Murray examined the face again. It was young, and serenely vacuous, like the faces in many portraits of the period: impossible to judge charm or character beneath the glaze of convention. The tapestries shifted behind him, and Jessie the maid entered, bearing a tray with two glasses and a plate of dense, rich tea bread, partly cut and with a heavy-handled silver knife laid on the plate. Murray saw no teacups. Jessie was waved by her mistress to a neat bow-fronted cellaret below a sideboard. She was given a key to unlock it, and brought forth a bottle of brandy from amongst a clutter that Murray could see there. His heart sank: his head was still mobile with the effects of his dinner time wine. Jessie poured two generous glasses full, and set the open bottle beside them on the tray, then placed the cellaret key in Miss Gordon’s open hand, curtseyed and left.
‘We are both partial,’ said Miss Gordon confidentially, ‘to a glass of brandy now and again. I, alas, am confined to the bounds of this chair, so if I keep the key, neither of us is able to partake of more than we should. Please help yourself, Mr. Charles.’
He took the nearer glass and a slice of the bread, hoping that it would soak up the liquor. It seemed, however, to have been soaked in the liquor already, and all but squelched as he bit into it. He had to clear his throat before asking,
‘And what became of the young gentleman in the portrait, ma’am?’
‘Oh, well, he never aged,’ said Miss Gordon, ‘which is a gift not generally bestowed. I was betrothed to him, on our own terms, but against the wishes of my family, who were firm in the service of the Government. But my young man was a romantic, and who would not be in the face of such an opportunity? We were nineteen, and we knew little, though we thought it was everything.’ She gave Murray a stern look, warning him against such illusions.
‘My parents disowned me, as near as makes little difference,’ she went on, ‘and I went to dwell with his family while he joined the Prince. They didna approve either, but felt sorry for me and responsible, I suppose, for their son’s behaviour. But they and I did not see much eye to eye either, and after he died it was a hard place to live.’
‘He died at Culloden?’ asked Murray with kindness.
‘No! Thank the Lord, he never lived to see that day of tragedy! He died at Prestonpans, in the midst of his army’s most glorious victory, and the Prince himself sent me his plaid and his sword, and thanked me for his service. Oh, I wept then, more tears than ever you would think possible, and that plaid is stained with them and with his blood, though little worn else. And I believe then that my family would have taken me back and nothing more said on the matter, had not my own brother died in the service of Butcher Cumberland at Culloden before I could persuade myself to go.’
‘A tragedy, indeed,’ Murray agreed, and sipped some more brandy. It was old and strong.
‘Aye, for like my sweetheart he died in the midst of his army’s triumph, though it was a poor triumph indeed over starved and worn out men. I believe he must have tripped on his sword and fallen on someone else’s, the poor fool, for he was never a fighter. I would have made the better soldier of the two of us!’ She chuckled, and drained her glass. ‘But he was my parents’ only other bairn, and they could not bear that he had should have been killed by such people, so that was me out of favour again. My father died soon after from the disappointment, and the lands came to me, of course, and the furnishings between me and my mother. Balkiskan and other sundry plots are all mine, and no one to claim them after me,’ she laughed again, ‘except some simpering cousin of my father’s. He’ll spin in his grave,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Have some more brandy.’ She poured it with a steady hand despite his refusal, and leaned back in her chair to contemplate her own refilled glass.
‘He was a kind man, our Prince,’ she reminisced. ‘Perhaps he was a thing too kind for a strong leader, a thing too thoughtful, but an honour to have met with. He would have kept Edinburgh for the Scots, you ken, not allowed this anglified expansion they cry the New Town. That’s no a cosy place for folks to live. I’d knock it all down tomorrow and give it back to the country people, if they’d give me a big enough stick. There’s land of mine over there, but they’ll never build on it while I’m alive, I swear it!’ She had made herself angry now, and scowled at Murray. ‘I’ll stop them, you know. Where do you live, then?’
‘In Fife, ma’am,’ said Murray diplomatically. She looked as if she did not believe him, but nodded at last.
‘Aye, aye. And what kirk will you be at tomorrow?’
‘Greyfriars in the morning, ma’am, I hope, and perhaps again in the afternoon.’
‘Aye, aye. I shan’t be seeing you, then. In the days when I could be moved they took me to the Episcopalian Chapel. And I didn’t kneel to pray for that mad old man in London, though I suppose he needs our prayers as much as anyone.’ She emptied her glass again. ‘Here,’ she offered him the cellaret key, ‘lock that bottle away before you go or she’ll be after it. Aye!’ she said crossly. Murray did as he was told, and felt dismissed. He found Jessie in the over-furnished hall.
‘Do you know much of the Muirs downstairs?’ he asked her as she helped him with his coat. ‘You met me at the door there.’
‘They have come but recently, sir. There were two brothers, but one died and the other is now on his own.’
‘Has either visited Miss Gordon?’
‘One is a tradesman, sir. The other was a notary, and he paid a call once, sir, though my mistress did not take to him.’
‘And have you seen any gentlemen call on them?’
‘Gentlemen, sir!’ She was shocked. ‘None except yourself, sir.’ She seemed to feel that this could be taken as some kind of criticism, for she blushed and bobbed stiffly. Murray nodded, disappointed, and picked up his hat to go home.
‘Well, my dear, and what came of that?’ asked Mrs. Balneavis.
‘Nothing as yet, my dear.’ They were in the dim hallway, and kept their voices lowered by habit in the small flat. ‘He seemed quite determined not to choose a wife until he feels more settled.’ He sighed. ‘It is an honourable intention.’
‘But not so convenient for us, though,’ his wife pointed out.
‘I would not pin my hopes altogether on that suitor, my dear Mary,’ Balneavis said gently. ‘Have a wider range of targets, and we are less likely to miss entirely.’
‘I shall find her a husband before the year is out, the poor girl,’ said Mrs. Balneavis with determination. ‘She shall be wed and established, and keep you in your old age, you’ll see.’
Balneavis beamed at her, but there was an uncharacteristic sorrow in his eyes.
Chapter Fourteen
The evening was in the process of being dull, and Murray was wondering if even an unconsidered marriage might be preferable to solitude. He had overseen the boys making a fair copy of their lecture dictata, and they were now seeing to the ferrets in the stables. He almost found himself wishing they would get up to some mischief to distract him. A ferret had bitten Squirrel on the nose, which was painful to contemplate but hardly exciting. The servants were still cowed by the thought of the fire and the loss of both their master and Jamie, and while they continued to work well, they did so in an atmosphere of something like awe. Murray was beginning to think he might brave the cold and go to call on someone of his acquaintance – almost anyone would do – when he heard the street door bell ring and Robbins go stalking across the flagged hall to answer it. In a moment, he appeared at the door of the parlour.
‘Mr. Blair, sir,’ he announced. Murray was delighted, and rose to bow as Blair bumbled around Robbins and patted the servant on the shoulder in a friendly manner. He wore a green coat and an extraordinary pair of apricot breeches, the pockets so full that his haunches looked like those of a well-pampered lap dog.
‘Dear boy, how do you do?’ he asked, shaking Murray warmly by the hand.
‘You will stay to supper, sir, I hope?’ asked Murray, catching Robbins’ eye.
‘Oh, well, if it’s
not – I’d be awfully happy to, if there’s no – you know – may I?’
‘Please inform Mrs. Mack that we shall be four for supper,’ Murray confirmed to Robbins, who nodded smartly and left. Blair perched on a footstool and jiggled his apricot legs happily in front of the fire.
‘What a night out, what a night!’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘A thaw coming upon the snow, everything mud and slush, the Bridges a hazard to every footstep! But there, my dear boy, my sister is off to spend the night with friends in Colinton, because she would not travel twice in one day in the snow, so she has the carriage and the house is empty, so I came to you in search of entertainment. Have you a board of backgammon anywhere? For I have played myself so many times today that I believe I can now predict my own next move, which makes it a very dull game indeed.’
Murray smiled and went to the cupboard to find the backgammon board, and pulled a small table out to accommodate it. Blair was prevailed upon to move to an armchair, as otherwise the board was at the level of his chin, and as Murray began to lay out the black pieces Blair chivvied the whites into place.
‘And what have you been up to since I saw you last?’ asked Blair.
‘Oh! there have been great events!’ Murray tried to make light of his days. ‘I have been lured into the apartments of a Jacobite, I have arranged a bath for myself, I have dined at the Dundases and I have narrowly escaped being burned in my bed!’ Blair’s eyes widened in alarm, and Murray told him about the fire, then, after a pause, told him also about Dunnet and the ripped nightgown. Blair grew solemn.
‘You must have him arrested immediately, Charles. There is no knowing what he will do next time.’
Murray handed the dice in their cup to Blair, and frowned.
‘Yes, well, perhaps I should,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to know why he did it, and I don’t think I’ll find out if I have him arrested. I’d rather have him here where I can watch him.’
‘And who is watching him while you are out all day? or while you are asleep? Remember, Charles, it is not just your life you are putting at hazard here: you have the other servants to think of, too.’
‘You are right,’ Murray admitted, slightly ashamed. ‘I shall speak to Robbins about it tonight.’
‘Good.’ Blair grinned at him, and threw the dice. ‘A double six. Now, where shall I begin?’
Throughout the game, which was regularly punctuated by Blair’s double sixes, Murray told him in more detail how he had spent his time and what progress he had made concerning the mystery of his father’s death. He left out, for discretion’s sake, the bulk of his conversation with Andrew Balneavis, but finished with Dandy Muir’s curious confession and a brief account of his unconventional tea with Miss Gordon.
‘Bribed, was he?’ asked Blair thoughtfully, skipping Miss Gordon in his mind. He ran the last of his counters off the board. Murray still had several left. He sighed, and started to slide them back into their starting places for another game.
‘By someone with an educated hand and plenty of money about him, by the sound of it,’ he agreed. ‘I must add the information to my notes.’
‘You have made notes?’ Blair was always interested in things written down. Murray left him shuffling pieces on the board while he crossed with a candle to the study and retrieved his page of parallels between the three deaths.
‘I see you have marked the connexions with the Grassmarket,’ Blair commented, fidgeting with the paper.
‘It seems the only connexion, however,’ Murray sighed.
‘Not at all,’ said Blair. ‘There is the connexion that Jamie and your father both lived here. There is the connexion that Dunnet your groom was close by, but not present at, both incidents. There is also the opportunistic nature of the assaults.’
‘How opportunistic?’ asked Murray, taking the paper back to add notes. Blair had already made the edges of it soft with fiddling.
‘No weapon was brought to the scene in either case. Your father died because the scaffolding hit him, however ably assisted by human agents, and Jamie’s head was knocked against the corn bing and his neck broken.’
Murray brought over a pen and ink and made a note on his paper.
‘Interestingly,’ he said, ‘I have heard over the last few days that both Harry and Mr. Dundas were out at the time of the building site accident, and Mr. Thomson admits to being on Queen Street as my father was brought home.’
‘Very interesting,’ agreed Blair. ‘However, all three of them were at your father’s burial and could not, according to Dr. Harker’s observations, have murdered Jamie.’
Murray was pleased with himself for being able to speak of all this so unemotionally. It felt very grown up, even if it required a kind of mental barrier in his mind. He remembered something then, and reached into his pocket.
‘Do you recognise this at all?’
Blair picked Jamie’s button out of his hand and turned it towards the lamplight, pursing his lips and scowling at it.
‘It seems familiar,’ he decided at last. ‘There was a fashion for waistcoats in this colour not long ago ... I fancy Archibald Armstrong had one, though I may be mistaken. How did you come by it?’
‘It was amongst Jamie’s possessions,’ Murray explained. ‘Now, the other idea I had was that it might be useful to find out who has bought the feus at the building site. Who do you suppose could tell us?’
‘Ah,’ said Blair, rising from his chair and feeling in his left breeches pocket. ‘Now, I know someone –’ he felt in the other pocket, drew out a flat parcel wrapped in waxed cloth, frowned at it, tutted, replaced it and felt in the left pocket again, ‘- someone who knows a man –’ he produced another package, smaller this time, and peered into it cautiously. ‘No. A man who works at the Council offices, and he –’ the second parcel went into the right hand pocket and the first parcel came back out again, ‘- might be able –’ the first parcel was unwrapped and revealed itself as a thick memorandum book with a calf cover ‘- to tell us who has done what.’ He flicked the book open, removed a short steel pen from its spine, and looked about him as if expecting ink to appear by magic.
Supper was hilarious and even Henry was seen to smile slightly. After Blair had left and the boys had been sent to bed, Murray did as he had promised and summoned Robbins to the parlour.
‘Ah, this is a delicate matter, Robbins,’ he began, and watched from the corner of his eye as Robbins’ face passed from curious to rigid. ‘It concerns last night’s fire. It is not something with which I wish to burden Mrs. Chambers.’ He wished he had thought to sit down and look relaxed, as if he dealt with such domestic crises as fireraising servants every day, but now he felt stuck at the fireplace, with his fingers slowly throttling one another behind his back.
‘I have reason to believe that last night’s fire was set deliberately, by one of the servants, whom I have identified. For my own reasons, I have no wish as yet to have this person arrested: I wish, for example, to know why it was attempted. However, keeping this servant in the household unchecked has of course its own dangers, and I feel that you should be aware of them.’ He stopped, tangled up in his own pomposity. Robbins’ eyes flickered towards him under their naked brow.
‘Is it Mr. Dunnet, sir?’ he asked quietly.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘He was awake and running very promptly when you called, sir, and it occurred to me to wonder at that at the time. That in addition to his other strange behaviour recently, of which you know, sir.’
Murray nodded.
‘Well, it is Dunnet. I do not wish it generally known, however. I am quite sure that he is innocent of Jamie’s murder, and therefore of my father’s, so I cannot see the reason for his behaviour. You will of course be aware of his doings during the day. At night, you might perhaps wish to lock his door after he is asleep. He has his own room, I understand?’
‘Yes, sir. It is some time since Mr. Murray brought two grooms to town.’
‘I trust your judgemen
t, Robbins. Be discreet, and do as you see fit.’
But left on his own in the empty parlour, watching the ferocity of the flames about a new piece of wood in the hearth, Murray began to think again of the fire, and of his father’s death, and of Jamie’s, and to wonder just how safe he was even here in his own house. The parlour seemed suddenly darker, the house suspiciously quiet, as though it were waiting for something.
He rang again for Robbins, if only to hear noise and speak to another human being, and announced that he was going to bed.
Chapter Fifteen
Sunday had been almost fatally dull. Murray had been filled with a nervous, edgy energy that made any activity tedious within seconds – the dark waves nibbled at the shore of the cluttered beach in his mind, agitating the various bits of rubbish on the sand – and he made himself a nuisance to servants wanting a quiet Sabbath by turning up where he was least expected, in the parlour where they were laying the table, in the study where they were laying the fire, and in the stables where William and Daniel, under Dunnet’s lacklustre direction, were doing more to disturb the horses than to comfort them, partly through ignorance and partly through the excitement of novelty. There was a limit, in any case, to what could be achieved on a Sunday.
Murray took the boys to a rather underfilled Greyfriars Kirk for the morning service to hear Dr. Inglis preach on missions to India, and afterwards inspected his father’s grave, pretending to himself that it was simply a patch of land he had to care for. Henry and Robert stared solemnly beside him.
‘The frost-hardened soil will have deterred any grave-robbers, sir,’ Henry offered, and Murray was grateful to him for he spoke so little at the moment. He checked the mortcage.
Service of the Heir: An Edinburgh Murder (Murray of Letho Book 3) Page 16
