‘What is that?’ came a sharp, familiar voice. Professor Keith, noting Lord Scoggie’s gaze, had turned to see what was catching everyone’s attention. ‘Rickarton! What is the meaning of this?’
Ramsay Rickarton creaked to his feet, turning to shield Sybie from Keith’s hostility.
‘It’s my grand-daughter, sir. She’s helping me.’
‘It’s a child, Rickarton. It has no place here.’ Professor Keith’s voice was as hard as granite. ‘Get it out.’
A look almost as stony passed across Ramsay Rickarton’s face, but he turned and knelt down by his grand-daughter.
‘You’re doing a grand job, there, Sybie,’ he said softly, ‘but I need you to wait outside for me now, hen. I’ll be out in a minute, all right?’
Sybie looked uncertainly from her grandfather to the carpet, and across to Professor Keith. Then she looked back at her grandfather, and gave him a sunny smile.
‘Aye right,’ she said, all in one word, and ran back behind the door curtain. Ramsay bent again to the crockery, his back suddenly tired.
‘I’ve had about as much as I can take,’ Urquhart announced generally, and set his cup and saucer down on the table. The others followed, and Urquhart led them out in a body, nodding coldly in the direction of the Principal and Keith. Outside, Professor Shaw took great gulps of the fresh air, trying to relieve his nausea. Bonar vanished quickly towards his lodgings, and Urquhart drifted like angry smoke into the college buildings where he had a set of rooms. Shaw and Mungo Dalzell were left at the side of North Street, in momentary silence. Dalzell filled the moment by fiddling with the reins of his pony and trap, waiting there for him.
‘You’re not to worry about what he said,’ said Dalzell at last. ‘About any of it. You ken what he’s like: he’s good at finding Achilles’ heels and tweaking them till they greet.’
‘I greeted,’ said Shaw quietly, still feeling the hot tears on his face.
‘That’s because you’re sensitive, and you let him bully you. Has anyone else ever said you shouldn’t be here?’
Shaw thought.
‘Apart from me, no, I don’t think so.’
‘And who has more old students coming back to see their old Professor than anyone else I know? Aye, you! So don’t help him by being hard on yourself, eh?’
‘Aye, right,’ agreed Shaw, smiling reluctantly. Dalzell was the one who could cheer him up. That, and in a minute he would be heading home to his own sweet hearth and his own sweet wife, and that mattered more than any professors or Senates.
Mungo Dalzell swung himself up into the trap, self-sufficient as ever, and sat as neat as he could wish with the reins gathered.
‘I shall see you tomorrow, then,’ he said, and set off with a cheery wave.
Professor Shaw stood to watch him go, and for a long time afterwards he remembered what happened next, though for the life of him he could never swear to the order. Ramsay Rickarton came out of the side door of the Senate room, looking around for his grand-daughter. A goat meandered out of Butts Wynd, dangerously close to Mungo’s narrow trap. Sybie ran out from College Street across the road, calling to her grandfather. And Mungo Dalzell, avoiding the goat, swerved.
There was no doubt that Sybie was dead.
Even before her grandfather had reached her, before Mungo Dalzell had slithered, grey-faced, from the trap: before Shaw himself had turned and vomited in the gutter and Ramsay Rickarton had cried her name into the blue sky, he knew the little girl was dead.
Chapter Five
No one in the University had worked much over the last two days: in fact, the little town itself seemed to be in shocked mourning. Everyone knew the dignified figure of Ramsay Rickarton in his smart University livery, and most knew, by sight at least, his little grand-daughter on whom the weight of such adoration had fallen very lightly.
Only Professor Keith’s classes, the few he took, ran exactly as usual. Professor Urquhart, sensitive to the atmosphere around him, limited the usual frivolity of his own classes, and neither Professor Shaw nor Mungo Dalzell was fit to teach at all. Professor Shaw had not slept for two nights, seeing all the time that little broken body in the mud, the long black shadow of the grandfather laid out on the road, the edgy wheels of the trap as the pony jerked and tossed. He had not spoken of this to Mungo Dalzell, but then no one had spoken to Mungo Dalzell at all. He had left the scene of the accident on foot and nobody had seen him since. It had been up to the town’s constable, happening on the accident within a few minutes, to sooth the distressed pony and ease the trap away through the sudden crowd to leave it in the University’s stables.
Everyone agreed that it was not Mungo Dalzell’s fault, that it could not possibly have been helped: they all agreed that, many times. If that alone could have lifted the load from Mungo Dalzell’s shoulders, he would have been walking with a step as light as an angel, but it could not be.
The bellman had announced the funeral the next day: the death was news to no one and his ringing was greeted with silence in the three main streets. On the following day, by only a few minutes past ten, there was such a crush at the little house in Heukster’s Wynd that no one could get in, and eventually a sort of system resolved itself so that people took it in turns to enter, pay their respects to Sybie’s parents and brothers, bend to kiss the little white figure in the bed recess, and leave, taking their customary ale and oatcakes with them, to stand in the street outside. The house was rig-built, with outside steps to the first floor, for Sybie’s father was a fisherman and the little room they had all tramped through had an underlying odour of herring, dragging at the black hangings and seeping into the guests’ clothes. Neighbours hurried in and out, bringing more bannocks and ale, seeing that the family were all right: to judge by the look of the place, Charles thought with pity, they could never afford a funeral like this without such help.
Charles was on his own, in correct black a little too small for him: it was a while since he had been to a funeral and he was feeling thrifty. George had stayed one night with him and had then vanished home to Letho, leaving the grieving town to its own devices. Charles had thought fleetingly of his father and the problems he would shortly have to face in that quarter, and then put them out of his mind for now.
He stooped into the little cottage and allowed himself to be taken through the soothing formalities of the dead-room, feeling he was taking up too much space, but quickly he was back in the open air with a measuring-stoop of ale – the neighbourhood was running out of receptacles, but it would have been the pit of bad manners to refuse – and a handful of bannock crumbs. Just outside the door, he found Mungo Dalzell with Professor Shaw.
Mungo Dalzell was as grey as a rag, arms wrapped round himself as though the faint drizzle was blizzarding snow. He hesitated at the doorstep, clearly as reluctant to go near the place as if he thought the very building would burn him. Professor Shaw, gentle but firm, pushed him on and watched him disappear into the darkness inside. Then he turned to Charles.
‘Good morning,’ he said, turning on him a watery gaze where old tears mixed with new rain. ‘How are you, this dismal morning?’
‘Quite well, thank you, sir,’ said Charles, and they made each other half-hearted little bows. ‘Are you not going in?’
Professor Shaw gave a little shudder.
‘I have already been in, early this morning,’ he said, without the least hint of self-conscious virtue. ‘I wanted to persuade them to meet Mungo Dalzell: an easy thing to do, and a good deal easier than persuading him that they wanted to see him. It will be good for him, though, I hope.’ He frowned, worried.
‘He has not been seen for days, I believe,’ Charles said, more as a question than a statement.
‘He has not been out. He will not drive, so this morning I walked out to Strathkinness and walked him back into town, as slow as taking a pig to market. He would keep turning back, or sitting on the side of the road – his breeches are quite muddy, unfortunately, but the good people in
there will not mind. And little Sybie would have laughed, I am quite sure.’ He gave a little smile, which soon passed. ‘But I do not know what he thinks about the whole thing. He is a dreadful antinomian, you know – you do know what an antinomian is?’ His gaze sharpened, as professor took over from friend.
‘Someone who believes that God has already chosen his flock and condemned the rest, and that our actions on earth, good or bad, count for nothing,’ Charles recited from Professor Shaw’s lecture notes, and this time they both grinned. Charles did not mention Burns’ Holy Willie, though it flashed through his mind: anyone less like him than Mungo Dalzell it would have been hard to find.
‘Good boy,’ said Shaw. ‘But I do wonder, because if he thinks that Sybie was not a chosen one, then he has sent her straight to Hell, you know, and he would find that very upsetting.’
‘Indeed,’ said Charles, trying not to think about it in detail. ‘But does he believe that he himself is one of the saved? If he does it must be very reassuring at a time like this.’
‘Indeed I have never had the courage to ask him,’ Professor Shaw admitted. ‘It is a difficult thing to ask even a friend – ‘By the way, are you off to Hell?’ But I assume he believes he is chosen: it is harsh to say it, but every antinomian I have every met believes himself chosen. It appears to be a very comforting doctrine, from the inside.’
They both frowned, amused but feeling it inappropriate to show it on such a subject at such a time. The narrow wynd was becoming quite full now, and a number of students in their scarlet gowns clustered at one end, not quite mingling with the townspeople yet just as upset by Sybie’s awful end.
‘Where is your gown?’ Professor Shaw asked after a moment, his gaze on the other students.
‘Ah, I’m not quite sure,’ Charles confessed. ‘Someone borrowed it a couple of days ago and I have not seen them since.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Professor Shaw, whose mind, quicker than he thought it was, presented him with a sudden image of Thomas Seaton tripping through the Senate room. ‘I hope no harm has come to it.’
‘So do I,’ said Charles, reflecting that he might find it difficult just now to afford a new one. He had spent some spare moments yesterday selecting, with extreme reluctance, one or two books he might be able to part with to pay the rent: he knew his father would never miss them, whereas if he sold something of more intrinsic value but less important to him, like his watch chain, his father would immediately ask questions. Whatever he did, he would have to do it quickly, and save the Walkers any further embarrassment.
His thoughts were interrupted by the impact of a solid body against his ribs: it overbalanced him and he clutched at the rig steps beside him.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ slurred an untidy man in what were probably his best clothes. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’ He lurched round Charles and was caught again by two friends, who gathered him into an upright position and propelled him gently further down the street to where there was a space by the wall to prop him up.
‘Who on earth is that?’ Charles asked, knowing the face but not the name.
‘Ah, alas,’ said Professor Shaw, ‘it is another sorrowful penitent, who blames himself for poor Sybie’s death.’
‘How could he be to blame?’ asked Charles.
‘He owned the goat.’
At that moment, they were distracted by the sound of footsteps on the rig stair, and looked up. Mungo Dalzell, looking more corpse-like than an upright man had a right to at a funeral, came down towards them, and waved back.
‘They’re coming out now,’ he said shakily, and as he spoke the line of mourners turned and flooded out of the little house, forming a kind of guard of honour on either side of the wynd. The others, waiting outside, disposed of the last of their bannocks, brushed their crummy fingers on their breeches or their gowns, and straightened up to watch. In a moment, the little coffin, smothered by the kirk’s mortcloth, was carried carefully out of the door, followed by Sybie’s father, by Ramsay Rickarton, as grim as death himself, and by her eldest brother, hardly old enough but bearing his part well. As the bearers and the mourners arranged themselves in the wynd, Sybie’s mother, her smaller brothers and the minister appeared at the door, and in that moment the drizzle eased and a bleak sun emerged from behind the clouds.
‘There,’ said the mother, looking up, ‘My wee Sybie will get away in the sunlight, all the same!’
It was not far to the graveyard near the old Cathedral, and the sun held, turning the old grey sandstone cream, as the long procession wound out on to South Street and along to the east. Charles and Professor Shaw dropped back and joined the students and staff, letting the townsfolk go first. Even Professor Keith had made an appearance, walking at some distance behind Allan Bonar and nodding to his more important acquaintance.
The little grave was ready, the diggers standing by respectfully, and the interment was quickly done. As the crowd took sips of the few bottles of whisky expected to go round so many, the sun discreetly faded again, and in a moment they were scattering out of the drizzle. As he passed one of the close friends who would be returning to the house for the funeral repast, Charles distinctly heard him say something about looking forward to roast goat.
‘A good turn-out,’ said a voice behind him, and he turned to see Allan Bonar, his black gown drab with damp. He slowed to walk with him.
‘A very good turn-out. And some fine weather, too.’ He had been to very few funerals, but felt that these were appropriate things for a man to say afterwards.
‘Aye.’
Charles was not sure if he liked Allan Bonar, but he was pleased enough that so important a person as Professor Keith’s assistant should wish to be friendly with him, and so they frequently had stiff little chats, and very occasionally had rather more relaxed conversations in a convenient tavern, along with other of the more senior students. Bonar never seemed to remember these occasions afterwards, but returned to the same rigidity of acquaintance as before, as if progress towards actual friendship were something that could not happen.
‘You’re off home, then?’ Bonar asked, after a moment’s silent walking.
‘Back to my lodgings, aye,’ Charles agreed.
‘I’ll come along with you, if you don’t mind,’ Bonar said. ‘I have a mind to call on your good landlady, Mrs. Walker.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see you,’ said Charles dutifully, not really knowing one way or the other. They had reached South Street by now, and it was a straight and easy walk down the broad commercial road: the atmosphere of general misery that Sybie’s death had brought on the small town had lifted a little now that the funeral was done, but the rain still cast a damp heaviness over the place and the street traders huddled under their awnings, muttering darkly to their neighbours and not meeting their customers’ eyes.
At the narrow little house on the north side, Charles and Bonar stopped and went in, and Charles coughed in the hallway to let the Walkers know they had a visitor. After a moment, Mrs Walker appeared from the direction of the parlour, and did not, contrary to Charles’ words, seem that delighted to see Allan Bonar in her hall. She curtseyed to his bow, however, and managed a slightly empty smile, the habitual politeness of a minister’s wife.
‘Mr. Bonar, how lovely to see you. We were just taking tea in the parlour, if you would care to join us – you, too, dear Charles, if you have the time.’
‘Of course, I should be delighted,’ Charles said at once, ‘But the rent! The rent!’ said a voice in his head.
‘We have a friend of yours already here,’ Mrs. Walker went on, leading the way. For a moment, Charles even fancied he detected a simper on her face, but quickly decided he had imagined it. ‘Mr. Seaton was good enough to call – I believe he intended to see you, Charles dear, but he has very kindly kept us company for a little while, now.’
Charles was not entirely surprised. Thomas Seaton was not the person of his acquaintance most endowed with the social graces, but the chance of
any food to eke out the miserable college pap he lived on would lead him into all kinds of otherwise forbidding territory.
The parlour was quite forbidding territory at the best of times. Last rearranged in the days of the late Reverend Mr. Walker, it seemed perpetually to be fixed on a long winter Sunday afternoon. Light penetrated dimly through heavy lace curtains, helped only by candles when it was officially dark. There was a glazed bookcase, containing the grimmest collections of sermons Charles had ever seen, and the walls, painted a nauseous green in panels between woodwork of tired white, were for the most part obscured by silhouettes of long-dead ministers and their decaying wives, and by black and white prints of Biblical scenes, mostly from the duller parts of the Old Testament. No useful industry or entertaining conversation, no reading of light books or dalliance with an admirer could be imagined in this room, and none had left any evidence of its passing. Occasionally, drawn in there by thoughts of Mrs. Walker’s excellent tea bread, Charles had found Patience Walker twitching the lace curtains or fiddling with the prints as if she longed to red the place out entirely and make it a different room, but her mother would not permit it and Patience had yet to find the courage to bully her.
Thomas, red in the face partly from uneasiness and partly from careless shaving, was in the act of rising from a low, hard chair by the empty fireplace. Beside him on the floor was a grubby parcel, which he seemed to be trying to hide. Patience also rose to curtsey at their arrival, taking in the pair of them with a swift, appraising glance.
‘You’ll have been at the wee girl’s funeral, then?’ asked Mrs. Walker, noting Patience’s glance.
‘Aye. She had some sunshine to light her way,’ said Allan Bonar, surprising Charles with this sentimental observation. It smacked of old-fashioned superstition, too: a good sign of the soul’s destination.
‘Of course she would,’ agreed Mrs. Walker, ‘and her only a bairn. We called yesterday,’ she added, excusing their non-attendance today.
Death in a Scarlet Gown (Murray of Letho Book 1) Page 6