sir? I am told he drank here.’

Colville sighed. ‘Do you not drink here?’

‘Sometimes,’ Hew admitted.

‘Sometimes, so do I. The wines here, as you will acknowledge, are the best in town. Yet I am prepared to swear that you and I have never met. And shall I tell you why? For I do not consort with strangers at the bar, but take my pleasures quietly, or I am plagued by those who knew me once as
Master of Requests
to answer their petitions and advance their claims. Our masters now have stripped and broke me of that benefice,’ Colville answered, wearily. ‘Now I am reviled by both king and kirk, those pleas, at least, have ceased.’

That was hard indeed, thought Hew. The Kirk had well approved of Gowrie’s form of government, staunchly Presbyterian, allowing them the chance to move against the bishops. Yet they castigated Colville, who had fought for Gowrie’s cause, for abandoning his parish in pursuit of his ambition. Now his life and living were collapsed in ruins.

‘Your dead futeman –
Petrie
, did you say? – was doubtless one of those, who looked for grace and favour. What was in his letter? For I suppose you read it?’ Colville asked.

‘There is nothing written on it, other than your name. The paper is a drawing of the castle and a house – a house across the way from it, belonging to my sister, and her husband, Doctor Locke.’

‘You have lost me, I’m afraid. What relation was this solder to your sister’s house?’

‘That I do not ken. He asked to see the cellars there, where there are building works; he seemed to think his father may have built the house, and some parts of the castle, sin he was a mason. But his father is no longer still alive.’

Colville showed small sign of interest, still less of surprise. ‘There, I think, you have your answer. He is making some petition that concerns your sister’s house. Tis very likely that he meant to make some claim on it.’

‘Could such a claim have force?’ From what he kent of law – which was quite considerable – Hew could not be sure. He did not know the terms on which Giles kept his house.

Colville answered, ‘I have no idea. As Master of Requests two thirds of all the pleas that I have ever heard are disputes over property, and, as I confess, I do not miss those now. The likelihood is this . . . Your paper is the essence of a property dispute, the like of which I have seen many times, and shall not be sorry not to see again. I cannot help him now, since I am out of office and your friend, alas, is dead. The letter is no worth to me. Yet I advise you, keep it safe until the case is proved, for it may yet turn out to be some of – Harry, was it? – part of Harry’s testament.’

‘Shall I let you know,’ asked Hew, ‘the outcome to the inquest?’

‘Assuming it can find me, I’ll be glad to have the news. I know you, sir; your fame has gone before you. I saw you at the court house once, with Master Richard Cunningham. Ah, what year was that! The year they struck poor Morton down and our king was sore misled, by unhappy influence. And now sic fortune comes again; now those of us who spoke for Gowrie’s cause must joggle for our lives. I go presently to Edinburgh, to answer to what charge the king may set against me, and to plead my case, that is a good and honest one. I am sick, in soul and body, as ye see afore you, and harbour no great hope of it.’

So fate twined and turned, and taunted with her tricks. The thought of Richard Cunningham was sobering to Hew. For Colville, he felt sympathy. There were worse things, to his mind, than to have nailed one’s colours to the earl of Gowrie’s mast.

‘Then I am sorry for it, and I wish you well.’

‘I thank you well for that. I pray that you may prosper. Believe me sir, I do. I cannot tell you, sir, how glad I am we met.’

There was an odd note to his voice, which Hew could barely catch, and could not well interpret, perhaps it was the ague, closing in his throat.

‘And that you solve the riddle of your fallen friend. Tell Andrew Melville, he will have his wish, for I shall surely lose my living at Kilbride; such pittance as it is. And tell him, he and I were ever more alike than he has had the courage to suppose.’

‘God save you, sir.’

‘Adieu.’

Hew’s thoughts turned to Harry as he climbed the stair. His interest in the castle stone was heightened and unusual, the story of his father’s death sufficient to account for it. Had he harboured some false hope of claim to Giles’ house? Surely, if he had, he could not have died for it. Colville, Hew remarked, had shown no interest in the letter once he had established what the contents were. And it
was plain to see that he had troubles of his own; the death of Patrick’s futeman did not ripple in his mind. Then what were Harry’s dreams, and Harry’s fears and hopes?

Hew sought out Petrie’s cousin Bess, but did not find her at the bar. A helpful lass explained, ‘Violet sent her home. Her red-rimmed eyes and dripping nose were puttin’ aff the customers.’ Her father was a fisherman, living by the fisher cross. Hew would find her there. Since Bess was out of sorts, and not up to her best, the lass would take her turn, if he preferred to stay. Hew thanked her, and declined. ‘She no doubt is dismayed at her cousin’s death.’

The serving lass sniggered. ‘Is that what she called him?’

On his way back to the college, Hew passed by the fisher cross and called in at the house. The fisherman was in his bed, and none too pleased to answer to his knock.

‘I am right sorry,’ Hew consoled him, ‘to have heard about your loss.’