Knowledge of Sins Past (Murray of Letho Book 2)

by Lexie Conyngham

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said Keyes, but his eyes were fixed on some point at the end of the main street, and his mind seemed to be elsewhere.

  ‘It’s looking a bit hopeless, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Tempting to wait until the snow’s melted: though it could be too late then, of course.’

  ‘Aye. Has anyone searched the church?’

  Murray turned to look at the church, squatting on its headland.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll ask Geordie.’ He took two steps away towards Geordie and the other leaders, but Major Keyes was already away, limping towards the church.

  ‘Geordie!’ Murray called. ‘Have we looked in the church?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Joe Baillie, clear eyes turning to take in Major Keyes. He watched the limping figure impassively.

  ‘Major!’ Murray called again. ‘They’ve searched it.’

  ‘But all of it?’ the Major called back, not bothering to look round.

  ‘Oh, aye, he has to ken best,’ Murray heard Joe muttering. He and Geordie started after the Major, joined quickly by Sandy and Richie Shaw, and Murray, worried by the balance of this party, decided he had better go too. They hurried to catch up with Keyes, who was already perched at the crossing of the burn at the foot of the headland, trying to work out how to cross when the only large stepping stones were snow-capped. Murray grabbed his arm and dragged him across in two long strides, and the Major nodded and shook himself free to scrabble up the steep path. Tippoo was only just ahead, skittering through pockets of snow.

  The headland was bleak and grey, the church a great black hulk in the centre with the crumpled lead sea beyond. The Major strode now across the kirkyard, managing to stay upright mostly by impetus, and made his way not to the door to the aisle in which the services were now held, but towards the old main door to the church, the place he and Murray had explored that first Sunday of his eventful visit. The doorway stood open, a dark hole at which the Major paused, staring into the void beyond, before plunging inside. Murray was next, stopping to let his eyes adjust, and the others were up with him before he stepped into the church.

  Keyes was in the centre of the old building, listening carefully. The others stopped, too. All Murray could hear was the light, snowy wind outside, and the echo of gulls around the glaring gaps in the roof above them.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Joe Baillie suddenly. Murray concentrated harder, as the others around him strained to hear what Joe had heard. Dimly, there could be heard a thin scratching sound, and what could almost be a voice ...

  Keyes swivelled on his peg. Ahead of him was the little door into the old kist room that he and Murray had looked at before, the one with no window, set into the thick wall of the old building. He snatched at the door latch, and pushed, but the door stuck.

  Joe and Geordie were already with him. Joe snatched a great knife from his belt, and slipped it into the gap between the door and the doorframe, and pulled. There was a great crack, and the door shot open, a newish chain clattering to the floor, fallen from the rotten wood. There was a gasp, seemingly from all of them. The door swung right open, and Murray saw a figure inside, pale and thin, and for a second, motionless. Then it seemed as if they had let a whirlwind loose.

  ‘Where is he? Where is he? I’ll scratch the eyes out of his head!’

  Chrissie Farquhar, her hair like a frayed rope end, eyes staring, came to a halt amongst them. Now Murray saw her clearly, he could see that she was not a young girl: there were lines on her thin face, though no doubt Sandy and her family between them had helped to score a few of them.

  ‘Where’s my fool of a brother?’

  Joe Baillie stepped forward, a preparatory look on his face.

  ‘Did Hugh put you in there?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course he did. Said he was going to take me back home, and then tricked me in here! Oh, I could have kicked myself – after I’d kicked him! Where is he, the coward?’

  ‘Chrissie, love,’ her husband Sandy began, with a tentative hand on her arm. ‘Hugh’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Lost, in the fishing,’ Joe explained.

  ‘What?’ She looked disbelieving. ‘When?’

  ‘Probably the day he left you in here,’ said Joe.

  ‘Sandy?’ She clutched at her husband’s sleeve.

  ‘Aye, love?’ Sandy was looking at her as if he could not quite believe in her, either.

  ‘We’re going home. Is the bairn all right?’

  ‘My mother’s looking after him.’

  ‘We’ll soon put a stop to that.’ She gave a wild look back at Joe Baillie, took a tighter grip on Sandy’s arm, and shoved him ahead of her out of the church. Geordie followed, his face sombre. It was hardly the joyous moment that they had all expected, but at least Chrissie was safe.

  With a satisfied look, Keyes turned away from the sight of her, and looked back into the kist room. Murray could see a blanket and a bottle and basket, the containers for the provisions she must have lived on since Hugh had gone missing. Keyes nodded to himself, and made to leave, but Joe Baillie had moved round to stand between him and the door. He nodded to Richie, who came to stand beside him, looking nervous.

  ‘You’ve done well,’ said Joe, nodding at Keyes. Murray found himself tensing. His hand drifted towards his sword, but apart from their sharp knives, he could see that the fishermen were not armed. ‘You’ve done grandly, but you and I have other business, have we not?’

  Major Keyes laughed.

  ‘It’s a long time since you and I had any business, Joe.’ Murray glanced at him, and saw that he was not taking Joe’s threat remotely seriously. ‘I don’t believe we’ve spoken for – oh, years and years, have we?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Major. It’s years and years all right: years and years since my brother Tom was able to earn a living, or support a wife or a family. Years and years since I lost my best man on my boat, because Tom could not go to sea.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be well used to it, then,’ said Keyes with unbelievable carelessness. ‘How is Tom these days? I see she did not wed him, anyway, yon Chrissie.’

  Murray was stunned. He had had no idea that the woman they had been searching for, the wife of Sandy Kinkell, was the same woman that Keyes and Tom Baillie had fought over, all those years ago.

  ‘No!’ cried Joe. ‘He did not! All ready to wed him, she was, until you came along with your fancy red coat and caught her eye!’

  ‘Oh, you’re very kind, Joe, but the catching was all on her side,’ Keyes insisted. ‘She was a captivating little thing in those days. Hair like straw, blue eyes, and a wild temper. But she was gey fond of your brother, you know, Joe.’

  ‘Not after you’d crippled him!’ Joe shouted. He snatched up his knife, and Richie, shaking, drew his. Murray found his sword was in his hand, but he raised his empty left hand instead, and stepped forward.

  ‘Now, Mr. Baillie, do you think this will do any good? Major Keyes here is crippled too, now. There is nothing more that you could do to punish him.’

  ‘That’s for me to decide. Draw your weapon if you want to, Keyes: I’ll have you anyway!’ He leapt forward, agile as if at sea. Keyes, surprised, flung up his arms to defend himself, then struggled to draw his own sword. Joe struck with his knife, but the thick cloth of Keyes’ cloak muffled the blow. Murray, stepping forward, struck hard with the flat of his blade on Joe’s shoulders, then on Keyes’, trying to bring them both to their senses. They both staggered. Richie, fingering his knife handle, stood at the edge of the action, lips sucked in, too unsure to do anything, as Joe struck again and again and was parried by Keyes’ sword. Tippoo started barking, a steady, insistent bark that echoed in the high church and seemed to strike as hard as any blow.

  Keyes was just playing, Murray was sure of it. Joe was exhausting himself, without the reach of a sword. Then, just as Murray thought the fight would be over soon, Joe slashed down near Keyes’ ribs, maybe by a
ccident, and finally drew blood. Keyes stopped as if he had hit a wall. His face went white. Then he drew his sword back and brought down a mighty blow aimed directly at Joe’s head.

  ‘Keyes!’ Murray cried, as Richie yelled ‘Joe!’ Murray flung himself forward at Keyes’ legs, but slipped on the slimy floor and knocked the Major sideways. Keyes’ sword flew from his hand and he cursed viciously, swiping at Murray’s head with his fist, but Murray twisted aside. Joe slipped too, just as he tried to duck the sword blow. He fell hard.

  Richie darted in to try and raise him, pulling him by the ankle in his haste. Murray bounced against the damp wall, spinning as he fell. Keyes had caught his balance again and was intent on Joe. He adjusted his stick, moved his foot to support him, and kicked hard with his peg leg, aiming for Joe’s head.

  Murray gasped at the force of the blow, and at the speed with which Joe defended himself, one hand clutching his head. They all heard the fingers crack as the peg leg hit them, and Joe grunted. Richie cried out and scrabbled again to drag Joe away, as Keyes drew back his leg for the next blow.

  ‘Stop!’

  A new voice, clear and urgent, came from the doorway. A slight figure stood against the light, clutching the doorpost.

  Tippoo sat down and stared, mouth half-open. Blinking, Keyes caught himself, swaying, trying to see.

  ‘Tom? Is that you?’

  Tom Baillie swung himself in on his long crutches. He was flushed with the struggle of climbing the headland, snow flecking his bare head.

  ‘Joe! What are you doing?’

  Joe was breathing hard, still on the floor.

  ‘I had to, Tom.’ He used Richie’s arm to haul himself on to his knees, then clutched at his broken hand. ‘Look at yourself.’

  ‘Aye, but Joe, that’s me, not you.’

  Joe looked up at Keyes, who was eyeing his sword. Murray stepped over and picked it up, helpfully, but did not, immediately, hand it back to Keyes.

  Tom straightened from his brother, pale and thin, except where his shoulders had been hunched and toughened by years of crutch use. He glanced at Murray and took in the sword, point down, in his hand. Then he looked up at Keyes, a head taller than him.

  ‘It ends here,’ he said. ‘Nobody gains anything by this, everyone just loses. Do you hear me?’

  ‘He started it,’ said Keyes, breathing deeply, but his mad surge of rage seemed to have died as quickly as it had the day he had scourged Tippoo in the library.

  ‘I don’t care. It ends. Joe?’

  Joe was on his feet, but seemed disinclined to argue. He drew himself up and faced Keyes.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I made my point.’

  Tom paused for a moment, then asked:

  ‘And you found Chrissie? Was she all right?’

  ‘She was grand, Tom.’

  Tom looked about him, then glimpsed the blanket in the dark kist room.

  ‘In there? Why did I not think of that?’ He shrugged, but looked deeply relieved. ‘And you, did she not warn you to stay clear?’

  For a moment it was not clear whom he was addressing, but then he looked straight at Keyes.

  ‘She sent you all these letters – she knew her brother and Joe and Richie here would want a word with you. I suppose it was for old times’ sake, eh? And for old times’ sake, I delivered them for her.’

  Not Hugh, but Chrissie. Chrissie had written the anonymous letters. But Chrissie had not tried to kill Keyes, and nor, to judge by their exchange just now, had the fishermen. So was it Keyes or Tibo who was the intended victim?

  ‘Will you give me my sword, Mr. Murray?’ Keyes asked, holding out his hand. Murray looked at Tom: the thin man seemed to be in charge now. Tom nodded. Murray turned the sword and handed it pommel first to Keyes. Keyes sheathed it, and straightened up.

  ‘Aye, well,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ll be about in the parish for much longer anyway, lads, if it’s any consolation to you. Are you coming, Mr. Murray? I think I’ll go back to the castle.’

  ‘In a while, Major,’ said Murray. ‘But don’t wait for me: you’ll need to get that cut tended to.’

  ‘Aye.’ He made his way slowly towards the door, playing a little, Murray thought, on his invalid state, though maybe he was only tired. ‘I fancy a ride, though, while the snow’s stopped. Do you mind if I take the boys out?’

  Murray was surprised, but pleased enough.

  ‘Certainly, take them out if they want to go. But please don’t let Robert ride the gelding he took before.’

  ‘Aye, I know.’ He swung himself around, and disappeared.

  Murray waited until he was sure Keyes was out of earshot, then cleared his throat.

  ‘Lord Scoggie will want to know if you think you’re going to be all right,’ he said, tentatively, to Joe.

  Joe maintained his dignity.

  ‘Aye, I will,’ he said. ‘I’ve had worse than broken fingers before now. But I suppose her ladyship will be round with the salves and the soup, all the same.’ The corner of his mouth twitched.

  ‘The soup’s usually good,’ said Murray mildly.

  ‘Aye, I suppose.’

  Murray rubbed his face with his hands, then found that he was covered in muck from the damp wall he had fallen against. His hat was dimly to be seen in a corner: he picked it up and inspected it in the light from the door. Richie was gathering the blanket and basket from the kist room.

  ‘Mrs. Farquhar will want these back, I suppose,’ he said apologetically. Now that the action was over, they all sounded tired. The old church was cold. Outside, a struggling sun was glinting on the snowy kirkyard, and casting soggy beams through the holes in the roof.

  ‘I think he will be leaving soon, he spoke the truth,’ said Murray, feeling he ought to say something. ‘What he came for, he – I don’t think he wants it any more.’

  ‘Miss Deborah?’ asked Joe, then added: ‘Richie’s wee lassie works in the castle.’

  ‘Oh, Grisell, yes.’

  ‘She told him about Mr. Bootham, and her ladyship, and young Andrew, and all. She’s very upset,’ he went on solidly, in case Murray would think she had only been gossiping.

  ‘I have no doubt she is. I don’t know,’ said Murray honestly, ‘how it will all work out.’

  ‘Aye, well.’ Joe eyed him for a long moment, then added unexpectedly, ‘Will you come back for a cup of tea before you walk back up?’

  Murray did not stay long at the Baillies’ house, only long enough to warm himself and see that Mrs. Baillie was doing a fine job in bandaging Joe’s broken hand. As Joe pointed out, it was the one from which he had already lost a finger, so there was less to break. Mrs. Baillie, a silent woman, sniffed with some emphasis.

  He made hard work of walking back up the hill. He was dead tired, and hungry, and the thought of the castle was not a restful one. He would have to see to the boys, if they were not out, and report to Lord Scoggie, and he might have to answer for the fact that he had seen Beatrix leave, and had not stopped her.

  Beatrix ...

  He shook himself, and his mind wandered instead to the scene in the church. Heavens, if Major Keyes and Chrissie had ever married, if that had ever been a possibility, what a couple they would have made! The temper of either of them was frightening enough, without combining the two. He shivered. Keyes’ temper really was disturbing. Deborah might well have had a lucky escape. He remembered the way Keyes had turned white, and then, with a chill, remembered too the vicious kick aimed at Joe’s head.

  He stopped in his tracks. He had seen a blow like that before – or rather, he had seen the injuries it had caused.

  He began to walk faster, then to run. As the snow began to fall once more, he slipped and slid his way up the steep hill from the village, back along the road to the gap in the wall at the end of the lake. He scrambled over, and stood on one of the fallen stones, straining to see as far as he could, right round the park. In the uneasy wind, the fir trees bordering the dark grey lake made hapless remonstrations wi
th their snow-laden branches. The park was bare. Was he too late? Please, no!

  He sprinted up the slope towards the drive, dizzy with snowfall around him, feeling the flakes stick to his eyes and mouth, waving them away. On the drive he made better speed, but turned at the last minute and made for the orchard, and the path to the stables. There was no sense searching the park if the horses were all in their stalls.

  They were. The stable boys looked oddly at him, but he snatched the door post to swing himself round and sped over to the kitchen door. It opened at last under his clumsy cold fingers, and he shot into the kitchen. Mrs. Costane and Hannah, busy preparing dinner, stopped and stared at him.

  ‘Do you know where the boys are?’ he demanded.

  ‘They were here a minute ago, begging pies,’ said Mrs. Costane sourly.

  ‘Then where did they go?’

  ‘The library, I suppose, they’ve been there all morning, but who knows? I ken nothing about what’s happening in this house the day. I’m making dinner on blind faith!’ she shouted after him as he pelted up the corridor to the castle entrance hall. Once there, he stopped and listened. The castle was silent. He tiptoed forward, pausing again to listen outside the library door, then, bracing himself, he opened it.

  The library was empty. On the long table, the volume of Henry V lay abandoned, the chairs on either side of it pushed back.

  His long legs took the stairs easily two at a time, pounding in the silence of the hallway. On the second floor he turned abruptly to the right, and found himself in the long gallery, dark now with the snow filling the tall windows.

  He listened again. The castle was still. There was no distant noise of Deborah and Beatrix bustling around, or of Lady Scoggie hurrying out, or of the boys running and shouting. He swallowed hard, and tried to calm his racing heart. He stepped forward to the door of the third guest room, and knocked.