The Merchant's Mark

Book 3: Gil Cunningham

by Pat McIntosh

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

The barrel should have contained books - instead it held treasure and a severed head... Gil Cunningham and his old acquaintance, Glasgow merchant Augie Morison, expecting a delivery of books from the Low Countries, report the gruesome substitute to the Provost, and at the inquest the next morning Morison is accused of the murder and imprisoned. He appeals to Gil, who sets out with his friend and future father in law Maistre Pierre, the French master-mason, to find the treasure's owner, trace the barrel and identify the dead man. The trail they follow leads them from the court of James IV at Stirling via a cooper's yard in Linlithgow, to another death on the bare slopes of the Pentland Hills.

Release date: September 1, 2011

Publisher: C & R Crime

Print pages: 278

Sample

Gil Cunningham still maintained, after it was over, that ordering up books from the Low Countries had been a good idea.

‘In spite of all that followed?’ asked his sister Kate tartly.

‘Oh yes,’ agreed Maister Augustine Morison, merchant-burgess of Glasgow and Gil’s companion in the venture. ‘Though if I’d been forewarned what it would get us into, Gil, I’d maybe have thought twice that morning before I sent Andy out to look for you.’

‘Indeed, aye,’ said Kate, with a sardonic expression.

Gil grinned at that.

On the morning in question, his friend’s steward Andy Paterson had run him to ground in the sunny courtyard of the sprawling stone house called the White Castle, not five doors up from Morison’s Yard, where the French master mason who owned the house was holding forth on a subject close to his heart.

‘It would take little to build on a fore-stair,’ he pronounced, waving a large hand at the narrow wall of the range that fronted the street. ‘It is but to break a window open a little and bring the stairs down there. The door of that storeroom is not important, we may cut through from the next chamber and get access that way. What do you think, Gilbert?’

Gil Cunningham shook his head at his future father-in-law.

‘There’s a perfectly good newel stair in the tower,’ he pointed out.

Maistre Pierre’s black beard bristled. ‘It has no presence! Your lodging must have an approach with some dignity.’

‘I don’t need that sort of dignity,’ said Gil firmly, ‘and I think Alys would prefer your men to be out earning money elsewhere in the burgh. I think it’s an excellent idea that we should lodge here, Pierre. As you say, we’ll have some privacy, Alys will be able to continue running your household, and I’ll be able to set up as notary in the midst of the burgh. But we can very well go up and down a wheel stair. What accommodation is there?’

‘Two good chambers,’ said the mason, plunging towards the foot of the stair-tower, ‘one certainly big enough to set up a great bed, and a closet near as big as mine where you may keep your books and papers. There is also a garderobe, though I would prefer that you did not use it,’ he admitted. ‘We have not yet found where it drops to.’

‘We can put a close-stool.’ Gil, about to follow, became aware of the small bow-legged man standing patiently by the mouth of the pend, picking scraps of straw off his blue knitted cap. ‘Andy? Pierre, here’s Augie Morison’s man. How are you, Andy?’

‘It’s the barrel from the Low Countries, maisters,’ said Andy. He raised the cap to both men impartially, and clapped it back on his head. ‘It cam hame yestreen. My maister sends to bid you come and see it broached, Maister Gil, if you will, and see what books are in it.’

‘Books?’ echoed the mason, swinging round sharply so that the furred hem of his red woollen gown swirled. ‘What books are these?’

‘It’s a joint venture,’ said Gil. ‘Augie ordered up a batch of print through Andrew Halyburton at Middelburgh.’

‘Augie Morison? I did not know you knew him. Of course, he is a Hamilton man by birth. But I thought only Thomas Webster sold books in the burgh. He’s the stationer, no? Maister Morison is a book-lover, I grant you, but he deals chiefly in crocks.’

‘I’ve known him all my life. I was at school with his brother Con. We hatched this up between us to celebrate my getting my burgess ticket. Augie’s idea is that we’ll each take what we want from the barrel, and sell the rest to Tom Webster at cost or thereabouts, if he’s willing. The market won’t support two booksellers in Glasgow, more’s the pity.’

‘So what has Maister Halyburton sent?’ wondered Maistre Pierre. ‘There is some good print coming out of the Low Countries just now, but it is not easy to come by.’

‘Shall we go and find out?’ suggested Gil. ‘The house will still be standing when we come back.’

‘An excellent idea.’

Maistre Pierre set off through the pend. Andy, falling in beside Gil as he passed him, said, ‘And how’s yerself, Maister Gil? When’s the wedding?’

‘Save us, we’ve only now signed the contract,’ said Gil. ‘It’s taken forever to draw up.’

‘Too many lawyers at it?’ said Andy knowingly. Gil laughed. ‘And how’s madam your mother? And Lady Kate?’

‘My mother’s well, thank you, and Kate’s as well as can be expected. I’d forgotten you knew her,’ said Gil.

‘Oh, I mind her well. I’d bring our Con out to Thinacre to visit you and your brothers, and she’d be hirpling about on her two sticks. A fechtie lass, and a bonnie wee face. Does she still use the two sticks?’

‘It’s a pair of oxter-poles now,’ said Gil, more grimly than he intended.

‘So St Mungo never cam across, last nicht, then?’

‘Does the whole town know?’

‘I would say that, aye.’ Andy paused by the yett which opened on to Maister Morison’s Yard, where the mason waited impatiently. ‘It’s one thing,’ he said, peering up at Gil, ‘a young lady joining the line of common pilgrims by day to ask for healing, nobody’d pay her any mind, but when the Chapter agrees to let her sleep on St Mungo’s tomb, all her lone in that great kirk by night, it’s to be expected that the town would take an interest.’

‘She wasn’t her lone,’ said Gil. ‘Her woman was there, and I kept watch. And we hoped St Mungo would be present, but he never showed his favour.’

Andy threw him a sympathetic look, but leaned on one leaf of the great yett without further comment.

‘Come in, maisters, come in. Ye can wait in the house, and I’ll find my maister.’

The yard was quite different from the tidy courtyard of the mason’s house. Behind the yett was a long open space, with a shabby timber-framed domestic range to the left, several small wooden buildings on the right, and a great barn-like structure at the far end from which there was shouting, and a desultory hammering. Barrels and boxes were stacked in lots and clusters, identified by marks in paint or chalk or branded into the wood. Several racks of pottery sagged alarmingly just beside the yett, heaps of broken crocks lay here and there, and everywhere straw blew about or lay in partly twisted ropes and pads. A cart-run of broken flagstones led the length of the yard, but the rest of the area was well-trampled earth.

Andy closed the yett and led them, picking his way, to the stone steps before the door midway along the house-range.

‘In here, maisters,’ he said hospitably, showing them into a chill, gloomy hall. ‘There’s plenty seats, you’ll can wait in comfort.’

As his feet sounded on the steps outside the mason broke an uncharacteristic silence.

‘I had not realized things were so bad,’ he said, staring round the cold chamber.

‘Nor I, till I came here to discuss this venture,’ admitted Gil. ‘I think trade is sound enough. He lacks the will to make things neat.’

‘Or clean,’ said Maistre Pierre with disapproval. ‘That must be a week’s ashes in the fireplace, and there is food caked on this bench. It looks bad – the business must suffer. How long since his wife died?’

‘Two years, maybe.’

‘So long? More than time he –’

‘My mammy’s deid,’ said a very small voice, apparently from under their feet. The two men stared at one another, and Maistre Pierre looked about wildly. ‘She dee’d two year since at Pace tide,’ continued the voice.

Gil stepped round the high-backed settle which faced the empty, cheerless fireplace, and bent to peer under its seat. In the murky space, he made out two squatting children, either of a size to match the voice, with an array of broken crocks and a quantity of rags between them. They stared back at him, faces pale in the shadows.

‘It’s Augie’s bairns,’ he said.

‘Bairns?’ The mason came to look. ‘Well, well. What are you called, my poppets?’

‘Aren’t your poppets,’ said one in the same little voice. ‘We’re my da’s poppets.’

‘Then what are Maister Morison’s poppets called?’

‘Not telling.’

Gil straightened up and put a hand over his mouth to hide a grin, just as hasty feet sounded at the house door and Morison himself hurried into the room.

In appearance, Gil had always thought, Augie Morison was a middling man – of medium height, middling thin, with middling brownish hair, his face and hands neither long nor round but in-between. He had a smile of rare charm, but it was seldom seen these days, so that only his very blue eyes were at all remarkable, unless books were mentioned. Then the whole man took fire, the blue eyes sparkled, the sparse hair stood on end as he discussed authors and titles, dealers and printers, copy-houses and sources of information, until most of his colleagues on the Burgh Council found urgent business elsewhere.

‘Guid day, Maister Mason! Guid day, Gil!’ He flourished his round felt hat at them. ‘I’m sorry not to have been here to greet you. I was called to something in the barn.’

‘No trouble,’ said Maistre Pierre, standing up. ‘We have been attempting to make the acquaintance of your bairns here.’

‘The bairns? Are they here?’ Maister Morison came round the settle to peer under it. ‘Come out of that, the pair of you. Where’s Mall? Why are you not with her?’

Reluctantly, the children emerged from the shadows, and were revealed as two little girls, aged perhaps six and four. The general air of neglect extended to them. Both wore bedraggled gowns of good brocade, identical in size, so that the taller child’s thin bare calves showed between her sagging hem and her wood-soled shoes. She peeped at her father through the tangled curtains of her long hair, while her sister scowled at the strangers. It was evident that neither the children nor their shifts had been washed that week.

‘Where’s Mall?’ their father asked again.

The smaller girl shrugged. ‘Gone to market,’ she said. ‘She didny want to drag us alang.’ She was clearly repeating Mall’s words.

‘Isn’t Ursel in the kitchen?’

‘No.’

‘Where is she?’

The child shrugged again.

‘Take your sister, Ysonde, and find Ursel. Tell her I said you were both to stay with her till Mall comes back.’

The child stared at her father in silence for a moment, then turned her head and looked at her sister, sighed, and taking her hand clopped off into the next room. After a moment they could be heard negotiating a stair.

‘I’m sorry, maisters,’ said Maister Morison. ‘The lassie that has charge of them takes her task ower lightly.’

‘Can you not hire a better?’ asked the mason.

‘They won’t stay. Now – come look at this puncheon, and once it’s broached we can sort the laidin’ over a jug of something. Maister Halyburton’s a good judge of print,’ he added, eyes brightening. ‘There was a Blanchard and Eglantyne last time, from Caxton’s workshop ye ken, and some Italian astronomy.’

‘Did you ever get Albert on Buildings?’ asked the mason hopefully.

‘Never yet, but we might be lucky,’ said Morison. He led the way out and down the steps, saying to Gil as they reached the yard, ‘Andy tells me Lady Kate’s petition had no success.’

‘Worse than that,’ said Gil.

‘How so?’ asked Morison, startled. ‘Was she harmed by it? What came to her?’

Gil shrugged. ‘Not a lot to tell. She slept the night in the arcading in the tomb, in the space that pilgrims crawl through if they’re allowed the close approach.’ Morison nodded, familiar with the custom. ‘She woke about dawn, from a dream that she could walk like any lass in Scotland, and found there was nothing changed.’

‘Oh, poor lady!’ said Morison. ‘Pray God the saint shows her his favour some other way.’

‘Amen to that,’ agreed Gil, deciding not to untangle the theology of the remark.

‘She feels St Kentigern has mocked her,’ said Maistre Pierre, giving the saint his other, more formal name.

‘What is her trouble?’ asked Maister Morison. ‘I mind she went on two sticks when we were young, but I never thought to ask, at that age – is it the rheumatics, or something?’

‘When she was six,’ said Gil, ‘and I was ten or so, there were just the three youngest ones left at home. I was at the grammar school in Hamilton, Margaret and Dorothea were with our Boyd cousins in Ayrshire, and my brothers had gone as squires to Kilmaurs. There was a fever in Hamilton –’

‘Oh, I mind that. Con had it too.’

‘– and the three of them took it. Their nurse always said, although they had the spots the same as the other bairns in Hamilton, it seemed like they’d some other infection as well. I wouldn’t know. Anyway Tib had it light and recovered, Elsbeth died, and Kate was left with her right leg withered. It’s not numb, indeed she says she feels a knock harder than in the other leg, but she has no power below the knee.’

‘Poor lassie! God send her some remeid,’ said Maister Morison, and crossed himself.

The mason did likewise. ‘She has tried prayer and fasting and many remedies, so she tells me,’ he explained, ‘and made pilgrimages all over Scotland. St Mungo was her last resort. She is at her prayers just now, and my daughter with her.’

‘We may yet hope for a miracle, then,’ said Maister Morison, and clapped Gil awkwardly on the elbow. ‘Come and look at these books. Is she still a reader? Maybe there would be one she might like.’

Across the yard, in a small shed full of racks of barrel-staves and odd timbers, the barrel had been set up on a low platform. It was not one of the huge pipes used to transport wine, which Gil was used to seeing cut in half once empty to do duty as a bath or brewing-tub. This was a small cask, less than three feet high, neatly hooped with split withies and branded with several marks, most of them cancelled by splashes of tar.

‘I’ve the mallet and hook waiting,’ said Andy from the far end of the bench as they entered the shed. ‘Have you the tally, maister?’

‘I have.’ His master patted his chest, felt in his sleeves, and finally drew from inside his doublet a bundle of papers.

‘A pipe of dishes, with the yellow glaze,’ he muttered, leafing through them. ‘That’s what Billy and Jamesie are seeing to now, over in the barn. The sale of two sacks of wool sent by Robert Edmiston. Aye, here we are. Andrew’s writing gets worse every time he sends me. To a puncheon of books, packed in Middelburgh and laid in Thomas Tod’s ship. Item, cost of the puncheon, item, pynor fee and schout hire –’

‘That’s Low German,’ Andy commented. ‘Porter fee and boat hire. A schout’s one of their funny wee boats for getting the barrels out to the ship.’

‘I’ve been to the Low Countries,’ Gil said.

‘Maister,’ said Andy thoughtfully, lifting mallet and hook from the pouch of his leather apron, ‘did ye say this was laid in Thomas Tod’s ship?’

‘Indeed it was. I saw it hoisted out myself, while you were in Linlithgow at Riddoch’s yard.’

‘Because it’s odd, in that case,’ Andy continued, ‘that there’s no mark of Tod’s on the wood.’ He tapped with the iron hook. ‘There’s William Peterson’s shipmark, and James Maikison, and a couple more under the tar here, and a crop o’ merchant marks. There’s ours. But I don’t see Tod’s mark.’

‘This is a well-travelled barrel,’ remarked the mason.

‘Andy,’ said Maister Morison, ‘do that again, man.’

‘Do what?’

‘Hit the barrel. It didn’t sound –’

Andy rapped the head of the barrel with the hook, and then one of the staves, and cocked his head at the resulting dull thud.

‘It’s no right, is it?’ he agreed. He rocked the barrel, his ear close to the smooth tar-splashed planks of its head.

‘You think it is the wrong barrel?’ asked the mason in disappointed tones. ‘But it has your mark.’

‘Aye, it does.’ Maister Morison went to the door and opened it wider, to let in more light. ‘I’m wondering . . .’

‘You’re wondering if it’s an old mark,’ Andy prompted him.

‘One never cancelled, you mean?’ asked Gil. ‘Does that happen?’

‘Oh, it happens,’ said Morison, nodding earnestly.

‘So whose barrel is it?’ demanded the mason. ‘I suppose one of these other marks must be the right one, but I do not know them. And what is in it?’

‘It’s gey heavy,’ said Andy, ‘whatever’s in it.’

‘Books weigh heavy for their size,’ said Gil.

‘It must be the right barrel!’ said Morison. ‘I convoyed this shipment from Blackness myself. There was only the one puncheon. The rest was just the two big pipes out of Maikison’s ship. They’re in the barn now, and the men unpacking them. Go on, Andy, lift the head out of it.’

Andy, wielding mallet and hook expertly, began coaxing the end hoop upward off the top of the staves. It was slow work, tapping round the hoop and round again, but by the third circuit it could be seen that the withy was rising up the curve of the stave.

Maistre Pierre, peering closely at the rocking barrel, exclaimed something, at the same moment as Andy, setting mallet and hook for another blow, snatched his hands away, wiping his left hand on his doublet.

‘What is it?’ demanded Morison.

‘Wet,’ said Andy. ‘My hand’s wet.’

‘Wet? How can it be wet? The books will be spoiled!’

‘Your books canny be in here, maister,’ said Andy. ‘Look at it. That’s a stout wet-coopered oak barrel, and the outside’s dry as a tinker’s throat. The wet must be inside, and right to the top. It’s full of something.’

‘Wine?’ said the mason hopefully. He touched the trickling damp patch where two staves met, and sniffed his fingers. ‘No, not wine, nor vinegar.’ He tasted cautiously. ‘Salt. It is brine.’

‘Brine?’ said Gil.

‘Herrings, maybe,’ said Morison. ‘I never ordered anything in brine. And where are my books? I must have got the wrong barrel somehow.’

‘Not herring,’ said the mason, sniffing his fingers again.

‘We’ll have to open it now,’ Andy said, ‘and top up the brine, or it’ll spoil, whatever it is. Will I carry on, maister?’

‘Aye, carry on.’

Andy, tucking the hook in his apron, produced another implement and began screwing it into the tarry planks of the barrel head. When it was fixed to his satisfaction, he stepped on to the platform to get a better leverage, rocking and twisting expertly.

‘It’s like drawing a cork,’ said the mason, watching him.

‘It is,’ said Andy. ‘Could one of you steady the barrel, maisters?’

Maistre Pierre stepped forward and gripped the puncheon between his big hands. Andy, with a final heave, dragged the head from its lodging and staggered backwards. The mason peered into the depths of liquid in the cask.

‘It is mostly brine,’ he reported, ‘but I think there is something at the bottom.’

‘Use this,’ said Andy, handing him the metal hook.

Gil glanced across at Augie Morison, who was watching with a kind of puzzled dismay as Maistre Pierre trawled the puncheon with the barrel-hook. Beyond him there was movement, and Gil realized that the two little girls were staring round the door.

‘Augie,’ he said, and nodded towards them.

Morison turned, and tut-tutted in exasperation. ‘I told you to stay with Ursel,’ he said, going to the door.

‘Mall’s back,’ said the younger one, ‘so Ursel sent us away.’

‘Well, go and stay with Mall now,’ said Morison, making shooing motions. ‘Get away, the pair of you! Take your sister to Mall and tell her I said you were both to stay with her.’

They clopped away on their wooden shoes, the younger one glancing back just before they vanished out of Gil’s sight to see if her father was watching her. Morison stood at the door a little longer, apparently making sure he was obeyed, and returned to the group round the barrel.

‘What is it, then?’ he asked.

‘A sheep’s head, maybe.’

‘A sheep’s head?’ Morison repeated.

‘Maybe.’ The mason showed hairs caught between the tines of the barrel-hook. I try again.’ He rolled back his sleeve and stabbed the depths once more. ‘Ah!’

Something came up out of the salt water and hung briefly suspended from the barrel-hook. They had a glimpse of a tangle of dark hair which floated and clung, then as the mason’s free hand collided with Andy’s the object evaded both of them and slid back into the dark.

‘That was never a sheep’s heid, said Andy grimly.

‘Then what?’ said Morison, with a dawning horror. Maistre Pierre exchanged a glance with Gil, crossed himself, rolled his sleeve back further, and reached into the puncheon.

‘Ah, mon Dieu, oui,’ he said as his hand made contact. ‘Most certainly it is not a sheep. It’s a man.’

He hauled it out with a firm grasp of the dark wet hair, and Augie Morison whimpered as the pale brow, the half-shut eyes and slack jaw emerged to view, brine pouring from between the bloodless lips.

‘A man’s head,’ said Gil.

Maistre Pierre set the thing on the platform, where the water ran from its hair in a spreading pool. He drew out his beads, crossed himself again, and began a familiar quiet muttering.

‘It was . . .’ Morison began, his eyes starting. He pointed from the head to the barrel and then at the oblivious mason. ‘It was in. And you. You tasted . . .’

He turned and stumbled out of the hut, and they heard him vomiting in the yard.

‘Anyone you know?’ said Gil to Andy over the mason’s pattering prayers.

The small man, staring morosely at the head, said, ‘Hard to say. Most folk I know’s taller than that.’

‘We need light,’ said Gil, grimacing at this, ‘but if we take it into the yard the bairns might see.’

‘Aye,’ said Andy. ‘It wouldny trouble that Ysonde, but if Wynliane takes one of her screaming fits we’ll have none of us any sleep the night. I’ll fetch a light, Maister Gil, if you’ll have a care to my maister? He’d aye a weak stomach, but he’s no been himself since the mistress went,’ he confided. ‘Bad enough when the bairns have frichtsome dreams, without him starting and all.’

Gil followed him into the yard, where he set off for the barn, remarking to his master in passing, ‘First barrel I’ve ever seen wi three heads, maister. You canny say Andrew Halyburton doesny give good value.’

Morison, leaning pallidly on a huge rack of tin-glazed pots, grimaced faintly and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

‘Forgive me, Gil,’ he said. ‘I was just stamagasted. St Peter’s bones, what a thing.’

‘Aye, he’s not a bonnie sight,’ agreed Gil. ‘Augie, we’ll need to look at it closer. Andy’s gone for a light. And you’ll need to decide what’s to be done with it.’

‘Me decide?’ said Morison helplessly. ‘But it’s not mine!’

‘It was somebody’s. And it’s in your yard.’

‘But what needs done?’

‘He deserves a name, if it can be found,’ said Gil, ‘and his kin told. Serjeant Anderson’s the man to see to that, since it’s an unknown body turned up in the burgh. He’ll call an inquest.’

‘Not a body,’ said Morison, and shivered. ‘Just the head. Christ preserve us, I’m as bad as Andy. Aye, we’d best send to the serjeant. Do you suppose he’ll want to keep it? I don’t want it in the yard, Gil. It’s one thing if someone dies in the house, you lay them out and shroud them decently, but that – I don’t want the bairns to see.’

‘Then send one of the men to the serjeant now.’

Morison shivered again, but nodded and shouted a couple of names at the barn. Some of the banging stopped, and a lean-faced, dark-haired head appeared round the door. Morison flinched visibly, but the gangling body followed almost immediately.

‘Aye, maister?’ said its owner. ‘These yellow dishes has travelled fine. We’ve got the most of them out not even chipped.’

‘Leave that a wee while, Jamesie,’ said his master, ‘and step down to the Tolbooth for me. Bid Serjeant Anderson bring one of the constables and come here. I need him to look at something.’

Jamesie nodded, and set off obediently, but another man, stocky and sandy-haired, appeared in the doorway in his place.

‘Bit trouble, maister?’ he asked casually.

‘None of your mind, Billy Walker,’ growled Andy, passing him with a lantern and a bundle of rags. Billy thumbed his nose at the smaller man’s retreating back.

‘Just go back to your task, Billy,’ said Morison, ignoring this.

‘Oh, aye, I’m away.’ Billy hitched up his sagging hose and turned away. ‘Trouble wi this place,’ he muttered as he retreated into the shadows. ‘A’body knows everything, except the folk that does the work.’

‘I saw,’ said a small familiar voice. The two children emerged from beyond the rack of yellow pots, each carrying an armful of broken crocks. ‘I saw you spewing, Da.’

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. . .