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were taken up for murder.’
    Well, well, thought Gil. So Nicol Renfrew was right.
    ‘It was this flask, mistress.’ James Syme stepped past Morison where he still stood open-mouthed in the door of the hall-chamber, and held up the painted pottery object which had emerged from the doctor’s great scrip at the vital moment.
    ‘That looks like one of –’ she began, and bit off the words.
    ‘We all had some of that shipment,’ said Adam Forrest from behind Syme. ‘You ken that, Christian.’
    Morison pulled himself together and came forward, saying, ‘Maisters, I think the Serjeant wants to ask us what happened, and then we’re free to go, and I’m right sorry to have had to keep you here so long.’
    ‘No trouble,’ said Andrew Hamilton the elder in cheerful tones, ‘I’d stay longer than this in company wi your clarry wine, Augie.’
    ‘So can you untie my brother, sir?’ demanded Christian Bothwell.
    ‘No, no, we’ll no untie him the now,’ announced the Serjeant, emerging in his turn from the hall-chamber. ‘He’s safe where he is till Tammas and me’s ready to take him away.’
    ‘Away? Are you arresting him? But he never – I’ll not –’
    ‘He’s guilty, woman, and no use to protest,’ said Wilkie.
    ‘If it wasn’t the right flask,’ said Gil, nodding at the little pewter one which Christian still held, ‘where did you get the other one? The one you used?’
    ‘Why, I –’ began Bothwell, and stopped, staring in horror at the bright glaze of the flask in Syme’s hand. Sweat broke out across his brow, and he closed his mouth, swallowed, and said, ‘I – I forget.’
    ‘No point in questioning him here,’ said the Serjeant. ‘I’ll get all the answers I need out of him, down at the Tolbooth. Now, maisters, mistresses, I’ve heard from the man’s fellows, and from the potyngars that treated him, I’ll take your account of what passed, if it’s convenient, and then I’ll get away out your road.’
    ‘What’s in the right flask?’ Gil asked.
    ‘This and that to make a smoke when it’s opened.’ Christian drew the stopper and waved her hand, and a cloud of sinister bluish vapour trailed after the open flask.
    ‘There’s no harm in it,’ said her brother wearily, ‘but it looks good.’
    ‘And in the other?’ Gil looked from Syme to his colleagues. ‘What would you say killed Danny Gibson? Can you prove what’s in the flask in any way?’
    ‘What, taste it ourselves?’ said Robert Renfrew. He had found a discarded tray of sweetmeats. ‘I think no!’ he said, and popped a marchpane cherry into his mouth.
    His father frowned at him, and said heavily, ‘That’s a task for one of us, I’d say, it being apothecary business. There’s ways to prove pysons, though something that acts so swift and in small quantity – aye, well, the craft will tell.’
    ‘The craft will tell,’ agreed Syme, ‘though it takes great learning to prove a poison.’
    ‘I’ll take that on, Frankie,’ offered Wat Forrest. Syme looked annoyed. ‘You’ve trouble enough in your household the night, without extra work.’
    ‘Aye, I should be away,’ admitted Maister Renfrew reluctantly, ‘and see how the lass is doing. They’d ha sent word if the bairn had come home, I suppose. But I’d as soon see Bothwell took up for murder afore I go.’
    ‘No, no, just you get away, maister,’ said the Serjeant, with slightly forced civility, ‘and let me speak wi these worthies. Then we can all get home to our supper. Maister Cunningham, if you want to run about testing pysons, I’ll no stop ye, and if Maister Forrest wants to take the nasty stuff away wi him I’ll be just as glad no to have the care o sic a thing myself, but I’ll ha Nanty Bothwell safe in the cells at the Tolbooth in any case, so he’ll no slay any more folk.’
     
    ‘We’ll never dare entertain again,’ said Kate. She spoke lightly, but her eyes were shadowed.
    ‘No, no,’ said Maistre Pierre comfortingly, a