Knowledge of Sins Past (Murray of Letho Book 2)

by Lexie Conyngham

  ‘Hmm ...’ Lord Scoggie frowned down at the table. It looked like a new idea to him: Keyes could not yet have told him about the anonymous letters. Murray could have shaken him.

  ‘I met the Boothams on my way back. They say they left straight after the dance in the barn. I presume you saw them leave, my lord?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I think so. You think they might have had something to do with it?’

  ‘They were around at the time, that’s all, my lord. I don’t suppose they knew Mr. Tibo very well. I was trying more to find out who last saw Mr. Tibo, apart from his killer.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not at the moment, I think, my lord.’ He was not sure why, but he was still reluctant to tell Lord Scoggie that his daughter had been, if not the last person to see Tibo, at least the last to arrange a meeting with him, on her own, in the dark. Whatever he had said to the boys, it was indeed suspicious behaviour, particularly for a girl engaged, or almost, to someone else.

  ‘Well, let’s leave Tibo for the moment, Mr. Murray. We have another problem, as you know, and I’d like you to go, now that I can no longer send either Tibo or Cocky Leckie,’ he sighed heavily, ‘to find something out for me. How do you feel about a walk to the village?’

  ‘I should be happy to help, my lord,’ said Murray, wondering what was coming next.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Another basket of food?’ demanded Mrs. Costane. ‘Has Lady Scoggie finally acquired an appetite?’

  ‘It’s not for her,’ said Murray. ‘It’s for a couple of families in the village.’

  ‘You’re taking on her charitable duties, then?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Mrs. Costane looked down at the intended contents, and frowned.

  ‘Why did I put the bottle of wine out? That’s a bit more than she usually takes.’

  ‘Because I asked for it.’

  Mrs. Costane sighed with annoyance and continued mixing whatever she was mixing in a pan over the fire.

  ‘My head doesn’t know what my hands are doing today, I’m that busy.’

  He watched Hannah’s busy hands loading up the basket with bannocks, wine, soup in a tin with a lid, and cold chicken, by habit avoiding any ham or bacon. She added some leeks from the scullery table, arranging them like a bouquet around the top, then draping the lot with a cloth and presenting the finished basket to Murray with a deeply ironic curtsey. He replied with a solemn bow, and hurried out of the kitchen.

  Outside, the sun had gone in and the air felt dull. He walked quickly, hoping that he might have the task he had been given completed before dark. He had a stick, Lord Scoggie’s pair of pistols, and a sword, and felt he was clanking as he walked, but after dark he knew he would feel much more vulnerable. He glanced up. The sky was definitely clouding over, and it would be a very dark night.

  He was halfway down the drive when he saw a cloaked figure walking up from the woods on a path to converge with his. The figure waved: it was Keyes. He sighed: he wanted to be on his own to consider how he was to proceed, but it looked as if Keyes was determined to join him. He waved back, trying to look busy.

  ‘You’ve been elusive this morning, Murray!’ Keyes cried when he was near enough. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘I’ve been at Tibo’s house, and now I’m off on a confidential errand for Lord Scoggie.’ He laid a degree of emphasis on the word ‘confidential’, hoping that Keyes would take the hint.

  ‘I’ll walk along with you for a little, then,’ said Keyes comfortably, swinging into step beside him.

  ‘Did you find Lord Scoggie this morning? You were going to talk with him, I think: I left him in the library ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Ah, well, I don’t think I need to talk to him now,’ said Keyes, glancing at Murray out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘But the letters – the possibility that you were the intended victim –’ Murray struggled to keep the impatience from his voice.

  ‘I can’t see that anyone would be going to kill me, honestly, Murray. What would be the reason? And as for the letters – well, I don’t think I’ll be getting any more now.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well ...’ They had reached the gate, and Keyes looked about him to make sure they were alone. ‘I don’t know why, but I always thought that the person who sent the letters was Tibo himself. That’s why I was so uneasy about telling Scoggie about them. I know he thought a great deal of his lawyer, and he would have been upset. I like old Scoggie.’

  ‘You thought the writer was Tibo?’ Murray stared at the Major. ‘Why on earth would Tibo have wanted to write you anonymous letters?’

  ‘Well, he seemed to be trying to warn me off, wasn’t he? He probably thought my being here would bother some of the villagers. You maybe know I had a bit of a rammy with one of them the last time I was here, and maybe Tibo was just being sensitive.’ ‘But doesn’t that mean that there is someone around, in the village, even, who has a reason to kill you?’

  ‘Ach, don’t be daft!’ Keyes, laughing, had no notion of being afraid. ‘The fellow I fought will have forgotten it long ago.’

  ‘I’m not sure that Lord Scoggie would agree with you –’

  ‘And that’s exactly why I won’t bother Lord Scoggie with the matter. Don’t you think he has enough to worry about?’

  Murray closed his eyes. Murdering Major Keyes was briefly very tempting indeed.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Keyes, oblivious, ‘there was one more letter last night. I found it on the hall table, on my way out to see what was going on – when Tibo was found.’

  ‘The same as the others?’

  ‘Aye, much the same. Take a look.’

  He dug in his pocket, and produced another folded paper. Murray took it and stopped to read it.

  ‘Yew will not heed my warnning. Yew must goe, and goe nowe. A freind.’

  The breeze lifted the corner of the letter suddenly, and Murray thought he noticed something. He held the letter up to his nose, and sniffed.

  ‘It smells of fish.’

  ‘Maybe Tibo had fish for his dinner.’

  ‘And the spelling?’

  ‘A blind. Good spelling would have cut down the possible writers considerably.’

  Murray looked down, past the letter, and thought hard. He tried to picture Tibo as an anonymous letter writer, attempting to disguise his identity. It was much easier to picture him drawing Major Keyes aside and giving him the warning in person. Why would Tibo have hidden behind these yews and goes? It made no sense.

  ‘Where were you anyway, last night? Did you see where anyone else was?’

  Keyes laughed.

  ‘I was as safe as could be. When you all left for the dance, I went upstairs to my room, took off my old leg, and wrote letters to my admirers for what seemed like hours. The first I knew anything had happened was when Naismyth, already, I believe, the worse for brandy, battered on Lord Scoggie’s chamber door to rouse him. If the murderer was after me, he was in the wrong place altogether.’

  There was a clatter of wheels and hooves behind them, and Murray stepped up on to the bank to allow a carriage to squeeze its way past Keyes, balancing his peg leg in the ditch. The curtain on the near window was down, showing the passenger to be a neat man, dressed in mourning.

  ‘Tibo’s younger brother, then, I suppose,’ Keyes nodded after it.

  ‘Lady Scoggie will be able to come home soon, then.’

  ‘You won’t have to take her her dinner.’

  ‘What?’ Murray looked down at the basket he was carrying. ‘No, it’s not for her. It’s for someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It’s this confidential work I’m doing for Lord Scoggie,’ said Murray, again with emphasis. They were not far from his destination now, and he was wondering how he was to shake Keyes off. It was less difficult than he expected.

  ‘I’ll walk as far as Tibo’s house, then, and maybe I can escort Cousin Livvy home. I hear Scogg
ie has you armed to the oxters, too?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ Murray smiled, flipping his coat back to show the sword. ‘I’m sure she’ll be grateful for the security.’ He stopped outside the row of cottages on the brow of the hill. Keyes looked at them curiously. ‘Here’s where I stop. I’ll see you later, I expect.’

  ‘Keep safe,’ Keyes said cheerfully, giving a little bow, and continuing down the road. Murray waited until he had disappeared round the corner before selecting the cottage he wanted to enter. From inside, he could hear the hum and rattle of the loom, until he knocked the door. The work rattled to a halt, there was the scrape of a stool on an earth floor, and the door opened. It was Geordie Kinkell.

  ‘Oh, aye?’ he said, after a second recognising Murray from the servants’ dance.

  ‘I’m here from Lord Scoggie.’

  ‘Well, I never thought you were representing the Moderator of the General Assembly. You’d better come in.’

  Murray stooped through the door, finding himself in the kitchen. It was smoky and dark: the lum was not well built, like many of these cottages. The earthen floor was well trampled and seemed to have been swept, but evidently not by the lady of the house. When his eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light of the crusie lamp he saw her, no more than bones beneath the blankets, propped up in the recess bed.

  ‘Mrs. Kinkell.’ He bowed, clumsy under the low rafters. Geordie was a big man himself, but had the habit of walking about his kitchen with his head a little on one side. Above the rafters hung what seemed to be a small ham and some cheese in cloth, and odd tools and boxes. The mantelpiece held the requisite Bible and nothing much else. On a creepy stool far too close to the fire, his son Peter sat, head right back to smile up at the visitor. Murray smiled back irresistibly.

  ‘Will you sit, before you crack your head?’ said Geordie, nodding to a Windsor chair that had pride of place on the other side of the fire. Murray, feeling he was in the way, sat.

  ‘I brought a few things for you from his lordship.’ He held the basket out, but at Geordie’s nod set it down beside him.

  ‘From his lordship?’ Geordie gave him an odd, sideways look. ‘No her ladyship?’

  ‘It was his lordship that sent me.’ What was Lady Scoggie’s reason for failing to visit this house, when there was not another door in the village she did not darken?

  ‘I see.’ He watched as Peter grabbed the basket and snatched off the cloth, then rescued the bottle of wine tenderly from his starfish hands. ‘He’s awful good to an old household in trouble.’

  Murray tried to find irony in this statement, but could not quite.

  ‘I hope your brother Sandy saw himself safely home last night.’

  Geordie grinned, though his eyes seemed sad.

  ‘Aye, I think so. His feet usually find the way, even if his head hasna a clue.’

  ‘It was difficult to deal with the matter last night, but Lord Scoggie wants to know if it’s true: has Chrissie not appeared yet?’

  Geordie looked surprised.

  ‘Well, it’s like Sandy said: she hadna by last night, anyway. His lordship said long ago her brother had let her go, but he mustn’t have at all.’

  ‘Mr. Tibo went to see them after Hugh Farquhar’s death, and she had gone, he said.’

  ‘He said, or they said? I wouldna put anything past that lot.’ He spoke with easy, accustomed bile. ‘Likely they have her stowed in the fishloft, or wherever. She was no at Sandy’s, anyway.’

  ‘Who’s looking after his child?’

  ‘Our mother. She lives with them – well, it was her house.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen him today.’

  ‘No! I’ve enough to do without tying him to my apron strings.’

  ‘I’d best go and see him myself, then.’ Murray made to stand up, but Geordie scrambled to his feet first.

  ‘Give me a minute and I’ll come with you. Here, Peter, get your hat and scarf on, and we’ll go and see Uncle Sandy.’ Instead of fetching his own coat, he stepped quickly over to the recess bed, murmuring something Murray did not try to catch. He took a knife from his pocket and quickly opened the bottle of wine, pouring a little into a cup by the bed.

  ‘Try it anyway,’ he said. ‘Are you warm enough?’

  She nodded, though her head seemed too heavy for her fragile neck. The smell of her disease wrapped the room about, taking hold on all their lives. There was nothing that could be done. Yet that never stopped Lady Scoggie. Why did she not come here?

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ he said, giving them a moment of privacy. Seconds later, Geordie and Peter joined him, and led the way across the road and into a lane that ran between the fields opposite.

  ‘I take it Mr. Tibo is too busy again to do his lordship’s work for him?’ said Geordie with a sarcastic smirk. ‘You seem to be getting all the jobs these days.’

  ‘You haven’t heard, then?’ Murray saw the answer in his face. ‘Mr. Tibo died last night. He was murdered.’

  Geordie stopped in his tracks.

  ‘He never was!’ He stared at Murray, testing his face for honesty. What he saw seemed to satisfy him in some small way. He blew out hard through narrow lips. ‘Did they get them?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The fellows who did it. The fishermen.’

  A limping figure passed across the frosty slopes of Murray’s memory.

  ‘Why do you think the fishermen did it?’

  ‘Ach, they’ll do anything!’ The words were similar to his earlier remark, but something about the tone was not quite right, nor was the way he avoided Murray’s eye. ‘How did they kill him?’

  ‘A blow to the side of the head.’

  ‘I’d have expected a knife. He was in his house, I suppose.’

  ‘No. He was beside the lake.’

  Geordie stared again.

  ‘On the laird’s own land? My, they’re braw!’

  ‘Braw!’ cried Peter, making them jump. He had hurried ahead, not noticing them pause, and now danced back to them like a puppy.

  ‘Quiet, lad: a man’s dead.’ As always, he spoke kindly to his son. ‘Of course we never saw him much. If there was any business to be done, he would have sent poor wee Cocky Leckie. And Cocky would have called anyway, out of friendliness.’

  ‘Will Aunty Chrissie be there?’ Peter asked his father, pointing to the cottage they were approaching.

  ‘I dinna ken, lad. That’s what we’re here to find out. Sandy!’ Geordie slapped the door. In the patch of land beside the cottage, a woman was pegging out washing, only her skirts visible behind swirling sheets. Murray, looking at the sky, thought she was being optimistic.

  Geordie saw where he was looking.

  ‘Ma!’ he cried. The woman took her time pegging out a last towel, then bent and picked up the basket at her feet. She had a wiry, hard figure, which looked younger than her face. Two blue eyes like ice chips were set deep into leather skin.

  ‘If you’re looking your brother,’ she started to speak when she was still at the line, ‘you needn’t expect sense from him. I needn’t ask what time you think he got in last night: he had the whole house roused and the bairn greeting before he found his bed.’

  ‘Aye, he was in a bad way.’ Geordie briefly met Murray’s eye. ‘I’m sorry I couldna see him back myself, but you ken how things are.’

  ‘Aye,’ she said shortly. ‘Hallo, there, Peter. Are you well?’

  ‘Aye, Nan: I’m grand!’ said Peter proudly.

  ‘Well, away into the house then, and we’ll have a bit of tea. You’ll be the young gentleman from the Castle,’ she said to Murray, eyes looking straight into him.

  ‘Charles Murray, Mrs. Kinkell.’ He bowed. She nodded, and led the way into the cottage.

  This cottage was smoky, too, but the underlying smell was of baby: clean, well cared-for baby, fortunately. A pot of stew was over the fire, and Mrs. Kinkell went straight to it, giving it a quick, expert stir.

  ‘Nathaniel Tibo’s dead,’ said Geordie qu
ickly, as if he was afraid Murray would snatch his news from him. Mrs. Kinkell stopped and looked hard at her son, then turned back to push a kettle over the fire. ‘He’s murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’ She bent to pick up the child that was squirming in its cradle, and sat on the bench under the window, the child firmly on her thin lap. She reminded Murray suddenly of Lady Scoggie, older and poorer, perhaps, but just as tough – or he would have said so, until Lady Scoggie’s recent signs of weakness. ‘Who killed him?’

  ‘We don’t know.’ Murray jumped in before Geordie could say anything. Geordie opened his mouth to add something, but he was interrupted.

  ‘Who the devil’s that?’

  The voice was slurred, and came from the curtained recess bed. Geordie’s eyes rolled, and he took one long step across and swept the curtain back. There was a curse, and Sandy was revealed, his pimpled face blotchy, his red hair at all angles, clad only in the shirt he had worn last night, with a hand clutched across his eyes to shield them from the kitchen’s dim light.

  ‘It’s me, Sandy. And the gentleman who took such good care of you last night when you called on his lordship, so you’re no doing a good job of returning his hospitality.’

  ‘He can go to Brigham, for all I’m fashed.’ Sandy curled up like a worm disturbed. His bare legs did not make for an attractive view, but no one in the room seemed much concerned.

  ‘Is your wife back, Sandy?’

  ‘Can you see her? Aye, she’s here in the bed with me, aren’t you, Chrissie, my love?’ He seized a scrawny pillow with passion, then sank back against the wall. ‘Of course she’s no back. She’s still with her damned family, devil take the whole fish-fancying boiling of them.’

  ‘You watch your tongue, laddie, or you’ll feel the back of my hand,’ snapped his mother.

  ‘Ma, I’m a grown man!’

  ‘You’re neither dressed like one nor behaving like one. No, she’s no back, Geordie,’ she sighed, jiggling the baby a little. ‘How could they keep her away from this wee one?’

  Murray turned to Geordie.

  ‘Lord Scoggie will want me to take this further. I shall visit the Farquhars,’ he said, though the prospect did not appeal.