‘Quiet!’ yelled Mistress Doig. A silence fell, in which she said, ‘It’s you, is it? If it’s Doig you’re after, he’s no here.’
‘You remember me?’ said Gil, raising his hat politely.
She unbent slightly at this, but her tone was still resentful as she said, ‘Aye, I mind you. We’d never ha had to move if you’d kept away from Doig. That was a good place we had at Glasgow. Better by far than this.’
He looked about him, and had to agree. The yard here was smaller and the house far less well-constructed than the one he recalled, although the wooden fencing of the pens was new and solid. Peter had wandered off to admire some of the dogs.
‘What brought you here?’ Gil asked curiously. ‘Why not Stirling or Edinburgh?’
She shrugged one bony shoulder, and scraped at something with her brush. ‘I’ve kin here, it was as good as anywhere else. You kept that wolfhound pup,’ she remembered. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s well, and growing,’ Gil said, aware of smiling as he thought of his dog. ‘The handsomest wolfhound in Scotland. A rare beast.’
She unbent further at this.
‘I thought that myself. Is it Doig you’re wanting?’ she demanded, her tone almost friendly.
‘Yes, but maybe you could help me if he’s not here.’
‘I’ve no idea where he is,’ she said hastily. ‘He never tellt me where he was off to.’
‘No, I’m not looking for him,’ Gil reassured her. ‘I’m trying to find this man that’s gone missing, the Bishop’s secretary, a fellow called James Stirling.’
‘Him.’ She came out of the pen, leaned the besom against the fence, and skilfully extracted one small dog from the next pen without letting the other escape. Pushing it into the newly swept space she shut the gate and twirled the two turnbuttons, then turned to Gil. ‘He was here, aye.’
‘You know him, then?’
‘He was here about the Bishop’s wee spaniel. My cousin Mitchel brought him here first, and he cam back a time or two wi word from my lord.’ Her grim expression cracked as she smiled. ‘A rare litter, that was. Off this bitch here,’ she pointed to the next gate along. ‘Right good wee pups she throws.’ The inmate of the pen stood up, scrabbling at the fence and squeaking exactly like her son, and Mistress Doig leaned in and caressed her soft ears. ‘Aye, Blossom, that’s my bonnie girl.’
‘And what about the time when he vanished,’ said Gil. ‘Had he been here then?’
‘That’s what I meant. He was here.’ She glanced at the sky. ‘Doig was home that week, and the man — Stirling, you cried him? — came around looking for him.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘He did not. Nor did I ask. Doig was in the town, so Maister Secretary said he’d wait, and hung about my yard getting under my feet,’ she said pointedly, lifting the besom again, ‘and getting my dogs excited wi too much attention.’
‘What time was this?’ Gil asked.
She shrugged. ‘About the time I make their evening — ’ She broke off significantly, and Gil recalled all the dogs in the yard in Glasgow barking at the word dinner. He grinned, and nodded.
‘So an hour or two afore Vespers, maybe?’
‘About that or sooner. He hung about for a while, and then another fellow cam in seeking Doig, and the two of them knew one another.’ She made a sour face. ‘If they’d been dogs, there would ha been blood shed. Walking round one another stiff-legged wi their fangs showing, they were, though since they were both priests it was all done very civil.’
‘Both priests?’ said Gil quickly. ‘Do you know the name of the other man?’
‘A Canon Andrew Drummond, so he said. From Dunblane.’
‘Well, well,’ said Gil. ‘And he knows Maister Doig as well?’
‘So it seemed,’ she said, ‘but no need to ask me how or why, for I’ve no notion.’
‘So then what happened? Did they speak to your husband? Did they stay here?’
She propped the besom resignedly against the fence, extracted another dog, dropped it neatly in beside its neighbour, and began to sweep the empty pen.
‘They stayed here,’ she said, ‘the half of an hour or so, talking about nothing, very civil as I said. Then they saw Doig would no be back any time soon, and went off thegither the pair of them. Which I was glad to see,’ she admitted, pausing to look round for the shovel, ‘since if there was to be blood shed I’d as soon it wasny on my yard.’
‘What were they talking about?’
‘Nothing.’ She lifted the shovel. ‘A lot of havers. They looked at Blossom, and spoke of the Bishop’s wee pup, and Maister Secretary said he’d ha had another of her litter, but that two brothers in the one place are often jealous, which is daft. Maybe it’s true of folk, but not of dogs if they’re handled right. Then the other said, a dog’ll not forget an ill turn done to him as a pup. Now that’s true I’ll admit, but what was it to the point?’
Well, well, thought Gil.
‘And then they left here,’ he said.
‘They did.’ She emptied her shovel into a reeking bucket by the gate of the pen. ‘Drummond was back later on his own, no even his man wi him, looking for Doig, and I tellt him where he’d likely get him, but I haveny seen him since, for whenever it was he caught up wi Doig it wasny here. Maybe it was in the town.’
‘Did you see Stirling again?’
‘Aye, later on.’
‘Where?’ he asked eagerly. She straightened up and stared at him.
‘When I was walking the dogs,’ she said. ‘I take them out yonder,’ she gestured northwards, ‘along by the river, and when I cam back I saw him away down this track ahead of me, making for the Red Brig, just his lone, his head and shoulders showing over the rise in the track. You couldny mistake him, wi the last o the sun shining on the badges on his hat. Never saw so many badges on a hat,’ she added.
‘You’re sure of that?’ Gil asked.
‘Sure of what? I saw the sun catch on the badges, I ken what the time was. They were just ringing St John’s bell to shut the gates.’ She cast a glance round the pen, stepped out, and retrieved its occupant from behind the neighbouring gate. ‘Now, maister, if there’s naught else I can help you with, I’d as soon get on wi this task. It’s never-ending, you’ll believe.’
‘I’ll believe it,’ Gil said. ‘Many thanks, mistress.’ He reached for his purse. ‘Maybe you’d buy the dogs a treat for me.’
Chapter Seven
The Blackfriars’ accommodation for guests was spacious and well appointed. It was hardly surprising, Gil reflected, admiring the brocade cushions and rich hangings of the chamber where he had been asked to wait for Brother Cellarer. The court had not used the place for fifty-odd years, not since James First was assassinated here, but it had certainly been founded, long before that, to provide somewhere suitable for the King and his entourage to lie when they came to Perth. Alys would like the detail of the stonework, he thought, studying the carved foliage on the capital of the pillar between two window-openings.
‘Can I help you, Maister Cunningham?’ asked a soft voice in the doorway. He turned, to find a small fair-haired Dominican watching him with faint amusement.
‘It’s a fine building,’ he said.
‘We are blessed,’ agreed the friar. He came forward into the chamber. ‘They were craftsmen that built it to God’s glory. Did you see this?’ He stepped into the window-space beside Gil and pointed upwards. Gil followed his gaze and found a tiny head carved in the angle of wall and roof, grimacing at him. He laughed, and Brother Cellarer smiled, then raised his hand and delivered the friars’ conventional blessing.
‘I am Edward Gilchrist. I oversee the smooth running of this guesthouse. And how can I help you?’ he asked.
‘I’m looking into this matter of James Stirling,’ Gil explained. ‘Secretary to Bishop Brown,’ he prompted, as the other man frowned.
‘Yes, of course.’ Gilchrist’s face cleared. ‘The Bishop sent this morning, and the lay brothers are out just now, searching the Ditchlands.’ He nodded at the window, through which several black-habited men were visible on the open ground, peering under gorse bushes. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, maister, but I — ’