A Pig of Cold Poison by Pat McIntosh Page A

and continued, ‘Maister Renfrew was willing enough to talk to me, but all he would say was that the young man is guilty, and must hang for it.’
    ‘Is there any word of Meg?’ Alys asked.
    Her father shook his head, swallowed a mouthful and said, ‘No, it seems she still labours, poor woman. I did not stay long, the household is manifestly in turmoil, full of strange women, and only the two young men are in the shop. I got word with Frankie by enquiring how he did after yesterday.’
    ‘The two young men,’ Gil repeated, handing the last bite of his bread and herring to the dog sitting politely at his elbow. ‘Robert and Nicol, do you mean?’
    ‘Robert and young Syme, the son-in-law. I had forgotten about Nicol.’
    ‘Did you ask about the flasks?’ Alys prompted.
    ‘I did. He would not entertain the thought that it could be one of his.’
    ‘But it must be,’ said Alys. ‘Kittock tells me a lad came from the Forrests’ shop to say all theirs are accounted for, and the six that the Bothwells took were still in their packing, safe in Christian’s stillroom, with the docket of receipt as well.’ She looked at Gil across the table. ‘We spent a good time exploring the room. She was very willing to tell me about all her stores, and we must have opened every container in the house. There was nothing that answers to Adam Forrest’s description of what is in the flask.’
    ‘Nor in the booth,’ said Gil. ‘Like you, I looked in every pig and flagon in the place. None of them held poison – at least, not that variety,’ he qualified. ‘Unless it’s very thoroughly hidden, or there is no more than went in the flask, it isn’t in the booth.’
    ‘Nor in the house,’ she agreed.
    ‘I hope you have both washed your hands before you ate,’ said Maistre Pierre.
    Beside him Catherine, who had been masticating potted herring on white bread with the crusts removed, set down her beaker and said in her elegant toothless French, ‘It is very remarkable that so many of the young man’s friends have asked you to prove him innocent.’
    ‘Half of Glasgow,’ Gil agreed.
    ‘Except,’ she went on, nodding in acknowledgement of this, ‘the Renfrew girl. And yet he had spoken to her just before the play, I understand.’
    ‘I wondered about that too,’ said Alys. ‘Perhaps she can’t get away to speak to Gil. They must all be at sixes and sevens just now.’
    ‘The household of Maistre Renfrew is a large one, and I think not all its members are willing to be ruled by their master. Nevertheless,’ she raised one liver-spotted hand to prevent Maistre Pierre interrupting, ‘I do not see why that should lead them to poisoning and murder.’
    ‘My thoughts exactly, madame,’ Gil said, smiling at her. He had held the old lady in respect already, but since his marriage he had come to admire her perception and tact. As for how she acquired her information, it was clear that though she spoke no Scots she understood it well. Now she bent her head in reply to his comment, and said to Alys:
    ‘You should call on the household, ma mie , to pay the duty of a neighbour.’
    ‘So I thought,’ agreed Alys.
    John, squirming down from Nancy’s lap, pattered up the length of the table, ignoring attempts by other members of the household to distract him, paused to insert his soggy crust into Socrates’ willing mouth, and halted beside his foster-father’s tree-like knee.
    ‘Up!’ he commanded. Maistre Pierre hauled the boy on to his lap, pulling the child’s long tunic down over the little fat legs in their woollen stockings.
    ‘That daughter,’ he said disapprovingly, ‘the younger one, is particularly unruly. You would never have behaved like that, Alys.’
    Her quick smile flickered. ‘It was never necessary,’ she said with composure. ‘Gil, what will you do this afternoon? Who do you need to speak to?’
    ‘Most of Glasgow,’ he said. ‘John, would you like a piece of apple? I’ll have to speak to