On Wednesday morning, clad in the black they had most recently worn to the pauper woman’s funeral, they walked down to Cullessie and hacked their way along the back path, through the kitchen gardens to the side of the house and round to the front door. A maid was stationed there and took them with remarkable efficiency into a dark drawing room, not the usual parlour, and having failed to announce them, she relieved them of their hats and sticks and left, closing the door behind her.
The room was furnished heavily and overshadowed by the uncontrolled trees outside, and it was a moment or two before they could see that old Mrs. Kirk was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, smiling emptily at them. The fireplace was bare – the screen had been moved to one side, as if someone had thought to set a fire there, but had been distracted before they had started.
They bowed to Mrs. Kirk, and Blair began with her a kindly conversation that took as little account as possible of the fact that she clearly had no idea who he was. A few minutes of Blair’s chatter seemed to soothe her, however, and they were able to slip back out into the hall to enquire of the elusive maid the way to the deadroom. She pointed out the stairs and told them which door to go to, but did not offer to escort them, so they made their own way up to a landing where the wax candles, at least, were fresh. They had been told the second door on the right: they knocked, and went in.
The walls were hung with black cloth that had been good in its day, and smelled faintly of the herbs in which it had long been stored. Despite its shrouding effect, you could see that here some effort had been made to brighten at least this one room, before its occupant had no further need for such earthly brightness. The window faced south, and caught some daylight, and the edges of colourful cushions and pretty pictures showed from behind the dark drapery. Miss Kirk and Kennedy, seated by the screened fireplace, looked up as they came in, glanced at each other, and then rose to greet them. Both had been crying: Kennedy’s face was red with it, as though he had buried his head in a pillow like a little boy. His suit of black was crumpled, probably mistreated by an incompetent Cullessie servant and then ignored by Kennedy himself, and he gave the impression of having done what little sleeping he had done in his clothes. Miss Kirk, on the other hand, wore a black gown that was simple, neat and fashionable, and above it her pale face was almost white, her eyes red.
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ she said. ‘I heard from Mrs. Helliwell how the news reached the village: I can think of few worse ways to hear it. I am so sorry.’
‘My dear Miss Kirk,’ said Murray, ‘the news itself was much more dreadful than any way of hearing it could have been.’
Miss Kirk bowed her head.
‘You will want to see her,’ she said, and led the way over to the black-clothed bed. ‘Here she is.’
Blair and Murray looked down at the corpse, already kisted in a plain black coffin. Parnell’s hair had been brushed out and down to one side, the dark brown curls reflecting the light from the candles and the chinks around the curtains. Her face was pale and pinched from her illness, though her lips still had a very little of their old rich colour. A posy of small white roses and sprigs of rosemary lay at her throat. Murray had been preparing himself for the distressing moment of recognition, of seeing someone he knew lying dead, and he was surprised to find that this was Parnell and it was not: so much of her essence had been liveliness that this dead shell was already distanced from his memories of her.
‘Parnell and I both brought our best black with us from Bath,’ Miss Kirk said lightly, ‘because we knew our aunt was elderly and were prepared to mourn for her. Had we but known that one of us would wear it for the other before the summer was out, I think we should have burned it on the spot.’ She touched her sister’s hair, and Blair and Murray in turn took Parnell’s hand gently, in greeting and farewell.
Miss Kirk returned to her seat by the fireplace, and gestured to them to sit a little. Kennedy looked eagerly at them, as if he would have liked to have spoken, but could think of nothing to say.
‘It is strange,’ said Miss Kirk, the most self-possessed of them all even as her eyes filled once again with tears. ‘One imagines that somehow in anticipating grief one is going to take the force out of it when it really comes. I knew my sister was dying, and had wept for her many a night, but there seems to be no set number of tears to shed that when death finally comes one can cry no more. Only the shock is removed: that is the only gain.’
Murray thought again of the moment when he had heard the garbled news from Mowdie, the idiot boy, and nodded.
There was a gentle tap on the door, and Mrs. Helliwell entered wearing the same shiny-elbowed black she had worn for the pauper woman. No insult was intended: as minister’s wife she attended a great number of deadrooms, and could not afford a range of gowns for the occasion. It was not in her accustomed manner, however, to take the hand of the corpse in such a warm way, biting her lip as the tears ran on her practical face. She stood a long moment by the bed, and when she was done she, Blair and Murray returned together to the shadowy drawing room where, Miss Kirk devoutly hoped, some refreshments would appear at a later stage.
Mrs. Helliwell took advantage of the semi-darkness in the drawing room to blow her nose and wipe her eyes, and Blair and Murray politely distanced themselves from her until she was ready to talk with them. Before they were all settled, however, much activity could be heard at the front door and in a few minutes, unannounced by anything beyond the sound of their own carriage wheels, the Fairlies entered, followed by the Georges whom they had met at the door. Mrs. Fairlie and Miss George hurriedly greeted Mrs. Kirk when she was pointed out to them, and scurried off to the deadroom to pay their respects. Mr. George, glancing at Mrs. Helliwell’s back as she stood at the window, circumspectly followed. Mr. Fairlie flapped out his coat tails and stood importantly in the middle of the room.
‘The Misses Fairlie and Mr. John Fairlie are not with you, Mr. Fairlie?’ asked Blair deferentially. ‘I hope they are all quite well?’
‘Oh, aye, they’re well enough,’ said Fairlie, ‘and long may they remain so.’ There was something in his tone that suggested he was seeking an argument, but as Murray had no clear idea of the reason, he said merely,
‘Indeed,’ and bowed.
‘It’s a dam’ difficult business,’ went on Fairlie, who was not to be deterred, ‘but when John said he could not be bothered sitting through a day’s dreary funeral I told him to go off and amuse himself, and he has done. He has gone visiting with friends at Cupar.’
‘I thought he had liked Miss Parnell Kirk,’ said Blair sadly. Murray reflected less charitably on what was selfishly bad manners.
‘Like?’ said Mr. Fairlie. ‘Aye, you can like someone well enough till you get to know them better. And she singled him out for marked attention, too, if you noticed. No, I wouldna have the girls here, plead with me as they would. This is no house for them to be visiting.’
‘You keep your family very pure, then,’ said Blair humbly.
‘With an eye to duty and the grace of God, I do, Mr. Blair,’ said Fairlie. ‘The boys are old enough to watch for themselves, now, with my schooling behind them – only see how well Hugh has married!’
‘We look forward to it,’ said Blair.
‘But girls always need careful governance, and until I can pass them on to the responsibility of a good husband, it is my duty to guard them from every contaminating influence.’
‘It must often be an onerous task,’ said Murray with some difficulty, and excusing himself, he went over to Mrs. Helliwell.
‘How do you do, madam?’ he asked her. He wished the servants would bring some of the promised refreshments.
‘If he starts to say such things,’ she replied quietly through taut lips, ‘in front of your friend Mr. Kennedy, I would not vouch for his safety. And if he says them in front of Virginia Kirk, I shall personally slap his face. As if immorality was like an infectious miasma! I wonder he could bring himself to step down from
his carriage!’
The drawing room door opened again, and Mrs. Fairlie, escorted by Mr. George, returned.
‘My sister has offered to stir the servants into producing the refreshments,’ said Mr. George with a wry smile. ‘She is usually quite successful at such acts of encouragement. I wonder would her talents be appreciated in the Peninsula?’ he added more quietly to Murray and Mrs. Helliwell. Mrs. Helliwell managed a little smile. ‘Is Mr. Helliwell to say Grace?’ asked Mr. George.
‘He is,’ she replied, ‘with the Episcopal minister from St. Andrews. He stayed with us last night to be here on time, but my husband was detained and they hope to follow me shortly. That could well be them now,’ she added, hearing sounds in the hall.
‘Do you think any more will come?’ asked Mr. George, looking about the half-empty room.
‘I should expect the Feildens, at least,’ said Mrs. Helliwell. ‘I suppose they were not widely known in the parish yet, so there can be few to come from far afield.’
‘And the circumstances ...’ added Mr. George.
‘Make it awkward. Yes,’ said Mrs. Helliwell, curtly.
The noise in the hall turned out to be the arrival of the Feildens, made difficult for the servants because it coincided with the transport of the refreshments from the kitchens across the hall to the drawing room. Miss George’s voice could be heard marshalling them, and when the Feildens finally appeared in the drawing room they were immediately followed by Miss George carrying two large ashets of cold meat. Murray was comfortably sure he recognised it as coming from the Letho larders, and decided that he would be happy enough to eat it when offered. Kennedy appeared to help with the serving: he did not say much, but looked pathetically grateful to see them all in the drawing room. At last Mr. Helliwell and his Episcopalian colleague arrived, and each said a short grace over the food. Both prayers were miracles of discretion, but touching in their sincerity: Mrs. Helliwell’s Amen to her husband sounded perhaps the most fervent in the room. Mr. Fairlie, however, managed to instil his response with a degree of righteous indignation rarely found in so few syllables. The gentlemen sat again, and Kennedy and a couple of servants, under the scrutiny of Miss George, began to serve the funeral meats.
Even though there were so few mourners, there seemed to be a lamentable lack of food to go round, and most of it appeared to have come from Letho. Murray passed from satisfaction at having helped to embarrassment that he had not helped enough. Drink was mysteriously plentiful, however, and without much plenishing to soak it up conversation became animated. Kennedy disappeared back upstairs, and there were a mere dozen of them left. The large drawing room allowed them to circulate with ease and liberty to hold conversations with some at a distance from others: thus as the day wore on Mr. Helliwell and Mr. George did not need to come into contact with each other, and Mrs. Helliwell, still upset, was able for the most part to avoid Mr. Fairlie. However, it was inevitable that Mrs. Fairlie should approach her friend for a gossip.
‘Well, I thought she looked very peaceful,’ Mrs. Fairlie was saying comfortably, ‘though she had lost a good deal of weight, of course. Such a blessing that she lost the baby, in the end, with no time for anyone to marry her and make it decent. I think she would have taken either of my dear sons, you know, if they had offered for her, but of course they would not have touched it with her in such condition.’ She paused for approval, but when the only response was Mrs. Helliwell’s fixed stare at her empty plate, Mrs. Fairlie continued.
‘Of course it is a shame it had to end so, and Louisa and Mary will miss both sisters very much, for they were just growing to be friends, you know? But there, they could not possibly have come today with the way things are, so that is that, I suppose.’
‘Miss Kirk is not dead,’ Mrs. Helliwell pointed out.
Mrs. Fairlie had to think about that for a second or two.
‘Oh, but you could not expect to see her in polite society now!’
‘Why not? She has borne no illegitimate child.’ Mrs. Helliwell’s voice started to shake, and she shut her mouth with a snap. Murray was standing behind the sofa on which this exchange was taking place, and he leaned forward to break into the conversation, but Mr. Fairlie was a second before him.
‘She covered up for her sister well enough, did she not?’ he hissed. Murray wondered how much Fairlie had had to drink. ‘And it just shows, does it not, the breeding of the family? Where one sister will play the loun, you can be sure that the other one will do the same.’
‘You cannot possibly conclude that, Mr. Fairlie,’ said Mrs. Helliwell, with spirit. ‘Wild characters exist in every family: if one sin brought down a whole house, there is not one of us would be fit to lift our heads!’ Next to Murray, Mr. George had the grace to look sheepish.
‘There is no sin in my family, madam, I would beg you remember, and will not be, either, while I have my daughters under my constant care,’ retorted Mr. Fairlie. ‘You would do well to watch how you speak of the Kirks to your own daughters.’
Tears sprang up in Mrs. Helliwell’s eyes.
‘Parnell Kirk saved my daughter from drowning. You cannot ask me to tell Anna that that was not a worthy deed.’
‘Parnell Kirk,’ Mr. Fairlie replied, ‘had fallen into the most profound sin. No action of hers could be considered wholly good.’
The rest of the room was silent. In the hall, a number of heavy footsteps could be heard, heading for the stairs.
‘You seem to consider,’ said Mrs. Helliwell coldly, ‘that evil is stronger than good, that one bad deed weighs more heavily in the scales than a good one. I am glad I have no need of your theology, Mr. Fairlie, for it seems to me a hopeless one. For remember, sir, that none of us is without sin.’
She rose and stalked off to join her astonished husband, and the silence was broken only by an oblivious Kennedy at the drawing room door to say that the coffin was being brought down the stairs to be taken for burial.
III
Blair’s mood, at least, could be expected to swoop quickly back from the melancholic to the happy, as the very day after the funeral was the day of the much-heralded arrival of his sister Mrs. Freeman and his daughter Isobel. They arrived in Blair’s own carriage, which he had left behind in Edinburgh and which they had collected on their way back from England, where they had been spending the spring and summer touring from house to house of Mrs. Freeman’s friends and relations by marriage. Their final step had taken them from Cumberland to Edinburgh, for a few days’ rest in the George’s Square house, and now they had come to Fife for the remainder of the summer. Mrs. Freeman talked of it as a social tour: if she privately thought of it as a preliminary search for Isobel’s ideal husband, she certainly did not say so to Isobel.
When the carriage drew up outside Letho House, Mrs. Freeman descended first, greeting her brother and Murray as part of the general flow of conversation that was mostly directed back at Isobel.
‘Come along, now, dear, now remember, right foot first and point your toe. Good day, Alester, how are you? I see you are keeping well as ever. No, forwards, Isobel, dear, not backwards. My dear Charles, it is lovely to see you again, and Letho all looking delightful as ever. Where is your reticule, dear? Well, bring it out of the carriage now. There is no need to bring anything else: that is what servants are for.’
‘Then what is the point of my carrying the reticule?’ asked Isobel. There was the definite air of a long-running debate here, and Murray attempted a distraction by bowing very low, and saying,
‘Miss Blair, how do you do?’
She curtseyed very properly back, but came up with such a look of disappointment in her eyes that he was brought to a halt. With her reticule held in a lightly-gloved hand, she followed her aunt into the hallway.
‘Dinner will be ready in – what, half an hour, Robbins?’ said Murray, recovering. ‘Mrs. Chambers will of course show you to your rooms and help your maid to find whatever she needs. We shall see you at your convenience in the parlour.’
The ladies disappeared upstairs, and Blair and Murray, who had already changed, drifted into the parlour to wait for them, taking with them the Edinburgh papers brought by the coachman and the letters brought up from Blair’s Edinburgh home. Murray wondered what he had done to set off on the wrong footing with Isobel: he had been trying to remember that she was out now, and he had to treat her as a lady and not the child he was used to, but perhaps he had hit the wrong note. She did not look so very different, anyway, from the way she had looked at Christmas. Her hair was up, true, and her neckline was a little lower, but it was summer and a summer dress: she could have been any age.
‘Oh, it is from Mr. Minnis!’ said Blair suddenly, jolting him back to the present.
‘Who might Mr. Minnis be, then?’
‘You remember the gold mark on the locket, and how I said I should write to a jeweller in Edinburgh? The man has clearly not noticed this address on my letter – or perhaps I wrote it wrongly – and has sent it to George’s Square instead, and here it is two weeks late.’
‘Well, and what does he say?’ Through all the fuss over Parnell, again the poor stranger and her murderer had been forgotten. Murray wondered how it kept happening. But she had been such an inconspicuous woman, and though murdered had died a somehow inconspicuous death: she was like someone in a room that you kept forgetting was there.
‘He says the marks are for Edinburgh, that’s the castle and the thistle as you said, and for 1800, that’s the letter U. The maker’s mark is for a firm called Cunningham – you know them, on South Bridge behind the Tron Kirk?’
‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Murray. ‘So, if Mr. Cunningham has kept his ledgers, we should be able to find out who bought the locket.’
An Abandoned Woman (Murray of Letho Book 4) Page 21