‘Aye, he’d left,’ agreed Riddoch, helping himself as the platter went past him. ‘Whoever he was. And Morison’s man swore he was never near the carts. There was three carts in that night,’ he recalled.
‘Madame, this is excellent,’ said Maistre Pierre with enthusiasm, reaching for another portion. Socrates watched the movement of his hand, nose twitching. ‘Is it your own work? What do you put with the fish? I am sure my daughter would like to know.’
‘The secret’s in the salting,’ confided Mistress Riddoch, dimpling in pleasure at the compliment. ‘I salt my own, ye ken, and I put a chopped onion in the brine to every dozen fish. Will you have some more ale, maister?’
‘And then nutmeg when you pound the salted fish?’ said Maistre Pierre speculatively, and took another mouthful. ‘And is it galangal?’
Gil took his own ale and a second wedge of bread over to the window, thinking about what he had heard. Out in the yard Maister Riddoch’s men were hard at work with hammer or drawknife. In the centre of the open space a man was working with an adze. Lifting a long narrow plank from the stack beside him he trimmed one end, first one side and then the other, with quick even strokes of the adze, then tossed the stave in the air, caught it the other way up and set about shaping the other end. Gil found himself watching, fascinated.
‘That’s David Seaton,’ said Maister Riddoch at his elbow. ‘No a stave-maker his like in the country, I dare say. I’m no equal to cutting staves now, I’m too stiff for it, but I think he’s as good as I ever was.’
‘He’s been well taught,’ said his wife from across the room. Riddoch did not look round, but the corners of his mouth quirked. ‘Is it time for the men’s noon piece, husband?’
‘Aye, call them in, lass,’ he said. ‘We can serve ourselves wi the rest in here.’
‘May we look at the barn, once we have eaten?’ Gil asked, as Mistress Riddoch bobbed to her guests and left. ‘I’d like to understand how the cart was stowed on Monday night.’
‘I can see you would,’ said the cooper, nodding, ‘but it seems to me it’s most likely Augie’s men loaded the wrong puncheon at Blackness. I’ll show you the barn, maisters, and anything else you’ve a notion to see.’
Gil broke the last of his bread in half and gave a portion to Socrates, watchful at his feet. The dog took it delicately and swallowed it whole, and Gil held out the other piece.
‘When you’re ready, maister,’ he said.
They went out through the hall, where Mistress Riddoch presided over the long board, and the men and three maidservants were addressing barley bread and stewed kale. Once in the yard, the cooper showed an inclination to explain the entire process of making a barrel, and Maistre Pierre took this up with interest. Gil listened, looking carefully about him at wood-stacks and benches, the workspace in the two open sheds, and the brazier with its smouldering fire. Nothing seemed to be amiss.
‘You’ll have to be wary of the fire,’ he suggested.
Riddoch nodded. ‘Aye, you’re right, maister, particular when it’s windy. The shavings blow about.’ He looked at the heap of shavings waiting to be burned, and tut-tutted. ‘That lad Simmie! I’ve tellt him and tellt him, and he aye gathers the scraps too close to the barn. Simmie!’ he shouted at the house. After a moment the young journeyman who had been sweeping earlier appeared in the doorway, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Simmie, get this moved, now.’
‘Now?’ repeated Simmie, taken aback.
‘Aye, now, afore you finish your kale. If the wind were to change, and sparks blow into they scraps there, the barn would go up afore we kent what was happening, and then the whole yard, and you’d have no living, Simmie. So get it moved.’
Simmie scowled, but rolled up his sleeves and came across the yard to lift his besom.
‘’S none o my part to sweep the yard,’ he muttered. ‘If we hadny run out of withies I’d be making hoops, no sweeping the yard. When that lazy Nicol gets back, I’ll black his ee for this, see if I don’t.’
‘What was that?’ demanded his master.
‘And another thing, maister,’ added Simmie aloud. ‘You’ve been on at me all week to move it, every time I sweep it here, but you put this heap here your very self the other day, so why are you — ’
‘I never did, you daftheid!’
‘Aye, you did, maister. For it wasny me, nor any of the other men, and the lassies wouldny come out sweeping in the yard — ’
‘What are you talking about, man?’ demanded Riddoch.
‘Just the other day,’ repeated Simmie. ‘I cam in at the day’s start, and all the shavings in the yard was swept up, but they wereny where I’d put them the night before, they were here.’
‘They must have blown, you great lump. I’d never put them here. Now get them over where they belong, and stop arguing.’
‘No arguing,’ muttered Simmie, bending to his broom. ‘I’ll get that Nicol for this, so I will.’
‘What day was that?’ Gil asked casually. Riddoch turned to look at him. ‘What day did Simmie find the chips swept over here?’
‘What way?’ repeated the cooper. ‘It must ha been the wind.’
‘What day, maister,’ said Simmie, pausing to lean on his broom. ‘What day? Well, it wasny yesterday.’ He thought deeply. ‘It might ha been Wednesday,’ he admitted.
‘Tuesday? Monday?’
‘No Monday. I’d a heid like a big drum on Monday, I’d no ha noticed a deid ox in the yard.’ He grinned, and mimed pounding on his skull. ‘Might ha been Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday or Wednesday,’ said Gil, and the man nodded. ‘And the chips and shavings were all swept over here?’
‘Aye. Just like this. A neat job someone had made of it.’
‘Well, get on with it, and make a neat job of it now,’ said his master, ‘or you’ll no get your kale.’ He marched past his henchman and pushed open one leaf of the door to the barn. ‘You wanted to see this, maisters.’
The barn was a substantial building, nearly as big as Maister Riddoch’s house, but without the upper floor. Gil stood while his eyes adjusted to the light which filtered under the eaves; over his head swallows darted in and out to nests of shrieking young among the rafters. The floor was packed earth, swept clean; stacks of barrels, bundled staves, folded canvas cart-aprons, spare workbenches, were ranged round the walls
‘Augie’s cart was here first, if I mind right,’ said Riddoch, pointing with his left hand, ‘so it would lie there, up this end, this corner. Now whose was next?’ he wondered. ‘He was bound for Leith, I mind that. It’ll come to me. That lay in the other corner, side by side wi Augie’s. And last in was a great pipe o clarry wine, off a ship at Blackness and bound for Irvine, though why he never brought it ashore at Irvine in the first place — that’d be down here, near the door. Last in and first out, it was, out on the road so soon as the gates was open, for my lord Montgomery must have his clarry wine it seems. There was just the great pipe on the cart.’
‘I know Montgomery,’ said Gil rather grimly. ‘If it was just the one pipe of wine, our barrel can’t have come off his cart. What about the other? What sort of load was it?’
‘A big load,’ said Riddoch. ‘Mixed. More than a dozen puncheons and kegs, off different coopers, and a hogshead or two and all. Salt fish, the most of them, by what the man said. But how would a barrel jump from one cart to another, maister?’ He led the way to the end of the barn, while the swallows whirred and twittered overhead. ‘See — Augie’s cart lay here, maybe this wide. Robert Henderson’s — aye, I kent it would come to me. He’s a Kilsyth man. Robert Henderson’s lay here, there would be more than an ell between them, and a full puncheon’s no light weight. It wouldny happen by chance.’
‘No,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘And Augie’s man said the fellow he saw never came into the barn?’