Knowledge of Sins Past (Murray of Letho Book 2)

by Lexie Conyngham

  The howff was silent, except for the occasional suck or spit or shuffle. Joe’s brother, sitting by the fire, stretched one leg out and wriggled his back, but he was allowed a special dispensation for such obvious movement. Joe looked over at him and met his eye comfortably.

  Richie Shaw, bald as a seagull’s egg, expelled a long channel of smoke and stared at the fire.

  ‘Aye, my lass brought us a piece of news on the Sabbath.’

  No immediate reaction came, but Richie’s expression showed no anxiety. There was no rush on a day like this. Eventually Joe licensed the conversation himself.

  ‘She’ll be marrying soon, that lass.’

  ‘It’s no that.’ Richie was emboldened. ‘It’s worse. She says Major Keyes is expected up at the Castle.’

  If the room had been quiet before, it was holding its breath now. Joe was motionless, and no one else dared move before he did. It was only when the innkeeper’s wife hurried in to collect the dishes that the spell was broken, and several of the fishermen set to to relight their pipes.

  ‘Major Keyes, eh?’ Joe met his brother’s eye again, but this time his look was more calculating. Tom Baillie himself stayed calm, but raised his eyebrows as if asking his brother what he was going to do about it. Joe looked as if he had his plans, but was not going to air them there.

  ‘We can’t just let him walk back down here and expect to be welcomed,’ said Richie Shaw, after watching the Baillies for a moment.

  ‘He cannot walk down here that easily himself, I hear,’ said Hugh Farquhar, trying to make it sound offhand. He rubbed at some fresh-looking scratches on his face. ‘You’ll have heard about Seringapatam.’

  ‘Aye, well, it’s you that does the reading, Hughie,’ said Joe Baillie, as if Seringapatam could only exist on paper. ‘You say he’s lost a leg, but I doubt that would stop a man like him.’

  ‘He’s a gentleman,’ added Richie, with a fine lining of spite to his words. ‘He could probably have himself carried down here.’

  ‘And why would he do that?’ asked Hugh, cross that his contribution had been dismissed. ‘He’s a great hero now, with freedoms of this city and that, and no doubt a great fortune, and a fine pension, and maybe a grand wealthy wife, for all we know to the contrary. What in the Lord’s name would bring him down to this wee back end of a place?’

  ‘A grand wealthy wife?’ asked Joe. The tone of his voice was warning enough. Hugh, who was not a powerful man, shrank into his seat. ‘What could we tell a grand wealthy wife, then, about her new hero of a husband with his freedoms of the city? Would it be worth his fortune? Would it be worth his fine pension?’

  ‘You’re no saying we threaten him for money, Joe,’ said Tom Baillie softly, cutting under his brother’s rising voice. Joe drew breath, then caught Tom’s eye once again.

  ‘Ach!’ said Joe, frustrated.

  Richie grunted, and drew his pipe from his mouth to make an apologetic gesture in the air.

  ‘He’s no married,’ he said. ‘My wee lassie wonders if he’s to marry Miss Scoggie.’

  ‘That would put Nathaniel Tibo’s nose out of joint,’ Hugh put in.

  ‘Keyes doesn’t deserve her,’ said Joe definitely, then reflected. ‘Though if she grows up like her mother, maybe it would be punishment enough. That woman has a nose on her the size of the kirk spire, and she’s forever poking it into other people’s business.’

  ‘She been round again, then, Joe?’

  Tom replied for his brother.

  ‘Aye, she came round with some vegetables and a loaf of bread yesterday morning. She’s very kind.’

  Joe spat, and Tom smiled at him. When he smiled, his weariness showed through.

  ‘Here’s Mally,’ Richie remarked, seeing a figure pass the tiny window. ‘He’s a bit late for his dinner.’

  The door of the howff shot open, and Mally filled the doorway, enormous, shoulders bulging, arms at his sides like the claws of a lobster. He wore an apron, at first a pale blur as their eyes grew accustomed to his outline against the light. Then, as they focussed on it, they gasped with a collective hiss.

  Mally stepped into the room, black hair brushing the ceiling, a rag tied hard around his unshaved neck, sleeves rolled high over his bristly biceps. His hands were vast, muscular, each big enough to encircle a man’s throat. He stepped over to the fire, and nodded a greeting to Tom Baillie. In the firelight, everyone could see. His apron dripped with blood.

  ‘Aye, Mally,’ said Joe, his voice for once uncertain.

  ‘Aye, Joe,’ Mally said, a laugh in his deep voice. ‘I’ve sorted it. We’re fishing in the morning.’

  Chapter Three

  Whatever business Lord Scoggie had with his lawyer and his lawyer’s man – and it did not have to be anything very important for Lord Scoggie to treat it like matters of state – was lengthy enough to warrant continuation after dinner. This meant that they would all be in the library, which was where Murray had hoped to pursue undisturbed the other side of his work at Scoggie Castle. Though Lord Scoggie assured him that he would not be disturbing them, Murray preferred, privately, to see the situation the other way around. Apart from Lord Scoggie’s cawing voice, he had found something oddly unsettling when he had previously worked in the library during one of his Lordship’s meetings with Nathaniel Tibo. The family papers, which Murray was dusting, arranging, and cataloguing, consisted to a very great degree of correspondence involving generations of Lords Scoggie, dealing, in neat succession, with as long a pedigree of Messrs. Tibo. Murray could not avoid the impression that he was part of a large automated manufacturing machine, into which the present Lord Scoggie and the present Mr. Tibo, patterns for their own descendants, poured paper and ink at one end of the library, while he sorted and batched the finished product at the other end, like so many bales of cloth. Some of the documents had been written by Tibos and signed by Scoggies when Queen Mary was a girl, and Murray wondered if the machine would ever stop.

  However, the day was still moderately fine, and he had a conviction that Robert had not suffered enough for his misdeeds of the morning. He took both boys back upstairs to change into outdoor clothes again, and led them out to the front of the house equipped with sketchbooks and chalks.

  ‘Oh, not drawing,’ moaned Robert. ‘I’m not doing drawing. Deborah and Bea do drawing.’

  ‘Yes, they do, and very well, too,’ Murray agreed. ‘But I’m not asking you to do drawing. This is engineering – and architecture.’

  ‘Oh!’ Robert looked more interested. Henry had been politely attentive all day.

  ‘You’re each going to draw the front of the house, paying great attention to each stone, and working out how the important ones, like lintels over the windows, might have been cut and built in. I want you to label your drawings with all the architectural terms you know. Then we’ll see what you’re going to do next.’

  While they settled down and made a start on their sketches, Murray wondered what they were going to do next. He had had no idea, when he came to work for Lord Scoggie, that he would be required to tutor his sons, and the idea had filled him with a raging panic he had never previously felt. Now, over a year later, he was still surviving on a mixture of impulse, his own interests, and what he remembered learning at the High School in Edinburgh. The last had consisted mainly of how to parse Latin and avoid beatings. Occasionally the lessons were bounced along by the boys’ own current interests, as in the case of what was supposed to have been a geography lesson that morning based on Captain Cook’s last voyage. Sometimes he liked the boys, particularly Henry: often he came perilously close to loathing them. However, he had no choice, at present, in his career, but to face poverty and homelessness, or to stay here, obey his fairly reasonable employer, enjoy the parts of his work he could enjoy, and pray for the day when Henry and Robert would be packed off to university. Unlike many tutors, he had no intention of escorting them.

  He glanced over their shoulders now and again. Robert’s drawing was a fair rep
resentation of the front of Scoggie Castle, but he was going to have difficulty in fitting in all the details required. Henry, his attention drawn to the window lintels, had begun with one of those and branched out from it in painfully accurate little chalk lines, but he would be lucky if he fitted much more than the one window on the page. Still, so far they were both concentrating hard and seemed to be enjoying the challenge. Murray found he was holding his breath, and stopped.

  The breeze lifted a little, and blew an echo of Lord Scoggie’s voice to them from the library. Good heavens, thought Murray, the man must have the window open. Tibo and Leckie would have to be chipped off their seats like ice off a lake at this rate. From here in front of the house you could see the lake, a broken slice of sky lying at the foot of the hill with woodland beyond it, and a few trees to this side. Sheep grazed the park smooth; they were the closest thing Lord Scoggie had to ornamental gardeners, and the only flowers visible were a few late daisies the sheep had missed. What happened in the kitchen garden was closer to farming, as Lord Scoggie declined to find any vegetable good that had not come out of his own soil. Murray sighed at the thought. Another year of kale every day and he felt he might start to frill at the edges.

  The dusk was hardly drawing in, but the day was turning colder. Murray looked again at the boys’ work.

  ‘My hands are blue,’ said Robert, more out of curiosity than complaint.

  ‘Yes. I think we’ll go in, now. Have you finished?’

  ‘Nowhere near, sir,’ said Henry, concerned. He had outlined the facade of the castle to fit just within the edge of the paper, and was scrupulously drawing stones to fill it. He had a long way to go. Robert announced that he had completed his.

  ‘Very good, Robert, an accurate basic shape. The doorway is quite fine, too. What about the top window in the left tower, though?’

  ‘The what, sir?’ Robert looked blank.

  ‘You left out a window.’ Murray pointed upwards.

  ‘Oh, it’s only Bea’s room. It’s not important,’ Robert decided.

  ‘It’s important to Bea. But you can draw it in when we go back indoors. Pack up your chalks, and we’ll see if we can find a fire lit somewhere.’

  ‘And cocoa?’ asked Robert, flexing his blue fingers ostentatiously.

  ‘And cocoa. And maybe,’ said Murray, with a rush of benevolence, ‘those pies I mentioned before dinner.’

  As the boys packed up with enthusiasm, Murray heard the front door open, and looked up to see Nathaniel Tibo and Cocky Leckie emerge from the house, their meeting finally over. Cocky skipped over to them.

  ‘Drawings, lads? May I see?’

  The boys proudly showed off their work, forgetting their cold hands. Cocky found good in both pictures and praised them, while Murray and Tibo looked on, Tibo’s mouth twisted into a little smile that did not quite stretch to his eyes. Murray found himself wondering if Tibo actually had any affection for the Scoggie family at all. Then he realised that, as usual, Tibo knew he was being watched, and Murray looked away, embarrassed.

  ‘Mr. Leckie,’ said Robert, emboldened by the little man’s friendliness, ‘have you heard that Parry the Pugilistic Chanticleer is to come to Elie?’

  ‘Is he? Is he indeed?’ Murray was sure Leckie had already heard the news, but he was giving Robert his moment of glory in telling him. ‘Is he here to give an exhibition?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Robert very seriously. He folded his hands behind his back in the way his father often did, and straightened up. ‘I heard that he was supposed to have been fighting Jem Belcher, but he won’t fight now he’s lost an eye.’

  ‘Very true, and sensible of him, for it is hard to judge distances with only the one eye,’ agreed Leckie. Belcher’s eye had been knocked out over a year ago, when the Pugilistic Chanticleer had never been heard of. As far as Murray could judge, he would not have been heard of now, for he was not in the first rank of pugilists, except for his habit of beginning and, if the fates spared him, ending each bout with a song of his own composition. A little way away, he saw Henry thoughtfully cover one eye with his hand, and stare about him at the nearest trees, head on one side.

  ‘We want Father to let us go to see him,’ Robert explained, more interested in action, and in the chance to gather allies for his argument. ‘He’s famous. Famous people don’t come here very much.’

  ‘That at least is true,’ said Tibo with a smile. ‘One can only wonder what has driven the mighty Parry to a backwater like Elie. And is Lord Scoggie disposed to allow you this outing?’ His smile deepened as Robert’s face fell.

  ‘We haven’t asked him yet. And Mr. Murray says he probably won’t let us. Father thinks pugilism isn’t for gentlemen, but lots of gentlemen in London do it. I bet Major Keyes does it, even with his wooden leg. Even Mr. Murray did it, years ago, when he was young.’

  ‘Well, we can but put these telling arguments to your father, and see what happens,’ said Murray, suddenly feeling ancient. He was not at all averse himself to seeing Parry perform: as Robert said, famous people, even mildly famous people, rarely came to any of the East Neuk villages, and Elie was not far off. He had not fought since he left university. He wondered if the boys were more likely to be allowed to go to a public exhibition or to a private lesson, and if the latter, if he was fit enough to take a lesson himself. The topic began to interest him, and he felt his hands twitch into half-fists, ready to do battle. Even if the boys were not allowed to go, would Lord Scoggie object if he himself went?

  ‘Ah, the ladies,’ said Tibo suddenly, as if it had been what he was waiting for. At the door appeared Beatrix, dressed as she had been at dinner but with a warm blue pelisse and bonnet and grey gloves, and Deborah, in a different dress, a rather dramatic cloak and a bonnet Murray had not seen before but which was probably an old one retrimmed yet again. Her hands were hidden in a stylish muff, but she drew one out to wave at them.

  ‘We really must go in, boys, and see if we can find that fire before you freeze,’ said Murray. ‘Say goodbye to Mr. Tibo and Mr. Leckie.’

  The boys made the kind of bows that Murray hoped a dancing master would soon improve, retrieved their drawings from Leckie, and scuttled off towards the house. Murray made his own farewells, and followed more slowly, in order to great Bea and Deborah before they set out.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ he asked, smiling at Bea.

  ‘To make our visit to the new neighbours, if Mr. Tibo will remind us of their name,’ said Deborah abruptly.

  ‘I shall do better than that: I shall escort you to their very gate,’ said Tibo gallantly.

  ‘The name would be more immediately practical, Mr. Tibo,’ said Deborah, but softened it with a smile.

  ‘Mr. and Mrs. Bootham. From somewhere in England, I believe.’

  ‘It is such a lovely day for a walk, and we have had rain for so many days it seemed a shame to spend yet another afternoon imprisoned indoors with mending and letters,’ said Beatrix, with her own, softer smile. Murray loved her clear skin and bright eyes, but each time he met her gaze it seemed to flicker away to Deborah and what she was doing or saying.

  ‘And preparation for Major Keyes, of course,’ Deborah added. ‘We are looking forward to a pleasant stroll and an afternoon making new friends and new discoveries. Mr. Murray, my father said to tell you that the library is empty now, if you wish to carry on with the papers, but I should warn you that there is no fire laid and my father has had the windows open all through his meeting with poor Mr. Tibo and Mr. Leckie. There is a fire laid in the school room.’ If her mother’s constant absences had done nothing else, they had made a brisk and determined housekeeper of Deborah Scoggie. Murray bowed his acknowledgement of the information and of the dismissal that seemed to be included in the words. As he moved away, he heard her continue. ‘Well, then, Mr. Tibo, let us make our merry way to see Mr. and Mrs. Bootham of Aberardour Lodge.’

  Tibo confidently offered her his arm which she took as though it was to be of purely practical
value. Mr. Leckie, not tall enough to offer the same service to Beatrix, fell into friendly step beside her behind his master.

  The drive was not a long one, and they were soon out into the lane that led to the village. The late autumnal sun toasted the stone walls to a warm gold on either side, and the mud of the track was firm and walkable under foot, though both girls wore sensible boots for walking. The lane lay between cow pastures on one side and bare tilled soil on the other, and in the next field Bea could see little clouds of birds following the sowers at work on the wheat. Here a beech tree had begun to spill an amber pool across the lane, and there a lone hawthorn, crinkled and grasping, hunched against the prevailing sea wind, clinging on to a few late dusty leaves and blackened haws. There was a chill in the air, but the light could make you believe you were warm, and after a few minutes’ walking they were, rosy-cheeked and glowing inside their warm winter clothes. Above it all, the high Fife sky glistened with sunlight, an unbelievable blue, just turning to grey at the horizon.

  Before they reached the gate to Aberardour Lodge they had to pass one or two cottages, inland strays from the village itself which lay chiefly down the steep hill to the harbour. These first cottages belonged to weavers, and as they approached they heard the thump and rattle of the looms and smelled the wool on the thin air. The weaver at the first cottage, though, was not at his work: he was propped against the wall between his cottage and the bare field beyond, passing the time of day with one of the sowers as he reached the field’s corner and emptied his pouch of seed. They were all a little acquainted, as people in a small place are likely to be, and Deborah stopped for a moment, taking the opportunity to release Tibo’s arm.