St Mungo's Robin by Pat McIntosh

cheese with it had appeared with only a passing reference to the time of the household meals.
    ‘So it seems,’ said the Official, clipping his spectacles on to his nose, ‘as if the man Naismith has been farming the income of the bedehouse to his own benefit?’
    ‘And considerable benefit at that,’ agreed Gil. ‘Enough to purchase several properties in the burgh. When would St Serf’s last suffer an Archbishop’s Visit,
sir?’
    ‘Who knows?’ said his uncle, considering briefly. He rested his elbows on the arms of his great chair and steepled his fingers in front of his chin. ‘No in my time,
that’s for certain. Robert Blacader has other matters on his mind than Visitations.’
    ‘So the accounts have never been audited, and nobody but the old men could say him nay,’ said Gil. ‘Of the five I have met, only two are clear in their heads, and one of those
is stone-deaf.’
    ‘Do you think that was why he was killed?’ asked the Official.
    ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Gil.
    ‘What have you found, then?’
    Gil looked at Maistre Pierre, who raised his eyebrows but said nothing and reached for another bannock.
    ‘Naismith left the almshouse last night, just before they said Vespers, which would be about half an hour after five by what Millar tells us. He went out wearing the same clothes he was
found dead in, and the cloak and hat of his office over them. The almshouse people think he was going to see his mistress.’
    ‘Who lives by the Caichpele,’ supplied Maistre Pierre through a mouthful of bannock.
    ‘Thomas Agnew says he was wi him later in his chamber in the tower, but left after an hour or so. He was heard in his lodging, well after nine o’clock,’ Gil continued, nodding
at the interruption. ‘His bed had been slept in and the dole Sissie Mudie left had been eaten. This morning he may or may not have been seen at Mass, though if he was there he wasn’t in
his own seat. And then, not ten minutes after the Mass, he was found knifed in the bedehouse garden, between a locked gate and a locked door, stiff and cold as if he’d been dead near twelve
hours.’
    ‘Well!’ said David Cunningham, but it was drowned by an urgent exclamation.
    ‘Who? Who are you talking about?’ Tib stood at the door to the kitchen stairs, white as the flour on the apron which covered her old grey gown. Socrates rose from his place at
Gil’s feet and padded forward to greet her. ‘Is it someone dead at the bedehouse?’
    ‘Aye, indeed,’ said her uncle, turning his head. ‘Seems the Deacon has been stabbed.’
    ‘Stabbed?’ she repeated blankly. ‘The Deacon? Who’s that? Who by?’
    ‘That’s what your brother has to find out.’
    ‘But when did it happen?’ Tib demanded. Socrates thrust his nose against her apron, tail waving, and she pushed him away.
    ‘Last night sometime,’ said Gil. ‘Who do you know at the bedehouse?’
    She gave a little gasp, and shook her head. Socrates sat down and grinned up at her face, then turned to look over his shoulder at Gil.
    ‘No one,’ Tib said earnestly, ignoring the dog. ‘But it’s so close. Just over the way and down the vennel.’
    ‘Never fear, Lady Tib,’ said Maistre Pierre in bracing tones. ‘Your brother and uncle will keep you safe.’
    ‘Yes,’ she said, with a contrived smile. Her eyes slid away from Gil’s, and she wound her fingers in the folds of her apron. He was about to speak when there was a knocking at
the main door of the house.
    ‘Tell Maggie I’ll get that,’ he said, rising.
    ‘If it’s another death, say you’re from home,’ recommended the mason.
    What’s worrying Tib? Gil wondered, making his way down the stair to the door, the dog at his heels. She seemed frightened for someone, rather than by something. It has certainly changed
her tune from this morning, if she accepts that I might be of some use, he thought, lifting the latch and swinging the heavy door back.
    ‘Well, Gil,’ said the foremost of