A Pig of Cold Poison Read online

  ‘But if there’s some doubt about the flask –’ Gil began, swallowing anger.

  ‘Ach, nonsense,’ said Maister Hamilton roundly. ‘We’ve only this daftheid’s word on that, and he’s the one that tellt our Andrew Dumbarton Rock was on fire.’

  Nicol flourished one hand and bowed, still grinning, and young Andrew went scarlet and glowered at his father. The Serjeant, ignoring the exchange, summoned his constable and proceeded grandly towards the door Morison had indicated. Gil, following him, paused as he found Maistre Pierre at his elbow.

  ‘The man is safe meantime, if he is in the Tolbooth,’ the mason observed in French. ‘But I agree, it is not at all a certainty.’

  ‘I’m not happy,’ Gil admitted, ‘but there is too little to go on. Better to let him take the fellow up, I suppose, while I ask questions further afield.’

  In the hall-chamber the apothecaries were packing up their equipment, a set of wicked little knives, the basin in which the cataplasm had been mixed, the packets of strong-smelling herbs which went neatly back into the leather case. Robert Renfrew, holding a bowl of blood, stood aside for the Serjeant to enter and his father looked up from his herbs and said:

  ‘Aye, Serjeant. It’s murder right enough. Have you arrested the fellow?’

  ‘In good time,’ returned Serjeant Anderson, sailing towards the bed. ‘Poor Danny. A good lad, so I believe.’ He removed his hat briefly, and replaced it, then nodded at the mummers still seated in a row where Gil had left them, four of them numb and silent, the other young champion now sobbing into his hands. ‘Aye, fellows,’ he went on. ‘A bad business, a bad business. It just goes to show what following your heart can do to a young man.’

  Maister Renfrew closed down his case and fastened the strap. Its lid was ornamented with the same sign as hung over his door, the sun rising out of a mortar.

  ‘He’s brought the craft into disrepute,’ he said grimly, ‘and I’ll see him hang for it.’

  Gil turned away from the doorway and moved across the hall, towards the seated prisoner, but before he had taken two steps there was a hammering at the house door, an urgent voice shouting, ‘Let me in! Let me in! Is Nanty there?’

  The two journeymen guarding the prisoner looked at one another blankly; Morison emerged from the hall-chamber, Andy Paterson the steward could be heard clumping up the kitchen stairs, but Gil himself was nearest. When he opened the door the woman on the other side of it almost fell in out of the twilight, still saying, ‘Is Nanty here? Let me see him! What’s ado?’

  ‘Christian!’ exclaimed the prisoner.

  She straightened up, looking round for him, and hurried to his side. ‘Our Lady save us all, Nanty, what’s amiss here? They tellt me – they tellt me – it’s never true, is it? A man dead, and by your hand?’

  Bothwell looked up at her, his face working.

  ‘Danny’s dead,’ he said. ‘It wasny by my hand, Christian, I swear it, but he’s dead none the less.’

  She stood over him, some of her fears allayed, and set a hand on his shoulder. She was a stocky woman, older than her brother, dressed in a decent gown of woad-blue worsted, the ends of her linen kerchief knotted behind her head, her apron stained with the different colours of an apothecary’s stock-in-trade. She had come out without a plaid.

  ‘You don’t need to swear it for me, my laddie,’ she said, with fond untruth. ‘I’d never ha believed it, whoever tellt me it. But what’s ado then? Why are you bound like this?’ She turned, looking round the chamber, and her eye fastened on Gil. ‘Is it you that’s in charge, sir? Why is my brother being held?’

  ‘There’s a man deid, Christian,’ said Wat Forrest’s quiet wife. Barbara Hislop, that was it, Gil thought.

  ‘He pysont Danny Gibson,’ said Maister Wilkie bluntly, ‘no matter what he swears on, for we all saw it happen.’

  ‘But how?’ she said, staring at him. ‘You all saw? How would that happen, in front of a room full of people, and none of them raise a hand to stop it?’

  ‘All sudden, it was,’ said Mistress Hamilton. ‘We’d none of us a suspicion, till he fell down in a fit.’

  ‘It must ha been something in the flask, Chrissie,’ said Bothwell, swallowing hard, ‘but whatever it was I never put it there.’

  ‘Aye, and what flask?’ she demanded. ‘I’ve got your flask here.’ She put a hand under her apron and drew out a small pewter flask, which she shook. ‘You left it below the counter, I’d just found it when Girzie Murray from the Fishergate cam in by the booth and said you were taken up for murder.’

  Well, well, thought Gil. So Nicol Renfrew was right.

  ‘It was this flask, mistress.’ James Syme stepped past Morison where he still stood open-mouthed in the door of the hall-chamber, and held up the painted pottery object which had emerged from the doctor’s great scrip at the vital moment.

  ‘That looks like one of –’ she began, and bit off the words.

  ‘We all had some of that shipment,’ said Adam Forrest from behind Syme. ‘You ken that, Christian.’

  Morison pulled himself together and came forward, saying, ‘Maisters, I think the Serjeant wants to ask us what happened, and then we’re free to go, and I’m right sorry to have had to keep you here so long.’

  ‘No trouble,’ said Andrew Hamilton the elder in cheerful tones, ‘I’d stay longer than this in company wi your clarry wine, Augie.’

  ‘So can you untie my brother, sir?’ demanded Christian Bothwell.

  ‘No, no, we’ll no untie him the now,’ announced the Serjeant, emerging in his turn from the hall-chamber. ‘He’s safe where he is till Tammas and me’s ready to take him away.’

  ‘Away? Are you arresting him? But he never – I’ll not –’

  ‘He’s guilty, woman, and no use to protest,’ said Wilkie.

  ‘If it wasn’t the right flask,’ said Gil, nodding at the little pewter one which Christian still held, ‘where did you get the other one? The one you used?’

  ‘Why, I –’ began Bothwell, and stopped, staring in horror at the bright glaze of the flask in Syme’s hand. Sweat broke out across his brow, and he closed his mouth, swallowed, and said, ‘I – I forget.’

  ‘No point in questioning him here,’ said the Serjeant. ‘I’ll get all the answers I need out of him, down at the Tolbooth. Now, maisters, mistresses, I’ve heard from the man’s fellows, and from the potyngars that treated him, I’ll take your account of what passed, if it’s convenient, and then I’ll get away out your road.’

  ‘What’s in the right flask?’ Gil asked.

  ‘This and that to make a smoke when it’s opened.’ Christian drew the stopper and waved her hand, and a cloud of sinister bluish vapour trailed after the open flask.

  ‘There’s no harm in it,’ said her brother wearily, ‘but it looks good.’

  ‘And in the other?’ Gil looked from Syme to his colleagues. ‘What would you say killed Danny Gibson? Can you prove what’s in the flask in any way?’

  ‘What, taste it ourselves?’ said Robert Renfrew. He had found a discarded tray of sweetmeats. ‘I think no!’ he said, and popped a marchpane cherry into his mouth.

  His father frowned at him, and said heavily, ‘That’s a task for one of us, I’d say, it being apothecary business. There’s ways to prove pysons, though something that acts so swift and in small quantity – aye, well, the craft will tell.’

  ‘The craft will tell,’ agreed Syme, ‘though it takes great learning to prove a poison.’

  ‘I’ll take that on, Frankie,’ offered Wat Forrest. Syme looked annoyed. ‘You’ve trouble enough in your household the night, without extra work.’

  ‘Aye, I should be away,’ admitted Maister Renfrew reluctantly, ‘and see how the lass is doing. They’d ha sent word if the bairn had come home, I suppose. But I’d as soon see Bothwell took up for murder afore I go.’

  ‘No, no, just you get away, maister,’ said the Serjeant, with slightly forced civility, ‘and let me speak wi these worthies. Then we
can all get home to our supper. Maister Cunningham, if you want to run about testing pysons, I’ll no stop ye, and if Maister Forrest wants to take the nasty stuff away wi him I’ll be just as glad no to have the care o sic a thing myself, but I’ll ha Nanty Bothwell safe in the cells at the Tolbooth in any case, so he’ll no slay any more folk.’

  ‘We’ll never dare entertain again,’ said Kate. She spoke lightly, but her eyes were shadowed.

  ‘No, no,’ said Maistre Pierre comfortingly, a wedge of pie halfway to his mouth. ‘Once the poor fellow is buried you can be sure it will all be forgotten.’

  ‘Aye, but the quest,’ said Morison. ‘The whole town will be there to hear. There was a crowd at the gates the now, when I saw the Serjeant off the premises.’

  Alys patted Kate’s arm. ‘Better to wait, as my father says, till the poor man is buried,’ she said, ‘but after that, you must hold a gathering for a great many people, and hold your head up and wear all your jewels. And Augie must wear the King’s chain.’

  ‘And invite the Provost,’ said Gil, ‘and our uncle.’

  ‘And your neighbours,’ added Alys. ‘You are right, Kate, Grace Gordon is well worth the knowing. When did you say they came home, she and Nicol?’

  ‘In May, was it? Poor soul, she’d have had her own bairn by now, but she miscarried within days of reaching Glasgow, and kept her chamber a month or more after it. She’s well now, I’d say, but –’ Kate glanced at Alys, and stopped in mid-sentence.

  The last of the other guests had eventually left, still exclaiming about the afternoon’s entertainment, but Kate had begged the mason’s party to wait on and eat a bite of supper in private with them, saying, ‘I’ve no idea what’s left in the house, it could be thin fare, but we could both do with your company.’

  In fact it was a substantial meal before them, the more so since Kate picked at her plate of cold raised pie and refused the mould of rice and almonds which Ursel had sent up with apologies.

  Morison cast her an anxious glance now, served Alys with a wedge of onion flan, and said, ‘I’m less than convinced it was murder under our roof, anyway. Young Bothwell seemed as stricken as any of us by the man’s death. Can you do aught about it, Gil? After all, you – you got me –’

  Kate shivered. He dropped his serving-knife to put a comforting hand over hers.

  ‘I feel very sorry for that poor woman, his sister,’ said Alys. She and Kate had been in time to witness the removal of the prisoner, with Christian’s angry attempts to interfere restrained by Nancy Sproull and a more sympathetic Barbara Hislop.

  ‘I’m not convinced it was murder by Nanty Bothwell,’ said Gil. ‘I’ll report to my lord and get his instruction, but I agree, Augie, I should be asking questions already, before folk forget what they saw.’

  ‘And what did we see?’ asked Maistre Pierre rhetorically. ‘The only opportunity to poison the man while the players were there in the hall,’ he gestured with his third slice of pie at the door of the small chamber where they sat, ‘was when the doctor put the drops to raise him up.’ He grimaced at the irony implied. ‘But was there some other way it could be ministered?’

  ‘The sword?’ said Morison.

  ‘Was wooden,’ said Gil, ‘and they never struck flesh. It was a very clever display,’ he added, ‘they were well practised.’

  ‘The armour?’ suggested Alys. ‘Something they ate or drank in the kitchen?’

  ‘Christ preserve us,’ said Morison, ‘I never thought o that. Kate, should we –?’

  ‘I’ll ask Ursel,’ said Kate with more resolution. ‘She was to give them ale, she’d likely serve it from the barrel or from a common jug, but she might ha noticed something.’

  ‘The man was rubbing at his mouth,’ Gil recalled, ‘just before he collapsed. Did the drops go on his mouth, Alys? I think you saw better than I did.’

  ‘The second time,’ she agreed. ‘The first time he only touched the man with the lip of the flask, but the second time when he said, Three drops to your beak, I saw them fall.’

  ‘If that was the moment,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘it worked with astonishing speed.’

  ‘He fell down within a quarter-hour,’ said Alys.

  ‘Less,’ said Gil. ‘The length of a Te Deum, maybe.’

  ‘I can’t bear this. Let’s talk of something else,’ said Kate. ‘Tell me how John does.’

  Nothing loath to discuss his foster-son, Maistre Pierre launched into an account of how the boy had escaped into the garden that morning, and had been found seated on the stone bench beside the wolfhound Socrates, singing to a blackbird.

  ‘He has a sweet little voice,’ said Alys, ‘and very true.’

  ‘Well, his father is a harper,’ Kate pointed out, ‘and his mother could sing, by what you tell me.’

  Morison had turned his head, listening to a disturbance elsewhere in the house. He pushed his chair back, but before he could rise the chamber door was opened.

  ‘Maister?’ said Andy Paterson. ‘My leddy? Here’s Adam Forrest out in the hall, wanting a word wi Maister Gil, and I’ve two o the mummers in the kitchen on the same errand. What’ll I do wi them all?’

  ‘Give the mummers some ale and bid them wait,’ said Kate decisively, ‘and ask Maister Forrest if he’d care to step in here and join us, and bring him a glass and trencher.’

  Adam Forrest, much embarrassed, refused food but was persuaded to some more of Morison’s claret.

  ‘My good-sister Barbara keeps a good kitchen,’ he said, ‘we’d our supper already, though none of us was that hungry, what wi one thing and another.’

  ‘Nor are we,’ agreed Morison, in flagrant disregard of Maistre Pierre’s laden plate. ‘It’s a bad business, Adam.’

  ‘Aye, a bad business,’ agreed Adam, ‘and I’m right sorry to ha troubled you at your meal, Lady Kate, but –’ He slid a sideways look at Gil. ‘I just. It’s a bit.’ He ran a finger round the rim of his wineglass. ‘I just –’

  ‘Go on,’ said Gil encouragingly.

  ‘Well. Will you be looking further into the business, Gil?’

  ‘He will,’ said Kate and Alys, speaking together.

  Gil suppressed irritation and said, ‘I’ll report to my lord, but I think he will want me to investigate, aye.’

  Adam sat back and nodded in obvious relief.

  ‘You don’t think Maister Bothwell guilty?’ Alys said.

  ‘I’d never ha taken him for a pysoner,’ said Adam simply. ‘It’s what we all deal in, certainly, the most of an apothecary’s trade is in things that will kill in some quantity or another, but we’re sworn to use our skills to support life, no to end it, and Nanty’s a good craftsman, I’d never ha thought he’d bring the craft into disrepute this way, no matter Frankie Renfrew’s opinion.’

  ‘Do we know yet what was in the flask?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘Your brother was to prove it, I think.’

  ‘He was just setting to that when I came out,’ admitted Adam. ‘We were both of us right puzzled by it. It’s a kind of a whitish liquid, like almond milk, though I couldny say if it smells like almond milk too, for we never got too close to it, seeing what it’s done to Danny Gibson.’

  ‘And what was that?’ said Gil. ‘What signs did you observe before he died?’

  ‘Gil, must we hear this again? You saw him too,’ objected Morison, taking Kate’s hand.

  ‘I’m no apothecary,’ Gil said quietly. ‘I’d as soon hear what the trained man saw.’

  ‘Well, we all saw him,’ said Forrest with confidence. ‘Nanty said he never swallowed, it was only a couple of drops touched his mouth. But with that minimissimal dose, he went short of breath even after he’d had time to recover from the battle, there was a great excess of choler which made his face red and caused him dizziness so that he fell down.’ He closed his eyes to recall the scene better, and Kate bit her lip and turned her face away. ‘His breathing was fast and shallow, with a great strain on the heart, leading to seizures,’ he recited, as if he was
composing a report, ‘which eventually slew him.’ He crossed himself. ‘We did what we could, the five o us, but it’s my belief there would never ha been any saving him, no matter what remedies we tried.’

  ‘It sounds like no ailment I ever heard of,’ said Alys. ‘It could only be poison, I am certain.’

  ‘And I,’ said her father, ‘and the rest of Glasgow I suppose, but what poison? And if it did not get into the flask at young Bothwell’s hand, then whose?’

  ‘The flask,’ said Gil. ‘I thought Mistress Christian recognized the flask. The one that was used instead of Bothwell’s own. That bright pottery is distinctive.’

  ‘Well, no, it isny,’ said Adam awkwardly. ‘We’ve all three got some, all three o the businesses. We use them for the luxury goods. It was a barrel we had from Middelburgh, of painted ware out of Araby or somewhere. Frankie ordered it up last spring, and took the most of the batch, but Nanty had five or six, and me and my brother took a dozen.’

  ‘In proportion as you trade in the burgh,’ said Maistre Pierre, wiping his platter with a piece of bread. ‘You have your custom well apportioned between you. Maister Renfrew trades in luxuries, in cosmetics and expensive fine goods, you and your brother have the middle part of the market and young Bothwell serves the poorer sort that can yet pay for materia medica. All works out well, I should say.’

  ‘I’d say so,’ agreed Adam, ‘though I’ve noticed Frankie – well, enough of that.’

  ‘So whose was that flask?’ Alys asked. ‘One of Maister Bothwell’s, or another?’

  ‘We’d need to count them all afore I could tell you that,’ Adam admitted. ‘They’re each a bit different, but hardly enough to tell one on its own like that. I don’t see it could be one of ours, but I can check,’ he added.

  ‘Would the other mummers know where the flask came from?’ asked Morison.

  Kate glanced quickly at him, and said, ‘You could speak to them in the kitchen, Gil, rather than bring them up where their fellow died. Maybe Maister Forrest would have some questions for them and all.’