For on a fair and breezy day
I faced the great Black Sam Hannay.
For what, I thought, had I to fear,
The Pugilistic Chanticleer?
We faced each other, black and white,
And slow began the famous fight,
And foolish Sam, he thought to jeer
At the Pugilistic Chanticleer.
He beat me up, I beat him down,
We beat each other round the town
Till one great clout about the ear
Felled the Pugilistic Chanticleer.
The expected cry of outrage went up, and Parry looked suitably solemn.
And down and out and cold I lay:
They knelt beside me on the clay,
The ladies shed a lovely tear
For the Pugilistic Chanticleer.
But yet I rose, ere count was done,
And standing up against the sun
I caused the Black to shake and fear
The Pugilistic Chanticleer.
And while he stood in fear and awe,
I went and socked him on the jaw.
His eyes did bulge, his lips did leer
At the Pugilistic Chanticleer.
He did not rise, he did not speak:
He barely came round in a week,
While the crowds raised, with a mighty cheer,
The Pugilistic Chanticleer!
The crowd went wild, as Parry bowed again and again, and the referee stepped forward to wrap a white robe around him. Waving, Parry retreated into the door of the inn, and though the crowd cheered and called for another five minutes, he did not reappear. Slowly, they began to disperse, and at last Major Keyes’ coachman could lead the horses up to the inn’s archway and through to the stableyard, where the boys, Cocky and Keyes dismounted, followed by Tippoo the dog. Murray and Tibo left their horses in the coachman’s care, and the party entered the inn.
The hefty landlord barred their way until they identified themselves as Parry’s first customers of the evening, when they were shown to the inn’s upper room, which turned out to be the best bedchamber. The landlord surveyed it with satisfaction.
‘King James Five slept here, gentlemen, ye ken. Though that was before my own time.’
‘I assume it’s out of respect you haven’t decorated since,’ Tibo remarked. The room was panelled and dark, with a low ceiling. A four-poster bed, wider than it was long, stood at one end of the room, and was presumably where the Pugilistic Chanticleer was expected to retire to at the end of the evening. The rest of the room was evidently usually cluttered with ancient furniture, black carved wood and worn leather seats, but these had been pushed back against the walls to make a rough square in the middle of the floor, just in front of the huge fireplace. The oil-lamps were perhaps not part of the original comforts offered to James V, but the only new-looking piece of furnishing was a large cheval-mirror, set to one side of the fireplace. In front of it, as they came in, the famous pugilist, now dried off and in a clean shirt, was throwing punches towards his own reflection, and noting them with approval.
‘This is a dreadful place for the purpose!’ snapped Major Keyes. ‘There is no room at all! Have you never seen boxing rooms before?’
The landlord, bewildered, shook his head.
‘It is our best room, sir. There is no other as large.’
Tibo smiled.
‘Come, Major Keyes, let us not stand on ceremony. If pugilism is as manly an art as you say, surely as men we may pursue it anywhere?’
‘King James Five slept here, sir,’ pleaded the landlord, sensing support.
‘But I doubt he boxed here. Thank you, landlord, we shall be quite all right.’
As the landlord retreated, Parry feigned to have noticed them for the first time, and came forward to greet them, bowing low.
‘Do I have the honour of addressing the heroic Major Keyes?’ he asked, in a voice that almost sounded as if he were still singing. Robert and Henry stood in awe, their mouths open, watching the two mighty men meet and bow to one another.
‘Saw you boxing in London a few years ago,’ Keyes was saying. ‘Better conditions than here, anyway.’ He looked round sourly at the room, taking in the fraying carpet and the awkward fighting space.
‘Ah, well, the London gentry are as a whole more appreciative of the pugilistic art than elsewhere,’ said Parry fluidly, a little sideways bow showing that he did not include his present audience in this. He had a quick, dark face, ready with any expression as required. ‘I have been delighted, though, with the way I have been received here in Elie.’
‘These are my guests this evening,’ said Keyes, turning to indicate them. ‘Mr. Tibo, Mr. Murray, Mr. Leckie, and Henry and Robert Scoggie, my kinsmen.’ Henry and Robert grew two inches each at this description. Kinsmen to a hero!
‘There is some claret over yonder, beside the bed,’ said Parry, after bowing to each of them in turn, ‘for those watching. I take it you are all here for a lesson? Who is to start?’
‘Mr. Tibo?’ Keyes suggested.
‘If you don’t mind,’ said Murray quickly, ‘I think the boys should go first.’ Robert looked round at him quickly with an expression of the deepest gratitude on his face. Keyes nodded, and the boys, looking as if they were in a dream, stepped forward.
‘Coats off, then, boys, and your cravats too. Then come over here, and I’ll show you how to bandage your knuckles.’
‘Robert would have burst if he had had to wait any longer,’ Murray explained apologetically, as they retreated to the bed and the claret.
‘You are quite right, Murray,’ Keyes agreed. ‘Come on, Tippoo, out of that.’ The dog was keen to fight, too.
They sat in a row on the wooden chest at the end of the bed, and passed the claret bottle amongst them, filling ancient glasses with chips off the rims and feet. The boys, in stocking soles, were learning footwork already, though Robert’s fists were clearly itching to punch. Tippoo, looking wistful, rested his chin on Nathaniel Tibo’s knee, and was batted off.
‘Tippoo, come here,’ said Keyes indulgently. ‘I cannot leave him anywhere or he’ll scratch the door down waiting for me.’ He scratched the dog affectionately behind the ears. Murray looked away, unable to banish from his mind the awful beating Keyes had given to the dog the day before. You could still see the red welts through the dog’s thin white hair.
‘Oh, well done, sir!’ cried Cocky, holding up his glass in recognition of Robert’s first punch, a neat jab to Parry’s outstretched hand. Robert laughed, confident now and happy. Henry was biting his lip, face pale, waiting for his turn. The men watched now as Henry stepped up to the mark and, concentrating hard, punched hard in the direction of Parry’s hand. The blow was straight and hard, but all the strength was out of it before it hit its mark. Cocky still cheered, and Henry, flushed, looked pleased enough.
‘A good pair of lads. Active and strong: sons to be proud of,’ Keyes remarked, not loudly enough for the boys to hear.
‘Lord Scoggie has reason to be proud of all his children, I think,’ said Murray, not wishing to be drawn into his own opinions of the boys.
‘Indeed,’ Keyes agreed. ‘The daughter, too, is a very lovely young woman.’
‘She is,’ Tibo agreed, but there was a warning note in his voice. Cocky whistled a tune suddenly, and knocked his heels in time against the wall of the chest.
‘I think I may mention my kinswoman without reproof,’ Keyes went on, still watching the boys.
‘Miss Beatrix, too, is very pretty,’ said Murray hurriedly.
‘Is she?’ asked Tibo, genuinely surprised.
‘Oh, yes, sir, she is indeed,’ said Cocky, leaving off whistling. ‘She has fine eyes, and a lovely smile, and a friendly disposition, which adds beauty to the plainest face.’
Murray and Cocky exchanged pleased smiles in discovering each other’s appreciation of the same object. Murray had always thought Cocky a sensible man.
‘And what is your opini
on of Miss Deborah, Mr. Murray?’ asked Keyes. Murray’s heart sank. In an effort not to create anything like the wrong impression, he found himself growing pompous.
‘She is a very fine young lady, and has always treated me with friendliness and consideration, and is all one in my position could expect from my employer’s daughter.’
Tibo smirked. Catching his eye, Cocky winked at him reassuringly. Keyes was quiet.
‘This really is an extraordinary room,’ Cocky tried to change the subject. ‘I have never been in it before.’
‘There was a dance here last summer,’ said Murray supportively. ‘They had removed all the furniture for that – I wonder why they did not do it tonight.’
‘I was not at that dance,’ Cocky remembered.
‘I was,’ said Tibo, with a malicious look. ‘You danced with Miss Deborah, I remember, Murray.’
‘So I did,’ said Murray, and could not think of anything else to say. He took a deep sip of claret. Cocky began to whistle again.
‘Well done, young gentlemen!’ cried Parry at last. ‘Who is to be next?’
‘I may as well get it over,’ said Tibo, and rose gracefully to take off his coat and boots.
The evening followed an informal pattern, with each of them taking turns as they tired or caught their breath, and fighting each other as instructed by Parry. Cocky fought with the boys, and there seemed to be much laughter from their group which was sadly lacking amongst Tibo, Keyes and Murray. Keyes, despite his wooden leg, turned out to be surprisingly agile, hopping back and forth as required and quick with the punches, particularly to the body. Tibo’s mind was quick, seeing how his attacker would react, but his fists could not keep up, and his blows, when they arrived, were weaker than he would have liked. Murray started badly, but found himself remembering his lessons more and more, and by the end had a few words of praise from Parry himself, which he rather hoped the boys would have overheard. Parry sprung about amongst them, correcting here, praising there, landing a punch or two himself to show how it was done. Robert was in his element, and even Henry was enjoying himself.
The fighting grew wilder as they grew more tired, blows flailing, footwork sloppy, gasps of laughter or irritation coming more loudly as they crowded around the small square by the fire.
‘Now, careful, gentlemen, or there’ll be injuries!’ cried Parry, experienced in these things, but no one paid much attention. The two groups became tangled by the fireplace. Robert tried to hit Henry through a gap between Tibo and Keyes. Tibo stepped back, elbowing Murray. Cocky rushed through to counterattack Robert, and tripped on the frayed carpet, falling forwards hard towards the fireplace and the foot of the cheval mirror. Murray, nearest, lunged to save him. Cocky hit the bottom of the mirror and crumpled. The top of the mirror swung heavily down, and hit Murray solidly on the back of his head. There was a blurred moment of confused movement, a glittering shimmer before his eyes, and darkness descended.
‘Careful,’ said Keyes, ‘watch how you move him. I can’t kneel down.’
‘Blood,’ said Henry, looking sick. ‘There’s blood. All over him.’ Wide-eyed, Robert said nothing. Tibo, helped by Parry, turned him. His jaw was awfully slack. His eyes were open, but saw nothing.
‘He’s dead,’ said Tibo finally. Henry turned quickly away, and was shamefully sick in the window embrasure. No one noticed.
‘I’d better take the boys home,’ said Keyes after a moment.
‘You can take Murray in your carriage, can’t you?’
‘I think so. Though he looks out for a week. What will you do?’
‘I’ll take his body back to St. Monance.’
‘Gentlemen ...’ Parry was lost for words. Expressions ran like water over his face. ‘Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Tibo, though he looked as if he wanted to blame someone. ‘He tripped on the carpet.’
‘There will be no fee, of course, no fee at all,’ Parry gabbled. Tibo looked at him for a moment in silence. ‘It’s never happened to me before.’
‘Ring for the landlord, would you, Major?’ Tibo asked. ‘I shall need a cart, and a blanket.’
The landlord had to help carry Murray down the stairs, too, while Tibo carried the little body of his clerk. Keyes and the boys followed, Robert carrying Cocky’s hat as if it was a sacred object. Keyes hurried the stablemen into preparing his carriage, keeping the boys held in a net of pointless, shocked conversation about anything but what had just happened. Murray was laid on the floor of the carriage, his coat over him and the carriage blanket under his head, and Keyes and the boys scrambled in after, trying not to step on him. The carriage set off. Henry, facing backwards, could not take his eyes off the figure of Tibo standing in the midst of the busy stableyard, still as ice, holding Cocky Leckie lifeless in his arms, waiting for a cart.
Murray began to feel the motion of the carriage when it turned into the drive of Scoggie Castle. He opened his eyes briefly, but saw only a puzzling view of knees and dusky sky. A surge of pain and nausea made him close them again almost instantly, and a blissful unconsciousness swept back over him.
When he half-returned to life again, it was to find himself being carried into the front hall of Scoggie Castle. The coachman and Naismyth clearly had firm ideas about how far they wanted to carry him, and laid him down on the hall table, where the impact of the wood on the back of his head was enough to send the contents of his mind whirling again. He was vaguely aware that he had been left alone: the boys had scampered up the stairs, Naismyth and the coachman had melted towards the servants’ corridor, and Keyes had gone away somewhere – he could distantly hear the tapping of his wooden leg, but could make no sense of it and soon gave up. For a while there was a luxurious silence, and he lay motionless, appreciating the stillness of the table after the jerking carriage. Outside he could hear gulls crying, high over the castle, then swooping low. There must be a storm coming, he thought. In the distance he could just hear voices, the girls, perhaps, upstairs, then Robert’s voice, excitedly telling his story. Lord Scoggie’s craik came in response, disapproving, surely, would he be angry with Murray? Was he going to be blamed for what had happened? What had happened? Closer at hand, he could hear Lady Scoggie, talking urgently to someone. The voices melted together, different tones, different volumes, tangling and extracting themselves ...
‘And then the mirror fell!’
‘Where have you left the poor man?’
‘I knew something like this would happen. This is what comes of –‘
‘Stay away from my daughter!’
The last voice puzzled him, and he strained to hear more, but there was a hurry on the stairs and in a second Deborah and Beatrix were upon him.
‘Oh, you poor man! We must get you to your room. What a bruise!’
He was about to resign himself gratefully to their care, smiling in what he hoped was a heroic fashion through his pain, when he realised that someone else was in the hall. In a swirl of magic, Mrs. Bootham was among them, and leaning over him as if with a simple spell she could take away all his pain. He found himself struggling to sit up, and swung his legs over the side of the table.
‘I’m fine, really,’ he said groggily. ‘I can manage.’ There was nothing on earth that was going to cause him to allow Mrs. Bootham into his bedchamber, should he have to crawl to his bed on his own. For a moment sickness swept over him again, and he clutched a hand to his mouth, but it passed. ‘I have a hard head. But you have heard about poor Cocky Leckie.’
‘Robert told us. It’s a dreadful thing, dreadful,’ said Deborah.
‘Poor Mr. Leckie,’ agreed Beatrix, who was touching the back of his head with gentle fingers. ‘But we must fetch you a poultice for your head, you know. But you can wait here for it if you do not want to go to bed.’ She smiled at him, as if she understood just why he did not want to go upstairs. He smiled back, feeling warm inside, and eased himself off the table to stand up.
&nbs
p; ‘Oh, Mr. Murray! Good heavens! Look at your back!’ cried Deborah. Involuntarily Murray turned back, but as he could neither see his back nor feel anything wrong with it, he tried to keep his head still instead. Beatrix and Mrs. Bootham hurried to look.
‘My goodness, Mr. Murray, we must deal with this. Look at yourself in the – in the mirror,’ Beatrix told him. He edged over to the large pier glass amongst the armour and twisted awkwardly to look. In the reflection he could see Beatrix and Deborah, hovering anxiously, and Mrs. Bootham, a curious little smile on her face, her face glowing as if she was the only one the candlelight found. There were candles lit around the pier glass: their light caught the back of his shirt, grubby with sweat and striped with dark lines of dryish blood. The light twinkled and shone, and for a moment he thought that blood was still flowing from the odd little wounds. Then he realised what it was. Through his shirt, sparkling down his back like silver armour, were hundreds of shards of mirror glass, glittering as he shuddered at the sight of them.
Chapter Ten
Lord Scoggie’s custom was to read family prayers each morning at the break of day in the Great Hall to the whole household, his great teeth picking through well-phrased concerns which he wished to bring to the attention of the Almighty, while edifying the family and servants. The merciful exception to this practice was Sunday, when he conceded the privilege to the professionals and led his household to church.
The whole population of the parish, pig-lovers and pig-haters, had but one church to attend, a great dark louring presence on a low outcrop to the south of the village. The Scoggie household left in good order to walk there, regardless of weather, each Sunday morning, and the day after Cocky Leckie’s death was no different, except that Nathaniel Tibo, who usually attended church in the company of his most prominent clients and their daughter, was absent. Instead Major Keyes took Miss Deborah’s arm with a hearty smile, and followed Lord and Lady Scoggie down the drive. Murray followed with Beatrix, needing eyes in the back of his hat for the boys behind him, and after that followed Mrs. Costane with Mr. Naismyth, Hannah and Grisell, and finally Andrew taking up the rear, stiff in his new best livery.
Knowledge of Sins Past (Murray of Letho Book 2) Page 15