‘What other man?’ demanded Agnew, alarm in his voice for the first time. ‘Sheriff, what are you saying?’
‘There was no other,’ said Gil. ‘Naismith was talking to his man of law. They were working on his will when they quarrelled. A scribe works wi his pen in one hand and his penknife in the other.’
‘His penknife,’ repeated Sir Thomas. ‘You’re saying, Maister Cunningham?’
‘I’m saying, sir, that Thomas Agnew stabbed Naismith left-handed wi his penknife, and then drew his dagger and completed the task.’
‘No!’ shrieked Agnew as the noise increased in the hall. ‘No, I — ’
‘Hold him!’ Sir Thomas rose, pointing. ‘Hold and bind him, Archie!’
‘Why should the way of the guilty prosper? Why do all who are treacherous thrive? I did not — ’
‘In his own hall, maister? Aye, there’s the blood to show it, I suppose.’
‘And the marks of the matting on Naismith’s face,’ Gil added, ‘where he lay on it as he began to set.’
‘No, no!’ shouted Agnew. ‘Not the ropes, not the ropes!’
‘And what about the servant?’
‘Thomas Agnew came home yesterday after Terce,’ Gil said over the uproar, stepping back from the rush as two of the men-at-arms dragged Agnew struggling to the wall beside John Veitch, ‘and found Hob turning over the matting to clean off the stains he had talked about. Maybe Hob saw they were bloodstains and accused him of killing the Deacon, maybe he asked him for money to keep quiet. Agnew stabbed him, and went away leaving him to die. He returned later, found John Veitch with the body, and set up a cry of Murder.’
‘So it wasny the madman at all?’ said one of the assize.
‘He’s just proved it wasny,’ said another. ‘Listen to what’s said, man.’
‘But why should Maister Agnew ha stabbed the Deacon?’
‘Aye, a good question,’ said Sir Thomas, and turned to Agnew, just as one of his guards struck the man a great buffet on the side of the head. ‘Why did you kill the Deacon, man? What profited ye?’
‘No profit,’ shouted Agnew, spitting blood, ‘but vengeance, the vengeance of the fatherless and the orphan! Loose these ropes from me, for I am justified!’
‘I suppose it was the question of his brother’s support,’ said David Cunningham. He had demanded a dissection of the whole affair as soon as he came home from the Consistory tower; Maggie was listening avidly, and it seemed likely the dinner would be late.
‘That’s it, sir,’ agreed Gil, and sat down beside Alys. She put her hand in his; he rubbed its back with his thumb, and they smiled at one another.
‘Has he admitted it?’ asked Tib.
‘Not yet,’ said Maistre Pierre.
‘He may not,’ said Gil reluctantly. ‘I suspect he has inherited Humphrey’s madness. The way he was spouting vengeance and bloodshed from the Psalter at the quest, I don’t see him being fit to plead.’
‘I think the Sheriff will put him to the question none the less,’ said Maistre Pierre.
‘So how do you know it’s about his brother?’ Tib persisted.
‘Was it him that hanged his brother, anyway?’ Maggie demanded across the hearth.
‘No way to tell,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Humphrey insists that he recalls nothing.’
‘It’s not about his brother,’ Gil corrected Tib, ‘but about the land which was given to support Humphrey. Naismith was appropriating it to his own use, and Humphrey’s dole was getting less and less. Bad enough the land going to the bedehouse, but if it was to end up in Naismith’s hands, I think Agnew couldny stand it.’
‘But is that reason enough to kill someone?’ Tib asked.
‘It’s a valuable parcel of land,’ Gil said, ‘but I think it was maybe the way Naismith planned to use it that angered Agnew. His notes for the new will end at that property, though the Deacon had plenty more to dispose of.’
‘So he enticed Naismith round to his own house, you think,’ said Canon Cunningham, ‘to drink a toast to the marriage, and then stabbed him.’
‘I think so,’ Gil agreed.
‘Why not in the Consistory tower?’ Alys asked.
‘Too public. There was always the chance of meeting someone on the stair. Not to mention the problem of getting a corpse as big as himself down that stair,’ Gil added. ‘If he got him back to Vicars’ Alley he could leave him in his house while he worked out how to get rid of the body. Then I suppose it occurred to him to try to put the blame on Humphrey by putting the corpse in the garden.’
‘And after that he went round into the bedehouse and pretended to be the Deacon.’ Dorothea leaned back against the settle. ‘It’s been a right fankle, Gil, and you’ve unravelled it well. I see now how Robert Blacader thinks you’re worth a benefice.’
‘Of course he is,’ said Alys indignantly.
‘There is a strange thing,’ said Maistre Pierre, with an indulgent smile at his daughter. ‘Since Humphrey’s resurrection, or whatever one calls it, there have been some remarkable happenings at the bedehouse.’
‘Remarkable?’ said Dorothea.
The mason shrugged. ‘Maister Barty has his hearing back. The one with the trembling-ill is by far steadier, the one we could not understand has recalled his Latin and also speaks Scots like a Christian, the very old man — Father Anselm, is it? — is clearer in his head than he was — all small things, but each in its way a grace.’
‘Mistress Mudie is silent,’ contributed Alys, ‘as if she has obtained peace.’
‘Millar has lost his stammer,’ said Gil, ‘and seems by far more confident.’ And Alys and I have got past whatever was troubling us, he thought, and smiled at her again.
‘And yet Humphrey’s own brother has received nothing,’ went on Maistre Pierre, ‘is taken up for murder and will be tortured for his confession.’
‘He has Humphrey’s forgiveness,’ said Alys. ‘That must count.’
‘If he was the instrument of Humphrey’s martyrdom, maistre,’ said Dorothea, ‘he will obtain a special judgement. Nevertheless, if he murdered his servant and the Deacon, he must pay the price the law requires.’
The final fragment of the picture only dropped into place a week later.
On the morning after the wedding, Gil woke in the late November dawn, warm and comfortable, and fully aware of where he was and why. Alys was curled relaxed against him, her hair silky on his cheek, and the steady sound of her breathing was intensely pleasant in his ear.
Al nicht by the rose ich lay. He spent some time dwelling with satisfaction on the events of the last twelve hours, the verse going round in his head. And before that — before they had avoided the wild jokes of the bedding-party and the rough music in the courtyard, before the dancing in the drawing-loft and the feast in the hall, there had been the moment when he and Alys stood in front of his uncle in a side-chapel of the cathedral and exchanged promises and rings. She had smiled up into his face, confident and confiding. All would be well.
The whole day had gone well, though he suspected Alys had moved through it in a daze. All the guests had enjoyed themselves, only a few had become unpleasantly drunk, and he had noticed his mother talking intensely to his godfather at one point, her gestures emphatic. Her glance had flicked to Tib in her scarlet gown, Michael in dull green velvet, in opposite corners of the room, and the fiery Sir James had nodded meekly and offered her his hand. It seemed likely that some sort of future awaited the miscreants.
He turned his head on the pillow and drew the red woollen curtain aside to look out into the chamber, where the early light was growing. The blue milk-paint had dried to a pleasant misty shade, though now it looked colourless. The four Cardinal Virtues showed up well on the wall by the hearth behind his head, and opposite them, facing the foot of the bed, Maister Sproat had depicted his own choice of saints: the Visitation, with the Virgin and St Elizabeth dressed like Scots women and crowned with jaunty rose-bordered halos; and in plain halos, St Giles and his pet doe standing stiffly by St Mungo. One could tell it was St Mungo; he had a mitre as well as a halo, and held a green branch in one hand and a robin the size of a goshawk on the other, its red breast showing bright already as the light strengthened.