There was a pause, in which the old men looked at one another again.
‘Changes,’ said Cubby Pringle, as Humphrey had done. ‘The meat of the matter,’ he switched to a fluent old-fashioned Latin, ‘was that we were to move out of our hall, our sub-Deacon and our housekeeper were to be put out as well before the Nativity and make use of two of the empty houses, though none of these are in good repair, and Cecilia our housekeeper was to be our nurse only and accept a lesser reward for it.’
‘This was the first time you heard this?’ Gil asked.
‘It was. Cecilia asked who would be housekeeper and the Deacon replied, he was to be married and his wife would take all that into her hands.’
‘Married?’ repeated Gil. ‘Did he say who he was to marry?’
‘The Deacon did not tell us,’ said Anselm in Latin.
‘She’ll be a disappointed woman the day,’ commented Cubby in Scots, and Sir Duncan grinned uncharitably under his huge moustache.
‘She’ll be easit, mair belike,’ he said. Anselm gave him a prim smile.
‘And was that all he said?’
‘Was it no enough?’ demanded Barty Lennox in his barking voice. ‘Aye, Cubby’s gied you the sum o’t.’
‘And now he’s dead,’ said Anselm. He looked beyond Gil as the hall door opened. ‘Is that Andro? Is it time to say Nones?’
It was still raining. Gil made his way down the garden with the dog at his heels, and paused to study the yett. Drops of rusty water hung along the horizontals of the interlaced wrought-iron bands, and shook loose and fell to the threshold stone when he put the key in the lock. It turned readily, and the yett swung open silently on well-greased hinges. Michael again? he wondered. Socrates, recovering his spirits, leapt past him to attend to his own needs.
The gate led directly out on to the Stablegreen, an open expanse of ground dotted with clumps of bushes and hazel trees. Gil knew it reasonably well, since he often exercised the dog here, reaching it by way of the muddy vennel which led from Rottenrow nearly opposite his uncle’s house. He stood still, considering what it would be like for Michael’s sweetheart to stand here in the dark, alone, waiting for her lover to open the gate.
Socrates, having run ventre à terre in large circles for several minutes, returned to find his master inspecting the ground beside the wall. He joined in with enthusiasm, but nothing seemed to catch his attention at first. The earth here was firm, and had not taken clear prints, and the grasses were well trampled where many casual passers-by had come to stare over the wall. Pushing the dog aside, Gil worked his way along the boundary, and was finally rewarded by the discovery of two small square marks, sharp-edged, the length of a fingernail deep, with muddy water gathering in them. One was a handspan from the foot of the wall, the other perhaps three-fourths of an ell further out. He searched to either side along the wall, but found no more such imprints.
Standing up, he looked carefully at the wall which surrounded the bedehouse garden. The angular stones which made up its coping were at shoulder height, convenient to his eye. The rain was getting heavier, and was now running off the brim of his hat if he tipped his head forward, but the signs he was searching for showed up the more clearly.
He turned and scanned the surrounding area. The trampled grass close by offered little information, but further away there were signs which interested him. Socrates, looking where Gil looked, put his nose down and set off on a trail just as Maistre Pierre stepped through the gate, clutching his heavy cloak round him.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what has the dog found?’
‘I suppose the scent of whoever it was brought Naismith here,’ said Gil. His friend raised his eyebrows. ‘Come and look at this.’
The mason came obediently to stretch his neck and study the wet stonework. ‘What am I looking at?’
‘There.’ Gil pointed cautiously. ‘What do you see?’
‘Scratches,’ said Maistre Pierre after a moment. ‘Two or three small scratches and a chip off the stone.’ He cast Gil an interrogative look.
‘I think,’ said Gil, ‘he was put over the wall.’
‘Not through the gate?’
‘Michael tells me the gate was locked. I wondered if that would make a difference, so I looked, and found this.’
‘Go on.’
‘I think these scratches were made by that great bunch of keys he bore, scraping on the stone as he went over.’
‘Ah! And that was when his ear was torn,’ said Maistre Pierre, nodding. ‘It would work, though it does not explain the other marks on his face. But I would not care to lift such a burden so high myself. One person or more? Do we look for a strong man from a fair?’
‘Perhaps,’ Gil hedged. ‘There are no footprints to show someone was carrying something heavy, but there are these.’ Maistre Pierre looked where he indicated, tested the depth of the two small square impressions and frowned.
‘A ladder?’ he said. ‘He climbed a ladder, with the corpse? In the dark?’
‘Maybe,’ said Gil. ‘I can only find one set of marks. If it was a folding ladder, the other feet have left no trace.’ He looked round. ‘But if it was a ladder, we needn’t look for a big man. No more than the middling size. Where is that dog?’
He whistled, and was answered by a peremptory bark from the nearest clump of hazel scrub.
‘He has found something,’ Maistre Pierre suggested.
‘Surely not a squirrel, at this time of year,’ said Gil. ‘He was following a trail. I had better take a look. Do you see, someone has walked from here to those hazels.’
‘Half the Upper Town has walked here since dawn,’ complained Maistre Pierre.
Moving carefully to one side of the line of bruised grasses, they made their way towards the trees.
‘Will you see Alys again today?’ asked Maistre Pierre casually.
‘If I can,’ said Gil. His friend turned to look at him in the drizzle.
‘She will be herself again once the festivities are over,’ he said reassuringly. ‘She has done this once before, though not so bad, a few years since when we had a feast for my fortieth name-day. At the feast itself she was the model of a good daughter, in her pearls and her best gown. All will be well.’
‘Yes,’ said Gil. ‘It’s not the feast that troubles me.’
‘That will be well too,’ said Maistre Pierre largely, and gave him a significant grin. ‘She is sufficiently like her mother, God rest her soul, that she will make you a good wife in all ways. Do not worry, son-in-law.’
‘Everyone keeps telling me that.’
‘They are right.’ The mason clapped him on the shoulder, and Gil grunted in response as they approached the thicket where Socrates’ tail was visible waving under the branches. The dog threw them a brief look over his shoulder, but turned back to the object which had interested him among the hazel-roots, pawing at the ground round it. The coarse grey hair stood up in a ridge along his narrow back and his soft ears were pricked intently.
‘Blood,’ said Gil. ‘He has found blood, or else a hedgehog. Good dog, leave!’
‘But no,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘it is something light-coloured. A piece of linen, I think.’
Socrates, recognizing that his master had taken charge of his find, sat back with his tongue hanging out, well pleased with himself. Gil bent over the object.
‘Yes, linen,’ he said. ‘Very wet, but not particularly muddy. It has not been here long.’ He straightened up to look round, and broke off a convenient twig to prod the cloth with. ‘And yes, I think these are bloodstains. Good dog!’
‘Is it a garment, or part of a garment? A napkin?’
‘It’s hemmed all round.’ Gil turned another fold of the cloth. ‘Neat stitches, too. It’s not napery, it’s a different weave, more like a towel, and far longer than it is wide. I think it’s a neck-piece. A scarf.’
‘Someone will miss it, in this weather,’ said Maistre Pierre, tugging gloomily at his own where it was wrapped about inside the collar of his cloak to prevent the rain running down his neck. ‘Whatever is such a thing doing here?’