‘As soon as he stepped in the door,’ he confirmed. ‘I heard the step on the doorsill, and turned my head, and he took one look and began to shout.’
‘When you got to Vicars’ Alley,’ said Gil after a moment, ‘did you speak to anyone?’
‘Oh, aye. I asked the way a couple of times, never having been there. It’s no easy to find, tucked away at the back of St Mungo’s like that. A woman at the Wyndhead, a fellow by the Consistory wi a mason’s apron. Then when I found it there was a lad cutting kale or something in one of the wee yards, and he pointed me at the door next to his, which was Agnew’s.’
Gil nodded. ‘I’ve spoken to the boy cutting kale,’ he said. ‘If we can get him to speak up the morn, he’ll confirm that.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Veitch grimaced. ‘A man can meet his end at any time, I ken that, but I’d as soon no meet mine being hung for a killing I didny do.’
‘And the man Naismith?’
‘I didny do that neither,’ said Veitch firmly. ‘The last I saw him, he went out my sister’s house in a strunt because she didny take it well that he was to wed and put her out from under that roof. I never set eyes on him again till he was laid out in the washhouse at St Serf’s.’
‘Would you swear to that?’
‘I would.’
Gil felt in his sleeve and produced the stained linen scarf again. ‘Have you seen this before?’
‘Is that — ?’ Veitch took it and turned it round, holding the embroidery to the light. He felt the stitched initials between finger and thumb, and nodded. ‘Aye, it’s mine. Where’s it been? How’d it get blood on it? It was clean the day I lost it.’
‘When was that?’
‘Same day I last saw Naismith.’ Gil raised his eyebrows at this, and Veitch frowned. ‘It’s a long tale.’
‘I’ve time to listen.’
It seemed to be only half the tale nevertheless. The previous Saturday Veitch had ridden in from Dumbarton where the Rose of Irvine was lying, and taken lodgings with the widow in St Catherine’s Wynd. On Sunday he had traced his sister to the house by the Caichpele, and appeared on her doorstep with gifts to receive a warm welcome from Marion and later a chillier one from the Deacon when he arrived to eat his supper and deliver his unwelcome news.
‘I judged she deserved better of him,’ said Veitch, indignation still warming his tone, ‘and tried to tell him so, but he wouldny listen to me, called me an ignorant mariner and accused me of wanting to live off my sister.’ He laughed shortly. ‘If he’d kent what the Rose’s last cargo was worth he’d ha sung another tune. So then he said he wouldny stay there to argue wi me, and he’d no look to find me there when he returned, and he went down the stair and collected up his cloak and hat and left. And I wondered if he’d lifted my neckie and all,’ he admitted, ‘for I couldny find it when I left the house myself, but searching for the thing by lantern-licht was a fruitless task. So where did you find it?’
‘On the Stablegreen,’ said Gil.
‘The Stablegreen? St Nicholas’ bones, man, how’d it get there?’
‘I’m still trying to find out.’ Gil reached out to take the object back. ‘What did you do after Naismith left the house?’
‘Now I tellt you that already as well. Comforted Marion so far as I might, sang the wee one a song when she was in her cradle, the bonnie wee lass she is,’ an involuntary smile spread across Veitch’s face, ‘and gaed down the hill to my lodging.’
‘And that would be what time?’
Veitch shook his head. ‘Two-three hour afore midnight, maybe. Time passes different on dry land, somehow.’
‘Did you meet anyone on the way?’
‘Oh, aye. No that it was busy, that time o night, but there was the usual traffic atween taverns, and the odd serving man or maid heading for home, and a pack o merchants’ sons whooping by the Tolbooth, out for trouble. Oh, aye, and one bonnie lass walking up the High Street. I thought of her when I saw the young callants, but she’d been up by the Bell o’ the Brae when I saw her, and she’d a man wi her, carrying her box on his shoulders, so I reckoned she’d be safe enough.’
Gil noted this, and set it aside to consider later. ‘And then what did you do?’
‘Went back to the Widow Napier’s house and gaed to my bed.’
Gil tipped his chin back and gave Veitch a challenging stare in the candlelight.
‘Did you so?’ he said.
‘Aye.’
‘That’s not what the Widow Napier said.’
‘Is it not?’
There was a pause, in which the man on guard outside could be heard whistling dolefully. Then Gil said, ‘It’s not what I think either. I think you went to Dumbarton.’ He patted the sleeve where he had stowed the embroidered linen. ‘I showed this to Marion and she denied knowing what it was, let alone whose, but when your friend Rankin Elder came into the house he knew it at once for yours, and said you’d missed it already the night you fetched him from Dumbarton.’ Veitch was silent under his gaze. ‘Did you borrow one of the boats down by Glasgow Brig?’
After a moment the other man grinned, and nodded.
‘If you’ve worked out that much,’ he admitted, ‘there’s no point denying it. Aye, I borrowed one of the fisher-folk’s boaties. Neat wee thing she was, got me down to Dumbarton afore midnight wi a sail someone had left in St Nicholas’ chapel at the vennel-foot, and the tide was just on the turn by that so we took a couple pair of oars out the Rose’s tender and came back up with the flow.’
‘And stowed the oars under the Widow Napier’s bed,’ Gil hazarded, suddenly recalling the bundle of timbers. Veitch nodded. ‘And the reason it was so needful to bring Elder upriver afore the dawn?’
‘You mean you’ve no worked that out yet?’ said Veitch mockingly
‘To protect your sister, of course,’ returned Gil, ‘but what had you done to make it so urgent?’
Veitch grimaced. ‘Nothing I’d done, Gil, I gie you my word on it. It was the state Marion was in at the thought o being homeless — threatening to do away wi herself at one point, crying out that she’d sooner be dead than back keeping house for our brother, which I can well understand, and then I put two and two thegither and realized Frankie was never Naismith’s get. She’s got Marion’s een, but wi that hair and the age she is, she has to be Rankin’s bairn. Now Rankin’s a sight closer to me than my brother William, we’ve shared a cabin on and off for four year, and he’s never mentioned a bairn. So I gaed down the water to have it out wi him, and as soon’s he heard — ’
‘Ah!’ said Gil. ‘Nothing would do but he come up the river to speak to Marion?’
‘That’s it,’ agreed Veitch. ‘As soon as he could get into the house to see her in private, he did, and if we all come out of this wi our heads on, he’ll wed her within the week. They’ll no want a big occasion,’ he said ironically, ‘no like some.’
Ignoring this, Gil considered the big sailor carefully.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Anything else you want to tell me now?’
‘No that I can think of,’ said Veitch after a moment. He got to his feet as Gil did, and hesitated again. ‘Gil, what’s my chances?’
‘Better than they were afore I came in here,’ suggested Gil. ‘Beyond that, John, I’m no sure. I’ll do what I can. It depends on the assize.’
‘Should it not go to Edinburgh?’
‘You were found wi the corp. Sir Thomas would ha been within his rights to hang you this day.’
Veitch swallowed.
‘Pray for me, Gil,’ he said. ‘And Gil — will you tell my uncle, if nobody’s let him ken afore this?’
Canon Cunningham was seated in his hall, spectacles on his nose, working on a drift of papers by the light of a great branch of candles. Socrates was sprawled at his feet. They both looked up when Gil came in, and the dog leapt up to greet him. The Official marked his place with one long forefinger, and said, ‘Aye, Gilbert. And where are you at now wi all this? Is that right what Maggie tells me about the bedehouse?’
‘It depends what she told you, sir,’ said Gil, replacing his hat and acknowledging his dog’s welcome. He sat down, craning his neck to see the superscription on the documents, and Socrates leaned against his knee. ‘Is this the Murray perjury case you were talking about?’