Read Online The Harper's Quine by Pat McIntosh - Free Book Online Page A

sideways from his.
    ‘You are Neil Campbell?’
    ‘It iss myself.’ The accent was far stronger than Ealasaidh’s. Gil rephrased his next question.
    ‘You were sent with a message for Maister Sempill yesterday evening?’
    ‘I am taking many messages for himself.’
    This one was to his wife.’
    ‘That iss so,’ agreed Campbell, the stern face softening
momentarily. ‘To his wife. In the Fishergait, where she is
liffing with the clarsair.’
    ‘What was the message?’
    ‘Oh, I could not be telling that.’ The man’s eyes slid
sideways again.
    Gil said patiently, ‘Maister Sempill gave me permission
to ask you. I know what he bade you say, but I need to
know what message reached her.’
    ‘Oh, I would not know about that.’
    ‘You know she is dead?’ Gil said.
    The blue gaze sharpened. ‘Dhia! You say?’ said the man,
crossing himself. ‘The poor lady!’
    ‘And you may have been the last to see her alive,’ Gil
pointed out. ‘Did she come up the High Street with you, or
did she follow you?’
    ‘Oh, I would not know,’ said the man again.
    Gil drew a breath, and said with some care, ‘Tell me this,
then. Did the message that John Sempill sent for his wife
reach her, or not?’
    ‘Oh, it was reaching her,’ said the other man, nodding
sadly. ‘And then she was coming up the hill, and now she
is dead. How did she come to die, maister?’
    ‘Someone knifed her,’ said Gil. The narrow face opposite
him froze; the blue eyes closed, and opened again.
    ‘What do you know about her death?’ Gil asked.
    ‘Nothing. Nothing at all, at all,’ said the gallowglass, through stiffened lips. ‘The last I saw her she was well and
living.’

    ‘Did she come up the hill with you?’
    ‘Not with me, no, she did not.’ This seemed to be the
truth, Gil thought. The man was too shaken to prevaricate.
    ‘And what was the message?’
    ‘That I cannot be telling you.’
    ‘Why can’t you tell me?’
    ‘Chust it is not possible. Is the chentleman finished
asking at me?’
    Gil gave up.
    ‘Will you tell Maister Sempill I have done with you for
the moment,’ he said. ‘I will need to get another word with
you later.’
    The man turned and tramped out. Baffled, Gil stared
after him, then bent his attention to the tools on the sill
again. He was still studying them when John Sempill
returned.
    ‘I could have told you you’d not get much out of Neil,’
he said. ‘Him and his brother, they’re both wild Ersche.
You need the two tongues to deal with them.’
    ‘How do you manage?’ Gil asked, controlling his
irritation.
    ‘Oh, they have enough Scots for my purposes. Do you
still want to speak to the others?’
    ‘Yes, if it is possible.’ Gil rose, and followed Sempill
across the hall, picking his way past hunting gear and half
a set of plate armour, and up a wheel stair at the other side
towards a continuous sound of voices. The room at the top
of the stair was hung with much-mended verdure tapestry,
and replete with cushions, among which Lady Euphemia
Campbell was sewing and chattering away like a goldfinch
to her middle-aged waiting-woman.
    They made a pleasing sight. Lady Euphemia, wearing a
wealth of pleated linen on her head, fathoms more
rumpled round her, appeared daintier than ever. Her stout
companion, stolidly threading needles, merely served to
emphasize this further. Under her coarse black linen veil her face reminded Gil of the dough faces Maggie used to
bake for him and his brothers and sisters, with small black
currant eyes and a slit of a mouth.

    ‘Here’s Euphemia, making sheets to her bed,’ said
Sempill. ‘I can make do with blankets myself, but she’s too
delicate for that.’
    ‘Venus rising from the foam,’ said Gil, and added
politely, ‘in duplicate.’
    This won him a suspicious look from Sempill and two
approving smiles. Someone laughed at the other end of the
room.
    ‘And there’s my cousin Philip and Euphemia’s