He arrived at Balneavis’ flat before John Douglas, and little wonder, since those who live nearest are often the last to arrive. Balneavis himself met him in the hall, and hurried him enthusiastically into the little parlour. Murray bowed to Mrs. Balneavis, rosy and plump as ever, and to Miss Balneavis, Miss Helen, and the two youngest daughters, whose names he seemed to be expected to remember but could not. All of them were engaged in making a gown which had something essential to do with Miss Helen’s especial friend from school, a Miss Lyall, who was expected at any time - again, Murray seemed to be expected to know her intimately. The smallest Miss Balneavis, aged about eight, was stitching expertly at the dark crimson velvet, the richest fabric in the room by a mile, and Murray was for a moment bustled round the room in an effort to find him a seat that was not covered in a fine layer of deep red fluff from the cloth. Pin cushions and needlecases prevailed, and Murray found himself rather nervous in his chair, afraid of touching the wrong thing. He had already discovered a nasty pair of scissors by the simple expedient of moving his leg in the wrong direction: Miss Helen, quite pink, relieved him of them. He hoped she was going to take them back to the battlefield where they belonged. Balneavis, by contrast, used to the inconvenient juxtapositions of his cramped accommodation, was quite composed.
‘I have asked our friend to meet us here at two o’clock,’ he said to Murray, with a cautious glance at his daughter Margaret. It was worrying for a father when his daughter’s worst temptation lived so near by and had such a claim to be acknowledged socially. ‘It wants but five minutes to the hour now, we should not find it necessary to encumber the ladies with our presence for much longer.’ He beamed at his wife, who smiled broadly back at him.
‘Not at all, my dear Mr. Balneavis, you must not give Mr. Murray the impression that he is not always welcome here! Mr. Murray, I pray you will call as often as you wish, but as you see we do not stand on ceremony. My girls are taught always to be as easy as anything in company, but with you you may be sure such ease is not contrived.’
Murray bowed his head in acknowledgement.
‘I am sure four such charming young ladies as the Misses Balneavis need not fear being uneasy in any company, for they will always be greeted with respect and delight.’
The girls blushed collectively as much as was proper (though it might have been the red velvet fluff), and Mrs. Balneavis received the compliment like a broad-bowed ship breasting a full wave.
However easy and charming the Balneavis sisters, Murray discovered that he was expected to provide the principal part of their entertainment during his brief wait. He passed some pretty if ignorant compliments on the cloth with which they were working, and was told by gradual degrees for whom it was being made up, and the occasion for which it was required, and how pretty Miss Lyall would look in it for it was just the colour to bring out the best in her complexion, which was something too pale for true beauty (this from Mrs. Balneavis, glancing proudly at her four rosy daughters). The subject drew to a close, and Murray found that he was again expected to begin with a new one. He could hardly discuss music, after the embarrassment of the previous evening – he remembered this just in time, for the previous evening seemed very long ago. Any other subject seemed suddenly to lead back to that, and he sat in awkward silence for a moment. He shot a look discreetly at the old clock on the mantelpiece, and saw that it was already twenty minutes past two. Balneavis seemed to notice at the same moment.
‘Where in Heaven’s name is that man? It’s not like Douglas to be late!’ he exclaimed, and instantly regretted his lack of caution as he saw Margaret’s gaze become very fixed and her needle pause, a loop of red thread hanging motionless for a second before she skilfully drew it through to form the tiniest of stitches.
‘Perhaps we should call on him and see if anything is – is delaying him,’ Murray suggested hurriedly. Balneavis agreed with grateful speed. The gentlemen rose, Murray with some caution, looking about him for sharp objects. The ladies rose, too, in a dim cloud of red fluff, the fronts of their sober grey gowns faintly pink.
It was but three seconds’ walk to descend the stair to the next landing, and go to the door directly beneath Balneavis’. The sound of a decidedly amateur violin fingered its way down after them from another flat. They paused to listen through it to any sounds coming from Douglas’ flat but without success. Murray rattled at the risp, while Balneavis, suddenly impatient, thumped on the door with one plump fist. The violin staggered on. There was no response from Douglas’ flat. Balneavis thumped the door again. Upstairs, the violin came to a halt, and then was evidently returned to its master. A toccata suddenly burst forth, the sound running and dancing up and down the stair, echoing on the stone walls, racing on worn steps and rusty railings, glittering, exciting, sharp as needles. Balneavis hammered at the door. He called out Douglas’ name. His voice was urgent, anxious. The violin upstairs pattered, laughing, to the very top of a scale and stopped. The door opened, and Douglas appeared.
Chapter Twenty-One
Douglas looked at them completely blankly for a long moment in the sudden silence of the stair, then appeared abruptly to recollect who they were, if not quite what they were doing there. He drew back and waved them into his flat.
The flat was constructed in exactly the same pattern as Balneavis’ upstairs, and Balneavis led the way to the parlour with the assurance of a man who had been there before. They were through the small bare hall before Murray had a chance to notice it, their feet sounding on the carpetless boards. In the parlour the floor was also bare of carpets, or at least that was what Murray deduced from the little of it he could see. There were in the room a broad firwood table, of the kind one might find in a kitchen, and two hard upright chairs. A third chair, cushioned but worn, stood by the fireplace. The walls, plastered plain white, were mostly covered in shelves, and on these stood a proportion of the vast number of books and papers with which the room was filled. The table served as an over-sized desk, and was littered with open books, papers, notebooks and pencils, and adorned with a huge silver penstand and inkwell which looked as if it had never been polished in its existence.
Douglas followed them into the room and sank on to one of the hard chairs, which was positioned in front of the table. He had not said a word since opening the door to them. Now that they had a chance to see him properly – the room had no curtains, Murray noticed, and the shutters were open, so what light there was outside had no impediment – they had quite a shock. Murray wondered if he himself looked as bad after his own night out: Douglas’ eyes were sunk in dark circles of fatigue that made their demonic fire even less earthly by contrast. The lines from nose to mouth and across his brow appeared to have been burned in with a thin poker. His black hair was lank and dull, and he had not shaved that morning. Nor had he fully dressed. His waistcoat lay open, his neckcloth was not tied, papers were sticking out of his breeches pockets, and his boots lay beside his chair as if he had kicked them off there when he had returned home. Douglas rarely looked the fifty-odd years he must have lived, but today he looked all of them, and more besides.
Balneavis gently cleared some papers from the fireside chair, but did not sit down, and hovered anxiously beside it. Murray stood nearer the door. Douglas did not look as if dinner were the most immediate matter on his mind, and Murray felt they should simply leave. But it was not for him to say. Douglas gazed at them for a while, or not quite at them, perhaps collecting his thoughts, and at last cleared his throat roughly.
‘I must beg both your pardons. I am not myself. Am I engaged to you today?’
‘You are, my dear Douglas,’ said Balneavis, with an encouraging smile. ‘You are bound to dine with us at Stone’s, half an hour since. But do not fear, they will always keep a table free for me.’
‘If, that is, you are quite well enough, sir.’ Murray felt he had to make some concession to the man’s appearance.
‘Oh,’ Douglas drew himself up from his seat as if stiff in every lim
b, ‘I am quite well, I thank you. Pray be seated, and allow me a few moments to complete my toilet. You must forgive my lateness: I had a restless night last night in contemplation of a new case, and overslept this morning. Please make yourselves quite comfortable.’
He had a low, quick way of talking when he did talk, that made him seem faintly conspiratorial as his dark, glowing eyes met those of his companions. He left the room, boots in hand, and could be heard distantly in the next room, chinking jug against basin with a somewhat unsteady hand.
‘Look at this,’ said Balneavis, in tones of mild distress. ‘Small wonder the man looks ill. Outside the air is thick with damp, and yet in here there is no fire, no warm shawl, no coat, even, and in his stocking feet on bare wooden floors as if he were no better than a common beggar! He has no money, and anything he does make from his cases he spends on books and paper and ink. How any woman could live with it – and how any man could allow his daughter to marry it, even without the disparity of ages ...’ He tailed away, muttering to himself, placing a flat hand against one wall as if feeling for damp, tutting over the chaotic heaps on the table. ‘This monstrosity!’ he said, tapping the inkstand, ‘gift from a grateful client. As usual, one who could not pay any other way, but still managed to pay more than most. A man with a talent like his should not waste it on the defence of hopeless people who will hang one day, if not another. He has no business to – ah, here we are, Douglas!’ he beamed.
Douglas’ face was red and raw in patches, since he had evidently shaved in cold water, but at least it indicated some life in him. He had completed his clothing and donned his boots, and apart from the dark circles around his eyes he looked quite normal and presentable. Murray reflected that he himself had at least the luxury of servants to organise him when he had had little sleep, and perhaps Douglas had had a more energetic night than he – besides being some thirty years older.
They trooped through the bare hall and down the stair. Out on the street they had to pause as a company of soldiers passed, their concerted movement raising a slight breeze on their faces that brushed away a little of the mist. There was growing talk of the French attempting a landing at Dunbar, and between there and Edinburgh, every garrison was doubled, with more soldiers camped in fields and billeted in towns. Murray thought about his brother George, and wondered if he, too, was keeping an eye on developments at home.
Stone’s was busy, but Balneavis, as he had predicted, managed to secure them his usual corner table. Murray found that he was famished, having been too sleepy to eat much at breakfast, and he launched into his soup with great good will. The spoon was easily managed, but when it came to a knife and fork he found himself in the same difficulties as he had done at breakfast, the smooth bone handle slipping against the bandage over his knuckles. The length of his sleeves had kept it discreetly hidden until then, but now it was only a matter of time before the all-seeing, ever-noticing Andrew Balneavis commented on it.
‘Whatever happened to your hand, my dear boy?’ he asked solicitously. Douglas shot it a sharp glance.
‘Merely a scratch,’ said Murray, as smoothly as he could. ‘My housekeeper fusses about these things, and wraps it as if to stop the fingers falling off.’
‘Quite right,’ said Balneavis. ‘These things can so easily go bad, and then she would have much worse to deal with. But you should have told my dear Mrs. Balneavis about it. She would have made sure of its being properly seen to. She is so clever about that sort of thing, you know, and she has all the girls so well trained in every little thing. When the housemaid cut her finger, my Margaret bandaged it so neatly that it healed without the least scar.’
‘Speaking of servants,’ said Murray hurriedly, ‘does either of you know of a good groom available?’
‘I thought you had a good -,’ said Balneavis, but broke off.
‘I do,’ said Murray, ‘but he has fallen ill, and is like to be so for some time. And without my stable boy as well, matters are becoming quite difficult. My manservants could perhaps manage, but I am unwilling to overwork them and besides, neither of them seems quite comfortable with the horses.’
Douglas shook his head. Balneavis pondered for a moment, but then also shook his head.
‘One of my clients –’ he began, ‘but no, I am not sure. She is recently widowed, and was contemplating letting the stable go. I shall make enquiries for you, if you wish,’ but he sounded unsure, as if he had just remembered something that made him doubt the arrangement. Murray thanked him, but did not allow himself to sound too enthusiastic.
The next course arrived, carried by Donald the pot boy. Murray was quite startled to see him: he had forgotten some points of the previous night. Donald was remarkably fresh and alert, particularly when compared with Douglas’ appearance and Murray’s own thickish head. He did nothing more than glance in Murray’s direction, very properly showing him no signs of recognition. Murray contained a smile. Balneavis steered the conversation on to the matter of the legal profession and its benefits in young men, drawing Douglas into one or two laconic comments on his own experience. Murray found that he was expected to pay attention and learn, and was happy enough to do so, though he had no intention in the world of becoming an advocate. Douglas, however, tired of the subject before Balneavis did, and changed to a thoughtful account of a talk he had been to at Creech’s several days before, where they had discussed the new Lay of the Last Minstrel, a popular book by an unknown author. Creech was growing very old, he reported, but still controlled the literary discussion with the air of an orchestral conductor. Murray wondered suddenly if Douglas were drawing comparisons between Creech and Balneavis.
Douglas’ character was strong enough to keep the conversation easy till the end of the meal. It had not been an unpleasant couple of hours. Donald came with their coats and helped them on in turn, Balneavis first and Murray last, and while Murray waited, he felt in his pockets for money to pay for the meal. There seemed to be less than he had thought, and he emptied what he could find out in handfuls on to the bench he had shared with Douglas, to sort out the problem. Some of his pocket contents, including the enamel button found by Jamie, fell on the floor, and he had to crouch down to scrabble about for his belongings under the bench. His head reeled slightly, the effect of fatigue and dinner time wine. Eventually he was reorganised, quarrelled politely with Balneavis to pay for the dinner (Douglas did not interfere), and won, giving Donald a sizeable tip. They ascended the steps to find that the mist was thickening rather than thinning, and went their separate ways fading quickly out of each other’s view, Balneavis back to his flat, Douglas to the courts, and Murray home. He wondered if the boys would be crossing the Firth in the fog.
He was already into the New Town when it occurred to him to check in his pockets again to make sure that he still had Jamie’s button. He found it almost immediately, and with it a piece of paper that he remembered picking up from the floor, but could not immediately identify. He drew it out to look at it, and found that it was a note, quite fresh although the paper had been folded, with no cover and no address at its head. The writing was carefully printed. He had read it, thinking it his, almost before he realised that it was not.
‘The next payment has now fallen due, and should on this occasion be placed in the Cage in the Meadows tonight about nine o’clock. Do not linger.’ It was signed, ‘One who wishes you no harm.’ Murray stared at it for a few seconds, leaning one shoulder against the wall of the General Register House, then turned it over. On the reverse were the two simple letters, ‘J.D.’.
He remembered seeing papers sticking untidily from Douglas’ breeches pockets when they had first met him that afternoon. This paper had certainly not been under the dining table at Stone’s for very long, for the floor was damp and grubby, as all these places were in wet weather, and the paper was clean. It seemed reasonable to form the conclusion that the note had in fact been dropped by Douglas at some point during dinner, and Murray had turned about and was going t
o walk back to the law courts to return it to him, when he considered. The note was short and simple, and Douglas had quite likely taken its contents by memory. In addition, it would be hard to pretend that he himself had not seen the contents, as the note was open. It might make things easier if Murray simply pretended he had never seen the note.
He turned back towards his home, and walked slowly, thinking. Perhaps he was influenced by his knowledge of some of Douglas’ night time activities, but it occurred to him that the note was very much like a demand for blackmail, and blackmail that had been going on for some time, as the note showed that this was not the first payment.
If Douglas were to make the payment at the appointed time, he should leave his flat around a quarter to nine, or earlier if he chose to go by way of South Bridge, rather than cutting through the Grassmarket and up the Vennel in the dark. Murray was not promised to Blair’s until ten, their supper hour, and it was near to the Meadows. Would a blackmailer be a murderer? Murray decided that if possible, he would follow Douglas to the Cage and wait to see who would collect the money.
He spent a tedious afternoon wondering how the boys were on their journey, thinking about writing a letter to George, trying to entice Squirrel out from the corner of the study to be stroked, and eager to hear what Blair might have to say to him that evening. He began to make a list of possible names to look for in the council records, Armstrong, Thomson, Balneavis, Dundas, and felt guilty. Around four, Dr. Harker arrived with the man Liddle, who was to look after Dunnet, and they were sent off by post carriage to Cupar where a man from Letho would meet them. Dunnet was dazed and quiet, easily managed, and Dr. Harker explained that Liddle was experienced in administering opium and managing violent outbursts. Murray liked the look of Liddle, who had the air of a retired pugilist with a decent if battered expression. When they had left, he found himself some old clothes and went to see to the horses, deciding that whatever the dignity of the situation the horses would benefit more from his slight skill than from Daniel’s or William’s careless ministration. He found, too, that the straightforward stable chores and the effort of remembering them took his mind off his other problems. Grooming the horses was soothing, and he deliberately turned his back on the corn bing, where the cat sat and watched him benevolently. When he had led the horses, one at a time, up Queen Street and down again, it was time for a bath and a change into evening clothes, before the hands crept round to eight o’clock and he allowed himself to leave, lest he should miss Douglas.
Service of the Heir: An Edinburgh Murder (Murray of Letho Book 3) Page 23
