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

by Lexie Conyngham

  ‘For – for how long, sir, has this blackmail been demanded?’ he found himself asking, even as he told himself to keep his mouth shut and leave. He did not want to look at Douglas, but was frightened to take his eyes off him.

  ‘For how long? Let me see, now. It will be two years at Candlemas, I do believe. Your friend, you see, is very business-like in his dealings. He keeps to the financial quarter days, and demands his payments monthly.’

  ‘Monthly!’ exclaimed Murray, forgetting for a moment to be scared. ‘Then how much, sir, has he extorted from you? Have all the payments been equal?’

  ‘No, they have increased slightly.’ Douglas named the total sum which he had paid, and Murray was struck dumb. ‘But I am fortunate: I can afford it,’ Douglas went on harshly. ‘And I cannot afford the consequences of not paying. Oh, yes, my rooms may look bare, but I have better things to spend my money on than fine carpets and paintings by Raeburn. I may not have the family money your father had, but my work brings me plenty. But it angers me, Mr. Murray, it makes me very angry indeed, to think of a man I have never met benefitting from the profits of my hard labour, simply to have him keep a secret it was not his to know in the first place. I suppose you have the secret, too?’

  Murray shook his head quickly: Douglas’ eyes were burning again.

  ‘I have no evidence of the matter over which you were paying,’ he said, stumbling over the words, hoping that they did not sound too ambiguous.

  ‘And you will not tell me his name, for fear of injuring innocents,’ Douglas stated. The kettle began to bubble, and he finally moved to shift it off the fire. Murray relaxed very slightly, as Douglas poured the boiling water into two pewter mugs, and added brandy. He handed one to Murray without asking.

  ‘I cannot tell you his name yet,’ Murray corrected him. ‘But if you receive any further demands for money, come to me with the note and I shall tell you the name of the extortionist. Then you may act as you please.’

  ‘How kind of you,’ said Douglas, sitting back in his chair. ‘I shall be quite indebted to you.’ Murray suddenly remembered the story of how angry Douglas had been to be indebted to Thomson over the matter of marrying Mrs. Freeman, Blair’s sister, and shivered again. He could see now why men who had seen Douglas in court thought that he was, if not the Devil himself, then a close relation.

  ‘And while we are discussing crimes, Mr. Murray, are you any nearer to finding the truth behind what happened to your father?’ Douglas asked politely. Murray blinked at the change of subject.

  ‘I fear not, sir,’ he replied. ‘Unfortunately it is both distressing and bewildering.’

  Douglas nodded. The fire in his eyes had died down, but the embers were still hot.

  ‘You would do well to remember, however, Mr. Murray, that some men, like me, have their reasons for pretending that they are less wealthy than they really are. And more importantly, that there are others, more numerous, who have their reasons for pretending precisely the reverse. Now, if you have finished your brandy,’ he said, standing, ‘I have much to do, and should be grateful for the time to do it. Thank you so much for coming to see me on this interesting matter.’ He ushered Murray to his cloak and hat and thence to the door. As they parted, the sound of a door slamming came from the next floor up, and the patter of footsteps soon brought Balneavis into view. He started sharply at the sight of Murray, but recovered with a smoothness that Murray, as lately as yesterday, would have been shocked to see in him.

  ‘My dear Charles! and my dear Douglas! How delightful to see you both! Are you just leaving, Charles, dear boy? You can walk me over to the law courts, then, for I have a client to meet, and then perhaps you will join me for dinner?’

  They were already halfway to the front door at this point, but Murray, caught up in Balneavis’ wake, managed to explain that he regretted he had a prior engagement.

  ‘Aye, well, never fret, never fret, dear boy. Some other time, then, eh? Good day, good day!’ And he was off, leaving Murray by the side of the High Street like the detritus from a flooded river.

  Balneavis must surely have known precisely why he had been visiting Douglas, but he must also guess, from the lack of reaction on Douglas’ part, that Murray had not given Douglas the name of his blackmailer. He hoped, he thought to himself, that he would never have to.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Murray’s excuse made to Balneavis of a prior engagement for dinner had not been a false one, though he was grateful for it nonetheless. He had been invited, by a note that very morning, to what was described as an informal dinner at the Dundas household: presumably the description was made in order to excuse their holding another dinner before all the invitations had been returned from the previous one. Dundas had always been noted for his generous table, and he did like to act as the great benefactor, so his acquaintances swallowed their pride and ate his food – out of kindness, presumably. When Murray arrived at the house in St. Andrew’s Square he found quite an animated party already there. The drawing room was already busy with the Misses Warwick and their septic mother, the two girls in warm ivory gowns. They were in conversation with their cousin Harry, who was restringing the Warwicks’ Spanish guitar, urgently required to have it ready for after dinner music requests. In any case, no one else was paying them much attention as the Thomsons and Armstrongs had already arrived, and of the Thomson party were Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert, the latter being Davina Thomson’s elder sister. Miss Thomson had married a well-to-do Glasgow merchant and had moved west, and this was the happy occasion of their infant daughter’s introduction to superior Edinburgh society. The Warwicks may have had their whims concerning Harrogate, but this was as nothing compared with the Thomson family’s – of course justifiably – high opinions of Edinburgh.

  The honoured infant was naturally the centre of attention, although the attention was somewhat ambivalent. The proud parents did indeed seem delighted with the child, and its great aunt Armstrong and cousin Catherine gave it due attention, holding it for the prescribed length of time, commenting on the resemblance traced in its plump face to one family member or another, remarking on the potential or actual beauty of its expression and, being Fleming females, on its already notable intelligence. Davina, its aunt, affected extreme boredom, but as she conversed with Gavin Dundas her eyes were almost always on the baby. Her mother, in the face of the creature that had rendered her a grandmother, was relentlessly unsentimental, and only the infant’s grandfather, Thomson, seemed to take unalloyed pleasure in gazing, holding, and gossiping with the child, pointing out people and features of the room and explaining them as though to an intelligent foreigner.

  ‘Now, that’s Lady Warwick, and that’s the fire place, with the fire in it ...’

  ‘See Lady Sarah,’ remarked Mrs. Armstrong to her sister, sotto voce, after she had handed the parcel of her great-niece over to her brother-in-law. Mrs. Thomson smiled, paused, and glanced at their hostess. Lady Sarah was staring at the baby, with an expression between hunger and despair. Mr. Thomson was oblivious.

  ‘And that’s a pretty painting of a dog, and that’s the window ...’

  ‘Which physician is attending her now?’ asked Mrs. Thomson.

  ‘The last I heard it was Dr. Harker.’ Mrs. Armstrong watched for a moment longer, then said, ‘I think the baby had better become tired soon, don’t you?’

  But at that moment Ella Armstrong, quiet and gentle, approached Lady Sarah herself and drew her away into conversation, turning her away from the alluring baby. Mrs. Armstrong’s eyebrows rose delicately, and Mrs. Thomson caught her eye, but they said nothing.

  Murray had been cornered behind this exchange, but now because Harry Dundas had finished his hard work with the guitar he was able to move away, thinking. He saw Patrick Armstrong standing alone as usual on the other side of the fireplace, but as he was about to go and ask him where his father was, Miss Lily Warwick drew her sister away from her cousin to speak to Patrick herself. He heard her say,

&nb
sp; ‘Mr. Armstrong, what you said about the dancing the other day was so interesting ...’ Murray blinked: there surely was someone for everyone, then, he thought – if Patrick had any idea how to respond to such an advance. She was a brave girl, but with her mother nodding approval perhaps she was under orders. Mrs. Armstrong did not look quite so pleased.

  The Gilbert infant was taken from the arms of its grandfather and placed in the care of the Gilberts’ nursery maid – the entire Thomson party had required two carriages to bring them from the other end of the New Town – and the maid removed the infant. The adult section of the party went downstairs to the dining room.

  Gavin Dundas, as usual, was dissatisfied with his place at the table. He felt he ought to have a strong word with his mother before the next dinner. He was between Ella Armstrong and her mother, both too clever for him. The numbers were uneven anyway, the more so as Mr. Armstrong had announced himself too ill to attend. Mrs. Armstrong, questioned with polite concern, explained that he had a slight cold and had no wish to endanger his hosts or his fellow guests, particularly when he heard that the Gilberts’ baby was to be there. He and his wife had had a second daughter, Mary, who had died in just such a casual way, in just such a hard Edinburgh winter. Many parents had suffered the same sad fate, watching through long, painful, draining illnesses, or seeing a life they had tended broken like the stem of a flower.

  ‘And what do you think of your fine young cousin?’ Murray asked Ella. Mr. Gilbert was within hearing distance. Ella smiled.

  ‘She is indeed a most welcome addition to our family.’

  ‘She’s a beauty!’ exclaimed Catherine on his other side. Mr. Gilbert across the table nodded a non-committal face and said,

  ‘Aye, well, I suppose she’ll do.’

  Miss Lily Warwick beside him looked terribly shocked. Miss Thomson saw her, and explained kindly,

  ‘That is Glaswegian for you, Miss Warwick. Do not alarm yourself or imagine that the dear infant is unappreciated. My brother Mr. Gilbert is in fact displaying considerable devotion and an almost unseemly enthusiasm for his new daughter. Is that not so, Mr. Gilbert?’

  ‘She’s no so bad,’ conceded Mr. Gilbert. ‘Miss Thomson is quite correct, Miss Warwick. I have a soft spot for the wee one.’ He remained unsmiling through this speech, as though he had been remarking on poor weather. Miss Lily looked terrified, but she could not see the gleam in Mr. Gilbert’s eye. Murray found himself taking to him, but Miss Thomson’s sharp face was momentarily disparaging: she clearly intended to find herself a superior husband to her sister’s.

  Mr. Thomson, who had been occupied in speaking to Lady Sarah, regarded his younger daughter with a look of mild distaste, then called across to Murray,

  ‘Charles, my boy, law court gossip says you are on the look-out for a new groom. Is this as well as or instead of a new stable boy, may one ask?’

  ‘As well as, unfortunately, sir,’ Murray replied with a rueful smile. Balneavis must have been talking. It would have been silly to expect him not to – unless, of course, he stood to make money from it. He kept finding himself seeing Balneavis, as it were, with and without the eyeglass of his new knowledge of him. ‘Do you know of anyone, sir? I have no wish to go to a wadman if I can find a good groom recommended amongst my friends.’

  ‘There is always something slightly suspicious about servants who feel the need to be on a register,’ agreed Mrs. Armstrong. ‘But I fear that I know of no grooms or stable lads available at present.’

  ‘The lad should be easy enough to come by, but to get a good groom can take years. Have you let your man go?’ asked Dundas, rather over-casually.

  ‘For a while. Dr. Harker has prescribed rest for him, and I thought it best to send him to Fife where life is somewhat quieter. He has been very upset recently, and needs some time to recover.’ He was conscious of the fact that everyone had stopped eating to listen to him, and felt himself go slightly red. Fife was indeed quieter: he wished he was there.

  ‘We have a new groom,’ said Dundas rather belatedly. ‘An Irishman, you know, from County Down. They really are the best with horses. It’s all instinct, you know: he’s never been trained.’

  ‘And what happened to the groom he replaced?’ asked Murray.

  ‘He had to go to London,’ said Harry Dundas abruptly. There was an unusual sound from Gavin Dundas, quickly stifled.

  ‘Oh,’ said Murray, ‘that’s a shame. Well, perhaps I shall have to look for an Irishman for myself. Your one does not have a brother, does he?’ he asked humorously. Dundas laughed, and shook his head.

  Mr. Thomson leaned back, chewing contemplatively, and looked down his side of the table to where Harry Dundas was sitting, neatly positioned beside his cousin Miss Warwick. A small smile trickled from his eyes to his mouth.

  ‘So what have you been up to this morning, Harry?’ he asked. ‘We did not see you at the law courts.’

  ‘I had business to attend to,’ said Harry shortly.

  ‘That wouldn’t have been at Wordsworth’s sale, would it?’ Thomson grinned, and took another mouthful of beef.

  ‘No,’ said Harry.

  Thomson looked genuinely surprised.

  ‘You didn’t go?’ He swallowed his mouthful. ‘I thought you were looking for a lady’s saddle horse.’

  Miss Warwick, with a little intake of breath, looked round suddenly at her cousin then back at her plate. Beside Mr. Dundas at the foot of the table, Lady Warwick looked like genteel poison.

  ‘No,’ said Harry.

  There was a long and complex silence. At last Ella Armstrong, rather to everyone’s surprise, leaned across the table and said,

  ‘Miss Warwick, I do hope you will give us the pleasure of hearing you play your guitar after dinner. I so enjoyed it on Monday.’

  Miss Warwick, accompanied by Miss Lily Warwick at the grand pianoforte, was playing her guitar. Catherine Armstrong was sitting for once with her sister Ella, and was silently stretching her gloved fingers towards the warmth of the fire, in the hope and expectation of being the next asked to play. Davina Thomson and Gavin Dundas had secured the window embrasure earlier used by his brother Harry and his cousin Miss Warwick, and they were apparently gazing out at the duskish lines of St. Andrew’s Square. They could, of course, also see a reflection of the drawing room behind them in the glass, and it was possible that the comments they exchanged found their subject matter there.

  Willie Jack Dundas, Murray and Patrick Armstrong made up the part of the audience that was paying most attention to the performance. Murray was uninspired by guitar music, and although Miss Lily Warwick’s piano-playing was very pretty, he would have preferred to ask Patrick Armstrong how his father did. He knew better, however, than to disturb Armstrong while he listened to his mathematics being performed in the form of music. Harry Dundas seemed to be miles away, and Willie Jack looked hung over. Altogether we are an appreciative audience, Murray reflected. He hoped there would not be dancing, for he wanted very much to join in. Mourning was not very fair.

  His father had always been a good dancer, sure-footed and athletic. In his widowed state he had apparently been much looked-for as a dancing partner.

  Harry Dundas sat with his mother as she talked with Lady Warwick. Lady Warwick seemed quite keen to be rid of him, but when Mrs. Gilbert reappeared with her newly awakened baby, like a child unable to leave a new puppy, Mrs. Armstrong noticed that Harry’s hand gripped his mother’s arm discreetly, as if to steady it. Murray noticed, too. He wondered why Harry had changed his mind about the lady’s saddle horse.

  Mrs. Thomson half-listened to the music, but her eyes were on Gavin Dundas and her daughter Davina, cosy at the window. She was quite satisfied. Mrs. Armstrong did not feel so sure. Davina, she thought, was rather too clever for her own good, even for a Fleming female. She brought out the unkind side which she fully recognised in Catherine’s nature, and knew it had come from her side of the family, not from her husband’s. Archibald Armstrong would not know how
to be unkind, she reflected with disdain, then caught herself doing so and admonished herself, remembering that he was a good husband and, moreover, ill at home.

  Her gaze wandered back to the Misses Warwick, still plying away at their instruments. Catherine would be growing impatient. The Misses Warwick had done little damage as yet, she decided. Miss Warwick and Harry Dundas, perhaps – and maybe not even that, if the moment at the dinner table was anything to go by, though who could tell with such matters? But Harry Dundas had never been thought likely to marry anyway. It was a pity that if he had to change his mind it was not for a decent Edinburgh girl, but there, he had always been a little different. Miss Lily Warwick, the younger sister, had achieved the curious distinction of being the first girl ever, so far as Mrs. Armstrong knew, to make any kind of approach to her son Patrick. There, however, Mrs. Armstrong felt secure. Patrick certainly seemed more abstracted than usual just lately, but he showed no desire to spend any more time in company than before, no particular excitement at the news of a dinner invitation to a house where Miss Lily must be found. No, it seemed likely that Lady Warwick would find a match for one of her daughters in Edinburgh, but not for both.

  There was at last a pause in the playing, and Catherine Armstrong with only the barest pretence at reluctance was persuaded to perform. Ella went to turn the pages for her and, surprisingly, to sing with her, though she chose the lower, less impressive part. Their brother Patrick’s head almost visibly buzzed as it calculated harmonies. Harry left his mother to talk quietly to Miss Warwick at the other window. David Thomson, who had passed the baby reluctantly back to its mother, came and tapped Murray on the shoulder and drew him away from the centre of the circle.

  ‘I did not wish to say in front of Dundas,’ he began, ‘but I can put you in the way of a good stable boy at least, and maybe a groom, too.’