The Harper's Quine (7 page)

‘May I have a word, sir?’ said Gil. At his voice the
Official raised his head and favoured him with a cold grey
stare. Gil, undaunted, closed the door and leaning on the
desk gave a concise account of the morning’s discoveries.
His uncle heard him in attentive silence, then stared out of
the window at the rose-pink stone tower of the Archbishop’s castle, tapping his fingers on the desk.

‘James Henderson spoke to me at Chapter this morning,’
he said at last. ‘I think he has the right of it. She died on
St Mungo’s land, St Mungo’s has a duty to find her
killer.’

‘And to determine whether it was forethought felony or
murder chaud-melle,’ offered Gil. His uncle glanced at him
sharply.

‘Aye. Well, you were aye good at hunting, Gilbert, and
you have shown some sense making a start on the trail already. You might as well continue. You’ll report to me, of
course, and I’ll take it to Chapter.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Gil, blinking slightly at the unaccustomed praise.

His uncle looked again at the parchments at his elbow.

‘This must be replait, I suppose,’ he said, ‘at least until
the poor woman is formally identified. Where will you
begin? Where is the trail freshest?’

‘Two places, I think, sir,’ said Gil readily. He and the
master mason had already found themselves in agreement
on the same question. ‘The lass who was with the mason’s
boy must be found, and I wish to speak to John Sempill of
Muirend. And additional to that, St Mungo’s yard must be
searched carefully, in case we find the great piece of wood
with which the boy was struck down. The mason and his
men are seeing to that just now. I passed Sempill in the
waiting-room here,’ he added, ‘himself, Philip, two witnesses, and one of the gallowglasses.’

‘Well, well,’ said Canon Cunningham. He picked up
parchments and protocol books, and moved to sit behind
the great table, arranging his documents on the worn tablecarpet. Clapping the legal bonnet over his black felt coif, he
continued, ‘Then let us have in Sempill of Muirend and see
how he takes the news.’

John Sempill of Muirend, summoned alone, argued
briefly with Richard Fleming the clerk in the antechamber,
then erupted into the chamber saying impatiently, ‘Yon
fool of a clerk says you don’t want my witnesses. Is there
some problem, sir?’

‘There may be,’ said David Cunningham calmly. ‘Be
seated, Maister Sempill
.’

John Sempill, ignoring the invitation, stared at the
Official. He was a solid, sandy man, inappropriately
dressed in cherry-coloured velvet faced with squirrel, with
a large floppy hat falling over one eye. Scowling from
under this he said, ‘My damned wife hasn’t compeared, no
in person nor by a man of law, but she’s left me anyway,
I suppose you know that, so she isn’t concerned in this.’

‘When did you last see your wife, John?’ asked Gil.

The pale blue eyes turned to him. ‘Yesterday, making a
May-game of herself at Glasgow Cross. Fine thing for a
man to meet, riding into the town - his lawful wife,
disporting herself in public for servant-lads and prentices
to gape at.’

‘And that was the last you saw her?’ Gil pressed.

‘Yes. What is this?’ Sempill pushed the hat back. ‘Is
something wrong?’

‘Did you try to have word with her?’

‘Yes, I did, but the bitch never compeared for me either.
What is this?’ he demanded again. ‘What’s she done, run
off from the harper too?’

‘Not quite,’ said Gil. ‘When were you to have met
her?’

‘Last night after Compline. Neil Campbell said he
fetched her, but when I came out of the church she wasn’t
to be seen. Turned hen-hearted, I suppose. You saw me,’
he added. ‘You came out of St Mungo’s just behind
Euphemia.’

‘I did,’ Gil agreed.

‘Maister Sempill,’ said David Cunningham, ‘I think you
should know that a woman was found in the Fergus Aisle
this morning, dead. She has been provisionally identified
as Bess Stewart of Ettrick, your wife.’

The blue eyes, fixed on his, grew round with shock.
The broad face sagged and stiffened into a mask of
astonishment.

‘Sit down, man,’ said the Official. John Sempill, still
staring, felt behind him with one booted foot for the stool
and sank on to it.

‘Dead,’ he repeated. ‘When? How? Had she been
forced?’ he demanded.

‘No sign of that,’ said Gil. ‘She never went back to her
lodgings. She must have died sometime last night.’

‘Dead,’ said Sempill again. ‘And in the Fergus Aisle? You
mean that bit of building work in St Mungo’s yard? Why?
What happened to her?’

‘That we hope to establish,’ said Gil. ‘Perhaps you can
tell us a few things.’

‘So she didn’t run out,’ said Sempill thoughtfully. ‘Poor
bitch.’ He looked up, from Gil to his uncle. ‘That means
her interest in the Rottenrow plot is returned to me,’ he
pointed out firmly. ‘We can continue with that transaction
at least.’

‘That must be for you and your witnesses to decide,’
said Gil, rather taken aback. ‘My immediate concern is to
discover who killed your wife and bring him to justice. Do
you tell me that between the time you rode in at Glasgow
Cross yesterday and now, you have not seen or spoken
with her?’

‘That’s exactly what I said,’ agreed Sempill irritably. ‘The
woman’s dead, what purpose is there in worrying at it?’

‘I think the Bishop - Archbishop,’ Gil corrected himself,
‘could enlighten you on that if your confessor cannot.
What was the message that your man took, John?’

Sempill stared angrily at Gil for a moment, then evi-

dently decided to humour him.

‘That she should come up and meet me by the south
door of St Mungo’s after Compline. And he delivered it.
And he came into Compline and told me she was waiting
out-by in the trees. The small belt of haw-trees,’ he elaborated, ‘by the south door. Is that dear enough? You can ask
Neil himself if you choose. He’s over in Rottenrow.’

`Thank you, I will. Did you offer her a reason for the
meeting?’

‘Aye, but what’s that to do with it?’

‘It will tell us why she would come up the High Street
at that hour,’ said Gil mildly. ‘It was late to be out without
a reason.’

Sempill stared at him again, chewing his lip. Finally he
said, ‘I don’t know what Neil told her.’

‘Understood,’ agreed Gil.

‘I bid him tell her it was a matter of money. Her money.
Knew that would fetch her,’ he said, grinning. ‘All
Stewarts are thrieveless and she’s no exception.’ The grin faded as the two lawyers looked at him without expression. ‘I was going to offer her her share of the purchase if
she agreed to this transaction.’ He nodded at the desk in
front of him.

‘You must be desperate for the money,’ Gil said.

Sempill scrutinized this, failed to detect sarcasm, and
said, ‘Aye. Well. The Treasury has a long memory. So we
might as well go ahead with it.’

‘It seems to me as your conveyancer,’ said Canon
Cunningham, ‘that it is only proper the matter should be
replait - that it should be set aside to wait until you have
identified the corpse yourself. Perhaps you would discuss
this with your witnesses, Maister Sempill. And accept our
condolences on your loss.’

‘Aye,’ said Sempill again. He glared at both Cunninghams, rose and withdrew with dignity, slamming the door
behind him so that documents went flying about the
room.

‘Well!’ said Gil, stooping for the nearest. ‘Why is he in
such a hurry to get the money?’

‘Paisley Cross,’ said his uncle elliptically.

‘What was it at Paisley Cross?’ asked Maistre Pierre. He
had been waiting near the door at the foot of the stair.
Without the fur-lined gown he was less bulky but still
big, an inch or two shorter than Gil but far broader. He
had unlaced and removed the sleeves of his jerkin and
rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing muscular brown forearms decorated with silver scars. ‘This way, maister,’ he
added.

‘It began two years since,’ said Gil, following him down
the kirkyard. ‘The Crown granted Paisley burgh status and
a market after Stirling field, you remember, and Renfrew
took exception to another market two miles away from
theirs.’

‘This I knew from Davie. Where does Sempillenter?’

‘The burgesses of Paisley bought stones to make a mar ket cross, and some evil advised persons of the said town of
Renfrew,’ Gil quoted with relish, ‘came by night and broke
up the stones. If Sempill of Eliotstoun -‘

‘Ah, the Sheriff of Renfrew -‘

‘Indeed, and head of the Sempills in the west, was
not involved, he certainly knew who was. The Earl of
Lennox and his son were charged with putting it right, and
naturally they pursued the guilty with all rigour, given
their -‘

‘Great love for all Sempills,’ Maistre Pierre completed.
‘I begin to see. There would be fines to pay, of course. So
this particular Sempill is being pursued by the Crown, and
having to sell land to raise funds. Is he close kin to the
Sheriff of Renfrew?’

‘Not close enough for Eliotstoun to pay his fines for
him,’ Gil said, and realized his companion was not listening. He had come to a halt at the edge of the trees and was
casting about.

‘Now where - ah, that peeled twig. We search for a
weapon, we agreed, or a thing out of place. We have seen
no weapon this far, but Luke found this, which is certainly
out of place. We left it lying so you also could see where
it was.’

He parted the bluebells in front of the marker. Gil leaned
down and lifted the harp key which nestled in the long
leaves. It was a pretty thing; the metal barrel that gripped
the tuning-pins was set into a painted wooden handle. A
love-gift, a musician’s gift, acutely personal. Surely the
dead woman would have kept such a thing safe?

‘It has flowers on, it must be hers, not?’ the mason
continued. ‘Has she been here? Was it she who struck the
boy down?’

‘Her hands were clean,’ Gil pointed out. ‘She had not
handled the kind of stick we are searching for. No, this
came here another way.’

He recounted the incident he had seen just before the
mason arrived. Maistre Pierre heard him out, and said thoughtfully, ‘She must have had a purse, to keep it in.
I wonder what has happened to that?’

‘My thought,’ agreed Gil.

‘We must find these laddies and question them. It must
be nearly noon - will they sing also at Nones? We can
catch them then.’

‘More like two of the other boys,’ Gil said. ‘They take
turns. It’s cheaper, and doesn’t tire their voices. I’ll speak
to Patrick - no doubt he can help. Where are your men
now? Have you asked them about Davie’s lass?’

‘Alys spoke to them. I am not certain what she learned.
They are up-by, searching the top of the kirkyard, since
most of Glasgow is now gone home to its noon piece.
Maister lawyer, this gallowglass must be questioned,
I think. Suppose you leave us here and go see to that?’

The Sempill property was a large sprawling townhouse, an
uneasy mix of stone tower and timber additions set round
a courtyard. Three hens and a pair of pigeons occupied the
courtyard; voices floated from an open window, and someone was practising the lute. Gil paused under the arch of
the gateway, then, on the grounds that he represented St
Mungo’s, moved towards the stairs to the main door.

He had taken barely two steps into the courtyard when
sound exploded behind him, an enormous barking and
clanking and scrabble of claws. He whirled, drawing his
sword, leaping backwards through a flurry of wings, as the
mastiff hurtled to the end of its chain bellowing threats.
Laughter from the house suggested that he had been seen.
He took another prudent step backwards, assessing the
huge animal with its rolls of brindled muscle. Ropes of
saliva hung from the white fangs in the powerful jaws. He
looked carefully at the chain, then sheathed his whinger,
turned and strolled to the stairs, controlling his breathing
with some difficulty. Behind him the dog continued to bay
furiously until Sempill appeared in the doorway.

‘Doucette!’ he bawled. ‘Down! You were safe enough,’ he added, grinning as the noise dropped. He had discarded the cherry velvet, and wore a very old leather
jerkin. ‘We only let her loose at night.’

‘I hope the chain is secure,’ Gil commented. Behind him
metal rattled as the dog lay down with reluctance, still
snarling. ‘You could find yourself with a serious action
against you if she got loose and killed something.’

The grin vanished. Sempill grunted in answer, and said,
‘I suppose you’re here to ask more questions.’

‘I wish to speak to the man who took your message last
night,’ Gil agreed. ‘And perhaps I might ask the rest of
your household if they saw anything unusual in the kirkyard when we left Compline.’

‘Why? You were there. You know what there was to
see.’

‘Someone else might have noticed something different.’

Sempill stared at him, then said ungraciously, ‘Wait in
here, I’ll send Neil to you. I’ll see if the others will speak
to you as well - but you’re not to upset Euphemia,
mind.’

He showed Gil into a small closet off the hall. It
contained a clutter of half-repaired harness, for man
and horse, and some leather-working tools laid on the
windowsill.

‘Fool of a groom in charge here,’ said Sempill, seeing Gil
looking at these. ‘I swear by the Rood, half the leather in
the place is rotted, I’m having to overhaul the lot, but if
I beat him as he deserves, who’s to see to Doucette out
there?’

He strolled off, ostentatiously casual, shouting, ‘Neil!
Neil, come here, you blichan!’ Gil sat down by the window
and studied the array of tools. There were some nasty
triangular needles, a leather palm, a vicious little knife. He
lifted the awl and turned it in his hand, feeling the
point.

‘Fery sharp,’ said a voice. Gil turned, to see one of the
two men-at-arms occupying most of the doorway. ‘The
chentleman wished to see me?’