Service of the Heir: An Edinburgh Murder (Murray of Letho Book 3)

by Lexie Conyngham

  ‘So if young Charles follows the same pattern, what will they do with this place? Let it?’ asked Armstrong, oblivious.

  ‘George might use it when he leaves the army,’ Thomson suggested. ‘Though who knows when that might be. But I don’t think George is a country man.’

  ‘Or he could let it to Balneavis as a charity, give the poor man some idea of how the New Town half of society lives. At least if he moved out of the Old Town, my dear wife might condescend to visit Mrs. Balneavis.’

  ‘Young Charles is bright, though,’ said Armstrong, moving the subject gently sideways.

  ‘I hear he’s bookish,’ said Dundas. ‘And why he had to go all the way to St. Andrews to study is beyond me, when there’s a perfectly good university here. Your son’s happy enough at it, isn’t he, Armstrong?’

  ‘Oh, aye, happy enough,’ Armstrong responded, frowning.

  ‘Aye, well, Fifers,’ added Thomson, smiling with resignation. ‘You can’t expect them to think like normal people.’ He raised his glass to Charles Murray’s portrait above the fireplace, and winked into the painted eyes.

  ‘So will he stay in town or go and live at Letho?’ asked Mrs. Armstrong. Through the lace at the side of her bonnet she observed, briefly, her daughter Catherine. Catherine’s porcelain complexion seemed immune to the reddening effects of port wine closely following rum. Mrs. Armstrong felt that this lack of a warning sign was somehow cheating.

  ‘Letho is charming,’ admitted her sister Kitty. ‘Where Mr. Murray found that gem of a housekeeper is beyond me.’

  ‘I don’t think –’ began Mrs. Balneavis, uncertainly. Her fair face had no deceit about it and her cheeks were already rosy.

  ‘Mrs. Chambers,’ Elizabeth Armstrong explained rather over-kindly. ‘She’s been the Murrays’ housekeeper since before Charles was born, nursed poor dear Annabel in her last illness. You’ll have seen her from time to time, I daresay, here or at Letho.’

  ‘I’ve never been to Letho,’ said Mrs. Balneavis quietly. The wine she had drunk was beginning to have its effect in more ways than one, but she was reluctant to leave an interesting conversation.

  ‘Never been to Letho!’ cried Mrs. Thomson, who had been fairly sure of it. ‘Oh, my dear Mrs. Balneavis, you have missed such a treat! The woods, the streams – a positive wilderness in the summer just off the drive, such a delightful house with everything as you would wish it. But I wonder,’ she went on, ‘if Mrs. Chambers might not find it a little too much, now. With the two houses and a much younger master ...’

  ‘Oh, I doubt you’ll steal her away, Kitty,’ said Mrs. Armstrong, showing that at least part of her very active mind had been on the conversation, however much her gaze had been quartering the room. ‘Mr. Dundas tried it once, I believe, and failed. She has always been devoted to the Murrays, and she is very well settled here. Besides, who else would keep house for young Charles, whether here or at Letho?’

  ‘Young Charles,’ said Kitty Thomson pointedly, voicing all their thoughts, ‘might marry.’ And three pairs of eyes moved contemplatively and respectively to Miss Thomson, Miss Armstrong, and Miss Balneavis, and Mrs. Balneavis, whose need for a prosperous attachment for her daughters was undoubtedly the greatest, gave a little sigh as she made for the water closet between the drawing room and the first floor bedchamber, and allowed herself, sweetly, to dream of a summer wedding beneath the leafy boughs of an Eden-like vision called Letho, under the wide Fife sky.

  ‘Do you think Mr. Charles will want to stay here?’ asked Jennet suddenly, as the maids followed Robbins back again into the kitchen.

  ‘What do you mean, girl?’ asked Mrs. Mack irritably, replenishing the platters of sugar biscuits which had been brought down from the drawing room after grace. Effy had dropped one of the tins in which they had been stored in the larder, and Mrs. Mack tutted as she sorted out the broken pieces from the rest. Daniel and William watched the growing heap of fragments with calculating interest. ‘He’ll no be going back to work for Lord Scoggie now.’

  Jennet gave an unconscious curtsey in the direction of Mrs. Mack.

  ‘I mean, will we go to Letho?’

  ‘Oh!’ squeaked Effy, who had not thought of this possibility. Iffy came back in from the scullery, where she had been washing and breaking glasses, at the sound of her sister’s voice.

  ‘Back to Letho? But we’ve only just come here!’ The twins stood desolate, like two damp dishcloths pegged by the corner on a line. Mrs. Mack carried on sorting biscuits deftly.

  ‘Just come? You’ve been here over a year – though a man would be hard put to know it from the little you’ve learned in that time. And you’ll go back to Letho if the master goes back – that’s Mr. Murray, now, Jennet, not Mr. Charles any more.’

  Jennet blushed, and mouthed ‘Mr. Murray’ several times for practice.

  ‘I dinna ken that I want to go somewhere strange,’ she said. Mary said thoughtfully,

  ‘I don’t suppose we’d be better or worse off than we are now. I’ve never seen Fife, myself.’

  ‘Oh, Letho’s a grand place, isn’t it, Daniel?’ asked William, nudging his friend soundly with one bony shoulder. They had returned to their creepie stools, not too far from the possibility of stray fragments of sugar biscuit. ‘You’re always on about Letho. Or is it the girls you’re fond of, more than the place?’

  Daniel was pensive.

  ‘Aye, maybe so. There was one, now, I mind. Nan, they called her.’ He allowed his eyes to widen and pursed his lips, as if he could see her charms materialising in the firelight. ‘Now, she was a fine girl. And very fond of me.’

  Robbins rolled his eyes in despair, and sat in the fireside chair. Dunnet, going out to see to the horses, had left his mark in the form of a greasy spot on the high chair back. Robbins sat forward fastidiously.

  William was more easily impressed.

  ‘Was she fond of you? Aye, but will she wait for you? Will she wait for you even if we stay here?’

  Iffy clutched Effy’s hand and they giggled in harmony. Iffy controlled herself enough to ask,

  ‘Is that Nan Watson you mean, Daniel Hossack? Nan Watson that’s – that’s –’ The giggles began again, with a look of mild panic in her eyes.

  ‘Aye, Nan Watson. She’ll wait for me right enough, William. She’s too damn’ ugly to find anyone else.’ He sat back with a superior smile. Jennet squeaked at the expletive. Mary looked unimpressed. Jamie, the stable boy, who had been listening bright-eyed at the door, asked,

  ‘But if she’s ugly, Daniel, why do you walk out with her?’

  ‘Because,’ said Daniel, grinning wickedly, ‘she’s willing.’

  ‘Daniel! We’ll have none of that in here!’ said Mrs. Mack severely.

  ‘What’s she willing for?’ asked Jamie. The boy knew his horses well, but had yet to convert his knowledge to human terms.

  ‘She’s willing –’ began Daniel with relish. William held his breath.

  ‘That’s enough, Daniel,’ said a new voice from the door, and Mrs. Chambers entered. Robbins rose and pulled Daniel and William up as well with a single-fingered gesture, discreet but ferocious. ‘Today of all days, Daniel, you may wish to show a proper demeanour.’ She moved to a branderback chair and sat carefully. Mary found a clean lidded goblet and poured her some porter. Mrs. Chambers thanked her, and told Robbins he could sit.

  ‘Well, Mr. Robbins, how does it go upstairs?’ she asked.

  ‘Not badly, Mrs. Chambers. There are one or two points we might discuss later, and they drank more rum than we reckoned, but besides that ...’ The conversation turned to the funeral guests and their behaviour. Dunnet returned, sent Jamie back to the stables and helped himself to more ale. Daniel and William, still standing, began to fidget. Robbins was conscious of it but reckoned they deserved to wait. The talk came full circle with Robbins asking,

  ‘Do you know if Mr. Murray has any plans yet? About this house and Letho, I mean.’

  Mrs. Chambers looked down at her
black lace cuffs, and up again.

  ‘He may close this and take a smaller house, with fewer servants. Would you be concerned if we returned to Letho?’

  Robbins knotted his hands and pressed his thumbs under his chin before answering.

  ‘I think I should sooner stay here, if I was given the choice,’ he said at last.

  ‘Ach!’ spat Dunnet, ‘I ken your problem. You’re feared that if we go back to Letho you’ll have your nose knocked out of joint. No call for two butlers, and when one’s older and wiser no doubt but that he’ll have the job, not a young lad wet behind the ears like you!’

  Robbins’ fingers tightened together, his knuckles yellow-white in the firelight like the legs of chickens, but he said nothing. Mrs. Chambers looked at Dunnet and after a moment succeeded in catching his slightly bleary eye.

  ‘Dunnet, you know that Mr. Murray – the late Mr. Murray – brought Mr. Robbins here to be butler in Queen Street because old Mr. Fenwick is, regrettably, feeling the weight of his advanced years. There is no reason why Mr. Fenwick should feel obliged to resume duties that were, as he himself gladly admitted, becoming too onerous for him, and no reason why Mr. Robbins should fear that Mr. Fenwick might leave his comfortable retirement.’

  ‘Aye, he won’t come to Edinburgh, right enough, and leave his daughter and her bairns.’ Dunnet managed to growl even in agreement. ‘But he might well feel he could carry out his job at Letho well enough, and sooner do it than see a laddie blunder in his place.’

  ‘Dunnet,’ began Mrs. Chambers firmly, but Robbins interrupted.

  ‘Leave it.’ He looked over at her. ‘Forgive me, Mrs. Chambers, but I feel that – that nothing can be gained from carrying this conversation further. You will excuse me now, please.’ He turned to William and Daniel. ‘Brandy, lads. The glasses are ready in the scullery.’ He left the kitchen without looking at anyone. Dunnet muttered something that from its very tone was obscene, and threw himself back into the fireside chair. Mrs. Chambers contemplated him, then rose.

  ‘Dunnet, Mr. Robbins has requested me to be more lenient than I should prefer. However, I think it would be wise if you had no more ale today.’ She drew the cup from his hand and tipped the contents into the fire, then handed the cup to Iffy. ‘Mrs. Mack, I know you have worked extremely hard today, but please make sure that you all eat well this evening when the guests have left. If you need me,’ her eyes travelled sideways to Dunnet, ‘I shall be in my room until we are called to see Mr. Murray depart.’ She left in a rustle of black and Jamie, sunshine to her rain, appeared again at the back door.

  ‘I don’t want to go to Letho either!’ he announced, dancing to warm himself.

  ‘You’re a wise boy,’ said Mrs. Mack in the absence of other response. ‘You stay here where you can visit your mother and father. You’re a grand son to them, and don’t let anyone teach you to be otherwise.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jamie, caught between pride in himself and not wanting to appear too dependent on his parents at his advanced age, ‘they need me, ye ken. And besides, from all that Daniel says, I think the girls are better looking in the town.’ He skipped again. ‘Mary, what do you think?’

  ‘Well, I’m not the judge of girls that you are, Jamie,’ said Mary solemnly, ‘and as to Letho, I’ll go where I’m sent and make the most of it.’

  Mrs. Mack sat heavily in another chair, so short that she could swing her feet amidst her black skirts. Jennet fetched her a cup of porter, but before she could finish it, the drawing room bell and the bell of the street bedchamber, the dead room, rang almost simultaneously.

  ‘That’ll be us, then,’ said Mrs. Mack, widening her little eyes and jumping to the floor. She undid her apron strings and glanced at Iffy and Effy. ‘We’re to say farewell.’

  She led the way upstairs and they passed the dead room door to file along the side of the hall. Mrs. Chambers took her place beside Robbins, and the girls, thin in black, lined up with Daniel and William, shuffled a little and stood, hands clasped and heads bowed. From the drawing room above, the guests descended in silence and filled the hallway, leaving a passage to the front door. Outside, dusk was gathering already, the street lamp above the steps glowing where William had been despatched hurriedly to light it. The male guests had coats and gloves on already, and held their hats in leathery fingers. The hall was cold, and outside would be colder: one or two of them surreptitiously tested the soles of their shoes on the flags, mindful of icy streets.

  The door of the dead room opened. Only those on the right side of the hall could see, and they glanced up and down again as the clothed and caped coffin emerged, slowly, at hip height, mortcloth stiffly swaying. Charles followed, eyes down on the coffin, crape streamers on his shoulders and hat that fluttered a little as he walked. Mr. Blair came next, and Dr. Inglis, who moved to the stairs and added himself to the guests. Blair’s eyes looked damp, but it may have been fatigue.

  The undertaker’s men paused, and in a smooth movement the coffin was raised to shoulder height. Mrs. Chambers lowered her head suddenly and frowned, pressing her lips together hard. Her hand was firmly on the collar of the deerhound, which looked as desolate as a dog could look. Then there was a silent signal, the coffin moved again, and borne on a river of black-clad gentlemen following, Mr. Charles Murray, late of Letho, became buoyant, and glided out into the dusk.

  It was an hour’s walk at a slow pace through the New Town, down to the foot of the North Bridge, then up its long straight ramp to the High Street, the dip of the South Bridge to Adam Square, and sharp right up the street that passed the new College. The College was dark and roofless, its windows eyeless sockets in the dusk, the spider’s web of scaffolding that broke and rewove about the town clinging to its unfinished walls. The gentle incline led them solemnly through Argyle Square and Brown Square to finish at the top of Candlemaker Row, down which, on tentative soles, the undertaker’s men edged with the coffin. People on the sides of street paused perfunctorily and men removed their hats. Avoiding the more dubious tenements at the bottom of the hill, they turned up left between high walls and into the kirkyard of Greyfriars.

  The graveside ceremony was brief: the diggers had done their job and although they had, apparently, disposed of most of the contents of their traditional bottle, they remained quiet and respectful – Gavin Dundas, with a practised eye, reckoned they were nearer to stupor than to riotous behaviour. The earth was filled in over the coffin, the mortcloth folded in deft pleats, the heavy mortsafe cage was locked, and the key presented to Charles, who thought briefly that he would rather the Resurrectionists took him than be locked, however dead, in such a device.

  Robbins and the manservants had brought the brandy and all the funeral-goers, freed at last from formality, gathered around and partook against the chill of the evening. Then they went their separate ways, the closer friends to meet again later at Fortune’s Tontine Hotel for the funeral supper. Charles pocketed the cold key of the mortsafe and dismissed the servants to hurry back to home and warmth. The boys had stayed at Queen Street, too young, he felt, for this duty when they were not relatives. He was alone. He stood at the graveside for a moment, the fresh air a shock after so long indoors.

  ‘Father, I’m sorry we argued,’ he mumbled. He should have been a more dutiful son. If he had not quarrelled with his father, perhaps his father would not have felt the need to take a groom with him for company on his evening walks. Perhaps he would have been with his father, even if he had taken the groom and sent him home for his cane. If only he had not quarrelled, like a boy.

  But on the other hand, even if they had not quarrelled, would he and his father ever have found each other congenial enough company to walk together of an evening?

  His father had sent the servant home, and he had died.

  He turned on the slippery grass and strode back down to the street, black weepers fluttering, back to the lights and the life of the town.

  The brisk walk cleared his head, and the exercise set his b
lood running again in his veins. He had begun to think himself as stiff as his father’s corpse over the last few days. He reflected back to his last real exercise, the mad run from Kirk o’Field, and wished he could instead go for a serious ride. He decided, as he had over an hour to dress for supper, that he would call in to the mews behind his father’s house and see what horses he had in town with him.

  The stable was lit by a good wall lamp, and the straw glowed a warm, light yellow on the beaten earth floor. Beside the corn bing by the stone wall, a boy was lying, hair the colour of the straw itself. His head was at a strange angle. There was a bruise on his cheekbone, and blood on the clean side of the corn bing. Beside him, crouched, and staring up at Charles with bloodshot eyes, was Dunnet, the groom.

  Chapter Three

  As if he had negotiated his own personal exemption from gravity, the stable cat sprang to the top of the corn bing and arranged his paws along the edge, the better to survey the scene.

  Murray’s shouts had brought several of the servants running from the house, Robbins first, followed by William and Daniel. Almost before they could take in what had happened, William had been sent at a gallop for a police officer and Daniel for the family physician, Dr. Harker in Prince’s Street. The moment’s whirl of activity had passed and left four of them stranded on its shore. Murray, half his mind still numbed with grief and fatigue, found the other half beginning to observe the details of the scene as though he were parsing a difficult sentence in Latin: he noted cases and tenses but could not yet see how they fitted into the whole. He saw Henry’s ferrets eager in their cage, paws against the bars, trying to see what was going on. He saw the horses, eyeing the scene from over their stalls, ears back, uneasy, edgy. He saw Robbins study the body and its setting in a manner almost calculating, and Dunnet, crouched like an incubus, staring at the broken corpse as if the sheer concentration of his gaze could somehow pierce the boy’s heart and fill it again with life. Murray touched Robbins’ arm and nodded, taking off his own coat and as Robbins moved to draw Dunnet back and away from his fixed vigil, Murray draped the good black cloth over the body, and the black crape weepers slithered amongst the straw, like roots finding a hold around the corpse.