Knowledge of Sins Past (Murray of Letho Book 2)

by Lexie Conyngham

  As he was the family lawyer and man of business, Mr. Tibo was not an unfamiliar guest at the dinner table. His family, likewise, had been lawyers and men of business to the Scoggies for as long as the Scoggies had had any business and the Tibos had been lawyers, so Nathaniel Tibo, descendant of uncounted generations in his place, had known the dining room since he could walk, and had run out of things to interest him in it. Nevertheless, he had arranged himself in front of a painting of Lord Scoggie’s mother and was studying it closely, hands crossed aloof behind his back. The painting was in oils and did not flatter the sitter, as if the artist had felt a keener interest in the late Lady Scoggie’s dentistry than in her complexion. The impression was of a country matron caught for a joke in fashionable city lady’s secondhand clothes. By contrast, the lawyer examining seemed like a sharp facet of the town cut into the country. Mr. Tibo was a man in his late twenties, discreetly prosperous and delicate of manner, less cautious than careful. Though his hair, briefly dark, had greyed completely by the time he was twenty, his complexion was fresh and his appearance distinguished, and he was generally considered, not least by himself, exceedingly handsome.

  Mr. Leckie was his clerk, and therefore dined less frequently in the Great Hall, though he was well designed to avoid the worst of the low-level draughts by being very short, and having to have his chair stacked with cushions to allow him to reach his dinner. Murray had, to be truthful, never observed that he suffered a deficiency in appetite equal to his deficiency of size, and had warned Robert and Henry not to eat quite so much as they usually did, though this had involved an arrangement regarding pies later in the afternoon. Nevertheless, he was pleased to see Cocky Leckie included at dinner, for the man was the most amiable, good-humoured fellow it was possible to imagine. It was rumoured that Cocky was employed by Nathaniel Tibo to go to places and talk to people that a respectable lawyer would not be expected to know, but Murray found this difficult to believe: he could see, instead, Tibo moving undefiled amongst the lower orders, picking out what he needed with gloved hands, and returning bland-faced to his more worthy clients, while Leckie would be incapable of such deception.

  Murray nudged the boys into making their bows to the guests, and approved their clean appearance following their resignation from the Discovery. He, too, had changed into appropriate clothes for a tutor and secretary to wear at his master’s table, though he wondered if something grander would be required for the arrival of Major Keyes. As if he had read his thoughts, Mr. Tibo turned from his usual polite enquiries of the boys and asked,

  ‘And when is our great battle hero, Major Keyes, expected?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I believe, sir,’ said Murray. He nodded to the sideboard, almost the length of the dinner table. ‘I see the silver is much depleted, so I expect Naismyth is giving it a final polish.’

  ‘Mr. Naismyth is much pleased with having a hero in the house, I think,’ said Leckie, setting to with a patter of leather soles on the flag floor. ‘He told me all about Major Keyes and Seringapatam.’

  ‘Aye’, said Tibo, less enthusiastically. ‘I overheard the bit where he captured Tippoo Sultan single-handed. I suppose Sir David Baird must have been busy elsewhere that day.’

  Murray laughed.

  ‘But Sir David Baird captured Tippoo Sultan, didn’t he, Mr. Murray?’ Henry was painful in his pursuit of accuracy, and Murray hardly wanted to dissuade him.

  ‘Sir David Baird, ably assisted and supported by your cousin, Major Keyes, and quite a number of other people, captured Tippoo Sultan’s body and took Seringapatam,’ he said. ‘Robert, where is Seringapatam?’

  ‘Where Sir David Baird left it?’ Robert chanced. At Murray’s frown he tried again. ‘The Leeward Islands?’

  ‘Um,’ said Cocky, and performed a complicated little dance step.

  ‘Not quite.’ Mr. Tibo looked superior, while Murray tried not to care. After all, he had never wanted to become a tutor.

  ‘We’ll deal with that particular chasm in your knowledge this afternoon, I think,’ he told Robert. ‘After all, if your cousin Major Keyes had the misfortune to leave a leg there, I think we should at least find it in the atlas.’

  Henry, the most literal of boys, opened his mouth, no doubt to point out that Major Keyes’ leg was unlikely to be in the atlas, but fortunately at that point his sister and her companion entered the room and the conversation paused, preparing to be redirected.

  Deborah Scoggie entered first, as usual, and took in in the first flashing glance the right number of places at the table, the missing silver from the sideboard, and the empty hands of the guests. She half-turned, and met the eye of Beatrix Pirrie behind her.

  ‘You were right, Bea. You always are.’

  Bea, more shy than her kinswoman, gave a little smile and edged into the room. Over her arm she had two rugs in a dull plaid.

  ‘Here,’ Deborah said, seizing them. ‘Mr. Tibo, Mr. Leckie: I know the invitation to dinner was late, and you wouldn’t have come prepared. Slip them on to your seats – that’s right, that one – and don’t let Father see, you know.’

  Obediently quick, Tibo took the plaids and hid them, then turned and bowed to the two girls.

  At first glance they could have been sisters, and at first Murray had taken them to be so until he was corrected. Now that he knew them better, he could see the differences. Both had, in thankfully modified form, the Scoggie family teeth. Both were pale, in Deborah’s case slightly pasty, in Bea’s lit, on occasion, with an inner glow which few seemed to notice. She was the poor relation: Deborah was the confident, self-assured daughter of the house. Beatrix was fairer than Deborah, though they both had blue eyes, and wore their hair in a similar way, though which of them took the lead in this was probably clear.

  Deborah drew her shawl around her and threw a glance at the fireplace.

  ‘I don’t suppose Father would allow ... of course he wouldn’t. What am I thinking about? Mr. Murray, I’m delighted to see you found dry clothes.’

  ‘Oh, Mr. Murray!’ Beatrix murmured. ‘Did your boating expedition not go as planned?’

  Murray glared at her, remembering her watching at the window overlooking the pigsty. It was not a moment to admire her voice, which, after Deborah’s, was pleasingly soft. Robert, however, was more disconcerted, and watched Murray carefully out of the corner of his eye. Henry charitably kicked him on the leg.

  ‘Henry!’ snapped Deborah, then saw Robert’s expression. ‘Ah. I think, Bea, that we have here someone who may know more about Mr. Murray’s boating accident than any other.’

  ’Boating?’ said Tibo. ‘I though Lord Scoggie did not allow the boys to play by the lake.’

  ‘He does not,’ agreed Murray mildly. ‘And he is sound in his judgement, when you consider how wet we can become simply by playing in the pigsty.’

  ‘I am sure you are too kind to my brothers, Mr. Murray,’ said Deborah. They were all standing rather self-consciously around near the laid end of the table, for there were no easy chairs in the Great Hall, and family custom did not decree a meeting in any other room. It was awkward for talking, as Cocky Leckie was smaller now even than Robert. Murray could feel the cold of the flags creeping up through the thin soles of his shoes. Deborah gave a little shuffle of impatience.

  ‘Oh, where is my father gone now?’

  ‘We are not expecting Lady Scoggie?’ asked Tibo politely.

  ‘We gave up expecting my mother long ago,’ said Deborah, taking the sting out of it with a smile.

  ‘Years,’ added Robert, trying to sound world-weary. Henry poked him. ‘Ow!’

  ‘Robert,’ said Murray, ‘And indeed Henry.’

  ‘Well, she’s never here,’ Robert said, almost as reasonably as he had hoped. ‘I think I saw her yesterday, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘She’s out doing good work,’ said Henry firmly.

  ‘Why can’t she do good work at home?’ Robert demanded.

  ‘Boys ...’ Murray’s voice was ominous.
/>   ‘But why?’ Robert insisted.

  ‘One more word, Robert, and you will regret it.’ Well, Murray thought to himself, if Tibo and Cocky Leckie don’t know what the family is like by now, they deserve the shock. Robert shut his mouth with a sullen snap, manoeuvred himself to where he thought Murray could not see him, and began to make faces at Henry.

  ‘I believe my mother is visiting some families down by the saltworks today.’ Deborah tried to pretend nothing had happened.

  ‘She does a great deal of very welcome charitable work,’ Tibo agreed, smiling his smooth smile at her. She glowed in its warmth.

  ‘She certainly does not spare herself,’ Murray agreed. ‘She works extremely hard, and does not shirk from helping in the lowliest of places.’ A quick tweak to Robert’s ear stopped the rude faces almost silently.

  Above them, tacked to one of the white-washed walls, was what Murray thought a very good portrait of the present Lady Scoggie, painted only that year by a young local lad called Wilkie. It showed a thin-faced woman with high cheekbones and a chin that brooked no opposition. She had truly lovely dark eyes that stared directly – no misty-eyed young girl, this, but a woman who had made firm decisions concerning her life – at the humble viewer. Her hair, curled round a pale scarf, was till dark, and thick with the kind of gloss that indicates generations of wealth and good food behind it. Firm hands, thinly disguised in lace gloves, were clasped in front of her, relaxed but at the same time giving the impression of waiting. If what she had been waiting for was her first view of the portrait, Murray hoped for the artist’s sake that she had liked it.

  Tibo glanced up at the distant ceiling, as if seeking some further inspiration for conversation.

  ‘The days are drawing in fast,’ said Leckie, not above resorting to the obvious if no other subject presented itself. ‘Major Keyes will find it chill.’

  ‘He is not here straight from India,’ Deborah said quickly. ‘He has been in England, under the care of a surgeon, and then for some time helping with barrack duties, so my father says. After all, Seringapatam was years ago.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Tibo, with a smug look. ‘I hope he does not find the dust settled on his palm leaves.’

  ‘Not if Mr. Naismyth has the chance to go at them with a cloth, anyway!’ quipped Cocky Leckie, and the others laughed. Before a further silence had the chance to fall, the door opened, and Lord Scoggie made his appearance at the end of the Great Hall.

  ‘Ah, Nathaniel! “Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom is no guile”!’

  ‘I hope not, indeed, sir,’ responded Tibo with a low bow, which almost hide his fixed smile. The joke was an old one: it had even formed part of the estate bequeathed to Lord Scoggie by his father, and had seen a great deal of wear since. Lord Scoggie, beaming, advanced into the room. With his angular legs, fulsome hair and monumental teeth, he looked like a billy goat taught to walk upright for a wager, but Murray had a good deal more respect for him than his appearance seemed to merit.

  ‘I am delighted you could stay to dinner. We can go on with our meeting afterwards. Mr. Leckie, too, you are welcome to our board. Deborah, Beatrix ...’ he nodded at each of them, though he must have seen them during the morning. ‘Ah, Henry, Robert. Tell me what you have been learning this morning?’

  ‘We were Captain Cook,’ Robert volunteered, with a flourish of his sword hand.

  ‘Both of you? Well, well: Mr. Murray, I take it this was a geography lesson?’

  ‘Principally, yes, my lord. With sideways ventures into gravity and the theory of water displacement.’

  Lord Scoggie laughed.

  ‘I take it you managed this without going near the lake?’

  ‘Oh, yes, my lord.’

  ‘Good, good. Now, where is our dinner?’

  He took his place at the head of the table, and waited standing while everyone else went to their places. Deborah stepped to her mother’s empty place and rang a large handbell that sat there, then returned to her own place, bowing her head. Lord Scoggie cleared his throat, and pronounced grace at a solemn pace that made Murray feel dinner was being unnaturally postponed. The second he had finished, the company muttered ‘Amen’, and were in their seats before the echo had died away. The soup appeared instantly in front of Lord Scoggie, who spooned it into pewter bowls and passed it round the table.

  Kale, kale, kale, thought Murray. The soup was of the kind you could have found in the home of a peasant two hundred years before: oatmeal, kale, salt and water, boiled until grey. Mrs. Costane had probably added curses of her own making, but apart from that, Murray felt as if he was eating liquid history. It was enough to put him off the subject.

  ‘I was hoping to see Lady Scoggie at dinner,’ said Lord Scoggie after a few moments.

  ‘She’s visiting the new families at the saltworks,’ said Deborah. ‘She probably hasn’t noticed the time.’

  ‘Has she visited Tom Baillie’s family recently, do you know?’ Lord Scoggie’s eyes were on his soup. Deborah looked surprised.

  ‘I have no idea, Father. Is it important? I could ask her when she comes home.’

  ‘No, no.’ Lord Scoggie shook his heavy head quickly. ‘It matters very little, very little indeed. Speaking of visiting, though: did you know that we have new neighbours?’

  ‘New neighbours? That’s exciting.’ Deborah finished her soup. ‘Where have they come to?’

  ‘To Aberardour Lodge – you know, on Sir John Anstruther’s land,’ explained Tibo. ‘Sir John is never here and his agent is in Edinburgh, so I helped with the agency. The name is Bootham: English, a couple, no family.’

  ‘Mr. Tibo says the man is a scholar,’ said Lord Scoggie with satisfaction. ‘We shall enjoy their company. Mr. Murray, you might visit them at some point: Mr. Bootham will be pleased to talk with a Master of Arts.’

  Murray smiled politely, used to Lord Scoggie flourishing him as an intellectual trophy.

  ‘And his wife?’ Deborah asked. ‘What is she like?’

  ‘Very pretty,’ said Tibo, confident in his judgement. ‘Another ornament to the parish.’ Beatrix looked at him with her slow, deep eyes, but did not say anything.

  Deborah glanced round the table to see if everyone had finished their soup, and reached over to ring the bell again.

  ‘Anyway, I was hoping to ask Lady Scoggie to visit them, of course, so that everyone else can,’ said Lord Scoggie. When he spoke of his wife, his tone was wistful, and a little humble. It always surprised Murray.

  ‘Beatrix and I shall go and visit them this afternoon,’ said Deborah decisively. ‘That should suffice, particularly if we take Mamma’s apologies. We have had a busy few days, but we’re almost ready for Major Keyes coming tomorrow, aren’t we, Bea? I think we have time for a little outing.’ Beatrix did not look so sure, but said nothing.

  ‘Major Keyes is to arrive in the afternoon, I think you said, Miss Scoggie?’ said Tibo.

  ‘That is when we are expecting him, yes. His room has only to have flowers put in it. We shall visit the Boothams. If we are not scholarly enough to talk to the husband, then surely between us we’ll be pretty enough to talk to the wife.’

  Tibo’s mouth twisted a little as he nodded acknowledgement to her, not quite sure if she meant a reprimand. Murray was positive that she did.

  The door from the kitchens opened, and Naismyth appeared with boiled chickens in a serving dish. Murray sighed inwardly, longing for a little variety.

  There was little variety down in the howff by the harbour, either, but on the whole the customers were more concerned about the quality – the chicken over which they were picking in the dregs of the broth served by the landlord’s wife was, to say the least, athletic. Joe Baillie had expressed several opinions about it already, but his plate was cleared and he wiped round it a heel of hard bread, which he then chewed viciously. The other fishermen around him nodded obediently each time he spoke, but ate with silent enthusiasm. The wonder was that they could taste the broth at all, for the
room was thick with pipe smoke intensified over several hours of dedicated smoking, and with an equally thick air of discontent.

  Joe Baillie finished his bread, spat a last piece of bone from his wet lips, and leaned back, wiping his hands through his lead-grey hair. His face was weathered as rough as the skin of a dogfish, his eyes pale, brows dark and permanently rippled like sand after high tide. The others finished their broth hurriedly, one eye on him. He, on the other hand, was staring out of the low window at the harbour, and the boats scraping idly against the walls. The narrow street between was empty, everyone at their dinner.

  ‘Aye, a fine day for the fishing,’ Joe remarked, and the others nodded, reaching for their pipes again. There was no novelty in the statement. Joe alone had said the same thing round about once an hour since dawn, when they had all met by the harbour, when the day had been lost in a moment. A few seconds later the howff’s great brown clock, too large for the wall, struck the same measure of time. Now that dinner was over, one or two of the fishermen looked uneasy, as if they felt they had spent enough of the day in respectful communion and could well find things to do at home. Joe, however, did not show any sign of moving from his bench, and gradually the others settled again, like yawls coming reluctantly into harbour.

  It was mostly the older fishermen here in the howff, the year-round men who took the small boats out, summer and winter, four men and a helmsman, for the white fish, with lines for cod and haddock, or nets for skate. Some, the loners, or the odd men out, took the yawls out in summer for red ware cod in the rocky waters around the coast, on their own or with a boy to help and learn the skill. The younger men, newly back from the whaling, had spent the morning draped about the harbour, scuffing their toes, staring at the sea and the empty boats in the harbour, no doubt also remarking on the fineness of the day. Men who had hurried back to their home village from the slow vastness of the ocean, and the enormity of the rich whale harvest and the racked barrels of sweet oil, for the rush of the herring season, were not going to wait patiently. Now that dinner was over, one or two had gone to inspect the seaweed or to stare speculatively at the saltworks, or find girls to talk to, carefully avoiding the score of big herring boats. The few young fishermen reappearing at the harbour now, as the new smoke permeated the stale fug of the howff, stared at the sky as if willing dusk to come and allow them to go home honourably.