Read A Pig of Cold Poison for Free Online

could have been poisoned by the drops the doctor uses to cure him. Maister Renfrew and his partners, and the Forrest brothers, are working on him now.’
    ‘He’s a deid man, then,’ said the Serjeant, ‘for nobody could survive that much curing.’ He laughed at his joke, and looked about him. ‘Where is he, then? I’ll need to see him, deid or no, and where’s Nanty Bothwell? Ah, you’ve got him ready for me.’
    The door to the hall-chamber opened, and Morison emerged, his velvet hat in his hand.
    ‘Serjeant,’ he said. ‘I thought I heard your voice. Thank you for coming so prompt. It’s a matter of violent death, right enough.’
    ‘Death?’ said Nancy Sproull sharply. ‘Is the poor fellow dead, then?’
    In the window Maistre Pierre turned to look at them, and pulled his hat off. The other men did the same, one after another, and Nanty Bothwell, between his two sentinels, bent his head and muttered a prayer.
    ‘He died just now.’ Morison crossed himself, and most of his hearers did likewise. ‘Father Francis was wi him.’
    ‘God send him rest,’ said Andrew Hamilton. His son was silent and round-eyed.
    ‘Aye, well,’ said Serjeant Anderson, ‘that’s clear enough, I’d say. Pysont by the man that’s his rival in love, so I hear, and all these folk witnesses to it, is that right?’
    Nanty Bothwell looked up with a despairing ‘No!’ but most of those present nodded, and there was a general chorus of agreement. Nancy Sproull said:
    ‘Aye, as Agnes said, we all saw him give poor Daniel the drops that slew him.’
    ‘I’m none so certain,’ said Gil. ‘Bothwell seemed as dismayed as any of us at the man’s taking ill.’
    ‘It was hardly anyone else in the chamber ministered the pyson,’ objected Maister Wilkie. He clapped his green bonnet back on his bald patch and came forward into the room. ‘There was none of us anywhere near the man – aye, nowhere near either of them, till the moment Dan Gibson fell down.’
    ‘That’s truth,’ agreed Maister Hamilton.
    His stout wife nodded, her chins wobbling, and young Andrew said clearly, ‘They were all there in the midst of the room, see, and the rest of us round the outside.’
    His mother looked at him fondly, but Nicol Renfrew said, with that irritating giggle, ‘It was the wrong flask he had.’ Everyone turned to stare at him, and he put his head back and looked owlishly from face to face. ‘You could see that,’ he added, and giggled again.
    ‘How could you tell?’ Gil asked carefully, trying to recall the moment when the flask had appeared from the doc-tor’s great scrip.
    Nicol waved a hand, grinning. ‘It just was.’
    A reply Ysonde might have made, Gil thought.
    ‘This gets us nowhere,’ declared the Serjeant. ‘See here, Maister Cunningham, you’re paid of my lord Archbishop to look into murders, so it’s only natural you should want to look further. But I’m paid wi the council to keep this burgh safe, and what I’ll do to that end is arrest the man that pysont Daniel Gibson, that you’ve got held there waiting for me, and there’s the sum of it. Where is the poor fellow, sir?’
    ‘Yonder, in the hall-chamber,’ said Morison, with a helpless glance at Gil, while Wilkie and Maister Hamilton made approving noises and the scrawny constable looked resigned.
    ‘But if there’s some doubt about the flask –’ Gil began, swallowing anger.
    ‘Ach, nonsense,’ said Maister Hamilton roundly. ‘We’ve only this daftheid’s word on that, and he’s the one that tellt our Andrew Dumbarton Rock was on fire.’
    Nicol flourished one hand and bowed, still grinning, and young Andrew went scarlet and glowered at his father. The Serjeant, ignoring the exchange, summoned his constable and proceeded grandly towards the door Morison had indicated. Gil, following him, paused as he found Maistre Pierre at his elbow.
    ‘The man is safe meantime, if he is in the Tolbooth,’ the mason observed in French. ‘But I agree,