The Nicholas Feast (9 page)

‘Is there anything else to learn from him?’ asked the mason, sitting back on his heels.

‘I don’t think so.’ Gil turned the empurpled face to look at it. ‘Perhaps I spoke too soon. Look at this.’

‘What is it?’

Gil touched the mark carefully. ‘Aye, the skin’s split. The flesh is much swollen but I think the jaw must be about there.’

‘ Someone has fetched him a blow.’ The mason made an involuntary movement with one fist.

‘I think so. You know, that’s a relief. It’s possible he was dazed or unconscious when he was throttled. I must ask someone that he shouldn’t be stripped until we can be present.’ Gil got to his feet, looking round for Maister Forsyth, who hurried forward followed by a student with a censer and another with holy water and an asperger. ‘Now we have to report to the Principal.’

The Dean, the Principal and the two men of law were in the Principal’s house, where the great chamber was hung with painted cloths depicting various learned men as bearded worthies in academic robes. In front of a long-nosed Socrates receiving a scroll from Philo-sophia herself, Maister Doby waved them to padded stools and said anxiously, ‘Well, Gilbert, what can ye tell us?’

‘Little more yet,’ said Gil. ‘We are both certain it is murder rather than any sort of accident, but beyond that –’

‘The belt about his neck must belong to someone,’ said the Dean in incisive Latin. ‘Find the owner and we have found the culprit.’

‘The belt about his neck may be his own,’ said Gil. ‘However I agree that the other may very probably lead us to the malefactor.’

‘But can we offer a better scent to the hounds?’ asked Maistre Pierre in French. ‘Did the young man have enemies?’

‘At least one, clearly’ Archie Crawford still wore the critical frown. ‘What do you mean, very probably? I should have said it was a certainty.’

‘He means, Archibald, that the malefactor might have used the property of another,’ said Maister Doby kindly. ‘What must you do next, Gilbert? How should the Faculty help you?’

‘Tell me about the dead boy,’ Gil invited.

There was a brief stillness, in which he was aware of powerful minds working; then the Dean said firmly, ‘An able student, an ornament to the college. Learning has lost one of her dearest sons.’

‘That will sound well in the letter to his family’ Gil looked from face to face. ‘Was he really that able? The impression I had, seeing him today, was of someone a little too clever for his own good.’

A flicker of something like agreement crossed Maister Doby’s expression, but the Dean said, ‘How can one be too clever?’

‘What are the facts, then?’ said Gil. ‘Who was he? Was he an Ayrshire man, as the surname suggests?’

‘He was a bastard,’ said David Gray suddenly and ambiguously.

‘His mother, it seems, is an Ayrshire lady now married to another,’ said the Dean, ‘and his father is a kinsman of Lord Montgomery.’

‘Supported by the Montgomerys? In their favour?’

‘Yes,’ said the Dean, as if the word tasted bad. ‘And well supported.’

‘A rich bastard,’ qualified Maister Gray. He still seemed dazed, like a man who can hardly believe what fortune has brought to him. Good fortune or bad? Gil wondered.

‘Certainly there has been no shortage of drinksilver,’ agreed the Principal.

‘What, actual silver?’ said Gil in surprise. ‘Not meal or salt fish like the rest of us?’

‘Oh, that as well,’ said the Dean. ‘But he has always seemed to have coin.’

‘And more of it lately,’ said Maister Doby in thoughtful tones.

‘Was he liked? Who were his friends?’

There was another of those pauses.

‘He had no particular friends, I thought,’ said the Principal with reluctance. ‘When he was a bejant he roomed with his kinsman Robert, and Ralph Gibson, and they were mentored by Lawrence Livingstone and his friends, but I do not think he has –’

‘What friends are those?’ Gil asked. ‘Of the boy Livingstone, I mean.’

‘Ninian Boyd and Michael Douglas,’ said the Principal. ‘Ninian played Diligence very well, I thought. I wish he knew the meaning of the word in his studies.’

‘Ah,’ said Gil. ‘Michael must be my godfather’s youngest. I thought I knew that jaw. A Livingstone, a Boyd, a Douglas – what a conspiracy!’

‘Indeed, I do not think that can be right, Gilbert,’ said the Principal seriously.

‘William spends – spent time with Robert Montgomery,’ the Dean interposed, ‘and with Ralph Gibson, poor creature. Either of these may tell you more than his teachers.’

‘Did he still share a chamber with them?’ Gil asked.

‘He did not,’ said Maister Doby, shaking his head. ‘Sooner than share his good fortune with them, whatever its source, he has withdrawn from his friends this year. He has a room here in the Outer Close. John Shaw assures me all is paid for.’

‘And yet his legitimate kinsman has a shared chamber in the older part of the building,’ said Gil.

‘I told you he was a bastard,’ said David Gray. Gil looked at him, and wondered if he was sober. Certainly his narrow face was flushed, the colour contrasting unbecomingly with the red hood still rolled down about his neck.

‘Where did the money come from?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

‘From his home, I suppose,’ said the Principal. ‘He had no benefice or prebend as yet. Where else would he get money?’

‘Was there money on him?’ asked Maister Crawford. ‘Maybe he was robbed.’

‘By a fellow student?’ said the Principal, shocked. ‘Surely not!’

‘Don’t be daft, John. One of the servants, maybe, or some passing –’

‘It was hardly a passing robber,’ said the Dean, ‘that left him locked in the coalhouse. And I hope our servants are more conscious of the good of the college than –’ He stopped, apparently unwilling to finish the sentence.

‘Do you wish to ask us anything else,’ demanded Maister Crawford, ‘or can we get on with our own business?’

‘I have two further questions,’ Gil admitted. ‘In the first place, when William rose at the Faculty meeting –’

‘I have no idea,’ said the Dean firmly. ‘I know neither what prompted him to speak nor what the matters were of which he spoke.’

‘Ask his friends,’ said Maister Crawford.

‘He hinted at heresy and peculation,’ Gil said. ‘These are both matters of some importance. Could he have misinterpreted something?’

‘I have no idea,’ said the Dean again. ‘And the other question?’

‘I must ask this of everybody, you understand,’ Gil said. They watched him with varying expressions: Maister Gray wary, Maister Crawford still critical, the Principal with the intent look of a teacher with a good student, the Dean clearly formulating his answer already. ‘After the end of the play, where were you all before returning to the Fore Hall? And who was with you?’

‘Most of the senior members came here to the Principal’s house,’ said the Dean promptly. ‘The four of us now present, Maister Forsyth, Maister Coventry –’

‘Not Patrick Coventry,’ said the Principal. ‘He and Nicholas went over to the Arthurlie building. You were with them, Gilbert, were you not?’

‘We were here perhaps a quarter-hour,’ the Dean continued, ‘in this room or near it, standing or walking about, until Maister Shaw came to inform us that the procession was re-forming. Is that what you wish to know?’

‘Were you all within sight of one another for most of that time?’

The four men exchanged glances, and nodded.

‘I should say we were,’ pronounced the Dean.

‘Would you swear to it if necessary?’

There was another of those pauses.

‘I should swear to it,’ agreed the Dean.

‘They were lying,’ said Maistre Pierre positively. ‘Oh, not about where they were, I think we can accept that, but they know more about the dead than they would tell us.’

‘I agree.’ Gil stopped in the inner courtyard, looking about him. ‘Maybe if I speak to them separately I’ll learn more. But before that we need to look at William’s chamber, which seems to be locked from what one of the boys said, and I think I want a look at the limehouse. We must also talk to those three senior bachelors, and to the two boys named as William’s friends, even if one of them is a Montgomery.’

‘Did you say you had ordered the yett shut?’ asked the mason.

‘Aye, and we’ll need to let it open soon. Once Maister Coventry has finished that list I asked him for, we can let folk go.’

‘Then do you go and inspect the limehouse and I will find out the young man’s chamber.’ Maistre Pierre looked about, and caught the eye of one of the numerous students who somehow happened to be crossing the courtyard. ‘You, my friend, may guide me! Where did your lamented fellow pursue his studies?’

‘Eh?’ said the boy.

‘William’s chamber, you clown!’ said the next student. ‘It’s in the Outer Close, maister. I’ll show you, will I?’

Gil, retrieving the lantern from the coalhouse, lit the candle in it with the flint in his purse and unbarred the next door. Behind it was a similar vaulted chamber, unwindowed and smelling sharply and cleanly of limewash. Neatly ordered sacks were ranged against the walls, several wooden buckets and paintbrushes sat on a board near the door, and a fine sifting of white powder lay on everything. In it were displayed a great confusion of footprints, particularly immediately in front of the door. As Gil peered into the shadows, the light from the courtyard was cut off behind him.

‘The chamber is locked indeed,’ said the mason.

‘We ’ll find someone with a key.’ Gil stood aside so that the other man could see past him. ‘Look at this.’

‘But he was not here, was he?’

‘I don’t know about that. I thought one group of searchers expected to find him here.’ Gil stepped carefully in over the dusty floor. ‘These prints are theirs. No, look, Pierre, this is quite clear. Some large object has been put down here, in the centre of the floor, and then moved.’

‘I see,’ agreed Maistre Pierre, following him in. ‘But I can make no sense of the footprints. There are quite simply too many. This is a good dry store,’ he added approvingly. ‘The walls are excellent work. What have you seen?’

Gil bent, directing the light from the lantern at the floor near one pile of sacks.

‘I don’t know,’ he said after a moment. ‘Can you see something? It isn’t a footprint, I would say.’

‘A smudge,’ said the mason. ‘Someone put his hand or his knee to the floor.’

‘I wonder.’ Gil hunkered down, staring at the shapeless print in the dust. ‘William’s purse is missing. I know it was on his belt earlier, for I saw it –’

‘The belt which was used to strangle him,’ said the mason intelligently.

‘Precisely. Was there anything valuable in the purse? Why should it be thrown on the floor?’

‘Whoever removed the belt in order to strangle the boy must have drawn it out of the purse-latches,’ offered the mason, with a gesture to demonstrate, ‘and discarded the purse.’

‘Why is it no longer here?’

‘All good questions,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘You think that is the mark of the purse?’

‘It could be.’ Gil stood up and looked around him. ‘I must speak to the Principal, or perhaps the Steward. This store must be searched. The purse may be here, behind one of these sacks.’

‘I can do that.’ The mason stepped carefully towards the door. ‘I have worked with John Shaw, we are good friends. He will send two or three of the college servants if I ask him. What will you do? Seek a key to the boy’s chamber, or –?’

‘No, we should both see that.’ Gil was still studying their surroundings. ‘I think I will question those senior bachelors.’

Another of the many passing students directed Gil up the wheel stair just beyond the kitchen. It led past one of the doors of the Laigh Hall, where four tonsured Theology students were debating a fine point of exegesis over bread and stewed kale. As Gil climbed on up, someone said, ‘But Wycliff –’ and was instantly hushed.

At the top of the stair he came to a narrow landing with two doors. Voices murmured behind one. He knocked, and after a moment footsteps approached. The door opened a crack, and one alarmed eye examined him.

‘I think you need to talk to me,’ he said. The eye vanished, as its owner turned his head to look at the other occupants of the room. ‘I’m alone,’ he added reassuringly.

‘Let him in,’ said a strained voice.

‘Ninian –’ expostulated the boy at the door.

‘I better tell someone,’ said Ninian. ‘Come in, maister.’

The room was large, stretching the full width of the attic, but four small study-spaces had been partitioned off with lath-and-plaster panels, and the remnant was a very awkward shape and had only two windows. By one of them the mousy-haired boy sat on a stool hugging his knees; he did not rise as Gil entered. Lowrie the fair-haired tenor closed the door, saying, ‘We don’t have a chair for a visitor, maister, but this is the best stool.’

‘I’ll sit on the bench,’ said Gil, moving to the other window. Three pairs of eyes watched apprehensively as he settled himself. ‘Good day to you, Michael. And how is your father?’