Geordie fetched the kettle off the fire, and poured hot black tea for each of them, including Murray. Having a sick wife must have domesticated him, Murray thought, scalding his mouth with the drink. Sandy’s lips must have been tougher, for he emptied the cup quickly and struggled off the bed. Just about upright, he clutched the wall for support.
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘You’ll no,’ said his mother with certainty. ‘You’ll stay here at your home and do the work you need to do to put food in this bairn’s bowl.’
‘She’s right, Sandy.’ Geordie nodded firmly. ‘You’ll only get in a fight again.’
‘I’m ready to fight, I am.’
‘You’re ready to fall over,’ Geordie caught him as he wobbled. ‘Lie down till you can stand up without help.’ He turned to Murray. ‘You’d better go now if you’re going, before he gets his strength back.’
Murray nodded, and left with little formality. His visit was going to be difficult enough without trying to keep Sandy Kinkell out of trouble.
Outside the sky was heavier than before, and there was a suspicious mildness about the air that promised snow. Murray leaned into the fresh wind, automatically feeling to check that his pistols and sword were still in place. The wind brushed the smoke from his nose and eyes, and flapped at the tails of his coat as he made his way back along the narrow lane to the main village road.
The wind could not brush the questions from his mind. What was he going to say to the Farquhars, a family still in mourning? Where was Chrissie Farquhar? What was wrong with Lady Scoggie, and why would she not visit the Kinkells? Why was Lord Scoggie suddenly so interested in the Kinkells and their problems? What had he been burning in the library grate? Who was the fisherman last night? Was Keyes the intended victim? Why was Deborah going to meet Tibo? Who killed Tibo? The last question echoed round and round in his head, when the first one was the most urgent. Who had killed Tibo? and why had they done it last night? Opportunism? or planning? A chance encounter or a murderer who carried his weapon with him, pacing through the darkness to find his victim? Where was the household last night? Was the killer going to strike again?
He pictured the questions in his head, until his thoughts were completely tangled with the hooks of question marks. He hardly saw where he was walking, the wind filling his ears with bird cries and whirling leaves, until he was roused by the sound of a human voice. Startled, he stopped in his tracks. The end of the lane was narrow, with high banks, and he was almost upon it. Over the top of it, he recognised suddenly the top of Major Keyes’ hat, and to his shame he ducked back instinctively, determined not to be caught up again. He pressed himself into the bank, and hid.
Major Keyes was not talking to himself: he was, as he had hoped, escorting Lady Scoggie home from Tibo’s house. There was a conscientious attentiveness in his attitude, ready for attack from any quarter, though Lady Scoggie herself seemed not to be concerned. Instead, she was frowning hard at the ground as she walked, while Keyes chattered on.
‘And he knows nothing of the matter?’ he was saying, as he passed the end of the lane.
‘Of course not,’ she turned on him fiercely, fortunately looking away from the lane. ‘How could I tell him? After all this time?’
‘Oh,’ said Keyes, blithely, ‘it’s always best to tell. These things always come out.’
‘It can’t.’ Lady Scoggie glared at the ground again. ‘It mustn’t.’
Then they were past. Murray stayed where he was, still as a waiting heron, feeling the damp ground through his coat. He counted to sixty before he moved, then slipped out of the end of the lane to follow them at a safe distance. He had one more errand to do before he went down to the village.
As he had hoped, Geordie Kinkell’s cottage was deserted still apart from his wife. Murray knocked the door gently and went in. Mrs. Kinkell peered at his outline against the daylight, trying to work out who he was.
‘It’s Charles Murray again, Mrs. Kinkell, from the Castle.’
‘Mr. Murray? My husband’s still away out.’
‘No, that’s all right. It’s you I’ve come to see, if you don’t mind.’
A ghastly apprehension flickered over her face.
‘It’s no Andrew, is it?’ she whispered.
Good heavens, he had forgotten. The cocky young servant was also a child of this house.
‘No, no, not at all!’ He hurried to reassure her. ‘It’s just – Lord Scoggie sent this.’ He produced the unremarkable purse with its remarkable weight, and passed it to her. ‘It’s all in shillings,’ he could hear Lord Scoggie explaining to him, ‘anything bigger would be hard for her to use in the village.’
‘Oh!’ Recognition filled her eyes. ‘I ken, of course. Poor wee Cocky’s dead: he usually brings it for his lordship. I expected Mr. Tibo, but I’m sure he has more important things to be doing.’
‘Aye, I’m sure,’ said Murray blandly. ‘You were a servant up at the Castle, then?’
The memory of a smile touched her lips.
‘Oh, aye. Before the childer were born, you ken. Grand times, grand times.’
He smiled, and pulled his gloves back on.
‘Now, if you’re all right, I’d better get going.’
‘Here,’ she said, pulling a cloth bag out from under her pillow with some effort. She tipped the contents of the purse into it. ‘There’s the purse back. Though I doubt I’ll live to see the next first of the month to take it again. Now, off you go, indeed, before Geordie comes back. He’s gey proud, you ken?’
He bowed, again hampered by the low beams, and made his way back outside, making sure the door was firmly closed against the cold. No one was about. He turned, and hurried down the hill, into the wind, his head even more full of questions than before.
The main street was lined, on the inland side, with cottages, some rendered in grubby white, some left with their honey sandstone bare. Murray would have had little idea which one belonged to the Farquhars but for Lord Scoggie’s careful directions: the third rig stair from the junction with the road down the hill, with the door and window to the left. Across the road, in the harbour, the boats were in, knocking hollowly at each other as the water surged and ebbed. A few men were bringing the nets back, hauling them from the chemical spring to the east of the town where they were dipped for their preservation. The ropes were reddish from the iron-laden water. They regarded Murray with suspicion, nodding at him but reserved.
The doorway was even lower than that at the Kinkells’ cottage, probably to keep out the worst of the weather. A cry from inside was indistinguishable in the rising wind, but he assumed, optimistically, that it had been an instruction to enter, and pulled the rope latch on the door to enter.
Again he found himself walking straight into a kitchen, but it seemed even smaller than those of the weavers. The outside walls were so thick it was like walking down a tunnel, and at the end of it the heat from the kitchen fire was intense, packed and folded round itself for so long that the room was probably never cold. Again there was a recess bed, curtains closed, and the requisite form and one or two creepy stools. Here, though, there was nowhere to sit down, even if he had been offered a place. On the bench sat a woman, large and miserable, wrapped into her plaid and black gown, as if she could bind up the wounds of her heart from the outside. Beside her was a young man with a drawn face, wearing fisherman’s clothes, one leg stretched out deliberately across the floor. On a creepy stool sat the egg-bald Richie Shaw, whom Murray remembered from the meeting at the Castle, hugging his knees for balance. The other two creepy stools were occupied by three small children, presumably Hugh’s younger siblings, solemn in the presence of grown-ups. In pride of place, though, in the Windsor chair, was Joe Baillie, just in the act of lighting his pipe. Murray, pursued by a gust of grey wind, entered the kitchen to be impaled on the stares of four pairs of eyes, and the first thing to move was Joe Baillie’s hand, flicking a spill into the fire.
‘His lordship’s secr
etary, eh?’ said Joe, establishing his authority in a moment. ‘What do you want?’
‘Forgive me for any intrusion.’ Murray began with as much courtesy as he could. ‘And I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Farquhar.’ The large woman gulped a sob, and nodded, though her gaze dropped as soon as he looked at her. ‘I have come on behalf of Lord Scoggie.’
‘Aye, I thought Nathaniel Tibo would never come down here again. It was a wonder he darkened a door in the village the once. Send Cocky Leckie, aye, but when he’s gone never dirty your fine gloves.’ Joe eyed Murray’s moderately fine gloves, which Murra obediently tugged off.
‘Nathaniel Tibo is dead, Mr. Baillie.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Joe was calm, but the man with the drawn face twitched, and gave a little gasp of pain. Murray looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Was there something wrong with his leg?
‘Aye. He was murdered last night.’
The woman breathed quickly, and Richie Shaw looked up sharply.
‘I hadna heard that,’ he said.
‘Well, it’s true. He was found dead by the lake at the Castle.’
Joe blew smoke out round the chewed stem of his pipe.
‘Who would have done something like that?’
‘Have you any suggestions?’
Joe laughed.
‘If that’s what you came here to ask, Mr. Murray, you’ve wasted a walk. None of us would ken anything of the goings on up yonder.’
‘The weavers up the town thought you might have had something to do with it,’ Murray tried.
‘Oh, did they?’ Joe caught the eye of first Richie, then of the man on the bench. There came a stirring from behind the recess bed curtain, and Mrs. Farquhar hurried to pull it back. A dark head, tousled and angry, looked out.
‘The fellows up the hill would have more reason to do down yon lawyer than anyone down this end,’ stated the stranger. ‘We have enough to worry about. My son died at sea this week, did you no ken? We have no fisherman, and no boat.’
‘Hush, Donald, the gentleman said he was sorry,’ said Mrs. Farquhar, straightening the now visible bedclothes.
‘Stop fussing, woman! What’s this man here for, anyway?’
Joe, deferring for the moment to his host, nodded at Murray.
‘What are you doing here?’
Murray cleared his throat and tried his best to look conciliatory.
‘I’m sorry to bother you about this, but it’s about your daughter Chrissie.’
In less time than it took to think, the man was out of bed. He flung himself across the kitchen, and dealt Murray a heavy blow on the chest. The wind knocked out of him, Murray sagged back against the door, while Richie and Mrs. Farquhar dragged the man back, panting.
‘She’s no daughter of mine!’ cried Farquahar, leaning heavily on his wife. Out of the bed, he was small, with thin legs but a mighty chest, a minotaur scaled down to a recess bed. ‘She left us for that pork-eating villain!’ He seized his back with both hands, and let his wife lay him back on his bed.
‘He hurt his back, four seasons ago,’ Joe explained. ‘That’s why he canna go out on the boats. And now, as he says, he has no boat to go out on. James here is a bit young yet to feed the whole family, aren’t you, lad?’ He tapped the eldest of the children on the shoulder and puffed smoke in his face. ‘They have enough mouths to feed here without Chrissie as well. She went back to her husband.’
‘I’m afraid she didn’t,’ said Murray. ‘She has not appeared there.’
Joe, for a moment, seemed disposed to disbelieve him, then changed his mind.
‘She’s no back?’
‘No. When did she leave here?’
‘She left on ... When was it, Margit?’
Mrs. Farquhar thought.
‘It was the morning Hugh left. He took her back before you all went out.’
‘Are you sure?’ Murray asked quickly.
‘Aye,’ said Mrs. Farquhar. ‘She packed her few things, and he took her off.’
‘Well, he can’t have taken her home.’
‘Maybe he just took her a bit of the way?’
‘He was gone an hour or more, Joe,’ said Mrs. Farquhar. ‘Where else would he have gone?’
‘We’ll have to organise a search,’ said Joe, his face serious.
‘We’ll have to hurry. It’s almost dark, and it’s going to snow,’ said Murray. ‘I’ll go back up and tell Lord Scoggie.’
‘Aye, he’ll help,’ agreed Joe, sure of the laird’s position in his world.
‘I’ll go along to our place and get some help,’ said the young man on the bench. He shifted himself to his feet. ‘Mr. Murray, are you ready to go?’
‘Come on, then.’ Murray opened the door, and looked back in time to see the young man lift a pair of crutches from against the wall. He manoeuvred himself to the door, skipping neatly around the children with a smile, and led Murray out on to the street.
Outside, the snow had begun, steady white streamers drawing the colour out of the street and the sea. The young man began to swing himself along, back the way Murray had come.
‘I don’t know your name,’ said Murray, catching up with him in a couple of strides.
‘Tom Baillie. I’m Joe’s brother.’
‘You use your crutches very ably. Is your injury an old one?’
Tom glanced at him, his eyebrows already white with snow.
‘You’ll ken Major Keyes?’
‘Oh.’ Murray understood. ‘So what were you doing at the Castle last night?’
There was a sharp breath, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.
‘Do you think I killed Mr. Tibo?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is that you were seen there.’
‘Oh, aye.’ He swung on, but at the foot of the inland road, he stopped. ‘Your way lies up there, and mine lies ahead.’ He looked about him, watching the snow fall, then shivered. ‘I was just there with a letter, that’s all.’
‘A letter? For whom?’
‘For Major Keyes. I little thought, when he wrecked my leg, that I would end up running messenger for him.’
‘Who wrote the letter, Tom?’
Tom smiled.
‘Oh, aye, that would be telling!’
‘Was it from someone down here? Or from someone up the town? Please tell me, Tom: it’s very important.’
‘It’s no very important for me.’ He turned away, then looked back. ‘No, that’s not really true. If it hadn’t been important for me, I wouldn’t have been hirpling up there after dark to take it. But it was from a friend of mine, and I had already left it late, so up I went.’
‘Late? How late?’
‘Later than I should have.’ Tom was as obstinate as his brother. ‘Now, away with you, Mr. Murray. We have a missing woman to find.’
It was the only thing which would have driven him home so quickly at that moment. The snow was teasing, heavy and light, sweeping carelessly along on the wind. If Chrissie Farquhar was out in it, she could be in serious trouble.
Slithering, clutching his stick as a support more than a weapon, he climbed the hill back to the Castle. The sandstone walls were outlined in white, the scrub by the side of the road instantly remarkable. In the uneasy wind, the fir trees at the end of the dark grey lake made hapless remonstrations with their snow-laden branches. Suddenly the Castle seemed appealing again: as the sky darkened, he saw lights shine out from the narrow windows, the library, and Beatrix’s room, and Lord Scoggie’s own chamber. He made good time along the drive, on the relative flat, and in a moment was indoors, shaking the snow from his boots and coat.
He hurried into the library. To his surprise, Lord Scoggie was not there: instead, Lady Scoggie and Major Keyes were sitting by an unusually healthy fire. On the lower library table, the family papers he had been working on – quite some time ago, it seemed – had been moved aside, he noticed, and wondered what they had been looking at.
‘Good evening, Mr. Murray. I hope you have not been out in
the snow,’ said Lady Scoggie. He was about to open his mouth to reply, but then he looked at her. It was extraordinary. She seemed to be aging visibly just at the moment – since Major Keyes’ arrival, he suddenly thought. Beside her on the little table was a glass of what looked like brandy. As he stood staring at her, she lifted it, hands shaking, and took a large sip.
‘Ah, um, I was looking for Lord Scoggie,’ he managed to say at last. ‘Is he about, do you know, my lady?’
She did not reply. Distantly, he heard, he thought, wheels on the gravel outside.
‘Ah, I think he is upstairs. In his chamber,’ said Major Keyes.
The door bell rang. As if he had been waiting for it, Naismyth’s steps could be heard crossing the hall.
‘In his chamber ... is someone coming for supper?’ Murray asked.
‘What?’ Lady Scoggie jumped.
‘Is someone expected for supper?’ He could hear voices in the hall, but he had closed the door when he came in. In a moment, they had passed by, and in another, Naismyth was at the library door.
‘My lady: the first guests have arrived for the dinner.’
‘The what?’ Lady Scoggie stared at him.
‘The dinner, my lady. In honour of –‘ He jerked his head, as if he had spotted a likely worm. ‘In honour of Major Keyes, my lady.’
‘Tonight?’ She leapt up with a little shriek. ‘Not tonight?’
‘Well, yes, my lady.’
She looked as if she was about to swoon. Keyes, Naismyth and Murray froze for a long second, ready to catch her. But she shook her head sharply.
‘Is anything ready? Anything at all?’
‘Why, yes, my lady,’ said Naismyth, surprised. ‘Mrs. Costane has been working hard all day. The staff are quite prepared.’
‘Good, good,’ she said faintly. ‘And the family?’
‘Lord Scoggie is ready in the drawing room. Miss Beatrix, I believe, is on her way down. Grisell has been waiting for you in your chamber, I think, my lady.’
‘Oh, my goodness! Why did no one tell me?’
Knowledge of Sins Past (Murray of Letho Book 2) Page 27