The Merchant's Mark (3 page)

Seen by daylight, the younger girl had a pinched, sharp little face, and a penetrating grey scowl. The taller one, who seemed never to speak, had inherited her father’s blue eyes, but
gazed timidly at the stranger from behind her fall of dust-coloured hair. In both girls Gil recognized a strong likeness to their father and uncle as children.

‘Not to stare!’ ordered the scowling child. ‘Wynliane doesny want you to stare!’

‘Ysonde, where are your manners?’ said her father sternly.

She shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

He tightened his lips and stared at her a moment, then said, ‘Go to Mall, as I bade you. Go now, Ysonde,’ he added, as she opened her mouth to argue, ‘before Da gets angry.
Take your sister, and stay with Mall until dinnertime.’

Ysonde took a deep breath and snorted down her nose, tossed her head at her father, and clopped away across the yard towards the stone-built kitchen at the end of the domestic range, her sister
drifting after her.

‘I don’t know. Maybe I should beat them,’ said Morison doubtfully as they went.

‘I’m no judge,’ said Gil, ‘but I think you need a better nurse for them.’

Maistre Pierre had put his beads away and was peering at the unpleasant relic in the light from the lantern, which Andy had set down beside the pool of water.

‘Did you tell the men, Andy?’ asked his master from behind Gil.

‘I did not. Time enough to let the word out when we canny keep it in. I fetched some rags and all, we can dry him off a bit, make him more lifelike.’

Morison threw one glance at the loose-mouthed leering face in the lantern-light and turned away, but Gil got down on one knee and looked closely as Andy performed his charitable task.

‘Can we tell how long he’s been in there?’ he asked.

‘When he died, you mean?’ said the mason. ‘No, I would say not. The brine, you see, would preserve all as it was at death. If he did stiffen, it has long since worn off, the
jaw is quite slack –’

‘I’ll wait for the serjeant,’ said Morison. ‘Out in the yard.’

‘You do that, Augie,’ said Gil. ‘You can keep the bairns away, if needs be.’

‘Was he heidit?’ Andy asked, smoothing the short wet hair.

‘Is that how he died, you mean? I cannot be sure, but I think not. There is very little blood present. I think by that he was already dead, maybe from a smaller wound to the body, before
his head was cut off. There is a bruise below his eye, but that would not have killed him.’

‘It’s more than a bruise,’ said Andy, moving the lantern. ‘Someone’s blued his ee for him, and it’s had time to fade.’

‘Andy,’ said Gil sharply. ‘Hold the light closer.’

‘What is it?’ said the mason. ‘Do you know him, after all?’

‘I fear I do,’ said Gil. ‘What colour are his eyes, would you say?’

‘Blue,’ said Andy.

‘Brown,’ said the mason at the same moment.

‘One blue, one brown,’ said Gil from directly in front of the blank gaze. ‘Pierre, do you mind that musician that was in the burgh in May? He talked like a Leith man, but he
called himself Balthasar of Liège, if I remember. He’d one blue eye and one brown like this.’

‘There cannot be many such in Scotland,’ said the mason doubtfully. ‘I thought that man wore his hair longer. And an earring.’

‘Hair can be cut.’

‘This one’s worn an earring at some time,’ said Andy, feeling at the earlobe nearest him. ‘Or is it two?’

‘This is a fighting man’s style of barbering,’ pursued the mason, ‘fit to go under a helm of some sort. I can think of reasons to kill a travelling lutenist, but why,
having done so, should someone cut off his head and put it in a barrel? And that man was no fighter, I should have said.’

‘Besides, his music wasn’t that bad. What worries me,’ said Gil, ‘is when this was exchanged for our barrel of books. And where are the books?’

A small commotion at the yett proclaimed the arrival of Serjeant Anderson. His voice carried without effort across the yard.

‘Aye, Maister Morison. Jamesie here says you want me.’ Morison mumbled something. ‘What, in the shed? Show us, then, maister.’

He proceeded into the shed, large and red-faced, thumbs tucked in the expansive belt of his official blue gown, and came to an abrupt halt as his gaze fell on the head, so that his constable
collided with his broad back.

‘Look where you’re going, Tammas,’ he said in annoyance. ‘Well, well. Good day to ye, Maister Cunningham, Maister Mason. And what have you been doing here? ’

The constable, catching sight of the relic over his shoulder, shut his eyes and grimaced. Behind him, the man Jamesie stood in the open doorway and stared, then suddenly turned and hurried off
towards the barn.

‘This was in that barrel,’ said Gil.

‘Instead of some books,’ supplied Morison from the doorway, ‘which is what we were expecting.’

‘Books?’ said the serjeant. ‘So instead of one worthless shipment you got another, hey?’ He laughed at his own humour, and bent to peer into the leering face. ‘And
where did the barrel come from, Maister Morison? Once we ken that we’ll ken who he is, I’ve no doubt.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Morison helplessly. ‘I fetched the whole shipment from Linlithgow myself. It came across from Middelburgh in Thomas Tod’s ship, and I saw it
unloaded at Blackness shore and set on the carts. Then I convoyed it to Glasgow.’

‘Ah-hah,’ said the serjeant. ‘And does any of you gentles recognize him?’

‘I wondered if it might be Balthasar of Liège,’ said Gil. ‘The lutenist, you mind?’

‘Oh, him. No, he left the burgh in May. I wouldny say it was him.’ The serjeant considered the head. ‘Would you just call your men, maister? I’ll have a word with them
too while I’m here.’

‘I don’t want –’ began Morison, and got a sharp look. ‘I don’t want the bairns to see this.’

‘Two wee lassies, isn’t it no? No a sight for wee lassies,’ agreed the serjeant weightily. ‘So if you’ll call your men, then I can get this out of your
way.’

‘I’ll get them,’ said Andy. He stepped to the door, but paused there, saying with disapproval, ‘Oh, you’re all here, are ye? Well, ye might as well come in. The law
wants ye.’

He stood aside, and half a dozen men pushed into the shed, eyes agog for a sight of the horrors Jamesie had obviously described to them.

‘St Peter’s bones!’ said someone. ‘Did that come back on the cart, Billy?’

‘How would I ken?’ retorted Billy. ‘I never opened any barrels!’

Slightly to Gil’s surprise, the serjeant established quickly and without argument which of the men had not been near the cart or the puncheon since it came into the yard. These two he
dismissed, and they went reluctantly, with sidelong glances at the head on its dais, and hovered out in the yard near the door.

‘Now you, William Soutar,’ the serjeant continued. ‘What do you know?’

William, it seemed, had helped Andy take the puncheon off the cart this morning.

‘Which we needed to do, maister,’ he continued, ‘since the other two big pipes needed to come off and all, and this wee one was just at the tail. But it wasny open, serjeant,
for I’d have noticed that.’

‘And it was this barrel?’

‘Oh, aye, it was this barrel. I mind the marks on it.’

‘You’re certain, are you?’ the serjeant pressed.

‘Aye, I’m certain!’ retorted William. ‘I’ve marked enough barrels mysel, maister.’

‘Aye, right,’ said the serjeant, his tone combining acceptance and scepticism. ‘And then what did you do?’

‘Went back to my work, and the laddie helped Andy handle it over here to the shed.’

‘And had you seen it afore that?’

‘Just when it came into the yard last evening, serjeant. On the cart. Which it wasn’t me drove it, for I was left here at the yard while Andy and Billy and Jamesie went with the
maister.’

‘And you, John? Had you seen it afore?’

‘No, serjeant,’ said the laddie, a scrawny fourteen-year-old with a strong resemblance to Andy. ‘No till my uncle bid me help him with it.’

‘Right,’ said the serjeant, tucking his thumbs into his belt. ‘Now, Blackness, I think ye said, Maister Morison?’ Morison nodded, still standing by the door where he need
not look at the head. ‘Who was it put the barrel on the cart? Was it you, Billy Walker? Our Mall tells me you’re carter here.’

‘Aye, it was,’ agreed Billy. He came forward reluctantly when the serjeant bade him, and eyed the head, biting his lip.

‘And it’s the same barrel?’

‘There was only the one this size. I canny see that we’d have got it by mistake.’

Anderson grunted, but forbore to press him on this point. ‘And does any of you ken who he might be?’

There was a silence, and then a general shaking of heads.

‘Maybe he’s from the Low Countries,’ said Billy suddenly. ‘Aye, that’s a good thought. Wherever Tod’s shipment was from.’

‘Right,’ said the serjeant again. ‘Well, Maister Morison, if ye’ve a cloth handy we can wrap it in, Tammas here can carry it back to the Tolbooth –’ Gil was
aware of a faint sigh from the constable – ‘and I’ll send to the Provost. I’ve no doubt he’ll tak an inquest the morn, find out if any in the burgh kens who he might
be, then you can get the Greyfriars to bury him decent. One thing, Maister Morison, you’ll can save on the cost of the grave-digging.’

‘I’ll get a poke,’ said Andy.

‘There should be some at the back of the shed here,’ said Morison. Andy ferreted briefly in a corner behind one of the racks of timber, and drew a stout linen sack out from a bundle
of folded cloths. ‘Don’t trouble to return it, serjeant.’

‘I won’t,’ said Serjeant Anderson. He took the sack, turned towards the head, and turned back. ‘Just one wee favour, maisters, and you, Andy Paterson, Billy. Would you be
good enough to touch him for me?’

‘Touch him?’ repeated Morison in horror. ‘Why? What for?’

‘So I can see you touch him,’ said the serjeant.

‘Andy dried him off,’ said Gil. He stepped forward and put his hand on the dark hair. It was beginning to curl, but felt slightly sticky under his fingers. Probably the salt, he
reflected, and gave way to Maistre Pierre, who made a cross on the clammy forehead and muttered something.

‘Christ save you, whoever you are,’ said Andy, and touched one cheek. Billy, visibly gritting his teeth, clapped a hand on the curling crown and retreated, wiping his fingers on his
jerkin. He looked round for his colleagues, found them all out in the yard, and followed them hastily.

‘Maister Morison?’

‘Must I?’ said Morison.

Gil, seeing the serjeant’s eyes narrow, said, ‘Come, Augie, it’s not so bad. He can’t hurt you. Shut your eyes and I’ll put your hand on his hair.’

‘That’s worse,’ said Morison, shuddering, but when Gil took his elbow he allowed himself to be led forward, head averted, biting his lip. When his hand was set on the salt hair
he shuddered again, but found the courage to grope about enough to sign the forehead as the mason had done. As he stepped back Gil saw tears glittering below his closed eyelids. What ails him? Gil
wondered. He’s an educated man, he can hardly expect the dead to accuse him by a show of blood as the superstitious believe, so what is so fearsome here?

‘Well,’ said the serjeant, with a faint note of disappointment in his voice, ‘we’d best get this out of your way, maisters. Here, Tammas, put it in the sack. I suppose
there’s nothing left in the barrel? No books? None of his gear?’

‘See for yourself, serjeant,’ said Andy, indicating the puncheon. Serjeant Anderson peered into its depths, and grunted.

‘Waste of good brine,’ he commented. ‘I suppose you’ll no want to use it again. Is that you ready, Tammas? We’ll away, then. I’ll send to let you know what
time the inquest’s to be, Maister Morison. You’ll have to compear, you ken that, and all your men that’s in the barn yonder. And you, maisters.’

‘Serjeant,’ said Gil, ‘if I can trace Balthasar the lutenist, we’ll know it’s not him. Do you want to ask about the burgh if anyone knows where he might be, or will
I do it?’

‘Oh, it’s no Balthasar,’ said the serjeant. ‘It’s some shore porter from the Low Countries as your man says, I’ll wager, got on the wrong side of a packer and
got his head in his hands to play with. No, Maister Cunningham, I canny be aye running about asking questions. I’ve a burgh to watch and ward. If you want to take up your time that way, go
right on and do it.’

He set off, nodding to Morison as he passed him at the doorway. His constable trailed after him holding the sack at arm’s length. It was already dripping slightly. Andy bustled out and
accompanied the two men to the gate, nodding and gesturing. Gil, watching, caught the words
Weak stomach
, and the serjeant’s
Aye, that would explain it.

‘Is there truly nothing more in there?’ wondered the mason, still in the shed leaning over the barrel.

‘It’s no empty,’ said Andy, returning. ‘I’ve set Billy and them to go down the back and wash the carts, maister.’ He stepped up on to the platform and rocked
the barrel so that the liquid swirled and splashed. They all heard something move against the inside of the staves. ‘Mind your feet.’

Gil moved hastily out of the way as brine splashed on to the earth floor. Andy let most of it run off, then held up the lantern and reached into the bottom of the puncheon.

‘A scrip of some kind,’ he said. ‘By here, it’s heavy. Could it be his?’

‘Should we send after the serjeant?’ said Morison. ‘It may tell us who the man is.’

‘Is that all?’ asked the mason.

Andy set the bag down on the platform with a thump and swirled the dregs of brine again. ‘See for yourself, maisters.’

‘It isn’t a scrip,’ said Gil, dragging it closer. ‘It’s a saddlebag, and a well-made one. This has been good leather before it went in the brine. What is in
it?’

He turned the bag over to wrestle with the buckle, and frowned as he heard a faint chink and scrape of metal from inside it.

‘Coin?’ he said. Finally unfastening the buckle, he lifted back the flap and drew out a dripping canvas purse the size of the mason’s fist, and then another. Below them was a
roll of sodden velvet. Maistre Pierre whistled.