Death in a Scarlet Gown (Murray of Letho Book 1)

by Lexie Conyngham

  Death in a Scarlet Gown

  by

  Lexie Conyngham

  Death in a Scarlet Gown

  First published in 2011 by The Kellas Cat Press, Aberdeen.

  Copyright Alexandra Conyngham, 2011

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work as been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express permission of the publisher.

  Dramatis Personae

  Charles Murray of Letho, gentleman of Fife

  Charles Balfour Murray, younger of Letho, his son, fourth year student at St. Andrews

  George Murray, his younger son, gentleman of leisure

  Daniel, putatively capable of becoming a decent manservant

  Students at St. Andrews:

  Thomas Seaton, bursary student of humble origins

  Picket Irving, Boxie Skene and Rab Fisher, the Sporting Set – fashionable but bored

  Sundry others, all wearers of the red gown and reluctant consumers of rabbit

  Staff at St. Andrews:

  Professor Helenus Keith, Natural Philosophy

  Professor David Shaw, Moral Philosophy

  Professor Christopher Urquhart, Humanity

  Allan Bonar, assistant to Professor Keith

  Mungo Dalzell, teacher of Hebrew

  Ramsay Rickarton, bedellus

  The Principal and the Chancellor, gentlemen of great importance but characters of little significance

  Professor Keith’s household:

  Mrs. Keith, a matron who had a mind

  Alison Keith, a lively maid

  Peter Keith, an indecisive young man

  Barbara, a distressed maidservant

  Mrs. Walker, a bunkwife

  Patience Walker, her forthright daughter

  Lord Scoggie, a peer of notable dental endowment

  Sybie, a beloved grand-daughter

  Chapter One

  When the black crow flapped in from the sea, it was like a cloud in a perfect sky. For a moment, as it perched, deliberately, on the heavy straw roundel, it looked like a crow-shaped hole slashed out of the tinsel-blue sea behind it. Then the breeze caught it and it jerked out ragged wings for balance, and the sea glittered and wrinkled, and the moment passed, but Charles had lost his aim and lowered the bow to start again.

  ‘Shoot the crow,’ said Picket, with casual coldness.

  ‘We could hang the carcass outside Keith’s chamber window tonight,’ said Boxie, then looked as if he regretted it. Rab, fair hair swept back by the breeze, suffered a flicker of enthusiasm on his otherwise vacant face, and Picket lifted an eyebrow, considering the idea. Charles raised the bow again, drew the feathers back cleanly to a point beneath his jawbone, breathed in, breathed out, and allowed the arrow to find a satisfying path to a point about an inch from the very centre of the bull. The crow flapped away.

  ‘Nice shot!’ cried Boxie, almost keeping the relief out of his voice.

  ‘But what about the crow?’ Rab objected.

  ‘Didn’t want to spoil my arrow,’ said Charles, briefly. He knew the crow’s carcass would not have bothered Professor Keith in the least, but it would have given his maid hysterics. He turned and stepped back from the line. Now that he had his back to the sparkling sea, the wind caught the bare skin just above his high collar. It was fresh and cool, mild with springtime. The exposed headland on which the butts were placed was greened over and sprinkled with gulls and sheep, but not far away was the edge of the town, long rig-lands stretching out towards them from solid little sandstone houses. To the east, the great square tower of St. Salvator’s Chapel marked the site of United College, where they all studied, and further south was the lower squatting spire of Holy Trinity, the parish church. At the far end of the town the broken tracery of the ruined cathedral and St. Rule’s Tower were blotchy brown and yellow in the sunlight. The sky was a vast arc of enamel blue, and the crow swooped and flapped across it again, bringing Charles’ attention back to the butts.

  ‘I like the idea, though,’ said Picket, taking his turn at the line. He was almost as tall as Charles, but had the air of a plant that had grown too fast to reach a distant light. His hair was thin and colourless, and his face was drawn, his eyes, even now as he squinted at the target, looped with sagging lines, older than his seventeen years. He drew back the string and took aim, but his left wrist, though braced tight with leather, wobbled as if suddenly weak. The other three quickly pretended that they had not noticed. Picket muttered an oath, scowling like a devil, and tried again. This time the arrow left the bow but loosely, and skimmed to an uncertain halt in the grass beneath the target. Picket flung down his bow and stamped over to fetch it, thus preventing anyone else from shooting until he was clear again. The others were painfully silent, not watching him, and Charles scrabbled in his mind for something to say to start a harmless conversation. He wished he had not come: he had a book he wanted to finish and this morning’s lecture notes to copy fairly, and either task, however dull the subject, was more appealing than spending time with this party of sportsmen. But it was a beautiful day, and Boxie had particularly asked him to come and make up a second team of two with the kind of gentle flattery to which any eighteen year old would be susceptible. Anyway, no doubt it would please his father to hear that he had been practising his archery: his father would smile that quick, proud smile, perhaps cuff him across the shoulder, mention it to his friends over the dinner table or at his fencing class ...

  ‘Murray, step back, old man. It’s Boxie’s turn.’ Rab’s voice broke into his thoughts. Picket had returned to the line, picking grass off his arrow’s feathers and checking it with unnecessary meticulousness to see if the line of balance had been spoiled. It was unlikely: the arrow had been travelling so slowly he would have needed to step on it to damage it. Apart from Rab’s purely practical few words, the awkward silence still prevailed, and it was with a sense of deep relief that Boxie, slipping a quick arrow into the inner, turned and said,

  ‘Oh, Charles! Here’s your brother!’

  Charles spun eagerly. There, indeed, with the heraldic green of the grass at his feet and the azure sky above him, came his big cheerful brother George, younger by a year and a half but the same height and nearly twice the width. Fair-haired and green-eyed, the very image of his father, George walked with an easy physical confidence and an open, innocent face. The brothers embraced while George tried simultaneously to wave at the others. He was a sociable man.

  ‘You have the butts to yourselves, then, eh?’ he remarked at once. ‘Good day, Boxie, good day to you, Picket. Rab, take your shot, please, sir!’

  Rab took aim and casually slid his arrow into the dead centre of the target, making Charles’ arrow look untidy by comparison. They strolled down the range to collect their arrows, and George came too.

  ‘Bit of a breeze, though, eh?’

  ‘Not sure why they put the butts beside the sea,’ said Rab, easing his two arrows out of the bull.

  ‘So we’d be damn’ good when we went into battle,’ Boxie said.

  ‘I’m sure that would impress Bonaparte,’ Charles remarked, ‘a few lines of British archers. Would we put them out with the Marines, do you think, or send them over to the Peninsula?’

  It made Picket laugh, which was a good thing, but his revived spirits lasted only until George stupidly said,

  ‘So where’s your second shot, then, Picket?’ and Boxie began tal
king loudly about gusting winds and intrusive birdlife. This unfortunately drew the conversation back to the idea of dangling corpses, avian or otherwise – Rab favoured rats – outside the windows of academics. George gave the notion his full consideration, though Charles wondered if the others particularly valued his opinion.

  ‘It’s a grand idea,’ said George at last, ‘but why Professor Keith? I would go for Professor Urquhart, myself.’

  George was not a student at the university – nor had he any intention of being so, if he could possibly help it – but their father’s Fife home was near enough by for him to pay frequent visits and not only to get to know Charles’ friends and acquaintances but also to indulge in the gossip of the academic community almost as if he were a part of it. Professor Keith might be hated, but Professor Urquhart was more easily ridiculed, and it was the latter activity that came more easily to George, a fact which might, Charles had sometimes felt, be the saving of him.

  ‘Professor Urquhart might scream,’ said Boxie, slowly.

  ‘And that in itself might be rather gratifying,’ Picket said, a nasty look in his eyes. Charles shivered slightly and thought with longing of his book and the peace of his lodgings – though now, with George here, all chance of that peace seemed to have gone. It was not that he was entirely against practical jokes, but Picket’s schemes always seemed to take on a vindictive edge that made other people uneasy about associating themselves with them. ‘However,’ Picket went on as they reached the road, ‘I have particular reasons for wishing to bring a little unease into Professor Keith’s life. Master Skene’s idea is a good one,’ he said, clapping Boxie on the shoulder, ‘but I think we might elaborate on it a little. Will you come with us for a walk on West Sands? We could debate the matter further,’ he said to the Murray brothers. Charles doubted there would be much debate involved. He was trying, quickly, to think of an excuse, but to his surprise George spoke up immediately.

  ‘Thank you most heartily, Picket, but my brother and I have other fish to fry,’ he said, with an elaborate wink that took any offence away from the refusal.

  ‘Do you stay long in the town?’ Picket asked.

  ‘A few days, perhaps,’ said George.

  ‘Then no doubt we shall see you again before you go. Farewell, gentlemen.’ They all bowed, though Picket managed to give the action a hint of irony. Boxie added a small, slightly shameful wave, as if he was not sure which way he should be going. The three sporting gentlemen turned down right for the sands they could already see in the near distance. From the look of it some hardy souls were bathing, and a heavy rowing boat ploughed along parallel to the shore. Charles and George turned left instead, to return to the centre of the town, Charles stooping to pick up his scarlet gown and black trencher.

  ‘Why is he called Boxie? asked George suddenly.

  ‘Short for Snotterbox,’ Charles explained.

  ‘Oh. But his nose is hardly larger than – well, yours, for instance.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, George. But it is, actually, or his head is smaller, or something like that. Anyway, I shan’t fight him over it.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ George agreed, glancing down cross-eyed at his own more modestly-formed nose. There is nothing like a younger brother, Charles thought, for helping you to see yourself as others see you.

  ‘Did you come by coach or horse?’ he asked, looking about him for some means of transport.

  ‘Oh, the horse!’ cried George. ‘I left it with some kind of infant down by the links. I thought you might be golfing, but when I saw you were not I asked myself how else I should spend a fine afternoon like this were I in St. Andrews, and straightaway walked up here.’

  Charles smiled, thinking of his own preferences.

  ‘Well, we had better go and fetch the horse, then.’

  ‘Must we? The lad looked honest enough.’

  ‘He might have better things to do with his time. And you know Father doesn’t like them left long with strangers. Come on, we’ll do it now.’

  He turned back and followed in the now-distant wake of the sporting set. Inland from the West Sands was the links, dotted with players in their navy and red coats, and beyond them the Cupar road along which George would lately have ridden. At the near end was a small group of men and children, and by them was a horse, which even at this distance Charles recognised as Tam o’Shanter from his father’s stable. The gelding was nuzzling the close seaside grass, passing the time. He strode quickly down the hill, hearing George puffing and blowing his discontent behind him, sounding quite like a horse himself.

  One of the men, wearing the livery of the college bedellus or chief janitor, detached himself from the group and stepped a little toward them, hands clasped behind his back, while at the same time one of the boys made an anxious grab for Tam’s bridle. The man’s grey hair was thin on his bare head, and his nose was beaked between careful blue eyes. He had a broad forehead, but his cheeks sagged gently. Charles lifted his trencher and grinned.

  ‘Ramsay Rickarton! Is this how you spend your days of leisure?’

  The man gave a little bow.

  ‘Mr. Murray, sir.’ He had a broad Fife accent, an accent Charles and George had shared for a few years till it was beaten out of them at Edinburgh High School. ‘No, this is no day of leisure, sir. Professor Shaw sent me a message down to the house thereby, and on my way back I find these two rapscallions on the loose. Aye,’ he added severely, seizing one little girl by an affectionate pinch of the ear, and nodding at the boy with the horse. ‘You’ll ken wee Ramsay, my daughter’s second boy? And this wee lassie is Sybie.’

  He swung the girl up into his arms, a giggling, skinny child of about three years with her grandfather’s blue eyes. Rickarton had the look of a man in love, though the child’s bare muddy feet were streeling muck down his livery coat.

  ‘Your father’s horse, aye?’ he added, nodding at Tam.

  ‘Well, I brought it,’ said George, keen to emphasise that he was allowed out on his own.

  ‘Aye. Well, Ramsay’s kept an eye on it, right enough.’

  Charles glanced round at his brother, and with a sense of inevitability felt in his own pockets for some coins. He gave them to young Ramsay, who solemnly exchanged the handful for Tam’s bridle. Then he scampered off, heading for the town.

  ‘Aye, your brother’s abandoned you, Sybie,’ said Rickarton, watching the scruffy shirt and breeches of his grandson disappear into the distance. ‘You’d best come back with this old fellow. I’ve the Senate meeting’s tea to attend to.’

  They walked together down the hill to the bottom of North Street, one of the three, almost parallel, broad main streets, while Rickarton regaled them easily with tales of Sybie’s unusual genius and the compliments that had been paid to her. He told them over with pride, though half-laughing at himself as he did so. Sybie herself, alternately in her grandfather’s arms and marching independently clutching only his fingertips, chattered too, and her grandfather listened and responded, paying her the attention he would have done to an adult. George sighed and meandered now ahead, now behind, but Charles was mildly cross with him and chose not to indulge him, though he was making the horse nervous.

  The road, though called North Street, was almost rural at first, then was quickly lined with houses, some smart and newly-built, on either side. Families and servants busied themselves at the doors, returning with the shopping, setting out in carriages or on horseback or on foot, and further along a few students in their red wool gowns caught the afternoon sunlight, some of the few still living in College. The street rose slowly and broadly to the flat hill top on which the town was built, and a short way along this fine causeway they left Mr. Rickarton in view of United College. He and Sybie disappeared inside, and George, with renewed vigour in his stride, hurried down College Wynd, a much narrower passage. Charles followed him, tugging Tam into a half-hearted trot.

  ‘What’s your plan, then, George?’ he asked, catching up.

  ‘I intend
to brush off my dusty clothes in your lodgings, stable Tam there, accept the reviving cup of wine you mean to offer me, and set off on a visit.’

  ‘A visit,’ Charles repeated.

  ‘Indeed.’

  Charles reflected, and stopped as they reached the end of the lane where it debouched on to Market Street. He held his hand over Tam’s muzzle, calming his head-tossing, as they waited for a gap in the Monday afternoon bustle to cross to the Town House.

  ‘This wouldn’t, by any chance, be a visit to do with a girl?’ he asked at last, as they worked their way round the tall block of the town house. George halted abruptly.

  ‘Hush!’ he hissed, and nodded down the street. Charles looked. He could see no attractive young women at all, of whatever class – and George had fallen for most. Instead, the most notable sight was that of the proposed victim of the sporting set, Professor Keith. Tall, majestically built, with lead-grey hair and immaculate coat and breeches, his heavy jowls nestled in his high collar like a toad in mud. He swept through the crowd like a frigate through a fishing fleet, paying no attention to them and little to the man following him.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked George urgently.

  ‘Professor Keith.’

  ‘I know that,’ George snapped. ‘Who’s that with him?’

  ‘Oh, that’s Mungo Dalzell. He teaches Hebrew.’ Mungo Dalzell was an aimiable, thin man with a very red nose and the beginnings of a web of crimson veins over his cheeks. At the moment it gave him a flushed, anxious look – or it may just have been the effect of talking to Professor Keith, in whose wake he bobbed and splashed inconsequentially, glancing back apologetically at those townspeople who dared to show their feelings for Professor Keith as he passed.

  ‘Do you think he’s heading home?’ George asked.

  ‘Who – Dalzell or Keith?’

  ‘Keith, of course. Why should I care where the other one is going?’