‘This does not make sense,’ complained Maistre Pierre. ‘Three thieves who stole nothing, a barrel which vanishes, a watchman who did not see it.’
‘But did it vanish?’ Gil looked about him. ‘Where would you hide a barrel, Pierre?’
‘Maister?’ Simmie’s large ears were outlined against the light at the barn door. ‘Could you call your dog, maybe?’
‘The dog?’ Gil strode towards him. ‘What’s he up to? Socrates!’
‘It’s just he’ll no leave this bit alone,’ explained Simmie. ‘He’s found a scent he likes, and I canny sweep round him.’
‘Socrates!’ Gil stepped out into the sunlight. Shading his eyes he found his dog sniffing intently at the newly swept cobbles by the end of the barn. ‘Come here!’ he said sharply. Socrates wagged his stringy tail, but gave no other sign of hearing. His head was down, his muzzle close to the stones, and the rough grey coat was standing up on his shoulders and spine. Gil seized the animal’s collar to pull him away, and realized he was growling quietly.
‘What have you found?’ he said. ‘Leave it! Leave!’
‘What’s drawing him?’ asked the cooper. ‘What’s he scented? Have we emptied a load o fish there, or what?’
Gil bent to look closer at the patch which interested the dog.
‘There’s something caked between the stones,’ he reported. He rubbed at it and sniffed his fingers.
‘What is it?’ said the cooper.
‘Gilbert!’ called Maistre Pierre sharply from inside the barn. ‘I think you were right. Come look at this!’
He was poking about at the far end of the barn, near the place where Morison’s cart had stood. As Gil entered the barn towing a reluctant Socrates he turned his head, and indicated a shadowy corner.
‘Look here!’ he said dubiously. ‘It has been opened and emptied, but it is very like the barrel we had, the head here has by far less birdlime on it than on the goods beside it, and though the light is bad I think it has both Maister Morison’s own mark, and also Tod’s shipmark. Could this be our missing barrel?’
‘Aye, very likely it is,’ said Gil in Scots, ‘for what the dog wouldny leave out there is a great patch of blood. I’d say it’s no more than a few days old.’
‘Blood?’ repeated Riddoch in growing dismay. ‘In my yard? What’s been going on?’ He looked from one to the other of them. ‘What was in the barrel you had home, anyway?’
‘Let us get this one outside,’ requested Maistre Pierre, ‘and we will tell you.’
Out in the light, the puncheon he had found was indeed very like the one which had reached Morison’s Yard. Gil thought he recognized several of the marks, and the additional brand on head and flank seemed to be a fox’s head, which was presumably Thomas Tod’s mark. It was dry inside, and held a few handfuls of the chopped lint which had padded the contents. Gil shook the barrel so that the lint shifted, and something white showed under the fluffy clumps. Letting go the dog, who immediately slipped back to the interesting cobbles, he leaned in to extract a folded paper.
‘Is that the docket?’ said Maistre Pierre hopefully.
‘It is indeed.’ Gil scanned the small looped writing. ‘Well! He has done us proud — Pierre, we must find this load. Look at this!’ He handed the sheet to the mason, who bent to inspect it.
‘What was in the barrel that went to Glasgow?’ asked Riddoch again, frowning. ‘You’re very close about it, maisters.’
Gil looked directly at him, dragging his mind back to the matters of most concern.
‘Maister,’ he said, ‘what like is your missing laddie?’
The frown drained from the cooper’s face, leaving open-mouthed dismay.
‘Nicol?’ he said hoarsely, and crossed himself. ‘Christ aid us, what’s come to him?’
‘Can you describe him?’ pursued Gil. ‘What colour is his hair? His eyes? What age is he?’
‘Now that I can tell you,’ said Riddoch, licking his lips. ‘He was born the same year as the King’s brother Prince James. He’s sixteen past at Corpus Christi. Sinclair never — I–I beg you, maister, if you ken aught about him, tell me now. He’s my son.’
‘Does he resemble you, maister?’ asked the mason, looking at the neat-featured face before him.
‘They tell me he does, aye.’ Riddoch looked from one to the other of them, not daring to repeat his question. ‘His een are grey. Like his mother’s, God rest her soul.’
‘Then all I can tell you is we ken nothing about him,’ said Gil.
Riddoch clutched at the rim of the barrel in front of him, as if for support.
‘Our Lady be thanked for that!’ he muttered, crossing himself again.
‘Now can you tell us in return,’ said Gil, ‘who found and emptied this barrel?’
Chapter Seven
Seated once more in the cooper’s best chamber, with an offended dog at his feet, Gil repeated the question.
‘Who emptied the barrel, maister?’
‘I’ve no a notion,’ said Riddoch firmly. He had found a new confidence; Gil, eyeing him, regretted reassuring the man about his son. And yet, in conscience, he thought, could I have left him in anxiety any longer?
‘Where has your son gone?’ he asked. ‘Was he alone?’
‘He went into Stirlingshire,’ said Riddoch cautiously. ‘He’s done the journey afore, he kens the road. For withies,’ he added.
‘Where do you get them?’ asked the mason curiously. ‘I should have thought there was a supply closer to hand.’
‘We get them at a good price from his lordship,’ said Riddoch.
‘Sinclair, you mean?’ said Gil casually. Riddoch froze a moment, then nodded. ‘Has the boy been away long?’
‘Aye.’ This appeared to be surer ground. ‘We’ve kin there, he was to visit his uncle.’
‘And you looked for him back before now,’ Gil stated. Riddoch nodded with reluctance. ‘When? How long overdue is he?’
‘A few days now.’
‘How would he carry the withies?’ asked Maistre Pierre.
‘He’d pack them on the old horse. Or if he got a double load,’ qualified Riddoch, ‘they might hire him a cart. And that’s another thing. We’ll need the beast shortly, to take our turn at the carts when we win the hay off the burgh muir. The laddie kens that.’
Gil turned a little to face Riddoch directly. ‘The barrel which should have reached Glasgow,’ he said, ‘the one we found empty in your barn the now, would have held books.’
‘Books?’ Riddoch laughed, with little humour. ‘I’d like to ha seen that!’
‘Seen what?’
‘When it was opened. A right laugh that would be.’ He looked at Gil. ‘And the one you did get? What was in it, maister?’
‘Brine.’
‘Brine?’ repeated Riddoch. He licked his lips. ‘Just brine? I mean — was there aught in the brine? Fish, maybe, or salt meat? Or — ’
‘Not salt meat, no,’ said Gil, grimacing. ‘We found a man’s head. And a few shavings of wood, very like what’s blowing about your yard.’
The cooper gaped at him.
‘A man’s head, in one of our barrels?’ said Mistress Riddoch from the door. She came into the room to stand beside her husband’s chair. ‘What like man, maister?’ she asked, her voice high and tense.
‘It’s no the boy, Jess,’ said her husband. They crossed themselves simultaneously.
How long had she been there, Gil wondered. Long enough to govern her countenance, though not her voice.
‘Past twenty but not thirty years, short dark hair, one ear pierced,’ said Maistre Pierre concisely, ‘and odd-coloured eyes. One blue eye, one brown.’
‘Nobody we ken,’ said Riddoch quickly. His wife looked down at him, opened her mouth, closed it again.
‘You’re sure of that?’ said Gil. ‘Mistress? Would you ken anyone like that?’
‘N-no,’ she said. ‘No. Nobody like that.’
‘Nobody we ken,’ repeated Riddoch. ‘Was there aught else with the head?’
‘What should there be?’ asked Gil, and the cooper looked wary.
‘Nothing, maybe. Just I wondered if there was, well, any more of him, or any of his gear perhaps, that might tell you who he was, Christ assoil him.’ He crossed himself again, and his wife and Maistre Pierre did likewise.