‘All things are possible under God,’ Gil observed. Galston changed hands to cross himself, and gave Gil a wry look by the remaining light.
‘That’s the kind o thing the clergy says,’ he remarked. ‘It’s well seen you’d a narrow escape fro that yoursel, Maister Cunningham.’
Locking the tower door behind them — ‘There’s as many holds keys to this, you might say there was little point,’ observed Galston, replacing the jangling bunch at his belt, ‘but there’s less point still in inviting Jockie Pick-Purse to make a profit on his confession’ — they made their way through the hum and bustle of a morning in St Mungo’s. Sext was just ended, so the Masses were beginning again at the many lesser altars in the nave, and the devout were making their way to hear their favoured saint commemorated. As the Hebdomader and choir, led by Robert with the verger’s silver-tipped wand of office raised high, emerged through the massive archway of Archbishop Blacader’s choirscreen, another three vergers appeared on its walled top, casting about the casing of the Cathedral’s smaller organ, their lanterns throwing dim, leaping shadows onto the smoke-darkened sandstone walls of the nave. Across the church, three more were engaged in a hissing argument with one of the clergy about who should have access first to St Moloc’s altar.
‘I’m surprised it’s business as usual,’ Gil commented, ‘considering what happened in St John’s chapel last night.’
‘Aye, well,’ said Galston. ‘Barnabas wasny slain inside St Mungo’s, Dean Henderson was very clear about that. He’s permitted me to put a rope across, keep folk out St John’s at the least till it’s cleansed and censed, but he’s no for shutting down the whole kirk. The faithful need to get in, he says.’ His gaze slid sideways to meet Gil’s. ‘Them and their pence,’ he added softly.
Reckoning a day’s probable revenue from the various collecting-boxes about the building, Gil saw how this position could appeal to the Dean. Himself, he was very uneasy about it; he had no way of telling where the verger had died, but the treatment of the body alone must surely amount to sacrilege within St Mungo’s. Perhaps the Archbishop would have a different view. He waited for the last brocade folds of the Hebdomader’s procession to vanish along the north choir aisle towards the vestry, and made for the doorway to the Vicars’ hall.
‘Robert’s maybe no the wisest man in the place,’ remarked Galston, following him, ‘but he’s well able to conduct a procession.’
Behind the heavy door the undercroft of the Vicars’ hall was not, as Gil had expected, busy with blue gowns and lanterns. There was a buzz of conversation away round to the left; picking his way among the pillars, the vaulting leaping over his head in the lantern light, he discovered a group of six or ten of the vergers arguing over something. He would have approached quietly, but Galston stepped past him and advanced on the assembly exclaiming,
‘Now, lads, what’s this about! Why are you no searching this place like I tellt you to?’
‘We have done, Maister Galston,’ said one of the nearest. Gil recognised Matthew, and Davie beyond him. ‘Only we’ve found this, see, and we was wondering if it’s what we was seeking.’
‘And what is it, then? Stand back and let me look.’ Galston put Matthew bodily aside and plunged into the gathering. Gil, following, saw him check in surprise. ‘The handcart? That’s nothing new, you daftheids!’
‘No, but this, see,’ said someone else.
In the pool of light from the lanterns, under a wing of the vaulting and surrounded by more stacked lumber, the St Mungo’s handcart stood slightly aslant in what was obviously its designated niche. A bundle of pale brocade had been opened up on the flat bed of the cart, revealing linen lining and a row of black metal hooks, and within the folds a fat leather purse and a small wooden box which was oddly familiar.
‘It was stood like that, the cairt,’ said the verger Davie, ‘and I came ower to set it straight, see, and found this laid on the top o’t. So we opened it up and this is what we found,’ he waved at the bundle, ‘and the worst thing is, look at the wheels!’
Galston stepped back, almost treading on Gil’s foot, to inspect the wheels, and Davie swung his lantern down so that the shadows sprang up the walls around them. The wheels were caked in mud, and even in the lantern-light the scratches on the paint of the spokes were clear to see.
‘Well!’ said Galston. ‘And who’s had this out wi’out permission?’
‘And that’s it, Maister Galston,’ said one of the men. ‘We were just trying to work that out, and there’s none o us has had the cairt out in weeks, no since the Pentecost benches was put by, and it was washed and stowed away proper then. You seen it yoursel, and approved all. So we were just goin’ to come and find you, seeing it was a thing out o place like you said, and then we thought to look at this bundle on the top o the cairt, and then you cam in that door.’
‘Aye,’ said Galston in a sceptical tone. ‘And what is the bundle, then?’
‘It’s a man’s short gown,’ said Gil. Galston looked over his shoulder and then back at the folds of cloth in the lantern-light. ‘I’m more interested in the purse and that box, but they’re all three strange things to find hidden in here.’
‘They might no ha been hid,’ argued the man Matt fairly. ‘They might just ha been forgot.’
‘Aye, but whose are they?’ said Galston, putting his finger on the nub of the matter. ‘Maister Cunningham, will you take charge o these?’
‘I will,’ said Gil after a moment, ‘if you’ll study them wi me before they leave St Mungo’s.’ Galston met his eye, and nodded. ‘Is there aught else?’
‘Nothing else,’ he said to Otterburn an hour or so later. ‘They’d searched the building thoroughly enough, I’d say.’
‘And these,’ said Otterburn, prodding the purse as it sat on his desk. ‘Did you learn whose they might be?’
‘The gown,’ said Gil, loathing the taste of the words in his mouth, ‘and the box, which has a set of Tarots in it, are Maister Sim’s.’
‘What, Habbie Sim the songman?’ Gil nodded, and the Provost stared at him inscrutably for a moment, then said, ‘Awkward for you. Will I question him on it?’
‘I’ve spoken to him, in Galston’s presence,’ Gil said. Otterburn’s expression flickered with — was it surprise? Respect? ‘He agrees the gown’s his, a good one o yellow brocade faced wi green taffeta, says he’s not seen it for four days or so, likewise the cards. I can confirm,’ Gil went on carefully, ‘and will swear to it, that the last time we met for cards Habbie wore a green checked wool gown, and said he had mislaid his cards. He was asking if any of the fellows had picked them up by mistake. We’d to use someone else’s set that evening.’
‘And this?’ Otterburn prodded the purse again. It chinked faintly. ‘Have you counted it?’
‘Five merks and fourpence ha’penny. Habbie says he has never seen it. I thought he was telling the truth,’ said Gil, still speaking with great care, ‘but I’d be glad if you’d question the Head Verger as to what he thought.’
‘Ah.’ Otterburn nodded approvingly. ‘It’s a useful thing, is a legal training.’ He glanced at the open window, where the noise from the courtyard entered increasingly loudly. ‘And now, I’ve a quest to direct out there. Is that lad o yours back yet from talking to the Stablegreen folks?’
‘He is,’ said Gil. ‘I met him in the yard. I think he has news for you, though it maybe takes us no further forward. One or two of those he spoke to mentioned a man who had heard a scuffle outside his window, the night we are concerned wi, and looked out to see a woman arguing wi two men. But it seems the fellow walked to Kirkintilloch the day, about a dog he wished to purchase. He might be back the night, he might no. Lowrie needs to go back when he’s at home.’
‘Wi two men?’ repeated Otterburn. ‘And you thought it was two men cut her out o her gown and bound her to the Cross?’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Ah-hah! That would fit, that would fit, maister!’
‘It might,’ agreed Gil cautiously.