A Trust Betrayed (17 page)

The fog settled on her, and eventually dampened her clothes sufficiently to rouse her with the chill. Picking up the lantern, she opened the shutter enough to light the path just before her feet. Halfway to the house she heard a woman scream and nearly dropped the lantern. The fog played with the sound, but a second scream was closer. She shuttered the lantern, stood very still, trying to hear over her own terror. Uncertain footsteps approached from the direction of the alley, someone breathing quickly and moaning prayers. Margaret opened the shutter a little.

Celia’s eyes were huge in a pinched white face. “Mistress, thank God it is you.”

“What are you doing here? Why did you scream? Are you injured?”

“There is a dead man lying in the alley.”

Margaret heard someone behind her. She turned, blinding them with the lantern. The light wobbled in her trembling hands.

Hal shaded his eyes. “What has happened?”

Murdoch was right behind him, his plaid arranged to hide the dirty shirt.

“Come, Celia,” Margaret said, managing to sound far steadier than she felt. “Show us the body.”

“It is in the alley.”

“Show us,” Murdoch said.

Celia led them to the alley between the inn buildings, slowly, for the fog was even thicker now and the pale lantern beam fell just beyond their feet. Halfway down the alley Margaret saw a man sprawled on the ground, facedown, blood from his head mixing with the mud. It looked as if one leg was drawn up beneath him. But as Margaret let the lantern play over his legs she saw that one was shorter than the other.

“Harcar,” Margaret whispered.

Murdoch had crouched down. “Aye. There won’t be many mourn him.” He looked up at the sound of footsteps out on High Street.

Margaret shuttered the lantern and tried not to breathe.

As soon as the footsteps faded, Murdoch headed back down the alley. All three stumbled after him in the dark. Once in the yard, Murdoch slumped against the stable wall, burying his face in one arm.

Celia began to sob. Margaret held her and prayed—for them, not the dead man. Hal hovered next to his master as if waiting for a sign of what he was to do.

At last Murdoch straightened, turned toward them.

“This will go ill for us if discovered.” He nodded to Hal. “We’ll move the body to one of the sheds behind the kitchens. Then you’ll fetch Father Francis from St. Giles. Tell him we found Harcar and took him in to shelter, but he was already dead. Tell Father Francis, mind you, no other.”

“It would be better to fetch Andrew from Holyrood,” Margaret said. She wanted to see her brother.

“No!” Murdoch said vehemently. “Not the abbey. St. Giles. Father Francis will not tell the English we found him. Abbot Adam would be only too happy to do so.”

“What has this to do with the English?” Margaret asked.

“They will see his murder as a threat to them. He spied for them.”

Celia whimpered.

“Andrew would say nothing,” Margaret said.

“Nothing need be said. Abbot Adam knows all that passes in the abbey. You two women, go to your chamber, bar the door.”

Margaret gave Celia the lantern, told her to go on.

Murdoch shook his head, muttering to himself.

“Uncle,” Margaret said quietly.

“Well, what?”

“Harcar left the Englishman’s room next to my chamber just before I came out to your kitchen.”

“You saw him up in the room?”

“I saw him leave it.”

Murdoch crossed himself. “Get yourself up to your chamber, bar the door as I said. I’ll send for you.”

Upstairs, Celia stood in the middle of the room clutching her elbows and whimpering like an injured pup.

“Why were you in the alley?” Margaret asked.

Celia hiccuped as she tried to still herself, held her breath.

Margaret poked at the embers in the brazier.

“The Englishman left his chamber,” Celia said at last, her voice rough. “I thought you’d wish to know where he’d gone.”

“Are you mad?”

“That is all you can say?” Celia took a step toward Margaret. “What is that on your throat?”

Margaret touched the scratch. The blood was dry. “I cut myself. Where did he go? Did he see the body?”

“He stopped by it, then walked on by. Like it was a sleeping dog. I bent to it, not expecting— Oh, dear Lord.” She pressed her hands to her face.

“Did you scream while he was yet in the alley?”

Celia dropped her hands, shook her head. “Not at once. No. I stood over the body and prayed for us.” She took a deep breath. “I must lie down.”

The Englishman was not the murderer, then. But Murdoch might be. It might be Harcar’s blood she had seen on her uncle’s clothes. How she wished she had stayed in Dunfermline or returned to Perth. She felt as if she had walked off a precipice and had yet to stop falling.

*
      
*
       
*

Murdoch sat by the fire, feet on a stool to warm, drinking ale. He had cleaned himself up, changed clothes. An empty tub was turned over near the fire. He glanced up, nodded to her, returned to his study of the fire.

Margaret was about to sit down beside him, but changed her mind and sat where she might see his face. The fire played on his ruddy features, the pale brows that drew together in the middle, parted at the scar over his right eye, the often broken nose. She had never seen him so clean.

“I did not think you a man overfond of a bath,” she said.

“You meant to break into my kitchen.”

“You might tell me where you’ve been.”

“I didn’t give you those tools to pick my locks.”

“I didn’t know how long you’d be away. Yesterday James Comyn supplied the ale from his own stock because Roy could not fetch any from here.”

“So what if he did? Comyn can spare it.”

Margaret rose and poked at the fire, added a block of peat.

“Damn you, woman, let it be!” Murdoch dropped his cup, cursed her for making him spill his ale, too.

Margaret refilled his cup, and poured one for herself. In silence, she handed his cup to him. She lifted her own and drained it. The peat fire had begun to smoke. As she bent to see to it, Murdoch shifted in his seat. She prepared herself for another outburst.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said gruffly.

“I was a fool to walk into a dark place. But I was gey worried. I couldn’t sleep. Davy the smith is dead, did you hear?”

“Aye .”

“Does Harcar’s murder have to do with Davy’s?”

“Do you have lugs? I’ve told you not to ask such questions.” Murdoch rubbed his forehead. He did look weary. “This is no place for you, Maggie. Go home.”

“When Edward Longshanks moves north to Perth, where do you suggest I go then? To Elcho Nunnery with Mother?”

Murdoch stared at her silently for several heartbeats. “If the English hear where Harcar was found, we’ll have no peace, Maggie. Better you were in Perth.”

“I thought you had a pact with the sheriff.”

“Why would you think that?”

“They closed the taverns in Perth when Longshanks was there. Why do the English allow this tavern to stay open?”

“If Longshanks were at the castle they would close it.” He sat back, frowning, tapping his fingers on the cup in an uneven rhythm. Suddenly he stopped. “You think I killed Harcar.”

At last it was out. “You were here in the dark, hiding.”

“By God!” Murdoch shouted. “Oh, Maggie, you ken me not a whit if you think so.” He shook his head at her. “But I tell you this, if I was wont to murder someone I would not hesitate over the likes of Harcar.” He gulped down his ale, sprang up and went for more.

“If you hadn’t just come from Harcar, why did you fly at me like that? You thought you were followed.”

“I’m always followed, woman. You asked about my pact with the English. My pact is my innocence. They can accuse me of nothing. I keep the peace in my inn and tavern, and when evil is done I always have proof of where I have been.”

“Harcar spied for the English,” Margaret whispered.

“Did you not wonder how he came to find Jack in the middle of the night? ’Course not. You pitied him, aye, that’s a woman for you. Cripples are saints.”

“He killed Jack?”

“Not with his hands. You ask
me
about pacts with the English? Harcar spied on us all for the captain of the garrison.”

“So that is why he was in the Englishman’s chamber.”

“You’re daft. A man in the pay of Longshanks would not stay here.”

“But Redbeard refused to sleep under the same roof.”

“Who?”

Margaret described the man.

Murdoch dropped his chin, shook his head. “I see.”

“What do you see?”

“Leave it be, Maggie.”

“You say you always have proof of where you’ve been when trouble occurs. Then what would you say if asked where you were yesterday and last night?”

“Leave it be, Maggie.”

“I saw the stains on your clothes.”

“You see too much. But they were not his blood.” He rose. “I’ve wasted time. I should speak to the Englishman.”

“He’s well away. Celia followed him as he departed—that is how she came to find the body.”

“She witnessed the murder?”

“No. But she said the Englishman was not surprised when he came upon the body.”

Murdoch grunted and went out the door, leaving Margaret with more unanswered questions than when she had arrived.

She searched the kitchen for his soiled clothes. They must be either in here or in his room. Nothing came to light.

Outside the kitchen Margaret found Hal sitting by the door, bent over a harness, working oil into the leather in brief, even strokes over a small area.

“Did you hear anything last night?” she asked.

Hal pushed his hair back with an oily hand. It stayed put for once. He addressed Margaret’s hem rather than her face. “Not until Celia cried out.” He met Margaret’s eyes for a moment, allowing her to see how troubled he was. “It is a terrible thing, the murder of a man, no matter if he was a spy.” Then he dropped his gaze to his work, moved farther down the length of leather, scooped up more of the oily mixture from a bowl, began to rub and knead.

She guessed he was of an age with the dead lad. “Did you know Will Harcar?”

“Not well.”

Murdoch came round the side of the kitchen, muttering an oath. “The guest who sounded like an Englishman—where’s his horse?” he asked Hal.

“Don’t know who you’re talking about. I don’t often meet the riders.”

“Show me the horses that have been stabled here since yesterday.”