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

by Lexie Conyngham

  ‘They can appear a little daunting,’ Murray acknowledged with a short laugh. ‘Only today I worried the housekeeper and frightened a scullery maid out of her wits, by the simple expedient of descending to the kitchens.’

  The conversation continued pleasantly on both sides, and carried on until the ladies withdrew at the end of the meal. The gentlemen did not long delay, and went upstairs to the drawing room to find Miss Catherine Armstrong already engaged at the grand piano. Thomson, not always noted for his own carefulness with money, considered the possession of a grand piano typical of Dundas: it was an extravagant affectation in a town where every sensible person was perfectly content with a high quality – and Edinburgh-made – box piano. Still, his niece made a pretty picture behind Dundas’ grand in her white gown, and his own daughter stood turning the pages as Catherine sang.

  The gentlemen disposed themselves about the room, ready to applaud at an appropriate moment. Murray found himself once more beside Ella Armstrong.

  ‘Do you intend to give us the pleasure of hearing you play this evening?’ he asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ Ella replied decisively. ‘My playing was never more than adequate, and now that I have a much more accomplished younger sister to uphold the family honour any comparisons are harmful to my vanity, and I am better placed in an appreciative audience.’

  ‘Then what do you see as your accomplishments, without which any young lady is unarmed in the world’s battles?’ Catherine’s song ended, and Ella waited until the applause had died down. Davina Thomson was next pressed to play, and as Catherine retired in temporary triumph, Gavin Dundas moved swiftly to turn the pages for Davina. The speed was noted by every mother in the room, and Miss Thomson began to play.

  ‘What use are accomplishments, except to decorate a life which has enough decoration of its own? Why should any woman of passable looks and a reasonable dowry be expected also to play, sing, paint, embroider and make lace? It cannot be simply to ward off boredom, for after marriage so many women forget everything they have learned. I keep a sensible head on my shoulders, and can run a household economically and well, and that should be accomplishment enough.’ She spoke with a hint of bitterness, then smiled it away. ‘For my own vanity, I should say that I read Latin and read and speak French and German quite fluently. But many young ladies speak French without any intention of ever going to France, and if the French do invade our shores, we are unlikely to find such a poetic, drawing room version of their language of much practical value.’

  Murray laughed, picturing the Napoleonic army confronted at Dunbar by a mass of pastel-clad young ladies commenting lyrically on the beauty of their gardens.

  Accomplishments were also the topic of conversation between the now lauded Miss Thomson, Miss Catherine Armstrong and the Misses Warwick. Miss Lily Warwick was to play next, although there was a slight delay while Lady Sarah fetched a particular piece of music.

  ‘And do you paint or draw, Miss Thomson?’ asked Miss Warwick.

  ‘I? A very little. Catherine here is the artist in our circle. Only today she completed a painting of my unworthy self which seemed to me like my own reflection.’ Catherine blushed slightly and gave a modestly satisfied smile. ‘If you had an interest in the subject, I am sure we can show you some excellent views around the town, considered picturesque by the most artistic in our society.’

  ‘How kind. Perhaps we should wait, however, until the weather improves.’ Miss Warwick’s look said ‘Savage.’ Miss Thomson’s smile said ‘Weakling.’

  ‘And perhaps you have an aptitude for languages?’ Miss Catherine asked politely. ‘French, for example?’

  ‘We have chosen not to learn French,’ replied Miss Warwick, haughtily.

  ‘Ça alors,’ remarked Davina. ‘Qu’elles soient bêtes.’ Catherine smiled sweetly.

  ‘The French are fiends,’ Miss Warwick continued, as if Davina had not spoken. ‘No civilised person could wish to learn such a language.’

  At that point, mercifully, Lady Sarah returned with the music, and Miss Lily advanced to the piano. Gavin was trapped into turning the pages for her, though he endeared himself to Davina by making discreetly bored faces at her above Miss Lily’s head. Miss Warwick was led away by Harry Dundas, who wished to show her a painting at the other end of the room. Mrs. Armstrong and Mrs. Thomson, observing the meeting of their respective daughters with the Misses Warwick, sat back like a couple of generals well satisfied with their infantry: Mrs. Armstrong, seeing that her troublesome elder daughter was still deep in conversation with young Murray, felt a certain glow of contentment. Several of the older people, Lady Warwick and the silent John Douglas included, formed a table for cards, and Mr. Armstrong exchanged a number of words with his son Patrick, which resulted in their spending the rest of the evening at opposite ends of the room, although both parties seemed less angry than anxious. Mr. Armstrong ate several peppermints, and asked a servant for a glass of water. Murray watched, and talked with Ella Armstrong. Inspired by Harry and Miss Warwick he walked with her to admire the paintings and sketches about the room, and when she pointed out a curious small picture by the fireplace he went with her to examine it more closely. It was a chalk drawing of an infant, less than a year old, a pretty child, and beneath it were the words, ‘Catherine Gordon Dundas, 1787’.

  The snow had stopped falling when Murray reached home, his final footprints on the broad steps of his own house framed crisply by a hard top layer of frost. He checked to see that the boys had returned and been fed: Henry was not quite as bad a colour as he had been, he thought. When he went to bed, the fire, refreshed by the newly-returned servants, was fighting a losing battle with the advancing walls of cold, and he tugged the extra eiderdown over the counterpane and huddled beneath it, warmed by his supper and the oblong patches where the bedwarmers had been. He fell asleep easily enough, but when that warmth had diminished, he found himself chilled again to wakefulness. He shook his head, clearing it of a dream where he and his father had both died in the tumbling scaffolding. Determined to break away from this image in his mind, he rose and pulled on a thick wool robe, as the cold slapped his bare legs and shuddered up his spine. He quickly tucked the bedclothes back around the warmed sheets and bundled them to keep in what heat they had, and padded across the carpet barefoot to the window. The cold air fell on him as he drew back one side of the heavy striped curtains and stepped behind it, opening a shutter and settling himself on the frozen cushions of the window seat. He reckoned it must be between two and three in the morning.

  Outside, the moon was full and high in the sky, with no warming blanket of cloud between earth and heaven. It drew a trail of white metal sparkle on grass and stones, and the silver tracery of trees in the moonlit gardens mesmerised him. The Forth and the shadowy hills of Fife were only a memory in the distance. No one was about on a night like this, and the street was a silent platform from which he, sole watcher, surveyed the landscape like a primaeval god, like a king above his kingdom, like an architect or a builder or a rat in a riverbank hole, watching a world too full for perception.

  He breathed on the glass, blotting out the steel-sharp lines, watching each tiny bubble of water begin to slide and merge with its fellows, drawing the moonlight with it down the glass, and then used the back of his forefinger to smear the mist across the pane in bright stripes of light and dark. The curtains were so thick behind him that they soaked up any sound from the room, and he would not have noticed the door opening except that the cloth moved in a tiny convulsion. He drew breath sharply, wondering if Robert was up to a prank, or if one amongst the servants could possibly be entering his bedchamber, unbidden, at this hour of the night. He caught a glimpse of a chink of light between the curtains, but it was not the light of a candle: it was brighter, and seemed to dance. He tried to press his eye to the chink without moving the curtains, and was just in time to see a figure, apparently in white, hurling something bright at the bed. The bed burst into flames.

  Chap
ter Eleven

  The figure turned and ran to the open door, snatching it shut behind him. The bed, once a cool green, began to blossom red, orange, yellow at its centre, a burning bush of flickering light. Murray, beating the entangling curtains from his legs, ran to the door, opened it, found breath to bellow, ‘Fire! Fire!’ in the direction of the servants’ stairs. The fleeing figure was nowhere to be seen.

  He turned back to the bed, grabbed the bell pull and jangled it furiously, then spun to the cupboard where a pitcher of cold water stood for the morning. He snatched it up and tipped it towards the abundant flames. No water came out. He shook it stupidly, then peered inside to see a thick plate of ice covering the surface. A moment’s work with the poker freed the water, but also let the fire grow, sending out branches towards the striped bed curtains. He flung the water at the curtains and heard an angry hiss from the injured flames.

  Robert stopped agape at the door and grabbing Henry, ran back to their room for more water. Murray gave a brief thanksgiving for the boy’s quick thinking. By now, sleep-dazed servants were gathering at the door, clutching their own jugs. The sight of the fire roused some of them: Dunnet, more awake than the others, hurled his jug on to the bed and seized Mrs. Chambers’ jug to follow it, though his haste made him less than accurate. Robbins ran forward with his jug, and after throwing the contents into the blaze began to bundle up the edges of the counterpane over the flames. Murray did likewise on his side of the bed. Robert returned with both jugs, Henry jogging behind, and sloshed them into the smoke. Bustling at the door resulted in Mary, thick hair braided, carrying two buckets of water bobbing with chunks of ice. She was followed by Daniel who with a certain sense of enthusiasm emptied the contents of his chamber pot over what was by now a smouldering heap. There was an interesting moment of silence as they all stood about, realising that the fire was overcome, and inhaling with disgust a mixture of burned wool and second-hand ale.

  Murray drew breath and looked about at them. Robbins’ face was black with the smoke that had enveloped him as he tried to smother the flames, and under the soot his eyebrows looked suspiciously absent. Mary was solemnly gathering her buckets together, the long ends of her shawl swinging as she bent to them. Mrs. Chambers, holding the only candle, was white in its light, staring at the bed, as was Dunnet, who wiped the back of his hand against his brow and mouth. The sleeve of his nightshirt was torn in the rush: Murray could see the threads caught on the edge of the doorframe. One of the buckets clanked and Mrs. Chambers shook her head slightly, and gave a little pat to her night cap.

  ‘Mary, Jennet, go and put pans in the bed downstairs. Leave the buckets here.’ Jennet bobbed and Mary curtseyed, and they became white shadows in the dark hall. ‘Iffy, take these buckets back to the chambermaids’ room, and you and Effy fetch the tin bath from the outhouse. Well, find a candle, then, girl! Now, Mr. Murray, you come along with me and we’ll make you a hot drink. Effy, when you bring the tin bath up here, put the bedclothes into it and leave them just now: we don’t want them soaking through and spoiling the mattress.’

  There was no time, then, for thinking, nor for the cold shivers that ran through him when he looked at the ruins of the bed and wondered what would have happened had he been sleeping there. Mrs. Chambers whisked him away to her own room in the basement, where she set up a kettle on the fire, quickly lit, and heated milk for chocolate. She sat him in an old armchair made comfortable with cushions, laid a rug over his knees, and generally treated him like an invalid. He allowed it all with a faint smile but saw little of it, and only sensed what was happening when she pressed a large cup into his hands and told him to drink.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘“Whereas”,’ Robbins began solemnly, ‘“fires often happen by the negligence and carelessness of servants” – William, put it down and stand at peace.’ Robbins had seen William’s fidgeting with the sugar cutters in reflection in the scullery window, but William did not realise this and was alarmed enough by Robbins’ mystical powers of seeing through the back of his head to replace the cutters quietly on the dresser. ‘“Be it therefore enacted, by the authority aforesaid”,’ Robbins continued, ‘“That if any Menial or other servant or servants, through negligence or carelessness”,’ he paused, and gave a meaningful stare to the gathered servants, ‘“shall fire, or cause to be fired, any dwelling-house or outhouse, or houses or other buildings” – and I think we could safely say that covers the master’s bedchamber – “within the Kingdom of Great Britain, such servant or servants, being therefore lawfully convicted by the Oath of one or more credible witnesses, made before two of His Majesty’s Justices of the Peace, shall forfeit and pay the sum of one hundred pounds unto the Churchwardens or overseers of such parish where such fire shall happen, to be distributed amongst the sufferers by such fire, in such proportions as to the said Churchwardens shall seem just:” now, a hundred pounds is more than any of you is likely to see in your lifetime, so you should listen carefully to what happens if you can’t pay. “And in case of Default or Refusal to pay the same immediately after such conviction, the same being lawfully demanded by the Churchwardens” – or the elders, you ken, this is an English insurance company that wrote this - “that then, and in such case, such servant or servants shall, by Warrant under the Hands and Seals of Two of His Majesty’s Justices of the Peace, be committed to the Common Good, or House of Correction”’; here there was a small shocked squeal from Jennet, and the twins, although they had heard this notice read when they arrived at the household, stood with wide eyes and clutched one another’s arms, ‘“for the space of eighteen months, there to be kept to hard labour.” And you needn’t think,’ added Robbins, turning from the notice again to address the servants directly, ‘that there would be a position for you in this household at the end of the eighteen months, either. Now, about your duties.’

  The lower servants dispersed slowly, quietened by Robbins’ severity and the awful import of the notice. It was affixed to the wall of the kitchen, beside the dresser, and was read to the staff each time a new servant was appointed, but inevitably its significance paled between each public airing. This time, though, when the maids were already on their way to deal with the ruined bedding upstairs, the impact of the notice was rather greater, and the servants found themselves glancing at one another, wondering if any of them had, through negligence or carelessness, set fire to the master’s bed, and worse, had through negligence or carelessness been seen doing so by one or more credible witnesses.

  Murray woke up in confusion, behind bed curtains of the wrong colour with light of the wrong kind coming in from the wrong direction. Then he remembered the events of the early morning and came to rather fuller consciousness, leaping on to the Turkish carpet in his father’s ground floor room, from the bed last occupied by his father’s corpse. He went to the nearer window but it presented no long view of Fife, but a short, snow-covered garden, terminating abruptly in the rear wall of the stable block. He remembered that he needed to hire a new stable boy, and at the rate matters were progressing, perhaps a new groom.

  Robbins arrived with the wherewithal for shaving, and Murray preceded him obediently into the dressing room, where he noted with astonishment that his clothes were already arranged. He sat and closed his eyes as Robbins spread soap across his chin, and tried not to think about staring at his valet’s bare forehead.

  ‘So what is the extent of the damage upstairs, Robbins?’ he asked when an opportunity arose.

  ‘I believe Mrs. Chambers wishes to report to you more fully on it in person, sir, but I understand that it could have been much worse.’

  ‘Partly thanks to you, Robbins. All of you acted very promptly, and please convey my thanks to the staff for that, but your own expedition to suffocate the fire was the saving of us all, I think, and it was not done without danger to yourself.’

  ‘I shall take your message to the others, sir,’ Robbins said. He cleared his throat diffidently. ‘Did you have it in mind to go out
this morning, sir?’

  ‘I don’t believe so. The boys seem able to take themselves to college now.’ Murray thought about his plans for the day, which included only a vague intention of calling again on Dandy Muir, to see if he had any information when sober that he had forgotten when drunk. He reflected on Robbins’ tone of voice. ‘I sense, Robbins, that there is some difficulty with any plans I might have to leave the house before, say, dinner?’

  Robbins looked down at his own hands thoughtfully, then went on with courtesy.

  ‘A small difficulty, sir, yes. You have, you see, sir, at present, only the one black hat with a crape bow, and it would of course be most improper for you to be seen without such a thing at this time.’

  ‘Quite. And?’

  ‘And the said hat, sir, is in a sorry state. I can only assume from the damage to the crape, sir, that although the servants at the Dundas household brushed it free of the snow they could see, they did not shake out the weepers and the loops of the bow, which therefore sat damp all evening. They have spoiled it very considerably, sir: I wonder that you did not notice it yourself as you came home,’ he added, somewhat reproachfully.

  ‘Well, it was dark.’ Murray was defensive, and at the same time rather pleased that his servants were superior to those in the wealthy Dundas household.

  ‘You may wish to order a new bow, sir, but if you wish to go out today it will take me to spend the morning on it.’ He had little irons he kept for such purposes, and though the job was fiddly he took some pride in it. ‘And in any case, sir, there is your new suit of black.’

  ‘Oh, has it arrived at last?’ asked Murray, happily.

  ‘Yes and no, sir. That is to say,’ Robbins had finished shaving by this stage and was keeping his hands busy ensuring that the razor was singularly free of soap. It allowed him not to look Murray in the eyes. ‘That is to say, it has arrived, and appears to have been very good, but it will not be fit to wear until this afternoon, either, sir.’