all,’ suggested another man, grinning. Baird lunged at him, roaring, and was restrained with difficulty by the man in the hide apron and his fellow with the green hood.
‘Let me go!’ he shouted, writhing in their grip. ‘Let me at him, he’ll no— Let me at him!’
‘Who was it she went to see?’ Gil asked him. ‘What did she tell you about where she was going?’
‘Nothing!’ he said rather desperately. ‘Just it was— She said something about he was back in town, she would get a word wi him.’ He paused in his struggles and stared at Gil, and added, ‘She didny sound as if he would enjoy it, but.’ He read scepticism in Gil’s face, and offered, ‘Maybe she said more to the other lassies?’
‘Likely she did,’ agreed Mistress Howie with another of her abrupt changes of direction. ‘You could ask at them, maister. I’ll bid them tell you the truth.’
‘Aye, where are your lassies, Jean?’ asked the man in the green hood. ‘I’m surprised they’re no here and all, to see the show. Pay their respec’s,’ he corrected himself.
‘I tellt them to get the house swep’ and the day’s kale on the fire, that’s how they’re no here,’ retorted Mistress Howie.
‘So are you going to take him up, maister?’ asked the man in the hide apron. ‘I’d say he slew her, myself, he should come afore the Provost for it, though I suppose he’ll no hang.’
‘Whoever killed her tied her to the Cross in place of Mistress Gibb,’ Gil said. ‘That could be seen as attempting to conceal it, which makes it secret murder—’
‘Secret? Out in the open at the Cross like that?’ said the woman in the striped kirtle, laughing.
‘At the Cross?’ repeated Baird incredulously. ‘Are you saying that was my Peg they were talking about? Bound at the Wyndheid and left in the midnight? Will you two let me go?’
‘No the Wyndheid,’ several voices contradicted him. ‘St Mungo’s Cross in the kirkyard,’ added the man in the green hood. Baird stared at him, then looked at Gil, who nodded confirmation.
‘She was tied to St Mungo’s Cross in place of the mad lady,’ he agreed.
‘What was she doing in the kirkyard?’ Baird asked blankly. ‘She hated the place, she’d never ha gone there in the daylight, far less in the dark, no for any money. She was feart for bogles, ever since someone tellt her some daft tale about a hand coming out a grave. What would take her there, maister?’
‘That’s right,’ affirmed Mistress Howie. ‘She’d never go near the High Kirk, aye worshipped in St Thomas’ wee chapel out ayont the Port.’
‘She’d ha been feart to death,’ said Baird, his voice sounding constricted. ‘Bound there and left to die. St Peter’s bones, if I find who did that to my lassie I’ll throttle him mysel, I’ll no wait for the hangman to do it.’
‘You stop that, you filthy leear,’ said the man in the hide apron, shaking him. ‘Right, maister, will we just take him round to the Provost the now while we’ve got our hands on him? Saves hunting for him later on.’
‘No,’ said Gil. There were indignant exclamations. ‘No, let him go. I need a right word wi him, and I’m not doing it here with half the upper town looking on.’
‘He’ll run as soon as he’s loosed,’ said the woman in the striped kirtle.
‘I will not, Agnes Wilkie,’ said Baird, ‘for that I’ll be hunting for him that did that to Peg.’
‘Let him go,’ Gil repeated, and was obeyed with reluctance. ‘And leave me wi him.’
Lowrie began to clear the chapel of the various bystanders, eventually persuading them that there was no more excitement to be had. When all that remained were Gil and Lowrie himself, the hostel servant Bess, and the man Baird, Gil led the porter over to the head of the bier and deliberately turned back the sheet to show the dead woman’s face.
‘Tell me when she went out,’ he said. Baird looked down at the battered countenance, his mouth twisting.
‘No
‘Let me go!’ he shouted, writhing in their grip. ‘Let me at him, he’ll no— Let me at him!’
‘Who was it she went to see?’ Gil asked him. ‘What did she tell you about where she was going?’
‘Nothing!’ he said rather desperately. ‘Just it was— She said something about he was back in town, she would get a word wi him.’ He paused in his struggles and stared at Gil, and added, ‘She didny sound as if he would enjoy it, but.’ He read scepticism in Gil’s face, and offered, ‘Maybe she said more to the other lassies?’
‘Likely she did,’ agreed Mistress Howie with another of her abrupt changes of direction. ‘You could ask at them, maister. I’ll bid them tell you the truth.’
‘Aye, where are your lassies, Jean?’ asked the man in the green hood. ‘I’m surprised they’re no here and all, to see the show. Pay their respec’s,’ he corrected himself.
‘I tellt them to get the house swep’ and the day’s kale on the fire, that’s how they’re no here,’ retorted Mistress Howie.
‘So are you going to take him up, maister?’ asked the man in the hide apron. ‘I’d say he slew her, myself, he should come afore the Provost for it, though I suppose he’ll no hang.’
‘Whoever killed her tied her to the Cross in place of Mistress Gibb,’ Gil said. ‘That could be seen as attempting to conceal it, which makes it secret murder—’
‘Secret? Out in the open at the Cross like that?’ said the woman in the striped kirtle, laughing.
‘At the Cross?’ repeated Baird incredulously. ‘Are you saying that was my Peg they were talking about? Bound at the Wyndheid and left in the midnight? Will you two let me go?’
‘No the Wyndheid,’ several voices contradicted him. ‘St Mungo’s Cross in the kirkyard,’ added the man in the green hood. Baird stared at him, then looked at Gil, who nodded confirmation.
‘She was tied to St Mungo’s Cross in place of the mad lady,’ he agreed.
‘What was she doing in the kirkyard?’ Baird asked blankly. ‘She hated the place, she’d never ha gone there in the daylight, far less in the dark, no for any money. She was feart for bogles, ever since someone tellt her some daft tale about a hand coming out a grave. What would take her there, maister?’
‘That’s right,’ affirmed Mistress Howie. ‘She’d never go near the High Kirk, aye worshipped in St Thomas’ wee chapel out ayont the Port.’
‘She’d ha been feart to death,’ said Baird, his voice sounding constricted. ‘Bound there and left to die. St Peter’s bones, if I find who did that to my lassie I’ll throttle him mysel, I’ll no wait for the hangman to do it.’
‘You stop that, you filthy leear,’ said the man in the hide apron, shaking him. ‘Right, maister, will we just take him round to the Provost the now while we’ve got our hands on him? Saves hunting for him later on.’
‘No,’ said Gil. There were indignant exclamations. ‘No, let him go. I need a right word wi him, and I’m not doing it here with half the upper town looking on.’
‘He’ll run as soon as he’s loosed,’ said the woman in the striped kirtle.
‘I will not, Agnes Wilkie,’ said Baird, ‘for that I’ll be hunting for him that did that to Peg.’
‘Let him go,’ Gil repeated, and was obeyed with reluctance. ‘And leave me wi him.’
Lowrie began to clear the chapel of the various bystanders, eventually persuading them that there was no more excitement to be had. When all that remained were Gil and Lowrie himself, the hostel servant Bess, and the man Baird, Gil led the porter over to the head of the bier and deliberately turned back the sheet to show the dead woman’s face.
‘Tell me when she went out,’ he said. Baird looked down at the battered countenance, his mouth twisting.
‘No
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