Knowledge of Sins Past
by
Lexie Conyngham
First published in 2011 by The Kellas Cat Press, Aberdeen.
Copyright Alexandra Conyngham, 2011
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work as been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express permission of the publisher.
Dramatis personae
The family at Scoggie Castle:
Lord Scoggie
Lady Scoggie
Major Alexander Keyes, hero of Seringapatam
Henry Scoggie
Robert Scoggie
Deborah Scoggie
Beatrix Pirrie
Charles Murray, the secretary and tutor
Naismith, the steward
Mrs. Costane, a vicariously highly qualified French chef
Grisell, the maid
Hannah, the kitchen maid
Andrew, the manservant
The occupants of Aberardour Lodge:
Philip Bootham
Jane Bootham
Baffled servants
The low town inhabitants of St. Monance (pig-haters)
Joe Baillie, leader of the fishermen
Tom Baillie, his brother
Hugh Farquhar
Richie Shaw
Mallie, an enthusiastic butcher
The uptown inhabitants of St. Monance (pig-lovers)
Nathaniel Tibo, lawyer to the Scoggie family
Cocky Leckie, his clerk
Geordie Kinkell, weaver
? Kinkell, his wife
Peter Kinkell, his son
Sandy Kinkell, his brother
Chrissie Farquhar, Sandy’s wife
Don Downie, wright
A weaver from Crail, late owner of a sow
Parry the Pugilistic Chanticleer
A sow
Chapter One
If there had been anyone there to see them, they might have been hard put to say what they were up to. For one thing, the moon, full though it was, rushed from cloud to cloud like a fugitive, and showed their progress in jerky stages like a broken nursery trick. The light seemed to confuse them, as if they could not decide, in the moon’s brightness, whether to hide from its glare or to take advantage of it. Worst of all, the effort to move the great sow quickly but silently – apparently an impossible combination – had struck the younger man as hysterically funny, and he spent most of his time doubled over, clutching his splutterings hard to his face, while the older man tried to herd youth and pig with a sound lashing of muttered curses.
If there had been anyone there to see them, they might have been interested enough to follow the strange trio, man, youth and sow, down the softly muddy street to the harbour, where the gentle tidal movement nudged the fishing boats against each other to tap their secret signals in the darkness. The rig cottages along the harbour glowed suddenly blue-white as the moon reappeared: all their windows were dark, deep-set and sleeping. The pig stopped abruptly, mumbling to herself. Snorts of laughter came from the young man. The pig sat down.
If anyone had followed them down there, and watched from the shadows as they took the sow to the edge of the harbour and tethered her there, leaving a few kale fronds to keep her quiet: if anyone had seen them check the tethers, then look up, startled by some distant noise, they might have noticed the similarity in the two moonlit profiles, the shape of the head and the busy hands.
They left the pig and picked their way silently back over the road to the foot of the hill they had come down. Before he began the ascent, the man glanced around, then spat firmly in the direction of the harbour. Struck by sudden solemnity the youth did the same, then caught sight of the sow again sitting in a pool of moonlight and had to gulp down his laughter. He followed his companion quickly up the hill and disappeared into the darkness.
If there had been anyone there to see them, there was nothing else to see. Anyone would be wise to go home to their beds.
Charles Balfour Murray was heir to the fine estate of Letho, and to a grand house in the New Town of Edinburgh. On a bright October morning in the year ‘four, he was twenty years old, dark and handsome, and squatting in a pig trough.
‘You can’t just sit down,’ said Robert authoritatively. ‘You have to stand up so we can hit you.’
‘That’s not much of an incentive.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t row if I’m standing up.’ The pig trough was, if anything, cleaner than the midden it was resting in. Murray had no particular wish to leave his current perch while the alternatives were so unpromising. He was wearing his usual dark brown coat and waistcoat, the ones that showed the fewest stains, but there seemed little point in testing them further than usual.
‘He’s quite right, Robbie,’ came Henry’s welcome voice. Henry, after all, had the textbook, its leather covers increasingly tatty from much travel in pockets. ‘They sat down in the war canoes, even the small ones.’
‘Well, he’ll have to stand up to fight, once he’s rowed close enough,’ Robert decided from the top of the midden wall, currently doing duty as the poopdeck of His Majesty’s Ship Discovery. ‘Row close enough, Mr. Murray.’
Murray dutifully plied the yard brush he had been given as a paddle, trying to look as if he were straining against a heavy sea. Robert watched critically, thoughtful fingers tapping his wooden sword.
‘I thought Captain Cook just attended a review of the Matavai war canoes,’ Murray tried. ‘He didn’t fight them.’
‘He might have, if he’d wanted to,’ said Robert quickly. ‘And he’d have won.’
‘Of course. How far away am I now?’
Robert considered, possibly taking reckonings on how long he could make his tutor suffer, versus how soon he could reach the interesting part.
‘Mr. King!’ he called to Henry by the name of Captain Cook’s officer. ‘How far away is that war canoe?’
‘I don’t want to be Mr. King,’ Henry objected. ‘I want to be Otoo.’
‘You want to be a tribesman?’
‘Otoo’s much more interesting than boring old Mr. King. If I can’t be Captain Cook I want to be Otoo.’
‘But I need an officer!’
‘Anyway, why can’t I be Captain Cook? I’m older than you!’
Murray took advantage of the debate to ease off on his paddle. The pig yard was currently deserted: the pigs were rooting through the last of the windfalls in the orchard, and the pigman, if he had the sense of his breed, was somewhere sheltering from the sharp October wind. Over the wall, or poopdeck, the leaves of the orchard trees tossed, their colours tired and grey-green, many torn off before they could ever turn yellow. In the other direction, the tall towerhouse could be seen above the pig sheds, one or two windows open to demonstrate the hardiness of the inhabitants. It was his second autumn here, and he felt he knew the place well: as secretary and librarian to Lord Scoggie and tutor to his boys, there were few parts of the house or lands barred to him.
A figure appeared at one of the upstairs windows. Beatrix glanced out, then stared at the sight of the battle in the pig yard. She was some way away, but Murray could still see her shake with laughter, and he felt himself blushing stupidly. That would give Beatrix and Deborah a subject for teasing for at least a week. He was growing cramped and cold, and decided to put an end to Captain Cook’s suppression of the natives. He stood up, bracing his feet against the wooden sides
of the trough.
‘Right,’ he said, taking the boys by surprise. ‘I’ve reached you. This is my war spear, and I’m going to throw it at you.’ He hefted the yard brush menacingly, trying to ignore the chill wind reaching all the now-exposed damp patches on his breeches.
‘You have to miss,’ said Robert promptly, not one to allow his enemy any unfair advantage. ‘And anyway, you have to play antics first.’
‘I’m not playing antics, not in this weather,’ said Murray firmly.
‘But it says –‘ said Henry, flicking through the book.
‘It also says it’s one of the hottest climates,’ said Murray. ‘And it says I have “great judgement and a very quick eye”, I think you’ll find.’ Preparation, as he had discovered, was the backbone of teaching.
‘Come on, fight!’ said Robert, a boy who knew where his interests lay. Murray sighed and waved his yard brush in a supposedly Matavai manner, then flung it hard over the orchard wall, missing Robert by a deliberate, though regrettable, couple of feet. Captain Cook cheered and waved his sword, while Mr. King-Otoo scowled at his textbook, sheltering it from the wind. Captain Cook grabbed another length of wood from his belt, and, demonstrating the careful attention to diplomatic relations with tribesmen for which he was renowned, shot his Matavai tutor from a range of five yards. Murray obligingly clutched his leg, and sank back into the pig trough, groaning.
‘Got him!’ cried Robert, waving sword and pistol. ‘Got him! Now we have to take him to the morai to sacrifice him to Atooey!’
‘The eatooa,’ Henry corrected him coldly.
‘How are you going to take me?’ said Murray: being shot was one thing, but sacrifice to a god consisting mostly of vowels was beneath his dignity. ‘I’m on a canoe, probably being washed further away from your ship with every wave.’
‘I’ll send a boat for you. Mr. King!’
‘I’m not Mr. King,’ said Henry stubbornly.
‘Otoo, then.’
‘Otoo’s a king. Of a whole island. He’s not going to take orders from you.’
Robert threw down his sword and sat on the wall.
‘I wish we could play in the lake.’
‘You know your father forbids it,’ said Murray, taking the opportunity to leap from the trough on to the wall, avoiding the midden in between. ‘Come on, up you get. It’s time to go in.’
‘I want to play in the lake,’ Robert insisted, arms folded.
‘Believe me,’ said Murray, ‘sometimes I wish you could go and play in the lake, too. But you can’t, and there’s an end to it.’
Robert’s face set into one of his least attractive expressions.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Henry, recognising it, ‘we may be here for some time.’ He looked at Murray, assessing unsympathetically Murray’s chances of overcoming Robert’s obstinacy.
‘Well, if I can’t play in the lake I’m going to stay here and not go in.’
Murray stood next to him on the wall, trying not to look impatient.
‘And do you imagine anyone is going to bring your dinner out to you in the pig sty?’
‘Grisell won’t, anyway,’ Henry chuckled. He took the opportunity to poke Robert with his wooden sword, but misjudged it. Robert snatched it, nearly toppling his brother off the wall. Henry, too, sat on the wall, to avoid further mishap, but in order to differentiate his stand from his brother’s, he sat the other way round, dangling his feet into the orchard. Robert tapped the sword on the wall, beating his heels on the stones, and demonstrating no inborn sense of rhythm. Distractedly, Murray hoped he would not have to teach the boys dancing. He had hoped not to teach the boys at all.
‘I don’t want any dinner,’ said Robert.
‘Now, that’s a first,’ Murray remarked. ‘Are you sure you’re not sickening for something?’
Robert treated him to a disparaging look.
‘Tell my father I’m not going to eat until he lets us play in the lake.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Murray. ‘I don’t care whether you eat or not, but I’m not running messenger to your father with such an idea, particularly not on your orders, young man.’
The next few seconds were a blur. Murray had time briefly to reflect that his perch on the wall was not the most secure for provoking small boys with swords, as Robert whacked him just behind the knees, above his boots. Murray’s legs gave way. There was a slither, a crack on his elbow as he tried to save himself, and the next moment he was up to his thighs in cold pond water, cleaner than the midden beside it, but much deeper.
Robert’s face was churning with gratified astonishment and terror at the result of his actions. Henry’s mouth had dropped open as if his jaw had doubled in weight. Murray stepped out of the pond, boots and breeches heavy with icy water, and managed to keep his face straight as he looked at Robert.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘That’s it. No more nonsense.’ He swung himself over the wall and dropped lightly down into the orchard with a squelch. He retrieved the yard brush from where it had fallen, then turned and secured Robert by the ear. ‘In – or it won’t be lakes we’ll be talking to your father about.’
Robert opened his mouth to object, but only briefly. He scrambled off the wall, followed by Henry with an air of faint disappointment. Murray let go of Robert’s ear, but managed to carry the yard brush in a way that implied threat without actually having to make the effort to carry it out. Escorted by their dripping erstwhile prisoner, the boys dragged their feet along the path by the orchard wall. The pigs ignored them, and when Robert tried to rectify the situation by lifting a windfall to throw at the nearest copper flank, he found Murray’s hand clamped suddenly round his upraised arm, and dropped the windfall in resignation. Then he brightened.
‘Mr. Murray, did you know Parry the Pugilistic Chanticleer’s coming to Elie?’
‘Really?’ Elie was bigger than St. Monan’s, their nearest village, but that did not make it particularly large. The Pugilistic Chanticleer’s career must be on the way downhill. ‘You’re sure it’s really this Elie?’
‘There’s another one?’ asked Robert vaguely. ‘No, I’m sure. He’s to stay at the King’s Arms, and give demonstrations and lessons. Can we have lessons from Parry the Pugilistic Chanticleer?’
‘In pugilism or singing?’ asked Murray, straight-faced. Robert reacted by kicking a windfall at Murray’s feet.
‘You’re only a tutor. What do you know about pugilism?’
‘Enough, to know you’ll have to ask your father about lessons from anyone in an inn in Elie,’ said Murray, trying not to think of his own father, and the enforced sporting lessons he had hated through his youth.
‘He’ll say no,’ said Henry, demonstrating his ability to walk, read about Cook’s last voyage, and listen to the conversation at the same time. ‘He’ll say it’s not gentlemanly.’ A windfall hit him with a hard splat on the side of the neck.
‘There’s little enough hope that Robert will ever be gentlemanly,’ Murray remarked, handing his handkerchief to Henry and cuffing Robert.
‘You said his clothes were mucky anyway,’ said Robert. They emerged from the orchard gate and followed the path to the drive at the front of the house. Here, you could see it for what it was: a confused series of extensions to the original tower house, crow-stepped gables like unplanned staircases ending before they were ready, turrets turning off corners as if they were paper bags twisted hastily to close them. Murray supervised the use of the boot scraper by the door, and manoeuvred the boys into the hall. The dark interior smelled of brass balls and leather soap, and glinted with the Scoggie ancestral armoury. Murray always half-expected straw on the floor.
He saw the boys to the bottom of the generous winding staircase, and listened to hear them mount at least to the first floor before he himself slipped, dripping, through the curtain to the servants’ corridor, seeking the warmth of the kitchen.
‘Oh, that man would give you the nyerps!’ The voice was that of Mrs. Costane, the cook: she wa
s a West Coast woman and entitled to her opinion.
‘Good morning, Mrs. Costane,’ said Murray warily, hoping the man in question was not him, but Mrs. Costane greeted him with a slightly frantic grin, which turned to a look of dismay.
‘What in the name of all that’s good and holy has happened to yourself?’
‘I was attacked by Captain Cook, I think,’ Murray laughed. The fire was hot for the dinner, and he edged towards it, feeling his face cooking even yards from it. Mrs. Costane and the kitchenmaid had permanently tanned faces from their daily work.
‘You’d be better getting those wet things off you, or you’ll catch your death,’ said Mrs. Costane.
‘But not in here,’ added the kitchenmaid, sourly.
‘Ach, you’re a tedious old maid,’ Mrs. Costane objected. ‘Mr. Murray, you’re a fine-looking young gentleman. Would you not do the decent thing and take Miss Deborah away out of this? Set up your household and I’ll come and be your cook.’
‘I couldn’t afford you or her, Mrs. Costane, I’m afraid. You know my position.’
‘By jingo, I’d nearly do it for the love of you both, for Miss Deborah is the only member of the family I’ve ever heard say a word of sense.’
‘What about Miss Beatrix?’
‘Oh, she’s not a Scoggie, mercifully for her.’ She scooped a dumpling mix competently into a cloth, with a look of almost audible disgust. ‘Besides, she has an eye for you.’
‘Miss Beatrix?’ Murray’s heart seemed to take a little detour off track.
‘No, Miss Deborah. Miss Beatrix? If she wasn’t in the Church, she could be a nun, that girl. But Miss Deborah’s father would make her a good portion.’ She eyed Murray wistfully. Hannah, the kitchenmaid, seized the dumpling from her listless grasp and dumped it into a saucepan boiling over the fire, kicking the fireirons into place with careless expertise. Murray waited until she had finished, then snatched himself a turn in the fire’s heat, drying his damp breeches.
Knowledge of Sins Past (Murray of Letho Book 2) Page 1
