‘Your brother, sir?’
‘Aye, my younger brother John is Scottish factor at Campvere. He found Bernard an apprenticeship with a master weaver near Bruges, and there Bernard perfected his trade.’
‘Why did you want him to return?’
Sir Thomas got up and washed his hands in an earthenware bowl the girl had set on the sideboard and indicated that I should do the same. ‘Let me show you something.’
I did as I was bid before following him back up the stairs towards the Long Gallery. He stopped short of the top and opened the door in to a room I had heard others speak of. He stood aside to let me enter and left me a few moments to slowly walk the length of the room, looking upwards.
‘Well, Mr Seaton?’ he said at last, with a smile.
‘It is … magnificent.’
The room of the nine nobles, it was called. Painted on the plaster ceiling, between the oak beams, were full length images of heroes from all the ages before our own: Hector, Julius Caesar, Alexander, King David, Joshua, Judas Maccabeus, Arthur, Charlemagne, and Godfrey de Bouillon the great crusader, rendered magnificently in blue, black, red, and gold. Each was accompanied by his coat of arms and a banner telling of his heroism and achievements.
‘My father had a great love for the decorative arts. Each figure is a topic on his own, in which many arguments for valour, nobility and honour have their seat. Each image brings to mind the deeds of the man it portrays and the lessons to be learned and moral to be drawn from them.’ Images, topics, seats of arguments: a visual rhetoric. ‘The art of memory,’ I said.
‘If you like, it may be seen in that way, although I believe the true practitioners of the art of memory involve themselves in much greater complexities than these simple decorations.’
‘I have never learned it,’ I said. But others had – Robert Sim, John Innes, Richard Middleton and the others of their fraternity. ‘Such ideas are frowned upon in my college as tending to Hermeticism, to secret knowledge.’
‘Perhaps some of my generation and my father’s have gone too far in probing the possibilities of art. But these are brutal times, and you must forgive us if we indulge ourselves in the search for something finer. You will be wondering what this has to do with Bernard Cummins, though.’
I waited.
‘Bernard was no simple journeyman weaver – he was a master. He had a gift, an eye for colour and design that cannot be taught, and the ability to transfer what he saw in his mind’s eye or in the pages of a pattern book to the threads, the cloth he was working on, and render it something exceptional.’ Sir Thomas lifted his hands towards the plastered wall. ‘I know that arras hangings are not so much to the taste of wealthy men and women in our times as once they were, but to me they give a warmth and a depth and a texture to a tale that a painting cannot match. You are a Banffshire man, are you not, Mr Seaton?’
‘I am,’ I said.
‘Have you ever perhaps been to Lord Deskford’s place, at Cullen House?’
‘Only as a boy, once, when my father was called to the fitting of his lordship’s horses.’
‘Ah. And I do not suppose they let a curious young boy up to see the Long Gallery?’
‘They had better sense, sir. I was kept out in the yard where I could do less harm. But I know of it.’ Archie Hay, wide-eyed with schoolboy excitement, had told me of it many years ago, for he had seen it; painted on the wooden boards of the Long Gallery at Cullen House, where the walls sloped to meet the roof, was the siege of Troy.
Sir Thomas Burnett broke into my memories. ‘It is a magnificent piece. A man can look on it and feel the heat of the battle, hear the clash of the swords. It is that that I wanted Bernard Cummins to do for me, in threads rather than paints, but truer to the tale as Virgil tells it. It was because he was at last ready to begin this great work that I called him home. And now he has paid for my rich man’s vanity.’
It was not my place to contradict the laird, and he did not look for comfort. I indicated the painted ceiling above us. ‘Better that the rich man should commission work such as this than sit by a candle and count his gold.’
We went down again to the Stone Hall, where the laird called for Marjorie Cummins to be brought to talk to me, if she was fit to come.
A few moments later, a young woman appeared uncertainly at the door. She looked ill, and her eyes were redrimmed with weeping, but she was enough alike the weaver that I knew this must be his sister.
‘That’s all right Marjorie, you just come in. Here, take a seat by the fire.’ She held something white, a piece of linen, clutched in her left hand, and with her right hand she appeared to stroke it, again and again.
‘This is Mr Alexander Seaton,’ the laird told her. ‘He is a teacher at the Marischal College in Aberdeen. He – knew – your brother and he is here for information that might help bring his murderer to justice. Will you help?’
She looked up momentarily and nodded.
At first I was not sure how I should begin. I leant forward in my chair and touched her hand.
‘I am sorry, I am truly sorry, for the loss of your brother.’
She lifted her head a little. ‘Did you know Bernard?’
‘No, in truth I did not. I met him once, very briefly, but I did not know him.’ I took a deep breath and continued. There was little point in putting off the moment with niceties. ‘What have you been told of his death?’
She passed the piece of linen through her hands. ‘That he was murdered. That his throat was cut and that he was left in a shallow grave in a wealthy woman’s garden. They say his body was found there two nights ago, by the woman’s husband.’ A thought struck her and she looked at me directly for the first time since she had come in to the hall. ‘Was that you?’
‘No, it was not me, but I … I was with him. The man is a doctor, Richard Middleton, and his wife’s name is Rachel.’
Her eyes were dull. ‘Did they kill my brother?’
‘I do not think they did. There is another man, already in the tolbooth, whom some suspect: his name is Matthew Jack, also, until a few days ago, a teacher at the Marischal College. Do you know him? Did you ever hear your brother speak of him? Or of the Middletons?’
She shook her head. ‘I never heard of any of them until yesterday. I cannot tell you if my brother knew them or not. But you must know this man, Jack. Did he kill my brother?’
Again I had to tell her I did not know.
She said nothing for a moment and then looked directly at me. ‘Then what is your interest in this matter, Mr Seaton?’ I could almost have felt the laird at his window behind me smile.
‘My interest is that a friend of mine was murdered, in the same manner as was your brother, only six days ago. His name was Robert Sim, and he was the librarian of the Marischal College. One of the last pieces of work he did was to write your brother’s name in to the Trades’ Benefaction Book held in the college library. It is not a connection the burgh authorities have made, but they may do. What I would know of you is whether you can tell me of any connection between Robert Sim and your brother. Did Bernard ever speak of him?’
She shook her head, frustrated almost. ‘Bernard knew almost no one in Aberdeen; he has been away overseas more than ten years, and returned home not two weeks ago.’ She broke off, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. ‘Two days he had. Two days home here, with me, before he went into the town. And now I will never see him again.’ She pressed her face into the linen in her hands.
I waited a moment before proceeding. ‘When was he here?’
‘As soon as he returned from the Netherlands. He came here straight from the ship that brought him back to Scotland. He had some business with Sir Thomas, I think,’ she added hesitantly.
The laird smiled encouragingly at her. ‘Go on.’
‘He was here two days, two nights, then he went to Aberdeen and took lodgings while he waited for his loom and other things to be shipped from Rotterdam. I visited him there only four days ago. He was so f
ull of ideas, so full of plans, and now it has come to nothing.’
‘This was to do with his work here for Sir Thomas?’
Her face lightened a little. ‘Yes, he was greatly excited by it – he had been working for years on his ideas and had gathered many patterns and sketches for it. But he also had hopes of setting up in the burgh, in Aberdeen, and attracting the custom of the wealthier burgesses. He planned to use only the finest materials and the best designs. He was alive, Mr Seaton, and filled with the promises of life.’
I remembered the bright, assured man who had so charmed my wife and Elizabeth Cargill and I could not help but agree with his bereaved sister: Bernard Cummins had been alive with the promises of life. I chose my words carefully. ‘He had … no presentiment of danger? He spoke of no one with whom he had had some grievance? No fallings out, threats from fellow weavers?’
She thought hard and shook her head. ‘No, there was nothing, nothing of that sort. But …’
She stopped.
‘Yes?’
‘It was something, a little strange. Not much more than a curiosity. I wish I could remember it properly.’
I could feel my breath coming quicker, but held back, for fear of dislodging the fragments of her memory further. ‘He spoke of having met some person that morning, seen him in the street. Someone he was sure he had met once before, in his time in the Low Countries. He greeted the man by name, but the man affected not to know him, and denied being whom Bernard thought him to be. And yet Bernard was certain that he knew him, even to the voice.’
‘What was this man’s name?’
She closed her eyes and rubbed her hands down over them. ‘I am sorry, I do not know. I should know, for he said it more than once. In fact, he told me he was sure he had mentioned the fellow to me once in a letter.’
It was a slim hope, I knew, but I thought it worth the asking all the same. ‘Do you still have his letters?’
‘I can write my name, Mr Seaton, but that is all, and I cannot read. Bernard would send his letters to me by the schoolmaster, and old Mr Angus and now Mr Urquhart read them to me, and would write my replies to him.’
I could remember doing the same thing myself, but I had always given the letter back to its owner after reading it for them. ‘What did you do with the letter?’
‘Bernard said it would have been one he had written a good long time ago: I would have left it with Mr Angus. He liked to have the letters as an encouragement to his scholars, to show them what they might do, if they would only apply themselves.’
‘And did Mr Angus take the letters with him when he left?’
‘Mr Angus died. Mr Urquhart always returns the letters to me after he has read them. What has happened to the older ones, I do not know.’
I glanced at the laird and he spoke quietly from his place by the window. ‘Will you give Mr Seaton the authority to ask Patrick Urquhart for these letters, and to read them, Marjorie?’
She nodded. ‘There is nothing in them that can hurt my brother’s name, or any other’s.’
I asked her then about her brother’s belongings, sent out to her by the town. Two packages had been brought by a carter about an hour before. She had been unpacking one of them when I had arrived. ‘There is nothing in it but clothing. Some working clothes, a sober black stand of clothes in the Dutch fashion, two shirts with such finely worked lace at the collar and cuffs …’ Her voice trailed off. Her brother had been bent upon making something of himself, and he had finished with his throat cut, lying in a hole in the ground. I gave her a moment before questioning her again.
‘And what about the second package?’
‘Oh, papers, tied up together – receipts and the like, I think. And some books – an order book and some pattern books.’ She looked up at the laird. ‘The ones he had out here before to show you, Sir Thomas.’
He glanced at me and then spoke to her kindly. ‘I think it would be a help, Marjorie, if Mr Seaton and I could see these papers.’
She readily agreed and after she had left, Thomas Burnett took a moment to write a note for me to give to the young schoolmaster. ‘I am telling him to bring his brother up here to me. I am also asking him to let you see the letters, and to have his dinner with us this evening. I trust you will stay the night here at Crathes? I would wager your researches into these deaths have not gone unnoticed, and I do not think it would be wise for you to journey alone at night.’
SIXTEEN
Letters
By the time I reached the schoolhouse at Banchory, the sun that had guided my journey to Crathes was but a memory and all signs of summer were gone, replaced by a grey chill wind more fitted for November. The church bell had just rung out for four o’clock, and I knew it would be two hours yet before Patrick Urquhart could release his charges for the day. Not willing to be drenched for the sake of a nicety, I walked up the short path that led to the squat granite building and rapped hard on the door. The hum of young voices reciting their catechism faltered and stopped, and the door opened inward to reveal a roomful of expectant faces, glad of the distraction.
Patrick Urquhart was a little shorter than myself, but so gaunt as to give the impression of height. He had tousled, ungoverned red hair and his skin was the colour of chalk. His face was so pale it might almost have been devoid of life, were it not for the intense blue of his eyes, where all the soul of him looked to reside. As they took in the sight of me, I thought he was a man less in a state of surprise than of fear.
‘Mr Urquhart,’ I began, ‘my name is Alexander Seaton …’
‘I know who you are,’ he said.
‘Forgive me for disturbing your class in its lesson. I am here on the business of the Marischal College. My business will keep until the end of the day, and if you will permit me to shelter an hour or two here from the torrent that will soon be on us, I will disturb you no further.’
He turned away from me. ‘I cannot … I do not think …’ Then he stopped himself, straightened his shoulders and turned to the class. ‘A storm is about to break, children. Take up your things and get home as quickly as you can. You, Willie Slater, go through and light my fire, for Mr Seaton and I have matters to discuss.’ He said my name very clearly, deliberately.
Within three minutes, there was not a child left in the place, and Urquhart had bolted the outer door of the schoolroom behind them.
‘There was no need to dismiss them – I could have waited.’
He was taking some pains over the straightening of the small room’s few benches and the stacking of notebooks and did not look at me. ‘Some of them live far from the school, and have a great distance to walk before they reach home. I would have sent them away early whether you had come or not.’
His glance flickered for a moment to the as yet unshuttered window in the west side of the room and as my eyes followed his I thought I caught a movement past the window. In my eagerness to trace the letter of which Marjorie Cummins had spoken, I had almost forgotten about Patrick Urquhart’s brother.
The habitation into which the young schoolmaster now showed me was scarcely larger than the chamber I had occupied when first I had taught in the Marischal College. The hearth was narrow and gave little promise of heat. A narrow bed was set into one wall of the room, a bench set against another, a small table with two chairs serving for all the other furnishing, save a wooden chest in the corner and shelves bracketed to the wall on which were ranged a goodly number of books, and cups and plate of little workmanship. It was the dwelling of a man on his own who had no great hopes of being otherwise, a man whose only companionship was in his books. And yet there were signs, in the greying light, that Patrick Urquhart had not been alone here. A bundle of blankets hastily pushed under the bench, not one but two bowls on the table bearing the traces of a shared meal, a door to the back yard that had not been properly shut. More than that, it had not the smell of a place that had been unoccupied for the last few hours.
‘Where is your brother, Mr Urquhart? W
here is Malcolm?’
Patrick Urquhart poured himself a beaker of water from a pitcher near the door, but did not offer any to me.
‘I cannot believe that the college would send a regent all the way out here, in almost the last week of term, in search of an errant student.’
I had not yet shown him Sir Thomas’s letter. I wondered what his brother had told him about why he had fled the college. ‘Malcolm’s disappearance is not as that of other scholars. Where is your brother, Mr Urquhart?’
He sat down on the bed and began to pull off his boots. ‘My brother has gone, at my instance, to Crathes Castle, to seek the counsel and protection of Sir Thomas Burnett of Leys.’
‘That is why you sent the boy through to light the fire – it was to warn your brother that I was here.’
‘Yes.’
‘But why?’
‘Because he has been in a terror since Sunday evening, when the news first reached us here that Robert Sim had been found murdered in the library courtyard a few hours after you yourself had seen Malcolm running from that place. Whatever truth may lie behind that killing, I can tell you my brother had nothing to do with it.’
‘You know that for a certainty?’
He looked me straight in the eye. ‘I am as certain of it as I am that you are standing in front of me. My brother may be a fool, Mr Seaton, but he is no more a killer than I am.’
Urquhart was in earnest. He was drawn and weary, a man close to his limits; I suspected this was not the first time his younger brother had brought difficulties to his door. I took the laird’s letter from my pocket and handed it to him. ‘Malcolm has no need to fear me,’ I said. As he read a degree of relief passed across his face.
He swallowed. ‘I will fetch those letters.’
‘Will you answer me some questions about Malcolm first?’
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