An Abandoned Woman (Murray of Letho Book 4)

by Lexie Conyngham

  As evening drew closer, the maids scrubbed the stairs and hall floor, muddy from the constant passing of servants’ boots all day. In the gallery, Robbins and William checked and lit the candles on the three great chandeliers, while outside the gardeners set up torches along the drive to the park gates and raked the gravel of the carriage sweep. The indoor manservants went back, excited, to change into their best livery, and Iffy and Effy, who could not be kept from the excitement, were allowed a quick visit to the main house to see the grandeur of the ballroom that was usually just a gallery. Eyes shining, they returned to help Mrs. Mutch and the cook from the Fairlie household. The supper and refreshment tables were already piled high with fruit and cold meats and splendid ashets of salmagundi and savoury moulds, but there was soup to finish, and hot punch, and ice cream, and little sugar and savoury pastries to serve as straight from the oven as could be done. While the women beat and whisked and stirred and pressed, Robbins, Daniel and William sorted out livery for the gardeners and stable lads on temporary promotion, selected not only for their looks and behaviour but also for how well they fitted the livery. Jennet and Mary applied judicious stitches and emergency pins, and while Robbins gave the men a final lecture on behaviour, the upper maids went to change into their best black gowns. Mrs. Chambers, with help from Jennet, put on the gown made from the dark red cloth Robbins had brought her from Edinburgh, and Jennet tied a fresh sling and arranged her lace cap. Then, in a body, not running – by Robbins’ instructions – but at a curious, low-kneed walk, urgent with excitement, all the upper servants fluttered across to the main house, giggling and chattering while they still could. Robbins lit the rest of the candles till the house from a distance must have looked like a giant lantern: Daniel and William were at their pompous best, showing the mere outdoor servants how to behave. Murray, wearing his dull gold waistcoat and evening shoes and escorting Mrs. Freeman in unripe green, came into the gallery just as the band were taking their seats and tuning up. Ninian Jack amongst them saw him, nodded a greeting, and tried his fiddle. A shiver of excitement ran up Murray’s spine, and he took Mrs. Freeman downstairs to wait for his guests.

  The people of Letho and surrounds had had an eventful summer, with deaths and illness and excursions and preachings and weddings and courtship, and it was not yet harvest, but they flung themselves into Murray’s ball as though there had been nothing to talk of since Candlemas. Colourful ladies and elegant gentlemen met and parted in endless threads of music on the dance floor, while the gossips and the chaperones and the temporarily exhausted sat and stood and watched and talked, and silent inexperienced servants stood big-eyed and useless till Robbins unobtrusively trod on their toes. The refreshments were tried and pronounced exquisite, the flowers were admired, particularly by Mrs. Helliwell and Mrs. Balfour, and the band was praised, quite extravagantly by some. People from all over Fife, it seemed, had taken advantage of the light evening and ventured thus far, and the rooms warmed and the windows were opened as couples stood discreetly by the curtains and looked out over the moonlit park. Mrs. Freeman was in her element, finding partners for the shy, the inexperienced, the reluctant, halt and lame, while still making sure that Isobel behaved herself. The Fairlies were there in force, Mrs. Fairlie in a moss green that clashed horribly with Mrs. Freeman’s gown, Mrs. Hugh Fairlie enchanting in creamy gold, the colour of her husband’s waistcoat, and the Misses Fairlie in blue and white, variously mixed. Isobel’s white gown with white embroidery looked very well, and demonstrated a taste quite different from her father’s with his red and orange waistcoat and daring red ribbon on his bob wig.

  Knowing he would excite gossip whatever he did, Murray led Louisa Fairlie out for the first two dances, and made sure he varied his partners as much as possible. Hosting a ball could be dangerous for the reputation of an unmarried man. Mrs. Freeman saw to it that he, along with everyone else, danced as often as possible, and he was three-quarters exhausted when she finally led the way down to supper in the dining room. He took Miss George down with him, as he had just been dancing with her, and saw her safely into a seat at the laden table. Her brother was nearby, and they greeted each other again.

  ‘Your friend Kennedy is not with us, I see,’ remarked Mr. George.

  ‘He did hope to be this evening,’ said Murray, realising that he had not seen Kennedy, but thinking no more about it as Mr. George asked him about the state of the servants’ wing.

  VI

  Kennedy was, in fact, even later than he had said he would be. Seeing him arrive, still in his day clothes, Robbins ushered him into the parlour as the last guests left the supper table, and sent Mary to fetch warm water for Kennedy’s room. Robbins served the guest some hot punch, and left him to his own devices while he saw to the clearing of the dining room. Kennedy settled himself in a chair till he was called for, and began to leaf through a portfolio of drawings he found tucked down by the fireplace.

  When, a moment or two later, Kennedy ran out into the hall, he found Robbins and Daniel trying, unsuccessfully, to bar the way to a very determined woman in black, whose bonnet was set at an energetic angle.

  ‘I want to see Mr. Blair,’ she was insisting.

  Kennedy paused for only a moment to stare at her, then ran upstairs two at a time. Robbins ordered Daniel to keep a hold of the strange woman, and stalked after Kennedy, but the woman broke free and ran after him, shoes rattling on the stone steps.

  In the gallery, dancing had begun again and both Murray and Blair were in the midst of it. After only a moment, Robbins caught Murray’s eye and his master nodded acknowledgement. He danced to a point in the set where he could exchange quickly with a man sitting out, who took Murray’s place with a bow to his new partner. Murray slipped between his guests and made his way to Robbins, but Kennedy managed to snatch him first. The woman with Robbins bounced impatiently on her toes.

  ‘Murray,’ Kennedy started excitedly, ‘the most extraordinary thing has happened. You remember last night I came to tell you of a man I had seen the night of that poor woman’s murder? Well, I have just found a drawing of him in your parlour, is that not incredible?’

  Murray was about to reply when the little woman finally thrust Robbins aside and said,

  ‘Excuse me, I suppose you are Mr. Blair, but I am looking for a man named Smith. I came down with him on Saturday from Aberdeen and he left me at the inn ever since, and I have better things to do than sit there twiddling my thumbs. My mistress is delicate, you know, and will be lost without me, she will wonder what has become of me. And what might become of me, I ask you, for it is upsetting enough to hear that my good friend Miss Kerr might have been murdered, without being left alone and defenceless at a strange inn in a strange town, who know what might have happened?’

  She stopped to draw breath, and Murray seized his chance.

  ‘To start with, madam, I am not Blair. My name is Murray of Letho, and –’

  ‘Well, then, have I been deceived entirely? I was told at the inn that I could find Smith at Letho House, and he said he was manservant to Mr. Blair.’

  ‘So he is,’ said Murray, before she could return to full flow. ‘Mr. Blair is my houseguest, and Smith attends him. Or does when he is well. He suffered an injury on Saturday, or I am sure he would have collected you sooner.’ His mind spun with possibilities: had Smith really managed to identify the murdered woman?

  ‘Then who is Mr. Blair?’ demanded the visitor.

  At the sound of his name as he danced past, Blair broke free from the set still holding his partner by the hand. He bowed to her and escorted her to a seat, while behind him the rest of the dance floor fell into confusion. As the dancers stumbled and stopped, the band also came to a halt and there was a moment’s laughter and scuffle as the floor cleared to try again. Blair came over to the group by the door, but at that instant the woman from Aberdeen pointed across the gallery and cried out,

  ‘That’s him! That is the man!’

  Silence cut into the conversation.
The band stopped, bows poised. At least three men by the window looked confused: no one seemed to recognise her.

  ‘I thought I might not, after all this while, but I’d ken you anywhere.’ She marched over the empty dance floor, feet tapping. ‘I am Mrs. Butler, housekeeper in Aberdeen, and you were married on my very good friend Barbara Kerr four years ago in Aberdeen.’ She advanced to the group by the window, and pointed unmistakably at Hugh Fairlie.

  ‘I do not know you, do I?’ he asked, with some composure. He spoke quietly enough, but the whole gallery was listening. A candle hissed in the chandelier overhead.

  ‘No, you do not know me. Yet you knew her, did you not?’

  ‘Barbara Kerr ...’ said Hugh, seeming to think. The pretence was not very convincing, and he seemed to realise it. Beside him, his bride looked angelically bewildered, a polite smile frozen on her face. ‘Yes, all right, I knew her,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘But marry her!’

  ‘I saw you with her, arm in arm,’ said Mrs. Butler, stubbornly, though she had to tilt her head back to meet his eye. ‘You had a flat with her on Union Street, and if you were not married to her then there was something worse going on. But Barbara was a good girl, and I am sure you could have got her no other way.’

  ‘Well, then,’ Hugh’s eyes flickered around the room, and his voice dropped further. ‘Say I did marry her. What of it? She is dead long since.’

  ‘Dead long since?’ repeated Mrs. Butler loudly. ‘I think not. If she was anything to the drawing I saw, Barbara Kerr died here in your village, near two months ago now, and no one gave her the honour of a name. She was murdered!’

  ‘What?’ said Mr. Fairlie, emerging from elsewhere in the crowd. His wife was with him. Behind them, Murray’s guests were motionless.

  ‘Oh, Hugh, can it be true?’ she asked.

  ‘Just what are you saying I have done?’ Hugh asked Mrs. Butler, more audibly.

  ‘I am saying,’ she said defiantly, ‘that you have used my friend badly. That you married her and abandoned her, and then you murdered her. I cannot think of anyone else Barbara knew with half the reason you might have had!’

  However Mrs. Butler had contrived to bounce her pieces of information together, her performance was dramatic. Around the room, the audience waited, unbreathing. If Murray had not cared so much about the outcome, he would have been enjoying himself.

  Hugh smiled, and waited for the sensation to die down. Then he said quite clearly,

  ‘But on the night the woman was killed, I was in Edinburgh, preparing for my wedding.’

  ‘Hugh?’ Hugh’s brother John now came out of the crowd. The Fairlies stood arranged, like chess pieces waiting for the next move.

  ‘Well?’ said Hugh.

  John cleared his throat, and said quietly, urgently,

  ‘You know you were not in Edinburgh that night. You said you were going home early, because – you remember?’

  ‘So I was not in Edinburgh,’ said Hugh crossly. ‘There are other places, you know, besides Edinburgh and Letho. I was delayed on the journey.’

  ‘But you were in Letho that night,’ said Kennedy suddenly. He raised his voice to be heard across the gallery. ‘I met you – after eleven at night, it would have been – at the end of the lane between the manse and the kirkyard. I have not seen you otherwise till now, but I saw you clearly then by the light of my lantern, do you not remember?’

  At the top of his voice, Hugh suddenly swore. He turned and made a dive for the window but his father and Mr. George were too fast for him. They snatched, one an arm, the other a foot. He kicked and struggled and broke half-free, but his father held hard against his flailing blows. Mr. George regained his hold, and as others surrounded them with the help of Murray, Kennedy and Robbins they brought him under control and took him heavily downstairs. Mrs. Butler and the rest of the Fairlies followed. In the gallery, Mrs. Freeman gave a breathless signal to the band, and had to do it again before they started to play. At the window, Mrs. Hugh Fairlie, wife of a few weeks, fainted cold on the floor.

  Downstairs, the men took Hugh Fairlie along the passage to the library. Robbins segregated the ladies, and escorted them to the parlour, and Mary led Mrs. Butler to the servants’ quarters. By the time they were all settled Hugh had calmed down considerably.

  ‘This is all very embarrassing,’ he said, with a rueful smile.

  ‘Perhaps you would care to explain,’ said Murray, coolly.

  ‘Well, it is not that complicated, really. I did come home early from Edinburgh, as John said. I had a little assignation I did not want to miss, you know?’ He nodded conspiratorially at Mr. George, but he did not nod back. He looked oddly disgusted.

  ‘Well, I did not know there would be all this firework nonsense, but the deed was done at last in the little wood behind the church there, where there is some soft bracken. And when I had finished, I stepped out on to the path and someone walked into me, half grabbing me. I thought I was being attacked, so I pulled out my knife – you know the one, Murray, we all had them at school. Ninian Jack still makes them, I think. Then I saw it was Barbara and I was horrified.’

  ‘You did not bring her here yourself, then?’ Blair asked.

  ‘No! I really had lost track of her. I only married her when I was a student, and we were married by her Episcopal minister. After I had finished university, I found she was not as interesting as I had thought. I had come into a little money when my grandmother had died, and had paid the rent on a flat for her, bought her a few things. She was all right. But I had hardly thought of her since. To see her appear like that, with everything arranged for the wedding in Edinburgh – well, it was quite a shock, I can tell you.’

  He looked around the room, quite indignant, to seek sympathy. There was none.

  ‘So anyway,’ he went on, as if the explanation were very tedious, ‘she said she had come to find me, that she wanted me to come back to Aberdeen. I said that was impossible, and then she said could I not help her out financially, for she had had trouble finding work since. I said no, I could not, for I was to be married, and that was when it struck me. I could not have two wives, so there was only one way out of it, and I pushed the knife into her.

  ‘I was about to go, when something reminded me of the locket I had given her. I thought it might be in her pack, so I began to hunt through it but I heard someone coming, and pushed the stuff back in, and left, meeting that gentleman with his lantern at the stile, curse him! I went back to the Cupar road and spent the rest of the night in the woods, and met John the next day, to come home with him.’

  ‘What about Nan Watson?’ asked Blair.

  ‘And Effy Duff?’ added Murray.

  ‘I have no idea where Nan is, more’s the pity,’ Hugh said. ‘It was she I was with that night. A great girl.’

  ‘And Effy?’

  ‘Is she your maid that was attacked? Am I to be accused of molesting every hysterical female in the county? No, that was not my doing.’

  ‘What odds?’ said his father. ‘You will pay dearly enough for all you have confessed to, Hugh.’

  ‘What?’ said Hugh, astonished.

  ‘Hugh,’ said his father, ‘you have murdered your wife. What should we do, forgive you and pass on?’

  ‘But father,’ said Hugh, ‘you have always encouraged us to please ourselves and take what life has to offer.’

  ‘Have I?’ said Mr. Fairlie. ‘Have I really taught you to have so little regard for others? For your family?’ His face sagged in self-righteous amazement.

  ‘I think we had better secure matters until the sheriff’s man can be summoned,’ said Murray, having no wish to be privy to a family quarrel. ‘Ah, here is Robbins returned. Have you the keys?’

  ‘I have, sir. Please come with me when you are ready.’

  They led Hugh up the servants’ stairs to the nursery floor, where several of the rooms had bars on the windows for safety. In a bareish one of these they locked Hugh, provisioned with water and candles, and left
him to his thoughts.

  VII

  Back in the hallway, they could clearly hear music and dancing continuing in the gallery. The denizens of Letho were not going to let momentous news obstruct their evening’s entertainment. In the parlour, Mrs. Fairlie and her daughters sat pale and silent, waiting for news. Mary Fairlie quietly regretted that she had not had the presence of mind to faint. Her sister-in-law had now come round, but had shown some reluctance to sit with her new family. She was being comforted by a flattered Miss George, and shortly afterwards went home with her to Dures.

  Mr. Fairlie was quiet, and looked considerably older than he had done an hour ago. Murray said,

  ‘You have, of course, the liberty of my parlour for your family until you choose to go home. One of my men will stay outside Hugh’s door until the Sheriff’s officer comes tomorrow.’

  Mr. Fairlie nodded, and said incongruously,

  ‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ and went to join his family. Murray, George, Kennedy and Blair looked at each other, exchanged shrugs, and went upstairs to rejoin the ball.

  Chapter Ten

  I

  Tentatively, Mr. Fairlie eyed the front of the manse from his stance at the front gate. He had been there for several minutes now, one hand on the stone gatepost, pressing the gritty stonework hard. He had assumed that everyone at the manse would still be asleep after last night’s ball, but the household seemed to be as wakeful as his own, if not so subdued.

  He had left his own house for a variety of reasons that morning, and walked up the street quickly, aiming to be out of the way before the rumours started spreading. It still seemed to him that everyone knew, that everyone looked at him oddly, or endued their greetings with half-hidden, double meanings. A kind of foggy tiredness clouded his mind. No one had slept much in the Fairlie household last night, but only he, he was sure, could have been weighed down with so great a self-reproach, so terrible an urge to trace the past and discover, as if he could do anything about it, where he might have gone wrong, when he might have said or done anything that produced a murderer. Mrs. Fairlie and the girls were confused and stupefied, still unable to accept that Hugh might be guilty. Mr. Fairlie could have no doubt of that: he simply could not establish why.