The King's Corrodian (17 page)

‘
Dhia!
’ said Euan from the corner. ‘You would take her for Scathach herself!’

The man of law who appeared from the inner room was not an imposing figure. A foot or so shorter than Gil, narrow of face and form, one shoulder higher than the other, he glared after Mistress Trabboch, then sniffed disparagingly and turned to Gil.

‘Aye?’ he said.

Gil bowed, and said in Latin, ‘Good day to you, brother. May I have a word?’

Maister Pullar stared hard at him for a moment, then turned back into his chamber, saying in the same language, ‘Hah! Come in.’

‘A difficult client,’ Gil observed, closing the door behind him.

‘Difficult!’ said Maister Pullar. ‘Aye, very difficult. How may I help you, brother?’

Gil introduced himself and they bowed again, the formal recognition of one man of law for another. Pullar sat down at his elaborate desk and waved at the nearest stool.

‘Have a seat, maister. And what brings Blacader’s quaestor into Perth? The Archbishop of Glasgow has no authority in Dunkeld diocese.’ His Latin had the accent of St Andrews rather than Glasgow.

‘I know that,’ Gil agreed. ‘I am lodged at the house of the Dominicans.’

‘Ah. In the matter of the disappearance of Leonard Pollock, I must suppose.’

‘Indeed.’ Gil was watching the man, maintaining his friendly expression. ‘I am told you had some dealings with him. I hoped you might be able to tell me a little, seeing he is now known to be dead.’

‘Dead, is he? That is certain?’

‘The fire which was thought to have carried him off in fact destroyed his body absolutely. We have found his ashes.’

Maister Pullar crossed himself, murmured something conventional, and folded his hands on his desk.

‘What proof do we have that the ashes are Pollock’s?’ he asked.

‘Circumstantial only,’ Gil admitted. ‘The house was locked and barred from the inside, and we found the key melted among the ashes. It’s hard to say who else they might represent.’

Pullar’s eyes widened briefly.

‘Melted?’ he repeated, and whistled. ‘Surely that must have been Hellfire.’

‘There was no smell of sulphur, nor other signs of demonic presence,’ Gil assured him. ‘I am working on the assumption that the fire was caused by some human agency, and seeking to learn who might have had cause to wish the man dead. The list is not short.’

‘Oh.’ Pullar contemplated his folded hands for a moment, a frown creasing his brow. Then he said, ‘I did indeed have some dealings with Pollock. I acted for him in one or two land transactions, very profitable to himself, and he has a strongbox deposited here.’ He fell silent. Gil waited, still watching; the man’s face gave away nothing further, and after a pause he continued, ‘I do not have the key, nor can I think it would be appropriate to open the box without some written authority.’

‘Father Prior?’ Gil suggested. ‘I am certain he would give you a letter over the convent’s seal requiring an inventory of the contents of the box. And I believe there is a key among the man’s effects at the Priory, which may be the key to the box.’

‘That might be suitable. Aye, that might be very suitable. Perhaps you would assist me to make such an inventory.’

‘That would be possible.’ Gil sat quiet, curious to see if any more information would emerge, and reflecting that he would not wish to play cards with this man; his expression did not alter for some time.

Finally Pullar appeared to come to a conclusion, and sat back, saying in Scots, ‘Aye, well, that’ll all be assopat now. You’ll be aware o his various sources o income, I take it, maister.’

‘I’ve found one or two,’ Gil admitted. ‘If you can show me any more I’d be glad of it.’

‘Aye. He’d the corrody, a course, a good sum lodged wi the Blackfriars by the Treasury to see to his keep as long’s he required it—’

‘Why was that?’ Gil interrupted. ‘D’you ken what prompted it? The Crown’s more like to set up a pension or a benefice than buy a corrody, by my observation.’

‘I asked him that myself,’ said the other man, ‘but I’d no answer. He himself wished the corrody, I believe, and it might well ha been to annoy someone, by one or two remarks he passed at other times.’

‘Another difficult client,’ Gil commented.

‘Aye,’ said Pullar flatly. ‘So he’d the corrody, but he’d brought a well-filled box wi him, and invested it wi care while he was still getting about. He’s a good income in rents, no within the burgh, a course, him no being a burgess, but from the lands outwith the town, about the Blackfriars and the like; there’s a good few properties scattered about there. He’d a couple o ventures overseas,’ he added, ‘but they wereny successful. Maybe if he’d taen Maister Halyburton’s advice—’

‘Interesting,’ said Gil. ‘Is there coin in the strongbox, then? For there wasny a great sum in the kist in his lodging.’

‘No, no,’ said Pullar. ‘For it’s all sent away, or at least the most o’t.’

‘Sent away?’ Gil repeated, aware of his eyebrows climbing. ‘Where to?’

‘I never enquired,’ said Pullar, in that flat tone. ‘It began two–three year ago. Every six month or thereabout, a fellow turns up bearing the key, shows me a jewel, collects what’s lying here and goes off again, and I send the key back to the Blackfriars. The last time or two it’s been an Irishman, afore that it was a Fleming, a different fellow every time, but they all had the jewel right enough. There’s one about due. I’ve been wondering what’s like to happen.’

‘What kind o a jewel?’ Gil asked. ‘I take it it’s easy identified.’

‘Oh, it’s that all right. An enamel badge on a chain, shaped like a white rose. A bonnie thing, but perilous.’

‘Perilous indeed!’ said Prior Boyd. ‘The badge o the Yorkist kings o England, that Harry Tudor overthrew in ’85. What’s that doing here in Perth? What’s the House o York to do wi Pollock?’

‘My thought and all,’ Gil agreed. ‘It’s, what, near ten years since Bosworth Field. There are plenty o their adherents still about trying to get a revolt thegether, and Margaret of Burgundy’s trying to get back at King Henry for the death o her nephews in the Tower wi every breath she takes, which will all take money like it’s going out o fashion. But why should a former Treasury man suddenly begin funding the Yorkist cause? Had he letters from abroad? Visitors?’

The Prior shook his head.

‘No that I ever saw,’ he said. ‘It’s only the last year or so he’s been confined to the House – to these premises,’ he amended. Gil nodded. ‘He might ha met anyone out in the burgh – he spent a good part o his time there. Could some agent of Burgundy have caused his death, maybe?’

‘I thought of that,’ Gil agreed, ‘but if he was sending them money, a good sum every time by what Pullar told me, why should they suddenly weary o him? It makes no sense.’

‘So we’re no closer learning by what agency the man dee’d.’

‘It’s less than two days since I got here,’ Gil pointed out, ‘and the trail was cold. I’m still gathering information. Once I’ve got it all, it’ll maybe make sense.’ Or maybe it won’t, he thought, but did not say. ‘Meantime, sir,’ he went on, ‘I’d as soon pursue young Rattray’s killer, if I can. The boy deserves justice.’

‘Aye.’ The Prior crossed himself, and heaved a sigh. ‘No member of the community has presented himself to confess,’ he said sadly, changing to Latin, ‘and I have not so far questioned those who accused one another, feeling that some delay might be beneficial in giving them time to reflect, and also that you might prefer to be present when I do so.’

‘I would value the opportunity,’ Gil replied in the same language. This was exactly what he had hoped for. He would have preferred to question the various members of the community privately, but since that was impossible this would be the next best thing.

He had returned to the Blackfriars in time for the midday meal, to find Alys still absent about the town somewhere and the men with no idea where she had gone. After they had eaten he had set all three of them to talk to the lay servants and the outdoor men, hoping that Brother Dickon would enlist Euan’s help at something backbreaking if he approached him, and repaired to the Prior’s study to report what progress he had made. It seemed remarkably little, particularly since he had suppressed any mention of the contents of Andrew Rattray’s linen bundle.

‘Should we have them in together?’ he continued now. ‘This would avoid any appearance of favouring one party or the other.’

Thomas Wilson and Alexander Raitts, summoned by a servant, jostled each other through the doorway, glaring sideways and both breathing hard, but they were sufficiently wise in their Order to maintain the silence they had been commanded to keep. Gil studied them as they took up an appropriately humble stance before their Prior, heads bent, hands tucked into their sleeves. He recognised Wilson now as one of the friars he had seen about the place, a broad-shouldered, broad-faced man with a pleasant smile and calculating eyes, who seemed much more composed than his companion. Raitts’s fingers were twitching inside his sleeves, perhaps drumming on the opposing wrists, making the heavy wool quiver. His nostrils were twitching as well. Both men were somewhat battle-scarred; Wilson bore a scabbed bruise on his cheekbone, and Raitts sported a magnificent black eye and a split lip.

Prior David delivered himself of a brief but pungent speech, reminding them of the value of truth, brotherly affection, and the stability of the Order, and instructing them to speak one at a time in answer to Maister Cunningham’s questions. Raitts shivered at that, and clasped his hands tightly; Wilson raised his head and looked at Gil, frowning slightly.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Gil, arranging his thoughts. ‘You mind I’m here to investigate the matter of Leonard Pollock’s disappearance.’ Wilson nodded. Raitts scowled. ‘I’m asked of your Prior,’ he bowed slightly towards his kinsman, ‘to consider the death o Andrew Rattray as well. I wasny at the Chapter of Faults when I’m told you accused each the other o causing these events. I want to hear all you ken that prompted you to say sic a thing.’ He pointed at Raitts. ‘In the order o the alphabet, you first.’

Wilson stiffened, and swallowed, but said nothing. Raitts stared from Gil to his Prior and back, looking appalled.

‘I – I – I –’ he began, and gulped like a carp. ‘Is he to question us, Faither? On a Priory matter? It’s no appropriate.’

‘Answer the question,’ said Prior David.

‘Murder and arson,’ said Gil deliberately, ‘are pleas of the Crown, and hanging offences. It’s gone beyond your walls now, brother. What prompted you to accuse Thomas Wilson o murder?’

Wilson turned his head and glared, but held silence. Raitts gulped again, and said in a whisper, ‘He was about the place in the night, creeping out o the kitchen in the dark, whispering in corners wi Henry White, for I saw him. What else could he ha been at?’

‘And how did you come to see him?’ Gil asked. ‘I take it you were creeping about the place in the dark and all?’

‘I wasny creeping!’ said Raitts indignantly. ‘I went out to the – to the necessarium, all openly. You canny just step out in the dark. The stairs is as worn, you need to watch your feet and go by the wall, even wi a lantern, so I was going slow and quiet and here was this one—’

‘A moment,’ said Gil. ‘When was this?’

‘Why, the night the infirmary burned. The night the poor laddie was murdered.’ Raitts tried to look sideways out of his bruised eye at Wilson and flinched at the attempt.

‘Where is the necessarium? You’ve no privy at the same level as the dorter?’

‘It’s in the corner o the cloister,’ said the Prior, ‘at the foot o the day stair. Far from convenient, especial when it rains, though at least it’s under the cloister roof.’

‘The day stair.’ Gil tried to envisage the cloister. ‘So it’s at the other end o the refectory from the kitchens.’

‘Aye, and here’s this one, ganging along the cloister walk from the kitchen, talking wi Henry White, all in whispers.’

‘How did you identify them?’ Gil asked. Raitts stared at him. ‘What time was this? I take it it was full dark. How were you so sure it was Wilson and White?’

‘Well, it – well, it was obvious,’ said Raitts. ‘Who else would it be?’

‘It’s far from that, Alexander,’ said the Prior sternly. ‘If you accuse your brothers you must bring good reason, you ken it as well as I do, and all you’ve shown so far is that you were out your bed in the night and detected two others doing the same.’

Wilson stirred restively, but his superior looked hard at him and he bent his head. The librarian broke the clasp of his hands so that they seemed to leap out of his grubby white sleeves, gesturing wildly.

‘I took it it was Henry and this one talking about me at first,’ he said, ‘for that I’d to deny Henry a book that afternoon – there was another reading it – and he wasny best pleased; and this one’s been asking about me in the town to my discredit. I took it they were speaking o how I must be put out from here,
He has to go
, they said, but then it was,
Secret knowledge
, and
Secret fire
, and what should that be but witchcraft and burning the infirmary?’

‘It could be many things, my son,’ said the Prior sadly.

‘Did you hear those words?’ Gil asked. ‘You’re sure o them?’

‘Aye, I’m sure,’ said Raitts indignantly, in a tone which failed to convince Gil.

‘You heard nothing else? Only that?’

‘Is it no enough? Conspiring in the night, creeping away from the kitchen—’

‘I never!’ burst out Wilson, finally unable to contain himself, then dropped to his knees as the Prior gave him another adamantine look. ‘Forgive me, Faither,’ he said, head bent.

‘You’ll get your moment,’ said Prior David. ‘Maister Cunningham, have you more questions for Alexander?’

‘I have.’ Gil studied the librarian, who captured his hands one with the other, tucked them into his sleeves again, and waited apprehensively. ‘Let me be quite clear here. You came down the day stair, at what time?’

‘I’ve no idea the time,’ said Raitts irritably. ‘Afore midnight, likely.’

‘Afore midnight, and saw two persons in the cloister walk outside the refectory. Did you see them when you came down the stair, or when you came out of the privy?’