‘Oh, my dear husband is a different kind of professor altogether!’ She gave a little nervous laugh, pleating the folds of her skirt between her cabochoned fingers. ‘Peter, of course, has attended classes, but Alison – well, perhaps fashions have changed, but it seems that these days girls are not so encouraged to use their minds … I do not know. Perhaps it is all a waste of our time, but I did enjoy it so …’ She tailed away, her gaze wandering out into the garden. Charles glanced round the parlour, wondering what to say. There were, he noticed, no books whatsoever in the room: instead the walls were covered with amateur drawings and paintings and every table top had its own embroidered cover.
‘The tea will be ages, Mama,’ said Alison suddenly, breaking out of George’s conversation. ‘Shall we walk for a little in the garden? It seems such a lovely day to be sitting indoors.’ She flashed a smile at Charles, and he was quite happy to agree.
‘Well, if you really think … I don’t want to put Barbara out if she brings the tea in and finds we are outside, dear.’
‘If she find we are outside she will come and call us, Mama,’ said Alison quickly. ‘Let us go out, even if it is only for a few moments.’ She skipped across to the french doors and opened them, stepping out on to a little terrace and breathing in the fresh spring air.
‘Oh, your shawl, Alison, dear!’ cried Mrs. Keith, seizing her own as if the breeze was wintry. George, keen to be attentive, caught up Alison’s own shawl, silky and rose-sprinkled, from the back of her chair and hurried after her, leaving Charles to organize Mrs. Keith in a swathe of paisley and encourage her to brave the alarming outdoors.
Outside Alison and George were waiting for them on the little terrace, though Charles thought George looked as if he would rather have established some distance between himself and Alison and the others: the smile on his face was a little fixed. Charles offered his arm to Mrs. Keith who took it delicately, as though she was a bird perching there. They led the way down two or three uneven stone steps on to a path along the lawn, where it lay between waiting fruit trees and impatient daffodils, showing the way to a small grove with a summerhouse by the high garden wall.
‘The wall protects us, you see,’ Mrs. Keith explained to Charles, ‘and it means we can grow a good deal despite the proximity of the sea.’
‘Let us show them the summerhouse, Mama,’ called Alison from behind them.
‘My dear, I fear it would be damp,’ Mrs. Keith stopped and turned back to her.
‘No, not to sit down, Mama. I want to show them the view.’
‘Oh, very well, Alison dear.’ She gave an anxious little sigh. ‘Come along, Mr. Murray,’ she added, leading Charles gently towards the grove.
It was of yew trees, so dark they were almost black against the blue of the sky beyond the wall, and around them a few crows circled, cawing at the seagulls high above them. As they neared it, Charles could see one or two tiny red berries left on the trees, battered by the winter storms but seeming to shine against the darkness like little lanterns showing the way to the summerhouse. In the midst of the grove, it was of stone, the same creamy sandstone as the garden wall, and had a wide empty doorway and two windows facing towards the garden. Inside, however, it was not dark as Charles had expected, and after he had ushered Mrs. Keith in before him he followed to find a large, unglazed, window in the facing wall, high up but accessible by a broad, shallow staircase. She guided him up to the top of the steps and he found he had to stoop a little to look out at a vista of the sea, laid out flat in front of him, sprinkled with gulls and wavelets, just beyond a little green headland. Fishing boats, nets spread, were scattered in the bay, with the ruins of the Castle golden brown on the headland just to his left.
‘What a lovely surprise!’ he remarked. As he turned, Alison and his brother arrived in the doorway. ‘George, come and see this: a remarkable construction.’ George scrambled up beside him, and stood carefully, avoiding touching the gritty stone window frame with his elegant gloves.
‘It is very old, isn’t it, Mama?’ said Alison, pleased with the effect. ‘We think it might have been some kind of watchtower, perhaps with a light for guiding the ships.’
‘It makes a superb summerhouse,’ George said, ‘whatever its original use.’ He turned to beam at Alison.
‘It is rather draughty when the wind is in the wrong direction,’ Mrs. Keith said mildly. ‘Alison, dear, we must remember to have the furniture in here scrubbed before the summer.’
‘It is not too bad, Mama,’ Alison objected, running a gloved finger along the top of a white wirework chair, slightly green from the damp.
‘It is not fit to sit on, dear,’ said her mother.
‘Here,’ said Charles, dragging himself away from the seaward window, ‘Miss Keith, do you wish to see the lovely view you brought us here to appreciate?’ He stepped back down to the floor level and handed her up the steps to stand between George and her mother. Looking back at the entrance, he saw how well the garden had been constructed to be appreciated from this angle, with the dark frame of the yews around the pretty fruit trees, borders and lawns beyond, finishing with the back of the house with its neat creepers and fresh white paint. He tried hard to picture a domesticated Professor Keith resting in this pleasant spot, contemplating the planting of a new rose, perhaps, or thoughtful over a book, in quiet contentment alone or with his family about him, and failed utterly. Professor Keith and happy quietude did not fit together, and the struggle was too much for him.
‘We had better return to the house, Alison dear, before we all catch a chill,’ said Mrs. Keith, unable to descend from the steps until her daughter had done so and moved out of the way. Alison looked expectantly to Charles, who felt obliged to put an arm out for her to steady her, and she skipped down the steps to him and took it properly. George was left to help her mother, the smile on his face slightly stiffer than it had been before. Charles was quite prepared to exchange partners with him when they were all outside again, but Alison had his arm held quite determinedly and smiled up at him.
‘I should not like to neglect one brother in favour of the other,’ she said softly, softly enough, Charles prayed, that George had not heard. He smiled back at her noncommittally, and guided her back towards the lawns and the path. George followed behind with Mrs. Keith, virtually on Charles’ heels, and intent on joining in with any conversation Charles and Alison started, which suited Charles’ own purposes very well. Alison, however, seemed to feel differently.
‘Oh, Mr. Murray,’ she exclaimed as they reached the path, smiling up at him again – her mouth was so wide it seemed disturbingly like a split across her face, ‘there is something I would show you that we found this morning. I would show it to Mr. George Murray,’ she said, combining formality and flirtation in a glance at George, ‘but it is a muddy path and his boots are far too fine to be spoiled by it. Come, Mr. Murray – we shall be back in a moment, Mama.’
The look on George’s face was a picture. Alison, seizing Charles’ arm near the wrist, like a nurse with a disobedient child, turned swiftly and had him whisked away behind a hedge before either he or George could protest. The path was indeed muddy, and slippery, and it took all Charles’ concentration not to slip in his old boots: his were definitely not far too fine to be spoiled, but they would take a good deal of polishing after this to return them even to their usual condition. Alison, relinquishing his arm as the path was also narrow, tugged her skirts up above her ankles, keeping the hems fairly clean while allowing him a glimpse of calf which was, to be honest, too thin to be appealing. He decided not to mention it to George.
After scurrying along for a few minutes they were nearly at the gate to the kitchen garden, and Alison stopped abruptly so that Charles had to slither a little to regain his balance.
‘Here we are,’ she said brightly, and pointed to a freshly clipped bush that even Charles, with his somewhat limited horticultural expertise, could identify as a rose. One of its stems had been left long, however, pres
umably because of the burden it bore: an early, perfect, yellow rose, golden in its centre, its petal tips blushing pink in the warm spring sunshine. ‘Isn’t it lovely? We found it this morning when we were pruning: the first of the season.’
‘Very fine,’ said Charles. ‘George would indeed have appreciated it: he is very fond of roses.’ It was a lie, but a valiant one. Alison smiled.
‘It is even scented. Try it.’ She took a quick breath of the scent herself, and then tilted the flower towards Charles, letting him inhale. The fragrance was heavy, too heavy for the season: it looked forward to long summer days, heat and dust, languor, fatigue. This bright spring afternoon was too crisp for it, too clean and new. He looked away, shaking his head to clear it, and saw signs of fresh digging beneath the bushes.
‘Have you been trying to move the bush nearer to the house, then, where the flowers can be appreciated?’ he asked.
‘What?’ She looked down at the soil at which he was pointing. ‘No, no: it is not a good time of year to move roses, anyway. No, I was planting lily of the valley. Mama loves that scent, too, and the flowers are so pretty and delicate. See, the leaves are just bursting out of the bulbs.’ She crouched down to point them out to him, little green blades slicing through the soil. ‘It’s terribly poisonous, though, you know. One has to be very careful.’
‘Alison, dear!’ came her mother’s voice, from somewhere beyond the hedge. ‘Come along, my dear, and bring Mr. Murray in: you will both catch chills, and I am sure the tea will be ready at any minute.’
‘Coming, Mama,’ Alison called obediently, springing up and squeezing past Charles to lead him back the way they had come. Again there were the flashes of undesirable calf, and again he slithered and slipped his way along, trying not to splash her. They regained the lawns at last, where Charles met his brother’s eye with a look of complete innocence, in which George clearly did not believe. He ran his gaze down Charles from trencher to gloves to filthy boots, and stared at the last items with marked disgust. His own boots were still perfect.
‘I’ve been showing Mr. George the lovely daffodils, dear,’ said Mrs. Keith to her daughter, waving vaguely at the long strappy leaves under the fruit trees. ‘He says he’s very interested in gardening.’
‘That’s nice, Mama,’ said Alison. ‘I showed Mr. Murray the rose we found this morning. It’s still perfect.’ George had somehow come adrift from Mrs. Keith, in their perusal of the daffodils, and Alison now took possession of him once again, leaving her mother to reattach herself to Charles, a thin little bird returning to her perch. Despite her previous warnings about chills, Mrs. Keith no longer seemed disposed to hurry, and caused them to lag behind a little as Alison and George headed up the garden in front of them. If this was a scheme to leave them on their own for a little, it barely succeeded, as at that moment the maid, Barbara, appeared at the french doors and bobbed a little curtsey to catch Mrs. Keith’s attention.
‘Oh, tea!’ said Mrs. Keith, quite surprised, and immediately sped up, tripping along beside Charles’ long-legged stride.
Tea was indeed served, along with some excellent breads and cakes, making Charles feel that the afternoon had not been entirely wasted. They sat around the tea table evenly spaced, so that conversation was now general, rather than divided, and Charles realised he had been remiss in one thing.
‘And how is Peter?’ he asked as soon as he could.
‘Oh, he is very well!’ said Mrs. Keith, much gratified. ‘He is taking some responsibility now for his father’s properties and has been touring some of them this afternoon – seeing what needs repair and who needs help, you know.’ She made it sound like a charitable concern, but Charles knew very well that the Keith estate was run very much on business lines. His knowledge was first hand: Mrs. Walker, his landlady, leased her house from Professor Keith, and had been heard to complain – gently, for it was not generally her way – of his impatience with rent and his slowness when it came to repairs. ‘It is good to see him happily employed, for you know he has spent some time in trying to find what path in life he would like to follow. He will be sorry to have missed you, though.’
Charles was also sorry to have missed Peter, though he found Peter unsettling. The Professor’s son, a year older than Charles, had graduated MA the year before but even before that had flitted from scheme to scheme, from intentions of the army, of the church, of the law, of architecture … Some of the drawings on the parlour wall were his, and he had thought for a while of devoting himself entirely to art, studying with Professor Urquhart, the Humanity professor, for a month or two before the next idea came along. He could flit from excitement to misery in a few seconds, and was exhausting company, but he could be entertaining when he was in the grip of his latest enthusiasm, and keen to impart interesting information. His relations with his father were unpredictable, to say the least: they veered wildly from warm affection to stony silence and back in the course of a month, sometimes of a week, but he was always fond of his mother, though the pair of them could work each other up into a fit of nerves seldom paralleled.
‘And does he find that the property takes up much of his time?’ Charles asked politely.
‘Our father has a very good factor for his estate,’ George added with unnecessary grandeur, and Charles kicked him lightly under the table. He reckoned that the Senate meeting would be over by now, and he had no wish to prolong their visit much if Professor Keith reappeared.
‘It is not full employment,’ Mrs. Keith admitted. ‘He still has time to pursue his other interests – and he is still contemplating returning to his studies and reading for the Bar in Edinburgh.’
‘The profession would suit him, I think,’ said Charles, who had thought so the last time Peter had contemplated it. His nerviness would have some dramatic impact there, and he would certainly commit himself body and soul to his cases – if that was necessarily a good thing. How he would cope with losing a case was another matter.
‘I think so, but I should not want him so far away from us,’ Mrs. Keith said sadly.
‘What do you think your brother should do, Miss Keith?’ asked George.
‘Oh! Whatever makes him truly happy, of course,’ she said, as if everyone had that choice. ‘He is an artist at heart, you know, and needs to be where there is beauty. I do not think that the lawcourts would be the best place for him. He thought of architecture, and I think he would be better there. But he must decide for himself, you know.’
‘Very wisely said,’ agreed George solemnly, as if he had any idea himself what he was going to do with his life. Charles, with a view to the future financial security of Letho, hoped privately that George’s existence would not revolve solely around the purchase of fine outfits and perfect boots. If it was going to, they would have to find him a richer wife than Alison Keith.
He had just bitten into a slice of moist gingerbread when there came a crash from the hall. He and George leapt up, and even the ladies pushed their chairs back in alarm. Mrs. Keith eyed the open french door as if assessing it as an escape route. Then the ladies heard a voice which seemed to relieve them, and in a moment Peter Keith himself burst into the parlour, flinging the door back on its hinges. He looked directly at his mother and sister, seeming not to see the Murrays, and casting his hat down hard on the sofa he cried:
‘I’ll kill him!’
Chapter Four
‘Obstructive, self-serving, obnoxious toad,’ Professor Urquhart remarked, without emphasis. ‘Such gentlemen as Professor Keith make our fine old repositories of erudition what they are. We should be grateful.’ He unlaced one fine, long hand from his teacup, and proferred it to Ramsay Rickarton to be refilled. Ramsay, on whose livery there were still minute traces of his grand-daughter’s muddy progress, wore a large white apron and stood guard over the silver tea urn. On its stand it was nearly his own height, the gift of a grateful graduate, and it towered over little Professor Shaw at Professor Urquhart’s side. Professor Shaw, mildly frog-like and completely
aimiable, smiled at Ramsay and gently propelled Christopher Urquhart further down the Senate room where his analyses might be less audible. Urquhart, drifting like the breeze through a willow grove, allowed himself to be thus manoeuvred but kept talking. ‘I mean to say, what is the University beside him? A mere nothing, four centuries of sheer frivolity and a few cramped buildings of little current worth. Whereas he –‘
‘Yes, yes, quite so,’ said little Professor Shaw hurriedly. The room was still busy, and he had no wish for Urquhart to put himself in the way of any trouble. By moving in this direction, therefore, he had managed to distance both of them from the Principal, the Chancellor, and the mighty Professor Keith, who had taken their tea to the other end of the room. There there was a tray of bread and cakes on the table that had so recently been thumped so hard by certain disputants that the heavy minute book had leapt in its place. The Principal seemed inclined to continue the dispute, and Professor Keith showed no signs of yielding. Professor Shaw shuddered slightly at the idea of conflict, and wondered if staying in his parish would have been any easier. It had seemed such a pleasant idea, when it was offered to him, to return to his alma mater as Professor of Moral Philosophy, leaving behind the bickerings of the Kirk Session and the efforts of the parish matrons to provide him with a series of alarming candidates to be his wife. He had taken the opportunity of the move to marry instead his young cook, presenting her to the University as a fait accompli, and the couple lived in gentle obscurity by the mill lade in the town. Lectures were, with him, kindly affairs, the students for the most part his beloved sons, examinations a matter of tact and diplomacy. Senate meetings, however, broke into the pleasant pattern of his life, and left him with an uncomfortably brisk heartbeat and a spate of burning indigestion that bore no relation to his wife’s excellent cooking.
Death in a Scarlet Gown (Murray of Letho Book 1) Page 4