The plan for the day was simple: the great and the good of Letho and Pitmen and their various guests and associates would sit on the hard pews in the kirk and listen to sermons from Mr. McCulloch of County Armagh, Mr. Christie, the schoolmaster at Cupar, and after dinner Mr. Thomson of Alloa. It seemed only fair that sitting on the harder seats they should have the better preachers. The hoi polloi had the liberty and clean fresh air of the kirkyard, where, on a platform rigged up by Letho’s estate carpenter, under the unnecessary supervision of the Kirk Session, three preachers would also address them. Mr. Stoddart of St. Leonard’s could be relied upon to waken the sleeping and rouse the forgetful and pave the way for Mr. Leslie of Kirkcaldy, who was comparatively new to preaching. In the afternoon, in the manner of those who serve the good wine first, would come Mr. Telfer, although as Mr. Kenny remarked, this might be a mistake as Mr. Telfer would have had time to get to the ale by then.
The village was virtually empty by a quarter to nine, and the last tidiers and organisers fled, panting, up the hill to the kirkyard. Letho baskets were emptied on to a broad bench under the inn’s canvas mantle, along with food from Dures, the Fairlies, the manse, and, more dubiously, Cullessie. Even the Balfours of Pitmen, who had had further to travel than anyone, had brought supplies for the kirkyard and their servants helped quickly to arrange them on the bench before finding a good spot amongst the gravestones to settle for the morning.
At ten to nine, the Fairlies arrived, and with them Mr. Thomson of Alloa and Mr. Leslie, farmed out to them for the night. At five to nine, the manse door opened and all the manse party trooped up the hill to the kirk, including Mr. Telfer and Mr. McCulloch. The elders of the Kirk Session distributed themselves between kirkyard and kirk, and Mr. Kenny, who was of the kirkyard party, noticed something quite important: Mr. Stoddart of St. Leonard’s, supposed to be riding down that morning to preach at nine o’clock, had not arrived.
‘I thought you said he was here,’ Kenny hissed at Melville, who was greeting various friends in the congregation.
‘No, no, I said Dr. Inglis had arrived,’ said Melville.
‘Well, what use is that? He isna preaching till the morrow, and I canna see him trying out his fine sermon in the kirkyard today standing on a wee wooden box, can you?’
‘It’s no my fault,’ said Melville huffily. ‘If you canna hear ...’
‘Well, we have Mr. Leslie and Mr. Telfer,’ said Kenny, swiftly practical. ‘Who first? Quick – they’ll be praying in a minute.’
‘Mr. Leslie, then,’ said Melville. They ran to find the young assistant minister, wringing his hands as he paced up and down by the kirk wall.
‘Will you go up first, sir?’ asked Kenny quickly. ‘Mr. Stoddart’s no here yet.’
‘First?’ squeaked Mr. Leslie.
‘Aye, you’ll have it over with by eleven,’ Melville encouraged him. ‘Look, they’re all waiting for you.’
Mr. Leslie looked. The crowd, perceiving that something was amiss, had the air of being about to witness a cheerful bear-baiting. Mr. Leslie started to shake.
‘I’m not going first,’ he stated with high-pitched determination. ‘I will not.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Melville, ‘they’re no so bad as they look!’
‘Och, never mind,’ said Kenny, making a decision, ‘Telfer’ll do it.’
He had left Telfer near the church door, hoping that enough people would keep an eye on him. He found him on the north side of the church on his own, looking shifty. Kenny had no time to ask questions. Back at the church door, Mr. Helliwell was calling the congregation, internal and external, to prayer.
Mr. Telfer was on the preaching platform at ten past nine. That he stayed on it for the next hour and a half was mainly due to the sturdy handrail that Letho’s estate carpenter had attached. The congregation was unimpressed, and the people inside the church, listening to a moderately good sermon on the text, ‘And after the fire a still small voice’, occasionally had difficulty in hearing Mr. McCulloch over laughter and catcalls. Ninian Jack was the only person who managed to look even more disapproving than the minister.
It was around half past ten when Mr. Stoddart, leading a sweaty brown mare, arrived at the kirkyard gate. Mr. Kenny hurried to meet him.
‘She’s gone cruik, wouldn’t you know?’ Mr. Stoddart explained apologetically. ‘I’ve had to walk her from Cupar. She’ll no go back to St. Andrews the night.’
‘I’m glad to see you here safe, sir,’ said Kenny. ‘Here, Jackie Watson, will you take this mare down to the stables at the inn and see her looked after? Jackie’s grand with horses, si, she’ll have a good rest.’
‘Have I spoilt the plans, then?’ asked Mr. Stoddart when the mare had gone.
‘Not at all,’ said Kenny, leading the way up the path. ‘We have rearranged matters, so you can preach at eleven if you’re in a hurry to get back.’
‘That would suit me very well,’ said Mr. Stoddart. ‘I had thought to preach on the sin of fornication: would that be acceptable, do you think?’
‘Oh aye,’ said Kenny, looking at the ground, ‘that’d be grand.’
By the time Mr. Telfer finally fell off the platform at ten to eleven, Mr. Stoddart had changed his mind and following the next set of prayers he preached on the evils of drink. His congregation, sipping ale from the ample supply supposed to be kept for dinnertime but mysteriously broached, nodded in solemn agreement and occasionally toasted him. The congregation inside relaxed, as much as they could in their finery, and apart from the sporadic thundering of Mr. Stoddart himself were able to concentrate on Mr. Christie’s ‘Blessed are the pure in heart’.
By dinner time, Kenny and Melville began to feel that the day was not going so badly. The food on the bench was distributed to those who required it, and the innkeeper sent his men down for more ale to replace what had been used up. The gentlefolk with some of their servants returned to their homes, and the Balfours of Pitmen, who were cousins of the Murray family, went back to Letho House to dine there. Because of the numbers in the kirkyard a few hours had been granted for dinner before the final sermons of the day, and Murray took the Balfours and Dr. Inglis, and Isobel, who was suddenly interested, to show them the advances being made with the tunnel under the servants’ quarters and where it was to run into the gardens. Isobel and the Balfours expressed delight, and Mrs. Balfour suggested some plants which would benefit from the water and enhance the scheme: Dr. Inglis was moved to talk of irrigation systems designed by missionaries in India. The day was still hot and heavy, and the talk of water was soothing: they stared into the pool in the centre of the Italian garden, and both Isobel and Murray at least wished they could paddle in it without loss of dignity. The time went by pleasantly, and soon they were ready to return to the kirk for the afternoon’s preaching.
XII
For some reason, the coach from Perth to Cupar was running late. Smith was not the agitated sort, but Mrs. Butler’s energy could not be contained in a small vehicle and she was eager to be at her destination. Smith had asked for the coach to make the detour up the hill to Letho village, so they could be deposited at the inn itself, and he was surprised as they drove past to see the mill by the bridge standing still and the smithy shut up. No one was about in the street, and when the coach had left them, they seemed to be entirely alone in the village. Mrs. Butler looked about her suspiciously.
‘Where are the townsfolk?’ she asked.
Smith spotted a movement in the stableyard.
‘Here, you!’ he called. A tall, thin boy emerged reluctantly. ‘You’re one of the Watson boys, aren’t you?’
‘Jackie Watson, sir,’ said the boy, nodding once.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘Up at the kirk, sir, for the Communion preachings.’
‘Oh, of course!’ said Smith. ‘I had forgotten. I felt I had been away longer than I had. Is there anyone here bar yourself, Jackie?’
‘Nessie Scott is within, sir, in case anyone came o
ff the post.’
‘Well, we have,’ said Smith. ‘Look, Mrs. Butler, it might be as well if you were to stay within here while I find my master and see how he wants things done. As I told you, he’s a mite strange, but a gentleman when all is said and done.’ He looked about, but Jackie had retreated to the stables. ‘Now look,’ Smith said more quietly. ‘it’s best for your own safety for you to stay in your room here, and not be seen out and about. It is a small village, and you never ken who’s watching you. This man has maybe killed your friend Barbara, and I would not like it for you to go the same way.’
Hoping that this would be sufficient to keep the housekeeper in one place for an hour or two, Smith left her to the care of Nessie Scott, the innkeeper’s capable daughter, and started up for the church.
XIII
Inside the kirk, Mr. Thomson of Alloa was holding forth with practised ease, and had the gratification of seeing Dr. Inglis of Greyfriars nodding his approval. Melville and Kenny, having changed places with Baird and Watson, relaxed and began to enjoy themselves. There was, at that stage, no sound to be heard from outside, which they took to be a good sign.
Outside, Mr. Leslie was scarcely audible. For the first ten or twenty minutes of his sermon, the congregation strained politely to hear him, but when the wind started up and what there was of his voice was whisked off amidst the rustle of trees and the flapping of canvas, people began to hold their own quiet conversations, which, as they grew less entertained by the proceedings on the platform, grew louder. Baird moved amongst the gravestones, trying to reason people into silence, but no one stayed still for very long and he stood little chance of keeping their attention. People moved out of the wind, or shuffled off to relieve themselves of their ale outside the walls, and one by one children were sent off home to fetch warmer shawls, or to stoke up the fires for later. Watson was no use: he seemed mesmerised by the misery of the preacher, bright red but persisting, eyes closed, in giving all his sermon as he had memorised it. Neither of them saw the steady trickle, mostly of men, back to the plenteous ale barrels.
When Smith arrived, it was straight into an argument between Baird and two of Melville’s larger farmhands, each with a tankard of ale in his hand. It was clearly not their first, in either case. Baird, pale and windswept, was pointing out to them coldly the impropriety of their actions, the element of discourtesy to Mr. Leslie, and the degree of pain they would suffer in the morning. To this, the farmhands were replying that they might as well stay drunk and Mr. Leslie would be the better if he was, too, and that was the least of their arguments. Baird was growing colder and the farmhands louder, audible quite clearly even above the increasing wind, and Smith, who realised that reaching Mr. Blair would be impossible for a while, decided to intervene. Unfortunately, he did so at precisely the wrong moment, and instead of forestalling any violence he had said no more than,
‘Now, come on, lads –’ when one of them swung on him with a well-angled fist. Smith had a curious impression of seeing the church fly over him, green against a yellow sky, before something hit the back of his head and darkness descended.
XIV
When he came round, apparently only a moment later, both farmhands were leaning over him like lovers, faces set in anxiety.
‘Are you all right, there? Oh, Lord, I didn’t mean it, let him be all right!’
‘Here, have some of this.’ Smith felt the tinny edge of a tankard being pressed to his lips, and he drank deeply, having little option. The pain in his head, which was considerable, seemed to lessen while he actually had ale in his throat, and when he had struggled to a sitting position he drank again without any further bidding. The farmhands laughed, and found him a tankard of his own, which he drained. Baird, hovering, decided that Smith was in no need of a surgeon and that there was no point in stirring up again a dangerous situation, and moved away to see if Mr. Leslie was nearing the end of his sermon. It was almost six o’clock.
XV
The first heavy drops of rain fell through the wind just as the first members of the kirk congregation were leaving the building. Those with carriages drew their bonnets and hats close and scuttled to them down the steep path. The Letho contingent, along with Dr. Inglis and the Balfours, set off in convoy along the street to reach the main road, while the servants in the kirkyard pulled themselves together and prepared to leave. On their way out, they found Smith, propped against Mr. Fairlie’s mother’s grave, dribbling. Robbins was deeply shocked.
‘Come on,’ he said quickly to Daniel and William, ‘give me a hand here. We’ll have to carry him home.’
‘There’s blood on him,’ said William in disgust, ‘and more besides.’
‘The rain will wash it off,’ said Robbins. The rain was being hurled at them now, a soaking wind saturated with drops. The women servants hurried ahead, shawls over their best bonnets. In the kirk door, Mr. Helliwell looked out with a grim sense of foreboding. His wife behind him urged him to make a run for it.
‘I am not sure we should,’ he said slowly.
‘Och, it could go on for hours!’ Mrs. Helliwell said. ‘We could be stuck here!’
‘I am not sure we should go home to the manse at all,’ the minister explained, staring at the rain. ‘I am not sure it can take this rain. I think we might be safer here.’
The children, waiting back in the church, were wide-eyed with excitement. Mr. McCulloch, who was to stay the night, sat philosophically at the end of a pew and played with the brim of his hat. Mr. Telfer snored. The minister and his wife looked at one another, and then back at the rain.
XVI
The door to the servants’ wing was tricky, especially for three grown men trying to carry a drunken fourth. At one point Daniel lost his footing and fell to his knees, and Smith stared bewildered as a coin rolled back and forth on the floor, fallen from his pocket. Robbins snarled and Daniel heaved himself upright again, and they made for the steps up to the room Smith shared with Robbins.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Mutch was hurriedly loading dishes into the oven while Effy stirred soup over the fire. They both jumped when Iffy dropped a saucepan on the flag floor.
‘It just lepped out of my hands, Mrs. Mutch, honest!’ she cried.
‘I think they must have a low opinion of your hands, Iffy, the rate they lep out of them,’ said the cook. ‘Get on with it.’
XVII
‘I shall go down in a few minutes and see if there is any sign of damage occurring,’ said Mr. Helliwell. ‘If I think it necessary, I shall bring back blankets and some food. We shall be safe here, in God’s hands.’
‘Aye, but will you be safe down there?’ asked Mr. McCulloch pessimistically.
XVIII
They finally managed to lift Smith on to his bed. He was not a light man, and they stood back with a sense of achievement. Smith opened his eyes, saw the room lurch, and was sick on the floor.
XIX
Mrs. Chambers, with a moment to spare, popped into the stillroom to fetch chutneys for supper. She surveyed with satisfaction the dishes all laid out for the ball on Monday, but was surprised to see them slide slightly across the table.
With a sigh, the unsupported middle of the servants’ wing folded up, and slid into the ditch below.
Chapter Nine
I
The carriages were just turning on the drive outside the front door when Murray heard the crash. For a moment, as the horses jerked and jumped in their harness, he could not work out where the noise was from. Without waiting for Dunnet’s help he swung the door wide and leapt down from the still-moving carriage, and looked about. Beyond the wheels and hooves on gravel, there was silence. Then the screams began.
Even before he reached, running, the archway over the stables drive, he could see the cloud – of smoke? or dust? rising through the rain from the servants’ wing. When he was through the archway, he had to put a hand back to steady himself. The building looked like a piece of wood hacked through once with a blunt axe. The two ends seemed sou
nd but had a shocked look, jarred by the blow. The centre, however, was broken, distorted, stonework crushed, windows smashed, their frames jagged splinters at all angles. The screaming came from the upper floor, mostly, though there were other noises, too, from elsewhere, that sounded all the more agonised for their quietness.
Murray stared, horrified. The trench had looked sound that afternoon – he had stepped into it himself. His mind went blank, as the image burned itself on his eyes, scored by the cries of the servants. It could not be real.
And now people came running, the guests from the other coaches in their Sunday finery and the boys from the stables, some barefoot, all white-faced and gasping at the sight. The rain dampened them all. Some, hearing the screams, began to run to the ruin to help, but Murray, coming to life again, stopped them.
‘Stay back! Everyone stay back, or it could collapse further. Mrs. Freeman, there will be injuries. We shall bring people into the main house. You know where the linen cupboards are: can you take charge in there?’
Flattered in spite of the task ahead, Mrs. Freeman invited Mrs. Balfour and forcibly led Isobel back to the front door. Murray was pleased to see the ladies go. His mind was crystal clear.
‘Now, ladders. You four stable boys, fetch the best long ladders you can find. There’s someone upstairs. Balfour, could I beg you to go to the kitchen garden side and make sure no one goes in until we are sure it is safe? Thank you. Dunnet, take a horse and go for Dr. Feilden.’
He stepped forward, a cautious few feet nearer the ruin, and called up to the broken window where the screams were loudest.
‘Who is that up there?’
The screams stopped on a gasp. There was some tentative movement inside, and then a sensible Island voice answered.
An Abandoned Woman (Murray of Letho Book 4) Page 26
