The Fourth Crow (11 page)

‘She was tied to St Mungo’s Cross in place of the mad lady,’ he agreed.

‘What was she doing in the kirkyard?’ Baird asked blankly. ‘She hated the place, she’d never ha gone there in the daylight, far less in the dark, no for any money. She was feart for bogles, ever since someone tellt her some daft tale about a hand coming out a grave. What would take her there, maister?’

‘That’s right,’ affirmed Mistress Howie. ‘She’d never go near the High Kirk, aye worshipped in St Thomas’ wee chapel out ayont the Port.’

‘She’d ha been feart to death,’ said Baird, his voice sounding constricted. ‘Bound there and left to die. St Peter’s bones, if I find who did that to my lassie I’ll throttle him mysel, I’ll no wait for the hangman to do it.’

‘You stop that, you filthy leear,’ said the man in the hide apron, shaking him. ‘Right, maister, will we just take him round to the Provost the now while we’ve got our hands on him? Saves hunting for him later on.’

‘No,’ said Gil. There were indignant exclamations. ‘No, let him go. I need a right word wi him, and I’m not doing it here with half the upper town looking on.’

‘He’ll run as soon as he’s loosed,’ said the woman in the striped kirtle.

‘I will not, Agnes Wilkie,’ said Baird, ‘for that I’ll be hunting for him that did that to Peg.’

‘Let him go,’ Gil repeated, and was obeyed with reluctance. ‘And leave me wi him.’

Lowrie began to clear the chapel of the various bystanders, eventually persuading them that there was no more excitement to be had. When all that remained were Gil and Lowrie himself, the hostel servant Bess, and the man Baird, Gil led the porter over to the head of the bier and deliberately turned back the sheet to show the dead woman’s face.

‘Tell me when she went out,’ he said. Baird looked down at the battered countenance, his mouth twisting.

‘No much to tell,’ he said, with fractured bravado. ‘She cam round fro the alehouse when they’d put up the shutters, lifted her plaid and said she’d be away out.’

‘Her plaid?’ Gil repeated. ‘What like is her plaid? You’re certain she took it?’

‘Well, it’s no in the lodging, I’d to sleep cold. Just ordinar. Kind o brown checkit thing. Aye, that’s it.’ He nodded at the bundle Gil lifted from below the bier. ‘That’s hers. Can I get it back, maister? I was— I was right cold last night.’

‘And what did you say when she said she would go out?’ Gil prompted.

‘I said,
Away out? At this hour?
and she said,
Aye. There’s someone back in the town I need a word wi
.’ He paused, scratching at his groin again, his face sour as if the memory tasted bad. As well it might, Gil thought. ‘So I says,
Who would that be?
and she says,
Nobody you ken, Billy, though he’s afflicted the both o us.
Then she goes away out.
Don’t wait up,
she says,
I’ll likely be a while.
And I never,’ he dashed impatiently at his eye, ‘I never seen her again. Till now.’ He put out a hand and touched the bruised cheek with surprising tenderness. ‘Peggy, lass, who was he? What did you do that he slew you this way?’

‘She didny tell you who he was?’

‘No a word.’

Gil went back over the man’s statement in his mind.

‘She said there was someone back in the town,’ he repeated, ‘and someone who had afflicted both of you. What did she mean by that? Your landlord, maybe?’

‘No likely,’ said Baird dismissively, ‘it’s Jean Howie rents us the place, or rents it to Peg any road. Likely she’ll want me out o there now,’ he added, ‘seeing I canny bring in custom to her alehouse.’

‘You think it might have been a matter of picking a fight with this man? Of having something out wi him?’

‘It looks like it, doesn’t it no?’ retorted Baird with grim humour. ‘No, I canny add aught to what I’ve tellt you, maister. The lassies ’at worked wi her might have more to say, she maybe told them whatever it was that was eating at her.’

‘You’re saying she was worried about something?’

‘No worried,’ contradicted Baird. ‘More like annoyed. Something wasny right. I never asked her,’ he said a little desperately, ‘I thought she’d tell me when she cam in, maybe wi money in her purse. I’d naught but those few words wi her afore she went off into the night and I never seen her again till this. It’s no right, maister! It’s no justice!’

Following Gil out into the sunshine again, leaving Baird standing in baffled anger by the bier, Lowrie said quietly,

‘Was she maybe putting the black on someone? Is that why she was killed?’

‘It’s possible,’ said Gil. ‘I wonder how this fellow had afflicted them both? And when he came back into the town?’ He glanced at the sky, and snapped his fingers for Socrates, who obediently left the doorpost he was inspecting and came to his side. ‘I think we need a word wi the lassies at the Trindle, and then it’s high time we went home for the noon bite.’

Jean Howie’s alehouse presented itself much as Gil expected. It stood with its sagging stone gable facing the street, at the top of one of the long narrow tofts north of the Castle walls and just within the Stablegreen port. Tumbledown thatch lowered over the doorway, a similar building stood just beyond it, and a straggling line of sheds and shacks further along the path must include the lodging Billy Baird had shared with Peg. Beyond the fence at the far end of the toft was a stretch of common ground, and then the foot of the gardens of Vicars’ Alley, where the songmen of St Mungo’s dwelt. There was a sound of women weeping, and two gloomy men standing outside the house.

‘Is this it?’ said Lowrie doubtfully.

‘The sign says it is,’ Gil answered. The younger man looked at the weather-worn board hanging crookedly over the door; just recognisably it depicted a trindle, one of the long candles matched to the donor’s height and coiled into a spiral which were pledged to one saint or another in return for favours granted.

‘They aye make me think of dog-turds,’ he remarked, following his superior along the path. ‘Trindles. The way they curl round about.’

‘Thank you for that,’ said Gil. He nodded to the two men at the door, and rapped smartly on the doorjamb. Socrates returned from a brief jaunt down the path and sat down grinning at his feet.

‘You’ll get no assistance, neighbour,’ said one of the bystanders. ‘A man could die o thirst in there the day, if he wasny drowned first wi them weeping.’

‘Aye, well, they’re a’ owerset,’ said his companion. ‘One o their hoors is deid,’ he explained to Gil, ‘strangled to death at Glasgow Cross in the night so they’re saying. It’s only natural they should be out o sorts.’

Inside, the alehouse was dark, the fire burning low. The room seemed to be full of sour-smelling bodies huddled together in sobbing groups, but as his vision improved Gil made out Mistress Howie moving about by the two barrels of ale on their trestles, and no more than four other women, three at the single window with their arms about one another and one on her own by the hearth, stirring something in a pot. This one rose and came forward, wiping her eyes.

‘You’ll ha to forgive us, friend. Maister,’ she corrected herself as she assessed Gil’s clothing in the dimness. ‘We’re no serving the now, for we’ve just had bad news—’

‘I ken that,’ he said, raising his hat to her. Lowrie had taken up position by the door, the dog at his feet. ‘I was hoping for a word wi all of you that worked beside Peg Simpson. It’s possible she said something yesterday that might help me track down the man that slew her.’

‘You found us, then,’ said Mistress Howie from the tap. ‘Aye, Sibby, answer his questions, and if you ken aught that would help, tell it him straight out.’

‘It was that man o hers, for certain,’ said one of the group by the window. ‘Question him, why don’t you, or just take him up afore the Provost—’

‘I still need to know why she died,’ said Gil. ‘Did she tell any of you why she went out last night? Or where she was going?’

‘I seen her,’ said another woman by the window. She disengaged herself from the group and came nearer, rubbing at her arms as if she was cold. The sleeves of her kirtle were decorated with braid like Peg’s. ‘She went off down the road wi her plaid about her. You seen her and all, Mysie.’

The one who had spoken before nodded, saying, ‘Aye, so I did.’

‘What time would that be?’

‘Just when we closed,’ said Mysie. ‘We’d put up the shutters, the mistress was barring the door ahint us.’

‘It wasny full dark,’ said the woman with the braided gown. ‘Maybe ten o’ the clock?’

‘Had she said where she was going?’ Gil asked.

There was general agreement that she had not.

‘Never said much all afternoon,’ contributed the fourth girl, and scratched at her belly through her gown.

‘I thought she was in a strunt,’ said Sibby, stirring her pot again. ‘She was civil enough wi us, but she seemed right annoyed about something.’

‘No just annoyed,’ said Mysie. ‘Spoiling for a fight, maybe.’

‘I asked her what was eating her,’ said the fourth girl, ‘and she said,
Same thing as all of us. But I’ll get him for it,
she said. That was all, Richie Allen wanted her out the back then and we said no more of it.’

‘And is something eating all of you?’ Gil said. What had she meant by that, he wondered. Surely not the lice which infested her gown, those were a hazard of everyday life against which respectable people waged continuous war. The women looked at one another, but Mistress Howie said briskly,

‘No, indeed. My house is a happy house, maister. Well, the most o the time. The lassies all gets on well enough, don’t you no?’

‘Aye, we do, mistress,’ agreed Sibby.

‘What put Peg in a strunt?’ Gil asked. ‘Was she in a mood when she rose in the morning, or was it something through the day?’

‘No, she was great in the morning,’ said the scratcher. She seemed to have infected the others; the girl next her was rubbing uncomfortably at her apron. ‘We’d a good laugh ower the last night’s crocks, her and me.’

‘No, I thought it was after the mistress gave her into trouble for being as long wi the day’s breid,’ said Mysie.

‘She said naught to me,’ said Mistress Howie, coming forward with a cup of ale in each hand, ‘but then likely she wouldny.’ She handed one of the cups to Gil, and drank to him from the other. ‘Your good health, maister, and here’s to a ready solution.’

‘And yours, mistress, and all within here.’ Gil raised the cup in turn.

‘’At’s kind, maister. No, she took what I said to her quiet enough, seeing as I’d the right o it, and set about her tasks as she should. Never gave me no back-answers or nothing.’ Gil preserved silence, and she sniffed, and wiped at her eyes with the tail of her headdress. ‘Poor lassie, nobody deserves that.’

‘I’m for the privy,’ said one of the two still by the window, moving suddenly towards the back of the room. ‘Canny wait any longer.’

‘Good luck,’ said somebody else under her breath. She grimaced, and slipped out into the daylight.

‘What else was Peg speaking of in the day?’ Gil asked

They looked at one another blankly. Heads were shaken in the dim light.

‘Just ordinary things,’ said Mysie. ‘Nothing special. What like the day’s broth was, what the baxter’s lad said when she fetched the breid, that kind o thing.’

‘She mentioned her bairn,’ said Sibby. ‘Said it would ha been its name day soon.’

‘Lowrence, was it called?’ said Lowrie, speaking for the first time.

‘Aye.’ She glanced at him. ‘Said it was in a better place, she did, and then went on scouring the crocks.’

Ah, yes, thought Gil. The feast of St Lawrence would fall in a few days, name day of all called for the saint, when every Lawrence, Lowrence, Lowrie in Glasgow would be at the saint’s altars; Peg Simpson would likely have found a penny for a candle in her baby’s name.

‘I suppose that might be why she was in a strunt, if that vexed her,’ he suggested. More shaking of heads.

‘She aye said Our Lady would look after it,’ said Mysie. ‘She wasny one to brood.’

And yet she went out to pick a fight with someone who had done her some sort of ill turn, Gil thought.

‘And what about the customers? Was she speaking to—’ He broke off, as a heartfelt, pain-filled wail reached his ears. It seemed to come from beyond the back door of the house. Lowrie, by the door, tensed and looked sharply at Gil. Mistress Howie ignored it; the other women looked at one another, one shrugged her shoulders, and another said,

‘Go on, maister. What were you saying?’

The sound had stopped. He swallowed, gestured to Lowrie to relax, and continued, ‘Was she speaking to any in particular? Who did she take out the back?’

‘Out the back?’ repeated Mistress Howie indignantly. ‘Now that’s atween me and them and poor Peg, maister, I canny tell you that, you must see!’

‘Given that anyone else in the place would ken who she took wi her,’ he retorted, ‘no, mistress, I canny see.’

‘He’s right, at that, mistress,’ said Sibby. ‘And she might ha said something to one o them.’

This was not entirely Gil’s meaning, but he let it pass.

‘Richie Allen. Daniel Shearer,’ said Mysie, ‘I seen her wi him. And then wi Tammas Syme. Was there another one, Dorrit?’

‘Never seen.’

The fourth girl slipped back into the house, moving uncomfortably, as if she was afraid she would break, and joined the group. Dorrit put an arm round her, and Mistress Howie said irritably,

‘Aye, well, it was Will Thomson if ye must ken.’ Gil looked over his shoulder to check that Lowrie was making a note of the names. ‘But I’ll no have my regulars harassed. If you go asking them in front o their wives what—’

‘I’d never dream of it,’ said Gil politely, ‘unless they refused to answer me.’

Mistress Howie snorted, and turned back towards her barrels.

‘Well, if you’re done asking questions,’ she said, ‘ye can either leave, or start paying for your ale. I’ve a house to run here.’

‘I was never in a bawdy-house before,’ said Lowrie diffidently, making down the hill past the rose-pink walls of the Castle. ‘At least, I was in the Mermaiden when it was still—’ He paused. ‘That one was very different.’