The Nicholas Feast by Pat McIntosh

identified by the huddle of students at its foot. As Gil and Maistre Pierre approached, first one boy and then another put his head in at the doorway and ducked out again grinning with bravado.
    ‘What are you doing?’ Gil asked, making his way through the group.
    ‘Listening for the ghost, maister,’ said Richie the Scholar.
    ‘A ghost?’ said the mason. ‘In broad day?’
    ‘There is no ghost,’ Gil said. ‘How can a spirit with no body make a noise?’
    ‘Like the wind does?’ said somebody else smartly.
    ‘I heard it, maister,’ said one of the Ross boys with pride. ‘It went Ooo-oo.’
    ‘You dreamed it,’ said Gil. ‘Stay down here, all of you.’
    William’s door was halfway up the stair, and therefore had only a narrow wedge of landing. Maister Coventry and Maister Kennedy were waiting there, still in formal academic dress, both with the appearance of men who would rather be elsewhere.
    ‘Gil!’ said Maister Kennedy. ‘Thank God you’re here. Listen to this – there is something in there.’
    They listened.
    ‘I hear nothing –’ said the mason, but Patrick Coventry’s upraised hand cut him off. Then they all heard it, through the heavy oak door: a high-pitched sobbing, unearthly, dying off in a wail. Gil felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
    ‘No mortal throat made that sound,’ said Maistre Pierre through dry lips, and clutched at the crucifix on the end of his set of beads.
    ‘Does that open this door?’ Gil asked, looking at the key in the Second Regent’s hand. For answer, the small man fitted it into the lock and turned it. The tumblers clicked round. Gil lifted the latch and pushed, and the door swung ponderously open.
    ‘Christ aid!’ said Maister Kennedy.
    The room was in complete disarray. Books and clothing were strewn about, the bed-frame yawned emptily and mattress and blankets were tumbled in a heap, a lute lay under the table.
    ‘Faugh!’ exclaimed Maistre Pierre. ‘What a stench!’
    ‘Yes,’ said Gil, relaxing. ‘What a stench, indeed.’
    He stepped into the room, placing his feet with care, and halted. The mason moved watchfully to stand at his back, saying, ‘But what has happened here? Is this the work of devils? Is that why the stink –?’
    Gil, surveying the wrecked room, said absently, ‘No, I think not. Watch where you step, Pierre.’ He moved forward as the two regents followed them, staring round. ‘I think we can conclude,’ he continued, ‘that someone has found William’s key and made good use of it.’ He bent to lift the rustling mattress back into the bed-frame, and piled the blankets on top of it.
    ‘He had many possessions, for such a young man,’ said the mason, still watchful at Gil’s back.
    ‘And what in the name of all the saints was making that noise?’ said Maister Coventry.
    ‘That?’ said Maister Kennedy in alarm.
    They all looked where he was pointing. A heap of clothing lay under the window, a tawny satin doublet, a red cloth jerkin, several pairs of tangled hose. As they watched, the jerkin moved, apparently by itself. The high wailing began again, and something appeared from the cuff of the sleeve and became a grey hairy arm.
    ‘Ah, the poor mite!’ said Gil. Under the mason’s horrified gaze he strode forward and lifted the clothing. The jerkin came up, swinging heavily, with a grey shaggy body squirming in its folds.
    ‘Mon Dieu, what is it?’ said the mason as a long-nosed face appeared through the unlaced armhole.
    ‘A dog,’ said Gil. ‘At least, a puppy. Wolfhound, deerhound – one or the other. Some kind of hunting dog, certainly.’
    He disengaged the animal from the garment and set it on its feet, a gangling knee-high creature consisting principally of shaggy legs and a long nose. It promptly abased itself, pawing appealingly at his boots. He bent to feel at its collar. ‘Perhaps three or four months old, far too young to be wearing a good leather collar like this. That’s the source