Mrs. Chambers came through the door and frowned slightly when she saw Mary established by the fire, but said nothing except to announce Dr. Harker. She left again immediately: Jennet should be sent to clean the hall floor before the brandy made a permanent stain.
Murray rose and offered the doctor a seat, which he took wearily. There was a spare glass ready, and Murray himself poured him some brandy. The doctor acknowledged it and drew a leather-bound notebook from his bag. His spectacles, dangling on a chain, were replaced on his nose and he opened the notebook carefully, then looked directly at Murray for the first time.
‘Your groom is deeply disturbed.’ His eyes moved discreetly in the direction of Robbins and Mary, asking silently if Murray wanted him to go on in the present company. Murray nodded. He felt they had a right to know: they had become involved, now, too. Dr. Harker’s eyebrows rose very slightly, merely a confirmation, and he went on. ‘I have given him opium to make him sleep, but it took a large amount to render him at all peaceful. In the course of the drug taking effect, he talked at some length, although very slowly, and it took some time to establish the full meaning of his words. In effect, his concerns have been growing for some time and have several layers. They stem from the evening of your father’s accident.’
Murray nodded again. The groom had previously been a quiet and sometimes surly man, but his recent behaviour had been extreme.
‘Dunnet was genuinely attached to your father, who seems to have treated him as a friend. I knew your father well, Charles, and he did appreciate quiet company, so I can well imagine that this was true. Dunnet alluded to the saving of some mare in foal, which was not clear. He felt that he had deserted your father in his hour of need, and this was compounded when he found your stable boy dead. I should reiterate here that I am quite sure that Dunnet had no hand in that, if your servants’ evidence as to his time spent in the kitchen is quite correct. Dunnet seems to be fiercely loyal, although this has been well hidden, I believe. Two such deaths of people he saw as being his charge, in such a short time, has affected him very adversely. He has been feeling very guilty, and this, because of his character, has become a feeling of defensiveness against what he perceives to be the criticism of others, real or imagined. This in turn has grown into a conviction that, despite my own efforts to exonerate him, and your defence of him in the face of the police officers, we all believe him to be guilty of both your father’s death and your stable boy’s murder. Apparently you took him to the site of your father’s accident?’
‘That’s right,’ said Murray cautiously.
‘And to the home of your stable boy’s parents? He thinks that you were trying to exact a confession. He has been living under some considerable strain now for over a week. In the end, it seems to me, he decided in his state of serious instability that the only way to save himself from a charge of murder was in fact to kill you. Mrs. Chambers mentioned a fire.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Murray. Robbins, whose face was still only furnished with rudimentary eyebrows, frowned. Mary looked up slowly.
‘The fire failed, so he tried the vase. He failed again, and was so obviously witnessed, that he has now broken down completely.’ Dr. Harker closed his notebook, to which he had not referred, and watched Murray closely. ‘I recommend his removal to Bedlam.’
‘I cannot do that,’ said Murray. ‘He is part of this household.’
‘Well, you cannot keep him on here as groom. And I can offer no guarantee that he will not prove dangerous again.’
‘All the same,’ said Murray, ‘Bedlam is not the place for him, sir. Is there no hope of his recovery?’
Dr. Harker breathed out thoughtfully through his sharp nose.
‘With rest and careful supervision, and a light diet, he might in time be well again. And it is possible that some work with horses will have a therapeutic effect.’
‘Then I shall employ a man to take care of him and send them both to Letho for a while. He can work in the stables there: it is certainly more peaceful than the mews here.’
Dr. Harker sighed, finished his brandy and rose to leave.
‘You are your father’s son: I suppose I should have expected this. I know of a good man who has experience of cases like this: he is kind, careful and discreet – and strong. Shall I send him to you?’
Murray rose, too.
‘I should be most grateful, sir. For the moment, what should we do with Dunnet?’
‘I have asked William to stay with him. He will sleep now until late tomorrow morning, by which time my man should be with you, but I shall look in in any case and see that he has woken well. Now, let us see you.’
He drew Murray nearer the fire and examined his eyes, felt his forehead and the pulse in his wrist. At Murray’s suggestion he did the same to Mary.
‘Nothing to worry about: the brandy and the warm fire will chase away any chills from the shock of the evening. Good night, Charles: you really are leading a most exciting life at present. Do take care.’
Robbins, as if controlled by strings, saw Dr. Harker to the front door where his own carriage was waiting to take him home. Murray reflected that the doctor’s accounts, which had not been submitted since his father’s death, would this time make quite interesting reading. He waited for Robbins to return to the parlour, and drew a deep breath.
‘I feel I owe you both an explanation.’
‘And I feel I owe you an apology, sir,’ Robbins interrupted, uncharacteristically. He stood to attention with his hands clenched at his sides, his head high, and his eyes fixed straight ahead. ‘I have failed in my duty, sir. I failed to obey your instructions and to protect you and the household from further harm as you asked. I shall be seeking other employment, sir.’ He finished smartly, and seemed almost about to salute. Murray remembered that he had spent some time in the Fife Volunteers during his employment at Letho.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Robbins,’ Murray retorted. ‘If anything, it is I who owe you an apology, for giving you a task which you could not possibly have had the time or the men to carry out properly. I have put everyone at risk, I have upset Mary and you, but I shall be bold enough to ask you to remain here in your post. Your service has always been valued, and will continue to be so.’
Robbins’ gaze dropped, and his hands relaxed very slightly. He seemed to breathe for the first time in several minutes.
‘Now, an explanation,’ Murray continued, waving Robbins back into his seat. Robbins sat. ‘You heard what Dr. Harker just said about poor Dunnet. Although we knew that he had not killed Jamie and felt we could safely assume that he had not killed my father, I was quite sure that he had set fire to my bed last week, and had been keeping him near me in order to watch him. I felt that whether he was guilty or not, he was in some way connected with the deaths and might be able to tell me something about them. I also,’ he explained to Mary, ‘asked Robbins to keep an eye on Dunnet when I could not, but in that I asked too much, I believe.’
Mary frowned.
‘Why do you persist in linking the two deaths of Mr. Murray and Jamie, sir? Surely there is no connexion other than coincidence? Sir?’ she added belatedly, as if the question were more important than any courtesy to her employer. Turned a little away from the firelight, her face was all angles of light and dark, but her eyes shone with intelligence. Murray gazed at her for a long moment, biting his lower lip. Mary and Robbins watched him, waiting. At last he made his decision.
‘I believe,’ he began, ‘- and I am not alone in this – I believe that it is possible that my father was also murdered. That being so, there is a strong link between his death and Jamie’s that makes coincidence seem unlikely.’
‘Indeed, sir.’ Mary nodded thoughtfully. Robbins, too, seemed to accept the statement.
‘Do you have any plans for what to do about it, sir?’ he asked. ‘If I may say so, the police officers did not seem very helpful.’
‘Quite right, Robbins. I was not impressed by their response, and as they do
not seem to have followed any line of investigation after Jamie’s death, I am reluctant to involve them in the more delicate matter of my father. Besides, I have been afraid that they would arrest Dunnet and that I should prove powerless to stop them.’ Both Robbins and Mary raised their eyebrows: Murray tended to forget that he was now a rich laird. He leaned back, happy to talk about his problems at last. ‘Now that Dunnet is to be sent back to Letho, that matter is at least simpler. But before he goes, I must ask him one question: apparently Mr. Thomson, Mr. Dundas and Mr. Balneavis were in the stables on the morning of my father’s funeral, and I should like to find out, if I can, all the details pertaining to their visit. None of them could possibly have killed Jamie, as they were all at the burial at the time. But there is reason to believe that a gentleman was involved at least in my father’s death, so, shocking though it seems, even my father’s friends are not above suspicion in this matter.’ He drew a deep breath, and told them of all he had learned concerning the apprentice notary, Matthew Muir.
They were silent during the recitation, and almost motionless in the candlelight. When he had finished, the silence continued, thoughtful, waiting, and he looked away from them and at his father’s ring on his watch chain, catching the light from the fire. Mary was the first to react.
‘It seems to me, sir,’ she said, leaning forward, ‘that your best move now is to the Grassmarket.’
‘Why there?’ Murray asked.
‘Because, sir, you have two possible paths to follow,’ she said with earnest precision. ‘You can follow the unknown gentleman, or you can follow the man that spoke of him. Now, you do not know the gentleman, or you do not know if you know him, and that makes it difficult. But what makes it harder still is that you yourself are a gentleman, and you are dealing with your friends and acquaintances. I have watched the way gentlemen and ladies talk, and they are so scared of what they might say that they talk and talk and say nothing. But if you talk to ordinary people, even though you are a gentleman, you will find out more from them. And because of that, it will be easier for you now to leave the unknown gentleman and follow this Matthew Muir.’
Robbins nodded slowly.
‘It makes sense, sir. But it would work even better if you had someone – not a gentleman, sir – to ask your questions for you.’
Mary gave him an angular grin.
‘Aye, that would work. You need to go to the Grassmarket and ask people who they saw Muir with. If he saw much of a gentleman down there, it will have been noted.’ She nodded to emphasise her point, then added as an afterthought, ‘And go at night. In the day people are working hard and aye, they like to stop for a yarn, but they always know well what they are saying and who might be listening. At night, even discounting the possible effects of drink,’ she smiled, ‘people will talk because they are not so afraid of who will see them. If Matthew Muir was about dark business, he may have been about it after dark, and the night people will have seen him.’
Murray considered all this, and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was past midnight. The agitated waves irritated the shore in his mind.
‘I feel the force of your arguments,’ he said to them both, ‘but I am eager to make progress with this matter, and I do not feel that it would be fair after this evening to ask any of you to accompany me, so I shall go alone. Robbins, I need some older clothes, before you retire.’
Robbins rose to leave, but stopped.
‘No, sir, we cannot let you go alone. If harm came to you in your own house, how much worse can it be in the Grassmarket or Cowgate at night?’
Murray had not considered the possibility of trying the Cowgate, and the thought was not a welcome one. He did not want to go on his own, however urgent his thoughts.
‘How soon do you wish to leave, sir?’ asked Robbins, business-like as he pressed home his point. This was his chance to redeem himself, in his own eyes, at least.
Murray sighed.
‘Very well, then, in half an hour. If you are sure you are not suffering still from the ill effects of this evening.’
‘Quite sure, sir.’
Murray rose, and finished his brandy, but Mary remained firmly seated.
‘Sir,’ she said. ‘There is a more fitting person to go than Mr. Robbins. Someone who knows the Grassmarket well, even at night, and knows the people and can guide you safely.’
Robbins looked rather sour.
‘Who is that?’ said Murray.
‘I, sir,’ Mary replied, then went on quickly. ‘Do not discount me at once for being a woman, sir. When my man left for Holland I lived in the Grassmarket, and still attend the Gaelic Chapel there when I am permitted by Mrs. Chambers. I have friends there. Mr. Robbins has lived only in the New Town when in Edinburgh, and does not understand Old Town ways. Sir, I do not wish to do down Mr. Robbins, but I am the better man for this work, sir.’
Chapter Eighteen
They strode up the North Bridge in silence. Mary showed outwardly at least little satisfaction at having won the rather prolonged argument that had followed her assertion. Robbins had been quite outspoken in his opinion that what Mary was proposing was not fit activity for any woman, certainly not for a respectable servant in a more than respectable household. He made quite a lengthy and unselfconscious sermon about propriety, a subject which in the end seemed to be equated in his mind with Mary’s personal safety. Murray, who also found that the thought of including Mary in the expedition appalled him as much as it appealed to him, hardly had a chance to make his feelings heard. He had never seen Robbins quite so vociferous, and by the looks of things, nor had Mary. She sat quietly throughout, having said what she wanted to say and wisely seeing no sense in wearing herself out with trying to compete with Robbins’ verbal outpourings.
In the end, the half of Murray that really quite wanted Mary’s company found an excuse: Mrs. Chambers could not possibly be left on her own with Dunnet in his present state, and Robbins was, of course, as usual, in charge. Neither William nor Daniel was really reliable enough to take the place of Mary on the expedition and neither had Mary’s specific knowledge of the area. Daniel was not even from Edinburgh, and would have no reason to be familiar with the Grassmarket – Murray tried to state this as convincingly as possible, in the face of his own deeply-held belief that a young man of Daniel’s type had probably already more familiarity with the Grassmarket and its surroundings than he ought to be encouraged to have. His reputation would live on for some time in Letho.
Robbins, he could see, was angry at being over-ruled: his face shut again, and he returned to his normal laconic self, but he could hardly argue with his master, however strong his feelings in the matter.
There remained, therefore, only one or two administrative problems: Mrs. Chambers had to be told directly of Mary’s involvement, rather than to hear it later, perhaps from a third party. Mary, after all, shared a room with Jennet, who, partly through worry, perhaps, and mostly, certainly, through an anxiety to keep on the right side of her superiors, was bound to mention Mary’s absence to Mrs. Chambers in the morning. Mrs. Chambers, summoned for this purpose, was not happy, and eyed Mr. Murray and Mary with what could only be described as distrust. She had known Mary from last September, and was convinced that she was much cleverer than she pretended to be. She had known Mr. Murray from birth, but considered him to be something of an innocent. Mrs. Chambers was not, however, told the whole story as Murray had told it to Robbins and Mary. She was led to believe that some facts had to be ascertained relating to little Jamie’s death, but that was all. Murray felt that any suggestion that his father had died a deliberately violent death would come as a great shock to her. He had known her from birth, and considered her to be something of an innocent.
Further problems had arisen when it came to the subject of clothing for the outing. Robbins was allowed to salve his conscience by being represented on the expedition in the form of his oldest jacket and a hat which had, apparently in distant history, belonged to his own fa
ther. Murray wore his own shirt with no collar and a neckcloth recovered from use as a duster by Mrs. Chambers, who, in a spirit of co-operation, had decided that if the expedition were to go ahead it would fail through no fault of hers. Robbins’ coat was several inches too short and significantly lacking in width, which certainly contributed to Murray’s appearance as something less than gentlemanly: the hat, too, bounced on his hair and lacked a desirable snugness of fit. His breeches had been found in a chest of clothes not worn since his last visit to Queen Street, over four years ago, so in size at least they gave the impression of having belonged to the same person as the jacket. Finally, his boots had been borrowed, perforce without the owner’s permission, from Dunnet, and had a fine aura of the stable about them. Mary reckoned privately that while under close inspection he would never pass muster as anyone other than a gentleman, at least he could walk down the street without exciting attention. Any suspicions she might have harboured that the proposed expedition was nothing more than a gentleman’s whimsical play-act, to be humoured and praised, were dismissed by the serious expression in his eyes all through the farce of preparations.
She herself was cloaked and hooded, and almost as tall as Murray as he shambled slightly in the constricting clothing and down-at-heel boots, matching her stride. He could not see her face as they walked, except in brief flashes when the damp wind caught at her hood and flicked it backwards. In these moments, her eyelids were always lowered, though whether in concern, in modesty or against the weather he could not tell. His own feelings were considerably mixed. Laid against the promised pleasure of being in her company for the rest of the night was the old feeling of urgency, the need to run faster than his battered boots would allow and demand to be told all that he had to know about his father’s death, and then there was the satisfaction of knowing that he was in fact doing something for once, instead of sitting around in drawing-rooms, well-fed and warm with wine, watching elegant people politely hiding their feelings. Mary’s words about gentlefolk had struck him as an awful truth, and made the company of his own kind seem suddenly suffocating, smothering his search. It was refreshing, exciting, instead to be moving through the dark, his respectable mourning shrugged off with relief as much as with guilt, no longer marking him out, his eyes darting about as if he would see the murderer waiting for him on a street corner, his breath coming quickly in time with the beats of his heart.
Service of the Heir: An Edinburgh Murder (Murray of Letho Book 3) Page 19
