The Harper's Quine by Pat McIntosh Page A

be,’ said David Cunningham calmly. ‘Be
seated, Maister Sempill
.’
    John Sempill, ignoring the invitation, stared at the
Official. He was a solid, sandy man, inappropriately
dressed in cherry-coloured velvet faced with squirrel, with
a large floppy hat falling over one eye. Scowling from
under this he said, ‘My damned wife hasn’t compeared, no
in person nor by a man of law, but she’s left me anyway,
I suppose you know that, so she isn’t concerned in this.’

    ‘When did you last see your wife, John?’ asked Gil.
    The pale blue eyes turned to him. ‘Yesterday, making a
May-game of herself at Glasgow Cross. Fine thing for a
man to meet, riding into the town - his lawful wife,
disporting herself in public for servant-lads and prentices
to gape at.’
    ‘And that was the last you saw her?’ Gil pressed.
    ‘Yes. What is this?’ Sempill pushed the hat back. ‘Is
something wrong?’
    ‘Did you try to have word with her?’
    ‘Yes, I did, but the bitch never compeared for me either.
What is this?’ he demanded again. ‘What’s she done, run
off from the harper too?’
    ‘Not quite,’ said Gil. ‘When were you to have met
her?’
    ‘Last night after Compline. Neil Campbell said he
fetched her, but when I came out of the church she wasn’t
to be seen. Turned hen-hearted, I suppose. You saw me,’
he added. ‘You came out of St Mungo’s just behind
Euphemia.’
    ‘I did,’ Gil agreed.
    ‘Maister Sempill,’ said David Cunningham, ‘I think you
should know that a woman was found in the Fergus Aisle
this morning, dead. She has been provisionally identified
as Bess Stewart of Ettrick, your wife.’
    The blue eyes, fixed on his, grew round with shock.
The broad face sagged and stiffened into a mask of
astonishment.
    ‘Sit down, man,’ said the Official. John Sempill, still
staring, felt behind him with one booted foot for the stool
and sank on to it.
    ‘Dead,’ he repeated. ‘When? How? Had she been
forced?’ he demanded.
    ‘No sign of that,’ said Gil. ‘She never went back to her
lodgings. She must have died sometime last night.’
    ‘Dead,’ said Sempill again. ‘And in the Fergus Aisle? You
mean that bit of building work in St Mungo’s yard? Why?
What happened to her?’

    ‘That we hope to establish,’ said Gil. ‘Perhaps you can
tell us a few things.’
    ‘So she didn’t run out,’ said Sempill thoughtfully. ‘Poor
bitch.’ He looked up, from Gil to his uncle. ‘That means
her interest in the Rottenrow plot is returned to me,’ he
pointed out firmly. ‘We can continue with that transaction
at least.’
    ‘That must be for you and your witnesses to decide,’
said Gil, rather taken aback. ‘My immediate concern is to
discover who killed your wife and bring him to justice. Do
you tell me that between the time you rode in at Glasgow
Cross yesterday and now, you have not seen or spoken
with her?’
    ‘That’s exactly what I said,’ agreed Sempill irritably. ‘The
woman’s dead, what purpose is there in worrying at it?’
    ‘I think the Bishop - Archbishop,’ Gil corrected himself,
‘could enlighten you on that if your confessor cannot.
What was the message that your man took, John?’
    Sempill stared angrily at Gil for a moment, then evi-
    dently decided to humour him.
    ‘That she should come up and meet me by the south
door of St Mungo’s after Compline. And he delivered it.
And he came into Compline and told me she was waiting
out-by in the trees. The small belt of haw-trees,’ he elaborated, ‘by the south door. Is that dear enough? You can ask
Neil himself if you choose. He’s over in Rottenrow.’
    `Thank you, I will. Did you offer her a reason for the
meeting?’
    ‘Aye, but what’s that to do with it?’
    ‘It will tell us why she would come up the High Street
at that hour,’ said Gil mildly. ‘It was late to be out without
a reason.’
    Sempill stared at him again, chewing his lip. Finally he
said,