‘It may be that Effy disturbed them and allowed the other girl, if this is the case, and we may, of course, be jumping to conclusions, to escape. Did any of the servants mention another attack last night?’
‘No, nothing was mentioned, but they may have been too wrapped up in their own troubles to hear gossip.’ He took his watch from his pocket and flicked it open. ‘It is time I was back to prepare for Mr. Elliot. Will you come, or do you go on to the village?’
Blair looked on at the stile into the village and paused, then made up his mind.
‘I’ll come with you. It is no weather for visiting.’
XIII
Mr. Elliot, not an architect of wide renown, resolved himself from shadowy expectation into a well-rounded man in his late thirties, whose attention to detail was comfortingly indicated by the fact that he wore an excellently-made shoe on his right foot, even though his left leg ended disconsolately in a peg. He arrived in time for dinner, at which he ate meat with fervour but vegetables not at all, leaving Murray wondering if he hoped by these means to grow back the missing leg. Mr. Elliot discoursed at length about the loss of his limb, which he said was due to surgical malpractice following a malignant sore, the development of which malady was described in detail over the beef course. The leg, he said, was now pickled at the College of Surgeons in Edinburgh and on exhibition as a lesson to apprentices, and he finished with the generous offer of an introduction to one of the senior fellows of the college who would happily let them view it at their convenience.
Kennedy had joined them for dinner but was forced to excuse himself from the expedition that followed, explaining politely that he was still feeling a little under the weather. He did indeed appear quite green. Thalland, Murray’s agent, was by contrast a greyish man of few words who had listened to Mr. Elliot’s story with solemn interest. He stayed with the gentlemen for brandy, sitting upright in his chair, but contributed nothing to the conversation except for an almost inaudible sigh when Murray at last suggested they should inspect the servants’ quarters.
The rain was lighter now, but of a persistent, soaking quality that was not inviting. Blair once more installed himself in boots and the waxed-linen coat of his own devising, and found himself a hat with a fine broad brim. Small in the midst of all this, he peered between the stiff edges of the collar like a mouse in a cupboard.
In the tall entrance hall, caped and hatted himself, he found Mr. Elliot once again drawing attention to his misfortune. The architect was kneeling on one knee on the flags, explaining broadly to Blair and Thalland that though it was easy to walk with on solid ground, he found his peg of limited use on building sites, as it had a tendency to penetrate the mud and remain stuck, requiring him to stop and call for assistance. On one memorable occasion he had managed to pull it free himself, only to overbalance and topple into the very mud which had ensnared his peg. Following this distressing occurrence, Mr. Elliot explained, he had sat down – once he was bathed and changed, of course – and designed the very accoutrement which he was at that moment lacing to his peg. It was simply a board, about six inches square and pierced in four places near the middle. He used leather laces to fasten it through holes bored in the peg, and the result was a flat ‘foot’, of which he seemed inordinately proud. The board had been well finished and polished with reverent care. Blair, at the owner’s invitation, subjected it to a close examination and beamed at the simple ingenuity of its construction. Mr. Elliot assumed a boot on his other foot, and with Robbins at hand to help him to a standing position, the expedition party left Letho House by the front door and followed the building round to the right, till they came to the servants’ wing.
That branch of the carriageway, passing beneath an archway, linked the front of the house with the entrance to the stableyard. Between the edge of the driveway and the yellow-grey stone of the servants’ wing the grass sloped steeply downwards, descending roughly six feet in the same distance forward. The grass was lush and green, particularly where the slope met the wall. The men peered down it, and after a moment Mr. Elliot declared that he could not manage the descent of such a slope with his wooden foot attachment, and walked further along the drive to where a gentler path led to the servants’ door. From this he was able to pace along the grassy trough directly beside the wall, pausing now and again to test the ground with his stick. The others watched him solemnly. Murray glanced at the other two: Blair’s face was mobile with delighted interest, while Thalland’s, he noticed, particularly when the agent was concentrating on something, so lacked a chin that in profile he gave the appearance of being sucked into his hat by some powerful force. Murray’s own face set with concern and he looked back down at the architect.
‘The water runs down this slope from the drive,’ Mr. Elliot indicated with his stick, ‘and collects here for a while, stopping by the wall. Observe the moss on the stonework.’
‘I had thought,’ said Murray, ‘of having a retaining wall built this side of the drive and angling the drive itself so that the water ran off on the other side.’
Mr. Elliot was already shaking his head respectfully.
‘Ah, no, Mr. Murray, sir. From the lie of the land, you will see that the water would simply then run beneath the drive, which is unlikely to be deeply laid, and your problem would remain the same after some expense on your part. And even if it did work for a while, which is just possible,’ he conceded, ‘the passage of horses, carriages and even pedestrians along this driveway would in time wear it back to its original level and you would have the whole business to pay for again. Hmm,’ he added, stepping back and contemplating the angle of the slope with a professional eye. At last he turned, a little clumsily, and walked back to the path. ‘And now for the rear, or lower, elevation of the construction.’
Thalland led the way deferentially through the sandstone arch of the stable block and round to the right, where a wooden gate opened on to the kitchen garden. The servants’ wing, with the windows now towards them, stood on their right, and even in the misty rain the main kitchen door stood open at the head of four steps.
‘Is there a cellar?’ asked Mr. Elliot, contemplating the range initially from a distance.
‘No, the only cellar is beneath the main house, fortunately,’ said Murray. ‘It is not prone to flooding.’
‘Hmm,’ said Mr. Elliot again, and paced along the muddy path. His wooden foot sucked at each step but held him steady. Blair watched the whole performance with evident delight.
Mr. Elliot once more prodded the earth in the herb beds along the walls, tutted, and removed a glove to scrape a cautious fingernail first on the stonework, then on the mortar between the stones. A cloud of damp perfume was released by his progress, sage, rosemary, thyme and lavender brushed by his passing. He placed his full palm on one large stone near the kitchen steps and paused, looking away, reminding Murray of a physician taking temperature. Mr. Elliot shook his head, and broke away a fragment of wood from the bottom of the kitchen doorpost. A faint shriek from within announced the nervous presence of one of the Duff twins, but Mr. Elliot was unmoved.
‘A rot, as you see, gentlemen, has set in within the woodwork here. This indicates to me, along with the general humidity of the stonework, that the problem is long-standing and may, indeed, be reaching a critical point.’
‘We should see to that doorpost,’ Murray remarked to Thalland.
‘The doorpost, my dear Mr. Murray, will again become infected, because the main cause will not have been removed, which is the build-up of water soaking through the construction. The same occurred with my late lamented lower limb. May we be permitted to look inside the lower apartments?’
He had to be helped up the steps by Thalland and Murray, as his foot board was too broad to balance. Once inside the kitchen, he caused quite a flurry of curtseying kitchen staff at which he waved his stick cheerfully. Robbins came forward and bowed to Murray, establishing a kind of diplomatic relationship within his kingdom, and Murray explained in a few
words to the assembled staff what was the purpose of their visit. Mr. Elliot, meanwhile, tapped at the flag floor with his stick, felt the walls with a professional palm, and led the way out into the passage where he repeated the procedure in several places. He then began an inspection, mostly cursory, of the rooms on the upper side of the corridor, in which the silver was stored and the male indoor servants slept. He hummed again, tapping his chin with the head of his stick, then announced that he had seen all he needed to see for the moment.
‘Might I suggest,’ he continued, ‘that we retire to your office or other suitable apartment to discuss how you wish to proceed?’
‘Certainly,’ said Murray, and led the way along the narrow white-washed passage back into the main house. Robbins, with Daniel, followed to help them with their coats and boots, and assured himself that the fire was lit in the library to help the men dry off properly. Mr. Elliot, excusing himself, sat in a low chair to unlace his left foot.
‘Now,’ he said, standing restored to his normal balance, ‘I have examined the matter, and this is how it seems to me.’ He paused to ensure he had their attention, and folded his hands behind his back, addressing them like a schoolmaster.
‘The water is gathering on one side, the upper side, of the servants’ wing, and seeps through the stonework to emerge on the other or lower side. In its passage it renders the whole construction damp and unwholesome, producing moulds and other growths detrimental to the structure of the wing and the health of its inhabitants, rendering you liable to heavy medical expenses – and they can indeed be heavy, as I can assure you. As there is no practical way of stopping the water from running down to the upper side and thence through the building, I recommend that we construct a gutter arrangement which, leading equally from each end of the building at the ground level, will draw the water to the mid-point of the wing.’
‘Would that not just make the one big puddle?’ asked Thalland politely.
‘Ah!’ Mr. Elliot responded, pleased. ‘That is where the second feature comes in. We shall – if you choose to follow my humble plan, Mr. Murray, sir – we shall build a passage beneath the servants’ wing at that central point, tunnelling under the building to emerge in the kitchen garden. There it may be culverted as a drain, or you may wish to link it to other water features in your gardens and render a virtue from this necessity.’ He sat down, waiting for approval. His peg swivelled a little hollow in the carpet.
‘If you are to build a gutter along the side of the wall anyway,’ said Murray thoughtfully, ‘why not build it all the way round and carry the water at ground level about the building to the kitchen garden? It seems a risky enterprise, to tunnel beneath an existing building in such a way.’
Mr. Elliot waved a dismissive hand.
‘Fifty years ago, sir, it might have been. But with the advances in engineering from which the country has benefitted in that time, such a tunnel is no more than a trifle. Why, we have recently contemplated tunnelling beneath the Forth itself. The servants need not even be disturbed, for the gutter will follow the natural lie of the land. I can send you plans and diagrams, if Mr. Thalland here will assist me in taking some measurements, and you can make your decision with all the scientific facts at your disposal. But you should not, I recommend, take long over the decision if you wish to have the work completed this year, for the building will dry out best in the summer months.’
Murray considered a moment longer, then rose.
‘Very well, then, Mr. Elliot, please carry out your measurements and submit your diagrams, and I shall consider the matter. Mr. Thalland, perhaps you could assist him?’
The architect spent the rest of the afternoon in complex measurements with Mr. Thalland, pacing about the servants’ quarters, penning notes in a little leather-covered roll of paper, and regaled the company over supper with tales of injuries suffered by his workmen on different building sites. Murray regarded him with a bland expression throughout. He had decided that the talk of accidents would not discourage him from employing Mr. Elliot before he sent in his diagrams, to which he was very much looking forward. The scheme seemed a large-scale, courageous affair – something of which his father would have approved. Mr. Kennedy, eyes bright in dark rings and a flushed face, excused himself to go to bed early, and the rest of the company were not much later in retiring.
Chapter Four
I
‘I thought at first it was just – you know, from the brandy on Saturday night,’ Kennedy said apologetically. Dr. Feilden packed his last tools into his bag as Murray watched him from the door of the bedchamber. Blair hovered in the passage, scuffing the carpet with one impatient toe. Kennedy, wrapped in a stylish dressing gown and with a shawl bundled around his throat, looked flushed and over-bright.
‘As I say, Mr. Kennedy,’ said the doctor, ‘if it does not calm of its own accord, I shall return at once and bleed you. But the fever is not extreme at present.’
‘We shall present your apologies, of course, to the Fairlies,’ said Murray, concerned but eager not to miss dinner altogether.
‘Oh, the Fairlies! I had forgotten.’ Kennedy seemed distressed, but Murray hastened to reassure him.
‘It is no matter. Summer colds are common enough, particularly in this damp weather, and I am sure they would rather you recovered than endangered yourself further by going out of doors.’
‘Not to mention,’ said Dr. Feilden soberly, ‘endangering them, too, and so near the wedding, which is an event that can spread disease far and wide. No, you are better to stay in bed. Or maybe should I give you a purge?’ He regarded Kennedy thoughtfully, until Kennedy said in alarm,
‘No! No, I am sure I shall recover with a little rest, thank you, Mr. Feilden. I only wish not to be disturbed.’
The doctor shrugged, and they left Kennedy gathering himself up dejectedly to return to his bed.
The Fairlies’ house stood in the row of various conjoined buildings that formed the north side of North Street. Until ten years ago or so it had been striking as being not only stuccoed in a row of bare stonework, but also the newest of those buildings, but then Dr. Feilden’s house had been rebuilt and about halfway between the two, Hugh Fairlie’s own new house, in which he was to live with his new bride, had just been completed at, it was rumoured, considerable expense. It continued a family tradition, as the Fairlies’ house had been new at their own marriage. It had been held that Fairlie, having built it and completed it to his satisfaction, had then found himself at a loss for anything further to do and had married for the novelty. Others, perhaps less kindly, averred that Mr. Fairlie had installed his wife as the final piece of decorative furnishing and had treated her as such ever since.
The house was narrow, built on the site of a smaller cottage, but it had three steps with railings to its front door and extended back sufficiently far to contain all the requisite apartments, though perhaps a little inconveniently arranged. The necessity of having the dining room on the ground floor pushed office, parlour and kitchens far down what had been the area for poultry runs and vegetables, and Fairlie had eventually leased land from the Letho estate to make a garden beyond again. The ladies preferred to ignore the parlour in any case and spent much of their day in the dining room, whence they had an excellent view of the green and both North Street and South Street. So, too, did the drawing room above, though on this occasion, with more than a dozen people in the room, it was difficult to approach the window casually. Blair, however, had been trapped there for some time by Miss George, and Murray wondered if he should stage a rescue attempt.
Miss George had handsome features, intelligent grey eyes, a fine figure, good taste – as demonstrated in the exquisite tawny silk dress which perfectly complemented her complexion – and a thoroughly respectable dowry. It had been assumed by everyone, including Miss George, that she would make an excellent marriage. However, this assumption was now growing faint with weariness, and Miss George who had in the past, people said, turned down a number of moder
ately good offers in the expectation of something better, found herself in a position which could be regarded as desperate. Blair had always claimed it to be possible that in fact the lady had not been such a poor judge, but had never received any offers at all, for though handsome she was not attractive, had not the curious quality that drew men to her, as Parnell Kirk had and was demonstrating now in the same room. Parnell, pretty in blue, dark curls shining, glowed in the centre of a little circle consisting of all three Mr. Fairlies and young Gilbert Helliwell. Mr. George had noticed her, of course, and she him, but beyond an amused smile he gave no reaction and instead passed on smoothly to where Murray himself stood, greeting him with a friendly smile and a bow.
‘Murray, how do you?’
‘Oh, very well, thank you, sir. And you?’
‘In excellent health, I thank you. When can we expect to see Mrs. Freeman and Miss Blair this summer?’
Murray smiled at the thought of more guests for his big house.
‘Next month, I hope, if all is well. I am lucky to see them at all, for they seem always to be moving about.’
‘I see Miss Kirk is a little lonely,’ remarked Mr. George. ‘Perhaps we should -?’ He raised his well-bred eyebrows at Murray and ushered him ahead to where Virginia Kirk stared languidly out of one window, while Blair was still trapped at the other. She turned in surprise at their approach, and gave a slow smile. The flame-coloured curtains against which she was standing reflected a little colour in her cheeks, but she still wore a woollen Indian shawl over her gown and long gloves, and clutched it to her even as she curtsied.
‘I see you are familiarising yourself with the view of our little village,’ said Mr. George, genially. ‘There is little to learn, I fear, but I hope you find it pleasing.’
An Abandoned Woman (Murray of Letho Book 4) Page 10
