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

by Lexie Conyngham

  It struck him how aloof Mary seemed from it. She held herself serenely and sailed through the crowd in the alehouse, in the street, or by the well: it did not seem to touch her, not spiritually and almost, indeed, not physically. He need not have worried about any taint attaching to her here. She had apparently lived with these people or amongst them for many months, and they accepted her and trusted her, but she was not of them, any more than she was of those she lived with in the New Town, where maids dressed much more fashionably, and the servants were almost gentlemen themselves. She was apart, and it fascinated him.

  He could not hide in the same way. He could borrow old clothes, stoop and slouch, keep his mouth shut and make his hands filthy with mud and blood. Given time he could even roughen them, and live on the diet of potatoes Mary had suggested. But nothing in all of that could hide what he was, because beside these people, beside the poor and the undernourished and the crippled, he could not hide the fact that generations of good food, warm clothes, and fresh air had made his bones strong, his hair thick, his skin and eyes clear. And however much he could give to the poor, however much he could contribute for the use of a mortcloth, he could never give an individual generations of health.

  He stopped his wandering thoughts, and concentrated on their route home. They walked in steady silence to the Grassmarket, past the alleyway where they had seen the second, vicious fight. Murray allowed himself to look sideways without turning his head, but the light was out, now, and he had no wish to search for horrors in the darkness.

  The West Bow was easier going uphill: although he slipped twice, he did not quite fall, and did not have to resort to the wall again with whatever hidden delights lay at its foot. He hoped William or Daniel would scrub his borrowed boots well before giving them back to poor Dunnet. That was something to be organised in the morning – this morning – for it was already Tuesday. Dunnet should be awake by dinner time, and in the afternoon Dr. Harker would send his useful man to nurse and guard, and on Wednesday – tomorrow, indeed – the pair could set off for Letho. He should tell his poor long-suffering steward by letter this morning to expect them.

  They were up in the Lawnmarket now, where there were very few left outside, and those who were had the air of being up early for work, rather than out late for pleasure. A man hurried past them, head down, and by his trailing neckcloth Murray recognised the male half of the passionate embrace he had tried to ignore in the Cowgate. It had been a good night kiss, then: the man was alone. Before he vanished entirely out of their sight, Murray realised with some curiosity that the man looked familiar to him, even in the dark. He peered after the flying neckcloth, and saw that the man had stopped and was entering the foot of a stair on the north side of the street, the left as they descended the hill. Murray looked up at the tenement as they passed, and recognised it as Balneavis’. In the Balneavis household, all was in darkness, as before. But on the floor below, as they passed, a candle was lit, and the man with the trailing neckcloth came to the window to close the shutters. It was the intense advocate, John Douglas.

  Chapter Twenty

  Robbins woke him early, as he had requested. Murray’s eyelids felt as if they had been sewn together, his head had been filled with glue in the early morning, and he scowled at the stinging pain in his knuckle where he had grazed it on the wall of the West Bow. Mrs. Chambers, who had waited up for their return like an anxious chaperone, had tutted over the injury, scalded it with the hot water she had ready for his bath, scraped invisible dirt from it and then bandaged it with one of her numerous salves, which had been known to treat everything from a blister to a broken heart.

  Murray saw her off, and sank wearily on to his bed, about to blow out the candle on his bedside table. It was probably just as well he was not holding it, as he would have dropped it in shock at the sudden appearance of a nightshirted figure at his bedroom door. It was not Dunnet this time, though, but Robert.

  ‘Robert!’ Murray’s heart tried to find its way back to the proper place. ‘What are you doing out of bed?’

  ‘I was wondering what was going on, sir. There’s been lots of noise, and now here you are back really late, and I’d wager you haven’t been at a ball.’

  He nodded at Murray’s odd clothes, tossed for now over a chair.

  ‘So how long have you been sitting awake?’

  ‘Hours and hours, sir.’

  About twenty minutes, then, Murray guessed.

  ‘You’re not going to be fit for your studies tomorrow – er, today, are you?’

  ‘Well, I’m not the only one, am I?’

  ‘But I’m not going to college lectures, am I? Now you should be taking every opportunity your father gives you –’

  ‘I didn’t mean you, sir. I meant Henry.’ He squirmed a little, arranging his face in an unaccustomed frown. ‘Actually, I’m quite worried about him.’

  Murray was, too, when he had time, and now guilt at the lack of attention he had been able to give the boys struck him again.

  ‘What makes you worried?’ he asked, trying to sound neutral.

  ‘He’s not sleeping very well – he keeps waking me with his wriggling.’ That was more like Robert, concerned for his own comfort. ‘And he sort of mutters in his sleep.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘I don’t know. When he starts I poke him and he wakes up.’

  Murray bit his lips.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He’s not eating. I wouldn’t mind, but even I can’t finish all he leaves. And if he does eat anything, he bokes it back up later. Professor Chalmers says he’s going to talk to you about it soon.’

  A shame Professor Chalmers had not acted a little more swiftly, thought Murray, irritably – but then, he himself knew that Henry had been sick, and had done little about it.

  ‘I’ve written to Lord Scoggie, Robert, concerning your possible return to Fife,’ he said. Guilty as he felt, five in the morning was not the time to concentrate on what to do next.

  ‘Oh, I don’t need to go home, sir! I like Edinburgh! It’s just Henry that can’t take it. He’s always been much more delicate than me, of course.’

  ‘I’m just not sure that Edinburgh can take you, Robert. I do think that Henry needs country air, as soon as possible. But in any case, it will be for your father to decide. Now, I suggest you return to bed and try to get what sleep you can, however extraordinary your constitution.’

  ‘The ferrets keep me awake, too, sir.’

  ‘I thought the ferrets were in the stables?’

  ‘Henry had to bring them up to our room. He said the stables weren’t suitable.’

  ‘He did, did he? Well, it’s nice to know that the ferrets are being well treated, anyway. Now, go away and go to sleep.’

  ‘Yes, sir ...’ Robert drifted off through the door, though whether or not he would obey the second part of the instruction was not so clear. Murray waited, then pulled himself grumpily out of bed and slammed the door that Robert had left open. He was asleep almost before he had returned to the bed.

  Robbins, because he had been left instructions by Murray to do so, made his preparations for Murray’s shaving unnecessarily noisy, so that Murray would have no chance to fall asleep again. He disentangled himself from his bed, feeling that it had not had time to be properly appreciated, felt for his dressing gown and stumbled blindly over to the dressing room door. He was reminded of one of the most valuable lessons any student learns: no sleep at all is better, much better, than too little. He was sure he could still taste both the alehouse’s ale and Jeanie’s more metallic version, and he considerately tried to avoid breathing on his manservant. As he was shaved, he gave Robbins, as best he could, an edited account of the night’s activities and the information they had obtained. Robbins seemed pleased not to be excluded, he thought. In turn, Robbins reported that Mary had apparently suffered no ill effect from her adventures.

  ‘And what of Dunnet?’ Murray asked finally.

  ‘He app
ears to have passed a quiet night, sir. Mrs. Chambers sent William in to relieve Daniel an hour ago, and Daniel said he was starting to become a little restless, but was still asleep. Mrs. Chambers will go back in once she has given the others their orders for the day, so if he does wake the two of them will be there. We have cleaned his boots and put them back, sir, he will not know they have been gone.’

  Murray joined the boys for breakfast, conscious of them watching him hold his knife awkwardly with the bandage on his hand. The first note arrived along with a pot of coffee. Henry ignored it, while Robert craned to see if it was anything interesting, like a letter from their professor excusing them all classes for the rest of the week. It was not: it was from Blair.

  ‘My dear Charles,’ it began. ‘Forgive me the liberty of sending you this short message. I trust that this finds you quite well. On my return home from supper last night, I found a message waiting for me from my acquaintance with the connexions of which we spoke. He has endeavoured to discover the names of those involved in the enterprise in which we have some interest, but finds that contrary to our expectations we require to begin our search with names. In short, he cannot find the information without first having the information. Perhaps you will do us the honour of coming to supper this evening, and we can discuss how to proceed. Your friend, Alester Blair.’

  Murray sipped his coffee, and thought. He assumed from Blair’s discreet and somewhat convoluted construction that the feuars of the New Town properties were registered by name, rather than in order of the plots they had feued from the Council, and that the task of searching through the register for the plots of land north of the east end of Queen Street would be too onerous or too lengthy for Blair’s acquaintance or his connexions in the City Chambers. He wondered how they could proceed, if that were the case: he could perhaps give the man a list of possible names to look for. This did not seem an entirely honourable thing to do. He pondered the problem.

  The second note came with the porridge, but was rather less digestible.

  ‘To Mr. Murray, Tutor to Lord Scoggie’s Sons.

  ‘I should be grateful if you could once more wait on me today at one in the afternoon, when it may please you once again to explain the behaviour of your charges. Patrick Chalmers, Professor of Divinity.’

  ‘Have you been up to anything particularly unpopular at the college recently, Robert?’ he asked, not expecting a helpful answer.

  ‘I try not to do anything unpopular, sir,’ Robert replied innocently. ‘I believe my friends amongst the students find me quite amusing.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Murray remarked. ‘You might wish to consider, for the moment, finding a way to amuse the professors as well.’

  ‘Is that from old Chalmers?’ Robert demanded. ‘You needn’t bother with him. He’s just an old fool.’

  ‘That’s all right, then, I’ll tell him that. Though I must say that when I met him previously on your account, he seemed pretty intelligent.’

  Robert filled his mouth with porridge and gestured that he could not possibly reply.

  The third note came just as the boys were about to go upstairs for their satchels, but the sight of the writing on the cover stopped Robert abruptly.

  ‘That’s from Father!’ he cried, seizing Henry by the elbow and pulling him back. ‘Don’t tell me he’s sent for us already!’

  ‘Sit down again a moment and let me read it, and I’ll tell you,’ said Murray, his heart less calm than his words. He slid his long fingers under the seal, and tore the cover open.

  ‘My dear Mr. Murray,’ it began, ‘I trust you are well, and swiftly coming to terms with the care of your estates.

  ‘I thank you for your thoughtful letter concerning Henry and Robert, to which I have in turn given considerable thought. As you know, I had thought that at St. Andrews they would remain too much under my influence and protection, but I can well believe that Henry finds the capital a little daunting. I had hoped that in time he might become hardened to it, but alas, I fear he is in many ways his father’s son. As for Robert, no doubt (reading between the lines of your letter) he would find mischief to make even in the most elevated seat of learning.

  ‘I have therefore sent a letter to the Principal withdrawing the boys from Edinburgh, and with this letter to you have sent my coachman who will bring the boys back to Fife, setting out after a couple of hours’ rest. Will you be so good as to see the boys’ trunks packed, and if they owe any monies I shall reimburse you as soon as is convenient.

  ‘My dear Mr. Murray, I imagine that you have too many other duties at present to be able to continue acting as my secretary and tutor. May I say what a pleasure it has been to have your assistance, and assure you that if ever you have need of a refuge from your worries, or advice, however old-fashioned, on the management of an estate, you will always be welcome at Scoggie Castle. Yours, etc., Scoggie.’

  Murray had to swallow a couple of times before he gave the boys a summary of the parts of the letter affecting them. It was surprising how much he missed the old goat-faced peer and his eccentricities, surprising how much he wanted someone else to make the decisions, take the responsibility ... perhaps not that surprising, actually.

  The boys spent the morning packing, under Murray’s supervision. Henry seemed – unless it was Murray’s imagination – to be a little more cheerful at the thought of going home. He saw to it that his precious ferrets were comfortably established in their cage with suitable provisions for the journey, and Murray tried not to count the minutes until the wretched rodents left his house. Robert turned out to have a whole box of sketches he had made of various people around the town and college, which had to be found room: some of them were rather good. Squirrel came to watch them with anxious fascination: Murray wondered if the hound was concerned that the boys were leaving, or concerned that they were taking so long over it. She kept well clear of the ferrets.

  The coachman had been told to collect them and their luggage at noon, so they had an hour to cross to the gardens and stretch their legs before their long journey. Squirrel bounded along adjacent to them but not absolutely with them. Murray made himself enjoy his last hour with the boys: he let them trail sticks and poke them into bushes, chatted with them about what they might find at Scoggie Castle and told them a bit about his time at St. Andrews, in answer to their questions about their next college. When they returned to the house, the coachman was already there and the luggage half-packed: it was a matter of minutes, then, before the boys tapped the mud off their boots, took the ferrets into the body of the coach from their prospective perch on the roof, said goodbye to the servants, and shook hands with their erstwhile tutor. Murray waved, the coach trundled off along the cobbles of Queen Street, and one of the bulkier pieces of jetsam floated off again from the cluttered beach of his mind, leaving an unaccountably mournful gap behind.

  Murray set out for the college to meet Professor Chalmers just before one. The interview was significantly less painful than previous ones on the same subject: the fact that the boys had been withdrawn had made Professor Chalmers a very happy man, and Murray was more than willing to pay off the last debts caused by Robert’s popular antics – this time he had pasted cartoons of all the professors, in large size, unexpectedly high up on the walls of their respective lecture rooms behind where the professors would be standing. Murray was most impressed by the quality of the drawings, but most disappointed that Robert had been unable to resist signing them. The paste had proved resistant to soap and water, and expensive methods of removal had had to be resorted to, meaning that certain humbler members of College staff had to be placated, as well. Murray was about to take his leave, when Professor Chalmers suddenly said,

  ‘And as for Henry ...’

  ‘Yes?’ Murray had never had trouble at the college with Henry before, except when he had been unwillingly caught up in Robert’s plots.

  ‘Is he quite well?’

  ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. He says he is.’

 
‘He has missed several lectures, but he is to be found instead in the yard – he has often been sick.’

  ‘Often?’ Murray knew he should have given more time to this. What on earth was wrong with the boy? If he could have had Dr. Harker look him over before he left for Fife ... ‘His father knows that Edinburgh has not suited him: I’m sure he will tend to him in the best way possible.’

  ‘He has the makings of a scholar, you know, Mr. Murray.’

  ‘I know. I think he knows it, too – and his father will support him in that.’

  ‘Robert, however ...’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Murray headed back towards the Lawnmarket and Balneavis’ flat, his mind spinning with his feelings of failure over Robert and Henry. What had he really done for either of them? Why would Henry not tell him what was wrong?

  Then he remembered that he and Balneavis were to dine with John Douglas, and a new wave of concerns and questions began a whirlpool in his mind. How could he draw the conversation round to discover what each of them was doing in the Grassmarket and the Cowgate at night, and why? In Douglas’ case, it had, on the surface, seemed obvious: he was an unmarried man, who chose to descend to the Cowgate to purchase some relief from his solitary state. Yet, Murray felt very strongly that the manner of the embrace in which Douglas and the young woman had been so firmly bound together did not suggest a passing fancy or a purely financial arrangement. The passion with which Douglas spoke in court, which Balneavis thought demonic, seemed to have other outlets, too. Was it, though, the kind of passion which could also lead to murder? Somehow, Murray found it simple to picture Douglas, friend of his father’s though he might have been, throttling Jamie as he thrust him back against the corn bing. But Douglas had also been at the burial.