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

by Lexie Conyngham

  The rambling house dozed like a curling cat under the moonlight, the white paintwork startling with its brightness in places. Charles meandered up to the gate, still thinking of Alison Keith and her wide mouth and unappealing ankles, and the way she had tried to play him off against his brother. He stood by one of the pillars, propped against the damp gritty sandstone, gazing at the house in the same dazed, slightly drunken way he had stared at the moon before. At last he pulled himself together, his mind heading straight back to his financial problems, and he started to walk on.

  In the dim light, he tripped on something nearby, and clutched at the gate for support. There was a sudden movement above him. He looked up. A long white skeleton lunged at him out of the night, empty eyes burning.

  He was a product of the age of reason, and knew better than to be scared by ghosts, so it can only have been in order to hurry home that at that precise moment, he turned and ran.

  Chapter Six

  Needless to say, Professor Keith was furious.

  He had been alerted to the presence of the skeleton by the hysterics of his maid, Barbara, at half past five on Thursday morning, long after Charles had left the gates behind and run most of the way home. The effects of Professor Keith’s rage were still being felt in the yard, such as it was, of United College, some four hours later. Professors Shaw and Urquhart, waiting quietly in the Cage by the Chapel, tried very hard to seem invisible as Helenus Keith ranted up and down outside. They had it on good authority that he had been ranting, without pause, since half past five, and had not stopped for breakfast, which doubtless did not help. Both Professor Shaw and Christopher Urquhart believed in the value of breakfasting well.

  There was no doubt in either of their minds that Keith was quite right in finding Picket Irving, Boxie Skene and Rab Fisher guilty of the terrible crime: Professor Keith had accused them of plagiarism and collusion, and this was Picket’s choice of revenge. Urquhart and Shaw felt that Boxie Skene’s role in the drama was ambiguous, but they agreed that Rab Fisher was as thick as mince, and must have been led.

  It was wet again, and the yard was silent and dull with damp, a rain-sodden patch of uneven paving between ramshackle buildings and St. Salvator’s College Chapel, which had a gate beside it leading to North Street. Any interesting tracery faced North Street, as well: on this side all it offered was a steep roof, the foot of the bell tower and the sheltering cloister of the Cage. A few students in soaked scarlet wool crossed the paths, trying to keep their books and papers dry. Others, but not many, peered from the grubby windows of their rooms above the yard, the last few living in College. Professor Shaw and Professor Urquhart waited in the shelter to see their students gather in class rooms across the yard, not speaking but unwilling to give up a kind of mutual support against the rain, the town’s misery and the rage of Professor Keith.

  Naturally there was no sign of the scoundrels appearing for morning classes.

  Professor Keith’s anger seemed in danger of seeking out some other, more innocent target. He picked out a fat little bejant, wearing his gown correctly in the manner approved for a first year, and gave him a vicious little lecture on combing his hair properly. Shaw watched with his face screwed up in sympathetic pain.

  ‘Not a nice man,’ Urquhart remarked, watching too.

  The door behind them swung heavily open, but not far, and a thin figure eased itself out into the Cage. Mungo Dalzell looked as if he had not eaten for a week, but there was about his face something nearer peace than there had been since Monday’s awful accident, and some of the deep swooping lines that had developed around his eyes in the intervening days had eased a little. He did not look quite so old.

  ‘Good morning, Mungo,’ Shaw was brave enough to say, bowing to his old friend. Mungo even managed a faint smile.

  ‘Good morning, Davie,’ he replied, in a voice not unlike his own. With a slight effort, grown unused to speaking, he went on, nodding back at the door he had just come through. ‘I’ve just been in the Chapel.’

  ‘There’s a surprise,’ Urquhart remarked, but not too unkindly.

  ‘I don’t think I’d spent much time in it before now, except at services. It’s a calming sort of place, is it not?’

  Professor Shaw, who had always loved the dilapidated old building, smiled and nodded, reaching out a hand to finger the centuries-old stonework as if he were caressing a favourite dog.

  ‘Perhaps our revered Professor of Natural Philosophy should take a few turns in it,’ Urquhart suggested, adjusting his gloves carefully. ‘He could do with a deal of calming.’

  Mungo Dalzell seemed to refocus his gaze for a second, before turning to look for Professor Keith. Keith was still beating a path around the yard, evidently looking for someone or something. Shaw avidly did not want to be the someone, and was not even sure he wanted to be there when the someone was found.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Dalzell asked.

  ‘Someone flung a skeleton outside his gate last night,’ Urquhart informed him. ‘As a very thoughtful touch they had put phosphorus inside the skull so that it seemed to glow from within, like a thing from the demon realms.’ He enjoyed himself for a moment, adopting the kind of grim, terrifying voice more suited to ghost stories around a winter fire, then returned to more prosaic tones. ‘It did not help the Professor’s general mood that the feet had not been particularly well articulated – I believe he had to pick a number of small bones out of the gravel of his carriageway this morning, and reconstruct the feet on the kitchen table to ensure he had all of it, before his family would consent to walk on the drive at all. His maid has given notice again.’

  ‘I’m not in the least surprised,’ said Mungo. ‘It would take a sturdy sort of character to work in that household, I should think.’

  ‘Peter Keith is not speaking to his father again, I notice,’ Professor Shaw said with a sigh. ‘Such an unhappy household: I never meet Mrs. Keith or Miss Keith without thinking how much better life would have been for them if the Professor had been a different kind of man entirely.’

  ‘Why limit your pity to Mrs. and Miss Keith?’ asked Urquhart, arranging himself to lean against a pillar now that his gloves were perfect. ‘What about those of us who have to work with the man?’ Professor Shaw sighed again, heavily, and nodded. ‘After all, those of us of a sensitive disposition have a great deal to put up with every day: I think Mrs. Keith and Miss Keith perhaps only see him for meals.’

  ‘And imagine what that would do to the digestion,’ said Shaw quite involuntarily, swallowing hard. His own digestion could certainly be said to be of a sensitive disposition.

  ‘Someone should do the world a kindness and dispose of him. He’s not doing anyone any good on earth, and the Devil must need a challenge every now and again,’ said Urquhart. Shaw gave a shocked little intake of breath, and shot Mungo Dalzell a swift sideways glance. He was not sure if such a remark would upset an antinomian or not. Mungo Dalzell managed a slightly indulgent smile, and Shaw relaxed a little, only to feel every drop of blood stand stock still when he realised that Professor Keith had finished his dissection of the miserable bejant, and was heading in their direction.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen them,’ he snapped, as if everyone in the town should be devoting themselves to his self-appointed task.

  ‘Neither hide nor hair of them, I regret to say,’ said Urquhart, with so smooth a smile that Shaw almost believed that he had been looking for the miscreants.

  ‘I’ll have the little devils this time. I’ll teach them respect for their elders and betters.’

  ‘I understand that Picket Irving’s guardian is a powerful man,’ said Urquhart in gentle concern, so that even Professor Keith did not recognise the sarcasm. ‘It might be better – for the University – not to offend him.’

  ‘I take your point,’ said Keith, his teeth clenched, ‘but this has gone far enough. And neither Fisher nor Skene has any influence beyond what Irving can lend them. Perhaps it is time that Irving
’s powerful guardian knew the truth of his charge’s behaviour, and set some limitations on him. Oh, is that them?’

  He swept away, like an osprey spotting a fish, and Urquhart watched him dispassionately, removing his hat to run a delicate hand over his well-groomed wig.

  ‘I doubt,’ he said, ‘that Picket’s guardian has much control over him. That’s why, I believe, he sent him to St. Andrews in the first place: out of the way of the temptations of Edinburgh. I think Picket might have been better off placed in the way of a few ordinary temptations. He might not have felt it necessary to go about looking for extraordinary ones.’

  ‘And James and Rab would have been much better off without his influence,’ added Professor Shaw, sadly. ‘I think they are both quite good boys, on their own, but Picket will lead them astray.’

  ‘Oh, here he comes again. A case of mistaken identity.’ Urquhart grinned. Professor Shaw shuddered. ‘So what will your punishment be, once you have them?’ Urquhart asked meekly as Professor Keith returned to the Cage. Keith was angular and twitching with impatience.

  ‘I should like to beat them senseless,’ he hissed, then cleared his throat. ‘What can I do? I shall fine them a substantial sum of money each, and confine them to their lodgings. I should send them down altogether, but I cannot help feeling that Irving, at least, would appreciate that. They will be escorted to their classes, and to the library should they wish it, but they will be allowed no other freedom. One of Ramsay Rickarton’s underlings can mount guard at the door.’

  ‘Have you told Ramsay?’ asked Professor Shaw, sure that Rickarton would consider this beyond the duty of his few staff and possibly dangerous to them.

  ‘I should, if I could find him,’ Keith snapped. ‘He might as well be in collusion with the little brats, for all I can see of him, either. He has been very lax in his work these past few days.’

  ‘Well, there was the funeral …’ said Professor Shaw, bravely, but he went unheard. Keith had just spotted Ramsay Rickarton, who had emerged from the Chapel’s other door and was crossing the Cage towards the yard, carrying a white packet.

  ‘There you are, man! Where on earth have you been?’

  Ramsay, a vacant, hollow look on his face, opened his mouth but no sound came out. Fortunately, Keith was not really expecting an answer.

  ‘You’ll know what happened at my house this morning.’ Ramsay’s blank look remained. Keith gave a quick breath of frustration, angry that the doings of his household were not the immediate concern of the whole town. ‘Picket Irving and his crowd left a human skeleton outside my gate, bones all over the place, with a notice round its neck saying –‘ he looked round suddenly at Urquhart, Shaw and Mungo Dalzell standing politely watching him from the Cage. ‘Well, never mind what it said. It is cleared up now. But I want to see those scoundrels punished, and punished well. I want them fined five guineas each – each, mind – and confined to their lodgings for a week. More if they misbehave, all right?’

  ‘Sir,’ said Ramsay Rickarton quietly.

  ‘And I have to go out this afternoon: Lord Scoggie has invited me to dine at his home –‘ he said this bit quite loudly, and Urquhart was not the only one to smile a little ‘- and so I want you to collect the fine, inform them of the confinement, appoint one of your men to watch the door of their lodging and escort them to classes, and bring the fine back here and place it,’ his voice dropped again suddenly, but those in the Cage could still here him quite clearly, ‘in my office upstairs. I shall collect it tomorrow.’

  Thus dismissed, Ramsay Rickarton fumbled his way towards the janitor’s lodge, the dazed look still on his face. Professor Shaw made a mental note to visit him there shortly and make sure that he had actually taken in Professor Keith’s instructions: the man was clearly still stunned with grief and Shaw did not want him to draw more trouble on himself. Keith had returned to the Cage, and Shaw did not, either, feel courageous enough to follow Rickarton straight away when Keith could still see him.

  ‘And while I think about it,’ said Keith, half to himself, ‘there are a few other things I should leave upstairs, too. When one’s house is attacked,’ he went on more loudly, making it sound as if there had been a solid bombardment against the building for at least a week, ‘one starts to look around and see what vulnerable things might be removed to a place of greater safety.’ He nodded approval at his own wisdom, and with a crack of his gown he swooped across the yard towards the stairs that would take him to the staff rooms.

  ‘He still retains an office up there, then, does he?’ Mungo Dalzell asked, as they watched him go.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Urquhart replied in disgust. ‘I should be quite happy living up there – indeed I am quite happy living up there - but I should have preferred to have the staff corridor to myself, particularly where Keith is involved. The man has no idea how to be quiet: he believes that it is everyone else’s privilege to listen to him and his opinions.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Professor Shaw hurriedly, ‘I believe I see two of my students now. I suppose it would be best if I went and taught them.’

  ‘And I, too, must catch up with my classes,’ said Mungo, a little shamefully.

  ‘And I have Peter Keith coming to discuss fine art,’ Professor Urquhart added, ‘which completes the set. Off we all go, then.’

  The students whom Professor Shaw could see were Charles and Thomas Seaton, crossing to a class room from the doorway that led to the students’ quarters: Charles had gone to find Thomas earlier and make sure he was awake and fed and ready for his class. Thomas was a hard worker, but had a tendency to sleep late. Charles might also have had, but with a landlady eager to start the day early, he never had the chance to oversleep. In addition, Charles had been up and out more swiftly than usual, and standing outside his usual bookseller’s shop before the shutters were off it, before he could change his mind about selling his books. Fortunately he kept his books well, even when they were much read: he had had them plainly but neatly bound and did not treat the pages the way a huntsman treats a hedge, so he managed to negotiate quite a good price for the half-dozen or so he could bear to part with. In his pocket now was just enough for Mrs. Walker’s rent money, and he was able, in his imagination at least, to put off the prospect of a visit to his father for another little while. The story of Professor Keith and the dislocated skeleton had made the rounds of the town by an invisible process early in the morning and he had heard it quickly, thus saving himself the embarrassment of telling the story of how a skeletal form had attacked him on the Scores the night before, only to find that he had been the first victim of the Sporting Set’s latest prank: he remained, therefore, silent on the experience, and reflected that at least his father would have been proud of the speed he had made from the far end of the Scores to the near end of South Street, in the dark, without injury. On the whole, he was in a cheerful mood, which was not diminished by the sight of his professor waving at them across the yard, and then, apparently, abandoning them to scuttle off in the direction of the janitor’s lodge.

  ‘Perhaps he wants us to follow him,’ Charles suggested.

  ‘Why on earth would he want us to do that?’ Thomas scowled, still not recovered from his experience in the Senate Room and convinced that everyone around was laughing at him.

  ‘I don’t know: perhaps we have to study in a different room today. I’ll just go and see, shall I?’

  ‘If you really want to,’ said Thomas.

  Charles sighed at him.

  ‘I’ll wave if we need you,’ he said, handing Thomas his books, and ran quickly across the yard to catch up with Professor Shaw just as he entered the little janitor’s lodge. Ramsay Rickarton was seated on a stool behind the wide table, the white packet he had been carrying out of the chapel thrown in front of him, and the vacant expression still on his face.

  ‘Ramsay,’ Professor Shaw began cautiously, as though he were interrupting a train of serious thought. ‘Ramsay, are you all right?’

  The janitor lo
oked up slowly, and nodded, though it was not convincing.

  ‘Did you hear what Professor Keith wanted you to do?’

  ‘Professor Keith?’ said Rickarton, trying to find an image in his head to match the name. It came all too quickly, and his face darkened. ‘Oh, aye, Professor Keith.’ He spat the words out.

  ‘Did you hear what he wanted you to do?’ Shaw repeated.

  ‘Something about punishing a few of the lads, aye, I got it. I’ve to fine them and keep them in their house.’

  ‘Do you know what lads?’ Shaw persisted, unwilling to see Ramsay make a mistake. The janitor thought for a moment, and nodded.

  ‘His usual ones: Mr. Irving, Mr. Fisher and Mr. Skene,’ he said, though Charles was tempted to think it had been a guess. Professor Shaw nodded encouragingly.

  ‘You’ve to fine them five guineas each, and keep them at home for a week.’

  Ouch, thought Charles, that was a hard punishment. Five guineas was probably more than Boxie Skene could afford, and certainly more than Rab Fisher could. He wondered what punishment Professor Keith would have devised if Charles himself had not sprung whatever trap the Sporting Set had laid, and the skeleton had not been discovered harmlessly on the ground this morning. He noticed that Thomas had caught up and was standing outside the low doorway: they exchanged looks of shock at the news, and looked back at Ramsay Rickarton.