‘And when Tam came back?’ Gil asked. Sweet St Giles, he thought, what tales has the man been telling? ‘What goings on at St Mungo’s?’ he added sharply.
‘Why, the lady that was dead, as well as the verger-’
‘How did you know about the verger?’
‘Och, all over the town it is,’ said Euan, waving one big hand.
‘It was well after dinner when I was summoned,’ said Gil. ‘How did you know about him? When did you hear he was dead?’
‘Och, it would be after dinner, likely,’ said Euan. ‘For Tam and me was taking a wee refreshment in Maggie Bell’s alehouse, see, and we heard them talking. Tam was saying that he had no knowledge of the missing lady, but I was not believing that, for when he was hearing that the man was dead, he said he would be taking a wee trip down the river in his boatie, and would I be,’ the confident voice faltered, ‘would I be giving him a wee hand.’
‘How much?’ Gil asked.
‘How much what, maister?’
‘How much did he pay you for crewing for him?’
‘Och, no, no, I was doing it entirely for friendship,’ averred Euan. Gil watched him. After a moment the man smiled hopefully. ‘Well, maybe he was giving me a penny or two. Good sailors is not so easy come by just at the drop of a rowlock.’
‘No,’ agreed Gil, ‘particularly not on the shore where the fisher folk dwell.’ Euan gave him a puzzled look. ‘Did you know which man it was that was dead?’
‘Och, yes, it was the verger Barnabas, the busy one. That was what Tam was saying, that he had an errand that he, that he could complete,’ Euan finished carefully.
‘And the errand was?’
‘Maister Gil, will you move your elbow again? Are you to sit here all the evening, maister,’ demanded Jennet, ‘or are we to get the board set?’
Gil looked about him. The dishes were, clearly, about to be brought in, Alys was watching him, Catherine had hobbled out of her chamber. He had already recognised that the women were upset about something, though when he had asked Alys she had professed ignorance. One did not off end the kitchen at the best of times; this was no moment to hold up the dinner. He rose and moved aside with Euan.
‘Tell me quickly,’ he said, ‘what was the errand?’
‘Why, he had a sack of grain, and two cheeses, and there was a barrel of apples and all sorts, stowed in his boat already,’ said Euan, with shining honesty, ‘that had come down on a handcart the night before, and all to be carried to Dumbarton and sold. So we was taking them, you see. But it was only when Tam got to haggling for the price there in Dumbarton that I saw the St Mungo’s seal on them, maister, else I would never have been doing such a thing!’
Washing his hands in the pewter basin on the plate-cupboard, drying them on the good linen towel, Gil turned this information over in his mind. When he had said Grace for the meat and done his duty with the carving-knife Alys served out roast mutton with raisin sauce, turnips with ginger and more dark green stewed kale, and he contemplated the timing Euan had described. It was just possible, he supposed, that the gossip mills of the burgh had carried the news of Barnabas’ death as far as Maggie Bell’s tavern, across the bridge in the hamlet of Govan, before Mistress Bell evicted her customers for the night. It was certainly possible to take a boat down the river to Dumbarton before dawn if the tide was favourable, and a walk of fourteen miles on a fine day would present no obstacle to a healthy, long-legged Erscheman.
‘Have you found anything useful this afternoon?’ Alys asked him. Startled, he discovered that the first course was done and Kittock had just carried in a broad custard tart on its wooden board. ‘I went to the hostel to condole with the ladies, and met the doctor there as well,’ she said brightly, ‘and I must say those are two very silly girls, but they told me some interesting things.’
He looked at her, seated at his right hand, neat and elegant in her brown linen gown with its bright facings and her black Flemish hood. She had that pinched look which meant something had upset her, so that the high narrow bridge of her nose stood up like a razor-blade. He glanced at Catherine, seated opposite her, and received an infinitesimal shake of her head.
‘What have they told you, ma mie?’ the old woman asked in French, apparently feeling his silence had lasted too long.
‘A number of things.’ Alys was serving wedges of the custard tart onto the painted platters which had been Augie Morison’s wedding gift to them. She set Gil’s before him and went on, ‘Their marriages, for instance. One is betrothed into Lanarkshire, the other to an acquaintance of Dame Ellen’s kin at St Mungo’s, who has land by Tarbolton.’
‘She has kin at St Mungo’s?’ Gil repeated. ‘Did you learn who it is?’
‘William Craigie,’ she replied, sending two platters down the board. Her voice was even, but she glanced sideways at him round the black fall of her hood, acknowledging his surprise. ‘I know no more than that. What is his kinship?’
‘I’ve never asked.’ He frowned. ‘Habbie might- Oh.’ Lowrie looked up, spoon halfway to his mouth.
‘Later, perhaps,’ said Catherine elliptically. ‘How are they lodged at the hostel? It is a well-run establishment, one hopes. Does it compare with St Jacques at Nantes?’
Once the meal was cleared and the board lifted they repaired to the solar with the ale-jug and a platter of little cakes. Catherine joined them, contrary to her usual habit. Gil thought she was keeping an unobtrusive eye on Alys.
‘We need to see where we are wi both cases,’ he said, as Lowrie handed the beakers, watched intently by Socrates. ‘But what’s this about Craigie, sweetheart?’
‘As I said. He is kin to Dame Ellen through her first marriage, though in what degree the lassies did not say. And also he has some sort of great penance laid on him, it seems.’
‘A penance?’ Gil repeated. ‘Now that he has never mentioned. I wonder what and why?’
‘Some crime against Holy Kirk, so Nicholas thought. This was hearsay,’ she admitted, ‘but the lassie was quite clear about who she had it from, one of her sister’s future servants at Tarbolton.’
‘Where Craigie comes from,’ supplied Lowrie unexpectedly. ‘Maister Sim’s man mentioned it the now.’
‘Is he now? I kent he was an Ayrshire man,’ said Gil, ‘but I think I never knew just where he was from. You’d think he’d ha recognised Annie Gibb by name, at least, given that’s where the most of her land is situated.’
‘Perhaps, if his offence was known there, he did not wish to be connected to the place,’ suggested Alys. Catherine nodded sagely.
‘Did you learn anything else?’ Gil asked.
‘Not at the hostel. I spoke with the doctor, who seems,’ she paused, ‘not concerned for Annie. I think that’s all, except that the cadger called regularly in Glenbuck.’
‘Cadger?’ he queried.
‘A man called Cadger Billy.’
‘Oh, him. Is he still alive? Well, I suppose he must be little past forty,’ Gil reckoned, recalling the man’s regular visits from his childhood.
‘Still alive, and still trading. It seems he goes all about Lanarkshire, Kate knows him, and Andy Paterson is to find his direction for me, for I think he is a Glasgow man.’ Gil raised an eyebrow. ‘I wonder if he carried messages for Annie.’
‘Ah! That’s very possible.’
‘And I spoke to Berthold, but I can get no more from him than you. He is plainly very frightened, but he still insists he saw nothing. Oh, and Andy’s nephew John confirms Luke’s tale, and also saw the two men in fine clothes.’
‘If Berthold is fit to be at work he must have improved,’ Gil said, digesting this.
‘No, I called at the house.’
He looked at her sharply, but found Catherine, beyond her, giving him a significant shake of the head. Was that what had distressed her, he wondered. What reception had she had from her stepmother?