‘That’s a good tale,’ said Doig approvingly. ‘You should get a harper to set it to music.’
‘What year were you born, Maister Doig?’ Gil asked.
‘Forty-seven,’ said Doig, without thought.
‘So you were sixteen when you lifted David Drummond.’
‘I never said I — ’
‘Sir Duncan saw the bodach the previous week. Was it your own business at that time, ferrying information and singers abroad, or were you the junior partner?’
‘You’re talking nonsense,’ said Doig. ‘What would the likes of me do that for? How would I do it?’
‘I’ve met you before, Maister Doig,’ Gil pointed out. ‘So did you bring Davie in by Perth, or by Leith and Dunblane?’
‘Why would I do either?’
Abandoning that for the moment, Gil looked at Davie.
‘Where is St Dymphna’s shrine?’ he asked. ‘This Irish saint that cures the mad.’
He could see, even in the poor light within the house, how Davie considered the question and found the answer harmless.
‘Gheel,’ he replied. ‘So they say.’
‘Gheel,’ repeated Gil, sounding the guttural at the beginning of the word. ‘Where good singers are always wanted, Maister Doig? No wonder that laddie took you for the Devil himself, wi your leather cloak down your back like wings, talking about Hell at the window.’
‘Where?’ said Doig. ‘What window would that be?’
‘Did he so?’ said Davie, laughing rather madly. ‘Billy, you’ll need to keep that quiet, or the Bishop’s men’ll no come calling.’
‘What Bishop was that?’ Doig said, with that monitory stare.
‘Och, maybe I dreamed it,’ said Davie, suddenly deflated. Gil made no comment, but got to his feet.
‘Davie, I’d like to know what you’ll do next. Robert Blacader put me in here to find out who you are, and now I’ve discerned that my task’s done, but if I can assure him you’ll not pursue a place in the choir at Dunblane he’ll be happier.’
‘Was that what fetched you here?’ said Doig in amazement. ‘One old woman’s daft notion?’
‘I’ve no notion to sing in the choir at Dunblane, maister, and I’ll swear it by any saint you care to name.’
Gil studied him for a moment.
‘Will you talk to my wife?’ he suggested. Davie nodded. ‘Good. She can likely help you, she’s an ingenious lassie. Now I’ve to get to Perth afore supper, so I’ll leave you.’
‘And, by the Rood, I’ll be glad to see you go,’ said Doig.
‘It’s quite a tangle,’ said Bishop Brown. He leaned back from his desk and stroked his dog’s soft head. ‘But are the two matters connected other than by the man Drummond?’
Gil hesitated, staring out of the study window at the evening sunlight on the fields across the Tay and trying to put his thoughts into words.
‘There’s a pattern,’ he said at length, ‘and it seems to me it involves both matters. All three, indeed,’ he added, ‘though I’m certain the three singers are safe enough in Gheel.’
Getting the explanation and apology for his sudden departure accepted had not been easy. The Bishop was inclined to be affronted by what he saw as desertion, and Gil had had to invoke Blacader’s original commission and stress its priority. He had still not been offered any refreshment, though he had missed supper, and he had only achieved this private interview by insisting on it.
‘So what will you do now?’ asked Brown. ‘Where will you hunt next?’
‘I’ll need a word wi your steward,’ Gil said, ‘to learn if there’s been any answer to those questions we were having cried through the town. Then I’ll have to ask more questions.’
‘Aye questions,’ said the Bishop. ‘I need answers, maister. You’ll ha heard, maybe, that there are folk in the Low Countries know more than they should about the English treaty?’ Gil nodded. ‘I want to learn whether my secretary was Judas or Sebastian, and I want it afore we bury him.’
‘I’ll be out first thing,’ Gil promised, appreciating the reference, ‘and I’ll keep you informed, sir.’
‘Aye, do that,’ said the Bishop. ‘But my carpenter tells me he’ll no keep long, tanpit or no tanpit, lead coffin or no lead coffin, so I’d be glad if you brattle on wi’t, maister.’
Jerome suddenly jumped down from his knee and bustled over to inspect Gil’s boots, tail going. Gil bent to make much of the pup, and Brown’s expression softened.
‘Whether he’s traitor or martyr, that’s one thing Jaikie did for me,’ he said, ‘fetched me my wee dog.’
‘He’s a bonnie pup,’ Gil said. ‘A good memorial, sir.’
‘Maybe,’ said the Bishop. ‘Well, if that’s all you’re wanting to let me know the now, you’d best go and get a bite to eat and shift your clothes. Wat will see to all for you. And he’ll tell you,’ he added, ‘the constable has took up the tanner for Jaikie’s death. I’m no convinced, but the Shirra gave his approval.’
‘Andy Cornton the tanner?’ said Currie, pouring ale for Gil. ‘The constable lifted him, oh, about noon yesterday, and one o his journeymen and all. Quite a scene it was, so they say, his men wereny for letting him go quietly and the constable had to break two o their heads. He denies any connection wi Stirling’s death, a course, but what I say is, Willie Reid must ha had something to go on, whatever my lord thinks.’
‘Have they been put to the question?’ Gil asked. ‘This is an uncommon good pie,’ he added, and cut himself another wedge. The steward, when applied to, had taken him to his own chamber and sent a man for a tray of food; Gil hoped the two men at arms who had ridden in with him were as well looked after.
‘We keep a good kitchen,’ said Currie, nodding at the compliment. ‘Question? No, by what I hear, they’re waiting for you to come back afore they proceed.’
Gil chewed on the mouthful of meat and pastry, thinking guiltily that if he had not gone to Balquhidder he might have prevented the arrest.
‘I learned a few things, these two days, just the same,’ he said aloud. ‘I’ve found the second badge, for a start.’
‘So I can send the bellman round, can I, to tell folks no to bring me any more lead St Jameses?’ said Currie with a rueful grin. ‘What’s it doing at Balquhidder, then?’
‘Andrew Drummond has it. He says Stirling gave it to him.’
‘St Peter’s bones, why’d he do that?’
‘He didn’t tell me,’ said Gil evasively.
‘That’s no like Maister Stirling,’ said Currie, ‘he set great store by those badges, I’d never ha thought he’d part wi one. Oh — speaking o the bellman, the Precentor at St John’s Kirk, what’s his name? Kinnoull, that’s it, he sent to say he’d a word for you about something the bellman was crying.’
‘Did he say what? There were several things we sent to the bellman about.’
‘Never a word. That was all the message, sent wi one of the laddies in his choir.’
‘I’ll go by the kirk tomorrow,’ Gil said, glancing at the window of the chamber where they sat. ‘It’s near sunset now.’
‘Your man Tam’s late,’ said Currie anxiously. ‘He’ll maybe no get into the town if he’s much longer.’
‘I’m not looking for him till the morn,’ Gil said.
‘You’re no? Just the lads you had wi you thought he’d come ahead, they were right confounded when they didny find him here already wi his boots off.’
‘No, no, I sent him an errand, and two more men wi him.’ Gil selected a plum from the dish of fruit and bit into it. ‘They should be here by the morn’s noon. Where are Cornton and his man held?’
‘They’re in the Tolbooth, in chains by what I hear, and they’re saying his wife’s in a rare taking, poor woman.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Gil.
Maister Gregor, accosted in the hall before Prime next morning, was disinclined to chat. It took Gil a little work over his bowl of porridge to persuade the old man to think about the evening his friend had vanished.