The Stolen Voice (21 page)

‘I’ll not be from home,’ said Davie wryly. ‘But I’d be glad if Mistress Alys was present and all.’

‘My wife?’ said Gil, startled. ‘I’ll tell her that.’

‘Maister, were you up Glenbuckie just now?’ Davie went on. ‘What – Are they all hale? Is Caterin still crying out against me?’

‘She is,’ admitted Gil, ‘but the rest of them are hale enough. The lassies seemed sore afflicted by the two deaths, which I suppose is natural. The place was overrun wi neighbours and guests, but I had a word with James Drummond the younger, and a sight of the two corps.’

‘What would that tell you that you hadny heard already?’ demanded Robert. ‘Better, surely, to find whoever set light to the thatch!’

‘It’s all part of the same tale,’ said Davie.

‘The boy Iain’s skull was broken,’ Gil said. ‘Deliberately, I’d say.’

Davie drew a shivering breath, and bent his head into his hands. Robert reached out and touched his wrist, and after a moment he straightened up, turned his hand to grip Robert’s, and said painfully, ‘I feared it. The poor laddie. He was so – he had so much pleasure of my singing, of any music he was hearing, but he was such a burden on his mother, to be fed and kept clean and amused. When she carried him into the yard, all bruised and bloody, I feared it was no accident.’

‘Who broke it for him?’ asked Robert.

‘That I don’t know yet, though I suspect,’ said Gil. ‘And I don’t suppose anyone would notice who was down by the end of the fold, between the dark and the flames and the commotion in the yard.’

Davie shook his head. ‘They were bringing water up from the stackyard that way. Everyone on the clachan was past there at some point in the night.’

‘That’s no good,’ said Robert, ‘a helpless bairn to be struck down like that. Who would do sic a thing?’

‘Young James’s mother was quite clear it was the fairies,’ said Gil. ‘She ordered him not to meddle in their business.’

Robert snorted. ‘That’s one explanation, I suppose.’

‘It would be one the folk of Dalriach would accept,’ said Davie slowly.

‘Aye, but it’s nonsense,’ objected Robert. ‘You’d think we were in a ballad or an old tale, to hear it!’

‘Sooner that than accuse one of their own,’ said Davie, and shivered.

And of course, Gil thought, to some of them you are not one of their own. But who?

‘Who do you think killed the boy?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Davie said firmly. ‘And I’ve no more reason to suspect any than you have, and maybe less. His – no, his mother loved him beyond reason!’

Gil paused a moment, arranging his thoughts.

‘Tell me, Davie.’ The young man turned his face towards him. In the dim light he seemed to brace himself. ‘Had there been any word before now from Dunblane? From Canon Drummond?’

‘From Andrew? None that I ken,’ said Davie. ‘I know the
cailleach
sent to him, twice so your wife told me, sir, and Robert has let me know now what she sent. But there’s been no answer yet that I’ve heard. Maybe that was what brought him home today.’

‘You’d be the last to know,’ said Robert rather bitterly.

‘No,’ said Gil deliberately, ‘he’s told me he came home in haste because his mother summoned him, this morning in the dawn.’

‘Och, that’s havers!’ said Robert.

‘No,’ said Davie quietly. ‘I’m believing him. It’s what brought myself, a month since.’

‘Is it, now?’ said Gil. Davie’s chin came up, but he said nothing. ‘Were they concerned, up at Dalriach, about having no answer?’

‘I’d not say so. Andrew was never one for sending home every week, even as a boy.’ The voice was light, confident, but not wholly convincing.

‘Let alone coming home for the Lammastide holiday,’ Gil suggested. There was a pregnant pause. ‘Had he come home in other years, before you were lifted away?’

After another pause Davie said, ‘I don’t recall. Is that not strange?’

‘It was thirty year syne,’ Robert protested, looking from one to the other. ‘At least –’

‘Not for Davie,’ said Gil. ‘How long has it been, Davie?’

Pale in the shadows, Davie shrugged one linen-clad shoulder.

‘Who can say? Time passes differently under the hill. Andrew was aye glad to get away from Dalriach,’ he added. ‘He never felt he had what was due to him there.’ Gil made a questioning noise. ‘Och, with there being two brothers older, he was never hearkened to, for all he was a clerk and could read the Psalter.’

‘That’s how it is,’ muttered Robert, ‘whatever your place in the family.’ Davie broke the clasp of their hands and laid his own rather diffidently on the other young man’s shoulder, and Robert looked sideways and nodded brief acknowledgement.

‘And last month,’ said Gil. Both faces turned to him. ‘When you were set down at the foot of the path over the hill did you see anyone?’

‘I did,’ he answered readily. ‘A poor misshapen wretch from Stronyre township they cry Euan Beag nan Tobar. Wee Euan of the Well,’ he translated for Robert, who nodded again rather impatiently. ‘He spoke to me, gave me my name. It seems he – saw me taken up, all those years since. We talked about my friends Billy Murray and Jaikie Stirling, and he gave me news of Billy, who was born at Stronyre. He’d no knowledge of Jaikie, and I never expected it.’

‘Jaikie Stirling’s dead,’ said Gil, more abruptly than he had intended.

‘Dead? I’m grieved to hear it. When? What came to him?’

‘Two weeks since,’ said Gil. ‘I’m seeking his murderer.’

‘Murdered,’ Davie repeated in a whisper, and crossed himself. ‘And since I came – the poor man. Poor Jaikie.’ He bent his head, murmuring the same prayer for the dead as Rob the chaplain had used in the Bishop’s garden.

‘Stirling?’ said Robert. ‘Is that –?’ He broke off, and after a moment Gil said:

‘He was secretary to Bishop Brown.’

‘Oh, at Dunkeld,’ said Robert dismissively.

‘He died in Perth.’

Robert crossed himself, muttered a perfunctory prayer, and said with determination, ‘If you’ve naught more to ask us, Cunningham, we should get on and make that loft fit to dwell in. Davie won’t want to leave the kirk, and it’s over a year since we moved Sir Duncan into his house out of here, it’s likely damp and full of cobwebs.’

‘And I was to tell you,’ said Gil, ‘that the house is near dry. Doig said you should fetch in water.’

At his feet Davie Drummond jerked as if he had been stabbed. Robert said sharply, ‘You’ve spoken wi Doig? What was he saying?’

‘Nothing,’ said Gil. ‘Quite determinedly, nothing. But as I told him, it’s near as useful when he won’t speak as when he does.’

‘Aye,’ said Robert sourly. ‘My uncle tellt me no to get into conversation wi you.’

*    *    *

‘Did he really?’ said Alys in amusement, turning her head against his shoulder. ‘I’d have thought he would see what he was giving away.’

‘I suppose he didn’t consider it,’ Gil said lazily. ‘He seemed mostly concerned about young Drummond.’

They were lying against the pillows within the linen-hung bed in their chamber, close and reassuring. He had returned from the Kirkton to be informed by Lady Stewart that Alys still needed to rest and directed to make sure she did so. Rest was not what either of them needed most, but he had accepted the order with pleasure. Now, sated and comfortable, each certain the other was safe and hale, they were discussing what they had learned.

‘So he reports to Lord Montgomery, and gets word back,’ she said now, still speaking French. ‘And that since we got here. I suppose Lady Stewart corresponds with her cousin.’

‘It’s the likeliest route,’ he agreed. ‘And Davie knew Doig’s name. He also confirmed meeting Euan nan Tobar, poor creature, and seems to be making friends with Robert. Myself, I’d as soon befriend an adder on a rock, but I suppose the lad has his merits.’

‘You’re hardly impartial.’ She rubbed her cheek on his bare chest. ‘We must take care how we speak of this – Lady Stewart could be involved in whatever Robert is doing. And do you suppose she and Sir William know Doig is here?’

‘I don’t know that, but they’re well aware of him in the village. I wish you had been in Perth with me – I’ve missed talking things over like this. I missed you.’

‘And I have missed you. What brought you back here so prompt, Gil?’

‘I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘I woke before the dawn, and knew you needed me. We set out as soon as it was light. Not as vivid a summons as Andrew Drummond’s, but one I couldn’t ignore.’

‘I did need you,’ she said wonderingly, ‘and just at that time. I was so frightened, and the fire – and the old woman dying like that – and then the boy – it was such a night, Gil.’

‘It’s over, and you are safe, St Giles be thanked.’ He kissed the crown of her head. Her hair was silky under his lips; it smelled of an unfamiliar hairwash and, faintly, of smoke. ‘I owe him several candles.’

‘But how did you know? You were so far away – forty miles, Lady Stewart said.’

‘I don’t think the distance matters. Tell me about it again, sweetheart.’

She recounted the events of the night, shivering a little as she described the two deaths, steadfastly repeating the wild accusations the dead boy’s mother had flung at Davie Drummond.

‘The woman was in much the same state when she found me examining the boy,’ he said. ‘That wild flyting is very hard to withstand. But I suppose if they believed her, they’d have been down here before now burning the thatch off the kirk to get him out.’

‘I don’t think the family did. Believe her, I mean. Davie took fright, for that or – or some other reason, and ran.’ She was winding her fingers through the hairs on his chest. ‘But you found the boy’s skull was broken. Could that be what killed him? I thought none of the other injuries was mortal, or not instantly perhaps, but his mother insisted only she would wash his head, I could not examine it.’

‘I think the blow on the head and the damage from the beasts would be enough together, and I think he was deliberately set where I found the imprint of his body. He was certainly murdered by someone, poor little fellow, but the other daughter-in-law, Mòr is it? would hear nothing of the idea. She is fixed on the notion that the fairy folk have taken him back.’

‘Lady Stewart thought Sir William would question them all.’

‘He did,’ Gil said, recalling Sir William’s baffled expression as he crossed the yard to meet him, ‘but he got no more than we have between us, and less in some ways.’

‘She thought also Caterin might accuse Davie again when they all come down for the burial.’

‘Mm,’ he said. They lay in silence for a while; Gil was thinking deeply, and eventually realized from her level breathing that Alys had fallen asleep. He looked down at her face, feeling the familiar sensation as if some giant fist squeezed his entrails at the sight of her relaxed and secure in his embrace.

There were things he must do. Easing his arm reluctantly from under her shoulders he drew the covers up round her, slid off the bed and reached for his shirt. Sir William must be somewhere about the place.

The Bailie of Balquhidder was seeing to his hawks, in a reprehensible leather doublet and stained hose which it was likely his lady did not know he was wearing. While he made much of a peregrine tiercel and inspected the bird’s barred feathers Gil sat on the falconer’s workbench at the end of the mews, amid the familiar smell of raw meat and bird-droppings, wax and leather, and gave him an account of his findings, first in Dunblane and then in Perth. Sir William listened carefully, and stood for some time after Gil finished, feeding the hawk with morsels of rabbit.

‘It seems to me,’ he said at length, ‘you’ve raised three separate quarries.’

‘I think so too,’ agreed Gil, ‘but one of them’s gone beyond my range.’

‘The three songmen?’ Sir William stroked the peregrine’s breast. ‘Aye, if we learn where those have got to, it’s a grace. But it does look as if Maister Secretary’s matter has naught to do wi them. Found in a tanpit, poor devil! What an end! Who is it that’s stealing voices, then? Will he take any more?’

‘I don’t know that,’ said Gil blandly, ‘but I’ve dropped a hint that I’m aware of it. I hope that might put an end to the business.’

‘Hmf,’ said Sir William. ‘And the secretary? A crossbow bolt through the neck, you said. Who shot him, have you worked that out?’

‘Not yet,’ said Gil. ‘I need to speak to Drummond’s lad, who’s here somewhere, and to this man of the Bishop’s household that was wi Stirling.’

‘Ask at Murdo for Drummond’s lad,’ said Sir William. ‘Likely he’s still about the place.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Gil. ‘Once I know how Stirling got into the tanpit I might be closer to finding out who put him there. I’ve still to give a full reckoning to Bishop Brown, and it’s possible he’ll have some news for me. They were crying a couple of questions round the town of Perth these two or three days, so I’ll go back as soon as I may. And I must go to Dunkeld.’

‘Dunkeld?’ Sir William turned to look at him, and the peregrine opened its wings and reared back, hissing at him. ‘Peace, peace, Mercury. What’s at Dunkeld?’

‘The third of the three friends is Precentor there.’

‘Hmf.’ Sir William soothed the bird, and it hunched itself indignantly. ‘Best take a couple more men wi you, in that case.’ He eased the hawk back on to its perch, transferred the leash, and moved on to another bird. ‘This is Eleanor. I gentled her myself, did I no, my bonnie girl,’ he stroked the gold-brown feathers, and Eleanor bent to nibble delicately at his finger, ‘from the egg. Why was Stirling killed, do you suppose? Is it connected wi the English treaty, or no?’

‘I’ve no notion yet. Maybe when we find who killed him we’ll find out why.’

‘Aye. Well, I suppose you’ve no had a week’s work on the business so far.’ Sir William looked down his long Stewart nose at Gil. ‘And what did you discern up at Dalriach? Did Andrew Drummond tell you anything worthwhile on the road up there?’

‘He told me a little,’ said Gil cautiously. ‘He claims Stirling made his confession to him.’ Sir William snorted. ‘I agree, it seems unlikely, but it prevents questions.’

‘Clerks!’ muttered Sir William.

‘And I found the injury that killed the boy Iain. His skull is broke.’

‘Aye, I heard about that. The bairn’s mother came raging to Patrick while we drank to the memory of the dead.’

‘I’ve no doubt of it,’ said Gil drily. He summarized what he had learned, at Dalriach and from Alys. When he had finished there was another long silence, broken by the occasional clink of a chain and ruffle of feathers.

‘Bad,’ said Sir William at last, sucking his teeth. ‘I’ve no stomach to execute a woman.’

‘And it’s not right clear yet,’ said Gil, ‘which of them it might be.’

Sir William nodded, and set Eleanor back on her perch. Having fastened her leash and tugged it to check it was secure, he led the way out into the yard, where Socrates rose and padded over to thrust his nose into Gil’s hand. ‘How much d’you need to do about secretary Stirling? How close to his killer are you?’

‘Not close enough,’ said Gil, grimacing. ‘I should return to Perth tomorrow, as I said.’

‘Hmf,’ said Sir William again. Behind him his falconer slipped into the mews to continue his work. ‘Cunningham, I’m told that information about the English treaty got where it should never ha been, and a bit more besides. Even if you think he’s been dead these two weeks, it might still have been Stirling’s doing.’

‘It could,’ agreed Gil cautiously.

‘And I’ll need to act in the other business the morn’s morn, speak to David and send up Glenbuckie for more answers. The laddie can hardly stay prisoned in the kirk while we bury the folk he’s accused of slaying, even if Andrew will conduct the burials.’

Why not? Gil wondered. ‘Sir Duncan has no more than a day or two to live,’ he said. ‘Robert and his – assistant have their hands full, but while the other fellow’s there Robert can leave Sir Duncan long enough that he could at least commit the dead, even if he’s not able to say a Mass for them.’

‘That’s true,’ said Sir William, making for the house. ‘I aye forget the boy’s clerked. My lord Montgomery plans Holy Kirk for him, when all’s over and paid for.’

Sweet St Giles, you’d as well cage the lad, thought Gil, aware yet again of the strange feeling of sympathy for a Montgomery. Does that explain his bitterness today?

Andrew Drummond’s man remembered Gil clearly.

‘And I’ve called a many blessings down on you these last days, maister,’ he said earnestly.

‘Have you, indeed?’ said Gil, closing the garden gate behind them, and opening it again to allow Socrates through.

‘Aye, many and many. See, it was after you called on him that my maister rose up out of his melancholy. I’d no notion what to do for him, the way he’d sat and stared at nothing ever since –’ He paused, staring out across the loch in the early evening sun. ‘Ever since the second letter came from his mother,’ he reckoned finally. ‘Two weeks since, that would be, a day or two after we got back from Perth.’

‘After you got back from Perth,’ Gil repeated. ‘What state was he in before that? Just after you got back?’

‘Oh, he was eased in his mind,’ asserted Benet. ‘That was why it was sic a painful thing to see him so cast down again, for we’d ridden back from Perth much easier than we’d been on the road there. Calmer, if you take my meaning, and more able for making decisions.’

‘His stay in Perth had helped him, then,’ Gil suggested.

‘Aye.’ Benet nodded firmly, and looked about him at the low hedges and plots of bright flowers. ‘It’s a bonnie garden, this. What was it my maister said I should tell you about?’

‘About Perth.’ Gil strolled along the path towards the seat at the far end. Socrates set off to patrol the maze of box hedges, his nose to the ground. ‘Do you mind, the last day you were there, Canon Drummond spent a while talking wi someone.’

Benet nodded again.

‘I wondered at it,’ he admitted, ‘for he’d not been seeking out company, and he and this fellow never seemed like friends when they met, but they must ha spent a couple of hours walking on the meadows by the town Ditch, talking of all sorts.’

‘Who was the other man?’ Gil asked. ‘Did you learn that? Do you mind anything about him?’

‘Oh, aye. Well, his man tellt me who he was. At least, he wasny his man, he was another of the household. Fellow cried Mitchel, good company he was and all, the two of us sat down by the Ditch and had a right good crack while our maisters were talking.’

‘Mitchel,’ repeated Gil. ‘And his maister?’

‘Well, his maister was the Bishop o Dunkeld,’ explained Benet scrupulously, ‘but he was waiting on this man my own maister was talking wi, that was the Bishop’s secretary so he tellt me. Name o Stirling, he said. Tall fellow, well set up, wi his hat all ower badges.’

‘Benet, have you heard that Stirling was murdered that evening?’

He had judged his audience right. Benet’s eyes opened wide, with a gleam of pleasurable amazement.

‘You don’t say! Murdered! And my maister walking and talking wi him just that day!’

Gil nodded corroboration to this, and went on, ‘I’m charged wi finding out who killed him. So anything you can mind about the afternoon might be a help to me.’

‘The afternoon,’ repeated Benet doubtfully. ‘Murdered! But I never spoke wi him.’

‘No reason you should,’ agreed Gil. ‘But you’re a good servant, and take note of aught that affects your own maister, I’ve no doubt.’ The man made no comment, but looked gratified at this. ‘Start when the two of them met. How did that chance?’

‘Oh, we went to the dog-breeder’s yard and there he was, and they was talking over the dog-pens a wee while.’ Benet grinned. ‘I was thinking the dog-breeder wasny best pleased at that, for they were right in her way, but it seems the man Mitchel was some kind o kin, and he talked her out of her strunt and gave her a bit hand wi the tasks she had.’

‘What did you go there for?’

Benet shook his head.

‘My maister never said. I wondered at it mysel,’ he admitted, ‘for he’s no one for dogs in the house.’

‘So you never got a word with Mitchel while you were in the yard?’ Benet agreed to this. ‘What was Stirling talking to the Canon about?’

‘Dogs, mostly,’ said the man, ‘seeing they were all about them I suppose. How they get on wi one another, and the like. Training them. The fellow Stirling said how it’s amazing what a dog’ll fetch and carry if you reward it well. And that’s a true word,’ he added, ‘my uncle’s got a sheepdog, it’ll fetch him anything he names in the house and set it in his hand.’

‘And then they left.’

‘Aye, and went out on to the meadow land. I did wonder,’ said Benet, ‘if all would be well, for they marched along the track wi never a word, till they got out on to the open ground, and then they directed Mitchel and me to wait under a hazel-bush, and went off into the midst of the meadow. But they were quite civil wi one another after that.’

‘So you never heard what they spoke of,’ said Gil. Socrates, his tour of inspection completed, came and sat down by his feet. ‘It’s a good way to be private, to go out where you can see anyone else approaching.’

‘Aye, but I think they forgot about being private,’ said Benet, grinning. ‘Once they got well into their talk, they were walking back and forth and came often within earshot. No that we listened, a course,’ he said virtuously.

‘No, of course not,’ agreed Gil. ‘So what did you and Mitchel talk of? Were you there a while?’

‘Oh, aye, the best part o two hour. Beats me what they had to talk over that took as long. We’d tellt one another our lifes and run out o riddles by the time they called us.’

‘And then you went your separate ways,’ Gil prompted.

‘Aye, all in different directions, too,’ Benet said, laughing. ‘My maister sent me back to the Blackfriars, saying he’d dine in Perth, but he’d an errand that side the Ditch first. The other fellow sent Mitchel in to Perth, bade him say he’d be in to his supper but he’d stroll a while on the meadow first. So none o us went the same way.’ He held his hand out for Socrates to sniff.

‘Was the Canon to dine wi Bishop Brown?’ Gil asked casually.

‘No, no, never wi the Bishop.’ Benet pulled a face. ‘That Bishop’s ower nice to be dining wi a man that keeps a mistress, no like our Bishop at Dunblane. But to tell truth,’ he slid an embarrassed glance sideways at Gil, ‘I tellt them he would. To raise him up a wee bit, you see,’ he said earnestly, ‘for they were no best pleased wi him about his staying, and who he had wi him, and all.’

Gil nodded slowly. Parts of this fitted well; parts of it did not.

‘What can you recall about Mitchel?’ he asked. ‘Tell me what you spoke of.’

‘Why d’you want to know that?’ asked Benet warily. ‘I’d no want to get the fellow into trouble, I’ve nothing against him.’

‘No, no,’ said Gil reassuringly. ‘I’d hoped he might ha said something about Maister Stirling. Anything that would tell me what the man was doing and why he was killed. Did he mention him at all?’

‘Oh, aye, he did,’ agreed Benet, obviously turning this over in his mind. ‘Though it was only to tell me he wasny his right maister, that he mostly attended on the Bishop’s steward, that seems to be a right good maister and free wi money.’

‘He said that, did he?’

‘Aye, so I tellt him a thing or two about attending on a priest, and we’d a good laugh about some of the cantrips I’ve seen about my maister’s employ.’ Benet recalled who he was speaking to and added quickly, ‘Not at my maister, you understand, sir.’

‘Of course not.’ Gil prodded a clump of box with his foot, and Socrates leaned down to snuffle into the rustling leaves. ‘And Maister Stirling was less generous, was he?’

‘Oh, he never said that. Just that the steward was mighty free. And this man Stirling was heedful o poor folk, he said, look the way he’d sent us to sit in the shade while they talked.’

‘What were they talking about, for so long?’

‘Beats me,’ said Benet. ‘I never got more than a snatch of it. When they left us under the hazel-bush they were talking about my maister’s brother, had he heard from him, I suppose meaning this brother that’s returned from Elfhame. Are we to see him, do you suppose, sir? Is that right he’s shut up in the kirk across yonder?’ He pointed across the loch at the Kirkton, its smoke rising quietly in the sunshine.

‘He’s asked for sanctuary in the kirk,’ said Gil. ‘Of course your maister said he’d not heard, I suppose.’

‘Aye, that’s the truth,’ agreed Benet. ‘And I heard him mention his family. But I’ve no notion after that, save that they were both of them weeping at one stage.’

‘Weeping?’ Gil repeated in astonishment. ‘Sweet St Giles, whatever caused that?’

‘I’ve no notion,’ repeated the man. ‘Mitchel saw it too. The Canon’s done his share o weeping since Mistress Nan dee’d, poor lady, Our Lady bring her to Paradise, but why the other fellow – and Mitchel said he’d no idea neither.’

Gil looked out at the hills around him, without seeing them. What lay between the two men to prompt such a long, intense discussion, tears and talk of forgiveness? Andrew Drummond had taken benefit of clergy; it would not be easy to find out from him, and Stirling was not telling.