He read the note over aloud to Squirrel, who cocked her head disbelievingly. Then he rang for Robbins to give the note to one of the manservants to deliver. After giving him the information about the Dundas groom last night, Robbins had stayed to discuss the implications of what he had learned, and knew roughly at least what Murray was planning to do after dinner. Roughly was the extent to which Murray himself had any idea, and ‘planning’ was perhaps too strong a word. In his social vocabulary, there were no words for accusing one’s father’s friend of murdering one’s father.
He reflected on the occasions on which he had seen Dundas since his return to Edinburgh. There had been the funeral, of course, with all the Dundas family out in force, in the most fashionable black, from the great man himself down to the sniffling Willie Jack. There was the meal after the burial, and there had been the dinners, two at the Dundas household and one at the Thomsons’. The first dinner at the Dundases’ had really been to introduce the Warwicks to Edinburgh society: Murray supposed they would go home now. He felt sorry for Harry Dundas, who might well thereby lose his one chance of marriage – or maybe it was already lost, judging by Miss Warwick’s reaction the other night.
It was Harry who had made him wonder a little about Dundas’ new groom and the abrupt departure of the old one, as he had seemed so reluctant to talk of it at dinner yesterday. Harry, also, was now unable to buy a saddle-horse for Miss Warwick. Was he also hoping to make money from the sale of Miss Gordon’s land? Murray hoped not: he had never been a close friend, but Murray had always found him a decent fellow. He was still shocked enough over Balneavis: another acquaintance destroyed would be upsetting.
Oddly, he was not so shocked at the idea of Dundas as a murderer. It seemed to fit better with what he knew of the man’s character. Dundas was quite vain, and would not like to find himself at a disadvantage. He also enjoyed influence, and he would have lost that had he gone to prison for selling land to which he was not entitled. Murray remembered something he had once heard his father say.
‘Thomson is a terrible collector of titles,’ he had remarked, having just come from a meeting with him. ‘He will be as bad as Dundas soon. But there is still, I am pleased to say, a difference between them, for Thomson likes titled people for themselves, and is as interested in a chimney sweep as in a lord. But Dundas collects them for the good they can do Dundas, and nothing more.’
Mr. Simpson’s arrival broke into these reflections, and Murray was forced to contemplate other matters.
‘Well, now, Mr. Murray,’ said the lawyer, intertwining his fingers. ‘I have set matters in motion in Chancery and at the Commissary Court. In the mean time, there is nothing to prevent you carrying on as usual.’ As usual, thought Murray – what’s that? Simpson gave a polite cough. ‘May I ask if you have yet decided how you wish to carry on?’
Murray contemplated him and tried not to show the mild disgust he felt.
‘No. I have had other matters to consider, and I have not yet visited Letho.’
Mr. Simpson looked a little disappointed.
‘Then is there anything further this morning?’
‘Yes, there is,’ said Murray. ‘Last night I drew up two copies of my will.’
‘Oh, splendid!’ said Mr. Simpson. Murray looked at him oddly.
‘I shall call two of my maids in to witness me signing it, and then I should like you to hold one copy for me at your offices. The other will remain here. Should you choose to peruse it,’ he said, as Mr. Simpson had already begun to, ‘you will find it very similar to my father’s, except in that the residue of the moveable estate is left to my brother George.’ He rose and rang the bell.
Robbins brought Iffy and Effy in to witness the will, as they were not beneficiaries. Murray had expected them just to make their marks, but each signed her full name with great precision and clarity, taking some time over it. Murray watched, feeling absurdly proud of them. The papers were folded and one set was handed over to Mr. Simpson, while Murray, when the maids had left them once more, put his copy where he had found his father’s will, in the bookcase.
Unfortunately, Mr. Simpson had not stayed long, and Murray was left with the rest of the morning and the whole of his solitary dinner to grow nervous and to doubt the method, or the sense, or even the value of challenging the Dundases with what he knew. Perhaps there was some other interpretation to place on all the facts he had gathered.
He set out, irresistibly, earlier than he had intended, and made himself walk not directly to St. Andrew’s Square but along to Hanover Street first, and back east along George Street, to try to stop his legs shaking. On the way he met Miss Thomson and Miss Catherine Armstrong, with, inevitably, Gavin Dundas. He greeted the party, who explained that in the intervals between showers they were shopping. The ladies held ridiculous little baskets which would take the weight of nothing more than a hat trimming: presumably Gavin could be relied upon for anything bulkier. He looked willing enough to try, anyway.
‘And is Mr. Dundas at home?’ Murray at last asked Gavin. He felt like a Pharisee in search of a likely Iscariot.
‘Aye,’ said Gavin, ‘he and my mother and Harry and Willie Jack, I believe, the whole boiling of them. Thought I’d enjoy a refreshing change, myself.’ He smiled gallantly at the two girls. ‘But you’re welcome to ‘em. Oh, you won’t find the Warwicks at home, though, if you had that in mind. They’ve gone to Gullane overnight, to see some old friend of Lady Warwick. Still, Harry seems to be bearing their absence remarkably well.’ He grinned wickedly, a sentiment reflected in Miss Thomson’s sly smile. Miss Catherine frowned briefly.
There was nothing for it: he would have to go. He said his farewells and walked to the Square. George Street had never seemed so short. He felt as if he were being watched the whole way.
A tired-looking manservant opened the door to him.
‘Is Mr. Dundas at home? I have no wish to disturb their dinner,’ Murray added, half-hoping even now to be sent away or to have some excuse for leaving. The servant left him and went in the direction of the street parlour. Murray had never been in the Dundas parlour: their entertaining was always on a scale more impressive than intimate. He waited. The servant reappeared and brought him through.
‘Charles, my dear boy,’ said Dundas, rising slowly. ‘What can we do for you? Some tea, Wilson.’ The servant left. Dundas waved to a seat near where Lady Sarah was just returning to hers, but Murray remained standing. Harry and Willie Jack, both on the point of resuming their seats near the window, were caught out and paused, knees slightly bent.
‘I should like, if I may, sir, to speak with you alone,’ Murray said. He could feel himself shaking, and hoped it did not show. At his sides, his hands longed to move, but he held them still by a terrible force of concentration.
Willie Jack looked deeply relieved.
‘Then if you will excuse me,’ he said, ‘I have classes ...’ and he scurried from the room. Harry looked at his mother, who seemed not to have heard. Her eyes were closed. Harry glanced from his father to Murray, and sat down, next to his mother in the seat indicated for Murray. Murray swallowed. So much for the authoritative start, he thought. He watched as Dundas once more seated himself at the table at the window, and smiled at him.
‘I’m afraid this seems to be the best we can do, Charles,’ he said. ‘And to tell the truth, if you’ve come to ask about Lily Warwick, it is her mother you should speak to, not me.’
Murray shook his head and cleared his throat. His hands were beginning to ache, and he latched them together behind his back, digging one thumbnail into the other hand to make the pain clear his head. It worked, for a little while, at least. He hoped Harry and Lady Sarah would not notice.
‘Recently,’ he began, ‘I have happened to chance on –’ (Tautologous, he thought suddenly. Not good oratory.) ‘on some information which I find a little puzzling, or if not puzzling, then very distressing.’
‘Distressing?’ repeated Dundas, with a sympathetic loo
k. ‘To what does this information relate?’ Harry and Lady Sarah were very quiet. Murray said,
‘It relates to some land in the New Town, situated in that area into which the Council wishes to expand its building work.’ Dundas nodded encouragingly. ‘This land was sold to the Council, according to their records, by you, with the interest of Lady Sarah.’
‘That is quite correct,’ said Dundas. He seemed undisturbed.
‘You came by this land,’ Murray went on, ‘through the death, two years ago, of Miss Christian Gordon of Balkiskan, a cousin, as I understand it, of Lady Sarah.’ His mouth was uncomfortably dry. There was a half-finished glass of brandy on the table, and he longed to snatch it up and empty it. He took a couple of deep breaths through his nose. ‘There is no record of this inheritance in the Register of Sasines.’
‘Really?’ said Dundas in complete astonishment. ‘No mention at all?’
‘None,’ said Murray firmly. ‘And I believe that if we went to the Chancery and examined the registers there, in which they record inheritance of land, there would be no entry there, either.’
‘Well,’ said Dundas, ‘this is very irregular. I shall have to mention this to my man of business, and he can carry out suitable investigations. It really is too bad. What if I want to sell some more of that land, and someone claims I have no title to it?’
If Murray had collected less information, he might just have been convinced. Dundas was very calm.
‘Your man of business,’ Murray repeated slowly. ‘Now, who would that be, since Matthew Muir met such an unfortunate end?’
‘Matthew Muir?’ His confusion, too, was impressive. ‘Was he not the notary who died in your poor father’s tragic accident?’
‘Yes, he was,’ Murray agreed. Dundas’ calm, in the face of all the facts Murray had accumulated, was actually contagious: he knew Dundas to be guilty, and was swiftly losing any feelings of sympathy he might have had for him. Gradually, though Dundas did not know it, Murray was gaining control. ‘You knew Muir,’ he said, ‘because Muir was the notary’s apprentice, the acting notary,’ he said sarcastically, ‘that registered your sale of land to the Council. It was all very properly drawn up, except that Muir had no licence, so to oblige a gentleman, he used his master’s sign to guarantee the document, since he had no sign of his own. And he was inexperienced enough – or canny enough – to take a gentleman’s word and not look for proof of one or two facts. It must have come as something of a surprise for Matthew Muir when he moved to his new flat in the Canongate, and discovered that the late Miss Christian Gordon of Balkiskan, from whom you had inherited so much land, was in fact alive and well, and living upstairs.’
At that there was a little cry from behind Murray.
‘But you said ...’
‘Be quiet, my dear,’ said Dundas, and Lady Sarah tailed off.
‘And that is why, presumably, you killed Matthew Muir, and then my father? Had he seen you with Muir, or had he found out about your regrettable business habits in some other way? The same presumably applies to my stable boy, who must have found out too much about you, perhaps seeing you visit Muir when he lived in the Grassmarket. And finally Dandy Muir, whom you tried to pay off, and then had killed, beaten in a violent fight by your new Irish groom. Groom, hired thug and bleach worker: an unusual combination.’
It was remarkable how much better he felt now that he had said it. Murray felt light-hearted, and almost happy. Dundas pushed his chair back slowly, and rose thoughtfully from the table, placing one hand elegantly on his hip while the other rose almost absently to his chin. He began to pace, self-consciously unselfconscious. The pose was one of a careful thinker.
‘Well,’ said Dundas at last, ‘you have been very active, that much is plain. But all I can say in return is that I absolutely deny murdering your father, who was a very dear friend, or your young stable boy, or Dandy Muir.’
‘And what about Matthew Muir?’ asked Murray, undeterred.
Dundas walked another couple of steps, and removed his fingers from his chin to wave his arm and point it in illustration, as he came suddenly very close to Murray and spoke softly.
‘When you are of an age to understand such things, my dear boy, you will discover that sometimes difficult choices have to be made. The thing was, you see, the stupid man actually came and told me what he had learned. And what was worse, he said he would report it, quite regardless of the fact that it would do him more harm than me – I have considerable influence, as you know. But it would have distressed Lady Sarah a great deal, and she has not been well.’
He stepped to Murray’s side. Murray turned his head to watch him.
‘Muir had just moved to the Canongate, and he sent a note round to say he had discovered something alarming, and asked if we could meet. When I saw from the note the place to which he had moved, I guessed what his information might be, and arranged to meet him at the new feus. They were on my mind anyway, and I could see the potential for accidents at a building site. In this weather, none of the workmen is sleeping on the site. It was quiet there, and I did not think there was much chance of being seen, after dark. He was a very stupid man, you know, it really is not much of a waste. He never thought to check if we really had inherited the land. John Pollock, his master, used to be my man of business before he fell ill, and in one or two visits to his offices after his sickness overtook him, I met Muir and gained his confidence. He liked to converse with a gentleman, and liked money, too.’
‘Did he ask you for any more when he discovered Miss Gordon’s existence?’ Murray asked.
‘No, no, he didn’t. I think, you know, he was too shocked by the idea of a gentleman deceiving him. He wanted everyone to know. And besides, he had just had word that John Pollock was making an unexpected recovery, and was expected back in Edinburgh soon.
‘So we had a little chat, anyway, sheltered by some scaffolding, and as we talked I discovered that the poles were somewhat unsteady, and it was easy to pull down, darting out myself at the last moment. It had a greater effect than I had imagined: some stones fell, too, making a great noise which attracted the attention of some men along the street. I moved into the shadows, not daring to leave the site in case I was seen, and to my surprise I saw them pull two bodies from the wreckage. I was really very distressed to find that the second was your father. I hope he did not overhear anything that would have made him think any less of me. But, you see, his death was truly an accident.’
Murray felt too cold even to shiver. He was back in Queen Street, on a dark night, watching tumbling scaffolding fall endlessly on to two helpless men, trapped below. Behind him now, he could hear Dundas breathing evenly. From somewhere he found at last the strength to say,
‘And then your servant first paid off Dandy Muir, and then murdered him.’
‘Very true. You see, again I did no murder. But I was growing anxious: you see, my new groom, who had been given a number of extra duties, reported that a dark-haired gentleman had been seen attending Matthew Muir’s funeral. I immediately realised that it must have been John Douglas. He is a sharp man, and keeps his thoughts to himself. So I sent a note round to Dandy, with some money, and thought it would suffice. But it did not work: my man said that Douglas had called again, and I knew that something rather more permanent had to be done. I think Harry, here, guessed that the groom was more than just that, did you not, Harry? He’s a bright lad.’ Murray glanced round at last. Harry’s face was ashen, and he looked as if he wanted to be sick. Murray was suddenly reminded of Henry Scoggie. ‘The groom disposed of Dandy. He would have disposed of Douglas the same night, but could never quite catch him on his own, he said.’
‘So that is three of the four,’ said Murray, struggling to keep focussed through the odd discoveries that Dundas thought he was Douglas, that Dundas had tried to kill Douglas and that the presence of Mary and Murray himself on High Street might even have saved Douglas’ life that night. ‘Now, tell me, sir: why did you dispose of Jamie, my stable
boy? What unfortunate accident had befallen him?’
‘That I do not know,’ said Dundas primly. He moved back to stand between Murray and the window. ‘After all, I was at your father’s funeral all day. I understand from gossip that the boy died while we were at the burial: I think I can be allowed not to have had a hand in that one.’ He smiled.
‘You were at the burial, yes,’ said Murray, ‘but what about this Irish servant of yours? It seems to be his style, beating people to death, throwing them around, throttling them.’
Harry suddenly came from behind him and rushed to the window. He flung up the sash and took in several great mouthfuls of air. Still Murray could hear nothing from Lady Sarah.
‘I only employed my groom since your father’s funeral,’ Dundas explained. ‘At that time I had no one who carried out such useful tasks for me. I had nothing whatsoever to do with your boy or his death. I hardly knew the lad existed until he was dead. I saw him, of course, when we called at your stable that morning, but I am quite sure that Thomson and Balneavis will both swear that he was alive when we left him. I had no reason to kill him or to have him killed.’ He sat again, coat tails flicked elegantly. Harry looked at him in disgust, and returned to his mother.
‘Why will you not admit to this? You have admitted to the others,’ asked Murray. The cold would not leave him. He almost felt that it was emanating in waves from Dundas.
‘For the simple reason that I did not do it,’ said Dundas. ‘Dear Charles,’ he went on reasonably, ‘what on earth are you planning to do about all this? For you may own Letho, but if your new-found wealth has deluded you into thinking that you are of any real consequence in this town – particularly beside me – you are very sadly mistaken.’
‘But you have murdered, or caused to be murdered, four people!’
Service of the Heir: An Edinburgh Murder (Murray of Letho Book 3) Page 29