The Harper's Quine (16 page)

Gil, pacing solemnly in behind Maistre Pierre in an
atmosphere of mint and feverfew, was taken aback by the
number of people already present. Still more were making
their way through the church.

‘Are all present?’ asked Father Francis at length. ‘May
we begin?’

‘Yes,’ said Ealasaidh.

‘No,’ said Gil in the same moment. ‘John Sempill.
-‘

Ealasaidh drew a sharp breath, and was checked by a
small movement of her brother’s hand. Feet sounded in
the transept, and Sempill of Muirend entered the chapel
swathed in black velvet, a felt hat with a jet-encrusted brim
perched on his head. He dragged this off, glared round,
then tramped forward to genuflect, glanced once at the bier, and stood aside. As he stared grimly at the harper
from under his dishevelled thatch of sandy hair, his cousin
and James Campbell of Glenstriven, also draped in black,
followed him in and took up position beside him. The two
gallowglasses tramped in, crossed themselves, and took up
position either side of the entry like a guard of honour.
Sempill nodded and gestured to the Superior, who, waiting a few heartbeats longer, opened his book and began.

‘De profundis clamavi ad to … Out of the deep have
I called unto thee, 0 Lord …’

Gil looked round, counting heads. Aside from the mason
and his men and the Sempill party, there was another man
who looked like a harper, led by a shabby boy; a flamboyant fellow with a lute across his back; and more than a
dozen townsfolk, among whom he recognized Nancy’s
mother and aunt, and a man from the Provost’s household,
presumably sent as a nicely judged courtesy. The Provost,
as a Stewart, was related to the Earl of Lennox, and therefore at odds with the Sempills, and although Sempill of
Muirend was a fellow landowner he had lost only an
adulterous wife and was in no favour with anyone who
mattered in the burgh, such as the Archbishop. Sending
one’s steward in a black mantle was quite enough.

The brothers were chanting the Miserere. Beside him the
mason hitched at his velvet gown, crushing the great bow
of the black silk funeral favour tied on his arm. Gil glanced
down at his own. Alys had tied it for him after she had
seen to her father’s, standing in the paved yard with the
sunshine bright on her bent head. Her hair, it occurred to
him now, was the warm tawny colour of honey just run
from the comb.

Movement by the entrance to the chapel made him look
round, in time to see David Cunningham enter quietly,
followed by his taciturn servant, genuflect, and move into
a corner. Catching Gil’s eye he nodded briefly, and turned
his attention to the service.

‘Requiem aeternam … Grant them rest eternal, 0
Lord …

The words unfolded, with their promises of eternal life,
their reminders of judgement and the end times. Father
Francis delivered a brief address in which he managed to
suggest rather than state his hope that the deceased, having agreed to meet her husband, had repented of her
adultery. Ealasaidh stirred restively, and was checked
again.

The Mass drew to its end, and Father Francis stepped
down from the altar to stand by the bier. Bowing to the
shrouded corpse, he drew breath to address it, but
Ealasaidh spoke first, her accent very strong.

‘Chust one thing, father. There iss people here who have
not seen her. We should make it clear who it is we are
burying.’

The Franciscan looked steadily at her for a moment, then
bowed. She reached forward and tugged at the ribbons
which tied the shroud at the crown of the unseen head,
then folded back the linen to reveal the still face, softened
now into the calm acceptance of the dead. Tenderly she
smoothed at a lock of the dark hair with its dusting of
silver threads.

‘There,’ she said, looking defiantly at John Sempill.
‘Now who else will say farewell to Bess Stewart?’

‘I will,’ he said, accepting the challenge. He stepped
forward, and first made the Cross with his forefinger and
then bent to leave a rather perfunctory kiss on the white
brow. Ealasaidh, watching, smiled grimly as he turned
back to his place.

‘Now you,’ she said to his cousin.

‘I can name her from here,’ said Philip Sempill, dismay
in his tone.

‘Come and say farewell,’ she commanded. He would
have objected, but John Sempill nudged him, and he came
reluctantly to touch the corpse’s cheek with the back of his
hand, then suddenly bent and kissed the cold lips. He
turned away, his eyes glittering in the candlelight, and
James Campbell stepped after him with a short and sonor ous prayer, the palm of his hand on the shrouded
breastbone.

‘And you,’ said Ealasaidh to the two gallowglasses. They
strode forward as one, to touch fearlessly, murmuring
something in Ersche which sounded like a blessing, and
turned away to move back down the chapel to their
place.

Gil, from where he stood, had an excellent view of the
way their faces changed. Astonishment was succeeded by
staring fear, which gave way to horror. Turning his head to
look where they did, Gil felt the hair stand up on his
neck.

Out in the dim church, a white figure approached, gliding slowly between the pillars of the crossing, hazy and
silent, its scale impossible to determine in the shadows. It
came nearer, and paused. Others had seen it. Gil noticed
the mason’s man Luke crossing his fingers against ill luck,
and there were muttered exclamations of prayer or blessing. Then the figure moved, and spoke, and became
human-sized.

‘Am I late? I’m so sorry.’

‘Euphemia!’ said John Sempill. ‘Come and say farewell
to Bess, since we’re all laying hands on her.’

‘I hardly think that necessary; said Father Francis,
regaining control of the situation. ‘Oremus …’

As the Latin words rolled over the corpse Euphemia
moved gracefully through the screen gate into the chapel,
her watchful Italian at her back. She had dearly failed to
borrow a black mantle, for she was in full white mourning:
a satin gown, without ornament, and a cloak fit for a
Carmelite were garnished with an extensive veil of very
fine gauze with spangles. Gil heard several people draw in
their breath at the sight.

Under the strident keening of the women, as they followed the bier out into the kirkyard, the mason said
quietly, ‘What do you make of that, maister lawyer?’

‘Interesting,’ said Gil. ‘That is five people who are either
innocent or not affected by superstition.’

‘Would you have touched her, there before all the congregation? And run the risk of being accused of her death,
if fresh blood appeared?’

‘I already have - and I know myself to be innocent.’ Gil
eyed the back of John Sempill’s sandy head, visible beyond
the shrouded form on the bier. ‘I am convinced that one is
innocent too, at least in himself, though the Fury is equally
convinced of his guilt.’

‘And she - the Fury - what is she screaming about
now?’

‘It is an Ersche custom,’ Gil explained. ‘She and the
others are addressing the dead, reproaching her for leaving
us, probably listing all the people who will miss her. So
I am told.’

‘It is a horrible noise. Has she mentioned the child?’

‘I would not know.’

‘No, but anyone who understands Ersche will,’ said the
mason significantly. ‘Who are all these? I expected an
empty church.’

Gil looked round again.

‘Two musicians at least. Neighbours. Serjeant Anderson
- he’s worn that favour to a few funerals. A few others out
of compliment to the harper, or to Sempill.’

The pallbearers, selected evenhandedly by Father
Francis, halted before the open grave and lowered the bier.
Sempill and his cousin stepped back immediately, glaring
at the other two, and Euphemia Campbell moved forward
to stand between them, leaning on John Sempill’s arm with
a pretty solicitude as he glowered at the lutenist opposite
him. The women fell silent, and four of the Franciscans
took up the cords to lower Bess Stewart into her grave. Gil
edged back from the sight.

‘I cannot bear the way they bend in the middle,’ he
confessed in Maistre Pierre’s ear.

The mason turned a bright eye on him, but moved
companionably to the edge of the group, saying, ‘There is
a bite to eat after this at my house. You will come back, no?
There may be something to be learned.’

‘I should be grateful.’ Gil looked over the heads. ‘But
I think you have competition. Look yonder.’

James Campbell, in a pose comically mirroring the
mason’s, was speaking low and sideways to the Official.
Since Canon Cunningham’s attention was on Father
Francis he received only a stiff nod in reply, but this
seemed to satisfy him, for he moved casually off to speak
to the Provost’s steward. Maistre Pierre said something
inappropriate to the occasion, and set off in opposition as
the singing ended and Father Francis pushed back his
hood and turned to John Sempill with calm sympathy. At
the grave’s foot, Philip Sempill stood, bare head bent, the
light breeze ruffling his fair hair.

Gil remained where he was while the mason secured a
word with both musicians and several neighbours. James
Campbell seemed unaware of the situation until he sidled
up to someone with whom the mason had already spoken.
Gil was watching the resulting exchange with some
amusement when his uncle spoke in his ear.

‘We may learn more in different courts.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said gratefully, thinking, God, the old man’s
quick on the uptake.

The Official sniffed. ‘Mint and feverfew. Flea repellent?’

‘It has other uses, I’m told,’ Gil said, annoyed to hear
himself defensive.

‘Aye, well. Is there anything I should raise in particular?’

‘Money. Who is the better for her death.’

‘Cui Bono. Aye. I cannot think it Sempill.’

‘Not directly,’ Gil agreed, watching Father Francis
decline politely. ‘I cast Maggie in there this morning to see
what she could put up. Best not to see her if you see her,
sir.’

‘I take your point.’ The Official, with another hard look
at the borrowed gown and favour, moved away to condole
with John Sempill. Gil found Serjeant Anderson approaching in his blue gown of office.

‘A sad business, Maister Cunningham; he said conventionally.

‘Aye, indeed,’ agreed Gil.

‘And I hear you’ve no put her killer to the horn yet.’

‘We only found her yesterday morning,’ said Gil. ‘I am
working on it.’

‘Aye,’ said the serjeant. ‘No doubt. And is that right, that
there’s a bairn?’

‘What makes you ask?’ countered Gil.

‘Girzie Murray yonder’s first man spoke the Ersche. She
was telling me what the women were saying, when they
were caterwauling there.’

‘And what were they saying?’

‘Oh, the likes of, Who will stroke the small harp, who
will tune the big harp, who will comfort the man-child. All
very poetic, though you’d not think it to hear it sung,’ said
Serjeant Anderson trenchantly. ‘So it seems there’s a
bairn.’

‘So what have we learned today?’ asked the mason, strolling up the High Street in the late afternoon sun.

‘Little enough,’ admitted Gil. ‘I have another sighting of
Davie and his girl, but no description. I have learned that
Bess Stewart had property on Bute, and spoke Ersche, and
that the gallowglass promised to see her home.’ He ticked
the points off as he spoke. ‘We know that Sempill is after
the baby. And I had a long word with that musician.’

‘Who was he?’

‘He calls himself Balthasar of Liege, but I suspect Leith
is nearer it.’

The flamboyant man with the lute had approached Gil
in the courtyard of the mason’s house. The long trestle
table was laden with food, and maids hurried about with
wicker dishes containing more food; avoiding a girl with a
handful of empty beakers, the man had said, ‘Poor Bess.
And poor Angus. She’s a great loss. Didn’t I see you at
their lodgings last night? Had you known her long?’

‘I never met her,’ Gil said. ‘I found her dead.’

‘Stabbed, so Ealasaidh tells me. By the husband.’

‘There is no proof of that,’ Gil said firmly. ‘Tell me about
Bess - how did you know her?’

‘I’ve known Angus for years - you meet folk, on the
circuit. Then he turned up with this new singer. More than
one of us envied him - I’d have been happy to lift her
away from him,’ he admitted frankly, ‘but she’d none of
any of us. Angus it was for her.’

‘I heard her sing, on May Day. She’d a bonnie voice.’

‘And a rare hand with the wee harp.’ The lutenist’s own
hand shot out and seized a pasty from a passing tray. ‘And
always a greeting and a friendly word for Angus’s friends,
for all she was stolen away from her own castle. A good
woman and a good musician, and few enough of either
come from baronial stock. I saw her on the High Street on
May Day evening,’ he said abruptly.

‘You don’t say?’ said Gil. ‘On May Day evening?’

‘I do. I’m in Glasgow for the dancing, see,’ he said,
indicating the lute, ‘and I picked up enough to go drinking. So I was sizing up the howffs on the Bell o’ the Brae
when she came up the hill with a good-looking young
fellow. I’m about to say something tactless when I catch
what they’re saying, and he’s addressing her as Mistress
Bess, and it’s dear they know one another.’

‘They knew one another?’ Gil repeated.

‘By what I heard, aye. In Bute it was, from the sound
of it.’

‘What language were they speaking?’ Gil asked.

‘Oh, Ersche, of course.’ The lutenist eyed Gil. He had
one blue eye and one brown, a most distracting attribute.
‘Are you thinking I don’t speak Ersche? You’re right, of
course, but I can sing in it, and I understand it when I hear
it. She knew his name, and she sounded like a woman
speaking to a trusted servant.’

‘I see,’ said Gil, digesting this. ‘And then what? Did you
speak to her?’

‘Aye, briefly, and she bade me goodnight, and told me
where they were living, and went on up the brae, rattling
away in Ersche with the young fellow. And when I went round there yesterday, looking for a crack with the three of
them, this was the word that met me.’ He gestured largely
round the yard and bit into the pasty. ‘What a waste.’