‘It’s the will of the Lord Scoggie who died in the reign of James VI.’
‘A will? Anything juicy in that?’ Scratchy tapping told the progress of Tippoo, who followed his master round the table. A white nose appeared over the table edge, sniffing at the document and Murray’s hands. Murray kept still.
‘Not much, to be honest. He lists his various children and what he wants them to have, and there’s an inventory of his animals and crops and so on.’
‘I don’t know how you can read that stuff. It looks like Hindoo writing to me.’
‘It takes a while to adjust, true. And you can’t do too much at a time, or you go cross-eyed.’
‘Ha! Hardly worth it.’ Keyes tapped his hand on the table, making his point, and in a blur of white movement Tippoo lunged and seized the will. The candlesticks crashed over, the book holding down one side fell to the floor. The dog ran off with the document to the shelter of the other library table. Keyes swung over, face scarlet with anger.
‘You stupid creature! Give that back at once, sir!’ He gave a few sharp pokes with his stick under the table, and was answered with muffled yelps. ‘Genealogy! I’ll tell you a few things about your genealogy, you cur!’ He stretched in under the table, struggled for a moment, and at last produced the will, handing it back to Murray. Another struggle produced the dog, which he laid about with the stick without ceremony. Between him and the dog, the noise was terrific.
Murray examined the will. The vellum was tough, and was stretched, rather than torn. Some of the writing, though, in its flaky ink, had broken away altogether, and there were parts of the document that could no longer be read at all.
‘I’m desperately sorry, Murray,’ said Keyes at last, breathing heavily. The dog cowered at his ankles. On his back at least one weal was visible through the thin white coat: Keyes had drawn blood. Murray swallowed.
‘It’s all right. The thing is made of skin: maybe it still smelled of animal.’
‘Skin, eh? I’d never have known. It looks like thick paper. Clever dog, eh? Spotting something like that.’
‘I’m sure I heard the boys coming down the stairs,’ said Murray. ‘They’ll be waiting for you. I’d recommend a ride across the park and through the woods to the left of the lake – there’s a good gallop beyond there.’
‘A grand idea.’ Keyes grinned at Murray. ‘We’ll go at once. Come along, Tippoo.’ Subdued, the dog followed him out into the hall. The door closed. Murray leaned back against the table, feeling sick. He had wondered about Keyes’ violence, but no longer. Now he wondered instead how he could help to persuade Lady Scoggie not to marry her daughter to that man.
The answer to many of life’s problems lay in a cup of tea. He listened for a moment at the library door, waiting for the sounds of the boys and Keyes departing for the stables. Then he slipped into the silent hall, and across to the door to the servants’ corridor. In a moment or two, he was within reach of the refuge of the kitchens and the natural bustle of preparations for dinner.
But as he approached the half-closed kitchen door along the flag passage, it quickly became clear that all was not normal in the kitchen. He could hear banging, rhythmic, metallic banging, and the slap of hands, and hurried steps. In a moment, he heard upraised voices. It took a few seconds for him to recognise the noise as singing.
He pushed the door fully open, and gaped at the scene. Mrs. Costane, skirts and apron flying, was dancing an improvised military two-step with the new man, Andrew, the length of the kitchen, a look of vicious pleasure on her face. At the big fir table, Hannah beat time with a wooden spoon on the base of a copper saucepan, accompanied by Grisell with a rolling pin on the table. All were singing, but not perhaps the same tune. Even Naismyth, sitting in a porter’s chair near the fire, was tapping his fingers on the chair arm.
Mrs. Costane, spinning violently halfway up the kitchen, suddenly caught sight of Murray.
‘Another couple! Hannah, quickly!’
Hannah, with unaccustomed enthusiasm, seized Murray’s hands and dragged him off to join in the two-step, finding her feet surprisingly quickly, with a lightness that consorted oddly with her usual sour expression. Grisell, laughing through her singing, took over the wooden spoon and saucepan drum. Murray walked Hannah and wheeled her, in step with Andrew in front of him, twice more up the kitchen and down again. Then, exhausted, Mrs. Costane broke away laughing and returned to her table, followed by a demure Hannah. Andrew tossed his blond hair back from his face, looking as if he could take anything in his stride. Mr. Naismyth rose from the chair and paced up and down, smiling a satisfied smile.
‘What on earth is the occasion?’ asked Murray, helping himself to tea from the pot by the fire.
‘Lord Scoggie has been kind enough to offer us a ball,’ Mr. Naismyth announced. ‘He is a most generous employer.’
‘On Hallowe’en!’ Grisell added. ‘Less than a month away!’
‘And a great deal to do before then,’ added Mrs. Costane, reprovingly. ‘Look what you’ve done to my milk saucepan, you young vandal! That’ll have to be re- coppered when the man comes round.’
Andrew caught Grisell’s eye: the percussion had been Mrs. Costane’s idea. Grisell looked away.
‘You’ll come, won’t you, Mr. Murray?’ she asked. The tone was innocently friendly, but the look of incredulity that Andrew shot him before he could reply was enough to show him that he was not accepted without question in this world.
‘I’m not sure ...’ he replied.
‘Mr. Murray has duties too, you know, Grisell,’ put in Mrs. Costane, mercifully. ‘But you’ll come if you can, Mr. Murray, won’t you? You’ve showed yourself a good enough dancer, and I can tell you, we’ll need you. You should see the way some of the gardeners hirple round the floor.’
‘The gardeners come too?’ said Andrew, slightly dismayed.
‘Well, it wouldn’t be much of a ball with just the six of us, now, would it? The gardeners, the laundrymaids, the kitchen and house staff, the girls in the brewhouse and the pig and cattle men in the mains farm, the stablemen and grooms and any of their families. There’ll be upwards of forty of us, if past years are to go by. And it’s all very well to say it’s an evening’s holiday, but who’ll be making the supper?’
‘Aye,’ Hannah nodded, knowing that whatever drama Mrs. Costane made of the evening, she herself would really be making the supper.
‘Where will it be?’ Andrew asked.
‘We use one of the barns, lad,’ Mr. Naismyth explained.
‘We’re allowed to decorate it, with paper things and branches and flowers, if we can find any,’ Grisell added.
‘Apples would be nice,’ suggested Mrs. Costane, ‘if we could take a branch or two from the orchard.’
‘Neep lanterns,’ said Hannah suddenly.
‘I’m not sure Lord Scoggie would allow such paganry,’ said Mr. Naismyth, meaning, as they were all well aware, that he was not sure about it himself.
‘What about the food?’ asked Murray, leaving the subject of neep lanterns until Mr. Naismyth was elsewhere.
‘Ices,’ said Mrs. Costane, ‘and jellies. Cold meats. Breads. I hear there’s a new recipe for rout cakes in the neighbourhood, brought along with the Boothams at Aberardour Lodge. I’ll speak to the cook there: I warrant I can handle a rout cake better than she can.’
‘But this is not a rout, Mrs. Costane,’ put in Mr. Naismyth reproachfully.
‘I think we’re all aware of that, Mr. Naismyth. I’d like to see the rout at Carlton House that has neep lanterns mouldering away amongst the plasterwork.’
‘Is anyone invit from the village?’ asked Hannah. Grisell looked up at this. Mr. Naismyth smiled.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said primly, as though she had just made a slightly indecent suggestion.
‘There was a deputation up from the village the other night,’ said Murray, assuming that they would already know.
‘A deputation? Who would that have been?’ ask
ed Hannah. She was not from the village herself, but from Elie, down the coast, and therefore considered herself more of a local expert than either Mrs. Costane or Mr. Naismyth, with their foreign Edinburgh ways.
‘Some fishermen,’ Murray explained. ‘They had a complaint about a pig.’
‘What about pastries?’ asked Andrew suddenly.
‘What?’ Mrs. Costane glared at him.
‘Pastries. My employers in Kirkcaldy always had pastries at balls. They said they were easy to eat standing up, if there weren’t enough seats for the men to sit down to supper.’ He cast a look, not quite at Grisell, but enough to see if she was impressed.
‘Well, now, who’s the expert?’ said Mrs. Costane, standing back with her hands on her hips.
‘I’m just saying what I’ve heard,’ said Andrew.
‘Pastries, young man, are my speciality. No one can cook pastries like a proper French-trained pastry chef. Of course we’ll have pastries, sweet and savoury. It’s just a pity,’ she added, half to herself, ‘that it’s the gardeners and the laundrymaids that’ll appreciate them a lot more than certain higher born people upstairs.’
‘I like pastries,’ said Andrew.
‘What are you doing from now to dinner, young man?’ asked Mr. Naismyth, whose mind seemed to be elsewhere. Andrew turned to look at him.
‘Miss Deborah wants me to help Miss Beatrix dust out the carpets in the schoolroom floor, because the boys are out.’
‘Well, someone will have to go and fetch the mails from Elie today.’
‘He’d never be back before dinner now, Mr. Naismyth,’ Mrs. Costane pointed out. ‘It’s gone eleven – and young men are incapable of visiting a town and coming straight back, even if a good dinner is waiting for them.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Murray suddenly. He was finding the kitchen almost as overwhelming as upstairs this morning, and he could obviously not retreat to the schoolroom floor, where he also slept.
‘But you’ll never be back before dinner either,’ Mrs. Costane pointed out. ‘Your dinner is even earlier than Andrew’s.’
‘Ah, but I have the use of a horse,’ said Murray, ‘and since Major Keyes has taken the boys out for their ride himself, my usual mount needs her exercise. Will you let me go, Mr. Naismyth?’
‘We should, of course, be honoured, Mr. Murray, if you would be so good.’ Mr. Naismyth gave a little bow.
‘Give me the mail bag, then, and I’ll be off.’
As it turned out, the ride down to Elie was not perhaps quite as enjoyable as Murray had hoped.
At the stables, he discovered that Robert, ever with an eye to opportunity, had persuaded Major Keyes that he normally rode Daisy, Murray’s usual mount. Daisy was not a mare keen to live up to her gently floral name: she was tall and powerful, and far too much for Robert to handle safely. As Henry had taken his usual pony and Keyes had his own horse, Murray was left with the choice of Robert’s pony, far too small for him, or Lord Scoggie’s idiosyncratic gelding. The groom, apologetic over Robert’s daring, saddled the gelding without meeting Murray’s eye, mumbling soothing noises as the horse stood sullenly still.
The stillness was deceptive, as Murray knew. Half of Fife also knew. One of the reasons Lord Scoggie kept the horse, Murray was sure, was that with its distinctive brown dappling everyone recognised it and knew to give it a wide berth. It was a grand horse in motion, smooth and elegant, changing pace effortlessly, sound on every hoof. People at a distance, usually strangers to the area, had been known to remark on the beauty of its movement. However, the main problem was keeping it moving, for it was not in its body that the difficulty was – it was in its mind. The gelding was known for shying. It was known for shying at hens, ox carts, soldiers in uniform, women in blue cloaks, babies, small girls, sheep with horns, toll bars, canal boats, the doors to unfamiliar stables, and, obscurely, copper fish kettles – saucepans did not have the same effect. Occasionally it shied at other things, just for variety. Nursing the gelding through these alarming experiences could prolong a journey by a third again, and Murray did want to be back for dinner.
On the other hand, it was a pleasant morning, and he was glad to have the chance to be alone for a change, even in the company of the gelding. Gloves and a scarf were necessary, but the air was as clear and fresh as dawn, and he moved in a mist of his own breath and the steamy breath of the gelding. It was only a couple of miles to Elie, enough to get the blood moving, and enough for the gelding to shy five times, once particularly violently at nothing at all. Murray finally dismounted and led it from the outskirts of the village to the post office, which was a room in one of the inns. Sympathetic glances followed him down the street as people recognised the gelding, and he realised he had no hope of finding a boy to hold the gelding’s reins while he went in to the post office. He found a post to tie the horse to, sure, at least, that no one was going to steal it. Nearby, a boy was holding the reins of a pretty pony, white as limewash, mane unbraided and long. He looked at it while he detached the castle’s mail bag: he was sure it was not one he had seen before.
The office was dark, and he had to stoop beneath the lintel. The interior was lit by three greasy candles and the luminous presence of Mrs. Bootham.
‘Ah – Mr. Murray, isn’t it?’ she said, turning with an expression of pleasure.
‘Good morning, Mrs. Bootham. What a pity we did not know you were coming here, or I could have collected your mail along with the Castle bag.’ He handed the outgoing bag to the scruffy clerk behind the table, and waited while he searched for the bag for him to take back.
‘Oh, but I enjoyed the ride. Elie is a pretty little village, is it not?’
The clerk came back with a single letter.
‘Miss Jane Croft,’ he read slowly, as if picking his way through the writing on the cover.
‘That’s right.’ Mrs. Bootham snatched the letter, and Murray noticed a faint blush colouring her perfect face. Either the clerk had seen it too, or he had also fallen under her spell. He was staring at her, mouth open.
‘Miss Jane Croft?’ repeated Murray automatically, though it was none of his business. It was her fault: she took away any reason in a man standing close to her.
‘My maiden name,’ she said hurriedly. ‘My poor father – he’s a little confused, you know? Sometimes he forgets that I’m married!’
‘Mm,’ said Murray politely. ‘Yes, I used to have an aunt with that problem. She was always losing things.’ He turned, with an effort, and managed to catch the eye of the clerk. The clerk’s gaze broke and he scuttled off, coming back directly with the Scoggie Castle bag. Murray took it, and tried to speak again to Mrs. Bootham without actually looking at her. ‘May I escort you back to St. Monance?’
‘Oh! it is very kind of you, but I have a little shopping to do. Female things, you know, very tedious to men, or so Mr. Bootham tells me!’
‘Then I must hurry back to dinner.’ He smiled sideways at her, part disappointed, part relieved, and let her precede him out of the office.
Outside he bade her farewell, and turned to untie the gelding. On the wall of the inn was a bill which caught his eye.
‘At the Royal Inn, Elie, 25th to 30th October, 1804 appears The Famous FIGHTING CHANTICLEER, visiting from the Principality of Wales. The FIGHTING CHANTICLEER will demonstrate the finest points of the Pugilistic Science, and perform his Own Works. (Private classes in Pugilism available to Gentlemen and Others on Application)’
Thoughtfully, he mounted and rode away. The gelding shied at the inn sign, and backed gracelessly down the street.
Chapter Eight
The road from the village to the Castle was invisible in darkness thick with the necessary sounds of small animals preparing themselves for winter. Above the branches of the quiet trees, one or two stars pierced the edges of clouds. In a nearby field, a fox silenced a rabbit with a sharp squeal. In the distance, round the corner, the sound of footsteps gradually came into focus.
As the footsteps came clo
ser, the men at the gateway of Aberardour Lodge stirred themselves a little, only to stand, tensely still in the darkness, not speaking but aware of each other and of the men coming up the hill. In a moment, the glow of a lantern could be seen, then the lantern itself, swinging a little with the easy pace. The men at the gateway watched it approach. No speech came from either party. The animals in the hedgerows grew silent. The only sound was the soft padding of boots on the muddy road.
‘So you’re off to see his Lordship, then, Geordie Kinkell?’
The voice came like a pistol shot through the silence. The footsteps stopped, and the lantern swung violently, till it was steadied by a black hand.
‘Show yourself, then, whoever you are,’ came a voice from behind the lantern. With an easy step, the men hiding at the gateway emerged until the raised lantern lit their faces. Joe Baillie, Richie Shaw and Hugh Farquhar stood across the road. Behind them, Tom Baillie hoisted himself on to his crutches and tried to look their equal.
‘I smell fish,’ said a man behind Kinkell.
‘And we smell pig,’ said Joe Baillie, with emphasis. ‘Are you hoping his Lordship will take your side? Because I can tell you – you’re too late for that.’
‘I heared you were up the other day,’ Kinkell acknowledged. ‘You always were the one to run to your mammy if anyone birled you.’
‘We’re no here to prevent you going up to the Castle,’ said Joe graciously, ignoring the slight. ‘It’s just we felt we should tell you he’s heard our side of the story already, so there’s no point in you making the effort. I wouldna like to see you struggling for words to say to his Lordship when you don’t have to.’
‘You’re awful kind.’ Kinkell had taken the same lofty tone. In the lantern light his ginger hair looked almost green. ‘And very decent of you to do it and come all this way, leaving your boats unprotected when the least wee thing can disrupt your fishing. Is he no a grand fellow, lads?’ There were mumbles from behind him. In the lantern’s variable light, the fishermen could identify Kinkell’s poor son Peter, standing grinning blankly, as well as a few of the other men of the upper end of town, a wright, another weaver, a cordiner, and, at the back, Sandy Kinkell, Geordie’s brother, the one who had married Hugh Farquhar’s sister Alison. It was a wise thing for him to stay at the back. Tom Baillie could see Hugh Farquhar’s fists twitching.
Knowledge of Sins Past (Murray of Letho Book 2) Page 12