Time and Tide (18 page)

‘I have not the slightest idea.'

‘Then make yourself useful, and flush out that grammar book. There is a wordbook written at the back.'

Hew retrieved the grammar from its station in the cabinet, setting loose the rattle in the catch.

‘Zapfen is a pin, or else a core,' he read.

‘Now is it? Very good,' Giles answered with a nod. He was working on the transcripts he had made of Jacob's letters, examining the words as closely as he had the blackened finger stub, stripped back to the bone. Propped open by its side was the German
Kreuterbuch
, with other works of physic, pharmacy and botany. From time to time he made a note, in careful Latin script. Hew envied him his art, and left him undisturbed, until they both were startled by a rapping at the door, and the unseemly entrance of Sandy Kintor's son. ‘Have you seen my father, sirs?' he ventured breathlessly.

Hew replied, astonished, ‘Not since Sunday last. Why, then, have you lost him?'

‘He has not been seen, since Tuesday afternoon.' The miller's son burst into tears.

‘Dear, dear,' tutted Giles. He set aside the
Kreuterbuch
to focus
on his patient, abandoning the quest to find the holy fire. ‘Come, sir, and sit down. If you look there in the cupboard,' he instructed Hew, ‘you will find a flask of brandy wine. Not that – that is embalming fluid.
Who is he?
' he hissed after, in a loud stage whisper.

‘Alasdair, the son of Sandy Kintor, the tenant of the mill at Kenly Green.'

‘Another miller? Ah,' Giles answered with a frown. ‘Where was he seen last?'

Alasdair gulped down the brandy, struggling to compose himself. ‘My name is Sandy, sir, for no one but my mither ever calls me Alasdair. Your pardon, but I knew not where to come. I knew he was expected here, and hoped . . .'

‘Start at the beginning,' Hew advised. He felt a deep sense of foreboding, and sought for reassurances.

‘Aye, sir, as you will,' Sandy answered miserably. ‘What happened, sirs, was this. My faither went on Monday past, to speak with Robert Wood. And there was it appointed, that he should have the mill; for he had had your letters, sir,' he paused to glance at Hew, ‘and he was right impressed, with the testimonial.' Giles looked askance at Hew, which Hew chose to ignore.

‘My faither was right glad, sir, to have it there and then. That I had cause to wonder, if it went not to his head, though he is not, in truth, a vain or boastful man.'

‘For certain, he is not,' Hew conceded quietly. He found he could not calm the heavy surge of dread.

‘And he was set to drinking, in the haven inn, just to drink a toast, to you and Robert Wood. For Robert Wood said, with a man of such skill, he was sure of having the windmill. And whether it were Robert Wood, or else it were my faither, sir, the word at once got out, for nothing is kept secret round a mill. And it was spread abroad, that Robert Wood preferred a country miller, to a miller from the town. And the tenants of that mill were pleased and glad, that they should have their miller and a good and honest man, and they would
drink his health, which for the sake of courtesy my dad could not refuse. So he came home that night a little worse for wear; in truth, he staggered home to Kenly Green. And on his way back home, he saw a boy, who brought to him a message from the miller Henry Cairns, congratulating him upon his deal with Robert Wood, and asking him to meet. My father was well pleased, for Cairns is his first rival for the mill, and he intimated that their interests might be joined.'

Giles said oddly, ‘When was this?'

‘Twas as I said, on Monday night. I ken, sir, what you want to say,' the miller's son said miserably, ‘yet if I may go on?'

Giles nodded, ‘Aye, go on.'

‘The meeting was to be on Tuesday afternoon. And so my father set out for the town, on Tuesday morn. But he did not return. And all the day on Wednesday, I searched along the shore, for fear that he had fallen in his cups, yet found no sight nor sound of him. My mother sent me back into the town, to see if he had lodged with Robert Wood. Which, sir, he had not. But Robert Wood was pleased to hint, that he might lose the prospect of the mill, if he should prove a man that could not be relied upon. And so I came at last to visit Henry Cairns. And there I found . . .'

‘What did you find?' demanded Hew, while Giles asserted gravely, ‘I know what you found.'

Sandy looked back at them both, and answered in despair, ‘That Henry Cairns is sick abed, and has been for the past few days. He had not seen my faither, and he did not seek to meet him, nor could he have been thought to, when he could not lift his head.'

Giles nodded. ‘That I can confirm. For Henry Cairns has been my patient, at death's door since Sunday last. Though I am pleased to say, he makes a slow recovery. Whoever sent that message, it could not be him.'

‘Nor yet his sons or pickmen,' the miller's son said wretchedly, ‘who have had their hands full at the mill.'

‘Then who did send the message?' wondered Hew.

‘That I cannot find,' the miller's son replied. ‘Nor did my father tell me, where they were to meet.'

‘I suppose you did not think to look inside the windmill?' questioned Hew. He fought against the notion, that was foremost in his mind, that he had somehow sent the miller to his death.

‘Strange enough, I did,' the miller's son replied. ‘For that it was so dear to him. But I found nothing there.'

‘I think that it is likely,' Hew considered, ‘that whoever sent the message, knew that Henry Cairns was sick.'

‘That is more than likely,' Giles agreed. ‘And yet it does not help us much, for that is almost all the town.'

‘It
cannot
be,' objected Hew. ‘For I was not aware of it, and nor was Sandy Kintor, nor Alasdair, his son.'

‘And that, Hew, is my point,' Giles replied emphatically. ‘That you were unaware of it, because you were at service at the chapel of St Leonard's, and Henry Cairns was taken ill, on Sunday morning last, in the kirk of Holy Trinity. His vomiting and flux were really quite spectacular. The Reverend Traill was lost for words, for quarter of an hour.'

‘Dear God!' started Hew. ‘Then everybody knew?'

‘Save you and Sandy Kintor? As it would appear.' Giles fished into his sleeve and found a pocket handkerchief, which he bestowed benignly upon the miller's son. ‘Have courage,' he advised him, ‘your father will show up.'

And so he did, that Friday afternoon, when Henry Cairns felt well enough to struggle out of bed.

Henry Cairns was fearful as he languished in his bed. He feared that he would fail in his bid to have the windmill, and he would lose his place among the millers in the town. He feared too that his bid might be accepted, and the windmill might blow over in a gust of wind, because he had no notion how to make her work. He feared that the baxters would make good their claim, and make him sell his birthright for the common good. He feared that the Lawmill would encroach upon his business while he lay sick in bed, and that his wife Effie would take off in a huff, refusing to empty the chamber pot. He fretted that he had not fixed the padlock on the  granary, and someone might have broken in, stealing all the grain. But most of all, he feared that he had forfeited the sacrament, for his offence of boking in the kirk communion cup, the only vessel he had had to hand. The Reverend Geoffrey Traill had failed to reassure him on that point, for his promise of God's pardon had been notably lukewarm.

Henry discharged bitterly into the foaming pot, and took the foul black purgative the doctor recommended, however ill-conceived a remedy for flux. He was thankful enough when he could swallow some thin gruel, and venture weakly out into the brittle sunshine of an autumn afternoon. To his great joy and relief, he found that the world was much as he had left it, the sweeter for the days that he had suffered in the sickroom. The fallen leaves were crisp, and the air smelt pleasantly of mushrooms, wood and smoke. The mills at the both the shore and priory ground on in his absence,
worked by the pickmen and his elder sons. The winds were brisk and fresh, the lade was running clear, and with a gladdened heart, he went to check the granary. The corn had not been turned for several weeks, and Henry felt the need for a little light exertion, to ease him back from indolence to a severer health.

The granary lay north-east of the abbey mill, close to the old holy well. It stood three storeys high, and broke the north-east wind, so that the new inn guest house stood shadowed in its lea, allowing royal visitors a quiet resting place. In latter days, it had become a grain store for the town, with sacks of flour and seed corn stored in bins. The surplus corn was banked against the failure of the crop. Kept clean and dry and cool, the grain stores lasted years, and saved the town from famine when the harvest failed. The corn was spread out thinly on the ground and sifted through and turned, once or twice a week, to free it from the chaff. And as it dried and cooled, it was shovelled into heaps, to depths of several feet, over months and years. The more frequent the turning, the longer it would last.

The corn upon the upper floor was more than six foot deep, and it required considerable exertion, to turn it to the sides from the centre of the room. A funnel in the centre channelled grains of barley to the floor below, where they were placed in sacks and carried to the mill. The oldest and the driest corn, according to the baxters' lore, produced the finest flour. The granary itself was raised and watertight, protected from the mice by its distance from the ground, and from weevils by the turning and a clean flow of dry air. The padlock at the door was rusted at the hinge, and Henry had intended to replace it. It no longer held the bolt intact, and swung open to the touch without call for the key, which had caused him, in his sickness, several sleepless nights. He was relieved to find the padlock still in place, and to all appearances safely closed and locked. The sacks of meal and flour, and the bins for seed, were ordered and untouched, just as he had left them the week before. The baxters kept a store of fine
imported wheat, a lure to any thief, which Henry saw at once was safely stacked and sealed. He liked the smell of corn, and the crispness of the husks, the clean and welcome coolness of the  oats  and barleycorn. Today there was a new, more pungent scent, which Henry had not noticed there before. He realised that his stomach still felt sour and raw, and climbed the ladder quickly, to settle it with exercise.

The taste and stench of sourness filled his belly and his mouth, and he suppressed it firmly. This was not the place. For a moment, on the upper floor, the pungency was worse, and Henry felt a sudden wave of sickness, dizzy at the summit of the steps. Yet he would not give in to it; he knew that it would pass, and taking up the shovel from its hook upon the wall, he begin to turn the corn, methodically and vigorously, working up a sweat. And soon he had convinced himself he was not sick at all, turning close and rhythmically, churning up the corn. Until at last his shovel, shearing through the grain, landed with a thud, and out fell Sandy Kintor, tumbling from the chaff, his mouth a gaping grimace sliced by Henry's spade. And Henry realised that he was not well at all, and fell into the chasm that had once been Sandy's face.

The corpse was taken out, and laid upon the green, beside the cowering form of Henry Cairns. His son had come to look for him, and found the broken padlock swinging on its hinge, and the front door opened wide upon the granary. Inside, he found his father, lifeless and prostrate. It had taken Giles some time to sort the living from the dead, while Henry Cairns was limp and ashen-faced. He was brought round in the end, by the sheriff, Andrew Wood, whose attentions were more pertinent, and harder to ignore. Henry now knelt quivering, at the sharp end of a sword.

‘He must hang precipitate, for was caught redhand,' insisted Andrew Wood.

‘Dear, oh dear,' sighed Giles. ‘When will you cease this foolishness? Henry Cairns is innocent of any part in this.'

Henry could not calm his belly from its swell; from terror and
revulsion, he could barely speak. They forced him to look down on Sandy Kintor's corpse, the frozen, grinning rictus he had carved into his face. Giles dipped his handkerchief into the miller's mouth, scooping out a pocketful of grain. A crowd had gathered, fronted by the baxters, who had been in council with Sir Andrew Wood. The siting of the windmill was the matter for discussion.

James Edie asked in horror, ‘What has happened to his face?'

‘Henry struck it with his spade. Yet it was not his fault,' Giles replied succinctly.

‘Can we not close his eyes?' proposed Hew. He told himself that Sandy was long gone, and that seemed clear enough, the corpse bore scant resemblance now to any living thing. There was, he noticed, very little blood.

‘In a moment,' Giles returned. The miller's face turned upwards, yearning for the light, had drained of life and blood before it met with Henry's spade. He had been struck upon the head, with a blunt and heavy force, before he had been buried in the grain. Yet even that, the doctor said, had not resulted in his death. His mouth and throat were choked, as hoppers in the mill. The miller had died gasping. He had drowned in corn.

‘These little pricks of blood,' instructed Giles, ‘that leaked into his eyes, are proof of how he died. A dry drowning, we may call it.' It was a choice of phrase he came later to regret. Giles closed the miller's eyes in one swift, decisive movement, and rose a little stiffly to his feet. ‘The examination of the corpus is complete,' he said to Andrew Wood. ‘Now you may take him to the kirk. And pray you, let this poor man back up from his knees, where the dampness of the grass can do him no great good.

‘I will prescribe a vomiter,' he told Henry kindly.

The coroner withdrew his guard, allowing Henry Cairns to struggle to his feet. ‘I pray you, sir, no womitar, I do not need a purge,' the miller moaned.