‘And I saw the body,’ said Gil. ‘She was knifed in the
ribs, poor lass. When is the serjeant planning this, Tam?’
‘He never said that neither,’ said Tam. ‘Just that he knew
who it was. I got this off his man Jaikie when we went to
fetch the horses in.’
‘Ah, hearsay,’ said Gil.
‘It’s just as good,’ said Tam. ‘Jaikie knows all the serjeant’s business, he tells me all kind of things.’
‘I hope not,’ said Gil.
‘Never worry, Maister Gil; said Maggie cheerfully. ‘The
half of it’s likely made up.’
Up in the hall, the Official and Maistre Pierre had moved
on to the question of whether the stoneyard at the quarry
qualified as the site. Gil sat down and poured himself
wine, quite content to listen to the argument, but they left
it unresolved and turned to him.
‘Well, Gilbert,’ said his uncle. ‘I have had a profitable
discussion with your friend here. He has a very generous
suggestion to make concerning the harper’s bairn which
we can put to John Sempill when we can meet him.’
‘John’s out this evening. What would that be?’ Gil
asked.
‘Provided the harper agrees,’ stipulated the mason.
‘Oh, understood. But I would be greatly in favour of it, as the boy’s legal adviser. Maister Mason is offering to
foster the child into his own household and raise him.’
‘Alys would like that,’ Gil said.
Alys’s father nodded, smiling fondly at the sound of her
name. ‘So long as she stays under my roof,’ he added.
‘And we must hope that will continue to be possible.’
The Official glanced at the mason, and a portentous look
passed between them. ‘A very profitable evening, Maister
Mason.’
‘More than I have had,’ began Gil, and was interrupted
by a furious barking.
‘What is going on across the way?’ His uncle craned to
look out of the window. ‘Why, there is the serjeant at
Sempill’s door.’
The gate to the Sempill yard was open, and through the
gateway they could see Serjeant Anderson making his
stately way to the house door, taking the long way round
past Doucette, who was out at the end of her chain hurling
abuse. The burgh’s two constables trailed cautiously after
him.
‘Has he decided to arrest John Sempill?’ Gil speculated.
Maggie arrived, with another hastily poured jug of wine,
and stood staring across the street.
‘I tried to get a word with Tammas Sproull,’ she said
with regret, ‘but he was past the kitchen gate before I could
speak to him.’
The serjeant vanished into the house, his men after him.
Someone emerged briefly to shout at the dog, who went
sullenly back to her kennel. Maggie inspected the plate of
girdle-cakes and lifted it to be replenished.
‘They’re taking a while,’ she said hopefully. ‘He’s maybe
putting up a fight.’
‘He’s not there, whoever it is,’ said Gil, looking along the
street. ‘Here they all come-back- from Compline.’
Philip Sempill, James Campbell, resplendent in their
expensive clothes, picked their way along the muddy
street. Euphemia Campbell and her stout companion followed, the Italian just behind them, and to Gil’s great annoyance one of the two gallowglasses came into sight
bringing up the rear.
‘Sempill said those two had gone on an errand. I want
to talk to them.’
‘Could that be why he denied them?’ said his uncle, still
watching the Sempill house. The returning party crossed
the yard, the dog emerged to bark and was cursed back to
her kennel, and all six vanished into the house as the
serjeant had done. ‘You might as well fetch more girdlecakes, Maggie. They’ll be a while longer.’
On the cue, the door of the Sempill house opened. The
mastiff rushed across the yard bellowing threats, and the
constables and the gallowglass emerged dragging a struggling figure. The swaying group got itself down the stairs
with difficulty, followed by the serjeant. Behind him came
a gesticulating James Campbell, seriously impeded by his
sister, who was clinging to him and screaming. They could
hear her quite clearly above the dog’s clamour.
‘My!’ said Maggie with delight.
‘Who is it?’ said David Cunningham. ‘Who have they
arrested?’
‘The Italian,’ said Gil. ‘He’s found his foreigner.’
The serjeant, ignoring the Campbells, sailed across the
street to hammer on the Cunningham house door. Maggie,
muttering, was already on her way to answer it. They
heard her questioning the caller through the spy-hole, then
the rattle of the latch, and her feet on the stairs again.
‘It’s Serjeant Anderson,’ she announced unnecessarily,
stumping into the hall. ‘Wanting a word with the maister.’
‘And with Maister Gilbert Cunningham and all,’ said the
serjeant, proceeding into the room in her wake. ‘Good
evening, maisters.’
‘Well, well, Serjeant,’ said the Official, pushing his spectacles up and down his nose. ‘What is this about, then?’
‘Just to inform you, sir,’ said the serjeant, with some
relish, ‘that we’ve just lifted the man that knifed Bridie
Miller. Seeing Maister Gilbert Cunningham was seeking
her the length and breadth of the town these two days, I thought you’d want to know we’ve got the man, since
he’s likely the man you want as well.’
‘But what proof have you -?’ Gil began.
‘Well, I looked at the body,’ said Serjeant Anderson,
‘and I saw she’d been stabbed with a wee little knife with
a long blade. And I thought, Who carries a knife like that?
An Italian, that’s who. And where is there an Italian in
Glasgow? In Maister Sempill’s house. So we’re just lifting
the Italian and his wee knife now, and if you’ll come down
to the Tolbooth in the morning, when I’ve got him to
confess to my killing, we’ll see if we can get him to confess
to your killing.’
‘But that’s not proof!’
‘Proof? We’ll get a confession in no time, and who needs
proof then? I’ve a burgh to watch, Maister Cunningham.
I’ve more to do than go about asking questions,’ said the
serjeant kindly. ‘It’s far quicker my way.’
‘Serjeant, I thank you for your offer, but I saw the Italian
inside St Mungo’s at the time Bess Stewart was killed. He’s
not my man, and I’m not certain he’s the man you’re after
either. Why should he kill Bridie Miller?’
‘Why should anyone kill a bonnie lass?’ said the serjeant.
‘One reason or another, no doubt. Now I’d best get back to
my men, so if you’ll excuse me, sirs -‘
‘I’ll come out with you,’ said Gil, as shouting floated up
the stairs from the front door.
He and the mason followed Serjeant Anderson down
and across the street, where a small crowd had gathered
and was watching through the gates with interest as the
Italian was dragged across the yard of the Sempill house.
The mastiff was adding her contribution, but over the
thunderous barking Gil heard a number of comments.
‘What’s he done?’
‘If he’s no guilty now, he will be by the morning.’
‘How will they get a confession? He doesny speak
Scots.’
‘That’s no bother. Write something down and make him
put his mark to it.’
The lutenist saw Gil and attempted to fling out a
beseeching hand.
‘Signore avvocato! Aiutarmi, aiutarmi!’
The man holding his left arm buffeted him casually
round the head, and he went limp.
‘What did you do that for?’ said the other man in disgust. ‘Now we’ll have to carry him.’
‘What did he say?’ Gil asked Maistre Pierre.
“‘Maister lawyer, help me.”’
‘What the devil is going on here?’ demanded John
Sempill in his own gateway, his voice carrying without
effort over the dog’s noise.
Euphemia Campbell uttered a shriek which hurt the
ears, let go of her brother and sped across the yard to her
protector, pursued vengefully by the dog until it was
brought up short and choking at the end of its chain. A
great waft of her perfume reached them on the evening air,
making the mason sneeze, as she exclaimed shrilly, ‘Oh,
John! John! He says Antonio killed Bridie Miller and
maybe Bess as well!’
The Italian, hearing her voice, roused himself with an
effort and broke free of the loosened grasp of his captors to
fling himself at her feet, clinging to the hem of her
dress.
‘Donna Eufemia! Donna mia, cara mia bella! Aiutarmi! Non
so niente!’
‘Oh, God, the poor devil,’ said Gil, and moved forward.
Euphemia Campbell, staring down at her servant, said,
‘John, do something! He says he killed them!’
‘Oh, he did, did he,’ said John Sempill, and swung an
arm. Everyone else stood frozen for a moment. There was
a choking gurgle which was not the dog, and one of the
constables stepped forward and tipped the lutenist over
with his foot. The small man turned a dulling, incredulous
gaze on his mistress. Then blood burst from his mouth and
he was still.
‘Oh, God,’ said Gil again. The mason, beside him, was
muttering what sounded like prayers. Euphemia Campbell stared open-mouthed at the dead man, and down at the
blood on her gown. A groan escaped her, and she
shivered.
‘Euphemia!’ said John Sempill. She turned to him, still
shuddering, and he held her with one arm, staring hungrily down at her as the final drops of the lutenist’s blood
dripped off his whinger into the dust of the courtyard.
‘Take me in, John. I must lie down!’
‘Now, I wish you’d not done that, maister,’ said Serjeant
Anderson majestically, ‘but there’s no denying it’s saved
me a bit of bother. Come on, lads,’ he said, beckoning his
constables away. ‘We’ll away down the town. Don’t fret,
you’ll get your groat, you’d made the arrest.’
‘It was murder,’ said Gil. ‘And the devil of it is, he’ll get
away with it.’
‘You think the Italian was innocent?’ said Maistre
Pierre.
They were riding along the north bank of the Clyde, and
Dumbarton’s rock and castle were just coming into view
ahead of them down the river. Maistre Pierre, on a sturdy
roan horse, his stout felt hat hanging down his back on
its strings, was the image of a prosperous burgess on a
journey. Behind them, Matt had not uttered a word since
they left Glasgow. Gil himself, in well-worn riding-boots
and a mended plaid, felt that he did not live up to the
quality of his own mount or Matt’s. David Cunningham
had always had a good eye for a horse.
‘Innocent of the two women’s deaths, certainly,’ he said.
‘I saw him in St Mungo’s all through Compline, at the time
when Bess was killed, which in turn makes it less likely
that he killed Bridie Miller.’
‘I think so also,’ said the mason, ‘because how could he
persuade a girl like Bridie to go apart with him when he
had no Scots?’
‘Some men have no trouble,’ said Gil fairly, ‘but this one
seemed to have eyes for nobody but Euphemia Campbell.
And what she thought would happen if she screamed at
John Sempill like that, is more than I can guess. She has
known him several years, she must know how he acts first
and violently and thinks after if at all.’
‘He certainly acted this time.’
‘And it was murder,’ said Gil again.
‘And he had been her lover also - the Italian.’
‘Yes.’
‘She seemed greatly moved by his death. I thought of
Salome.’
Gil rode on in silence for a time, digesting this remark.
On the other bank, the tower of Erskine dropped behind
them.
‘And where had the gallowglass been?’ he said at length.
‘Sempill said they were on an errand and would be back
on Sunday or Monday. Yet there was one of them last
night. Matt,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘do you know
where the Campbell brothers had been sent? Does Tam?’
‘No,’ said Matt.
‘And do you know where the horses may he while we
are on Bute?’
‘Aye.’
‘Perhaps Matt should stay with them,’ suggested the
mason. ‘We should be back by Monday, God willing, and
can shift without him for two days.’
‘Aye,’ said Matt. Gil twisted in the saddle to look at him,
a small fair man perched expertly on one of David
Cunningham’s tall horses.
‘You could ask about for Annie Thomson,’ he suggested,
and was rewarded by a lowering glance. ‘If I leave you alemoney, you could keep your ears open.’
‘Hmf,’ said Matt.
They rode on, in the growing warmth of a May morning.
Birds sang, the distinctive smell of hawthorn blossom
drifted on the air, making Maistre Pierre sneeze. Lambs
bleated on the heights above them, and the cattle of
Kilpatrick lowed on the grazing-lands, where the herd
laddie popped up from under a gorse-bush to watch them
pass.
It is beautiful countryside,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘So
much cultivated, so pastoral.’
‘It’s nothing compared to Lanarkshire,’ said Gil, and
Matt grunted agreement.
‘And this is an excellent road.’
‘It’s well used. Argyll took half the guns down here to
the siege at Dumbarton in ‘89. They’d need to level the
way for those.’
‘I had forgotten. Alys told me of seeing them go through
Glasgow, and the teams of oxen hauling the big carts.
I missed the sight. I was out looking for building-stone in
Lanarkshire.’
‘You haven’t travelled this way, then?’
‘I have not. Parts of Ayrshire and Renfrewshire I know
also, and the quarries about Glasgow, but not this ground.
What is the stone hereabouts, do you know?’
‘Just stone, I suppose,’ said Gil blankly. ‘Isn’t it all?’
‘Assuredly not.’ The mason leaned over the saddle-bow
again, peering at the road-metal under his horse’s hooves.
‘No, it is still too dusty to distinguish. However these hills
have the appearance of trap, which is not good to build
with, but makes excellent cobbles. Perhaps on the way
back I explore a little. A piece of land to quarry out here,
with a good road to Glasgow, would be a valuable
investment.’
‘Be sure to contract for the mineral rights, then; Gil said,
and got a quizzical look in reply.
Dumbarton town, tucked in the crook of the Leven behind
its rock, was not impressive, a huddle of wattle-and-daub
roofed with furze or turf. Here and there a stone-built
structure had an air of greater permanence, but most of the
houses looked as if they had sprouted, possibly by night,
since the end of the siege of three years since. There did
not appear to be a cobble-stone in the burgh.