The Royal Burgh Page 16

‘You are, after all, our friend and neighbour,’ said Martin.

  ‘Then why’ve ye come? I can tell you nothing.’

  ‘I think,’ said Danforth, ‘that you can, sir.’

  Furay seemed to crumple inwards, his long, thin beard folding. ‘Then, for the love of Christ let me sit.’ He dragged himself over to a hard stool and collapsed on it, not inviting his guests to join him. ‘Where did Taylor go?’ asked Martin. Furay looked at him, uncomprehending.

  ‘He’s upstairs, puttin’ an end to my wife’s things.’

  ‘You do not stand on memorial,’ said Danforth. His face was hard. He had kept the few things his wife had left to him. It was strange to rid oneself of mementoes. It was cold.

  ‘Cannae afford tae. I’m finished in this damned burgh. I’ve let go the lass in our employ, and the place might be taken by the crown for all I care. I’ve no wish to spend another day here.’ Danforth’s stomach knotted. He had flown England in the wake of his own wife’s death. A sudden urge came upon him to strike Furay for making him think of his own loving, chaste wife, and his grief at her loss, when Furay’s had been only a feigned lady. The two didn’t warrant comparison. It was insult enough to Alice’s memory that he had let his mind play in dark recesses over a woman who had turned out to be what Madeleine Furay had once been. Besides, a little voice cried out in his head, it was a silly thing; after all, Alice had been blonde and youthful, Madeline dark and mature.

  ‘That would be an error, sir.’ Furay looked up, sullen. ‘It should look,’ Danforth went on, ‘for all the world like you had a hand in your wife’s death. What innocent man flees whilst his wife’s killer is free?’

  ‘I should say it smells very poor,’ agreed Martin. ‘You do little to procure justice.’

  ‘Justice! Ha! That’s a jest sir, a fine jest indeed. What justice is there in this world?’

  ‘In God’s world, there is always justice,’ said Danforth. ‘Mr Furay, how did you come to meet your late wife?’

  Furay paled, his brows knitting. ‘I met her some years back, in Edinburgh.’

  ‘That is no “how”. That is a “where”. I ask again: how did you come to meet her?’

  ‘I was in the town on business. I procure goods for the Cowanes.’ His chest inflated and his chin rose an inch and then sank. ‘Or I did then. Madeleine – or whatever ye want tae call her, for I think you know her – tarried there.’

  ‘In what was she engaged?’

  ‘She … she told me that she was a seamstress and hoped to go into royal service. The auld king kept a seamstress.’

  ‘The lady aimed high,’ said Danforth.

  ‘As a lady should, should she no’? I found her a great beauty and was desirous of a wife. She accepted my offer, and couldnae do better, for mine’s a right good name.’

  ‘A truly chivalrous tale – bettered only by Psyche and Cupid. Yet I think you grieve more for yourself than your dead wife. I will come to the matter.’

  ‘I wish you would, before you run out o’ words.’

  ‘No danger,’ said Martin.

  ‘My point, Mr Furay, is that you have told us little, and thereby obstructed the path of justice.’ He held up a hand to prevent Furay from speaking. ‘No, sir, you shall hearken unto me. We know that for some time you have abjured your wife’s bed. Would you care to tell us why?’

  ‘I care to tell you nothin’.’

  Danforth fetched a heavy sigh, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘Sir, we have learned your wife’s secret.’ If Furay was surprised, he didn’t show it. ‘We know,’ Danforth persisted, ‘that prior to your bringing her to the burgh as your wife – or, I might say, bringing her back – she was not Madeleine Furay, but Margaret Ferguson, a young strumpet who sold her body in a manky stew off St Mary’s Wynd. I suggest that you knew of this, though when you learned of it I cannot say.’

  ‘It is for this reason,’ said Martin, ‘that you turned from her bed, is it not?’

  To Martin’s surprise, Furay looked almost relieved, as though delighted to be rid of the secret. ‘If you know this, then what d’ye wish frae me? So you know I married a whore, a cot-quean, a jade, a strumpet, a harlot, a–’

  ‘Be silent,’ said Martin, his lips curled in distaste. ‘We know the many ways to abuse a whore. It’s no sport. Doesn’t impress us.’

  ‘When did you learn of her trade, sir?’ asked Danforth. ‘Before or after your marriage?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘After, after.’

  ‘And in the learning of it, in the discovery, you quit her company?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You spent divers night in the inn across the way.’ Danforth jabbed vaguely at the wall, where a torch flickered, casting a weak pool of light, no longer reflecting on any expensive metals. ‘Yet not every night. Where did you go when you were not lodged with Mr McTavish?’

  ‘I slept here.’

  ‘In this house or in your wife’s bed?’ Furay’s eyes darted from Danforth to Martin and back. You are thinking, thought Danforth, of what you ought to say. Such confusion, such a desperate need to think of the appropriate answer, could only render whatever words eventually formed useless.

  ‘In this house.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Furay. Very honest. And so for some time now your marriage has been unhappy.’

  ‘Aye. Unhappy.’

  ‘And there we have it. You discovered that your wife had once been employed in this town as a bawd. Afterwards, you were trapped by marriage, and so kept her secret, yet maintained the masque.’

  ‘Aye – trapped. I was trapped.’ Furay appeared to grasp at the word as a drowning man might grasp at flotsam. Before anyone could speak further, a thumping noise caught their attention. Taylor the groom was padding down the stairs, some silks in his arms.

  ‘How long have you been listening, you sharp-eared whelp?’ asked Danforth.

  ‘I’ve no’ been listening to anything, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘I’m no’ one to keep an ear to doors nor an eye to keyholes.’

  ‘Then what are you about?’

  ‘I’m taking the mistress’s things to market, sir. These should fetch a price.’

  ‘Then go and be gone,’ waved Danforth. Taylor continued his journey, his head bent to the silks and his eyes on the wall. When he had gone, Danforth turned again to Furay. ‘Did your man know of Mistress Furay’s past?’ Furay barked laughter.

  ‘Ye’re shooting at the wrong mark there,’ he said. ‘Taylor’s that honest type of servant: an honest fool. I’d be surprised if he knew what a whore was. No, sir. I doubt if the lad considered my wife, or me, or anyone past twenty, tae have such a thing as a past.’

  ‘And how did you learn of hers, sir? Of her past?’ asked Martin, genuinely intrigued.

  ‘Learn o’ it? The woman telt me. Naturally I was disgusted and would no longer lie wi’ her. Feared I’d get the pox, ye see.’

  ‘You look very well,’ said Danforth, giving an icy smile. His eyes ran down Furay’s trailing beard. ‘And I suppose I need not tell you that discovering such a grievous fault in a wife might be thought motive enough for a man to slay her? I daresay, Mr Furay, that you might even be well understood for it, that you might well be clapped on the back by the baillies and pardoned with all honour by our merciful Protector Arran.’

  ‘I didnae touch her,’ said Furay. ‘No harm befell her by my hand.’

  ‘I see. Then tell me, who else might know of your wife’s history?’

  ‘I cannae say.’

  ‘Or perhaps you will not.’

  ‘You do understand,’ said Martin, ‘that some person who knows of your wife’s youthful … experiences … might have taken it into their head to demand that she pay them to keep her secret? I hazard that you might also wish that secret to be kept close, for the shame and embarrassment it might cause you.’

  ‘I know nothin’,’ spat Furay. ‘If some creature tried to cozen money from her, then it was my money, and he
came here when I was frae home. I’ve no knowledge of it.’ He rose from his stool, letting it wobble. ‘You gentlemen know o’ my wife’s vile trade, o’ her youth. She’s now taken to the Back Raw, to be dumped with the corpses that sickness has taken till burial’s allowed. Would you have the burgh know o’ it? Would ye have her corpse thrown in the Forth, or buried in some mean place, away frae God’s mercy?’ Challenge overtook his features.

  ‘I would only,’ said Danforth, ‘have her killer brought low, that he might pay for her life with his own.’

  ‘Then go to, gentlemen. Find this creature. Break his neck. Did I love my wife? No, I didnae. Yet neither did I kill her. Ye might drag me tae the gallows, and I’d protest wi’ my last breath that her blood doesnae lie upon these hands.’ He held them up. The fingers still had rings on them. ‘If her whoring’s what killed her in the end, then it’s her own fault that caught up wi’ her. I’m innocent.’

  ‘Innocent,’ said Martin, ‘perhaps. Yet guilty, I think, of being a rat, with a face and a beard to match.’ His anger met Furay’s, and each stepped towards the other, inviting the first blow.

  ‘Peace, Martin,’ said Danforth, inclining his head. ‘Friend and neighbour: if not to you, then to others.’ Martin straightened his back, tutting. ‘Mr Furay, it is our will that you remain in this burgh. No, you need not protest. You know that the Provost himself has given us his trust. Running shall be an admission of guilt, and the hue and cry shall go out for you. Do not even think of it. But wait, and we shall find more. Yes, Mr Furay, we shall know all.’

  Danforth bowed to the nonplussed Furay, whilst Martin raised his head in an aggressive upwards nod. Together they strode from the room, leaving the widower in the cold, guttering light of his straitened hall.

  They stepped back down to the Hiegait, neither speaking. Still Danforth felt overwhelmed by the truth of Madeleine Furay’s life before she had wrapped herself in the cloak and finery of a burgess’s wife. He needed time alone, to organise his thoughts. ‘I truly hate that man,’ said Martin, interrupting him.

  ‘A waste of time,’ sighed Danforth in a mist of air. ‘Some creatures are beyond both hatred and pity. Though I confess I should have liked to see you lay a glove upon him.’

  ‘And probably get my arse booted,’ Martin chuckled, and Danforth favoured him with a weak smile. It froze on his face. In the poor light of the late afternoon, a huddle of bodies bustled shadowlike around the market cross. Voices were raised, far louder than the normal chatter of eager bartering and good-natured argument.

  ‘What fresh tumult is this?’ asked Danforth. Martin turned to it.

  ‘Some fight? People drink all day when the market’s on. Maybe it’s turned violent.’

  Already Danforth was making for it. When he and Martin reached the cross, they found that Baillie Morris and his fellow, Baillie Lyne, were trying to quiet an angry older man. Danforth recognised him immediately as the fellow who had accosted them on the night they had broken into John McKenzie’s old physician’s chambers: the crotchety, lined old goat with the wild, greying hair. He was now wearing spectacles.

  ‘… from my own property! It’s one thing for such happenings to pass down that street, but you’re letting these brutes glance blows upon real people now!’

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen. What news is this?’ asked Danforth. Lyne eyed him curiously, whilst Morris gave him a look which betrayed weariness with the old man’s plight. The victim turned on the new arrivals, and the rest of the crowd retreated a short distance to watch the performance unfold.

  ‘Oh, it’s you men. Baillies, these men are suspicious. I saw them some nights past stealing from that crooked physician’s old shop. Gave me some tale about looking for the doctor, but I didn’t take to it. Arrest them!’

  Martin grinned, whilst Danforth gave Morris a sympathetic look, ignoring the old man entirely. ‘Master Baillie, what is this?’

  ‘Mr Lyne,’ said Morris, ‘you recall Mr Danforth and Mr Martin, the Lord Cardinal’s men?’ Lyne nodded, a tight smile on his face, whilst the aggrieved man spluttered. Danforth almost smiled himself at the difference between the two baillies: Lyne was youthful and fair, whilst Morris appeared to have made liberal use of his new combs, brushing his luxurious beard and moustaches outwards.

  ‘Cardinal? What has a prince of the Church to do with my horse?’ bawled the old man. No one paid him attention.

  ‘Mr Danforth,’ continued Morris, his voice rising an octave, ‘old Humble here has been robbed of a horse, as he alleges.’

  ‘Alleges, is it? I tell you the beast was taken from outside my house, as fair as you like. Just taken! Stolen! It’s some thief come up from the wynd, else some other stranger here for the market. There’s no shame in anyone anymore, not since the king died. And you baillies, you fart about doing nothing, whilst any decent body can have their horses stolen in broad daylight.’

  ‘Mr Humble,’ said Danforth, ‘when was your horse taken?’

  ‘Ah! So you admit it was taken.’ He turned, his jaw jutting, to the baillies.

  ‘When, sir?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure. I had it tied up outside my house in the upper Hiegait. Across,’ he added, sotto voce, ‘from the murder house. I only stepped out and there it was – gone!’ He drew back, his eyes swivelling from face to face behind the spectacles, keen to observe the horror of the revelation.

  ‘I believe you, Mr Humble,’ said Danforth. ‘My friend and I are engaged in some business with the baillies and the Provost.’

  ‘The Provost! Yes, Provost Cochran must be informed, must do something.’

  ‘Peace, sir. I pledge to you that we shall do all that might be expected in the execution of justice.’

  ‘The execution of this thief and the return of my horse is what I demand, else all is lawlessness and disorder.’

  ‘Quite. Return to your home, sir, and we shall investigate this alongside our other matters.’ Humble looked reluctant. ‘We are the Lord Cardinal’s men,’ said Danforth. ‘Upon our oath we shall discover what has become of your beast. Of what colour is it?’

  ‘A very light brown, sir, almost fawn, with a white spot about its back parts.’

  ‘What’s its name,’ asked Martin.

  ‘Name?’ asked Humble. ‘Why should I give a beast a name? What nonsense. We’re not all aping gentry.’

  ‘Return to your home, sir, that we might be sure of finding you with news.’

  After a last look at the faces ranged around him, Humble stomped off towards the upper Hiegait. The little crowd of onlookers made way for him, before dispersing themselves. A scene without its comic clown was little fun. Lyne spat at the ground, whilst Morris exhaled relief. ‘Bloody old nuisance.’ His hairy face glimmered in the cold, little drops of moisture catching in it.

  ‘Is it true his horse be taken?’ asked Danforth.

  ‘So it would seem,’ said Morris.

  ‘Is there any remedy for it?’

  ‘I suspect not.’

  ‘If it is gone,’ said Lyne, ‘then he’s right – some thief from out of the burgh here for the market shall have made off with it. We can’t look everywhere at once.’ Danforth’s jaw tensed. Always, it seemed, the Stirling baillies seemed willing to blame every atrocity on some alien, some foreigner from outside their jurisdiction. It must make their lives a great deal easier. Crime would only increase under a regency, and with it this neglect of duty. Suddenly Danforth cursed his thoughtless pledge to the old man. Now he and Martin would be expected to make some enquiries into the theft as well as into Mistress Furay’s murder. The little bond of sympathy he had felt towards Morris and Lyne withered. Lyne must have perceived his disapproval, because his attractive features turned flinty.

  ‘Well, it’s awfy late to search tonight,’ said Morris. ‘We have to get people indoors. Not safe to be out these days. You lads better get yourselves locked in safely too. We’ll have our men alert the burgh to be on watch for this nameless animal.’ Danforth’s heart flu
ttered at the words. A nameless animal. That, he thought, is indeed what we seek.

  ‘Yes, Master Baillies. Good night to you both.’ Nods, cap-touching and bows rippled through the group. Danforth watched the baillies stalk off into the evening, stopping occasionally to speak with stragglers. A sudden thought struck Danforth: what of his and Martin’s horses – what of Woebegone and Coureur. He turned to find Martin already walking quickly up the Hiegait. He followed.

  Both of their mounts were where they had been tied – not far up from the market cross. ‘Both unharmed,’ smiled Martin, tickling Coureur’s ears. ‘What do you make of that, Simon?’

  ‘At present, nothing. I think only on lawlessness and my stomach growls in protest.’ His heart slowing, Danforth untied Woebegone and he and Martin finally took the road home. The evening had already begun to sparkle with the promise of a further chilling blast.

  When they reached the Martin house, they both ate greedily. Danforth was still keen to be alone, and so he bid Martin and Alison goodnight early. He had been worried that Martin would also seek an early night following the day’s troubling business, but the younger man expressed a grateful desire to spend some time alone with his mother. He left them in the cheerful solar, talking about insubstantial things, Alison chiding her son for not yet having had a proper shave from Gillespie. A little stab of foolish jealousy pricked at Danforth as he bowed out of the room, but he brushed it aside as one might swat at a flea. It was the curse of some men to always wonder, on leaving chatting friends, about what might be said of him in his absence. He would not become such a man.

  He took a candle from a stick in the hall and made his way to what Alison insisted on calling ‘the boy’s bedchamber’. It gave off little light, as candles often do, its pale circle illuminating only the floor about his feet. Customarily he had to go slowly, wary of what lay outside the tiny pool, but he had grown quickly to know the way. It was a comforting feeling. It was like being at home.

  He curled up in the bed, thankful for the warmth of the heavy blankets. As he had expected, however, his mind did not blow out, but burned with a fevered intensity. Slowly, he began to piece together a narrative that might make sense. Madge Ferguson, a young whore, had escaped her bondage and moved away from the burgh, stealing a vulgar book as a last act of defiance against the brutish masters who had kept her in thrall. She had spent her youth amongst people who knew, and who would lie and dissemble, in order to protect each other’s secrets. She had hoped to better herself. At some point she had returned to the burgh with a husband, a new name, and a new identity. Then she had been killed, the book still in her chamber, a false coin dropped above her.