Murray had hit a period of poverty at university, and had been forced to sell some of his own books. Before that, he had thought, if he had thought at all, that books had to be owned before they could be loved. Then he realised that being among books is the true joy, not the coveting and the buying and the binding for oneself. He loved to work in the library, in its lofty peace, finding new treasures or meeting old friends. His favourite time was when the family was out and the household was quiet. Then he would climb a ladder, or go up into the gallery, and, perched in the dim heights of the silent room, would look about him, fingering the spines, sliding out something unfamiliar to examine its contents and touch the crinkled surface of coloured plates, refreshing by-heart memories of passages he loved. In the midst of the traumas of living in someone else’s household, not to mention tutoring, the library was his refuge and his consolation.
It was also the business room where he carried out two-thirds of his duties for Lord Scoggie, when he could. The first task was the updating of the vast volumes of library catalogue, begun nearly a hundred years ago when the Lord Scoggie of the time had evidently felt that with Jacobite uprisings occurring around him, some notion of the contents of his library was an urgent consideration. The catalogues had been kept with varying degrees of enthusiasm since, from the meticulous son of the Lord Scoggie who had started it, who had recorded title, author, price, binding, chapter headings and any damage or marks in a book, as well as its place on the shelves, to the present incumbent who was so excited by the acquisition of a new volume that the tedious task of recording its arrival was usually forgotten altogether. These huge volumes lay on one of the large library tables, along with a few of the books currently being checked and identified by Murray, before he made a new entry or amended an old one in neat black ink.
Beside this table, perfectly placed to trip up passersby, were a number of black deed boxes of different shapes and sizes. This formed the raw material for Murray’s other task, the sorting-out and listing of their contents, the family documents generated by the Scoggies, their correspondents, transactions and estate business, for the past four hundred years. In recent years Lord Scoggie had conceived the notion that he could lay a legal claim to the Marquisate of Ballavore, and when he had tried to present papers to prove it, he had discovered the alarming disorder in the deed boxes, which had not received much attention beyond an occasional shake in the whole course of their history. He had gathered all the boxes he could find about the castle and brought them into the library – a mistake, as it turned out, for several of the boxes had found permanent homes in the stables and for a long time added significantly to the otherwise pleasant smells in the library. A corner had rusted off one box, and Murray had been a little surprised one morning to pick up the next bundle of papers and find that he had disturbed a mouse-mother and her brood, snugly established underneath in a nest of sixteenth-century conveyances.
To Murray’s mind, the Marquisate of Ballavore was scarcely worth claiming. The first Marquis had acquired the title pretty much by accident, stopping a sword intended for King Charles II by the simple expedient of hitting the assassin with a door that he had mistakenly opened in search of a privy. Despite his unseemly haste in accepting the King’s thanks on the spot, the Marquisate followed quickly, which was probably fortunate before the King could reconsider. The second Marquis led an unadventurous life, farming incompetently in Perthshire and fathering a series of clever daughters who had spent their lives orchestrating the careers of their husbands. The third Marquis, his father’s only son, did not share in their cleverness, and nor did his own son. This fourth Marquis stumbled one day, when out with some of his kinsmen, on some kind of meeting by a loch, and the next thing he knew, after a good deal of marching, he was being attainted for supporting Charles Edward Stuart. That was the end of his title and estate: the estate was disposed of by the York Buildings Company that dealt so thoroughly with the properties of similarly disgraced gentlemen, and the fourth Marquis of Ballavore ended his days in bewilderment in France, without any clear idea of how he had arrived there. His wife had left him for a much more glamorous Jacobite in the glory-days of rebellion, and had borne him no children. The title was therefore in abeyance, and Lord Scoggie looked upon it as his own through some lengthy and possibly tenuous link to the first Marquis’s younger brother. Murray was under orders to draw out any references in the papers to genealogies, births, deaths and marriages, and they formed a separate section in his list and a separate heap in an emptied, explicitly mouse-proof deed box that rested on the table itself in a place of honour. His lordship was patient: he knew the job would be a long one, for often he found further deed boxes in attics and cellars and brought them apologetically to the library, so he rarely pursued Murray to find out the state of his progress. Murray was duly grateful.
Murray had free use of the library table with the catalogues and the deed boxes. The other library table was Lord Scoggie’s. It was where he held meetings with Tibo and the like, or admitted to interview a villager wishing to consult him on some matter. Like the dinner table in the Great Hall, this table had survived from an earlier age and could well have served as an example of evidence of the values of that time. It was a good foot taller than the table used by Murray, and behind it was a chair – perhaps better described as a throne – raised on a small dais. Seated magisterially on this cathedra, Lord Scoggie gave his instructions and passed his judgements, and occasionally signed documents. It was not there that he read or consulted the books in the library: the second table seemed to form a little room within the library itself, a place for duty. Two library chairs by the fireplace were where books were read, when they could be seen through the smoke: atlases and picture books were consulted on Murray’s table. The raised table was the royal reception area, ignored the rest of the time, untouched by the rest of the family except on the most solemn occasions.
Now that it was dark, the library was lit with oil lamps and the fire had been burning for a couple of hours, contributing little to the warmth of the room but thickening the atmosphere nicely. Shadows lay around the deed boxes and lurked amongst the upper tiers of the bookcases, and the gallery was a dark cave amongst them. Robert and Henry were, if they could be believed, preparing their lessons for the next day and trying to find Seringapatam on the schoolroom globe. When they were finished they had permission to amuse themselves as they wanted, which might include trying to persuade Mrs. Costane to release more pies into their custody. Murray had escaped to the library an hour and a half ago and was settled at his table over some kind of parchment document in a cramped Latin hand, weighed down at its springing corners by four books. The oil lamps tutted quietly and the fire rumbled to itself, the only noises in the tall room.
Murray heard the footsteps outside in the hall just before the door opened and Lord Scoggie walked in, a pair of spectacles in one hand and a decanter of brandy in the other.
‘Good evening, Mr. Murray. I hope I am not disturbing you?’
‘Not at all, my lord,’ said Murray, on his feet. Lord Scoggie waved at him to sit down again, and went to set the decanter down on a small table by the library chairs at the fireplace. A number of glasses were already on a tray there, and Lord Scoggie poured himself a reasonable measure. Murray, back in his seat, noted the fact with some interest: Lord Scoggie did not often drink in the evenings, preferring to limit himself to claret at dinner time.
Lord Scoggie began to scan the bookcases for something to read. When you saw him in his library, you realised, perhaps for the first time, how ill-fitted he was to anywhere else in the world. It was as if his arms had grown long especially to reach that shelf, his pigeon chest and narrow shoulders allowed him to squeeze through just there between ladder and wall, his flat feet fitted the ladder rungs like the long hand-feet of an ape. Once or twice Murray had half-expected him to lodge a book under his huge front teeth while he returned to the floor, like a rodent with a particularly desirable trifle. Now he p
lucked a volume from a high shelf with his long fingers, flicked it open, and studied the contents for a moment through his little spectacles, then brought it back to his library chair. He reached out for his glass.
‘Would you care for some brandy, Mr. Murray?’
Murray smiled.
‘No, thank you, Lord Scoggie: I should be nervous of spilling a drop on this document.’
‘Oh, what is it?’ Lord Scoggie rose and came over, leaning precariously over the table with his own glass. ‘Oh, it’s the old charter for these lands. I’m glad you found that – haven’t seen it for years. Not that anyone is arguing about the ownership, I suppose, but if they were ...’
Murray had already noticed the place names Scwgy, Ryssie and Aberwrgoe, with their strange archaic spellings, amongst the Latin scribbles, the three little estates now all known under the Scoggie title. He made a note on some scrap paper next to the charter and sat back. Lord Scoggie was still staring at it over his should, and took a noisy sip of brandy.
‘Where are the boys?’ he asked eventually, wandering back to the fire.
‘I’ve set them some work to do up in the schoolroom. When they have finished that, they are to play quietly until bed time.’ Murray glanced up to see if his employer approved, and Lord Scoggie nodded his goat-like head, a little absently. ‘They’re looking forward to their cousin Major Keyes coming tomorrow, of course,’ Murray added. He was surprised to see Lord Scoggie’s shoulders tense suddenly at the name.
‘Ha!’ he said, not quite sounding amused. ‘Upstairs all is in turmoil, looking forward to Major Keyes coming tomorrow. Every time my daughter says that everything is ready, something else seems to require to be done. The castle was not cleaner and more decorated for my own wedding than it is for tomorrow.’
He sighed heavily, and took another very large sip of his brandy. Murray was not sure if he was expected to respond. After all, it was not every day that a great national hero came to stay, and even he himself was looking forward to meeting the great man and hearing him discussed amongst the servants. Still, Lord Scoggie did not like to be put out of his routine, even for a national hero. When Major Keyes was settled and became commonplace amongst them, as even heroes must eventually do, Lord Scoggie could relax again.
‘It’s not the disarrangement,’ said Lord Scoggie suddenly, as though he had been following Murray’s thoughts. He poured himself another glass of brandy, and waved the decanter towards Murray. Murray, realising that it might be some time before he could work on his charter again, relented and accepted a glass. ‘No,’ said Lord Scoggie, handing him the glass. ‘It’s not the disarrangement, unpleasant though such things always are. It’s the man himself. I’m speaking in confidence here, of course, Mr. Murray.’
‘Of course, my lord.’
‘Of course. You know that. You see, the thing is – well, Lady Scoggie thinks that Major Keyes might make quite a good husband for Deborah.’
‘I see,’ said Murray. In fact, he could not see why that should particularly bother Lord Scoggie. He could, however, see it bothering Mr. Nathaniel Tibo – and, for that matter, Deborah herself.
‘You think it’s a good idea?’ Lord Scoggie asked him suddenly, with an oddly pleading voice.
‘I’m not sure, I’m afraid,’ Murray hedged. ‘I haven’t yet had the honour of meeting Major Keyes, of course, while both you and Lady Scoggie have. I know together you must be the best judges of your daughter’s happiness. But have you spoken to her? Or has Major Keyes expressed an interest in the matter?’
‘That’s just it,’ said Lord Scoggie in frustration. ‘Major Keyes would jump at the idea, of course he would. How could he not? But I’m not at all sure he’s right for her. You know, the last time he came here he damn’ nearly killed someone?’
Again, Murray was shocked. He had never before heard Lord Scoggie use any kind of profanity. On the other hand, he was on his third large glass of brandy already.
‘Nearly killed someone? Who? How?’
‘A fisherman from St. Monance. He challenged him to a fight, or the fisherman challenged him, one way or the other. I didn’t feel I could trust either account, and there was not doubt more I never heard at all. But Major Keyes went wild, whatever way it started, lashing and punching all over the place, then he kicked the fellow in the knee. Lamed him completely. Fellow can’t put any weight on it at all now, dreadful pain. And of course he’s no use in a fishing boat, not even in a yawl round the rocks. I tried to make Major Keyes pay up some kind of compensation, but of course he was as poor as a widow in those day, barely enough to meet his mess bills. I ended up paying some support to the family on his behalf, though I don’t think Major Keyes cared tuppence for them. I can tell you, I was extremely angry. Of course, it was all hushed up as far as it could be, even Lady Scoggie barely knows what happened, and now, of course, Keyes is wonderful and unmarried – unless he picked up some dusky wench on his travels – and coming here, and Lady Scoggie quite rightly points out that poor Deborah really sees very few men at all, not of her quality, and that this might be a very good opportunity.’
‘Perhaps being in the army has allowed him to develop a cooler temper,’ Murray suggested, trying to be tactful. Lord Scoggie seemed unconvinced.
‘You know ‘hero’ is quite often a word that means a man who happens to lose his temper against the right people. I’ve a feeling that Seringapatam was just lucky for Major Keyes, and if Tippoo Sultan hadn’t shot himself first, the Major would probably have lamed him, too. You know the stories they tell about General Baird, the Major’s commanding officer out there, how even his mother said dreadful things about the temper he had, and how the high heidyins out there allowed Baird to attack Seringapatam because they though it might calm him down. I tell you, suicide is a crime in law and against our good Lord, but if I were Tippoo Sultan and I got wind of the fact that Davie Baird and our Major Keyes were after me, I’d shoot myself as fast as I could load the gun, out of self-preservation.’
‘I’m sure, anyway, that if she wished to Miss Deborah could keep him in order, my lord.’ Murray tried to lighten Lord Scoggie’s mood, but instead he slammed his glass down on the table with a thud.
‘Oh, I’ve just remembered why I came in here in the first place. No time to read, damn it, Murray: I have some fishermen coming to see me. Will you take notes of our conversation? I’m afraid the whole thing might come to law at some stage, and I want to be able to recall what happened.’
‘Very good, my lord,’ said Murray. ‘You’ll be at the big table?’
‘Oh, aye, aye, yes, of course. They’ll be here shortly, I believe.’
Murray found and sharpened his pen and a spare one, throwing the shavings on the fire, then took a notebook from his papers on the low table and brought it over to the big table. Lord Scoggie, keen to be caught at his best, climbed up on to the high chair and set his brandy glass down importantly in front of him. Murray brought him some paper, too, as he often wanted to fiddle with something while listening to people talk. He finished his own brandy and put the glass aside, feeling that a brandy glass was less impressive in a secretary than in an adjudicating lord. He wondered why the fishermen were coming here. They usually sorted matters out amongst themselves. Perhaps they were coming to protest against the imminent arrival of Major Keyes and his violent temper.
There was an unnatural pause after this sudden flurry of activity. The hall outside was silent, and Murray looked longingly at his interrupted work. He set a chair for himself at the high table, next to Lord Scoggie’s dais, and arranged a few other hardback chairs on the far side of the table, but then remained standing, trying not to shuffle his feet. Lord Scoggie tapped on the table with his long fingers, finished the brandy, and struggled down out of the chair again to refill his glass. It was while he was at this business that there came a clang of the bell at the front door, and he scurried in an unlordlike fashion back to his seat, barely into his place when the library door opened and Naismyth, beak
aloft and feathers preened, announced the arrival of three fishermen from the village. They entered, two confidently, one curiously, all accompanied by the rich aroma of fish. Naismyth did not dignify them with names, but Lord Scoggie quickly made up for his omission as he waved them to sit in the chairs Murray had put out. Once seated at the high table they were all tiny, head and shoulders only visible to Murray and Lord Scoggie.
‘Mr. Murray, these are Joseph Baillie, Richard Shaw and Hugh Farquhar, representatives of the fishermen down in the village. Gentlemen, this is my secretary, Mr. Murray. He will take notes of our meeting.’
Knowledge of Sins Past (Murray of Letho Book 2) Page 6