The Stolen Voice (25 page)

Out here beyond the burgh walls – no, the Ditch, he corrected himself – the ground was not laid out in the long narrow even-sized tofts which were usual inside a town. The Doigs’ premises consisted of the house set at the further end of the ground with the yard in front of it and a long shed to one side. The yard was perhaps twenty-five or thirty paces long, and the same width as the dyer’s yard, fenced all round with woven hurdles lashed securely to solid posts. Within this space the pens had been constructed of solid timber, the lowest planks half-buried to prevent enthusiastic inmates tunnelling out, the higher ones separated enough for the occupant to see something of the world. None of them was against the boundary, so that a lean person such as Mistress Doig or Gil himself could walk right round the fence.

The liver-and-white bitch, getting no reaction, had given up her harangue to lie down within her kennel, but when he moved to explore the layout of the yard, she leapt out with a savage snarl, provoking the other dogs as well. He recognized why Mistress Doig had no hesitation in leaving the premises unattended; two of her neighbours had already looked out to see what was going on, alerted by the noise. Waving politely to them, he picked his way round the double row of pens, peered into and then behind the shed, studied the hurdles which composed the fence, leaned over to see into the tanyard.

‘She’s out wi the dogs,’ said a voice over the barking. He looked up, and saw one of the neighbours still watching suspiciously from the property that lay between him and the Blackfriars’ track. ‘She’ll no be long.’

‘I can see that,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll wait for her. Likely she knows I’m here by now, wi the dogs barking like this.’

‘Aye, likely.’ The man stood watching him. He was clad in a worn leather jerkin and blue workman’s bonnet, and held a knife in one hand and a slat of wood in the other; probably he was one of the many manufacturers of small-wares, little boxes and wooden combs, needle-cases and tablet covers, who could be found scraping a living in the suburbs of any burgh. That would explain the litter of timber and shavings lying all about the yard, Gil realized.

‘Is trade good?’ he asked casually, picking his way over to the fence.

‘It keeps us.’

‘There’s a lot of buying and selling in Perth, I think, what wi the overseas merchants and the like.’

‘They’re no wanting Ally Paterson’s wares,’ said the man resentfully. ‘It’s all sheep fells and salt salmon they take out o Perth, and they bring in stuff to compete wi decent craftsmen and take the bread out our mouths.’

Recognizing his duty, Gil enquired further, and found himself bargaining over the fence for a handful of wooden combs and several tiny boxes which might hold a needle. The things were well made; he was sure Alys would not want them, but they might make gifts for someone.

‘You keep an eye out for one another in these yards,’ he commented, counting out the sum agreed.

‘I’m sorry if I was a bit sharp,’ said Paterson obliquely, and handed the goods over bundled in an oddment of striped woollen cloth. ‘You’ll ha heard, maybe, Andy Cornton the tanner’s in trouble the now wi a dead man in his tanpit, and there was a wee bother in Mistress Doig’s place the other week and all.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Was there any harm to her? Or the dogs?’

‘No, I’d say not,’ said Paterson drily, ‘for I heard her complaining to her man about it after. No, just something set the dogs barking and her man was shouting, right angry he was, about folk coming into his yard and misbehaving theirsels, and right enough there was a couple men there earlier though I never learned what they’d done, for I was at my supper at the time,’ he admitted with regret. ‘So when I seen a stranger, and I ken she’s out –’

‘Very wise,’ said Gil, ‘and I’m sure Mistress Doig would do the same for you.’ A fresh outbreak of barking made him look over his shoulder, in time to see the dog-breeder herself approaching her gate, towed by a mixed leash of half a dozen excited animals. ‘Good day, mistress,’ he offered, and raised his hat to her.

‘You again,’ she said.

‘Oh, aye,’ agreed Paterson. ‘And you’ll mind Ally Paterson next time you’re needing a comb, maister.’

By the time Gil extricated himself from the conversation, Mistress Doig had returned the dogs to their various pens, screamed at the others for silence and obtained it, glowered at her neighbour and at Gil, and was waiting in the midst of the yard, arms folded, to learn his business.

‘I’d a good word wi himself in Balquhidder,’ he began, making his way past the liver-and-white bitch again.

‘Is that where he is?’ she retorted, in unwelcoming tones.

‘He was saying he misses the dogs.’

She snorted at that. ‘Aye, well, he kens what he can do about it.’

‘You were to show me the fence.’

Her eyes widened, but she said without moving, ‘What about the fence, then?’

‘The new mended spot,’ he prompted.

She studied him, glanced briefly at Paterson still standing in his doorway watching them, and said sourly, ‘Come in the house.’

The house was a single room, though it had a fireplace with a chimney in one gable. Mistress Doig stalked in ahead of him, tossed her plaid on to the bed, pointed to a stool and said, ‘You can as well be seated. Now what’s this about? I’ll not discuss my business or Doig’s afore the neighbours.’

‘The new mended spot on the fence,’ he repeated. She hooked a second stool away from the wall with one foot and sat down, giving him another hostile stare.

‘I’ve no notion how that came about. I heard him shouting when I was out wi the dogs, maybe it was about that. He’d mended it by the time I cam back, he was just putting the tools past in the shed. Same evening you were asking me about afore,’ she added, ‘after I’d had the two priests in the yard. I’d enough to do wi the dogs when I came in, the ones I’d left here were in a right tirravee wi him shouting and all, I never heard what came to the fence. Maybe Doig and our Mitchel had a fight,’ she speculated, without much conviction.

‘Not round by the fence, surely?’ said Gil. ‘It’s a tight squeeze for a burly fellow like Doig, I’d have said, let alone starting a fight in the space.’

She shrugged. ‘He never said.’

‘Mind you, the damage is none so bad,’ he pursued. ‘Did he just have to cut a new cord and tie the hurdle to the stobs again? Or was there more to it than that?’

‘I’ve no notion,’ she said again. ‘Doig never said. You’ve been round and looked at it yoursel, then?’

‘I have. It’s well trampled, for such a simple repair, I wondered if you’d had a bit trouble.’

‘I keep telling you,’ she said impatiently, ‘I wasny here and Doig never let on.’

‘Did your cousin not tell you what happened?’

‘I’ve not seen him since. Likely he’s away a message for his maister.’

‘He’s away, is he? Who carries the word instead of him, then?’

‘That daft fellow that was wi you the other day. Peter.’ She snorted again. ‘No more sense than turn up here asking for Doig so all the neighbours can hear.’

‘What’s Maister Doig doing now that he’d as soon keep quiet?’ Gil asked casually.

‘Why ask me? If you’ve spoke wi him in Balquhidder, you ought to know,’ she retorted. ‘You’re mighty full o questions every time I see you, maister, and answering them’s never done me any good. I think I’d as soon you left my yard.’ She rose and shook out her striped homespun skirts, and stood glaring at him. ‘And I’ll no look for you –’

‘Mistress Doig!’ shouted a voice outside. ‘Mistress Doig, are you there? You’re socht!’

She snatched up her plaid and hurried out to the yard, Gil following. Paterson was out at his door again, shouting; another two or three neighbours were hastening down their gardens with excited cries.

‘What’s amiss? Who wants me?’ she demanded.

‘It’s the Blackfriars!’ called another neighbour. ‘See, there he comes yonder! It’s your man, I doubt!’

‘Doig!’ she said, on a breathless little gasp, and froze on the spot.

‘No, it’s not her man,’ said someone else, ‘it’s her cousin. He’s carried in dead, and asking for her.’

‘I’m that sorry, Maister Gil,’ said Tam yet again, over the head of the man bandaging him.

‘You did your best, man,’ said Gil. ‘None of us was expecting an attack.’

‘That’s it,’ agreed Ned, his hands round a pot of hot spiced ale. ‘We never expected sic a thing that close to Perth.’

They were in the guest hall of the Blackfriars’ convent, a high light chamber with painted walls and a long table down its centre, where the injured men had been carried when they reached the gatehouse. By the time Gil arrived at the run, with Mistress Doig on his heels, Brother Infirmarer had made his decisions, told off two of his lay brothers to see to Tam and Ned, and was just following Donal as he was borne to the Infirmary. His assistant, crucifix in hand, was kneeling over a fourth man who lay groaning on the bloodstained flagstones.

Mistress Doig had dropped to her knees beside him in silence, seizing the injured man’s hand. Gil stood by, staring in horror, while the sub-Infirmarer recited words all too familiar to everyone in the room and Tam said urgently in his ear:

‘They came down on us no a mile fro the town, Maister Gil. There was six o them, we was lucky to get away, and it was Mitchel there they was after, they were out to kill him!’

‘Looks as if they’ve succeeded,’ said Ned beside him.

Gil stepped forward as the sub-Infirmarer reached the blessing, and hunkered down beside the dying man. The narrow, dark-browed face was glistening with sweat, blood bubbled on the bluish lips, and he whimpered as another spasm of pain jerked through his body. The two deep wounds to chest and belly would see him off within a few minutes, to judge by the sub-Infirmarer’s manner.

‘Mitchel,’ he said quietly, ‘who killed Jaikie Stirling?’

Mitchel groaned again, and Mistress Doig threw him an angry look.

‘Leave him at peace!’ she said. ‘He’s more to think on than that! Brother Euan, can you gie him nothing for his pain? I’d not –’ She choked on the words. ‘I’d not leave a dog to suffer this way.’

‘I can,’ admitted the sub-Infirmarer in his deep gentle voice, ‘though whether he’ll get the good o’t is another matter.’ He turned away to receive a small bottle from his servant, unstopping it with big deft hands. Gil leaned forward, looking into Mitchel’s eyes.

‘Who killed Maister Stirling?’ he asked again. The man drew a shuddering breath, twisted away from his gaze, and gasped, faint and high-pitched:

‘Wha –? Wha?’

‘He doesny ken what you mean,’ said Mistress Doig. ‘Here, my laddie, drink this.’ She almost snatched the little cup from the Infirmarer, lifted Mitchel’s head, eased water between his bloody lips. He swallowed once; she tilted the cup again, but this time the water ran out at the sides of his mouth.

‘I feared as much,’ said the Infirmarer. ‘No, daughter, no use giving him the rest.’

Gil sat back and crossed himself, muttering a prayer. He was almost stunned with anger. Someone had taken advantage of his own action, had made him partly responsible for this man’s death, and by it had snatched the information Mitchel carried out of reach, out of Gil’s own grasp. He rose and stepped back from the little group, Mistress Doig in her knotted headdress and striped gown, Brother Euan and his servant with their tonsured heads bent, and Mitchel with his face already relaxing into the painless depths of the next world. He looked younger than Gil had expected, not much past thirty perhaps. Biting back his anger, he joined Tam and Ned where they were seated at the long table, their helmets discarded beside them. The other Infirmary lay brother was still smearing salve into the long slash on Tam’s knee.

‘The horses have taen no hurt,’ said Ned now, ‘and they’re saying young Donal will be well enough, wi God’s help, and get a scar to fright the lassies wi.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Gil. ‘I wish none of you had been hurt. Who was it? Did you get a look at them?’

Ned shrugged, and winced as the movement shifted his bandaged arm.

‘I took it they was Murrays,’ he admitted. ‘They’re no likely to be MacGregors, this close to Perth, and besides he,’ he jerked his head at the dead man, ‘he was a MacGregor, though I suppose –’

‘Aye, it means nothing,’ agreed Gil. ‘Tam? Did you jalouse anything?’

‘They were after him,’ said Tam, ‘like I tellt you, Maister Gil. The first two made for Donal and me, the next two got past us and went straight for him, and I’d say they wereny looking to take him prisoner. Him and Ned took them on, and Donal and me struck one of ours down and took the last two from behind, and then –’ He swallowed, and winced as the man at his side tightened the bandage. ‘Then we ran for the town, and them after us, such as could still sit a horse, and when we cam by the barn the lay brothers cam charging out, right handy wi brooms and pitchforks they are, and we turned there, and then we saw how Mitchel –’ He swallowed again. ‘I’m right sorry, Maister Gil, I never –’

‘Leave it, Tam,’ said Gil, reaching out to grip the man’s hand. ‘And thank God you came out alive. Ned, is that how you saw it and all?’

‘Close enough,’ agreed Ned.

‘It’s the lay brothers that gets me,’ said Tam, with a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘They come down to the roadside at the charge, wi their brooms and pitchforks levelled like they was pikes. You’d ha thought they was a regiment.’

‘Likely the Murrays did think they were a regiment,’ observed Ned, ‘the way they cut and ran.’ He took another swallow of his spiced ale.

‘That’s Brother Dickon’s doing,’ said the man who was bandaging Tam. ‘He’s got the outdoor men well trained. The hounds of the Lord need a stout collar, he aye says.’

‘They’re that, all right,’ said Ned. ‘Saved our skins, they did, and I’d like to shake them all by the hand and buy them a stoup of ale for it.’

‘I’ll pass on your thanks,’ said the Dominican, gathering up his materials, ‘if you’ll thank God and His Mother for it first.’

‘Oh, aye!’ said Ned, shocked.

When Gil stepped out of the hall Mistress Doig was seated on the porter’s bench in the courtyard, her expression grim. She looked up as he approached, impaling him with a hot dry stare. There was blood on her cheek; she must have kissed the dead man.

‘What’s he got tangled up in?’ she demanded. ‘Was it you sent for him? Why you and no his own maister?’

‘You were close?’ Gil said gently, sitting down beside her. She turned her face away.

‘First cousins,’ she said. ‘My mother wouldny let me wed him.’

Revising his estimate of her age sharply downwards, Gil said, ‘I’ll pray for him. He died confessed and shriven, that must be a comfort.’

‘Aye,’ she said bleakly, ‘and why? What for? Your man said those Murrays, or whatever they were, went for him a purpose.’

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ he answered. ‘What can you tell me about it?’

‘Me?’ She stared at him again. ‘What would I ken? Him and Doig never let on.’

‘So he was in something with Doig,’ he prompted. She nodded at that, looking down. ‘What did you see? Did he come to the house with word for him? Bring messages?’

She nodded again.

‘He’d turn up once in a while, saying he’d the evening free,’ she said. ‘I was aye glad to see him. Then one time I saw him slip Doig a letter o some kind.’

‘Can your man read?’

‘Oh, aye. Read and write and cipher.’

‘Did you ask them what it was about?’

She looked at him.

‘You’ve questioned Doig, maister,’ she said bluntly. ‘How would I get any more out of him than you?’

‘I’m not wedded to him,’ Gil pointed out. Her trap of a mouth twitched at that, but she said nothing. ‘Was the letter for Doig, or for him to carry overseas?’

‘He never tellt me.’

He pressed her a little, but she would not admit to knowing anything more, and he was unhappy about trading on her obvious grief. This was probably not the best time, either, to question Tam and Ned about Mitchel’s reaction to his summons, he realized, and it was probably the only way he would find out anything now about the man’s involvement in Stirling’s death. He would have to come back out here later in the day, when the two might have recovered their spirits in the care of the convent Infirmary.

‘Will I walk you home, mistress?’ he offered. ‘Is there a neighbour would sit with you?’

She shook her head, but rose to her feet, wearily, as if she carried a great burden.

‘I’ve the dogs’ dinner to see to,’ she said. ‘That won’t wait.’

Making his way towards the Red Brig, Gil turned his next move over in his mind. He was uneasily aware that he needed to speak to the Sheriff or his depute; he knew he would have to carry the word of Mitchel’s death to the Bishop’s household. On the other hand, he still had a lot to find out, and neither task seemed likely to contribute to that. He paused beside Cornton’s yard, looking over the planks of the fence at the silent sheds and drying-racks. If nobody drove his men to work, he thought, the tanner would find no business left when he was released. And that was what he had to do next: he must speak to Mistress Cornton.

The tanner’s house was quiet, though when he rattled at the pin he could hear footsteps beyond the sturdy door. After a moment a shutter opened and the girl Eppie popped her head out, saying in a subdued voice:

‘My mistress is no weel, maister, can your business wait? Oh,’ she went on, recognizing him. ‘It’s you, is it? Was it you that got my maister thrown in the jail?’

‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I hope I can get him out. Can I get a word wi your mistress, lass?’

‘Wait and I’ll speir,’ she said, and withdrew, closing the shutter. He waited on the fore-stair, watching the traffic in and out of the port, aware of voices inside the house, one querulous, one persuasive. Eventually Eppie’s wooden soles clattered, and the door swung open.

‘Just a wee word,’ the girl said, and then in a whisper, ‘and if you’d persuade her to take a morsel to eat, maister, it would be a kindness. I think she’s swallowed nothing since Martin prentice came to the door to tell us. Will you come up, sir?’ she added, more loudly. ‘My mistress is abed, but she’ll receive you.’

He was shocked by the change in the woman. Stepping into the upper chamber from the newel stair he found her lying back against the pillows of a handsome carved tester-bed. Her hair was straggling from under a night-cap tied beneath her chin, her shoulders were wrapped in a quilted garment of some sort, and the bright embroidered counterpane and pillow-bere showed signs of having been spread in haste and made her flushed face look almost purple by contrast. He bowed, concealing his dismay, and said:

‘I’m glad you could see me, mistress, but I’m right sorry to find you like this.’

‘Can you help him?’ she demanded, ignoring this. ‘Can you get Cornton out of the jail? I never thought I’d be married on a man that got put in the jail.’

He came forward to sit down, and she reached out a claw-like hand to grasp his. Eppie placed herself by the neatly bagged curtain at the bed-foot, saying, ‘Now, mistress, there’s none of us believes it was him.’

‘His customers will,’ she said urgently. ‘It’s no good for trade, and besides I canny bear it, to think of him in all that dirt and the rats and all –’

‘If you can tell me a thing or two,’ Gil prompted, ‘it might help him.’

‘I’ll try,’ she said, staring at him, her grasp on his hand tightening. ‘But I’m that dizzy, my head’s going round like a mill, I canny think clearly.’

‘That’s no wonder,’ he said with sympathy, and she managed a weak smile in response. ‘What man was it they arrested with your husband?’

‘Oh –’ she said faintly, groping for the answer.

‘That was Robin Hutchie,’ supplied Eppie. ‘He found the corp, so Martin prentice said, and Willie Reid said he should ha raised the hue and cry instead of just telling our maister, so he must be arrested.’

Gil nodded. The constable was following the proper procedures, but it was hard on the man Rob.

‘And then he arrested Maister Cornton,’ he said.

‘Well, no at first,’ said Eppie, ‘by what Martin said, for he didny find it easy. But he lifted him away in the end.’ She became aware that her mistress was weeping, and said awkwardly, ‘We’ll make him regret it, mistress, dinna fear.’

‘Tell me, mistress,’ said Gil, ‘The day you last saw Maister Stirling, can you mind if your husband was home that evening?’

‘Oh,’ she said again through her tears. ‘Oh, what evening would that be? I canny mind, maister.’

‘It was the third evening the bairns was here,’ said Eppie. ‘You mind, mistress, the maister said that was two wet beds and he wasny sleeping in a flood again, and –’ She bit off the words, looking embarrassed, and Gil pulled a face.

‘It’s hardly to be wondered at, poor bairns,’ he said, ‘but you can see his point. Where are they today?’

‘I took them to my sister’s,’ said Eppie a little defiantly. ‘She’s got two near the same age, she said she’d take them the now till we’re a bit –’

‘My poor lassie’s bairns,’ whispered Mistress Cornton.

‘That was wise, when the house is as troubled. But that evening,’ Gil returned to the point, ‘Maister Cornton was wanting to talk about where the bairns would sleep, is that right?’ Mistress Cornton nodded. ‘Was he home all the evening?’

‘Oh, he was,’ agreed Eppie, ‘for once it was decided we’d to move a couple of kists and a truckle-bed, and me and Rob Hutchie was kept busy all the evening shifting them, and the Maister taking charge and telling Rob he was doing it wrong.’

‘Would you swear to that, lass?’ Gil asked her. She nodded emphatically. ‘That ought to be enough. Tell me another thing, though. Is Maister Cornton a good shot?’

‘A shot?’ Mistress Cornton stared at him. ‘What wi, a shot?’

‘Wi an arrow,’ said Eppie. ‘Aye, he’s no bad. He goes to the butts of a Sunday, maister, like the rest o them, though I’ll say this,’ she gave a subdued giggle, ‘he’s soberer when he comes home than my last maister.’

‘A course he is,’ said Mistress Cornton, with dawning indignation.

‘Aye, that’s better,’ said Eppie obscurely.

‘Does he have a bow?’ Gil asked.

‘Oh, aye, he’s got a right good one,’ Eppie said.