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

by Lexie Conyngham

  ‘I was surprised not to see you there, Thomas,’ said Bonar abruptly, and Thomas blushed hard. ‘There were several of your classmates.’

  ‘I didn’t know about it till this morning,’ Thomas said, rather too loudly. ‘I’ve been busy.’

  Patience looked from one to the other of them with a curious little half-smile that vanished so quickly Charles began to doubt he had seen it. The little maid, concentrating hard, had brought a large pot of fresh tea, and Mrs. Walker poured cups for Charles and Bonar. Patience offered Bonar some cake, then turned with it to Charles. By some absent-mindedness, though, she left Thomas out completely and set the plate back on the table, leaving Thomas stupidly with his mouth open and one hand out.

  ‘Dear, Mr. Seaton would like some more cake,’ Mrs. Walker said pointedly. Patience managed to look surprised.

  ‘Oh! So sorry, Mr. Seaton,’ said Patience cheerfully, and twisted round so quickly with the plate that she hit his outstretched hand. Two seconds later the cake was in his lap and the plate on the floor – fortunately in one piece.

  ‘Oh, my dear Mr. Seaton!’ cried Mrs. Walker. ‘Patience, you clumsy girl! No, it doesn’t matter in the least, Mr. Seaton, as long as you are all right – Patience, go and fetch a dustpan and brush before you do any more damage. Here, Mr. Seaton, do have one of these biscuits instead.’

  It was all very nicely done, and Thomas, more scarlet than ever, was probably oblivious to most of it. Charles, however, was quite convinced that Patience had dropped the plate quite deliberately, and that Mrs. Walker knew it, too. Certainly she was more flustered than her daughter, who rose with studied care from her seat and made sure she walked in front of Charles and Bonar on the way out of the rom. Charles suppressed a grin: Patience was making a play for Allan Bonar.

  He had to admit, on reflection, as a great fuss was made of brushing Thomas’ crummy coat and retrieving the upturned plate, that he was slightly jealous. Patience Walker was a fine looking girl, quick of wit and lively in her character, and full of energy. As her mother’s lodger, he felt he ought to have had some kind of precedence with her, though familiarity frequently bred contempt and she probably never even considered him. In any case, he knew, for Mrs. Walker had, probably wisely, confided it to him one day, that it had been the Reverend Mr. Walker’s dying wish that his only child should be found a husband amongst the clergy of the Established Church, and Mrs. Walker was bound to accede to his request: the Reverend Mr. Walker featured perhaps more largely in the family since his death than before it. Anyway, it was probable that a Professor of Natural Philosophy would not do, but of course Thomas Seaton was aiming for the church ... at last Charles grasped the whole picture behind the little scene with the cake plate. Mother and daughter were establishing battle lines, and poor Thomas had only been the field of conflict.

  All settled again, Mrs. Walker made sure that Thomas was well provided with biscuits and Patience smiled sweetly at Allan Bonar.

  ‘And how do you find your studies these days?’ she asked encouragingly.

  ‘Extremely interesting,’ Bonar responded. ‘I have been able to acquire a little more equipment for my chemical experiments, and have been discovering some very interesting effects from certain plant extracts. Perhaps you will both be good enough to come along and see one or two experiments some time? I am sure you will find them fascinating.’ Compete with that, he seemed to say, as his glance flashed over Thomas. Indeed it was not a fair fight: Bonar had the dark, dramatic looks and, when he chose to use it, the charm, to attract any young woman. In addition, he was well established (barring recent threats of which even Charles had heard rumours) in his position at the College, and when Professor Keith died Allan Bonar would be settled for life. It would appeal to almost any mother for her daughter. All Thomas Seaton had, sitting like a lump in his seat with his breeches inexpertly patched and his coat shiny at the elbows, was the faint possibility that someone, recognising his academic worth and ignoring the rest of him, would be willing to present him to a parish in the near future. The fact that he seemed distantly to realise this did nothing for his appeal: a deepening scowl was fixing itself on his rough features, beside which Bonar’s well-groomed smooth good looks simply seemed even better. Mrs. Walker gave a tight-lipped little smile.

  ‘What a lovely invitation, Mr. Bonar! It would be delightful to see the science of natural philosophy at work, and in the hands of so enthusiastic a guide. It’s such a shame that I’m sure I don’t know where we’ll find time in the near future: the garden needs so much work done in the spring, as you’ll know well, Mr. Bonar, and then the spring cleaning indoors, too: the state of this parlour, for instance. I’ve been meaning to red it out and redecorate for years, now.’

  Patience Walker looked at her mother in complete disbelief, too taken aback to be annoyed for the moment. Mrs. Walker nervously fingered the front of her collar, where her missing brooch usually sat, and looked at the floor. Charles had a sudden horrid thought: maybe she had had to sell it, and was too embarrassed to admit it. Surely, though, she would have tried to dispose of something less dear to her, first: some of the depressing old china in the china cabinet, or some of the books of sermons. There was a long silence, during which Allan Bonar composedly sipped his tea and Thomas crunched on biscuits, eating far too many of them for complete politeness but, as usual, failing to realise.

  ‘Perhaps, Mr. Seaton, you would like to take Patience out for a walk?’ Mrs. Walker suggested at last. ‘She has been expressing a wish to see the daffodils down by the mill lade, and I am sure you would be an ideal companion.’

  This was a little too blatant even for Thomas to feel comfortable, and he mumbled something inaudible through the biscuit he was eating. Allan Bonar looked a little less pleased with himself, however, and Patience was patently disgusted.

  ‘Mama, you expressly asked me to go through the linen cupboard with you this afternoon, and then I must write to our cousins in Perth. Besides, it is raining.’

  ‘And we really must go to our classes, if they are now back in order,’ said Charles amiably, finishing his tea. He did not care about Allan Bonar – he could look after himself – but he felt that Thomas needed rescuing before anything worse happened.

  Once they were in the hall, Thomas asked Charles if he could have a private word, and bidding Bonar and the Walkers goodbye they went upstairs to Charles’ parlour. Thomas was carrying the grubby parcel that had been at his feet during tea.

  ‘I haven’t seen you for a couple of days, either,’ said Charles, waving him to the comfortable chair and settling on the bench. ‘What have you been up to? Did Professor Keith have you busy with something after all, after the senate meeting?’

  Thomas’ face darkened at the name.

  ‘Have you not heard?’ he asked. ‘I have been completely humiliated. No one will give me a parish now.’

  ‘But what happened? He can’t have given it to Peter Keith: we were there when Peter Keith came home, and he was not in the best of tempers with his father.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ Thomas’ curiosity was peaked, and he was not so willing to live through the events of Monday again that he was rushing to tell his story.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know why. He burst in to where George and I were having tea with Mrs. Keith and his sister, said he was going to kill his father, or words to that effect, then saw us and went silent. You know that sort of nervy look he gets, when he is worked up? When you’re not sure if he’s going to burst into tears or burst out singing – that’s what he looked like.’

  ‘And he said nothing about the Senate meeting? That’s a bit odd.’

  ‘He said nothing at all, so it could have been about anything. We left shortly afterwards. Did you see him there?’

  ‘No, I arrived after he had left, when they were all having tea. I had to go and talk myself into it first, even after George was so sure it was the right thing to do.’

  ‘And what happened?’ By now, Charles had realised that whatever i
t was, it had not been an unqualified success.

  ‘He – Professor Keith – told me I was a peasant, and then I tripped up and knocked the tea urn over into the china, and everything fell on the floor, including me.’ He looked completely miserable.

  ‘The big silver tea urn?’ Charles asked. Thomas nodded. ‘That must have been spectacular!’

  Thomas regarded him out of the corner of his eye, and shrugged.

  ‘It made an unholy mess on the carpet, anyway,’ he admitted, with the tiniest of smiles.

  ‘How will you pay for the damage?’ Charles asked.

  ‘Oh, Professor Shaw was there, and he helped me up and said he’d help. He and Mungo Dalzell were all right about it. It was only really Professor Keith – he said he’d never inflict a clumsy lump like me on any patron, and then he just stalked off. Everyone was staring, and I was covered in bits of cups and saucers and tea and – ah, your gown,’ he added, and at last proffered the grubby parcel to Charles. Charles untied it. Inside, smelling still of damp wool and tea, was his gown, still with shards of china sticking to it here and there like flecks of snow, inexplicably woven in with long brown hairs. Thomas must have tossed it aside when he returned to his room, and simply bundled it up later into the piece of old sacking he had brought it in. It would be a challenge to Mrs. Walker on laundry day, no doubt about it, and in the mean time it was unwearable. Charles stared at it, and swallowed hard.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Thomas. ‘But it was really too long.’

  ‘Let’s go to our class,’ said Charles abruptly, not wishing to comment further.

  It seemed a good night to go out for a few drinks. Everyone – with the exception of Thomas, who seemed almost oblivious to the whole thing – seemed edgy after Sybie’s funeral, and Charles was cross about his gown but anxious not to show it and seem ungracious. Thomas himself was not happy, having consumed his eighth college meal in a row in which rabbit had been the main ingredient, and the name of Keith, used with care, merely darkened his expression further. The teaching staff, particularly Professor Shaw and Mungo Dalzell, were still a little absent-minded in class, and had been trying to catch up on the work missed the previous day. Professor Urquhart had an unusually grim expression on his face, and rumour had it that he had quarrelled with Professor Keith after the funeral. Counter-rumour, less exciting but more likely, said that he just disliked the post of hebdomadar, which it was soon his turn to hold again.

  It was just dusk when Charles and Thomas arrived at the popular Black Bull inn in South Street, and found themselves the corner of a bench at which were already settled Picket, Boxie and Rab. The three sporting men had been leaning forward in a huddle, but at Charles’ approach Picket casually straightened, smiling, and the other two followed suit. As it happened, they were holding cards in their hands, and a small amount of money was stacked discreetly at the edge of the table where it could be slid swiftly off into a pocket at the approach of anyone who might find cause to disapprove.

  ‘Come and join us, Murray,’ said Picket generously, ‘though we should be going soon, lads, eh?’ He nodded to Boxie and Rab. ‘We have our studies tonight, and we are of a mind to be diligent, are we not?’ He grinned again, and Boxie had the grace to blush. On Rab’s perfect features, however, there was only an innocently stupid benevolence: Charles reckoned he had been given the looks of a minor Greek god to make up for the complete emptiness of his head. Charles himself smiled back slightly absently: he had no wish to know what they were up to, but gravely doubted it had anything to do with studying. A serving man, sliding past through the crowd, took his order for two tankards of ale, and in a few minutes he and Thomas had the refreshing brew in their hands, which for the moment was all that mattered.

  ‘We could do with a little help in our studies, if you would care to join us, Murray,’ Picket said slyly.

  ‘Thank you, but I have every intention of getting as drunk as I can afford, this evening,’ said Charles.

  ‘I am shocked that you should consider inebriation a suitable substitute for academic labour,’ said Picket in a saintly fashion, and everyone laughed obediently.

  ‘It’s an act of friendship to Thomas here,’ Charles explained. ‘I’m trying to cheer him up.’

  Thomas was sunk so sombrely over his tankard that it seemed unlikely that anything would ever cheer him up, and Rab clapped him sympathetically on the shoulder. Thomas jumped: he had been paying no heed to the conversation at all. The sporting gentlemen laughed, clearly in high good humour.

  ‘What about a few tales before we go?’ asked Rab, with slow delight on his face. ‘You’re good at them, Boxie, aren’t you? Tell us a ghost story.’

  ‘Well,’ said Boxie, reluctant but flattered.

  ‘Go on,’ said Picket, after a glance at his pocket watch. ‘Tell us the one about the nun on the Pends.’

  ‘Oh, you know that one,’ said Boxie dismissively.

  ‘But it’s a good one,’ said Charles. A product of the age of reason, he knew better than to be scared by ghosts, but he enjoyed a good yarn. He grinned at Thomas, and almost had an answering spark of a grin in reply.

  ‘Well,’ said Boxie again. ‘There were two golfers going home from the links one night ... March it was, and a night like this.’ He had them straight away. The noise of the inn faded into the background, and the tallow candles seemed to grow dim even as he spoke and they leaned in to listen. ‘The moon was high, and a light wind blew, and it was very late, for they had called in to this very inn on their way home. They sat by the fire there, and talked of their day’s play in the warmth and the light, and then they finished their drinks, and went out innocent into the bright, cold night.

  ‘One of them lived down near the harbour, and the other down Eastburn Close, but he said he would walk with his friend down along the dark Pends, because he had had the foresight to bring a hurricane lamp. You know the Pends: you know how the hill leads steeply down to the harbour between high, shadowy walls, with the graveyard on one side and the old stone carvings arching above. The man who lived at the harbour was pleased enough to be seen down that road in good company.

  ‘The wind was whipping up and down, and some say the hurricane lamp was an old one, and was cracked. The flame inside the lamp flickered and dived, and before they were halfway down the hill, it suddenly went out. The two men looked at each other, white shadows in the dark, and a strange chill came over them, and they agreed to go their separate ways now that they had only the moon for light. But still they were reluctant to part, somehow, the one up the hill and the one down, and as they stood there they suddenly became aware of a figure, grey in the moonlight, standing a little uphill from them. It was a woman, robed in the dusty habit of a nun, and how they felt she was watching them they could not say, for her head was bowed and the sweep of her cowl covered her face.

  ‘And then, as they stood there, their bodies turned to ice, she began to move towards them. And though the wind tugged at their own coats, they say that her garments were hardly stirred by it, as though she moved somewhere where there was no wind. As she neared them, the man who was to go up hill, who was bolder, put out a hand as if to stop her, and though he felt nothing but a chill she did seem to stop. As he stood there, hand outstretched, she raised her head, and for one, long, eternal moment, he saw ... what was beneath her cowl.

  ‘The other man saw nothing. The nun paused, then bowed her head again and moved silently past him, down and away, vanishing between the dark walls of the Pends. He turned to his friend and as if his throat had suddenly thawed he cried out, and in that instant, as if felled by an axe, his friend fell to the ground. He was stone dead.

  ‘And this is only one of many tales of the Grey Lady. She appears to many without harm, but if she allows you to look upon her face, you will be dead within the year.’

  Boxie sat back, and the rest of the company let out a long breath. There was no doubt, he was the best amongst them for story-telling. Even Thomas looked as if his mind had bee
n taken off more worldly matters for a minute or two.

  ‘And now we really have to be going,’ said Picket suddenly, looking again at his watch. ‘Murray, you are left to give the tale of John Knox and his bodyguards, or the Protestant martyrs at the Chapel, or the strange lights at the Castle: we have work to do!’

  Rab laughed, and Charles wondered again what they were setting off to do. Few were exempt from their escapades: even the college laundry woman had had a fit after her heap of bedsheets came alive and a ghostly figure swept after her, with, coincidentally, a curiously Rab-like laugh.

  Picket scooped up the money and the playing cards and handed them to Boxie, and drained his tankard – you could see the effort of swallowing all around his scrawny neck as he tilted his head back. All three of them gave signs of being a little drunk, but nothing much to signify, which was yet more evidence that they were intending some devilment for which clear heads were needed.

  ‘We shall see you tomorrow, Murray, Seaton,’ said Picket, standing to lead his friends out. ‘I am glad to see you so recovered from your bout with the tea urn, though, Seaton. I hear it got the upper hand.’

  Grinning, he picked his way awkwardly through the crowded inn, followed by Rab and Boxie. Boxie did not look back, but his anxious, guilty look did not bode well for Picket’s victim, whoever he or she might be.

  ‘Another ale, Thomas?’ Charles asked, waving his empty tankard. It was never Thomas’ turn to pay. Thomas nodded and drained his own tankard in a long, messy draught, and Charles tried to catch the eye of the serving man.

  It was an hour or so later when they left the inn. Thomas had not been good company, barely saying a word, and Charles had begun again to worry about money, thus counteracting the good effects of the ale. Thomas wandered off back to his College room, and Charles thought he would take a turn, now that the night was drier than the day had been, around the Scores. The moon was high and bright, and the sheep grazing in the pastures by the cliffs were peaceful. He tried not to think about Sybie, or about his father, or about the pranks of Picket, Boxie and Rab, and particularly not about grey-robed nuns and the proximity of the Pends. Instead he stared at the moon until he was dizzy, letting his mind wander around cosier thoughts of Patience Walker, comparing her favourably with Alison Keith, and the dustier delights of Latin and Hebrew. When he began to feel the cold a little, he turned and slithered away along the muddy track to pass Professor Keith’s house on his circuitous way home.