‘Cut down in the midst of his day’s darg!’ exclaimed Agnew bitterly. ‘How long shall the wicked exult?’
‘Aye, but how was he no stabbed in the back?’ said Willie’s friend. ‘If he was bending to his work?’
‘He would stand to greet whoever came in,’ said the cleric.
‘He’d a gone to the door, surely,’ said Willie.
‘No if it was someone he knew,’ objected his friend. ‘Maybe the fellow just opened the door and shouted, the way you do when my maister’s no at home, and stepped within.’
‘The man Veitch claims no to have set eyes on Hob till he found him dead,’ said the cleric thoughtfully. ‘Maister Agnew, had Veitch ever been at your house afore this?’
‘No,’ said Agnew with reluctance, ‘no that I can say. But who’s to say he wasny here at some time when I was out the house?’
‘What was the weapon?’ Gil asked. ‘Is there any sign of it?’
‘He’d put it up afore I found him!’ expostulated Agnew. ‘Of course it’s no here, it’s at his belt!’
‘Dagger,’ said Maistre Pierre briefly, bending to inspect the cuts more closely. ‘Much like any in this hall,’ he added, casting an eye round the group.
‘So what do you read, Gil?’ prompted Maister Sim again. Gil looked the length of the hall and then down at the corpse.
‘He was taken by surprise,’ he said slowly. ‘He was in the midst of his day’s work, as Maister Agnew said, suspecting nothing. If he did answer the door to whoever slew him, he went back to his work when the man came in, so he’d no mistrust of him.’
‘Now that’s no like Hob,’ said Willie, and his friend nodded agreement.
‘And then what?’ asked the cleric. ‘Do you say they quarrelled?’
‘Nothing to show that,’ said Gil. ‘But Hob wasn’t expecting violence. His own blade’s still at his belt. He’s never touched it.’
‘That fits wi what we can see,’ said Maister Sim, and the other men nodded.
‘Should we have the man in that’s accusit,’ proposed Willie, ‘and get a look at his dagger?’
‘Aye, and make him touch the corp,’ agreed his friend. ‘That’ll show us whether he’s guilty, that’s for certain.’
‘And then we can send to the castle,’ said Agnew, ‘and get him taken away.’
‘We can take him round there ourselves, if he’s guilty,’ said the cleric.
The superstition had been useful before, Gil reflected, turning to the door to summon Veitch and his self-appointed guards. The widespread belief that if a man’s killer touched his corpse it would accuse him in some way meant that making someone touch a body could provide a good measure of how much guilt he felt, unless, like Gil, he was not impressed by the idea.
Veitch stepped into the room, rubbing at his arms where his keepers had gripped them. As many people as would fit into the doorway craned after him, with excited comments about the blood and the body.
‘Look at his dagger!’ exclaimed Agnew. ‘It’s the right size. Has it been used? Has he cleaned it maybe?’
‘Let me see your dagger, John,’ said Gil, holding out his hand. Veitch looked at him, then at the corpse, took a moment to cross himself at the sight then unfastened the weapon from his belt and passed it to Gil.
‘It’s clean and oiled,’ he said. ‘I saw to it on Sunday after Mass, as it’s my habit to do. The only other blade I’ve on me’s my wee eating-knife, and who in his right mind uses his eating-knife for murder?’
‘No if he wants to eat wi it again,’ agreed Willie’s friend. Gil drew the dagger from its sturdy leather sheath and turned it towards the window. As Veitch said, it was clean and well-kept, sharpened and gleaming dully in the thin light.
‘This has not been used since last it was cleaned,’ he said, showing it to the assize. ‘And there’s been no time to clean it since Murder was cried. It was not this weapon killed Hob.’
‘Then he used another,’ said Agnew. ‘Maybe Hob’s own dagger! I tell you, I found him standing red-hand ower the corp, he must be guilty!’
‘Tammas, that doesny follow,’ said the cleric. ‘I’ve stood ower a many men, aye and women and bairns, that I never slew.’
‘Aye, but that’s your calling,’ protested Agnew. ‘No, maisters, it’s plain enough, this is the fellow that slew my servant and we should have the Sheriff here, no some daft laddie placed by Robert Blacader to please his family.’
Gil made no comment, but handed Veitch’s weapon back to him, at which Agnew howled indignantly. Ignoring him, Gil said, ‘John, will you touch the corp for us?’
‘Gladly, aye,’ said Veitch, bracing his shoulders. ‘Mind, I’ve already touched him.’ He displayed his marked fingers, and stepped forward.
‘And do it wi some respect,’ challenged Agnew.
Veitch moved along the room to where Maistre Pierre still stood by the corpse with his beads in his hand. Agnew hurried jealously at his elbow and the four men of the assize followed closely. Gil outpaced them and stepped beyond the corpse to a position where he could watch them all, avoiding the blood-soaked matting, Socrates keeping position by his knee.
Veitch nodded to him, then went down on one knee by the body, crossed himself and reached out to touch the averted face. Like a striking adder, Agnew’s hand shot out and closed on his.
‘Make sure you touch him,’ he said savagely. ‘We’ll ha no pretence, man!’ He jerked at Veitch’s arm, slapping his open palm heavily down on Hob’s bloody breast.
Everyone present heard the faint groan which escaped the dead man under the blow. Gil felt the hair on his neck stand up.
‘Christ and Our Lady protect us!’ said Willie, stepping back and crossing himself.
‘Look! Look!’ crowed Agnew, white-faced. ‘I said — I said he slew Hob, and Hob himsel has tellt us it’s the truth!’
Veitch stared where he pointed, and then looked up at Gil, horrified. From the pallid lips of the corpse a thread of fresh blood was trickling.
‘It was the force of the blow caused him to groan,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘As I told the Sheriff. The last breath was still in the man’s lungs, and the blow forced it out.’
Gil nodded, aware of a level of relief at the explanation quite ridiculous in a rational man. ‘As if I punched you in the breastbone.’
‘Precisely. And if there was still liquid blood from where he bled inwardly, it might have gathered when you and I moved him, and that also was released by the blow. But I suppose,’ the mason continued gloomily, stepping over the puddle at the castle gatehouse, ‘there is no use in telling it to the witnesses.’ He looked back over his shoulder at the tower where John Veitch was now imprisoned, still vehemently protesting his innocence. ‘How long have we got?’
‘The morn’s morn, Sir Thomas said,’ Gil quoted in Scots. ‘Properly the law should be done on him within this sun, wi no more ado.’
‘If we ever see the sun,’ commented his friend in French.
‘Indeed. But since he won’t confess to guilt, and you’ve cast some doubt on it, there must be a more formal quest, and it might as well follow on from the quest on Deacon Naismith. I wish Sir Thomas had let me question John just now, but he was within his rights to refuse it. What worries me is that with three deaths in the Upper Town within three days, John may simply hang for the lot and the investigation will be closed whether I like it or no.’
‘Can the Sheriff do that? Surely your commission is direct from the Archbishop.’
‘Aye, and as Archbishop not as overlord,’ Gil agreed, ‘but ultimately, in Blacader’s absence, Sir Thomas represents the law in the burgh.’ They reached the Wyndhead, and he paused, looking down the Drygate. ‘Look at this. Someone must have taken the news to her.’
Marion Veitch was hurrying towards them, skirts gathered up, the ends of her plaid flying, the kitchenmaid Bel at her side. Seeing them she changed direction and halted in front of them, panting.
‘Gil Cunningham, what’s this they tell me about my brother?’ she demanded. ‘He never slew a man in Vicars’ Alley! I’ll no believe it!’