Martinmas Page 5

  Malcom Crabbe could not. ‘It is an English song.’

  ‘A pity. Else we might have sung it with the Gude and Godlie ballads. There are pictures too, of the different whips. I did not know they carried male and female kinds.’

  Malcolm rushed headlong, mistaking for approval what was meant for irony. ‘They do. This one with the barbs is to flay the women, after they have spoiled them.’ He read a little late the look upon Hew’s face. ‘Well, that is what the verse says,’ he concluded lamely.

  ‘Although their bodies sweet and fair/their spoil they meant to make/And on them first their filthie lust/and pleasure for to take,’ Hew read aloud. ‘These Spaniards show no courtesy.’

  ‘No, sir. They are vile.’

  ‘Do you think,’ said Hew, ‘this filth is fit to bring into the college here?’

  Malcolm Crabbe thought. ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Why not, do you think?’

  ‘It is not in Latin?’

  ‘That is a small part of it. But you make a good point. You can take the “Pack of lies” and turn it into Latin. I will keep the rest.’

  ‘Will you burn them, sir?’ Understanding dawned, or more likely, Hew considered, had been lurking all the while. Malcolm Crabbe was wise enough to know to play the fool.

  ‘I will not. For that is what the Spanish do. Where did you get them from?’

  ‘From my father. He is a merchant, who deals in quilibets.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘In what-nots, sir. It is a Latin word. I thought you would have heard of it.’

  ‘I know the word,’ said Hew. ‘But I had not come across it in that way. He can have the pamphlets back, at the end of term, when I will want a word with him.’

  ‘Ask for almost anything, he will find it for you,’ Crabbe said with a grin. ‘But his speciality is moments of the day. Mementos and remembrances. He says the Spanish wars will make our fortune yet, if they do not drive us to our graves.’

  Hew had taken the pamphlets back to Kenly Green, and had read them overnight. Their lurid accounts were sufficient to cause nightmares in a time-served soldier, never mind a timid and impressive boy. Though some boys were protected by the callousness of youth, to one with a tender, troubled intellect the pamphlets were the kindle for the flame. Hew had dismissed the bloodspot in the kirk as a skew irrelevance. The source for the substance of the ghost was plain.

  So he had believed. Thomas would recover, and the case was closed. But now that he had heard the tale of Colin Snell, he was not so sure.

  He found Thomas Crowe sitting up in bed. Already, he could see a little colour in his cheeks. ‘I do not suppose,’ said Hew, ‘that there are spirits here.’

  Thomas Crowe agreed that there were not.

  ‘Was it Colin Snell who taught you to fast?’

  He threw out the name, randomly and carelessly, to see the boy react. Thomas clutched at the sheet, but gave no other sign. His answer was carefully staged. ‘It behoveth them which are vexed with spirits, to pray especially, and give themselves to fasting,’ he said. He spoke no word of Snell, but recited from a book.

  ‘Yet you have been fasting for a while. For a long time, I would say, before you saw the spirit. Were there other ghosts? Ones you saw with Snell?’

  ‘Will you call Mistress Meg? I do not feel well,’ Thomas said, and voided the contents of his stomach down the bed.

  ‘You have upset him,’ said Meg, when Thomas was cleaned up again, and settled down to sleep. ‘I will not have it, Hew. He is here to rest.’

  ‘I have upset him?’ answered Hew. ‘Some who knew no better might say it was the devil made him spew.’

  Meg shot him a look. ‘God help him who dares to say it in this house. The truth is, his stomach cannot hold so much. He has not eaten nearly enough, over a very long time.’

  ‘We have been derelict in our care of him.’

  ‘That. Giles is distraught, and with cause. But it goes back much further than that. No one cared, or noticed, what he ate at home. He has starved himself, perhaps for years.’

  ‘Why would a boy choose not to eat?’ asked Hew.

  ‘Grief does strange things.’

  ‘From grief?’ he repeated.

  ‘It is not as simple as that.’

  ‘Why, then?’

  He wanted answers, always. Meg said, with a sigh, ‘I cannot say, for sure. But I believe he does not want to grow into a man.’

  For Hew, the answers were not satisfactory. He could not question either Thomas Crowe or his tutor Colin Snell in the way that he would like. Both of them were in a far too fragile state. Yet he was determined to expose the cause. ‘If you are a ghost,’ he promised, ‘I will chase you out.’ It astonished him to find he spoke the words aloud.

  He resolved to begin at the Poffle of Strathkinness. That was place where a man might find a spirit, on an ordinary day. He had been himself, to visit there at Candlemas, when Ann Balfour he supposed was already close to death. Certainly there had been a pall about the house. And Ann Balfour was the kind of woman who might well return, to haunt a man in death, just to make a point.

  He dismissed the thought, as quickly as it formed. Whatever Ann’s belief about the spirits of the dead, Hew did not believe their souls came back as ghosts. A spirit was a darker, more malignant thing. If it did exist, it was the devil’s plaything, for it was very rare indeed that such a thing was God’s. More likely though by far was that it was constructed by a human mind. Fearful men imagined fearful things.

  He did not go at once to Ann Balfour’s cottage, but called first at the farm a mile away. At this time of year, the land took on a melancholy hue. The harvest was coming to its close, the supple greens and golds mellowing to greys, the trees bending stark, yearning in the wind. In another week or so, it would be slaughter time, the keening mothers giving up their calves. The farmhands in the fields were raking up the dregs of summer. Winter was approaching, soft upon the storms.

  The farmer’s sons confirmed the doctor’s tale. Early in the morning of All Hallows Eve, old Adam Cole had walked up to the farm and telt them Ann was dead. One of them had ridden to the town to fetch Giles Locke. He had taken word to the Balfour family. And they had helped the servants move the body to the laich house, where it was cooler, for the wake.

  None of them had seen a stranger in the house. Ann Balfour and her servants kept to themselves. They were seldom seen about from one winter to the next. No one knew them well. ‘You maun talk to Wullie,’ someone said. ‘Wullie brought Ann Balfour’s letters from the town. He kens mair than maist.’

  Wullie was the farmer’s youngest son. He was nine years old. But his testimony was clearer, and far more informed, than his brothers’ was. As well as the letters, he took bread and milk, and physick that the doctor had prescribed. Sometimes, he helped the servants in the house. The wifie had given him a silver penny for it. And there had been another lady staying with them, over the last months. Very auld and fine. She was Mistress Balfour’s sister, and her name was Frances. It was Mistress Balfour who had telt him that herself. She had come there, he said, ‘to help the leddy die. I did not speak wi’ her.’

  Ann Balfour’s servants were sitting in the hall. Hew had little hope of making them confess. He could see by their looks – Adam Cole’s in particular – that they were the stuff that martyrs were made from. Were Catholics all like that? So resolutely sure of their final end, they did not care how hard it was to come to it. Not that Hew, of course, would put that to the test.

  Instead, he showed his hand. ‘That was a cruel trick that you played.’

  He was looking at the wife, for he thought he might have some leverage with her, if any came at all. They had met before. He had fetched her water from the well. Her suspicion at the time had overcome her gratitude. Still, it was a connection he could work upon. The husband at her side sat resolute as stone.

  He saw man and wife exchange a glance. They were at an age when words were not required. The woman spo
ke for both of them. ‘Ah dinnae ken what ye mean.’

  ‘You let Colin Snell believe he saw a ghost, when it was Ann’s sister sitting in the chair.’

  ‘Ah niver did.’

  Hew had expected that. He did not expect what she answered next, for quickly she expanded, ‘Ah canna help whit was in his mind. Ah didnae tell him that it wis a ghost. He telt it to himself.’

  ‘But you did not tell him who it was,’ he pointed out. It astonished him how readily she confirmed his claim.

  ‘Why wid ah tell him?’ she replied. ‘Why wis he here, but to disturb decent folk’s devotions? He et the pie, and had the cheek to say my mistress telt him to. That wis a wicked lie. Nor I am sorry if he is afeart. He deserves to be.’

  ‘Whisht, woman, will you? You have said enough,’ Adam said.

  ‘Ah will say my piece, or niver speak again. A good pie that was, sent frae the farm fer the funeral.’

  Grizelda blew her nose on a spotted handkerchief.

  ‘That was wrong of him. But why did Ann’s sister not declare herself?’ asked Hew.

  ‘She was grieved, and shy. She had gone above, for a moment’s sleep, and in comes this limmar from the Kirk. Whit was she to do? While he was blundering above us she slipped out. I locked the door behind her,’ she explained.

  Hew shook his head. ‘What you have described is a counterfeit.’

  ‘It is nothing of the kind. It was shutting in a thief, who had come into the house. Now, sir, if you will, leave us to our peace; we are mourning here.’ The old man stood, with dignity, and Hew allowed himself to be ushered out.

  ‘Where is Frances now?’ he asked.

  ‘Far from here, I doubt. Frances comes and goes, and never stays for long.’

  ‘Will she come again?’

  ‘That, sir, I count as unlikely, now that Ann Balfour has gone.’

  There was a note of sadness in the old man’s voice, prompting Hew to say, ‘Forgive me, for I have intruded on your grief. I am sorry for it. And I am sorry for your old friend, Father John. I heard he had died.’

  The old man’s face hardened. ‘Died? Aye, sir, he died. He was broken by men like Colin Snell. They couldnae let an auld man gang peaceful to his rest, but harried and pursued him till his health was gone.’

  Hew responded awkwardly. ‘If that is the case, it causes me regret. It must be painful to you, too, that your mistress did not have in her final hours the comfort of the sacrament which meant the most to her.’

  Strangely, Adam chuckled. Grief could show itself in ways that were perverse. And Adam Cole had doubtless loved his mistress well.

  The question was resolved. No ghost but a sister, punishing a man for intruding on her grief. So Hew was persuaded as he set off for the town, until he met a man who came the other way, whistling as he went, with an apple in his hand. He knew the man at once as the student Henry Balfour, from St Leonard’s College, now at the beginning of his final year.

  ‘Salve, Henry,’ he called out.

  Henry waved at him as he bit into the apple. ‘Well met, and all that,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Not so well met,’ answered Hew, ‘if you are truant again.’

  ‘I have leave,’ Henry said, ‘because I am bereaved.’

  ‘Accept my doleaunce, then. Though you seem to be bearing up well.’

  ‘My aunt and I were not close,’ Henry said, biting at the apple once again.

  ‘Was your aunt Ann Balfour?’ The connection, dimly, dawned on Hew at last.

  ‘Strictly,’ Henry said, ‘she was my father’s aunt. Or a second cousin of some sort. I do not really ken, except my father owns the house she lived in. She was one of the papist Balfours, who have brought shame on our family. He let her live there because she was poor, and had nowhere else. He said I could have the house, and the land, if I was prepared to see to her affairs, the funeral and such. So I did. Though it is not so much of a house.’

  ‘I have seen it,’ Hew teased him. ‘And I have to tell you it is full of ghosts.’

  ‘I have no fear of ghosts. Besides, as we both ken, living folk may sometimes pass off as the dead.’ Henry grinned at him. ‘There are still two servants incumbent, both of them ancient and gnarled. They are living, though grimly. I am going now to see what can be done to encourage them a little.’

  ‘The last time I saw you, you were pining for a lass,’ Hew said. ‘I am glad to see that you are more cheerful now.’

  ‘The lass is still a work in hand. I hope to win her back. The house will help.’

  A thought occurred to Hew. ‘Were you at the funeral?’ he asked.

  ‘I was. A sad affair. I had thought the servants would complain, wanting psalms and such, but they made no fuss. I think there was a wake or something in the house. Some superstitious thing. I did not like to ask.’

  Hew nodded. ‘That was best.’ He had the sense that Henry, for all his foppery, would be a considerate landlord.

  ‘Was her sister there with them?’ he asked.

  Henry stared at him. ‘What sister? She had no sister.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Quite sure. She had a brother, though. We do not speak of him.’

  ‘No? Why is that?’

  Henry laughed. ‘Well, we do. In our house, he is something of a jest. We dare to bring him up, to spite our father sometimes, for it makes him cross. But I am not convinced that he exists. He is here and there, and all about, but he is never seen. He is very old, if he is alive. Almost as old as his sister Ann.’

  ‘What do you mean, he is never seen?’

  ‘I suppose because he has to hide himself. When he was a bairn, he was sent away to live among the Jesuits. He became a priest, of the dreadful kind.’

  ‘And I suppose,’ concluded Hew, ‘the name he took was Francis.’ For, he thought, what else?

  ‘Father Francis, aye. Though my dad would flay me if he heard me call him that. I have an idea that his given name was George.’

  Hew bade him good day, and continued to the town. As he put together all that he had learned, a smile began to spread across his face.

  ‘Will you tell the truth to Colin Snell?’ asked Giles. They were sitting in the doctor’s tower, away from prying eyes, and Hew had told his friend what he had found.

  Hew shook his head. ‘I have no proof,’ he said. ‘Besides, it would be cruel. To tell him that his ghost was Father Francis Balfour in a woman’s gown would drive him to despair. He would be incontinent with disbelief and rage. It would send him mad.’

  ‘Still,’ said Giles, ‘can it be kind, to let him go on thinking he has lost his mind?’

  ‘He does not think it now. I spoke to James Melville. He tells me that now that Colin Snell has recovered from his fright – and the rotten tooth that Roger has pulled out – he believes the ghost was part of God’s intent for him. He is very pleased with it.’

  ‘Can that be to the good?’

  ‘James says it is not bad. Colin Snell believes that he should now retreat to a period of contemplation, reflecting on the spirit, and what it might mean. He intends to write it all in a book. I expect his book will be condemned as heresy, by the jealous Kirk. But it will keep him quiet for a while. And his friend Dod Auchinleck has offered him a place tending to the graves in his parish kirkyard. James says it is good of him. The living he has there can barely keep him and his wife and child. But he says that Dod has a good Christian heart. If there is something to be saved inside Colin Snell, he is the man to do it.’

  ‘Graves, though,’ said Giles. ‘Are graves the proper thing, for a man who thinks that he has seen a ghost? They are contradicted for the melancholic mind.’

  ‘Surely it is choler that predominates in Colin? I should think that graves would be the perfect thing,’ said Hew. ‘When he is occupied among the dead, he cannot hurt the living minds of boys like Thomas Crowe, or chase about the country persecuting priests.’

  Giles did not mistake the meaning in his tone. ‘Then, as I suppo
se,’ he said, ‘you did not choose to tell the truth of it to James?’

  ‘I told him,’ answered Hew, ‘that there was a woman staying in the house, and that Colin’s fevered mind had conjured up the rest. So much I thought was necessary, to prevent further troubling of the servants at the house, who, if nothing else, are deserving of their peace. He passed the news to Colin Snell, who would not hear a word of it. He will not for the world be robbed of his ghost.’

  Giles said with a smile, ‘What! Hew Cullan is colluding in concealing Catholic priests!’

  Hew answered carelessly, ‘As I think I telt you, I have found no proof. The servants at the house will carry their secret with them to the end, and I have no will to hurry them towards it. They are weak and old. And if a person finds some comfort in their dying hours, from the ministrations of a Catholic priest, what harm has been done? They are saved, or no, with or without it, I doubt.’

  Giles approved his sentiment. He was thoughtful for a while. Presently he said, ‘I believe I may have seen him.’

  ‘You have seen Father Francis?’ Hew exclaimed.

  ‘As you ken, I have attended very many deaths. I do not make distinctions for the Catholic kind. Except I have observed that Catholics die good deaths. Often, in the background, I have been aware of an old woman of the house, quiet and reserved, and yet a presence there, who tended to the patients in their final hours.’

  ‘Did you never suspect?’

  Giles shook his head. ‘I never did suppose that woman was a man. Which leads me on to think that Father Francis has assumed the mantle for so long, it becomes his nature.’

  ‘Hidden in plain sight,’ said Hew. ‘And in the perfect place. I almost wish I could have telt the truth to Colin Snell, just to see the fury and the horror in his face, when he understood how very close he came to proving he was right.’

  ‘That would be quite wrong. You seem, if I may say so, pleased with this sad tale,’ said Giles.

  Hew said, ‘I am pleased with it. For it proves a thing that I have often held, that there are no spirits walking in the night. There are disordered shades of men’s imaginations, and the mischiefs played on them, but there are no ghosts, that cannot be unmasked by a rational mind.’