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

by Lexie Conyngham

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked her.

  ‘Mary, sir.’ She gave the first syllable the long, flat sound of the Islander.

  ‘And where are you from, Mary?’

  ‘I am from North Uist, sir.’

  ‘North Uist?’ He nodded at her, and struggled for some subject of conversation, some human contact. ‘Do you speak Gaelic, then?’

  ‘It is the language I learned as a child, sir. English I learned when I came to Edinburgh.’ She seemed neither embarrassed nor flattered by his curiosity, nor did anything in her tone show that she thought him anything but an equal.

  ‘What brought you to Edinburgh, then?’

  ‘Oh, it is a common thing, sir. My young man followed the colours, and I followed my young man. The recruiting sergeant came to Uist with a fine drummer, and both of them in their red coats, and my Roderick he was taken with it. So off he went and me after him.’ She glanced at him, bright eyes checking his face. He nodded slightly, and she continued. ‘But they were sent to the Low Countries, the Ross-shire Buffs, with my Roderick, and I was not on the strength and could not go, and here I am.’

  ‘I thought that the service companies of the Seventy-Eighth had returned?’ He longed for her to go on speaking. Her accent, simmered with the liquid Gaelic, had all but broken down the hard fibres of Edinburgh Scots.

  ‘Oh, aye, they have, sir. But not my Roderick. And there are some of his friends that say he died a hero’s death, and some that he’s living yet, on his way to the Cape with a Dutch wife to his children. Ah, but who would you believe?’ She dropped a somewhat informal curtsey that passed for both shrug and farewell, took the coal bucket and left the room, which suddenly seemed larger and darker for her absence.

  Although he waited for her to reappear, and nearly rang for her, it was Jennet who brought and served his supper, her eyes red with weeping over Jamie and her hands, when not occupied with dishes, clutching a handkerchief to her nose. Nor was Mary in evidence when Mrs. Chambers informed him that the master bedroom was made up and ready, and Murray, with no recognition of the effort to which she and the maids had gone to remove the black hangings and make up the bed in fresh sheets and drive out the stale air, insisted on returning to the room he had always slept in, where the cool green stripes of the bed hangings calmed him like summer pasture. Had Mary been a dream? If so, it had been an interesting dream. He fell asleep quickly, hoping that he could slip back into it.

  Chapter Five

  When Murray woke the next day, it was to the indefinable feeling that he had overslept. Someone had already drawn the green silk curtains and lit the fire, and a low sun angled its way through the north-facing window. He pulled his long legs from under the covers, dragged a dressing gown around his shoulders and walked towards the sunlight, tugging, on his way, on the bell pull to summon hot water to his closet. There was a jug of cold water there already, and he dipped his hands into its icy depths, feeling the hard pain in his fingers, before splashing it across his face. Once he had rubbed his eyes and cheeks, he approached the window and propped himself comfortably against its panelled surround.

  It was one of those days that Scotland in January produces like a glittering prize, a reminder to winter-bound dwellers in darkness not to lose all hope of Spring. The sunlight fell like a beaten blade along the streets he could see below, startling ice sheets in the gutter puddles into burning life. Winter, the overhung, muddied byway of the year’s passage, had its sudden consolations, and this was the best. All the way to the sparkling Forth, the land lay jewelled with bright greens and browns, encrusted with white, striped with long shadows where the merest bush or hillock took the opportunity to make its mighty mark far across the land. In the distance, the hills of Fife stood green and clear, and called to him.

  A sound at the door heralded Robbins, bearing a large jug of hot water and several clean cloths. Murray wished him good morning, and asked him, as Robbins laid out the shaving accoutrements, how the servants were.

  ‘Quite all right, sir. Everything is just as usual.’

  ‘And Dunnet?’ Murray asked cautiously.

  ‘Dr. Harker gave him some laudanum to make him sleep last night, sir. He appears to be carrying out his duties normally this morning.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Murray slightly irritably, ‘but is he all right?’ At Scoggie Castle he could simply have gone down to the servants’ hall and found out for himself, but here he was master, and therefore much more constrained. Robbins paused, and gazed down at the shaving brush in his hand, his lips pressed together.

  ‘Yes, sir, I believe so.’ He stopped again. ‘I should say, sir, if you’ll excuse the liberty, that with Dunnet to know whether or not he is all right is more a matter of observation than of direct information, sir. Dunnet is very quiet this morning. He often is.’

  He worked up a quantity of foam and began, expertly, to spread it in little circles over Murray’s chin. Murray sat back, tried to relax, and closed his eyes.

  He saw Dunnet, crouching over Jamie Paterson’s body, and heard the doctor clearing him from blame.

  He saw Dunnet again, leaving his father at the building site, and seeing his father return home on a board, and heard his father, with his dying breath, clearing Dunnet from blame.

  He opened his eyes, and watched Robbins sharpen the razor’s blade.

  ‘The man who died with my father,’ he said quickly, before Robbins began to apply the blade to his face, ‘What can you tell me about him?’

  Robbins raised his eyebrows and began to shave his new master.

  ‘A Mr. Muir, I believe, sir. The newspaper said that he was a notary and lived with his brother in the Grassmarket. He was a young man, as I recall, sir.’ He cleared his throat. ‘He was killed outright.’

  ‘So I believe,’ Murray responded, taking his chance as Robbins flicked soap from the blade. ‘Was he there alone?’

  ‘That I cannot say, sir. Although, if you’ll excuse it, sir, and I have not, of course, said such a thing to the servants’ hall, it seems a strange thing that a few stones, however poorly balanced, should wait until two people came along on a quiet street before they fell down.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Murray, out of the corner of his mouth.

  The street parlour had been laid for breakfast for Murray and the boys, and a newspaper had been set by his plate. Beyond the front page intimations and advertisements, the main news item inside was the illness of William Pitt, which did not appear to be responding to treatment. Murray found himself assuming that the politician was going to die: it seemed the usual thing to do, just at present.

  Robert and Henry appeared, Robert his usual unstoppable self, and Henry smelling faintly of the stables.

  ‘I’ll escort you to your classes after breakfast,’ Murray informed them. Robert let out a cry of protest, but Henry looked relieved.

  Mary surprised him – and slightly embarrassed him – by proving to be real, and cleared away the dishes. Unable to think of anything to say to her, Murray smiled as he chivvied the boys off to fetch their coats and books. He was not sure they could both be trusted to attend all their classes without supervision, but he had plenty to do and he did not want Robert leading either Daniel or William into more trouble than they could find on their own.

  By the time his father’s Edinburgh lawyer had arrived at ten, Murray had returned and found, as promised, his father’s will in the bookcase. The lawyer, Mr. Simpson, was relieved.

  ‘I know well Mr. Murray was versed in the law, and not like to cause trouble, but with his death being so sudden, I was afraid we’d have to present a testament dative and have executors appointed by the Commissary Court. It can take years, with an estate as large as Mr. Murray’s.’

  ‘And now that we have a will?’ asked Murray, avoiding his mind’s-eye magpie nest view of his father’s large and complex estate. It could not, he told himself, be much worse than the Scoggie estates: he had been dealing with the papers there for some years.

  �
�Well, for our heritable goods – the money, the furniture, and so on, all our moveables – I shall take our will with me and visit the Commissary Office in the morning. We shall need to employ a valuer to draw up an inventory here and one at Letho, and assess what is owed to our various tradesmen and others: I fear that even I myself must present my own modest bill.’ He simpered, and pressed well-manicured fingers gently into the black silk of his neckcloth. Murray made a brief note. All this was new to him, and although he knew his father had trusted Mr. Simpson, the man made Charles’ skin crawl and therefore, unfairly, made him wary of being cheated by him.

  ‘That’s the moveable goods. I shall write today to my father’s man of affairs at Letho to arrange for a valuation there.’

  ‘Now, then.’ Mr. Simpson laced his hands over his knee. ‘For our immoveables, it will be the Chancery. A retour, or service of the heir, will have to be formulated, establishing that you are indeed your father’s nearest heir. As I understand it, you are the elder son?’

  Murray nodded.

  ‘I have one brother who is younger. There are no other brothers, and no sisters.’

  ‘Oh, sisters do not count where immoveable goods are concerned, Mr. Murray.’ Mr. Simpson gave a little chuckle. ‘Not where there are sons. However, it is worth noting, as I see that Mr. Murray’s will is therefore quite straightforward. No need to make provisions for dowries, a few simple legacies to servants and to one or two friends, and a substantial sum to Mr. George Murray, younger son. You will want an advance of the money to pay for household expenses, and so on, I have no doubt, and as there does not seem to be any difficulty with the inheritance, there will be no obstacle to your remaining here – or at Letho – until the estate is confirmed. Now, as a matter of interest,’ he unlaced and rewove the long, clammy fingers, ‘how do you see matters proceeding when that has occurred?’

  ‘I shall have to quit my position in Fife, of course,’ said Murray, ‘but I have not yet decided whether to reside chiefly here or at Letho. I assume that you are willing, for the foreseeable future, at least, to attend to my affairs here? I may wish to set this house up for rent, for example.’

  Mr. Simpson smiled, as though to encourage a slow pupil.

  ‘Precisely, Mr. Murray, precisely. In our own time.’

  ‘But,’ said Charles, ‘I cannot, of course, make any firm decision until I have seen all the papers involved in both properties and in my father’s investments.’ Mr. Simpson’s smile faded, and his orange eyebrows flexed slightly. Murray remembered that as a little boy he had been fascinated by the close similarity between Mr. Simpson’s hair and orange marmalade. He and George had always wanted to put out fingers and discover whether or not it was sticky. ‘So I suggest, Mr. Simpson, that you employ your valuer and approach your Commissary Court and your Chancery, and I shall study my papers and make my decisions, and we shall meet again in a week.’

  ‘Oh, very good, very good.’ Mr. Simpson pressed his palms together and spread his finger tips wide, though there was a faint scowl on his face. ‘And is there anything else just now, Mr. Murray?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Murray, after a moment’s thought. ‘Do you know of a notary called Muir? Possibly Matthew Muir?’

  Mr. Simpson frowned, clearly worried about possible competition.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  Murray pushed his chair back from the desk, and contemplated the lawyer. It would be nice to dismiss him, he thought, but perhaps not yet. He was not good at burning boats.

  ‘He died in the same accident that caused my father’s injuries. I wished to pay my respects to his family.’

  Mr. Simpson looked relieved, then thoughtful.

  ‘Matthew Muir,’ he repeated. ‘Matthew Muir. No, I cannot recollect any notary of that name. He is not in the Society, anyway. I could ask Ebenezer Hammond for you, if you wished it. As the head of the Signet – and by way of being the principal lawyer in the city - he would know, if anyone did.’

  Odd, thought Murray. The Writers to the Signet controlled the business of notaries and lawyers in Scotland, as the Faculty of Advocates, the spiritual home of Dundas, Thomson and Armstrong and of his own father, controlled the advocates at the bar. Yet the papers had reported that Matthew Muir was a notary.

  The lawyer was packing up his papers into a box, and laid old Mr. Murray’s will on the top before tipping down the lid. He nodded at Murray and stretched out one pale hand. Murray rose and took it, feeling that even that was more commitment than he cared for towards Mr. Simpson just at present.

  ‘May I congratulate you, Mr. Murray,’ the lawyer added as he turned to go, ‘on an excellent funeral yesterday. Everything just as it should be. Your father would have been proud.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Murray was embarrassed, and pleased when the man finally bowed and left.

  The remainder of the morning was taken up with going through the immaculate order of his father’s bureau, thin folds of paper in neat bundles, servants’ wages, accounts paid to Dr. Harker, to Mr. Simpson – far too much, Murray felt – to wine merchants and grocers, ironmongers and carriage builders. Some were endorsed with Mrs. Chambers’ signature, all had to do with Queen Street and Edinburgh, and Murray assumed that the Letho papers were kept at Letho itself. He glanced through the servants’ wages. Mary Macdonald, he noted, had been employed since October – presumably when his father had moved back to Edinburgh for the winter season. According to a note made on her first wage receipt by Mrs. Chambers, she could both read and write. Clearly her time in Edinburgh had been well employed since she came from Uist, unless she could only read and write Gaelic.

  In the final drawer, he found gathered into heaps, neatly labelled in his father’s black hand, all the letters his brother George had written from various parts of the world, and all the letters he himself had written, from Spain, from Italy, from Germany, and from St. Andrews. No letters from Lord Scoggie’s castle: he had never been able to bring himself to put them in the post. Had his father missed them? By the look of this collection, maybe he had – maybe he, too, had regretted their quarrel.

  ‘Well, my dear Catherine, is not Mr. Murray everything a woman desires? Dark eyes and hair, a fine figure, a romantic air of tragedy, and now his father’s fortune on top?’ Miss Davina Thomson arranged herself on one end of a chaise longue and patted the other end for Catherine Armstrong to be seated. Catherine, having spent the morning in perusal of a section of Cicero’s Pro Caelio, had arrived for dinner, but clearly she would have shift her focus from scandalous Roman law courts to the gossip of the present before she was to be fed. Davina had picked up her embroidery, but was watching Catherine’s face. Catherine sat, and adjusted her shawl.

  ‘Mr. Murray? His air of tragedy must be a temporary thing, and his fortune may have enhanced his appearance, but you could not call him handsome, Davina dear.’ Davina was her best friend, but it did not do to compliment anyone or anything in from of her. Catherine had come to the conclusion that for Davina, to admire was to show weakness. Besides, Davina might have been her best friend, but that was no reason to trust her.

  ‘Not handsome?’ Davina was all amazement. Catherine steadfastly kept her gaze on her own embroidery.

  ‘His nose, I fear, is on rather too grandiose a scale for the rest of his face. And his mouth – well, his mouth is far from perfect.’

  Davina laughed, and began to ply her needle.

  ‘But what woman desires perfection in the looks of a man, Catherine? Very few, which is just as well, as there are few enough perfect-looking men to go round.’ She paused, but Catherine knew better than to interrupt. ‘And a great number of the perfect-looking ones have too good an idea of their own perfection to suit me.’

  ‘Oh, indeed!’ Catherine responded. Long experience of both Cicero and Davina had taught her when response was expected. ‘But,’ she added, as if forcing herself to be charitable, ‘it should be said that whatever the faults of his appearance, Mr. Murray appears to be a kindly, gentlemanly young m
an, of an open and generous disposition.’ She finished firmly, snipping at a thread with her scissors.

  ‘Catherine, my dear!’ Davina laughed. ‘You sound as if you would write his epitaph. Mr. Murray, I am sure, is quite handsome enough to please any but those most afraid of having their taste doubted – or those already too fond of one man to find any other remotely pleasing.’ Davina was pleased to perceive a very slight blush on the perfect cheeks of her friend, who continued to concentrate her gaze on her embroidery.

  ‘How many shall we be for dinner?’ she asked, after a proper pause.

  ‘Oh,’ said Davina, ‘we are waiting for Miss Balneavis. Mamma has a headache and says she will not join us.’

  ‘Miss Balneavis?’ Catherine was surprised.

  ‘Oh, Mamma’s idea, of course,’ Davina replied. ‘She sees it as a charity to the poor girl.’

  ‘Well, I know the Balneavises are dreadfully poor, but surely they are not yet on the parish? Are we to take soup to the rest of the family?’

  ‘No, but really, Catherine, the poor girl seems to think that a kind of pious amiability is as good as a dowry.’ Davina had noted Margaret Balneavis’ stiff reaction to her witty remarks at supper.

  ‘I suppose in some cases it might be,’ said Catherine, deliberately dubious.

  ‘But not, my dear, when you have the looks of the milkmaid and the sense of the cow. And speaking of marriage, how does your sister Ella do?’

  ‘Oh! much the same,’ Catherine replied. ‘She is not as distressed as Mamma feels she should be, that I am out before she is married. But there! I do not believe she cares to marry.’