‘I’m never accused of his death,’ began Agnew.
‘I’m saying,’ said Gil, ‘that on this evidence you’d as well be accused as John Veitch, and the other evidence, of finding him red-handed, doesny stand up.’
‘So who slew the man?’ demanded one of the assize, as Agnew gobbled like a blackcock at this assertion.
‘Aye, well, that’s what we’re here to establish,’ said Sir Thomas crisply. ‘Get on wi it, Maister Cunningham. What have ye to tell us now?’
‘Can we turn to the other corp next, Sheriff?’ Gil asked formally.
‘We’ve no dealt wi this one yet,’ objected someone.
‘I hope we can wind up both matters at once,’ said Gil. ‘But maybe we should set John Veitch free, since it’s clear he couldny ha slain Hob Taylor.’
‘No yet,’ said someone in the assize. ‘I’m no convinced yet.’ There were rumbles of agreement round the audience.
‘No, no,’ concurred Sir Thomas. ‘We’ll keep him under guard a while longer.’
‘Is this a new heading?’ demanded the clerk Walter. ‘Or is it a whole new quest? Do I need a new bit parchment or no?’
‘Aye, a fresh page, Walter,’ said Sir Thomas, and the clerk muttered angrily and took out his penknife to scrape out a line he had written. Gil stared at him, and Sir Thomas went on, ‘Now, if we’re to look at the Deacon’s death, best get on wi it, maister.’ Distracted, Gil bowed, and made a handing-over gesture. ‘Oh, aye. Who identifies the other corp? I hope ye all had a good look at him.’
‘Aye, from upwind,’ said the shoemaker from the assize enclosure, and there was general laughter.
‘Did ye study the wounds?’
‘Aye,’ said another man doubtfully, ‘but no very close. It looks like there’s been more than one weapon at him, like it was a man wi dagger and whinger maybe.’
‘Aye, two weapons,’ agreed Sir Thomas. ‘Who identifies him, then?’
Andrew Millar pushed his way to the foot of the dais and agreed that the second corpse was that of his superior, Deacon Robert Naismith of St Serf’s bedehouse. The Sheriff dealt in short order with the finding of the body, the manner of death, and the probable time of death. Maistre Pierre, explaining this, made reference to the idea that the body had been moved, and the shoemaker spoke up again.
‘Let’s hear more about that, maister. How can you tell?’
‘He had begun to stiffen while he lay in one place,’ said Maistre Pierre, glancing at the Sheriff, ‘somewhere he lay on braided matting which left a mark on his face which was still visible the next day. Then he was moved, and continued to set in the new position in the garden.’
‘Could he no ha moved himself?’ asked another of the assize.
‘Don’t be daft, Rab,’ said his neighbour, ‘the man was deid, that’s why he’d begun to set. Who moved him, that’s what I’d like to ken.’
‘I hope we’ll find out,’ said Gil.
‘I fear it’s clear enough,’ put in Agnew. ‘My poor brother must ha stabbed the Deacon in his madness, and later bore the body out into the garden. He’s got no recollection of it now, but it’s the only explanation.’
‘No quite,’ said Gil. ‘For one thing, there’s no rush matting in the bedehouse.’
‘That’s his brother that’s rose up again,’ whispered someone behind him. ‘They’re saying he’s cured of his madness and seeing visions.’
Ignoring this, Gil led the assize carefully through what was known of the Deacon’s last movements, detailing the meal at the house by the Caichpele, the argument with Marion Veitch and her brother, at which several of the assize looked darkly at John Veitch where he stood under guard by the wall, and the departure to meet Thomas Agnew, who agreed that he had last seen Naismith an hour later. Andrew Millar came forward again to describe how he had heard footsteps in the Deacon’s lodging after he came in that night.
‘Aye, aye, hold up here,’ said an assizer. ‘This was at an hour or two afore midnight, did ye say?’ Millar nodded. ‘And we’ve just heard, wi the way the corp was set, it looked as if he was deid no long after supper.’ Millar glanced at Gil, and nodded again. ‘So who was it was walking about in his lodging, maister?’
‘I’d like to hear the answer to that and all,’ put in Sir Thomas.
‘You’ll have your answer,’ Gil assured the man. ‘Once we’ve all the facts, the answer will be clear enough.’
‘So you say,’ said Agnew, ‘but I maintain it’s obvious already. Can we no ha done wi this nonsense, Sheriff, and get about our business?’
‘Let’s hear your facts, Maister Cunningham,’ said Sir Thomas, ignoring him.
Gil took a deep breath, and bowed to all his hearers again. This was extraordinary. He had expounded his solution to a death before, to much smaller groups; making it clear to fifteen householders whom he did not know, and a hall full of onlookers, was quite different, but he was enjoying it.
‘The corp was found near the back wall of the bedehouse garden,’ he began. Carefully he explained where the body was lying, what made him think it had been put over the back wall, and how it had been taken round to the Stablegreen. Without naming his sister, he told the assize about the handcart, with its burden, and the movements in the dark.
‘Now the same person,’ he said, ‘had seen John Veitch going down the High Street not half an hour earlier. It wasny John Veitch put the Deacon’s body over the wall.’
One or two of the assize nodded. A small flurry of movement and hissing whispers behind Maistre Pierre suggested Marion had tried to speak and been hushed.
‘What I think happened,’ Gil went on, watching the members of the assize, ‘is this. Deacon Naismith ate supper in the house by the Caichpele, and announced that he was about to make a will. Then he left the house, and went to meet somebody else. Sometime that evening he was stabbed. He was left where he died, for an hour or two, and then moved on the handcart, put over the wall at the back of the bedehouse garden, and the handcart returned to its place. Then the person who stabbed him walked into the bedehouse wearing his cloak and hat, and slept the night in the Deacon’s lodging. In the morning he joined the bedesmen for the first Office of the day, and then left the chapel and went back to his own house.’
‘How was he no recognized in the chapel?’ demanded the shoemaker.
‘It’s dark in the chapel, even by daylight, and this was well afore the dawn,’ said Gil. ‘He was seen in the shadows, and taken for the Deacon sitting out of his own seat.’
‘And what happened to the garments?’ asked Sir Thomas, regaining control of his enquiry. ‘Since I take it he wasny seen in the street and taken for the Deacon, else you’d ha tellt us by now. Did he plank them in the washhouse, or something, afore he went out?’
‘I think he took the risk of being seen,’ said Gil, acknowledging the witticism with a grin. ‘Since we’ve tracked them down.’
‘What, wi that dog o yours?’ said someone from the hall, and there was laughter. Gil shook his head, looking round for the three men of St Andrew’s. He found them near the back, and pointed to them.
‘Sir John and his clerks found them,’ he said, ‘and took them for a donation to the lepers. Come forward, Sir John, and tell the Sheriff about it.’
The tubby little priest made his way to the front, his acolytes behind him carrying the two garments. One or two bystanders attempted to snatch the hat from the small dark clerk, until Sir Thomas rose and snarled, ‘We’ll ha none o that now! Meddling wi the evidence is worth a fine, and I saw ye, Will Cowan, Jaikie Renton. Right, Sir John,’ he turned to the witness in front of him, switching voices. ‘Tell us about this cloak and hat then.’
Backed up by his subordinates, Sir John identified himself and his charge, described finding the garments tucked into the rafters of his church, and agreed that it had been on Monday after Terce and no later.
‘And you didny see who put them there?’ asked Sir Thomas. The three men looked at one another, shaking their heads. ‘No, I see you didny. How did they get into the roof, Maister Cunningham? Are we looking for a man three ells high? He should be easy enough to discern in this burgh if that’s so.’