As the clerk went out on to the fore-stair again, Gil said formally, ‘If you’re sending to my lord, may I ride with the messenger? Maister Morison has asked me to make enquiry into the death of the man whose head we found in the barrel, and my first road must be to Stirling.’
‘Aye, very wise.’ Sir Thomas scowled at Gil. ‘And let me know what ye find and all.’
‘Unless there is a conflict of interests,’ agreed Gil.
The Provost stared at him for a moment, then nodded grimly. ‘I suppose it might happen,’ he admitted. ‘Aye, you may ride. You can be the messenger, indeed. If you can be ready within the hour.’
‘I need to question Maister Morison.’
‘Aye, and the men must eat,’ admitted Sir Thomas, reconsidering. ‘Two hours, then. No longer.’
‘Maister,’ said Walter the clerk, reappearing at the door, ‘it’s a messenger from my lord Archbishop.’
‘What?’ Sir Thomas turned to the man in dusty riding-clothes who followed Walter into the hall. ‘I trust my lord’s well?’ he said, removing his murrey velvet hat.
‘He is well,’ said the messenger, bowing and holding out a letter with a dangling seal, ‘and he sends to let you to know, Provost, that he will lie here at Glasgow the morn’s night, together with his grace the King and my lord of Angus and others as numbered in his letter.’
Chapter Three
‘We need all you can tell us,’ said Gil.
‘About what?’ said Morison blankly.
‘About this barrel,’ said Maistre Pierre.
They were in the chamber which Sir Thomas, muttering curses, had allotted as a prison cell before he hurried off to see to the preparations for the arrival of the Archbishop and more particularly of the King. It was a small, pleasant room two storeys up one of the towers, with a view of the west towers of St Mungo’s and a bed at least as good as Gil’s own on which Morison was seated, leaving Maistre Pierre the stool while Gil hunkered down against the wall.
‘You were there when we broached it,’ said the merchant, ‘you know as much as I do.’
‘Tell us from the beginning,’ Gil said patiently, ‘when you saw it hoisted from Tod’s ship at Blackness. You said it was the only one that size. Are you certain of that?’
‘Well, it’s what Tod said,’ said Morison. ‘I think. It’s all tapsalteerie in my head, Gil.’
‘You didn’t look in the hold yourself?’
‘I was never on Tod’s deck. I stayed on the shore and had an eye to the cransman,’ said Morison more confidently.
‘Certainly he’d no reason to say so if it wasn’t true,’ said Gil. ‘And then what happened? It was put on the cart?’
‘Aye. Well, it stood on the shore till we saw how much there was to go on the cart.’
‘And how much was that?’ asked Maistre Pierre.
Morison dragged his gaze from the towers of St Mungo’s and looked apologetically from one to the other.
‘I canny mind,’ he said. ‘I canny think. It’s all tap-salteerie,’ he said again, demonstrating inversion with one hand. ‘There’s nothing left in my head but the thought of what’s to come to my bairns if … if …’
‘This is the best way to help your bairns,’ Gil said bracingly, though sympathy gnawed at his gut. ‘When you got the cart home, how much was there to be unloaded?’
‘Oh. Aye.’ Morison frowned at his feet. ‘There was the two great pipes that came out of Maikison’s vessel. One was mostly tin-glazed, with a couple steeks velvet for Clem Walkinshaw on the top, and the other was a mixed load. Aye, just the two,’ he nodded. ‘And the puncheon which,’ he went on more certainly, ‘went on at the tail of the cart, roped well in place.’
‘Who roped it on?’
‘One of the men, I suppose. Likely Billy, he’s my carter.’
‘And how many carts did you have with you?’
‘Just the one. Billy and Andy saw to the driving, and Jamesie and I rode alongside.’
‘And where did the cart go?’ prompted Maistre Pierre.
‘Why, it came home,’ said Morison, the blank look appearing again.
‘Straight home in one day?’
‘Don’t be daft, Gil!’ Morison paused. ‘Oh, I see what you want. We lay at Linlithgow Monday night, and Kilsyth on Tuesday.’
‘And what happened to the cart each time? Did you leave it in the inn-yard?’
‘No, no. I take better care of my goods than that. We’ve an arrangement wherever we lie, to run the cart into someone’s yard where it can be secure, and Billy sleeps with it as well.’
‘We’ll need the names of the yards,’ said Gil. ‘Now, after it came home, where did the barrel lie? Where was it yesternight?’
‘Last night.’ Morison frowned. ‘Is that right? Just last night? I suppose it must be. We were so late back, we ran the cart into the barn and shut the doors on it. Billy had to take the mare down to stable her, but I’d not the heart to make them start on the load after.’
‘So the barrel sat in the barn overnight with the rest. Was it undisturbed when you saw it this morning?’
‘Oh, yes. Well, it must have been,’ qualified Morison, ‘for there had been nobody in the barn. Then I got Andy to roll it down and handle it into the shed, and sent him for you while the other men made a start on the pipe of tin-glazed, and … and …’ He paused, staring at nothing. ‘St Peter’s bones, Gil, when he came up out of the water like that!’
‘He was a gruesome sight, poor devil,’ Gil agreed.
‘Aye, but … aye, but …’
‘What is it, Augie?’ Gil asked. It was clear the man needed to say something, and was reluctant to form the words. ‘Out with it, man!’
‘It was the way the water ran from his mouth,’ said Morison in a rush, his face reddening. ‘When — when I saw my Agnes lifted from the milldam. She was all white like that, and she could have been asleep, only for the water running out of her mouth — oh, Gil, it minded me so strongly!’
He scrubbed at his eyes with a sleeve, turning his face away.
Orpheus, thought Gil. Quhair art thow gone, my luve Ewridicess? He rose and walked about the small room, overcome with embarrassment. Behind him Morison groped for his handkerchief and hiccuped, while Maistre Pierre tut-tutted in sympathy.
‘I’m sorry,’ Gil said at last. ‘I never realized she had — ’
‘It was the melancholy,’ Morison explained, and blew his nose resoundingly. ‘After the bairn died. He only lived a week, the poor wee — and I knew she was — I’d to be away too much, but how could I leave the business? And now if my wee lassies are to be left with neither father nor mother, what’s to come of them? What’s to come of the household?’ He turned away again, ramming the damp linen against his eyes.
‘It won’t come to that,’ Gil said firmly. ‘Would you like to see a priest? I forget who’s chaplain here when Robert Blacader’s away, but there’s plenty priests over yonder.’ He waved at the towers of St Mungo’s.
Morison nodded, sniffing unhappily, but said, ‘Or maybe someone from the Greyfriars?’
‘I can send to Greyfriars for you,’ said Maistre Pierre.
‘I’ll have a word with Sir Thomas, and then I’ll get away, Augie, for the first thing I need to do is speak to someone about the treasure.’
‘Oh, aye, the treasure,’ said Morison vaguely ‘I keep forgetting that.’ He sniffed again, biting his lip, and Gil patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.
‘I hadn’t. I think it may be the key to the whole thing. Keep your spirits up, man,’ he said, ‘and pray for my success, and I’ll see you when I get back to Glasgow.’
‘I see two trails we must follow,’ said Maistre Pierre as they crossed the castle yard.
‘At least two,’ agreed Gil.
‘You must go now, to take advantage of the escort and speak to Robert Blacader,’ continued the mason, ‘but I could set out tomorrow, and trace Morison’s cart back to Linlithgow.’
‘And then I could meet you there,’ said Gil. ‘Pierre, if you can spare the time, I’d be glad of the help.’