‘Aye, I’m certain!’ retorted William. ‘I’ve marked enough barrels mysel, maister.’
‘Aye, right,’ said the serjeant, his tone combining acceptance and scepticism. ‘And then what did you do?’
‘Went back to my work, and the laddie helped Andy handle it over here to the shed.’
‘And had you seen it afore that?’
‘Just when it came into the yard last evening, serjeant. On the cart. Which it wasn’t me drove it, for I was left here at the yard while Andy and Billy and Jamesie went with the maister.’
‘And you, John? Had you seen it afore?’
‘No, serjeant,’ said the laddie, a scrawny fourteen-year-old with a strong resemblance to Andy. ‘No till my uncle bid me help him with it.’
‘Right,’ said the serjeant, tucking his thumbs into his belt. ‘Now, Blackness, I think ye said, Maister Morison?’ Morison nodded, still standing by the door where he need not look at the head. ‘Who was it put the barrel on the cart? Was it you, Billy Walker? Our Mall tells me you’re carter here.’
‘Aye, it was,’ agreed Billy. He came forward reluctantly when the serjeant bade him, and eyed the head, biting his lip.
‘And it’s the same barrel?’
‘There was only the one this size. I canny see that we’d have got it by mistake.’
Anderson grunted, but forbore to press him on this point. ‘And does any of you ken who he might be?’
There was a silence, and then a general shaking of heads.
‘Maybe he’s from the Low Countries,’ said Billy suddenly. ‘Aye, that’s a good thought. Wherever Tod’s shipment was from.’
‘Right,’ said the serjeant again. ‘Well, Maister Morison, if ye’ve a cloth handy we can wrap it in, Tammas here can carry it back to the Tolbooth — ’ Gil was aware of a faint sigh from the constable — ‘and I’ll send to the Provost. I’ve no doubt he’ll tak an inquest the morn, find out if any in the burgh kens who he might be, then you can get the Greyfriars to bury him decent. One thing, Maister Morison, you’ll can save on the cost of the grave-digging.’
‘I’ll get a poke,’ said Andy.
‘There should be some at the back of the shed here,’ said Morison. Andy ferreted briefly in a corner behind one of the racks of timber, and drew a stout linen sack out from a bundle of folded cloths. ‘Don’t trouble to return it, serjeant.’
‘I won’t,’ said Serjeant Anderson. He took the sack, turned towards the head, and turned back. ‘Just one wee favour, maisters, and you, Andy Paterson, Billy. Would you be good enough to touch him for me?’
‘Touch him?’ repeated Morison in horror. ‘Why? What for?’
‘So I can see you touch him,’ said the serjeant.
‘Andy dried him off,’ said Gil. He stepped forward and put his hand on the dark hair. It was beginning to curl, but felt slightly sticky under his fingers. Probably the salt, he reflected, and gave way to Maistre Pierre, who made a cross on the clammy forehead and muttered something.
‘Christ save you, whoever you are,’ said Andy, and touched one cheek. Billy, visibly gritting his teeth, clapped a hand on the curling crown and retreated, wiping his fingers on his jerkin. He looked round for his colleagues, found them all out in the yard, and followed them hastily.
‘Maister Morison?’
‘Must I?’ said Morison.
Gil, seeing the serjeant’s eyes narrow, said, ‘Come, Augie, it’s not so bad. He can’t hurt you. Shut your eyes and I’ll put your hand on his hair.’
‘That’s worse,’ said Morison, shuddering, but when Gil took his elbow he allowed himself to be led forward, head averted, biting his lip. When his hand was set on the salt hair he shuddered again, but found the courage to grope about enough to sign the forehead as the mason had done. As he stepped back Gil saw tears glittering below his closed eyelids. What ails him? Gil wondered. He’s an educated man, he can hardly expect the dead to accuse him by a show of blood as the superstitious believe, so what is so fearsome here?
‘Well,’ said the serjeant, with a faint note of disappointment in his voice, ‘we’d best get this out of your way, maisters. Here, Tammas, put it in the sack. I suppose there’s nothing left in the barrel? No books? None of his gear?’
‘See for yourself, serjeant,’ said Andy, indicating the puncheon. Serjeant Anderson peered into its depths, and grunted.
‘Waste of good brine,’ he commented. ‘I suppose you’ll no want to use it again. Is that you ready, Tammas? We’ll away, then. I’ll send to let you know what time the inquest’s to be, Maister Morison. You’ll have to compear, you ken that, and all your men that’s in the barn yonder. And you, maisters.’
‘Serjeant,’ said Gil, ‘if I can trace Balthasar the lutenist, we’ll know it’s not him. Do you want to ask about the burgh if anyone knows where he might be, or will I do it?’
‘Oh, it’s no Balthasar,’ said the serjeant. ‘It’s some shore porter from the Low Countries as your man says, I’ll wager, got on the wrong side of a packer and got his head in his hands to play with. No, Maister Cunningham, I canny be aye running about asking questions. I’ve a burgh to watch and ward. If you want to take up your time that way, go right on and do it.’
He set off, nodding to Morison as he passed him at the doorway. His constable trailed after him holding the sack at arm’s length. It was already dripping slightly. Andy bustled out and accompanied the two men to the gate, nodding and gesturing. Gil, watching, caught the words Weak stomach, and the serjeant’s Aye, that would explain it.
‘Is there truly nothing more in there?’ wondered the mason, still in the shed leaning over the barrel.
‘It’s no empty,’ said Andy, returning. ‘I’ve set Billy and them to go down the back and wash the carts, maister.’ He stepped up on to the platform and rocked the barrel so that the liquid swirled and splashed. They all heard something move against the inside of the staves. ‘Mind your feet.’
Gil moved hastily out of the way as brine splashed on to the earth floor. Andy let most of it run off, then held up the lantern and reached into the bottom of the puncheon.
‘A scrip of some kind,’ he said. ‘By here, it’s heavy. Could it be his?’
‘Should we send after the serjeant?’ said Morison. ‘It may tell us who the man is.’
‘Is that all?’ asked the mason.
Andy set the bag down on the platform with a thump and swirled the dregs of brine again. ‘See for yourself, maisters.’
‘It isn’t a scrip,’ said Gil, dragging it closer. ‘It’s a saddlebag, and a well-made one. This has been good leather before it went in the brine. What is in it?’
He turned the bag over to wrestle with the buckle, and frowned as he heard a faint chink and scrape of metal from inside it.
‘Coin?’ he said. Finally unfastening the buckle, he lifted back the flap and drew out a dripping canvas purse the size of the mason’s fist, and then another. Below them was a roll of sodden velvet. Maistre Pierre whistled.
‘Coin,’ he agreed. ‘How much?’
‘A lot.’
‘Near a thousand merks in each of those, I would guess,’ said Morison authoritatively, ‘depending what coin it’s in, of course. Forbye what’s in the roll of cloth.’
Gil weighed the first purse in his hand. ‘As you said, Andy, this is heavy. If I had this weight in my saddlebag, I’d make sure there was the same again in the other, though I suppose it needn’t all be coin. Are you sure there’s no more in the barrel?’
‘We can take it out into the day,’ Andy said. ‘I’m certain.’
‘There are a few shavings of wood,’ said Maistre Pierre, exhibiting the pale soggy curls in the palm of his hand. Gil looked at him, then drew the lantern closer to the saddlebag and looked at the long strap which was intended to fasten it to the saddle.
‘This has been unbuckled, rather than cut,’ he said. ‘You can see where the leather has stretched with the weight of the coin in the bag.’
‘Does that tell us anything?’ said Morison blankly.
Gil shrugged. ‘No urgency about the deed, I suppose.’
‘I still think it should go to the serjeant,’ protested Morison.