‘Not in the least,’ said Blair, jiggling his legs. ‘She is to stay with you, then?’
‘I hardly know,’ said Mr. George with a shadow of his usual smile. ‘I think we shall have to take her back down to Edinburgh with us. She has no idea of what is to become of her.’
‘She has no doubt, then, of Hugh’s guilt?’ asked Murray.
‘Oddly, no. The scales seem to have fallen from her eyes as well as from everyone else’s. The pity for her is that we did not discover his guilt before the wedding, instead of after.’
The servants arrived with the tea, and spent a few minutes rearranging tables to fit the trays and plates. Evidently this room was not much used. When they had left again, and the men were served, Murray said,
‘Speaking of guilt, we now have a witness who saw you, with your shirt open as described by Effy, about the woodland by the kirkyard the night Effy was attacked.’
Mr. George, looking still through the window, took a thoughtful sip from his teacup. He turned and nodded to the minister.
‘I suppose I’m indebted to you for this, Mr. Helliwell,’ he remarked. ‘I cannot think of any other reason for you to put yourself out by visiting Dures House.’
‘At least,’ said Murray, ‘Mr. Helliwell waited until the danger was over of a capital charge being laid at your door. But I do not understand, I must confess. It is not like you, if this is true, not to confess it at once. Even last night when we asked Hugh about it, you said nothing.’
‘Perhaps I have my reasons,’ said Mr. George with a smile, though he looked a little green.
At that moment, there was a thud of hooves at the gateway. Mr. George was at once alert. A figure appeared, heavy coat flapping, negotiating the corner and then cantering hard up the short drive. He reined in and jumped down in one sharp movement. The horse, sweaty and blowing, fidgeted. The man ran to the door and a servant, evidently waiting, brought the express message quickly into the parlour.
‘Tell him to wait,’ said Mr. George, snatching the letter from the servant’s hand. He ripped it open, the wax tearing a great hole so that he had to flick the paper back and forth to read it. He was quick.
‘Thank God,’ he said in a second or two, and to the returning servant, ‘No reply, he may go.’ The servant returned to the messenger, and Mr. George turned back to his guests.
‘I may tell you a little now, if not all. But first: is Hugh in the custody of the sheriff?’
‘He is on his way to Cupar with the Sheriff’s officer and two messengers-at-arms,’ Murray confirmed.
‘Almost good enough, but not quite,’ said Mr. George with a grin. He sat down. ‘This note is from Nan Watson’s mother. She writes, by way of my servant, to say that Nan has been brought to bed of a baby boy, and that both are now out of danger.’
‘But –’ said all three of his guests at once. Mr. Helliwell won.
‘But where is she? And how does it concern you?’
‘Nan came to me to ask for help. She and I have had our fun in the past, and she trusts me, I think.’ Mr. Helliwell refrained from comment: it was not a surprise. ‘She was with Hugh the night Hugh killed the woman – his wife. He told us that last night himself. Not that she saw anything, or heard much: Hugh had finished with her for the time being and she was generally expected to make her own way home, not being in a position to be escorted to the door by gentlemen, even a gentleman living under the same roof. But when Nan heard that the woman had died, and knew Hugh had been there, she began to be a little nervous, particularly as it was becoming clear that she was expecting a child. She had known for a while, of course, but she has that kind of full figure that does not make it immediately obvious, I think you will agree. The child was conceived about November, and she tells me it is Hugh’s. It has come into the world early enough, poor thing. I was concerned that it might die and there would be problems, a charge of culpable homicide, perhaps. You know what suspicions attach to any early death of an illegitimate child, so I made sure her mother was with her and the midwife. Nan was frightened that there might be difficulties, and that she would be in disgrace or even in danger at the Fairlie house. She had her suspicions about the murder but was too scared to say, for as she put it, who would believe the kitchenmaid with the bad character when the first-born darling says it isn’t so?’
‘And where is she now?’ asked Mr. Helliwell.
‘Ah,’ said Mr. George, ‘that I will not say. Not until Hugh Fairlie is safely in jail.’
‘But she has been summoned before the Kirk Session! And the Presbytery!’ said Mr. Helliwell.
‘I know, I know,’ said Mr. George, laughing, ‘and she will answer to all of them when she is fit to return. But for now, she remains out of sight.’
‘And what of Effy?’ asked Murray, trying to keep track.
‘Oh, now, that is to my charge,’ admitted Mr. George. ‘The night that happened was the night Nan had asked me to meet her, in the woodland by the kirkyard. Well, we had a little fun, just to comfort her – nothing much, I assure you – and she told me all her troubles. I decided I would smuggle her away, and I stepped out on to the path to see if anyone was around. I stepped out straight into Effy, as luck would have it, and she screamed like a stuck pig and fled. I did touch her, it is true, but it was only a hand to steady myself for she attacked me full tilt on her way, nails out like a wildcat. I ducked back into the wood again, laughing hard, I may say, and tried the other direction. In the end that was the way we came here, across the fields to the north of the village and to an outhouse behind my stables. I am truly sorry if I caused Effy distress, but I could not own up to it, it seemed to me, without endangering Nan, and it distracted people nicely while I got her and her mother away.’
Murray could not help feeling that his kitchenmaid had been unfairly used, but at the same time Mr. George was convincing. He had never been known, either, for forcing his attentions on any girl, and so if things had not happened as he said they had, what could he possibly be hiding? Still Blair had one final question.
‘Who was K? K in Aberdeen, that is, who, as I understand it, gave you a copy of the works of Alexander Pope.’
Mr. George smiled broadly.
‘That, Mr. Blair, as a gentleman, I could not possibly say.’
‘Well, we should take up no more of your time,’ Murray said, rising. ‘You will have arrangements to make concerning Mrs. Hugh Fairlie, which will no doubt be considerable.’
Mr. George made a face.
‘My sister sometimes takes on more than I can bear. But Mrs. Hugh Fairlie is a sweet girl, and even if not does not deserve what she has suffered, and what she will suffer.’
V
Mr. Helliwell, who seemed to have been rather embarrassed by the whole encounter, and most particularly by Mr. George’s warm handshake at their farewell, parted company with them at the Fairlies’ house. He felt it his duty to call, though he still had little idea of what he would say. Murray and Blair meandered on, with not enough time before dinner to do anything useful, and too much time to go straight there.
‘Dunnet took my letter to Mr. Elliot to the post yesterday morning,’ Murray remembered. ‘I have asked him to come as soon as possible but I think it is just to show him the scene of the disaster: I am in two minds over whether or not to employ him to rebuild the wing.’
‘It is very disappointing,’ said Blair. ‘I suppose if you were to try again, but building a culvert into the foundations, it might work.’ They were climbing Kirk Hill, and noticed about the same moment that there was now quite a cluster of people about old Mrs. Fairlie’s grave, and they decided to continue through the kirkyard gate and see how matters were progressing.
At the grave, Watson the elder and one of Melville’s farmhands were seated, legs in the shallow trough they had dug, sharing a jug of ale. Their shovels were nearby. At a safe distance, Melville stood observing, an end of his neckcloth over his nose and mouth, perpetually wary of germs. To one side, Ninian Jack and Mr. Fa
irlie were involved in a discussion. Murray and Blair approached.
‘I just think it would be more seemly, sir, for the young woman’s grave to be opened first. You do not want old Mrs. Fairlie’s grave lying open while we work on the other one.’
‘I do not want young Mrs. Hugh Fairlie’s grave,’ he used the name very deliberately, ‘opened before I have a coffin for her body. That will not be ready for a day or so, and in the mean time, we can ready my mother’s grave for the burial.’
‘It will rain, soon, you see, sir,’ Ninian Jack insisted politely.
‘I doubt my mother will mind. Get on with it, will you?’ he added to the diggers. ‘The stonemason from Cupar will have to come and add a few words to the headstone.’
Watson and Melville’s man took up their shovels and looked dismally down at the grave, then started in again. Murray suspected they had not been told the whole story, and were too nervous to ask. They lifted out another few slices of earth, till one came out with a bone on it. Everyone stopped and stared at it.
‘We’re no very far down, are we?’ asked Watson at last, uncertainly.
‘Not as far down as my mother was buried,’ said Mr. Fairlie blackly. ‘Who is that?’
‘Is it human?’ called Melville from his position of anxious security.
‘Certainly,’ replied Murray. He crouched by the grave, and began fingering earth back delicately. Blair came to help, then Watson and Melville’s man joined in. Ninian Jack stayed respectfully with Mr. Fairlie.
‘There has been no burial here since. Not as recorded in the session records, anyway,’ Ninian Jack said. Fairlie nodded agreement.
The men at the grave worked quickly but gently, and within half an hour the rest of the bones were revealed, very much in the shape they would have held when they were carried in flesh. Fairlie stood at the foot of the grave, removed his hat, and took a look.
‘Well, it is not my mother. You know she had but one leg, and this woman had both.’
‘Look at this.’ Murray pointed to the bones they had all seen, but had not mentioned. Amidst the upper ribs were some smaller bones, and a very tiny human skull.
‘She was pregnant, then?’ said Watson, his voice shaking.
‘No, surely not,’ said Blair. ‘The child lay on her breast. They must be skeletons a few years old, surely?’ He had seen, as no one else had, the panic rise in Watson’s eyes at the thought that this might be his missing niece, Nan. The further comfort he and Murray could have offered was as yet forbidden by Mr. George.
‘If it is a case of child-killing, we should call for the midwife,’ Ninian Jack declared. ‘Jocky, run for Lizzie Fenwick.’
Melville’s man looked at his master, who nodded, and took a long last look at the skeletons before leaping down towards the gate. At the turning, he stopped suddenly to let someone through, and Robbins appeared, pacing up the hill towards Murray. His face had an air of solemn urgency, pale beneath his hat.
‘Sir, I am come to tell you that Mr. Elliot has just arrived, hotfoot from – what is that?’
Something in his voice made them move aside, silently, and let him see. He stepped forward and stared, stony-faced, into the grave.
‘Who do you think she is, sir?’ he said at last.
‘We do not know,’ Murray answered. ‘She has been there less than four years, anyway.’
‘Not much less, I should have thought, Charles,’ said Blair, ‘for surely someone would have noticed the disturbed earth unless the grave was disturbed already, you see, for a burial that everyone knew of.’
‘Very true,’ said Murray. ‘Shall we stay to see what Lizzie Fenwick has to say?’
‘With your permission, sir, I should like to see this through,’ said Robbins unexpectedly.
‘Very well, then,’ said Murray, ‘let Mr. Elliot wait. He will find plenty to occupy his time at Letho House.’
They had waited only ten minutes or so when Jocky reappeared leading a short, dark, stocky woman with a brisk air. Lizzie Fenwick had been apprenticed to the local midwife at the age of ten, and had taken over when the old woman died. Now at forty, with her own children and a hand in almost every birth in the parish, there was little she did not know about the matter. She came to the grave quickly and considered the remains without revulsion.
‘The child is too small to have been born alive,’ she pronounced generally. ‘I know nothing of the birth, or of the deaths of this mother and child.’
‘What are we to do with them?’ Watson asked.
‘They cannot stay here,’ said Mr. Fairlie. ‘I have enough in the way of unexpected guests for this grave.’
‘We cannot leave her here,’ said Melville, approaching cautiously, ‘or anywhere public. Who knows what infections might persist?’
‘I’ll get the worst mortcloth from the kist in the vestry, and we’ll wrap her in that,’ said Ninian Jack. ‘Then we’ll lay her in the kirk until we have decided what to do with her. I’ll talk to the minister.’
Murray and Blair helped to gather the bones to place in the mortcloth, and then, followed by Robbins, they walked back to Letho House for dinner.
VI
Mr. Elliot joined them for dinner. This did not seem to make him feel awkward: it was only Murray who was rendered so. As regards the accident, Mr. Elliot was philosophical and persisted in being so through the meal despite the fact that Murray had spoken to him very severely beforehand. Murray had the impression that the whole incident was only going to form another of Mr. Elliot’s cheerful anecdotes, but as he blamed himself just as much as he blamed Mr. Elliot, he had asked the architect to offer designs for a new wing – pointing out, all the same, that several other architects would also be invited to submit drawings.
VII
Today was to be the day when the carpenters began to take down the wrecked servants' wing, and after dinner, Murray wanted to go out to oversee some of the procedure. There was the matter of salvage, for one thing, and of seeing that the job was safely carried out without further danger to the outdoor servants. He indicated to Robbins that he wanted to change and headed for the staircase, but Robbins did not leave the hall and gave Murray a rather pleading look.
‘May I speak with you privately, sir?’ he asked. Murray raised his eyebrows, but waved Robbins through to the library.
‘What is the matter, Robbins?’ he asked, eager to be away.
‘It concerns the woman in the kirkyard, sir, the skeleton with the baby.’
‘Oh?’ said Murray, and sat down. ‘What do you know of her?’
‘Sir, this is not easy.’ Robbins was always pale, but now he was white, his colourless eyes focussed beyond Murray somewhere.
‘Who was she?’ prompted Murray. He assumed that Robbins was about to pass on some confession of Daniel’s which would bring disgrace on his immaculately run servants’ hall.
‘She was a chapwoman, sir, who called twice a year or so with ribbons and pins and suchlike. She must have been thirty if she was a day, sir, but a fine woman, with a lively interest in life, if you take my meaning, sir.’
Murray nodded, and thought he did.
‘I was attracted to her, sir, and she was far from unwilling, and together we fell into sin. I was just a lad, sir, but it is no excuse – I knew right from wrong. That was in the spring, and when she came again in the autumn she was heavy with a child, which she said was mine. I had no illusions about her, sir, for I was not the first man she had stayed with nor the last, but I would have looked after her, sir. I went to meet her secretly at night in the woodland beside the kirkyard, but she was not well – it was a cold autumn and she had been sleeping rough before she had arrived in this parish. She began to cry out, and said that the child was on its way. I said I would run for the midwife, but she said no: the child could not live, it is true, but she could not be accused of any killing if it was born so young. And she begged me not to leave her, and clung on to my hand, and the child was born then and there. It was dark in the wood and
cold: I wrapped her in my coat, and she took the child in her arms, but she was so weak. She said the child was dead, and I was sure of it, for it was hardly the size of my hand and sticky, warm and sticky with all the blood the darkness hid. I stayed with her, trying to keep her warm, thinking that in the morning I would go for Dr. Feilden or Lizzie Fenwick, but in a couple of hours she just slid away. I sat there and wondered what to do. She belonged nowhere, a wandering trader like her, and if I told the minister of her she would be buried in a pauper’s grave, in the disgrace of dying unmarried of a fatherless child. I remembered that old Mrs. Fairlie had been buried that day, and the soil would still be loose on her grave. The long autumn night gave me cover and the rain washed off the blood. I buried the woman, as you found her today, and laid the child on her breast as she had held it.
‘The next day your father sent me to Edinburgh to open the house at Queen Street. I stayed there under Mr. Fenwick till he retired, and then your father promoted me and I remained in Edinburgh. I think I served him well there. I did not set foot in Letho again until you summoned me in May, but that woman is never far from my thoughts, with her child.’
‘Would you have me speak to the minister for you?’ asked Murray eventually. ‘I shall gladly speak in your defence.’
‘No, sir, I shall speak to him myself, and face the Kirk Session. I wanted you to hear it from me first, and to tell me if I am to go.’
VIII
Minutes of the Kirk Session meeting held at Letho parish church, the 17th. July, 1808. Meeting opened with prayer.
Today the minister preached on the Gospel according to John, Chapter Twelve.
The woman said to have been a pauper, buried at the expense of the parish here in May, is now acknowledged by Mr. Fairlie to have been the late wife of his eldest son Hugh Fairlie. The corpse was buried in the Fairlie plot on Thursday last.
An Abandoned Woman (Murray of Letho Book 4) Page 31
