‘Man or woman,’ Alys put in.
‘As we said,’ Gil agreed. ‘Marion Veitch is as tall as Dorothea. Hidden in a great cloak and a hat, she could be taken for a man.’
‘While her brother dealt with the body, as we surmised,’ said Maistre Pierre.
‘Aye, that would work, but who minded the bairn if she was out of the house overnight? I’m not convinced Eppie could lie for her mistress, she talks too much, like Sissie Mudie, and the man Danny certainly wouldn’t.’
‘I could get a word with the painter’s man,’ suggested Alys. ‘He will have spoken to his cousin this evening. Along with the whole town,’ she added, her quick smile flickering.
‘I’ve spoken to her already,’ said Gil. ‘I encountered her on her way home, and convoyed her down the road.’
‘Oho!’ said Maistre Pierre, grinning again. ‘Yet another lady! And only — how many days is it to the wedding?’
‘What did she say?’ asked Alys. Gil bent his head to rub his cheek on her hair, and she nestled in against him.
‘She confirmed some of Marion’s story,’ he admitted, ‘if only by hearsay, for she says she was earlier leaving the house last night than tonight. But she said something odd.’
‘What was that?’ Alys prompted him after a moment.
‘She seemed quite certain the house was being watched this evening.’
‘Watched? You mean someone standing out in the cold,’ Alys began, and faltered as she saw the parallel.
‘Waiting alone in the dark for the right person to come along,’ agreed Gil.
‘Did she see the watcher?’ demanded Maistre Pierre.
‘A big man with a black beard. But you’re here, so she must have been imagining it,’ said Gil, at which his friend grinned absently and stroked the beard, considering.
‘There are not so many black beards in Glasgow,’ he commented. ‘Most Scotsmen go shaven like you.’
‘Save the Earl of Douglas, and he is fair,’ amended Alys absently. ‘I wonder if she really saw anyone. You know what servant lassies are like, if anything goes wrong in the household.’
‘They see bogles behind every bush,’ agreed Gil. ‘This one seems less silly than most.’ He paused, as something else came back to him. ‘Now, I wonder what that was?’ Alys looked up at him questioningly. ‘She repeated Eppie’s account of the quarrel last night, with a little more. It seems John Veitch claimed Naismith owed his sister for her maidenhead, and Naismith made some sort of reply which Bel refused to tell me. Claimed she had forgotten.’
‘Something to her mistress’s discredit? Does she like her place there?’ asked Alys shrewdly.
‘I’d say so. I wonder if it concerned Frankie’s parentage.’
‘I’ll talk to the painter’s man,’ she said decisively.
‘The jug is empty,’ said Maistre Pierre, peering into it. ‘I think we must send you home, Gilbert. There is much to do in the morning.’
Eating her porridge in the candlelight before dawn, Tib seemed much more inclined to be friendly. She had greeted Gil civilly with an account of how Maggie’s share of the kitchen work for the feasting had progressed. Unused to lively conversation at this hour, he responded with encouraging monosyllables while he ate.
‘Are you still chasing after the man at the bedehouse?’ she asked at length.
‘I’ll chase after him till I find who killed him,’ said Gil, and put his empty bowl down for the dog.
‘So you’ll be there again all day? What must you do there?’
‘This morning, for certain,’ he agreed with caution. What had changed her tune, he wondered.
As if she had heard his thought, she said lightly, ‘I’d like to know about it. It’s what you do for your office, after all, and there’s no other office like it that I ever heard of.’
‘I’ll ask questions,’ he supplied, ‘as I did most of yesterday. I’ll get another look at the dead man, since he’s likely softened and been stripped by now, and set someone to hunt for ladders in the Chanonry, fruitless though that’s like to be. As Tam said, near every house must have one at least. And I’ll go over the accounts.’
‘Oh, accounts.’ She pulled a face. ‘Why?’
‘I think the reason he was killed may be hid in there.’
‘Oh,’ she said again, and then, ‘How? Accounts are just accounts, surely?’
‘They tell where the money is,’ said Gil, ‘and where it came from.’
‘I suppose so,’ she said, scraping her own bowl. ‘Who have you to ask questions of?’
‘The kitchen hands, for a start.’
‘Can I come too? I could do that for you.’
He looked at her, startled. ‘Can Maggie not do with your help here?’
She opened her mouth on a sharp answer and visibly thought better of it.
‘I’d like to help you,’ she offered winningly. ‘You’ll want to get this out the way before your wedding.’
His objection crystallized, and he realized it was unworthy. It should be Alys who helped him, as she had done before, not this vixen of a sister.
‘What do you want to ask the kitchen folk? Who is there? Any good-looking laddies?’ she asked, with irony.
‘Just the one, and he reminds me of wee William here.’ She pulled a face. ‘Tib, if you’re serious, it would be a help. Just be sure Maggie doesn’t need you.’
‘I can make shift without her,’ said Maggie, stumping into the hall as he spoke. ‘Are ye done with they bowls yet? Aye, I see you,’ she added to Socrates, who had come to wag his tail at her.
‘Maggie, have you a moment?’ said Gil quickly, as something leapt into his mind. ‘You ken all there is about the doings of the Chanonry, you’re the likeliest to tell me. Does Maister Thomas Agnew have a mistress anywhere?’
‘Agnew?’ She paused, a wooden porringer in each hand, to consider this. ‘No that I’ve heard. His man would be more like to tell you, that’s Hob Watson that dwells on the Drygate.’ She frowned, and set one dish inside the other to carry them out. ‘I’ll ask the men. Tam might ken something.’
‘Thanks, Maggie,’ said Gil.
‘Now get out my sight, the pair of you. And be sure and come back for your noon bite the day. Your sister’s to be here, for one thing, and she’s a busy woman.’
I am surrounded by busy women, Gil thought. Even Alys, who usually has time to talk, is too busy to help me. He found himself thinking of the brief embrace they had shared last night at the door. She had leaned against him, a warm armful, smelling faintly of rosemary hairwash and lavender linen, but when he had tried to kiss her mouth she had tensed within his grasp. Is she too busy to kiss me? he wondered, and laughed at himself. But the doubt remained.
When they reached the bedehouse Maister Kennedy was just leaving, and met them in the yard with his vestments in a bundle under his arm.
‘Aye, Gil,’ he said. ‘Where are you at wi this business?’
‘No a lot further,’ Gil admitted, and paused to introduce his sister. ‘Tib’s to help me question the household. How are they the day?’
‘Much as usual,’ said Maister Kennedy offhandedly, changing his bundle to the other arm in order to raise his round felt hat to Tib. ‘I wouldny say they’re grieved for the Deacon. You’ll find them in the hall.’
Humphrey appeared in the doorway behind him, staring anxiously at the three figures in the yard. Beyond him, Mistress Mudie’s head popped watchfully out of the kitchen. Socrates retreated, equally watchful, to the door of the chapel.
‘It’s a bonnie lassie,’ said Humphrey after a moment, and came out to join them. Tib bobbed another curtsy and gave Gil a doubtful look. ‘She’s here wi the hoodie, but she’s no his make.’
‘Not my make,’ Gil agreed, ‘but my sister.’
‘I see that,’ said Humphrey. ‘But she’s no a hoodie like you. She’s a wood-pigeon, aren’t you no, lassie?’
‘If you say so, sir,’ said Tib politely.
Humphrey considered her carefully for a moment, and nodded. ‘Aye, a wood-pigeon, crying always for its sweetheart.’ Tib gave Gil another doubtful look, bright colour washing down over her face. ‘Pray for me, lassie,’ Humphrey went on, ‘as I will for you, for we need one another’s prayers.’