Service of the Heir: An Edinburgh Murder (Murray of Letho Book 3)

by Lexie Conyngham

  They slithered on slushy cobbles past the south flank of the High Kirk and down treacherously worn stone steps to the open door of Baird’s warm parlour. Thomson pitched on a corner table as another party vacated it and threw his hat and gloves down, giving a general order of warm rum to a passing serving-man even before he was seated.

  ‘Poor old Balneavis is probably waiting for us at Stone’s,’ he remarked, as he arranged his coat over the high back of the seat, ‘but it’s really a bit of a gallop there in this weather. Besides, Armstrong was heading that way before the snow started. They’ll be quite snug.’

  ‘I assume Balneavis is as constant as ever in failing to find profitable employment.’ Dundas did not directly associate with Balneavis. From Thomson’s grin, you would not have thought that Thomson often pushed some of his own work Balneavis’ way. Dundas certainly did not know.

  ‘But we who are successful should not look down on the less fortunate, my dear fellow,’ Thomson said with mock generosity. ‘And we are very successful, are we not? Douglas here has more cases than there are judges to examine them, my own time is tolerably occupied, and you, my dear Dundas, have the Campbell case, which should keep you busy for quite some time. How does it go, by the way?’

  Dundas shrugged.

  ‘The Lord Advocate has decided there was no case to answer.’

  ‘Jamie Montgomery? Taking away your bread and butter just like that?’

  ‘Oh, hardly my bread and butter, Thomson,’ Dundas smiled swiftly. ‘The Campbell case would merely have afforded a little extra jam.’

  Thomson laughed. Douglas watched both of them carefully, his dark eyes burning as always in the narrow face, but he said nothing. A wise man would not have believed either of them, and Douglas was reasonably wise. The rum arrived.

  ‘And how does your work go?’ Dundas asked Douglas, when they had warmed both their hands and their stomachs with the rum. ‘I have not seen you in court for some time.’

  ‘Oh, I watched him this morning,’ said Thomson with enthusiasm. ‘The same as ever, or if anything more fiery with the onset of middle age, eh, Douglas? The defendant was a young lad up for theft and reset – he had taken three stockings from a lady’s washing line in Brown Square, lost his nerve before he could take the fourth, and sold them to a lady of a different kind in the Cowgate. The lad gallantly refuses to name his elegant customer, who is, in any case, no doubt too busy about her work by night to be able to appear in court by day, and the lady victim, now half-stockingless on alternate days, is crying out for his transportation to the colonies, although he has no habit and repute. But Douglas here raises a fine storm of passion, points out the boy’s otherwise untarnished reputation, his youth and innocent demeanour, the honour of his position regarding his customer – whatever her standing in society, it cannot and should not reflect on this young man’s courtesy and discretion, he said – and finishes by remarking that the young lad, finding himself by chance – I liked that part – in the rear of a house in Brown Square, was so dazzled by the wealth of the lady victim’s home, without thinking to dwell on the base inequality of a Christian society that had in it both the lady and himself, removed her stockings from the line in a moment of confusion and later embarrassed by the possession of such delicate feminine garments he made the best use of them he could, selling them, out of the generosity of his own poverty, for only half what they were worth. The judge was in tears, I tell you, and the lady victim, too, for as the lad emerged from the court, I swear to you that the lady victim herself was pressing on him the fourth stocking, with which to finance his liberty.’

  Dundas laughed heartily, and Thomson, out of breath, took a draught of rum.

  ‘You have such strange ideas, Douglas,’ Dundas said when he had recovered, ‘that I believe you simply shock the jury into freeing your clients. But no one else can draw on such passion as you. It is fortunate for all concerned that you have never been in love, for I do not believe that you are the kind to love easily.’ He contemplated Douglas, who avoided his eye and drank a little rum. ‘Anyway,’ said Dundas, sitting up and changing the subject, ‘remember that you are both promised to dine with me later today. We shall be quite a large party, in fact: my cousin Lady Warwick is staying, with her daughters. Widow of one of the newer English baronets.’ He made a face of mock disgust. ‘Then there are you two, your family, Thomson, Armstrong and his, and young Charles Murray. My wife thought it would do him good to be out, and it is not as if it were going to be a ball.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Thomson. ‘My own wife has said much the same. You’ll have heard, of course, about his stable boy?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Dundas. ‘A shocking business, and on the very day of his father’s funeral, too. Very bad.’

  When they emerged from the depths of the coffee house, the snow had pronounced an adjournment, and it was nearing midday. They walked back down towards the law courts in coats with damp shoulders, and in the distance saw Charles Murray, sharply defined in new black, buying an apple from a stall further down the hill.

  ‘It seems that young Charles is getting out after all,’ Dundas remarked. Thomson was surprised at the slight resentment in his tone.

  ‘It is not forbidden, I suppose. He’s young. And besides,’ he added, guiding the other two gently back to their place of work, ‘just because he can buy an apple from a market stall does not mean that he cannot benefit from an evening or two in good society.’ He nodded briskly at them, then looked back, but Murray had once more vanished from sight.

  Chapter Nine

  Murray was not quite sure why he had felt the impulse to buy the apple: there would be plenty at the house brought from Letho and well-stored to survive the winter. Perhaps it simply felt ordinary.

  He reached the coffee house in which he had arranged to meet Henry and Robert for their midday meal, and went in, stooping below the low door lintel. Robert waved at him at once from a table at the back, where he was sitting with his brother and also, surprisingly, with Willie Jack Dundas. Murray was not entirely pleased to see that they had taken up with him, though Gavin Dundas would have been worse. He hoped that Robert had not added gambling to his list of new achievements.

  The boys had waited for his arrival before ordering anything, so Murray now called for four bowls of broth. A serving maid brought them, smiled becomingly at the boys, saw Murray noting this and departed with a giggle. Murray found himself comparing her with Mary and her serene amusement. The broth arrived, steaming even in the muggy room, and glazed with bubbles of fat that twinkled on the surface.

  ‘Have some bread, sir,’ said Robert, passing him a pewter plate armed with hard brown wedges. ‘It’s better than it looks, honestly.’ The maid overheard and grinned. Murray tasted the soup and the bread, and had to agree. After living in Scoggie Castle for four years, one grew to appreciate all kinds of things that did not start off well.

  ‘You are well?’ asked Willie Jack, giving Murray an odd look, though it may just have been that his stuffy nose stopped him swallowing easily.

  ‘Yes, I thank you. And you? and your family?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, as you see.’

  ‘Have you been at the college today?’ Willie Jack was not a student, as far as Murray knew.

  ‘No, I was just passing and met these two – knew them from your father’s funeral, of course.’

  ‘Willie Jack said he’d heard a rumour – and people will keep asking us,’ said Robert, plaintively, ‘about your stable boy.’

  ‘Well, there are all kinds of rumours going around,’ said Willie Jack reasonably. ‘I wanted to make sure I had the right one - er, to be able to contradict any errors I might come across,’ he finished, unconvincingly.

  ‘What kind of all kinds of rumours?’

  ‘Oh! Everything from an accident to hanging himself in remorse for killing Mr. Murray with the lid of the corn bing.’

  ‘Well, my stable boy is dead,’ Murray said. This town was full of gossip, worse than a count
ry village. ‘Jamie was murdered, and there is no question of an accident or suicide. There seems to have been a struggle, and his head was struck against the corn bing, so that element, at least, of your story appears in the true account. The groom, Dunnet, found him and was very deeply shocked. A police officer tried to arrest him, but Dr. Harker – you know him, do you not, Willie Jack?’

  ‘The physician, yes, of course.’

  ‘Dr. Harker said that Jamie had been dead before Dunnett had gone into the stable, so with a certain amount of persuasion the police officer let him go.’

  ‘Shocking,’ muttered Willie Jack, nasally. He seemed perpetually afflicted with troubles of the nose and ears, an inelegant complaint in an elegant family.

  ‘The funeral is today, and my entire household is gone to it, so we are reduced to eating in coffee houses,’ Murray joked. ‘It is distressing my housekeeper very much.’ It still felt odd to say ‘my housekeeper’. In what way was she his? His responsibility? His gaze rested for a moment on Henry, who still looked very pale, and was only running the spoon back and forth through his broth. Another responsibility – and one he intended to pass back to Fife as soon as possible.

  Willie Jack cleared his throat noisily.

  ‘The rumour also says – but it may be wrong – that the stable boy was murdered on the day of Mr. Murray’s funeral. Was it after supper that all this happened?’

  ‘No, before. I found Dunnet and Jamie in the stables on my way back from the burial itself. If you remember, Dr. Harker and we were a little late for supper at Fortune’s.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Willie Jack. ‘But you told no one? Not a word of this passed your lips the whole evening?’

  ‘To be honest, it seemed easier that way,’ Murray confessed. ‘I was weary to my bones, and to begin to explain and describe – in front of the ladies, too – was more than I could bear to contemplate. In the end I believe I said too little in any case: I have no recollection of much of the conversation or my part in it that evening.’

  ‘But to have said nothing of it at all!’ Willie Jack seemed more shocked by Murray’s discretion than by the murder. ‘I can hardly see how that is possible!’

  ‘But everyone there was grieving quite enough at the death of my father,’ explained Murray. ‘To expect them to face a further upset would have been too much. Of all of them there, Mr. Blair and I were probably the only ones who had even met Jamie. And I, too, was still very much distressed at my father’s death, and had no immediate wish to reflect on another.’

  Willie Jack sniffed again and finished his soup, then broke the short silence.

  ‘Yes, we were all much distressed at Mr. Murray’s death. The whole business was most tragic.’ Henry gave him a wary look but Murray was interested, wondering what qualified as ‘the whole business’. ‘The night that the accident happened was quite dreadful. My father and my brother Harry had both gone out, and one of the servants came into the parlour to say that the servant from a house at the west end of Queen Street had just brought the news that there had been a terrible accident, and two gentlemen had been killed. My mother was beside herself, quite frantic, and even though Harry came in for supper, my father did not return until after midnight. We had to sit up with my mother, for she would not rest until she had seen my father safely home.’

  ‘Had your father or your brother gone out that way, that Lady Sarah was so concerned for them?’ Murray asked, as casually as he could.

  ‘That I do not know,’ said Willie Jack, picking at the last piece of the bread. In fairness it should have been Henry’s, but he was taking no interest in it. ‘My father said that he had been discussing business with some friends, but Harry did not say where he had been. It is not like Harry to be out so late alone,’ he added innocently.

  For thinking time, Murray felt in his pocket and brought out the apple and his pocket knife. He offered pieces to Willie Jack and the boys, but they politely declined. Regarding the mottled flesh, Murray did not blame them.

  ‘So why would anyone murder Jamie?’ asked Robert. ‘He was nice. He liked horses, too,’ he added, as if that were reason enough to preserve anyone’s life.

  ‘Was it robbery?’ asked Willie Jack.

  ‘There was nothing missing in the stable or coach house,’ said Murray, ‘and it seems unlikely that he had much of his own that was of value.’ Except perhaps the enamel button, something at the back of his mind reminded him.

  ‘Perhaps Jamie disturbed the thieves, and when they realised they had killed him they fled without taking anything.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The thing at the back of his mind rebelled at the thought. It was too much of a coincidence, the three deaths. ‘Though they were taking a risk in any case, attempting to steal from a stable during the day, with plenty of people about.’

  ‘So why do you think he was murdered?’ Robert asked again.

  Why indeed?

  Murray gave the easy answer.

  ‘I haven’t the least idea,’ he said.

  It was almost eleven o’clock when Mrs. Armstrong and her daughters finally descended into the narrow hall to greet their expected guests. Mrs. Thomson and Miss Thomson, the witty Davina, arrived shivering, and soon the stone-flagged hall was dotted with snowflakes flicked from bonnets, cloaks, muffs and pelisses, all in the most modish colours. Outside in the slightly faded elegance of St. Patrick’s Square the coachman pulled blankets over the steaming horses and looked about for his usual howff in which to spend his allotted hour. Beyond the square, the snow fell hard over the bleak Newington farmland, divided, in Archibald Armstrong’s mind, at least, into neat feus eligible for purchase.

  ‘We had thought you might not come, sister, in this dreadful weather. We expected a message from you at any minute.’ Elizabeth Armstrong led her sister Kitty to the fire and rang the bell for tea.

  ‘The snow had all but ceased as we came out,’ Kitty Thomson said, making herself comfortable. ‘But the drive up the Bridges was very hazardous. They have put straw down, but the snow begins to cover it again. Of course, if you moved to the New Town, we should not have to undergo such dangers to see you, dear sister.’

  Elizabeth Armstrong and her elder daughter, Ella, smiled politely at what was too old a remark to be either amusing or irritating: it had, indeed, become almost a tradition. Catherine Armstrong hurried her cousin Davina over to the window where a little easel was set up, on which stood a half-finished watercolour of Miss Davina Thomson. Catherine was eager to complete it, although the light was not ideal, and had her colours all ready to begin. Miss Thomson sat with easy grace, and assumed a three-quarter pose which made the most of the light on hair and skin.

  ‘We had that dreadful Balneavis girl to dine yesterday,’ Mrs. Thomson was saying. ‘Poor unfortunate thing. I was so overcome by pity for her that I was forced to retire to my room with a sick headache, and sadly never saw her.’

  ‘The eldest?’ asked Mrs. Armstrong. ‘She is a pretty thing now, but she would do well to get herself a husband before her looks fade. One has only to look at the mother to see how she will end.’

  ‘But Mamma, she is a sweet-natured girl, which may count for much,’ put in Ella Armstrong, who had a certain fellow feeling for any girl being propelled too hastily toward the married state.

  ‘But alas,’ remarked Miss Thomson from the window, head poised self-consciously, ‘her nature is so sweet that all one tastes is sugar. There is no character, no flavour to it at all.’

  Miss Armstrong smiled faintly at her cousin, and was inwardly amused to see that the very indifference of her own smile discomfited Davina more that criticism ever did. Davina liked an appreciative audience.

  ‘As for the younger Balneavises,’ Davina added, slightly defiantly, ‘I find it almost impossible to tell them apart.’

  ‘There! Finished,’ said Catherine, who had not been listening. ‘I knew there was only a little still to do.’ Her mother, aunt and sister obediently rose to look at the painting, while the subj
ect waited graciously for comparison.

  ‘That’s lovely, dear,’ said Mrs. Armstrong, fondly. ‘You have brought out the softness of her face very well.’

  Miss Armstrong felt privately that her sister had brought out a good deal of softness in the face that was not there in the original.

  ‘The cloth of her dress is very good,’ she said with perfect truth: Catherine was better at drawing objects than people.

  ‘Come and see, Davina. She has made you much more charming than you are, you should thank her,’ said Mrs. Thomson, who was, after all, Davina’s mother. Davina rose and examined the portrait, and was sufficiently flattered to be sustained until the tea arrived.

  Once seated around the tea table, on which a fine selection of tea breads and cakes was laid to challenge the natural slenderness of the Fleming frame, Mrs. Thomson returned to her subject.

  ‘At least the Balneavises will not be at the Dundases for dinner this afternoon.’

  Elizabeth Armstrong felt it was time to divert her sister.

  ‘Oh? Who will be there, then?’

  ‘Well, the Dundases, of course, you five, if Patrick is to attend, and the three of us, and John Douglas, I believe.’

  ‘John Douglas, eh?’ said Mrs. Armstrong, meeting her sister’s eye.

  ‘No, my dear, I don’t think so,’ replied Mrs. Thomson. ‘I’ve said so before – not for any of them.’

  Miss Armstrong kept her eyes on her tea cup, knowing very well what they were talking about but having no wish whatsoever to encourage them. She could feel her mother’s contemplative gaze on her, the gaze of a mother who has not quite given up hope, is still looking for points to improve. But Mr. Douglas, aside from being her father’s age, never laughed, rarely smiled - and never then at anything obvious - and hardly ever spoke. Ella did not agree with those who said that the devil looked out of his eyes: these were mostly men, in any case, who had seen him at work in the law courts. Women, for the most part, saw him as a lonely figure, in need of comfort and attention: watching how he reacted to this comfort and attention when it was offered had rendered Ella certain that far from seeking this consolation, John Douglas had many years ago made his decision about how to lead his life, and his plan did not include a wife. In the face of such a decision, which she could only regard with respect, even the strongest affection would not have drawn her to try to break down his reserve.