Gil studied the man briefly. Dark hair cut short to go
under a helm, dark eyebrows in a long narrow face, blue
eyes which slid sideways from his.
‘You are Neil Campbell?’
‘It iss myself.’ The accent was far stronger than Ealasaidh’s. Gil rephrased his next question.
‘You were sent with a message for Maister Sempill yesterday evening?’
‘I am taking many messages for himself.’
This one was to his wife.’
‘That iss so,’ agreed Campbell, the stern face softening
momentarily. ‘To his wife. In the Fishergait, where she is
liffing with the clarsair.’
‘What was the message?’
‘Oh, I could not be telling that.’ The man’s eyes slid
sideways again.
Gil said patiently, ‘Maister Sempill gave me permission
to ask you. I know what he bade you say, but I need to
know what message reached her.’
‘Oh, I would not know about that.’
‘You know she is dead?’ Gil said.
The blue gaze sharpened. ‘Dhia! You say?’ said the man,
crossing himself. ‘The poor lady!’
‘And you may have been the last to see her alive,’ Gil
pointed out. ‘Did she come up the High Street with you, or
did she follow you?’
‘Oh, I would not know,’ said the man again.
Gil drew a breath, and said with some care, ‘Tell me this,
then. Did the message that John Sempill sent for his wife
reach her, or not?’
‘Oh, it was reaching her,’ said the other man, nodding
sadly. ‘And then she was coming up the hill, and now she
is dead. How did she come to die, maister?’
‘Someone knifed her,’ said Gil. The narrow face opposite
him froze; the blue eyes closed, and opened again.
‘What do you know about her death?’ Gil asked.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all, at all,’ said the gallowglass, through stiffened lips. ‘The last I saw her she was well and
living.’
‘Did she come up the hill with you?’
‘Not with me, no, she did not.’ This seemed to be the
truth, Gil thought. The man was too shaken to prevaricate.
‘And what was the message?’
‘That I cannot be telling you.’
‘Why can’t you tell me?’
‘Chust it is not possible. Is the chentleman finished
asking at me?’
Gil gave up.
‘Will you tell Maister Sempill I have done with you for
the moment,’ he said. ‘I will need to get another word with
you later.’
The man turned and tramped out. Baffled, Gil stared
after him, then bent his attention to the tools on the sill
again. He was still studying them when John Sempill
returned.
‘I could have told you you’d not get much out of Neil,’
he said. ‘Him and his brother, they’re both wild Ersche.
You need the two tongues to deal with them.’
‘How do you manage?’ Gil asked, controlling his
irritation.
‘Oh, they have enough Scots for my purposes. Do you
still want to speak to the others?’
‘Yes, if it is possible.’ Gil rose, and followed Sempill
across the hall, picking his way past hunting gear and half
a set of plate armour, and up a wheel stair at the other side
towards a continuous sound of voices. The room at the top
of the stair was hung with much-mended verdure tapestry,
and replete with cushions, among which Lady Euphemia
Campbell was sewing and chattering away like a goldfinch
to her middle-aged waiting-woman.
They made a pleasing sight. Lady Euphemia, wearing a
wealth of pleated linen on her head, fathoms more
rumpled round her, appeared daintier than ever. Her stout
companion, stolidly threading needles, merely served to
emphasize this further. Under her coarse black linen veil her face reminded Gil of the dough faces Maggie used to
bake for him and his brothers and sisters, with small black
currant eyes and a slit of a mouth.
‘Here’s Euphemia, making sheets to her bed,’ said
Sempill. ‘I can make do with blankets myself, but she’s too
delicate for that.’
‘Venus rising from the foam,’ said Gil, and added
politely, ‘in duplicate.’
This won him a suspicious look from Sempill and two
approving smiles. Someone laughed at the other end of the
room.
‘And there’s my cousin Philip and Euphemia’s brother,’
added Sempill.
‘Have some claret, priest,’ suggested one of the two men
by the blank fireplace, darkly handsome and much
Sempill’s age. ‘Since my good-brother does not see fit to
introduce us, let me tell you I am James Campbell of
Glenstriven. Are you here to explain why we’ve to wait to
finish this sale?’
‘In a way,’ agreed Gil, accepting a cup of wine and
adding water. ‘I am Gilbert Cunningham of the Consistory
Court.’ He waited until the familiar chill in his stomach
dispelled itself, and continued, ‘I’ll drink to a successful
conclusion with you. Perhaps John has already explained
that Bess Stewart his wife was killed last night in the
kirkyard of St Mungo’s. We need to find out who did it
and take him up.’
‘Why?’ said Campbell of Glenstriven. ‘She was an adulterous wife, she’s dead. Why bother yourself with her?’
‘That comes well from you, James Campbell!’ said
Sempill indignantly.
‘I spoke nothing but the truth.’
‘She was a Christian soul killed on Church land,’ said
Gil, ‘and she died unshriven of her adultery. St Mungo’s
owes her justice. Moreover, the manner of her death must
be clarified before John’s sole right to the land can be
certain.’
‘Why?’ said Sempill blankly. ‘What’s that to do with it?’ Behind him there was a pause in the chatter at the other
end of the room.
‘You mean in case it was John killed her?’ said Campbell
of Glenstriven.
Sempill’s colour rose. ‘I never set eyes on her last night!’
he said loudly. ‘I wanted her agreement, she’d to turn out
today and sign her name - I never killed her!’
‘I have not said you did,’ said Gil. ‘Just the same, that’s
why the sale must wait.’
Philip Sempill looked up from his wine. Physically he
was a paler imitation of his cousin, fair rather than sandy,
less stocky, quieter in speech and movement and less forceful in manner. Like him, he was wearing an old leather
jerkin, which contrasted oddly with James Campbell’s
wide-sleeved green velvet gown.
‘Och, well,’ he said, his voice sounding thickened. ‘Ask
away, Gil. We’ll answer you, at least.’
His cousin stared at him.
‘You got the rheum, Philip? You can stay away from
Euphemia if you have, I don’t want her getting sick just
now.,
‘It’s nothing much,’ said the fair man. ‘Gil?’
Gil hesitated, considering. The three men watched him;
the two women had gone back to their sewing, but he was
aware that Lady Euphemia flicked him a glance from time
to time. Squaring his shoulders, he began:
‘You were all at Compline.’ The three men nodded. ‘Was
the kirkyard busy when you went down to St Mungo’s?’
‘I wouldn’t say so,’ said Philip Sempill. ‘A few folk
coming down from the Stablegreen and Rottenrow, a last
few youngsters going home to a beating for staying out.
I saw a couple in that stand of haw-bushes.’
‘Would you know them again?’ Gil asked.
The other man shook his head. ‘Likely not. Oh - the boy
had striped hose on. The Deil knows where he got such a
thing in Glasgow.’
I saw them,’ said Euphemia Campbell, breaking off her
chatter. She had a high pretty voice with a laugh in it, and a dimple came and went in her cheek as she spoke. ‘But
they were further down the hill. I wondered where he got
the striped hose too. Surely not in Glasgow, I never saw
such a dreary place. I swear you can buy better wares in
Rothesay.’
‘When did you see them?’ Gil asked.
She giggled. ‘It must have been later, mustn’t it, if they
were in the haw-trees when Philip saw them? Maybe after
Compline when we all came out?’
I never saw them,’ said Sempill suspiciously.
‘Maybe you were looking at me,’ she cooed. He stared at
her as if he could not help it, and she smiled at him so that
the dimple flashed then turned back to her sewing and her
chatter, with what appeared to be a highly coloured
account of how she had purchased the linen. Her waitingwoman nodded in time to her words.
‘Did you see anybody in the kirkyard after the Office?’
Gil asked. The men exchanged glances, and all shook their
heads.
‘Not even Bess, damn her,’ said Sempill. ‘I told you -
Neil came into the kirk, said he’d left her in the hawbushes, but when I went out she’d gone.’ He stared at the
empty fireplace, chewing his lip. ‘Not a sign of her.
I checked through the bushes - you can see right through,
but I went to the other side. I looked down the kirkyard,
and not a thing was stirring.’
‘You are sure of that?’ said Gil.
‘I keep telling you. Besides,’ he added, undermining this
statement, ‘I assumed she’d run off. If she could do me an
ill turn she would.’
‘We were close enough behind to see him moving about
in the haw-bushes,’ said his cousin, and James Campbell
nodded and muttered something that might have been
agreement.
‘And were you all together during Compline?’
Once more they exchanged glances. After a moment
Campbell said, fiddling with his embroidered shirt-duffs,
‘There was some coming and going to other altars. You know the style of thing. I was gone long enough myself to
say a prayer to St James and come back to the others.’
‘I left money for candles to St Thomas,’ agreed Philip
Sempill. ‘It took me the length of a Gloria, I suppose. John
was the only one who stood the Office through. Oh, and
one of the men. Euan, maybe.’
‘I thought you were watching us, Maister Cunningham,’
said Lady Euphemia, looking up with her needle poised
above her seam. ‘Did you not see where we all were?’
‘My attention may have wandered,’ said Gil drily.
Sempill frowned, looking for the insult, but Lady
Euphemia cast her eyes down again, and the dimple
flashed. ‘And the wee dark fellow?’ Gil continued. ‘What
is he, a musician? Where was he?’
‘Antonio?’ said James Campbell dismissively. ‘He’d
likely be listening to the music. I’ll swear he thinks in
tablature.’
‘Never in Scots, that’s for certain,’ said Sempill. Gil,
turning to set down his wine-cup, caught sight of
Euphemia’s expression. She was listening to her companion, but her needle had paused again, and her mouth
curved, softly crooked as if she was recalling the taste of
stolen fruit.
‘And afterwards?’ he continued. ‘ou all came back to
the house together?’
‘Oh, yes. And sat together afterwards. We were up here
for an hour or so listening to lute music.’ Philip Sempill
looked round, and Campbell of Glenstriven said,
‘Aye, that sounds about right. And playing at the cards;
he added.
‘Even the two gallowglasses?’
‘Neil and Euan?’ said John Sempill dismissively. ‘They’d
be in the kitchen, likely, you could ask Marriott
Kennedy.’
‘And what about the dead woman?’ Gil asked. ‘Tell me
about her. Why would anybody want to kill her?’
Three pairs of eyes stared, and there was a pause in the
chatter behind him.
‘I took it to be some beggar or broken man,’ said Sempill
after a moment. ‘Why should it have been deliberate?’
‘I hoped you could tell me that.’
‘She was a quiet body,’ said Philip Sempill thickly, shaking his head.
‘Quiet!’ exploded his cousin. ‘She scarcely had a word,
and that not civil.’
‘That was after you took your belt to her.’
‘And why would I not? I needed an heir - she knew
I needed an heir - and then she lost it, the clumsy bitch. So
after that she never spoke to me. And if she had I’d have
clouted her round the lug for what she cost me.’
Rage boiled up, a physical presence in Gil’s chest. He
put up a hand to finger his upper lip in concealment,
taking a moment to compose himself, astonished at the
strength of the response. Never condemn, his uncle had said,
you’ll get the story clearer. He had been referring to pleas of
divorce, but it applied just as firmly here.
‘Cost you?’ he asked, when he was sure of his voice.
‘Aye. Well. My uncle. He’s made it clear I have to settle
down, not only wedded but with an heir, if I’m to get his
estate. So she lost the brat, and ran off before I could get
another, and if the old ruddoch dies at the wrong moment
the whole lot goes to Holy Church and I’ll not get my
hands on it, may they both rot in Hell for it.’
‘It might have been a lassie,’ Philip Sempill pointed out.
His cousin snarled at him.
‘Did your wife have friends?’ Gil asked.
‘Other than the harpers, you mean?’ said Euphemia.
Sempill swivelled to look at her. ‘I’m sorry, John, but it was
notorious. Every musician that came to Rothesay was in
her chamber.’ She giggled, and the dimple flashed at Gil.
‘They say she had a key for every harp west of Dumbarton, and her own ideas about speed of performance.’
Sempill glared at her, and her brother said, ‘Now,
Euphemia,’ and raised an admonishing finger in a gesture
which Gil found suddenly familiar.
‘So it might have been a jealous lover,’ she finished triumphantly. Sempill made a move towards her, but she
lifted her chin and smiled at him, showing little white
teeth, and he stopped.
‘What -‘ said Campbell of Glenstriven rather loudly.
‘What did you mean, Maister Cunningham, about the
couple in the bushes? Was it just the state of sin they were
in, or had you a purpose asking about them?’
‘I did,’ said Gil. ‘We’ve found the laddie, but he’s no
help. We need to find his sweetheart.’
‘Can he not tell you who she is?’
‘He can tell us nothing. He was struck on the head there
in the kirkyard and now lies near to death. There may have
been two ill-doers abroad in St Mungo’s yard last night.’
Lady Euphemia, suddenly as white as her linen headdress, stared at Gil for a moment. Then her eyes rolled up
in her head and she slipped sideways into the arms of her
companion. Sempill, with a muffled curse, sprang forward
to land on his knees beside her, patting frantically at her
cheek and hands.