Gil sat down beside him and thought briefly.
‘When were you last in Dunblane?’ he asked. Doig’s head snapped round; whatever questions he had been expecting, it was not this one.
‘Dunblane? Never been near the place,’ he returned, almost automatically.
‘That won’t do,’ said Gil, allowing amusement to show. ‘You were seen at John Rattray’s window.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Where did you take him to?’ Gil countered. ‘I’m guessing it was nowhere in Scotland, or we’d ha heard of him, seeing how word gets about. The Low Countries? France?’
‘I’ve no notion what you’re talking about,’ said Doig steadfastly. The dog looked from one man to the other, and wagged his tail uneasily.
‘Rattray’s servant took you for the Deil himsel, with your wings down your back.’
Doig’s wide mouth twitched, but he said nothing.
‘But you know Canon Drummond,’ Gil stated. ‘Andrew Drummond of Dunblane.’
‘Do I?’ said Doig. ‘No that I can think of.’
‘That’s a pity, for he speaks well of you,’ said Gil mendaciously.
‘Beats me where he gets the knowledge.’
‘And then in Perth,’ Gil went on. The sturdy figure beside him seemed to brace itself. ‘The two brothers from St John’s Kirk.’
‘Oh, them,’ said Doig, and then, ‘What two brothers?’
‘So that’s three tenors, is it?’ Gil said, still deliberately inaccurate. ‘Men their choirs can ill spare, seeing how scarce good tenors are. Who is it that’s collecting singers?’
‘It’s quite a puzzle,’ agreed Doig.
‘And are you shifting words as well as voices? Information about the English treaty, maybe — ’ Had Doig’s expression flickered at that? ‘- or letters from the great and good of the Low Countries?’
‘How would the likes of me be acquaint wi sic folk?’ parried Doig.
‘How long have you been here with Robert?’
The small man blinked at the change of direction, but shrugged again and said, ‘Too long for him and me both.’
‘Why not leave, then?’
‘I can lend him a hand about the place.’
‘And Montgomery hasny sent word for you to move on,’ Gil suggested. This got him a sharp look from the dark eyes, but still no answer. ‘Does he know you’re working for someone overseas as well?’
‘Ask all you want,’ said Doig, his deep voice even. ‘I never said I’d gie you answers.’
‘No,’ agreed Gil, ‘but it tells me near as much when you don’t answer.’
There was a short silence while Doig considered this. Then he wriggled off the bench.
‘I’ve more to do than sit here listening to you,’ he said, straightening his jerkin. Gil grinned at him.
‘I’d agree. You’ve been seen about here,’ he said. ‘There’s talk of the bodach over at Gartnafueran, and up in Glenbuckie. You fairly get about, Maister Doig.’
‘Where’s Gartnafueran?’ asked Doig. ‘Never been near the place.’
‘So you’ve been in Glenbuckie, then? Did you go there to check on young Davie Drummond? I know you set him down the other side of the pass, to climb over into the top of the glen. I suppose you went up from here to make sure he got safe to Dalriach. You were seen the same day he came home.’
Doig glowered, and crossed the room, watched carefully by the dog, to peer up into the open box-bed. After a moment Gil heard him speaking quietly, in a much gentler tone. Shortly he turned, to say sourly, ‘Sir Duncan’s awake, and glad of a wee bit company. But you’re no to tire him.’
The priest of Balquhidder was very old, and it was clear that Robert was right and he was very near death, lying bonelessly in the shut-bed, the flesh on his face almost transparent. But his eyes were alert in the dim light from the doorway, and his speech was clear, though faint. He gave Gil a blessing, raising his hand briefly from the checked coverlet, and said slowly, ‘William tells me you’ve a question, my son.’
‘I have, sir.’ Gil fetched the stool from the hearth and sat down, to bring his head nearer the old man’s. ‘And forgive me for disturbing you when you’ve better matters to think on.’
‘I’ve done all my thinking,’ said Sir Duncan in his thread of a voice. ‘Ask.’
‘I wondered what you’d recall of the time when young David Drummond vanished away. Do you mind that?’
‘A course I mind that.’ There was humour in the faint voice. ‘I’ve no notion what day this is, but I mind that well. All the women in the glen grat for the boy. Well liked, he was.’
‘I thought you would. He went away up Glenbuckie, didn’t he?’
‘He did. And down the other side of the pass, so Euan nan Tobar said. I spoke with Euan the year after, at the fair here. He told me how he saw the boy borne away.’
‘Did you credit that?’
‘Euan’s a simple soul. He doesny lie. He doesny aye understand what he sees.’
Gil nodded. ‘And can you mind, sir, had there been strangers in the glen afore that happened?’
The fleshless mouth drew into an O of surprise at the question.
‘Strangers, now.’ The old man fell silent, considering this. ‘I don’t recall. I need to consider of that one, my son. We don’t see so many strangers, you’ll ken. Just William here and yourself since Robert came to me. And now Davie,’ the thin voice added. ‘The dear child.’
‘No hurry,’ said Gil, but Sir Duncan looked at him with those bright eyes. Even in this light, it was hard to meet the direct gaze; the old man seemed already to see the world from a different standpoint.
‘Not true, my son,’ he said. ‘You need an answer, and I’ve little time, praise to Mary mild and Angus, before I go to what waits me.’ Gil thought he smiled in the dim light. ‘Away and let me think. I’ll send William to you if I mind anything.’
‘My thanks, Sir Duncan.’ Gil slipped from the stool to kneel before the old priest. The hand rose from the coverlet and dropped back again, and the faint voice said:
‘You’ll see those bairns right, my son?’
‘Bairns?’ Gil looked up, and found that blazing, direct gaze on him. ‘Davie, you mean, sir?’
‘Or whoever he is. And Robert, poor lad.’
Gil nodded. ‘I’ll see them both safe if I can. I swear it.’
Accompanying him to the door, Maister Doig divulged with reluctance that Robert Montgomery was gone over to the kirk again to see about this matter of the claim of sanctuary.
‘He’s been gone a good while,’ he said irritably, having admitted it, and patted Socrates, who was trying to lick his ear. ‘Get away, you daft dog.’
‘You know that’s Davie Drummond in the kirk? You can give him his scrip back now,’ said Gil. Doig stared up at him, face studiously blank. ‘Maister Doig, do you know anything about the accidents up at Dalriach?’
‘Accidents?’ said Doig, his dark eyebrows drawing together. ‘No. I hope none’s been hurt?’ His concern sounded genuine.
‘Wee things to begin wi,’ said Gil. ‘A ladder, a pitchfork, a needle in the wool. Things a bodach might do.’
‘Who are they aimed at?’
‘Who knows?’ said Gil. ‘Other than the body that’s causing them. But it turned serious last night. The farmhouse is burned out, and two dead.’
‘Is that — ’ said Doig, and broke off. Nobody seems capable of finishing a sentence today, thought Gil in irritation. ‘Who died? No young Davie, I take it, if that’s who’s in the kirk.’
‘No. The old woman, and the changeling boy.’
‘A changeling,’ said Doig flatly. ‘Is this another one? I thought it was Davie was the changeling, or was returned by the Good Neighbours, or something.’
‘Maybe you should talk to Davie about that.’
Doig grunted, and opened the door wider. ‘If you see Robert, tell him he needs to fetch water. The house is about dry.’
Alasdair nan Clach unfolded himself from the opposite bank where he had been squatting and followed Gil towards the little kirk in its round walled kirkyard, saying, ‘That’s an ill sign, a bodach like that to be dwelling in Sir Duncan’s own house. It will be carrying him off one night, for certain, and him such a good man.’