St Mungo's Robin (5 page)

‘In the chest, no the back,’ said Gil. “And the weapon? No a large one, I’d have said.’

‘Well, for these, an ordinary small dagger, not much bigger than an eating-knife if that. But look at this.’ He pointed carefully with one big forefinger. ‘I checked the
direction of the cuts. These two that bled are quite shallow, as if he was stabbed in anger by an opponent standing in front of him and using his left hand. The third is deeper, done with a bigger
blade, and goes in direct, but also from in front, and has found the heart.’

‘Two assailants? And one of them left-handed,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘Has his own dagger been used?’

‘Quite clean,’ reported Lowrie, investigating both weapons where they lay by the corpse’s well-shod feet. ‘And so’s the whinger. And his boots are no worse than
you’d expect if he was out in the burgh yestreen. Splashes of mud, no more.’

‘Anything else? What’s in his purse?’

‘I have not yet examined the purse.’

‘– the very idea, going through the poor man’s things like this, and all before he’s made respectable, lying there in all his dirt, the soul –’

‘There is blood in the creases of his right hand, as if he put it to the wound, no more, but his fingernails are not damaged. And there is something else strange.’ The mason ducked
round Naismith’s outstretched, accusatory arm to reach the head, and began to smooth the lank brown hair aside with a surprisingly delicate touch. ‘Bring the light here, will
you.’

Gil took up the lantern and obeyed. Lowrie followed him.

‘– at least his eyes are closed, but can he no be left at peace under a decent length of good linen till he softens, with maybe a couple candles and one of my old men to
–’

‘There are these marks on his cheek, which I am not certain about, but also you must look at his other ear,’ said Maistre Pierre. He took the light and held it carefully to shine
across the left side of Naismith’s face. ‘See, this pattern in the skin.’

‘Ridges and furrows,’ said Lowrie, craning round Gil’s elbow. ‘It’s almost like the marks on ploughland that’s been left to grazing for a year or
two.’

‘It’s as if he’s lain on something uneven,’ said Gil. ‘After death, do you suppose? While he set?’

‘I thought so too,’ agreed Maistre Pierre, ‘though I cannot decide what. But there is also the ear. You see?’ He moved the lantern, and pointed at the edge of the
corpse’s right ear.

‘It’s torn,’ said Lowrie in astonishment. ‘But there’s no blood.’ He looked from Maistre Pierre to Gil. ‘I nicked Ninian’s ear on the rim like
that with a broken jug last year, and it bled all over him. Is it an old injury maybe?’

‘There are little tags of skin,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘It has not healed in any way, but nor has it bled.’

‘So –?’ Gil prompted, and recognized his uncle’s teaching methods. Lowrie bent to look closer at the injury.

‘So I suppose this must have happened after he died too. How? Is it related to the other marks? Are they both from some kind of rough treatment, maybe when he was moved to where we found
him?’

‘It fits,’ agreed Maistre Pierre. ‘Look at him.’ He stood back, gesturing at the length of the body. ‘Apart from that arm, he lies level from the feet to the
shoulders, just as he was on the grass. But his head does not rest on this board, it did not rest on the grass, it lies as if on a cushion. A thin cushion,’ he qualified.

‘– as for sticking knives into him once he’s dead, I never heard of such a thing, even if he is asking for a cushion for the poor soul’s head now, and I don’t have
such a thing –’

‘Do you mean, maister,’ said Lowrie slowly, ‘are you saying that he was already part stiffened when he was moved?’

Maistre Pierre grinned approvingly his teeth showing white in his neat black beard.

‘Indeed, I think so. Face, jaw and neck, perhaps, were already set. Then he was disturbed, and taken into the garden, a task I would not care for myself, and fell into the position in
which we found him. In which we see him now,’ he nodded at the unresponsive corpse. ‘I suppose if the shoulders lay differently when he was set down, the head would not touch the
ground.’

Gil studied the face, still locked in its dream.

‘So he was stabbed in some other place,’ he said slowly, ‘and his eyes closed. Then he was kept there for some time, maybe an hour or two –’

‘Perhaps as much as three, when the weather is so cold,’ advised Maistre Pierre. Millar exclaimed inarticulately in the doorway.

‘– maybe three, and then borne into the garden and left there. Why?’ Gil lifted the fur-lined gown from the bench where Maistre Pierre had laid it, and began to turn it
carefully, inspecting its heavy folds.

‘– what a thing to be suggesting, that’s no way to be treating a Christian corp –’

‘He couldny stay where he was killed,’ suggested Lowrie.

‘Well, yes, but why? And why go to so much trouble? Why not simply leave him on the Stablegreen or out in the street? How was he got past the locked door here?’

‘His own keys?’ suggested Lowrie.

‘But the keys are on his belt, so how did his bearer get out again?’

‘Over the wall?’

‘Mm,’ said Gil doubtfully, and peered into the wide sleeve of the garment he held. ‘What is this lodged in the fur?’ He picked the pale scraps out of the soft hairs, and
held them nearer the light. ‘Grass, is it? Straw? Hay?’

Lowrie came to look, and lifted one of the flakes from Gil’s palm.

‘Straw, isn’t it,’ he agreed. ‘Has he been kept in a hayloft or something?’

‘– and anyway I heard him myself last night, he was certainly home by the time I had Humphrey settled, the poor soul, and in his bed no long after –’

‘What was that, madame?’ said Maistre Pierre, turning sharply.

Mistress Mudie, half his size, recoiled for a moment, recovered herself, and said again, ‘I heard him last night wi my own ears, tramping about the boards over my head. He was in his own
lodgings a couple hours afore midnight, maister, my word on it.’

‘Tell us about it, mistress,’ suggested Gil. Unnecessary, he thought, we’ll hear more than we want to. ‘Did you see him at all?’

‘Oh, aye, of course I saw him,’ she said, plump cheeks puffing out with importance. ‘We had the accounts to see to in the afternoon, same as always, and then he had a word for
the whole community, and then they all went to Vespers and Compline, and after it he went out of the almshouse in his good cloak and velvet hat.’

‘It was dark by then?’ said Gil, attempting to follow this headlong description.

‘Compline’s over by maybe half an hour after five o’clock,’ supplied Millar.

Gil nodded acknowledgement, but Mistress Mudie rattled on. ‘Oh, aye, full dark, but I seen him go out at the gate wi a lantern. And then,’ pursued Mistress Mudie without apparently
pausing for breath, ‘I had supper for my old men to see to, and they talked a while by the fire, and then there’s one or two I have to help to their beds, and Humphrey and all, and
after I seen to that I was in my own lodging next the kitchen, and heard Deacon Naismith come in and walk about on the boards over my head, and eat the collation that I leave him in the
court-cupboard to break his fast wi, and drink a beaker of wine, and then ready himself for his bed. And that,’ she concluded triumphantly, ‘was just afore you came in, Maister Millar,
so you see there’s no need of saying he was stabbed or anything, because it must have been someone in here if he was, and who’d do a thing like that to the Deacon I’d like to
know?’

‘So would I, indeed,’ said Gil politely. ‘Tell me, mistress, do you know where the Deacon went when he left yesternight?’

‘Well, of course I do, though that’s to say, he never said, but a body could tell,’ she dimpled at Gil suddenly, ‘ye can aye tell when a man’s going to his
mistress, the more so after what he tellt us all in the afternoon, will you be seeing yours when you’ve done asking questions here, maister?’ I will indeed, thought Gil uneasily.
‘He went out the gate in his good cloak and hat wi his Sunday gown under them, the same one he died in, look at him there, the soul, and his shoulders back, right pleased wi himself,’
she demonstrated, causing a major upheaval under her decent black gown, ‘he’d be going to his house by the Caichpele where the woman Veitch dwells, where he often goes for his supper
–’

‘So he was out of this place before six,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘and returned – when?’

‘I was back here about ten,’ said Millar uneasily. ‘And he was already home.’

‘Returned before ten.’ Maistre Pierre raised his eyebrows. ‘A short evening with one’s mistress.’

‘How long does it take?’ said Gil absently, and caught his breath. ‘I mean –’ He broke off, and felt his face burning.

‘Longer than that, I hope, the first time,’ said his betrothed’s father unanswerably.

‘– and he was later back than he’s often been,’ supplied Mistress Mudie, to Gil’s relief, ‘for it’s quite usual he’s in his lodging and walking up
and down over my head before St Mungo’s Vespers is ended, maybe eight o’clock –’

‘I saw him go out,’ said Millar. ‘I was ju – just leaving, myself – a late lecture, six o’clock – I’m studying Theology,’ he expanded,
‘and he left ahead of me.’

‘And you weren’t back until ten?’ Gil asked.

‘– oh, aye, it was late, I’d to see Anselm and Duncan to their beds on my own, and Anselm was well worked up, the soul, I canny tell what about –’

‘We sat a while discussing the lecture, and so forth. It must ha been ten o’clock I came up the road. I saw there was a light in the Deacon’s lodgings, so I locked up and went
to my own bed.’ He turned in the doorway and pointed at the main range with its top-heavy dormer windows. ‘That’s my lodging at the end, you see, I reach it from the inner yard.
The Deacon’s bedchamber is just through the wall from me. I could hear him moving about and all.’

‘And you’re certain it was as late as ten?’ Gil prompted.

Millar shook his head. ‘I ken all was dark at St Mungo’s and at St Nicholas when I came through the Wyndhead.’

‘Ten o’clock,’ said Maistre Pierre disapprovingly. ‘I should have said earlier, but I suppose it is possible.’

‘And this was all just as usual?’ Gil asked.

‘– usual enough, save they were all late back, for it’s only the two nights in the week Maister Millar’s no here to help me wi Anselm, and what he was on about I’d
like to ken, his friend had tellt him all was well but he couldny see it and kept asking me –’

‘Usual enough,’ agreed Millar. ‘The Deacon was often out in the evening, and back at a variable time, and as Mistress Mudie says I’ve two late lectures in the week, and
I’m often gey late home after them. You can check that wi Patey Coventry,’ he added anxiously, ‘he’s in the same class.’

‘Oh, the Bachelor of Sacred Theology course?’ Gil said in Latin. Millar nodded, looking relieved.

‘– needing me much longer, I’d like to get the Deacon made decent, for I’ve the crocks to see to after their porridge and the lassie to send to the market, and then
I’ve the dinner to get started, and the Deacon’s lodging to redd up and the accounts to manage and I hope you’ll oversee the accounts for today, Maister Millar, since Deacon
Naismith’s no able –’

‘I have learned all I may from him just now,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘What do we do now, Gilbert?’

‘I’d like to see the Deacon’s lodgings,’ said Gil, ‘you should be present, Maister Millar, but I think we could let Mistress Mudie get on now.’

‘– I tellt ye, I’ve no had a chance to get up there to redd up, I’d no like ye to think it aye looks the way it does first thing, but at least I can make sure Humphrey
gets his draught –’

‘I can let you in,’ said Millar, ‘but I need to take the old men to Terce. Maybe Cubby could lead the Office,’ he said doubtfully, ‘if Frankie’s no back.
He’s got the best voice, they can all hear him. Then I could come back and help.’

‘If you could. And you two,’ Gil turned to Lowrie. ‘If you can find Michael,’ he amended, ‘the pair of you could look for the Deacon’s cloak and hat if you
would. I’ll send the dog with you, and you can tell me if he pays attention to any place in particular.’

‘They mi – might be in his lodging,’ said Millar. ‘The cloak and hat.’

‘True,’ agreed Maistre Pierre, ‘but having taken the time to put his boots on, why would he then go out bareheaded?’

‘Michael’s likely in the Douglas lodging,’ said Lowrie. ‘Socrates and I can go see.’

‘And then,’ said Gil reluctantly, ‘I’ll need to talk to the brothers. I’ve a notion one or two might have something useful to tell us.’

‘– and that’ll make a nice change for them, a civil learned young man to talk to, they aye like a new ear for their tales, the souls, and if that’s you done here,
maister, I’ll see to covering him and a couple of candles the now till he softens and we can make all decent –’

Lowrie paused at the doorway, cast a sidelong, reluctant glance at the corpse in its pool of lamplight and crossed himself.

‘It’s an odd thing,’ he confessed. ‘I’ve been at the hunt, I’ve witnessed a many stags unmade and lesser game cut up, but this is no the same at
all.’

‘No,’ agreed Gil. ‘It’s no the same at all. Say a word for him when you get the chance,’ he suggested, miming counting his beads. ‘It helps.’

The young man nodded, and swallowed hard.

‘I’ll do that,’ he said. ‘Thanks, maister.’

Out in the yard, the rain was heavier. Lowrie ducked his head in a brief bow and hurried for the hall door, and Millar led the way to the fore-stair of the Deacon’s lodging. Socrates,
following Lowrie, checked at the threshold and emitted one staccato bark. Gil looked back from the stair and gestured, and the dog obediently padded off after the young man.

‘Not locked,’ said Maistre Pierre as the latch rattled.

‘Oh, no,’ agreed Millar, pushing the door open. ‘We lock the outer gate by night, ye ken, and the hall door, and the back yett as Sissie said, but we’ve no locks to our
own doors, save for the Douglas lodging, a course, and the boy has that the now.’

Naismith’s apartment was both commodious and clean. The door admitted them to an outer room fashionably and expensively furnished with a handsome court-cupboard, four leather backstools
and a table with carved legs. In one corner of the room stood a tall rack of shallow drawers, bundles of papers showing at their open fronts. Wall-hangings of verdure work made the place
comfortable, and on an embroidered linen cloth on the table sat the remains of Mistress Mudie’s collation: a wooden platter with the crumbs of an oatmeal bannock, the leaf wrappings of a
green cheese, an apple-core. Windows facing on to either yard were stoutly shuttered, but a grey light fell through their glazed upper portions just under the thatch.