‘Well, no one told me, either,’ said Major Keyes, trying to seem humorous. ‘Come along, cousin: a comb through your hair and a fresh shawl, and you’ll do very well.’ He rose and tugged her arm gently. ‘We shall all be fine in a moment.’ He led her out into the hall and towards the staircase. ‘Come along, Murray: you’ll need to look your best, too.’
The door bell rang again, and Naismyth hurried away. Murray and the others hurried upstairs, and in an extraordinarily short time they reappeared, brushed and washed, and in best dinner clothes. Keyes was in uniform, his buttons apparently already polished by Naismyth. Beatrix and Deborah, looking breathless, were already there, talking to the minister and a rather grand family from Elie, who had been the first guests to arrive. Beatrix broke away and came to greet Murray.
‘Had you any idea about this?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘Not the least. Had you?’
‘I thought we had cancelled it. The snow, and everything, and poor Mr. Tibo ... It must have been a dreadful shock for Lady Scoggie. She looks as if she has seen a ghost.’
‘I know. Is she all right, do you know?’
Beatrix shrugged, but her forehead wrinkled with worry. Then, as if by a miracle, it cleared.
‘Mr. and Mrs. Philip Bootham,’ announced Naismyth from the drawing room door.
There were around twenty guests altogether, fewer than expected because of the snow. When they had all gathered and warmed themselves with sweet negus, Lady Scoggie, so brittle looking it seemed they could hear her bones rattle, led her guests down to the Great Hall, and saw them arranged around the table. A good fire had been lit, at which Lord Scoggie frowned. Murray, finding himself near his lordship’s end of the table, suddenly remembered Chrissie Farquhar, but for the moment he could say nothing. They stood for Lord Scoggie’s grace.
He kept it mercifully short, and with a rough scrape of chairs on the stone floor, they sat. Major Keyes seemed to glow in his scarlet by Lady Scoggie’s side, ready to perform his show of hero for another audience. Lady Scoggie rang the little bell by her place, and the servants, Naismyth, Andrew and Grisell, entered with the soup. The conversation lapsed a little in appreciation. Lady Scoggie glanced down the table as Naismyth removed the lid of the tureen in front of Lord Scoggie, and Andrew stepped forward with the dishes. Then she leapt from her seat, and screamed.
‘This is your doing!’ she shrieked down the table to where Philip Bootham was sitting, hair shining innocently. ‘What is he doing here?’
Her shawl fell forgotten to the floor. Her outflung arm pointed unwavering, straight at Andrew.
Chapter Eighteen
‘I must confess, I have very little idea what you are talking about.’
Bootham spoke into the tingling silence with clarity and calm. Mrs. Bootham gave a little laugh, more nervous than amused, Murray thought. The eminent guests, the cream of the East Neuk of Fife, shuffled, but held their peace. At the end of the table, Lord Scoggie sat and stared, open-mouthed, at his wife.
Deborah was the first to move.
‘I’m afraid my mother has not been well lately: she has been under a great deal of strain.’ She hurried to Lady Scoggie’s side. ‘Mother, will you not sit down? Take a glass of wine.’ She pulled at her mother’s arm, but Lady Scoggie seemed fixed in place. She was still staring at Andrew.
‘Where have you come from? Where did he find you?’
Andrew was completely confused, and probably more conscious of Grisell’s questioning stare than of anything else. He had the presence of mind to set down the soup plates, and bowed, less self-assured than Murray had ever seen him.
‘My last place was Kirkcaldy, my lady. I started here a couple of weeks ago.’
‘You have been in my house all this time?’ She sounded faint. ‘But what is your name? Who are your – your parents?’
‘Mother.’ Deborah tried again to pull her away. She looked to Beatrix for her usual support, but Beatrix only had eyes for Philip Bootham. ‘Bea!’ she muttered, but there was no response.
‘My father is Geordie Kinkell, a weaver in the village,’ said Andrew obediently. Deborah looked astonished.
‘I knew it,’ said her mother. ‘You have brought this about!’ She glowered again at Philip Bootham, who was regarding Andrew with curiosity.
‘He’s the one?’ he asked. ‘But I thought –’
‘I think, perhaps, my dear, it would be most considerate to our guests to discuss this later.’ Lord Scoggie had finally found something to say, though he still looked confused. Murray looked at him more closely. There was more than that: there was a strain about him, as if he was waiting for something long expected.
‘Come along, Mother: perhaps you had better lie down for a little.’ Deborah tugged and tugged at her mother’s arm, and finally pulled her towards the door. But Lady Arlingtoun, the most prestigious female guest, was up before she could reach it, and the gentlemen stood hurriedly in respect.
‘It is clear that Lady Scoggie is much distressed,’ she said with the authority that comes from making a good marriage. ‘We shall, of course, make our departure as soon as our carriages can be brought.’
No other guest had any choice but to follow her example, even though one or two had begun to look as if they were enjoying the spectacle. In a remarkably short time, the guests had made some kind of farewell to their hosts and hurried out into the hall, where Naismyth and Grisell helped them into the cloaks they had so recently shed. Lady Scoggie shook Deborah off and sagged into her chair. The Boothams remained, as if they had been forgotten in the rush. Murray, sadly, glanced at the soup tureen still in front of Lord Scoggie. He was starving.
Deborah glared at the Boothams, and sank into an empty seat near her mother.
‘Well, that will go down well in local society,’ she remarked acidly. Major Keyes, who had managed to stay silent throughout, gave a wry chuckle.
‘Would you like to explain, my lady, what caused you to – to do as you did?’ asked Lord Scoggie, formally, still at his own end of the table. Lady Scoggie, not meeting his eye, mumbled something. If the artist who had painted her portrait that hung above her had left a faint sketch of his work, an outline of bone and skin, it would have seemed more like her now than the portrait. ‘What did you say, my dear?’
‘I said,’ she seemed to gather herself in, ‘I had an – association.’
If the great vaulted ceiling had fallen in, still no one would have moved.
‘With him,’ she added. ‘But he wasn’t called Bootham then, were you?’
Mrs. Bootham gave a little scream, and ran out of the room.
‘Was this – after we were married, my lady?’ He seemed to have been on the point of saying ‘my dear’, but it stuck at the last moment.
‘Yes.’ Lady Scoggie’s voice was faint again.
‘What do you have to say to this, Mr. Bootham?’ Lord Scoggie turned to his guest.
‘I’m not sure what I have to say, my lord. Only that it is quite true.’
Deborah gasped, looking quickly from his cool face to her mother and back again, then, suddenly, to her hands clenched on the table. Murray, looking at her, was making the same calculation, he thought. Did she look like her mother? Did she look like Bootham? He had never thought of her looking like anyone but Lord Scoggie. He looked away, wondering, and his eye fell on Andrew, lingering uncertainly by the sideboard.
Andrew. Andrew with the golden hair.
Murray looked again at Bootham along the table from him. He was almost sure he was right, but how could that be?
‘I was intrigued to find that I had a daughter,’ added Bootham, looking at Deborah. ‘Though you seem – you are not what I expected.’
‘I should ask you to leave my house for such a remark,’ said Lord Scoggie, ‘but that I want to find out as much about this as I can.’ He sounded very tired. ‘My dear, tell me: is Deborah his child?’
‘No, she is not.’ Lady Scoggie spoke with great emphasis. Bootham raise
d his eyebrows. Lord Scoggie’s shoulders relaxed a little, and Deborah looked up, an instant of hope in her eyes. ‘But that boy is.’
Andrew stepped forward from the shadows. The confusion on his face was mirrored by that in Bootham’s: the likeness was very striking.
‘But I’m the son of Geordie Kinkell,’ said Andrew. ‘My lady,’ he added, forgetting.
‘No, you aren’t,’ said Lady Scoggie.
‘How intriguing!’ Bootham remarked. ‘This servant is our son? You exchanged the babies? Why? It’s like something from a fairy tale.’
‘I did it for you.’ But Lady Scoggie was not looking at Bootham: her eyes were fixed on her husband.
‘I’m afraid I fail to understand, my dear.’
‘I did it because I gave birth to a son. I could not have you wrongly thinking it was yours, your first-born son. How could you bear it if you ever found out? But a daughter – that would not matter so much. And the Kinkells ... needed a healthy son, after poor Peter.’
‘And Henry and Robert?’ Lord Scoggie asked, with great gentleness.
‘On my honour, they are yours. I never made the same mistake again.’ She looked with venom at Bootham. Lord Scoggie sat back, gaze thoughtfully on the table.
‘I must say,’ Bootham said, ‘I’m delighted you’re all taking this so well. I know it’s difficult for people brought up in provincial life to react without unseemly emotion to news of this kind. I do hate displays of deep emotion.’
No one answered him. The air was thick with deep emotion, Murray thought: the man would have to have the sensitivity of lead not to notice. Even the family portraits, tacked to the high walls, seemed to watch tensely.
Deborah sprang from her chair and made a little dash for the fire, where she stood with her back to them, rubbing her hands together.
‘Am I the Kinkells’ child, then?’
Major Keyes could not take his eyes off her. He had the hooded, watchful look of an officer who suspects that the enemy has somehow got round behind him. Lady Scoggie had found her shawl again and had wound it about her shoulders, arms clamped across her thin chest.
‘You are, my dear.’
‘Who knows about this?’
‘Apart from us? Only Geordie Kinkell and his wife.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ said Deborah, still facing the fire as though her only strength came from the leaping flames. ‘I think Mr. Tibo knew.’
‘What are you talking about, my dear?’ asked Lord Scoggie, who had been regarding her with raised eyebrows for some time. She did not look round.
‘Last night, he told me he had found out something – about me, something he thought I should know, but it had to be told me in confidence. We arranged to meet outside, near the lake, between supper and the ball.’ Murray could see her shaking. ‘I went out, but I never found him.’
‘Impossible,’ muttered Lady Scoggie.
‘Well, what was he going to tell me, then, Lady Scoggie?’ She spun to spit the words at the woman she had thought was her mother. ‘What else could he have known about me, that I wouldn’t know, that he would have to tell me in secret?’
‘I think we should move to the parlour,’ said Lord Scoggie suddenly. ‘The smell of this soup is beginning to make me feel ill.’ He stood up. ‘Mr. Murray, will you be kind enough to go and apologise to Mrs. Costane for the ruination of her good dinner? Andrew, I think you had better come with us.’
Relieved as well as disappointed, Murray slipped out of the hall ahead of the family and darted down the passage to the kitchens. Halfway down he stopped, and leaned against the cool wall, breathing deeply. Tibo had a secret to impart to Deborah, but he was killed before he could talk to her. Was this the secret? If so, his killer must be kicking himself now. If not, what was it? It was the only good reason he had yet heard for Tibo being the intended victim of the murder. But who then was the murderer? He caught his breath. The most likely person, from the point of view of motive, had to be Lady Scoggie, the one person who had also really embraced the idea that Major Keyes was the intended victim. Could Lady Scoggie really have done it? To defend her reputation, her marriage, her children?
He had no idea where she had gone after she and Lord Scoggie had left the barn – in fact, had she left before her husband, while Lord Scoggie lingered to make sure that Murray could deal with Sandy Kinkell?
Oh, Lord, Sandy Kinkell!
Where was Chrissie?
He glanced out through the nearest window. The snow outside was falling thickly, silently. What hope did they have of finding her, and if they did, what state would she be in? He would have to try to tell Lord Scoggie, anyway, and see if anything could be done: it was not to be his choice.
He pushed himself away from the wall, and hurried on down the passage to the kitchens. He could hear the unusual quiet before he pulled open the door. Inside, Mrs. Costane, Hannah, Naismyth and Grisell sat round the table at which they usually ate, picking with their fingers at some particularly fine-looking food. His stomach lurched with hunger.
Mrs. Costane looked round, and everyone watched him as he walked towards them. He took a place on the bench beside Hannah, and pulled off a chicken leg, taking a large bite before looking at any of them.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Mrs. Costane at last, unable to wait any longer.
‘Lord Scoggie has asked me to apologise for the dinner being spoiled. This is delicious.’
‘Oh, help yourself,’ she said, sarcastically. ‘There’s more than we could eat, even if we had the appetite.’
‘Thank you.’ He pulled a plate towards himself, and heaped it with fish in mushroom sauce. ‘Wonderful.’
The others watched him as he ate, as if his appetite was something not quite morally proper.
‘What’s happening upstairs?’ Mrs. Costane asked again when he had cleared the plate.
‘Um.’ Murray had been wondering what he should say, but the word would get out to the servants anyway, even if they persuaded Andrew not to talk. It would be better to get the story straight. ‘Lady Scoggie had a child by Philip Bootham, but it’s not Deborah: it’s Andrew. Deborah is the daughter of Geordie Kinkell. The babies were exchanged at birth.’
‘What?’ The word was breathed out by all the others at once: he could not have distinguished between their voices.
‘Andrew is up in the parlour with them now. Bootham is still here.’
‘How is his lordship?’ asked Naismyth grimly. It seemed clear whose side he would be on if the household split.
‘He is quite calm at the moment. Everyone is quite calm.’
‘Oh, aye, it’s all right for the gentry,’ said Hannah, sucking fruit cream from her fingers. ‘It’s no such a big thing for them.’
‘Actually I think it’s a huge thing for them. I think it’s devastating. But they’re just managing to stay calm.’
‘Aye,’ said Mrs. Costane. ‘Imagine what’s going through Miss Deborah’s head.’
They imagined it in silence. Then Grisell stumbled back over her bench and ran from the room.
‘Aye, what effect is it to have on her and Andrew, that’s another question,’ Mrs. Costane acknowledged. She and Hannah managed to avoid looking at Naismyth, who made a huffing noise of dismissal.
‘She’d be better off without the lad.’
‘In the mean time,’ Murray went on, finishing the mushroom sauce on some bread, ‘Chrissie Kinkell is missing, and the Farquhars want us to get a search party together to look for her, and it’s still snowing. I must go back to try to talk to Lord Scoggie.’ He stood up, and stepped over the bench. Mrs. Costane, Hannah and Naismyth did not move, but remained much as he had found them. ‘Thank you for the food.’
‘Aye, you’re a growing lad,’ said Mrs. Costane.
He emerged from the servants’ corridor again into the hall, and stopped to listen for an impression of where everyone was. For a moment there was silence, so they had moved from the Great Hall. Then he heard, or thought he heard,
a sob.
He stood motionless. It came again. He thought it came from the library.
He stepped softly across the hall, and gently opened the library door.
Inside, the light was dim: only the upper half of the room, picking up light from the landing above, had colour. Down here, there were only shadows. He waited. It did not take long for one of the shadows to move.
‘Who’s there?’ came a sharp, anxious whisper.
‘It’s me, Murray. Mrs. Bootham?’
She laughed, with another sob, and emerged from the darkness behind the high table. Snowlight from the windows slithered across the folds of her silk gown, and he held his breath.
‘I’m not Mrs. Bootham.’ He could not see her eyes, but he could feel them on him. ‘My name is Jane Croft, spinster of this parish.’
‘Then who is Mrs. Bootham?’
‘I doubt there is one.’ Her voice hardened. ‘Marriage is not the kind of institution Philip would believe in. But I did believe – how could I be so innocent? – that I was his first love.’
If she had truly believed it, she certainly had been innocent. If Murray had met anyone who smacked of taking a pride in worldly experience, it was Philip Bootham. However, winged Cupid is painted blind.
‘But what of your family?’ he asked. ‘Where are they? Did they not try to recover you?’
‘My father knows where I am. You were there, I think, when I received a letter from him, addressed to my maiden name – my only true name. He believes I am here staying with a female friend, who does not exist.’
‘And what would you have done as time went on?’
‘I do not know!’ The tears began again. ‘I did not think beyond the moment! But now what am I to do? He has a child, he will be forced to acknowledge it. And everyone here will know what he has done. What am I to do?’ She stepped closer to him, and he retreated, pressing himself against the library door. Candlelight from above played on her hair, hinted at the beauty of her face, the insidious power of her presence. If there had been a Bible handy, he would have grabbed it to protect himself.
‘You knew nothing of this until now?’
Knowledge of Sins Past (Murray of Letho Book 2) Page 28