‘Oh, Robbins, I have called on Mr. and Mrs. Paterson.’ Murray remembered his commission. ‘The funeral is to be tomorrow. All of you who wish to go have leave, of course: if necessary I shall eat in town.’
‘Thank you, sir, I shall relay the message to the rest of the household.’ Robbins stood waiting to be dismissed, Murray’s overcoat neatly folded over his arm. Murray ran his eyes down the note from Blair, and nodded.
‘Please tell Mrs. Chambers that I shall be supping with Mr. Blair this evening.’ He nodded dismissal, then added, ‘and I shall require Dunnet to accompany me, and two horses. Oh, and when the boys come back from the college, could Mrs. Chambers see that Henry is all right? He says he had some dinner that disagreed with him.’ Robbins bowed and left. Murray looked about the hall for a moment, then investigated the study, where a good fire had been lit. Squirrel, the deerhound, spared him a look of distrust before retreating as usual under a table. Sighing, Murray settled in one of the low-lying leather chairs by the fire, stretched his long legs to a footstool, and found a book to take him gently to supper.
Murray had not been in Blair’s house in George’s Square for several years. As Dunnet led the horses round to the stables, the front door opened and Blair himself bumbled out, catching his sleeve on the door knob and coming down the steps at a crabwise pace in consequence. He slewed around and seized Murray’s hand in both his own, jiggling it up and down warmly while he smiled broadly at him, wide-eyed, then continued to smile as he jostled Murray up the steps and into the house.
‘Come in, come in, come in! It is so good of you to come, very good indeed, yes, yes.’ He hovered around the manservant removing Murray’s overcoat, then drew him urgently into the street parlour.
To enter Blair’s house was to step back fifteen years. Nothing had been changed in the décor, that Murray could see, since the house had first been arranged for Blair’ marriage to the lovely Bessie Hope, whose fashionable friends had despaired at the attachment while envying her new husband’s comfortable income. As she became almost immediately semi-retired from society like her husband, her erstwhile friends had less opportunity than they might have to despair so utterly over her complete happiness. When she died in the midst of that happiness, having had the first sight of her daughter, the despairing friends felt themselves vindicated and attended a triumphant funeral, then left Blair in peace, for which he was duly and annoyingly grateful. That he had not changed the house since was more indifference to his surroundings than an effort to placate the shade of his wife: he had loved her too well to have need of any material reminders. So it was a consequence of his indifference that the staircase beneath which one passed to the street parlour was an astonishing size yellow, the wooden Venetian blinds in the parlour were orange, as was the fine plasterwork of the fireplace, and the pilasters around the doorway were picked out and shaded in French grey.
‘My sister is out, you’ll be relieved to hear, and Isabel has gone back to school, so we shall be a bachelor party of two, if that suits you?’
‘That sounds excellent, sir,’ Murray agreed.
The eating part of the evening was dispatched quickly: Blair’s table habits were a little random, and despite Mrs. Freeman’s efforts the cook’s talents were equally unreliable. Blair rescued the brandy decanter from the midst of a messy table, and ushered him into the study where they could be cosier.
‘Now,’ said Blair, bundling himself up in a chair whose original shape was entirely disguised by rugs, scarves and cushions, ‘what have you been doing today?’
Murray outlined the morning meeting with his father’s Edinburgh man of business, the marmalade-headed Mr. Simpson, and his afternoon visits to the building site, to Jamie’s parents, and to Matthew Muir’s brother.
‘Dandy Muir said that his brother had an appointment to meet a gentleman, the night he died. Do you know if my father had any dealings with such a man?’
Blair pursed his lips, and as if operated by some mechanical device his eyebrows rose at the same time.
‘I cannot imagine why he should have had. Your father’s Edinburgh affairs, as no doubt you know, were all dealt with through Simpson, and even had he wished to use someone different, for whatever reason, he could hardly have had need to use an apprentice notary of no reputation.’
‘I agree,’ said Murray. ‘Do you know of anyone of my father’s acquaintance who might have seen fit to use Matthew Muir?’
‘Again, no. Even the poorer among your father’s immediate acquaintance are all involved in the law – apart, of course, from me – and would be able to find someone better than Muir to work for them.’ He poured more brandy into Murray’s glass, and made faces into the fire. For a moment, the fire made the only noise in the room, a soft rushing up the chimney.
‘What do you believe happened to my father, sir?’ asked Murray at last, staring into the quick flames. Blair jiggled a little in his chair, and took a slurp of brandy.
‘Well, um. What do you think, then?’ he asked, as if he had answered the question to everyone’s satisfaction. Murray began to straighten out a few of his thoughts.
‘I do not feel that what happened was the simple accident that it seems,’ he began. ‘If Muir was to meet a gentleman at the new feus, where was the gentleman, and why there? If he was not to meet the gentleman there, but elsewhere, where else, and why again did he go to the building site? And as someone pointed out, why does a stone on a lonely road wait for two separate men to be beneath it before it falls? My father was a fit and quick man, well able to avoid perhaps not the stone, but the tumble of scaffolding, so why did he not do so? Was he trying to save Muir?’ He paused for breath, and glanced sideways to see if Blair was laughing at him. Blair, however, was staring at the ceiling, lips pouting again, finger tips pressed together. A silence slipped in and stood a long moment between them, and Murray found his breathing heavy.
‘Have you considered,’ said Blair at last, without looking down, ‘that your father – this may be an upsetting thought, my friend – was knocked out of his senses before the stone fell?’
‘By the scaffolding, you mean?’ asked Murray stupidly.
‘By a more human agent, perhaps.’ Blair lowered his gaze and watched benevolently as Murray drew a large mouthful of brandy, wincing as it burned his mouth. He swallowed.
‘A failed robbery?’ he asked. ‘But his watch and ring were still about him, and money in his pocket.’
‘No, I fear it must be something more sinister than that, Charles.’ Blair grew solemn. ‘Either there was some reason why someone wanted your father dead, and Muir saw them and was killed for what he had seen, or some person wanted Muir to die and your father saw it, or Muir tried to kill your father and in an effort to disguise the deed brought the scaffolding – and by chance a stone - down on your father, miscarrying enough to kill himself in the attempt. Murray thought about this in the light of what he had seen at the building site, and admitted to himself that someone could have pulled the scaffolding down deliberately to kill. ‘Two further possibilities are that your father was the unfortunate murderer, which I hope we can discount –’
‘Indeed!’ said Murray forcefully.
‘Quite.’ Blair gave him an odd look. ‘Or that someone wanted them both dead and lured them to that spot for that purpose.’
‘There is one other matter that seems to indicate that my father was the intended victim,’ Murray reflected. The idea that his father had been murdered was, strangely, appealing, more comforting than that he might have died in a pointless accident. Besides, it gave his bewildered, empty, cluttered mind a distinct problem on which to focus. ‘Jamie was undoubtedly murdered, so perhaps it was for something that he and my father had both seen?’
Blair nodded a concession that it might be possible, and offered more brandy.
‘No, no, I thank you, sir. I fear there are many matters at present for which I must keep a clear head.’ He had had plenty of previous experience of drinking with Blair.
‘A phrase keeps ringing in my head, one that Mr. Simpson used this morning. He said that he had to draw up a Service of the Heir. I keep thinking it means my service, as Father’s heir, my duty to him.’
‘You have not done your duty to him for a while, I think you mean?’ said Blair gently. Murray felt his face redden.
‘Not for far too long,’ he agreed, his throat tight. ‘It’s about time I did it again.’
Chapter Eight
Murray was trying to eat his breakfast with slow deliberation. Outside, the dawn had scarcely happened, and the sky was heavy with clouds that more than hinted at snow. They lumbered over the horizon to the west, dragging loose, tattered edges where snow was already falling, probably over the smooth backs of the Pentland Hills. Murray pretended to himself that he could not make a decision about the course of his day until he saw what the weather was going to do – even now a rather ominous wind was beginning to spin odd bits of rubbish past the window of the street parlour – but really, he was at something of a loss. Perhaps he should go to the college with the boys. Henry was still pale, and fiddled with the ham on his plate with unaccustomed apathy. Robert eyed it with calculation.
Jennet, the smaller maid, entered the room at speed, stopped, stared at the breakfast table, curtseyed, and left.
He knew it was next to useless to expect the men at the police office to investigate the circumstances of his father’s death. For one thing, there was their general reputation, which had declined, along with their popularity, from the high point of their foundation last year to the pit where it currently lay, as people discovered that they were only marginally better than the old City Guard. Many old guardsmen had in fact gone straight into the police force. For another thing, he had seen himself how keen the man Rigg had been to arrest Dunnet full in the face of Dr. Harker’s assertions of his innocence. He felt sure they would make an arrest, but he was equally sure it would be the wrong one. But if he himself were to try to find out what had happened, what was he to do? He thought again of the way he had reacted to Jamie’s death, to other deaths he had seen, but for most of them he had been on the spot very quickly after the event, when there was still a good deal of use to observe and piece together. Here he had come in so late, and the building site was in such a state of flux, that he felt it was almost impossible to make any pattern from it.
Nevertheless, he thought, he should begin by writing down anything of significance that he could think of, facts he had come across in the last couple of days, and see what he already had.
As he came to this conclusion, Mary appeared briefly, curtseyed at the door with a grinning apology, and vanished again. Murray blinked, and finished his tea. As soon as the cup was heard to hit the saucer, the door opened again and Mrs. Chambers herself appeared, with her fingers knotted at the front of her black velvet dress.
‘Mr. Murray, excuse me, sir, but have you finished your breakfast?’
‘Just now, Mrs. Chambers.’ She hovered, about to speak. ‘You may clear the table,’ he added, as she seemed to require something. As if summoned by magic, Jennet and Mary shot through the open door and cleared the table as though there were a fiend at their backs. The boys were open-mouthed. Murray, with the cloth and his napkin swept out from under his nose, felt rather dazed.
‘Oh, I am sorry, Mr. Murray, sir. But it is Jamie’s funeral today, and you did promise that we could all go.’
‘Oh, of course! It is I who should apologise, Mrs. Chambers. I had quite forgotten.’ He rose and moved the table back against the wall. ‘You are all going?’
‘We would all like to, sir. But of course it depends very much.’ She wrung her fingers. ‘There’s a fire laid in the study, sir, and another in your bedroom, in case you have need of them, but neither is lit as yet. Now, I can stay at home and make your midday meal, if you would prefer, sir.’
‘Not at all, Mrs. Chambers. You must go to the funeral.’
‘Oh, sir, I cannot bear to think of you here abandoned!’ Her fingers became impossibly tangled, and she freed them with a sudden gesture of despair.
‘Mrs. Chambers, I believe I can light a fire all on my own!’ Murray soothed her. ‘As you know, I am bound to the Dundases for dinner, and I intend to meet the boys in town before that – to make sure you’re eating properly, Henry,’ he added, then turned back to Mrs. Chambers. ‘You will likely all be back for supper, which need not be elaborate in any case, And even should I feel the need of a cup of tea in between, I believe I remember where my father’s kitchen is.’
She smiled rather dubiously at this, but chose to be reassured.
‘Please do not be late on my account, any of you,’ Murray reiterated. ‘And please give my best wishes to Mr. and Mrs. Paterson, and tell them that if they ever have need of anything, they have only to ask.’
It was an odd feeling, he thought, to be able to say that, and he savoured it for a moment or two after Mrs. Chambers had gone. He had not asked Mr. Simpson what his income might now be, although he felt sure that all he had to do to find out was to ask the mothers of a few of the young ladies of his acquaintance: mothers always had you placed on a neat table in order of your virtues, chiefly financial ones. He wondered idly how far up the local table he was and looked about the room, at the elegant, simple lines of the furniture and the cool, clean colours of the walls, light and airy after the hot yellows and oranges of Blair’s parlour. The room was modern and expensive. The portraits of his father and mother, a three-quarter length pair above the fireplaces in the drawing room upstairs, were Raeburns. He had never seen more than a miniature of Blair. Certainly this was a house that spoke of an easy wealth, though Blair would have made it, in a moment, easy, comfortable and downright messy.
He saw the boys off, hoping he could trust them to go straight to the college and telling them where to meet him for their meal. Then he tamped down the fire in the street parlour and crossed the hall to the study, where, as promised, another fire was laid. He lit it, and from it the candles in the sconces around the room, for the north-facing window brought in very little light at this time of year. While his thoughts dwelled on the supposedly significant facts he was going to write down, he tried again to write a letter to his brother George. It was not easy. He wished this whole business had happened when George was at home, not off with the First Regiment of Foot. For one thing, it would have forced them to meet again, though the circumstances would certainly not have been auspicious. And if George had been at home, would his father even have thought of sending for Charles? And how had he known where to find him?
He pushed aside the letter paper, and drew across another sheet. After a moment’s thought he wrote across the top ‘Father’ and ‘Jamie’. Then in neat columns he wrote the date and time of the incidents that had caused their deaths and the way in which each had died. He added the details of Matthew Muir’s death to his father’s column, and wondered briefly if he should have made three columns, but decided against it. He added the details of what he had seen at the stable, and the footprints in the earth, to Jamie’s column. Then came possible reasons why each of them should have been killed, at which point he decided that he did indeed need a column for Matthew Muir, turned the page over and began again, this time adding the addresses, and in Muir’s case the former address, of the deceased. When he came again to the reason for their deaths, he became fanciful, imagining that Muir’s gentleman had gone back on their deal and killed him, that his father had known the gentleman concerned – this, he argued to himself, was quite possible, as his father had at least been acquainted with almost every gentleman in town – and had seen the death and had therefore been killed before he could tell the police officers. Jamie did not fit in well with this scheme, and as far as Murray knew, Jamie had been safely in his hayloft when Mr. Murray had been injured. Perhaps, though, if his father had known Muir’s mysterious gentleman, he too had gone to meet him and had mentioned this in Jamie’s hearing beforehand? But he would hardly have been telling Jamie, and
if he had been telling someone else and Jamie overheard, then why had not the someone else told anyone? And indeed, why would Mr. Murray of Letho have gone to meet even an acquaintance at night in such a place? Why not go to the gentleman’s house, or invite the gentleman to his own house, or if neither were truly possible they could have met at a hotel or a coffee house. Meeting where they did made it look as if they had not wanted anyone to see them, and that did not sound like the kind of business in which his father would have been involved.
Murray took a deep breath and sat back, staring at the bookcases against the wall. The gulf in his mind was yawning again. He looked down at the paper in front of him, and underlined the word ‘Grassmarket’ in Jamie’s parents’ address and Matthew Muir’s old one, and felt that that, at least, was a concrete connexion. Whether or not his father knew Matthew Muir, or knew a gentleman who knew Matthew Muir, Jamie would have known the apprentice lawyer both by sight and name.
Snow was beginning to fall, tentatively, as Thomson and John Douglas left the law courts to seek a mid-morning respite in a coffee house. They stared at the snowflakes from under the dark portico, not fooled by the snow’s apparent reluctance. Thomson looked up, shielding his face with one finely gloved hand, and saw that the distinctive spire of St. Giles’ across the courtyard was beginning to fade in the thickening flakes. He turned to Douglas.
‘If we do not go now, we might not make it. Coming?’ and he took the smaller man’s elbow. But just as they were about to force an advance, they were hailed from within the law court building itself, and when they looked about, they saw Dundas strolling towards them.
‘May I join you?’ he asked as he approached. ‘I take it you’re going to Baird’s?’
‘The nearest seemed the best in this weather,’ said Thomson affably. ‘Of course you’re welcome to join us.’
Service of the Heir: An Edinburgh Murder (Murray of Letho Book 3) Page 10