‘I think we’ll all ha bad dreams,’ muttered Rob. ‘I’ll never get the stink of him out my nostrils, I can tell you.’
‘Och, no, it’s worse a burning,’ said the elder man, whose name seemed to be Bartol. ‘The stink o that lasts you for weeks.’
‘Where’s your respect?’ demanded Cornton. ‘We’ll ha less of that talk in the presence of Death.’ He crossed himself, said formally to the corpse, ‘May Christ Jesus and all His saints receive you into Paradise, Maister Stirling,’ then turned to Gil and said, ‘I’m near certain it’s him, the clothes is right, but I’ll need a look at his face afore I swear to it.’
‘What I’m wondering,’ said Rob, staring gloomily at the hurdle, ‘is how he got into that pit o cowhides. He never tucked hissel up like that, let alone putting the stones back on the planks, I’d say.’
‘No, he never.’ Cornton looked at his stricken journeyman, who had refused to leave but was still leaning greenly against the fence, unable to help with the grisly work. ‘Simon, lad, away down the yard and bring me back a bucket of clean water and a cloth, if you will.’
‘I’ll go!’ Ally sprang to his feet.
‘Simon will go. You break me a stalk off that grass. No, one of the stout ones.’ Cornton watched his man out of sight. ‘Maister Cunningham, see this.’ He took the grass-stem from Ally, bent and and used it to part the corpse’s wet hair, lifting the locks aside until the nape of the neck was exposed. ‘Look here. He never died by accident.’
‘Is he hunting wee louses?’ enquired one of the watchers at the fence.
‘There’ll be nothing running by now, surely,’ offered another. ‘They’ll all be drowned in the tan for certain.’
‘I never thought it,’ said Gil slowly, staring at the crossbow bolt lodged in the base of James Stirling’s skull. ‘But that makes it certain. And he wasny drowned in the tan,’ he added, ‘for he’d be dead when he went in. That would slay him on the instant.’ And what of the hat he was wearing? he wondered. Were the two badges removed because they were damaged? Not by the shot, surely, the bolt would have struck below the brim. But why not throw the hat in with him? Why take it away at all?
‘Let’s hope it did,’ said Cornton. ‘But why? What was he doing to be shot in my yard? Why’s he in my tanpit anyway? Did he — ’ He paused, open-mouthed, and Gil saw him realize for the first time that he might be under suspicion himself. ‘No. I never. I swear I never.’
‘Do you have a bow?’ Gil asked.
‘Aye, I do. A’body does, crossbow or longbow, to take to the butts on a Sunday. You’ve one yoursel, maister, I dare say.’
‘Did you leave here at the usual time that day?’ Gil went on, nodding to this.
‘So far’s I mind, aye, we all left as usual, and I was last wi the keys and locked the padlock on the gate as I aye do.’
‘And where were you the rest of the evening?’ Gil asked.
‘Home wi my wife and household, helping her decide on where Drummond’s bairns would sleep and who would nurse them.’ He laughed sourly. ‘After two nights wi the wee lass pissing our bed, if I was to slay any man in secret murder it would ha been Andrew Drummond, no my good landlord.’
Gil nodded again, accepting the force of the argument, and looked down at the flaccid corpse. This made less sense than ever, he thought, but it also made it less urgent to find Andrew Drummond. There was simply not time after they had both been seen last for him to have killed this man, got the corpse back here and into the tanpit, and then reached Blackfriars at the end of Compline.
‘Here’s Willie Reid now,’ announced Ally importantly. The journeyman Simon appeared from further down the yard, carrying a bucket and cloth and followed by a tall lean-faced fellow in the burgh livery, his official staff over his shoulder.
‘Well, now,’ said the constable, and grimaced as he caught the first waft from the corpse. ‘What have we here, then?’
Chapter Eight
Mistress Drummond, in her own chair by the peat fire at the centre of the room, turned to Alys where she sat across the hearth on a kist dragged forward from the wall.
‘Will you be starting us off, Mistress Mason?’ she asked. ‘You must have songs we would not be hearing before.’
There were more people crammed into the house of Tigh-an-Teine than Alys would have believed possible. They were seated on the floor, on benches, on chairs and milking-stools and kists, with children and dogs sprawled among the feet. The atmosphere was already thick. The entire Drummond family was present, but there were also several families who seemed to be their tenants, including old Mairead and her husband Tormod, and a group from further up the glen, their women draped in striped plaids which reached from head to foot and had to be carried on the arms to keep the ends out of the dust. And of course Murdo Dubh and Steenie had ridden up from Stronvar with her in the early afternoon, bringing a great cake with plums in it, with Lady Stewart’s compliments, as a further contribution to the feast. Everyone was dressed in holiday clothes, a smart doublet, a bright plaid, a bunch of ribbons pinned at the breast of a good shirt. Alys was glad she had worn the blue gown, even though it meant riding pillion and the box for the headdress had been hard to manage on the short journey. And she finally had the two younger granddaughters, Agnes and Elizabeth, straight in her mind.
To begin, there had been dancing in the yard before the houses, in long sets to a strange sung music provided by the onlookers, rhythmic singing in nonsense-syllables to a catchy tune which made one’s toes tap. The changeling boy, sitting in a nest of blankets on the ground, had screeched and beaten his twisted hands together in time with the dancers’ feet, but when Alys spoke to him he had stared at her in alarm and screamed his peacock scream again. She had been invited to stand up for every set, pushed and pulled laughing through the complex figures by friendly hands, wishing Gil was with her, Socrates trying to stay at her heels and having to be dismissed to the margins at intervals. To everyone’s amusement Davie Drummond was nearly as lost in the dance as she was, protesting when he was teased about it that he had not joined in as a boy, so did not know the steps.
Nor had he taken part when the men danced one by one to the same kind of mouth-music, a wild fierce barefoot leaping with the arms held high, in some sort of competition which Murdo seemed to have carried. There had been more dancing, and then as twilight fell and the biting insects emerged, the company moved indoors bringing the seating with them. Some had spinning or a bundle of grass to braid into rope, others sat and talked. The changeling boy had been strapped into his cradle and was asleep for now. Murdo was seated on a bench near the door, his plaid wrapped round Ailidh Drummond, her head on his shoulder; Steenie seemed to be in a dark corner, from which came occasional giggles.
The sky beyond the open door was still greenish, but a few stars were already pricking through, and the yard was half in darkness. Inside the house there were rushlights and peat-glow, and the refreshments were going round, a jug of usquebae, a jug of ale, slices of the plum cake and oatcakes with green cheese, offered by Agnes and her cousin Elizabeth. Coached on the way up the glen by Murdo, Alys was well prepared for this next stage of the ceilidh.
‘They will be asking you to begin,’ he had said seriously. ‘If you wish it, you can be telling a tale or singing, but there is some who would rather be waiting to see what others offer to the company.’
Recognizing good advice, she wished even more that Gil was with her. Most of the music she knew was for several voices. Now she smiled and parried Mistress Drummond’s invitation politely.
‘No, no, for I have no idea what the company would enjoy. Later, perhaps. Will you not begin, mistress?’
‘Aye, Mammy,’ said Patrick Drummond in his deep solemn voice. ‘Tell us a tale for the bairns, will you not?’