So in the dawn he had turned from torturing the witness of the past, knowing that he would always come back to it, and thought of the future, and tried to think of some means, some deed of impossible atonement for his own sins. And shortly after, he had risen and come to stand outside the manse, and wonder if what he wanted to do was right. Unaccustomed, all his life, to self-doubt, Mr. Fairlie had no resources of reasoning on which to fall back, and he found himself now utterly at a standstill, waiting for some impetus to set him moving again.
He heard someone coming up the hill behind him, and it was enough to drive him at last through the manse gateway. With a glance up at the kirkyard behind him, he rang the doorbell.
Mr. Helliwell was in his library, which being at the front of the house kept the kirkyard well in mind. He was not surprised to see Mr. Fairlie, but had not, in anticipating the visit, managed to come up with anything reasonable to say to him. He had plenty of his own worries to deal with, and as a result had not gone much further than thinking that the Fairlie boys had always been indulged, which would not be much comfort to their father.
Mr. Fairlie did look in need of comfort. He had been hastily shaved, possibly even by himself, and his cravat was unconsidered. His stockings were crooked and wrinkled, and his hair only roughly brushed. The expression on his face was one Mr. Helliwell had never seen there before: it spoke of humility. He spent some moments gazing up at the kirkyard through the window, then said,
‘I have come to talk to you about the pauper woman’s grave.’
‘Oh?’ said the minister. This might be easier than he had expected.
Mr. Fairlie cleared his throat, still staring out of the window.
‘It transpires,’ he said, ‘that she was not a pauper, and as we can now put a name to her, I feel she should be reburied with the ceremony according to her station.’
Mr. Helliwell folded his arms, seated at his desk.
‘What did you have in mind?’ he asked.
‘I want to have her reburied in the grave with my mother and father,’ explained Mr. Fairlie, though it seemed to take an effort. ‘She was the wife of my son, and should be treated as a member of the family. Her name will be added to the headstone. There should be room enough in the grave,’ he added practically, ‘my parents were buried deep enough down to leave room for one or two more.’
‘Right,’ said Mr. Helliwell, nodding. ‘I cannot see any difficulty about the reburial. When did the late Mrs. Fairlie die? I mean your mother. It must be four years ago or so.’
‘Indeed,’ Mr. Fairlie nodded at the kirkyard.
‘Mm-hmm. Yes, there should be no difficulty. It is only at the other end, the, ah, digging-up end, you see. That’s not so nice, and the late young Mrs. Hugh Fairlie did not die so long since. There’s a big difference between bones and bodies, and the gravediggers will ask more for it, even if the earth is easier to dig.’
‘But she was in a coffin, was she not?’
‘In a pauper’s coffin, yes. There was not much to it, you see.’
‘Then she will need a new coffin, as well.’ Mr. Fairlie frowned and added up his expenses. There would have to be a sum made over to the present Mrs. Hugh Fairlie as well, for when – Mr. Fairlie could not believe it would be any other way – when she became a widow in the near future, Hugh’s possessions would be forfeit to the Crown, and would leave her nothing. He had not seen her since he had left the ballroom last night: he had heard she was at the Georges’, and thought it best. ‘And I shall pay the gravediggers whatever they ask.’
Mr. Helliwell contemplated the kirkyard as well, thinking through the procedure, looking for impediments.
‘What was her name?’
‘Barbara Kerr. A chambermaid, I’m told, but of good character. I have spoken to a woman that knew her. It sounds as if she was – quite pleasant.’
II
At Letho House, deflated servants were clearing up the gallery. The men walked tenderly, their feet aching from tight, unaccustomed livery shoes. Upstairs in the nursery wing, William was taking his turn at the locked door of the room where Hugh Fairlie was being held, and when breakfast arrived William bore one tray politely through the door, finding Mr. Fairlie impatient but peaceable. William left him with the food and retreated, locking the door behind him, to settle to his own breakfast in the passage, slithering on a hard polished chair. Before he had come up to relieve Daniel, William had seen Dunnet set off for Cupar to fetch the sheriff’s officer, carrying a lengthy letter from Murray with additional notes by Blair. It made quite a roll of paper. When Smith had seen Mrs. Butler in the servants’ quarters, his memory of the Aberdeen trip had surged back and he had run to Blair with a full account of all that had happened, most of which had been guessed, anyway, from Mrs. Butler’s story. When she saw the cut on the back of his head, she was more than prepared to forgive him for abandoning her, and made of him what he considered to be an embarrassing fuss. When she discovered all about the collapse of the servants’ wing and saw the injuries of the other servants, she immediately saw an opportunity to put her boundless energies to good use, and set to to help in every possible department, cleaning in the gallery, scrubbing in the scullery, sorting linen with Mrs. Chambers and even advising Mrs. Mutch on cookery. That she was not throttled by at least one servant was principally due to the fact that Robbins had the wisdom to send her to Cullessie with some vegetables and omitted to tell her about the short cut across the park. He reckoned she would be gone for an hour at least.
Disturbed by the servants in the gallery, Murray woke quite early and rang for hot water. His head was still full of dance music, and his feet twitched. On the whole, he felt, considering all the circumstances – and some of them were well worth considering – the ball had been a great success. With the unsurprising exception of the Fairlies, he had been thanked profusely by all his guests, and Mrs. Freeman his hostess had pronounced the evening a triumph. He smiled with satisfaction as Robbins came in.
‘And how is the world this morning, Robbins?’ he asked cheerfully. Robbins raised his eyebrows.
‘The cleaning is progressing well, sir,’ he replied, setting out shaving tools. ‘We have found a gentleman’s shoe buckle, two gilt buttons and a hair comb variously about the gallery, if anyone should happen to ask for them back.’
‘I shall bear it in mind. How are the injured?’
‘Effy is back in bed, sir, with a bit of a fever. She overdid things yesterday in her excitement, but some rest should help. Smith is entirely better, I should say. Mrs. Chambers is tired but will not rest, of course, and the same with Mrs. Mutch. They think they’re so indispensible they can kill themselves, if you will forgive me, sir.’
‘See if you can arrange for some help for them, Robbins, if you can do so without offending them entirely. Oh, has Dunnet gone to Cupar?’
‘Yes, sir. He took your letter that you wrote last night, with some notes Mr. Blair has added to it this morning. Smith remembers all that he did in Aberdeen.’
‘Excellent! And did he perform any wonders beyond the discovery of that extraordinary housekeeper?’
‘I believe that was his only wonder, sir.’ He cleared his throat politely. ‘Do you happen to know, sir: will they need to keep her here until the trial? As a witness, or whatever?’
‘I am not sure, Robbins, we shall have to ask the Sheriff’s officer when he comes. It is a possibility, though.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Robbins. He would have to think of some more distant households in need of vegetables.
‘You might want to think whether you and the others would prefer a day’s outing to St. Andrews or a dance of your own, and when you would like it,’ remarked Murray, still full of gratitude for the servants’ efforts last night.
‘Thank you, sir. We shall let you know.’
III
The parlour was laid for breakfast and Blair was already eating his eggs, but jumped up when Murray entered, waving a napkin to explain that he had somet
hing to say when he had managed to swallow the current mouthful. Kennedy, who was up preternaturally early for him, was seated by the fireplace, a portfolio of drawings on his lap.
‘See?’ said Blair at last, pointing to the portfolio. ‘This is where he found it!’
‘The drawing of Hugh Fairlie?’ asked Murray. ‘But is that not Isobel’s portfolio?’
‘Yes! Yes, it is!’ said Blair excitedly. ‘But look!’
Murray bent over the open portfolio, seeing again the sketches Isobel had shown him on the first morning of her stay. There again was Mrs. Freeman at her stitching, there the young man she was so fond of – and there, too, were both Hugh Fairlie and his more recent bride. Murray looked up, bewildered.
‘When did she have time to do that?’ he asked.
‘When did who have time to do what?’ asked Isobel, coming into the parlour on a yawn. ‘Wasn’t last night fun? What are you doing with my drawings?’
‘Who is this?’ asked Blair, waving the open portfolio at her.
‘Why, it is Mr. Fairlie, of course,’ she said impatiently. ‘We met them when we were in Carlisle. They were on their way to the Lakes on their honeymoon. Remember, Mr. Murray,’ she turned to him, ‘I told you I had met her before.’
‘Yes, but I simply thought you meant you thought you had seen her before, in Edinburgh, perhaps. You did not say much to her, then.’
‘Well, no.’ Isobel sat at the breakfast table and helped herself to ham. ‘But Aunt Freeman said that a bride’s homecoming was a very important occasion, and we had to be formal. Anyway, they only stayed a couple of days in Carlisle, and she was difficult to draw, being so pale. He was easier, though he would not sit still for long. Not like Mr. Dobson, who sat angelically long.’ She took the portfolio and flicked again to the drawing of her beau, and gave a little sigh.
In the distance, the doorbell rang. Robbins, who had taken it upon himself to sit by the door of the old servants’ quarters so that he could still hear the bells until they were rewired, walked the long white passage to answer it. It was the minister, Mr. Helliwell.
‘Mr. Murray is at breakfast, sir. If you would care to wait in the drawing room, I shall inform him of your visit,’ said Robbins in the measured tones he had learned so quickly when the old manservant retired.
‘Mr. Helliwell at this time of the morning?’ said Murray in surprise. ‘What does he want?’
‘He did not say, sir, though he seemed a little agitated.’
‘Well, I shall see him.’ Murray excused himself from the breakfast table and went to find out what was the matter with the minister.
‘I am sorry to have disturbed you at breakfast,’ said Mr. Helliwell at once. ‘I should have come up later, but truth to tell my inclination was in fact to come up earlier.’
‘It is nothing, Mr. Helliwell. Can I offer you some tea?’
‘That would be very acceptable.’ He paced around the room, and only sat when the tea appeared. Murray was hungry, and thought longingly of his ham in the parlour.
‘And your family are all well this morning? No further ill effects from the damp, I hope?’ Murray asked. Mr. Helliwell seemed to cringe.
‘Last night,’ he began, then broke off and tried again. ‘I understand that after last night’s incident at the ball, Hugh Fairlie confessed to murdering – what was her name? – Barbara Kerr, now apparently his first wife. But as I hear it, he did not attack your kitchenmaid, Effy Duff. Is that right?’
‘Well, it is what he claims,’ agreed Murray.
‘I believe he is speaking the truth with regard to that,’ said the minister.
‘Oh?’ Murray wondered what could be coming next. ‘And have you reason to believe that?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Helliwell, ‘I believe I do. I have not told this until now because I was afraid that my accusation of the person concerned would implicate him in a charge of murder, and much though I dislike the man – much though I dislike him,’ he repeated bitterly, ‘much though I desired to bring him down, such was my sin, I could not bring myself in the end to do it.’
‘So it was Mr. George?’ asked Murray.
‘It was he. As I came home that night from Pitmen I saw him in the distance, in a bedraggled state, with his shirt open. I assumed he had been up to some of his usual devilment: he was about the woodland by the church, though he had vanished into it before I came close enough to be noticed by him. I thought to make sure, though, for it was growing dark, and I waited until I saw him sneak out again, hand in hand with a woman. They crossed the path in front of me, and vanished across the fields to the east, behind the backs of the houses of North Street. Of course, I was coming in from the north by the path that meets Kirk Hill between the kirk and the schoolhouse: they crossed my field of vision straight from right to left. I only saw her the once and she was heavily cloaked and crouching, but he was unmistakeable. He had tidied himself up a bit by then, but it was Francis George. Then by the time I had reached the manse, you had arrived to search for the attacker, and I lied to save him. I have wondered many times since how I came to do that, and though I hate the man, I cannot account for it.’
‘You had an inner desire to protect him, perhaps, as one of your parishioners,’ suggested Murray. ‘But now that he cannot be accused of murder – and you say the woman he was with was alive and well?’
‘I certainly did not think otherwise,’ Mr. Helliwell said, surprised. ‘She was keeping her head down so as not to be seen over the wall of the schoolhouse. They both were.’
‘But I still wonder why he should attack Effy,’ said Murray. ‘Mr. Helliwell, would you go with me to Dures to speak to Mr. George concerning this?’
‘I would,’ said the minister. ‘I have no wish to, but I know it is my duty.’
‘Then please allow me to finish my breakfast, or come and join us if you will, and we shall go back to the village together.’
IV
An hour or so later, accompanied by Blair, Murray and Helliwell stepped on to the drive at the front door. Between the dead torches from last night’s ball a very different party was approaching. Dunnet was bringing back, on mules, the gammy-legged Sheriff’s officer, Macduff, from Cupar, and two messengers-at-arms, with a spare mule brought for the prisoner. Murray nodded a greeting to Macduff, who swung off his mule and came over.
‘I understand you have the self-confessed murderer in captivity, sir?’
‘That’s right. He is upstairs under guard. My man will show you the room.’ Murray pulled the doorbell to summon Robbins.
The Sheriff’s officer squinted up at the sky.
‘Is he the least dangerous, sir, do you know?’
‘He has been quiet enough, I believe, though he tried to bolt at first, and put up a struggle. He seemed calm enough after. He is a gentleman,’ he added.
‘Aye, well, they can be the worst when they’re roused in my experience, present company always being the exception, sir,’ said the officer gloomily. Robbins appeared, and led the men upstairs. The gentlemen chose to wait, and formed an odd little guard of honour as Hugh was brought, respectfully enough, out through the front door, still in last night’s formal wear but unshaven and uncombed. There was a hole in one stocking from the struggle in the gallery. He still managed to look indignant.
‘I can’t imagine why you are doing this,’ he said to them as he was marched past. ‘Where is my father?’ When he saw the mules, he was horrified. ‘I cannot possibly ride that,’ he stated. ‘What if someone should see me? Murray, you’ll lend me a decent mount, won’t you?’
‘I’d sooner you did not, sir,’ said Macduff quietly. ‘For one we’d never keep up with him, and for another if anything was to happen to your horse the paperwork’s horrendous.’
Hugh was secured to the stirrups with ropes, his hands tied behind his back and a lead-rein run from his mule to one of the messengers-at-arms, and thus they left for Cupar. Murray, Blair and Mr. Helliwell followed them slowly, like a funeral procession, as far
as the start of the path to Letho, where they broke off. Hugh and his escort continued down the drive.
As the gentlemen approached the kirkyard they could hear the high ringing of shovels worked leisurely in the softened earth. Blair said,
‘Oh, has someone died?’
The minister looked blank for a second, then said,
‘No, it is for Mr. Fairlie, or at his request. I had not expected them to start so soon. He wants his late daughter-in-law’s body removed to the family plot.’
The ringing, slow and rhythmical, measured their walk for some distance into the village before they could hear it no longer. By now, all the talk they heard as they passed by was of Hugh Fairlie and the woman who had been his wife, the viciousness and brutality of one and the innocence and beauty of the other increasing with every step. They walked past the Fairlies’ house, where the shutters were still closed, and past Hugh Fairlie’s house, which had a deserted look. After the doctor’s, the road narrowed a little until it reached the main gates of Dures House, a neat, five-bay facade twenty or thirty years old at the end of a short broad drive. As they approached, they could see a figure at one of the ground floor windows. On closer inspection it was Mr. George, who nodded to them but made no move. A servant answered the door and led them into the front room, which was a chilly parlour. Mr. George greeted them politely, ordered tea, and returned to his stance at the window.
‘I am afraid my sister is not free to meet visitors this morning,’ he explained. ‘She was up very late last night comforting Mrs. Hugh Fairlie, though I cannot imagine what words of comfort one could use to a woman in her position.’
An Abandoned Woman (Murray of Letho Book 4) Page 30