‘So you’ve no idea how long Naismith was here? Or what they talked about?’
‘No to the first,’ said Kerr with legal precision, ‘and as to the second, I could hardly tell you if I did hear what they discussed, seeing it would be private between Tammas and his client.’
‘True,’ agreed Gil. ‘So it was a legal matter, then? No a social visit for a glass of Malvoisie or the like.’
‘I assume so, since Naismith came here and no to Tammas’s own lodging. As to the wine,’ he added, ‘I’ve never heard Tammas offer it to a client. A mistake, that. It brings in good custom, young Cunningham.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind, sir,’ said Gil, nodding. ‘Do you know where that might be? Maister Agnew’s lodging, I mean.’
‘Vicars’ Alley,’ said Kerr after a moment’s thought. ‘This end, right by St Andrew’s chapel. Likely you’d get him there nearer supper-time. Unless he lingers over his papers,’ he added, with another rag-toothed grin, and vanished back into his own chamber.
All three Cistercians were in the hall when Gil got back to the house in Rottenrow. Climbing the stairs from the front door he heard Dorothea’s voice, and as he stepped into the hall he had just time to see that his uncle was showing the elderly priest one of his books by the light of a branch of candles, while the two women helped Tib to set up the table. Then he was struck in the chest by Socrates’ forepaws. Tib paused in her distribution of wooden trenchers to watch the dog leaping round him, simmering with delight at his master’s safe return from the dangers of the burgh, and said caustically,
‘Mother said that beast thought he was a lapdog, and I see he’s not learned any different yet.’
‘He’s not a year old, Tib. He’ll be calm in a moment.’ Gil snapped his fingers at his pet. ‘Down! That’s better. Am I late?’
‘No to say late,’ said his uncle, breaking off his discussion, ‘since Maggie kept the supper for you. Likely we can eat as soon as she hears you’re in the house.’
‘Forgive me, sir,’ said Gil, bending his knee in a bow. ‘I went out again to look for Maister Agnew. Just as well I missed him, or I’d ha been later still.’
‘Have you found out who did it yet?’ asked Tib, setting the salt on the board.
‘No,’ said Gil, ‘though we’ve cast all about and asked a great many questions.’ He turned to the pottery cistern which hung by the door, and ran water to wash his hands.
‘Who have you questioned?’ Tib asked.
‘Marion Veitch and her brother,’ supplied Dorothea.
Tib flicked her a glance but said nothing. The laysister dragged one of the benches to the table, and Gil said, ‘Most of the almshouse, Nick Kennedy’s two servers, but not yet Naismith’s man of law.’ He lifted the linen towel to dry his hands, and Socrates stood up, one paw against the wall, and lapped at the soapy dregs in the brightly glazed basin. ‘I might go over and see if he’s home after we’ve had supper,’ he said, looking at Dorothea, and she nodded.
‘Not bad for one day,’ commented Canon Cunningham, coming forward. ‘Tib, shout down to Maggie that your brother is home, then perhaps we may eat.’
Once the household was seated at the long board, and all were served, Tib returned to the subject, demanding, ‘What happened at the bedehouse, anyway? All you said before was that the man had been found stabbed. When did it happen? Why do they not know who did it?’
‘You put yourself forward too much, Isobel,’ said her uncle severely.
She went scarlet, and stared at him in indignation, but Dorothea said, ‘No, uncle, I think she does right to ask. It was almost within earshot of the house here, any of us wants to know what’s being done to find the guilty.’
‘A true word, Lady Dawtie,’ said Maggie roundly. Gil, with resignation, helped himself to another portion of baked salmon and summarized a select few of the facts he had gathered so far. Well aware that anything he said in front of his uncle’s household would soon be common property in the Chanonry, he restricted himself to the finding of the corpse, Mistress Mudie’s evidence, Agnew’s statement that he had last seen the Deacon about Compline, and the traces at the Stablegreen gate of the almshouse.
‘Over the wall?’ repeated Tib, white-faced. This time her uncle did not rebuke her, but Dorothea put a hand over hers. ‘Do you mean the back wall? The one by the Stablegreen? When? When was this?’
‘I do,’ agreed Gil. ‘I think by means of a ladder, or so the traces tell me, at any road. It isny there any more,’ he said reassuringly, seeing that she was still very pale. ‘The body’s in the washhouse waiting while it softens, and I’ve no idea where the ladder can be. As to when …’ He paused, considering what he knew. ‘That depends on who moved the corpse and how many people were involved,’ he said finally. ‘Maybe between nine and ten, maybe later.’
She shivered, and cast a grateful glance at Dorothea, though she drew her hand out of her sister’s clasp.
‘It just — it just doesny seem right,’ she said lamely. ‘Leaving him lying like that.’
‘If a miscreant is so lost to all sense of sin as to kill another man deliberately,’ said the elderly priest in his soft voice, ‘we canny expect him to treat the dead wi respect.’
‘Well said, Herbert,’ said Dorothea.
‘And yet,’ observed Gil, ‘Naismith’s eyes had been shut.’
‘Likely somebody couldny abide him staring,’ said Maggie cheerfully.
Tib bit her lip and looked down at her supper, then said abruptly, ‘Uncle, will you forgive me? I’m no feeling very well.’ Not waiting for his consent, she rose, and pushed her trencher across the table at Gil. ‘Here, gie that to your lapdog. I’ll see you all later.’
As her feet hurried up the stair toward the solar, Dorothea closed her eyes and crossed herself, her lips moving.
‘You need to find that ladder, Gilbert,’ said David Cunningham, ignoring this episode. ‘And the Deacon’s cloak and hat. That should take you forward.’
‘There’s a many ladders in the Chanonry,’ contributed Tam the stable-hand from further down the table. ‘Near every household must have such a thing.’ He began to count them off on his fingers, mumbling to himself, and Gil said resignedly,
‘That’s for the morn. I can see my day mapped out already.’
Chapter Six
‘You were lucky to catch me at home,’ said Maister Agnew in legal Latin. ‘Aye, Hob,’ he added as his servant brought in a tray, ‘just leave the jug there.’
‘Aye, but you’ll no be spilling this one?’ said Hob bluntly. He was a wizened man with a scrubby beard; his livery jerkin and hose, closely examined, were quite new but he wore them as if they were out at the elbows and knees.
Agnew gave him a black look, and flapped a dismissive hand, saying, ‘You’ll take a glass of Malvoisie, Maister Cunningham? I believe you’re about to be wed, so we’ll drink to that.’
‘And keep it off the matting,’ said Hob as he reached the doorway. ‘Once in a week’s enough.’
‘Hob! Get away hame!’ said Agnew. His man snorted, and ducked out of the door. ‘You’ll ha to excuse him, Maister Cunningham. He’s been too long wi me. Some wine, then?’
The wine was golden in the glass but belied its promise. Gil kept his face straight, and said reassuringly in Latin, ‘I won’t keep you, if you’re promised somewhere. But there are a few things I hope you might shed light on, regarding Deacon Naismith’s death.’
‘You said that before,’ said Agnew. He was remarkably like his brother, but his hair was fashionably longer, his face was fatter, and the lines at mouth and forehead signalled his presence in the day-to-day world of the Consistory. ‘He was with me about this time last evening, after supper, for an hour or so, but I never saw him again after that.’
‘Was that here?’ asked Gil innocently, looking round the hall where they sat. He had friends among the cathedral songmen, who made up most of the inhabitants of the two rows of identical houses of Vicars’ Alley, so the size and shape of the room were familiar to him. This one was brightly painted with false panelling in black and red, with vases of stiff improbable flowers depicted on the red squares. The beams which supported the floorboards overhead were also decorated, with vines wriggling along their length, and the shutters at the window had more flowers, startlingly unlike the ones which would be visible in the little yard outside in summer. ‘Is it new painted?’