‘Go ahead.’ He expected something about Deborah, and was surprised when Keyes began.
‘I asked earlier after Lady Scoggie, and though the explanation given – that I had arrived before I was expected – is quite natural, I thought I sensed something more to the matter. Tell me, is she ill?’
‘Oh! no, not that I know of.’ Taken aback, he thought quickly. ‘If there is a little tension, it is perhaps that they were embarrassed. Lady Scoggie spends a great deal of time in charitable work, and because she cannot always predict when she will be at home she has handed much of the running of the household over to Miss Deborah, who is very good at it.’
‘Charitable work, eh? That was not always her way.’ Keyes thought for a moment, as if remembering. ‘I used to know her well before her marriage to Lord Scoggie. She’s my cousin, you know, and we met often when we were growing up. She was not brought up to it, and she never had much inclination towards charity, preferring balls and routs. But perhaps there are few of those in this neck of the woods.’
‘Certainly that is true,’ said Murray. He could not remember the last time he had danced, and he missed it. ‘I think Miss Deborah would prefer more of a social life sometimes.’
‘Miss Deborah, eh? Now she has changed greatly since I last saw her. She’s a fine figure of a lass, is she not?’
‘She is considered very much of a beauty, indeed,’ said Murray, who preferred Beatrix.
‘And is she spoken for?’ Keyes gave him an odd look sideways. ‘Is there a man lucky enough to claim her for his own?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Murray carefully. It was possible that Nathaniel Tibo thought he might some day have that privilege, but Murray did not think he had received much encouragement from Deborah herself. It was probably best not to mention it. ‘I think, of course, that Lord Scoggie would like to marry her into an old Scottish family, people who would match the Scoggies for history and standing.’ He looked round at Keyes, intending the idea partly as a joke, and was surprised at the expression on the major’s face. It could best have been described as blank, wiped clean. Murray was about to say something when the expression cleared, and Robert ran up to them.
‘Mr. Murray, will you carry this? It’s a magic stone!’
He handed Murray a flattish stone with a natural hole worn in the middle.
‘Who told you that?’ Keyes asked.
‘Henry. But I think it would be brilliant to put in a catapult. Think about it, Mr. Murray: you’d have a stone that would come back every time after you’d hit something!’ He ran off again, leaving Murray with the muddy stone.
‘Um,’ said Murray, balancing it on top of the nest, then thinking better of it and slipping it into his pocket. ‘I think people hide them in their thatch for luck, or am I thinking of something else?’
They were more than halfway round the lake now, passing the icehouse half-buried in the bank amongst the trees, with, at that moment, Robert trying to fling himself off the door lintel, while Henry investigated a clump of dangerous-looking toadstools by the path.
‘Mr. Murray, will you –‘ Henry began.
‘No, I’m not carrying one of those, Henry. It would either fall apart on the way home, or rot overnight when we got there.’
‘Then I want to draw it now.’ He squatted down beside them and drew out his notebook and pen. They had each been given them, but Robert’s was probably reduced to paper darts by now. With a sigh, Murray found a fallen log and led Keyes over to it so that they could wait in comparative comfort. Robert came to sit beside them, and began to work quietly at a stick with his pocket knife. For a little while, all was peace.
In front of them, the lake was the shining brown of a mountain pool, flecked with golden beech leaves floating at peace where they had fallen. Beyond it, the far shore was softened by trees starting to turn yellow, willows trailing into the water, and the green lawns stretching up to the castle with its outbuildings on the top of the rise. The sky, high above, was grey-white like limewash.
Suddenly Murray heard voices approaching and footsteps on the path coming from the other direction. For the moment they were invisible to the newcomers, and Murray was surprised to see a couple he did not know strolling hand in hand by the side of the lake, and stopping to look over at the castle. The woman was small and neat, in a beautiful blue cloak, and pointed with a tiny gloved hand across the lake.
‘I suppose that must be Scoggie Castle,’ she said. ‘How unpicturesque it is, quite what one expects of its name. It is irregular enough, I suppose, for beauty, but it is hardly part of its landscape, is it?’
The man, who from the back was most remarkable for his tight-fitting breeches and delicacy of movement, looked where she was pointing.
‘I disagree, my dear. The castle is indeed picturesque, but in the absolute sense of the word, almost Gothic in its intensity. See how it stands out against the sky? It is like a great nail hammered in to the landscape to subdue it, as Presbyterian as the nail with which Martin Luther drove his declarations into the cathedral door at Wittenberg. I expect Lord Scoggie to be a most interesting type of gentleman, do you not?’
‘Most interesting!’ she agreed, turning to him with laughter – and caught sight of their audience. There was an awkward pause, but only for a fraction of a second. The man turned quickly and came towards Murray and Keyes, who rose from their log with some attempt at dignity. The man removed his broad-brimmed hat, which made him look like a minister, thus displaying his extraordinary blond hair, which did not. His face was calm and serious.
‘Forgive us, gentlemen, if we have caused any alarm or offence,’ said the man. ‘Do I gather that one of you must be Lord Scoggie?’ He looked expectantly at Major Keyes, but he shook his head without smiling.
‘Alexander Keyes, sir, kinsman to Lord Scoggie, and this is Mr. Murray, Lord Scoggie’s secretary.’
‘Philip Bootham, gentlemen.’ Bootham bowed beautifully, reminding Murray suddenly of an actor he had once seen in Edinburgh. ‘May I present Mrs. Bootham?’
The lady came forward at that and made her curtsey. When she looked up, Murray temporarily forgot to breathe. Hazel eyes met his. Her white skin was flushed with the fresh air, or perhaps with embarrassment that they might have overheard her comments, and ebony curls framed her face. Around it, her bonnet seemed almost out of place, for he found himself irresistibly thinking of dryads and wood nymphs, and creatures that flitted through forests at dusk, evading human eyes. For a moment, he was lost for words. Then the boys ran up, and the spell was broken.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he managed to say. ‘You must be the new tenants of Aberardour Lodge. Are you intending to visit the Castle this afternoon?’
‘Yes, we had hoped to,’ said Mr. Bootham. ‘Miss Scoggie was kind enough to suggest yesterday that we could walk in the grounds, but we wanted to ask Lord Scoggie himself if this would inconvenience him in any way. Mrs. Bootham has a talent for watercolours, and is always eager for inspiration.’
Watercolours ... water under the trees, flowing brown and shining through the woodland, and this woman beside it, bending over it, hair sliding to kiss the dancing surface ... Murray shook himself inside. This woman inspired fantasy. What was she – a witch? Fife had a good tradition of witchcraft, but surely this woman was English? Whatever she was, she was muddling his thoughts like strong ale on a sunny day.
‘Then you must come with us up to the castle,’ Keyes was saying to Mr. Bootham. ‘We are returning there soon, are we not, Mr. Murray?’
‘Directly, though it is still some distance, as you see. Come on, boys: are you finished, Henry?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Henry looked down at his notebook, then noticed that Mr. Bootham was also gazing down at it. He snapped the notebook shut instantly. Murray noticed that, fortunately, this amused Mr. Bootham, rather than offending him. The party set off, back the way the Boothams had come, so that Keyes could complete his circumambulation of the lake. Keyes offered Mrs. Bootham
his arm and they went ahead, led by Tippoo the dog. Murray and Mr. Bootham followed, and the boys kept their usual chaotically varied pace around them.
‘You teach the boys science, I see?’ said Bootham, waving a graceful hand towards the nest in Murray’s hands.
‘Henry is a keen student. He is the elder boy.’ Murray nodded in Henry’s direction. ‘Robert, the younger, prefers history and geography.’
‘You are lucky to teach such scholarly pupils. I understand that such a situation is much more rewarding than striving to drum a few useful facts into more reluctant heads.’ He smiled gently. Murray did not reply. Ahead of them, Mrs. Bootham’s long cape trailed through the fallen leaves along the path, tumbling at the edges like a wave on the beach.
‘And has Lord Scoggie other children? I have already met Miss Scoggie and Miss Pirrie, of course.’
Murray felt ashamed that he was not playing his part in the conversation, and tried to concentrate more.
‘No, just Miss Scoggie and the boys. You are right, they are comparatively rewarding to teach, and two is not a great number.’
‘Miss Scoggie is a charming girl,’ Bootham went on. ‘Lord Scoggie must be eager to find her a suitable husband soon.’
‘I suppose he must,’ said Murray discreetly. ‘It is usually the aim of fathers to see their daughters suitably attached.’ And what about Beatrix Pirrie? he thought. Why were all of them so interested in Deborah? She was energy and brightness, certainly, but Beatrix – surely other men could see her large, calm eyes, with such depth; her smooth complexion, the colouring so subtle on her cheeks and throat, her ready intelligence. Why was it not her marriage that people enquired about? Money, he knew, played a key role: Bea was the classic poor relation. He felt drawn to her often, for to him they seemed to be if not in exactly the same position in the household, at least in similarly anomalous ones: she was of the family but not quite accepted by outsiders as such, while he was not quite of the family and not quite of the servants’ hall, and seen by each as a spy and informant.
He struggled to return to the conversation again.
‘Do you find yourselves happily settled at Aberardour Lodge?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes, very much indeed,’ said Bootham in his calm way. ‘It feels like home already.’
‘And where was home before?’
‘In England,’ Bootham replied. ‘But we are very fond of North Britain. We find being near the coast, too, a very refreshing experience. Already we have been able to walk along the shore most days.’
‘You’ll find that increasingly refreshing as the winter comes on,’ said Murray with feeling. ‘Take care you are not blown away.’
Bootham laughed lightly.
‘We are not so hardy that we insist on sea air every day. I think we shall be wise, Mr. Murray.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. And when you are not walking, how do you amuse yourselves? I’m afraid there is little entertainment in the neighbourhood, but we try to be sociable.’
‘Social activities are not essential to my happiness, Mr. Murray. I had thought perhaps Miss Scoggie might have mentioned that I am, in fact, a poet.’ Murray turned in surprise, and Bootham smiled, a sweet smile, as of an angel to a mortal. For a moment he reminded Murray of a cat in Lord Scoggie’s stables, who seemed to smile this way, beneficently, usually just before he brought in a particularly large rat. He looked away, and glanced about to see that the boys were in no danger and causing none to anything else. Robert had found a large stick to trail behind him, and Henry was picking moss off a tree trunk.
‘Lord Scoggie did say that you were a scholar: I had no idea that you were also an artist. It is quite a privilege for the neighbourhood.’ He thought he had managed to sound quite sincere. ‘Lord Scoggie has a fine collection of volumes of poetry, which he would be happy to inspect with you, I am sure.’
‘Lord Scoggie sounds like a most generous neighbour.’ Murray was sure that Mr. Bootham also thought that he had managed to sound quite sincere. He grinned to himself.
They rounded the far end of the lake in a gentle curve, passing over the little bridge that crossed the outflow stream. Mrs. Bootham paused for a moment on it, watching where the stream trickled down through woodland, into which sunlight was suddenly filtered as though for her especial delight. The glow reflected in her face, or it may simply have been her smile, responding to some remark made by Major Keyes, that seemed to illuminate the scene. Murray looked away, automatically checking again that the boys were nearby.
‘We go through the kissing gate up ahead,’ he said generally, hoping that the party would move on.
‘Oh, how does the poor dog manage a kissing gate?’ Mrs. Bootham asked in concern.
‘You’ll see, very readily,’ replied Keyes, and led her on. Murray paused before following, to leave Keyes time to manoeuvre through the gate without everyone standing watching. Tippoo leapt the wall again, to light applause from the Boothams.
The grassy slope was an easy end to the walk, and they arrived at the front door with plenty of breath. Murray sent the boys upstairs, with intact nest and magic stone, to change into indoor clothes, and asked Keyes to take the guests up to the drawing room while he went to find Deborah and Beatrix and Lord Scoggie. As he went to the library door, Beatrix appeared from the Great Hall.
‘We have guests,’ he said quickly. ‘The Boothams. I’ve sent them up to the drawing room.’
‘Oh, Deborah’s there,’ said Beatrix, looking pleased. She and Mrs. Bootham must have liked each other’s company, Murray thought. ‘Lord Scoggie’s in the library. Where’s the Major?’
‘With the Boothams.’ They heard a bell: Deborah must have rung for tea.
‘I’d better go up and rescue her,’ said Bea obscurely, and smiled at Murray as she darted away up the stairs. Murray knocked gently on the library door, and went in. He found Lord Scoggie in easy conversation with Nathaniel Tibo.
‘The Boothams? Delightful,’ said Lord Scoggie, as soon as he heard. ‘I wonder if he would like to see my library. Did you speak with him? Tibo here says he is a scholar.’
‘A poet, apparently.’
‘A poet, eh? I wonder should I have heard of him? Always such a difficult question to ask, but one must be interested – and indeed I am. And his wife – is she a well-informed woman?’
‘Major Keyes may be able to tell you better than I. I had no conversation with her.’ At that Tibo met his eye with a cynical stare.
‘Will you join us for tea?’ said Lord Scoggie, oblivious to this exchange. ‘Where are the boys?’
‘Upstairs. Yes, I should be happy to, thank you, my lord.’
The drawing room had a ladylike character compared with the rest of the public rooms of the castle, with chintz curtains and china, and the walls hung with the family’s watercolours and embroideries. The Boothams, when Murray, Tibo and Lord Scoggie reached the doorway, were relaxed and perfectly at home: Major Keyes, though he knew the room of old, sat in a manner usually reserved for pickpockets hanging around on street corners. He had an odd habit, Murray noticed, of leaning forward to scratch the side of his leg – the wooden one. Murray wondered if he was haunted by his real leg. He had heard of such things happening.
Mr. Bootham rose gracefully when Lord Scoggie entered the room, and bowed, and after the preliminaries were over he made his excuses for arriving without invitation.
‘Miss Scoggie very kindly said you would allow us to wander around your charming park in order to find subjects for Mrs. Bootham’s watercolour sketches, and we came, eager as you see, to ask for formal permission.’
‘Of course, of course, there is no obstacle to that, Mr. Bootham. I hear you are a scholar? And a poet? Then perhaps you would also like to make some use of my library – poor, perhaps, compared with what you might be used to – I believe you hail from London?’
Mr. Bootham smiled.
‘I should be honoured, of course. We are already delighted by the beauty and scholarship of the
area, are we not, my dear?’ He turned to his wife, who caught his eye and smiled – a little absently, Murray thought.
‘I see there are already many watercolours of your lovely estate, Lord Scoggie,’ she said, rising to indicate the paintings on the walls.
‘Oh, yes, indeed!’ Mr. Bootham stepped past her to examine a group of watercolours by the fireplace. When he moved or spoke, it was easy to forget the age his face occasionally betrayed. Murray saw Beatrix looking anxiously towards him: one of the watercolours was hers, and she was a girl always more ready to receive criticism than compliments.
‘I’m afraid those are our own poor amateur efforts, Mr. Bootham,’ said Deborah. Major Keyes levered himself out of his chair, too, and took a closer look.
‘You did these, Cousin Deborah, did you, by Jove?’
‘Some are mine, some Beatrix’s, and some my mother’s. From before she was married, of course: married ladies seem to have no time for such amusement!’
‘Your mother’s, eh?’ Mr. Bootham peered more closely at one of the paintings, a study of a pet rabbit now long dead. ‘Quite a talent, don’t you think, my dear?’ He nudged his wife and pointed to the rabbit. Mrs. Bootham seemed less convinced, but said nothing.
They were poised like this, with the Boothams and Major Keyes by the fireplace, the ladies and Lord Scoggie seated on the pretty sofas and chairs, Tibo arranged by a window and Murray tucking himself to one side out of the way, when they heard steps on the stone stairs outside the door.
‘Ah, the tea,’ said Deborah, arranging her skirts to allow her to serve. The door opened, and a small figure came in, neat to the point of thinness, hands to her chin to undo her bonnet ribbons, a woollen shawl in the à la Nelson fashion of half a dozen years ago slipping from her shoulders, her skirt hem muddy to a height of six inches from her boots.
Knowledge of Sins Past (Murray of Letho Book 2) Page 10
