‘Someone may yet be murdered,’ Alys said seriously. They began to stroll down the garden, arm in arm. ‘Davie told me the same tale as Murdo Dubh. There have been several accidents, which might be attempts at murder, and at least two of them might have injured the old woman instead, if Ailidh or Davie had not detected them.’ She paused where the grass paths crossed, and counted on her fingers. ‘There was the ladder and the pitchfork that Murdo told us about, there was a pair of shears hidden point up in a basket of fleece — ’
‘How would that injure David Drummond?’
‘He was combing the locks for Mistress Drummond to spin them. Either could have been the next to reach into the basket, and the shears had been sharpened to a vicious point. Ailidh showed me them. Then there was a basket of mushrooms brought in for cooking, that the third granddaughter Elizabeth had gathered one morning. Davie saw the bad one himself. Elizabeth said she never picked it, and Ailidh says she believes her, for they use mushrooms for all sorts of things, for dyeing and physicking cattle, and their mother has taught them well.’
‘All circumstantial,’ said Gil slowly, ‘but they add up badly, don’t they?’
‘They do,’ she agreed seriously. ‘Mistress Drummond will say only that someone has ill-wished them, so they told me, but both Davie and Ailidh think it is more serious than that.’
‘Alys, have a care. And Murdo? What does he think?’
Her quick smile flickered.
‘If that relationship prospers,’ she pronounced, ‘it will do well. Murdo thinks just as Ailidh does.’
He laughed aloud, and caught up her hand again.
‘Well, I think we should go in to supper,’ he said, ‘so I hope you do too!’
Chapter Five
George Brown, Bishop of Dunkeld, folded his hands on the stacked papers on his reading-desk and gazed out of the window across the river Tay.
‘I caused a search to be made, a course,’ he said. ‘Jaikie’s a good man, a discreet man, writes a fine hand. A witty companion, though his tongue can be sharp. I’ve aye trusted him well beyond the reach o my arm. He’s a valued member of my household, Maister Cunningham, as well as being a good secretary.’
Gil nodded, aware of what was not being said. The Bishop was anxious. He was concealing it well, helped by his natural expression of round-faced good humour, but Gil lived and worked with men of law, and the small signs, the tension at the temples, the stiffness round the eyes, told him a clear tale. Seated now in the quiet study of the episcopal house in Perth, with its painted panelling, its view of the busy waterfront and the green land across the Tay in the noonday sun, he said:
‘My lord, what can you tell me about the man? Did you say his name is Stirling?’
‘Aye, James Stirling. Forty year old, I suppose, priested, an able fellow.’
‘Forty. Was he at the sang-schule at Dunblane, my lord?’
‘He was and all,’ agreed the Bishop, startled. ‘Is that aught to do wi it?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Gil. ‘But I think he was a friend of this lad that vanished thirty year since and it’s said has returned from wherever he’s been hid.’
‘Aye, aye, Perthshire’s buzzing wi the tale, though Jaikie never let on that he might have known him, that I heard. What, are you saying he’s been stolen away by the same folk?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gil said again. ‘It seems unlikely. Is he a good singer?’
‘No bad. A strong tenor, good enough for the Office and well trained at Dunblane, a course, though by something he once said his voice was finer before it broke.’
‘Whereas the two men that’s left St John’s Kirk here are right good singers,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘What more can you tell me about the man himself, sir?’
‘Tell you about him?’ A small smile crossed the Bishop’s face. ‘A good secretary. Able, as I said. I’ve offered him more than once to find him a place in Edinburgh or about the King, but he’s aye said he likes it at my side, the mix of pastoral and diplomatic appeals to him.’
‘Diplomatic,’ Gil repeated, recalling the confidence Archbishop Blacader placed in William Dunbar. ‘Was he with you during the negotiations with England?’
‘He was.’ The Bishop looked directly at Gil. ‘He was close involved. It was him and his English counterpart dealt wi some of the preliminaries, agreeing what terms the embassage would sign to.’
‘No wonder he’s been happy here, if he had that level of freedom to act.’
‘Oh, aye, he’s happy, maister,’ agreed Brown. ‘And shown himsel worthy o trust so long’s I’ve had him in my employ. Which is why it’s so — ’ He stopped, and looked away.
‘Does he have enemies?’
‘We’ve all got enemies, maister,’ said the Bishop, ‘starting wi the Deil hissel. I’ve no notion that Jaikie had more than any other.’
‘Is he civil? Friendly in his bearing?’
‘He deports himself well in my presence.’
That’s no answer, Gil thought. ‘And what about his disappearance? Did you see him that day?’
‘I did.’ Brown’s gaze transferred itself to the woodland beyond the river. After a moment he went on, ‘I’d had occasion to find fault wi him.’ Gil waited. ‘He and Rob Gregor my chaplain had had a disagreement, and Jaikie referred to it a time or two through the day, in terms I felt wereny becoming to a clerk.’
‘How did he take that?’ Gil asked.
‘Well enough, I thought at the time, but a course if it angered him he’d a concealed it from me.’
‘And then?’
‘He went out into Perth to enquire about the rents, seeing it was coming near to Lammastide. I’d expected him back at my side afore Vespers, so we could deal wi the last of the day’s papers as soon as Vespers and Compline were done, and he never showed, nor came in for supper though it was late. And he never came back the next morn either. And since he was never liable to stay out, since I might ha need of him at any time, I had them send after him.’
‘And what did the search find out?’
The Bishop shook his head. ‘They tracked him away through the town, from one property to another, and then lost the scent. Then they asked at all the town ports, and the haven and all, and none had seen a clerk o his description pass through. Wat Currie my steward, that oversaw the search, says it’s as if he’s vanished into the air.’
‘Maybe I should get a word wi Maister Currie.’ Gil looked directly at the other man. ‘And yourself? What do you think has happened to him, my lord?’
‘I dinna ken,’ said Brown, his Dundee accent suddenly very broad. ‘I dinna ken, Maister Cunningham, but I fear the worst. Jaikie wouldna up and leave me for a wee scolding.’
There were footsteps in the outer chamber, and an agitated squeaking. Bishop Brown turned his head, smiling through his anxiety, as a well-built man in the decent gown of a steward entered the study, followed by a liveried servant carrying a small brown and white dog.
‘Ah! Here’s Wat the now,’ he said, holding out his arms, ‘and my wee pet. See him here, Noll. Aye, aye, he’s taken well to you. Mitchel will ha his work cut out, when he comes back fro Dunkeld, to get him to mind him.’
The dog was handed over, wriggling and yelping, and the steward dismissed the man Noll with a gesture. The animal was no more than a puppy, perhaps five months old, Gil estimated, and seemed to be some kind of little spaniel, with floppy ears, a soft coat and the beginnings of a plume on its assiduous tail. It was plainly much attached to the Bishop.
‘That’s a fine pup,’ he offered. ‘Where did you get him? Is there a breeder hereabouts?’
‘It’s a woman that settled outside the burgh,’ said the steward, smiling at the creature’s antics, ‘maybe a year since, wi a great kennel-full of dogs, and set hersel up breeding them. She’d come from Glasgow, so she said,’ he added, ‘maybe you’d ken her yoursel, Maister Cunningham.’
‘A dog-breeder?’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘From Glasgow. Would that be a woman called Doig?’