A Chorus of Innocents by P. F. Chisholm

Hume.” She shook her head at the idea.
    â€œWell then, explain the death of Mr Burn.”
    â€œI can’t. He was a good pastor.”
    â€œAy, he was, a good pastor and a good dominie but a fire-eater he was not. His sermons were respectable and his life exemplary. He may have come from a riding surname but he himself was no reiver.”
    Elizabeth nodded. “You’re right, Lady Hume. He never showed any signs of being a reiver.” Lady Hume gave Elizabeth a long and considering look which Elizabeth returned blandly and then curtseyed low to her again.
    They went in silence up the steps from the crypt and straight into the alehouse which was full. Elizabeth went into a corner, called for double beer for Young Henry and his cousins and mild for herself and settled down on the bench to watch what happened. The presence of Lady Hume made the church alehouse respectable. She wondered whether the lady had simply taken up residence in the manse for the duration. Elizabeth also wondered where she herself would sleep. At least she had an official position here for the funeral, so she supposed Lady Hume might do something about it eventually.
    Jamie Burn had come from a riding surname of the Middle March and was a son of the headman. The Burns were coming in all day to the funeral, feeling the need to make a point of it, and she hoped that Lady Hume had brought supplies with her to help with that. She watched the man she thought was Jamie’s father by the bar as he drank and stared into space and stared into space and drank. She wasn’t sure what had happened between him and his son when Jamie decided to go to university. Had that been with his father’s consent or had there been a quarrel?
    After a moment she got up, left her pewter mug of mild ale on the table next to Young Henry, and went over to the man.
    â€œMr Burn?” she asked.
    â€œAy. Ay missus.”
    â€œAre you Minister Burn’s father?”
    â€œNay missus, his uncle, Jock. His dad’s Ralph o’ the Coate.”
    â€œMay I speak with you?”
    â€œAy, why not?”
    â€œI was very, very sorry to hear of Jamie Burn’s death, Mr Burn,” she began inadequately.
    â€œYe were. Why?”
    â€œHe was a good man and a good pastor. There aren’t enough of those about that we can afford to waste them.”
    Strangely there was a brief moment when the man in front of her seemed about to laugh, but she thought she had mistaken it. “Ay,” came the answer, “I backed him agin his father when he wanted to dae it.”
    â€œYou did?”
    â€œI backed him, ay. His big brother Geordie thought it was hilarious, him studying Divinity at St Andrews as a servitor, and his dad wanted him to stay with the family. There was a lot of argufying.”
    â€œI wondered if his father was against it.”
    â€œAy. Agin it. Ye could say that.”
    â€œWill he be coming to the funeral?”
    Jock Burn’s face shut tight. “Ay well. I dinna ken. He might.”
    â€œThe rest of the surname seem to be coming in.”
    â€œAy,” said Jock Burn, “we need to make a bit of a show.”
    â€œWhy?”
    He paused, thinking. “Somebody came up to a Burn, stabbed him, and part took his heid off wi’ an axe. We’re coming in so no one thinks we’re afeared.”
    â€œGood Lord, Mr Burn, I don’t think anyone could possibly think that.”
    â€œHm. And I think kindly on ye, that the Widdringtons are showing support.”
    â€œI liked the minister, Mr Burn. He was a good man.”
    â€œAy.”
    She went back to Young Henry who was looking wistfully at a game of shove ha’penny that was starting up in the corner.
    â€œWhat do you think about it?” she asked as she sat down with him again and finished her mild ale. Young Henry flushed and hid his nose in his beer.
    â€œAbout Jamie?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, I liked him