‘Aye, I’ll do that,’ said Ramsay, concentrating on committing it to his memory. His face was grainy and grey, and his eyes were red: his wiry hands at the cuffs of his livery coat were clenched but he seemed unaware of them.
‘By the way,’ Shaw asked, nodding at the table, ‘what is in the packet?’
Ramsay looked at the white packet as though he had never seen it before, and then light dawned.
‘Poison,’ he said.
Shaw looked alarmed. Ramsay looked at him.
‘For the rats in the Chapel. They’re eating all the linen and they’ve started on the pews.’
‘Oh, oh very good, very good,’ said Shaw, looking relieved. ‘Come and see me, Ramsay, if you need any help over the lads to be punished – I gather Professor Keith will be away this afternoon. Keep an eye on his office, too, for I believe he means to keep valuables there.’
A strange, half-absent smile crept suddenly over Ramsay Rickarton’s worn face.
‘Aye, that’s the case,’ he said, quietly. ‘Professor Keith will be away.’
For a minute, silence fell in the little room. Then Professor Shaw cleared his throat nervously.
‘Well, then, come along, gentlemen: we have a lecture to read, have we not?’
Charles and Thomas stood back to let him through, and followed him out into the yard.
‘I am pleased to hear about the rats,’ Professor Shaw murmured as soon as they were out of hearing distance. ‘Professor Keith has been saying that Ramsay has been neglecting his duties, but of course he has been working perfectly well. It would not be like Ramsay, no, not at all … whatever the provocation …’ He meandered away in his speech, and became silent. Thomas and Charles followed him back to the classroom, and went inside. Just at the door, Charles’ eye was caught by a movement in the Cage, a flurry of light colour. He turned, just in time to see Alison Keith, fluttering in yellow and white striped muslin, emerge from the Chapel and disappear towards the college gateway. He could have sworn that as she hurried off, she was pushing something white into her reticule.
Chapter Seven
The satisfaction of paying off Mrs. Walker gave Charles a quiet night’s sleep, all visions of pouncing skeletons laid to rest by the knowledge that it had simply been the Sporting Set’s trap. He enjoyed his morning lectures, ate a cheap but hearty meal of broth and bread in a coffee house, and strolled back to his lodgings to spend the afternoon reading. The house was quiet as he let himself in, with no sign of either Walker or of the maid, and he climbed the stairs with his mind entirely on the pleasures of learning. Opening the door to his parlour, he stopped abruptly, and all thoughts of learning fled from his mind.
On the only adequate armchair, making it look like a piece of nursery furniture, sat his father.
Charles Murray of Letho, widower, was in his forty-sixth year but did not look it. Tall, strong and with an athletic deftness in his movements, he had a determined face, generously endowed nasally, with George’s high fair colouring. He was generally considered a very handsome man, and had not been without opportunities for remarriage in the years since his wife’s death: however, he found that he preferred the liberty of being single. He dressed according to fashion, and had very marked tastes: even now, in what he would have termed country clothes, the toffee brown of his gloves was exactly that of his coat, and his boots were almost as gorgeous as George’s new ones. His hat, placed authoritatively on the table that Charles used as a desk, was large and well brushed, and he carried a cane with a silver top and showed discreetly on his waistcoat the fine gold chain of a watch.
When Charles remembered to breathe again, he found that in his mind he had shrunk to the size of a schoolboy, and his feet had forgotten how to move. He made an awkward bow, at which his father did not smile.
‘Well, Charles, I hope I find you in good health,’ he remarked, mildly.
‘Indeed, sir, I hope the same of you.’ Charles fumbled through the words.
‘Aye, thank you, you do. And your good landlady, Mrs. Walker, and your tutors – they are all well?’
‘They are, sir: I should be pleased to pass on your good wishes to them.’
‘You may do so.’ He flicked at a miniscule speck of dust on his breeches with the gloves in his hand. ‘And what sports have you been practising in the last month? The weather has been very fine.’
Charles was ready for this question, and refrained from pointing out that, whatever the weather, he had studying to do.
‘I practised in the butts on Monday, and played a round of golf on Saturday: both have been regular activities recently.’
‘Good, if a little sedentary. How did you do?’
‘I won three out of four golf games –‘ Charles did not mention that in two he had been playing against Thomas Seaton, who clutched at the golf club as though it was his last hope in a strong gale, ‘- and I shot quite well.’ It always went against the grain to applaud his own achievements, but for his father it had to be done. ‘I boxed several times with some of the other gentlemen students, and I attended my fencing class twice a week as arranged.’
‘You may tell me the success of your bouts on the journey to Letho: I have already spoken to your fencing master, and he says that your progress has his full approval.’ Mr Murray remained in the chair, doubtless realising that it was difficult to be authoritative with the hunched back that the low ceiling would inevitably give him. ‘Well, Charles, since you are all well, and since everything in St. Andrews is in order, perhaps you would like to explain to me why you are here and not at Letho? Perhaps George did not make my wishes clear: I expected you home with him.’
‘I had a funeral to attend, sir,’ said Charles. It was a good excuse, but he knew he had managed to make it sound feeble.
‘Whose?’ his father asked sharply, taking Charles aback.
‘The granddaughter of our janitor at the college. She was much loved, and died in a tragic accident.’
His father nodded, accepting the story for now, but apparently disappointed in some way.
‘But the funeral is presumably over,’ he said after a moment, ‘so there is now no reason why you should not abandon your studies and return with me to Letho today. I have brought a horse for you – Cobweb, in fact.’
He laid out the horse’s name casually, as if tossing it on to the table, but Charles knew it was a bribe. Cobweb, the lean grey hunter, was his father’s second best horse, and the privilege of riding him was rarely bestowed on Mr. Murray’s sons, let alone for such a mundane matter as riding from St. Andrews to Letho. Charles had to resist the temptation of going to the window overlooking the garden, and seeing if he could see the beautiful gelding in the little stable yard beyond. Instead, he tried to concentrate on his father’s unusual tactics: normally Mr. Murray would regard his instructions as sufficient, and a bribe as superfluous and possibly showing weakness. For some reason he must be very eager to have Charles leave St. Andrews straight away. Charles could not, for the life of him, see what the urgency was.
‘I wish you to return home for a week at least,’ said his father, and Charles’ heart leapt. This was not the final blow, then: he would be allowed to return. ‘There is something I wish you to do for me, which will not wait. Then we can talk about your remaining here.’
Charles tried not to let the disappointment show on his face. There was a definite tone to the words ‘remaining here’ which demonstrated that as far as his father was concerned, Charles remaining here was not an option. He stood, hands clenched behind his back, as his father continued to talk, something lengthy about whatever it was he wanted Charles to do over the next week, and a great dark abyss opened in his mind. He would not be allowed to finish the year: he would not be allowed to try at his Master’s examinations. He would be dragged back to Letho, and would spend his days being sociable with his father’s friends, and battling with George over who was the smarter, the fitter, the stronger. And Charles would never have the chance to read or study, and
George would always win.
‘Are you listening to me at all, lad?’
His father’s voice was scarcely raised, but the tone was enough to penetrate the bleakness of Charles’ mind.
‘I beg your pardon, sir: I was thinking about – about Cobweb.’
His father smiled briefly.
‘Then we should be going soon. I hope you have eaten something: we shall not stop till Cupar at least.’
‘I need to see my tutors and get their permission to leave,’ Charles said quickly, knowing it would not please, but his father’s face was still cheerful enough.
‘I shall come with you,’ he said with unexpected heartiness. ‘I should be pleased to meet Professor Shaw again, and it is some time since I saw Urquhart and Keith. Come, let us waste no more time!’
He stood, seeming to tower above Charles in the tiny room, and Charles was quick to descend the stairs again and out into the spacious street. Even there, with his father close by, there seemed to be little room to breathe.
‘Where first?’ asked his father briskly.
‘To the college,’ Charles replied. ‘Professor Urquhart is probably there in his rooms, and we may well catch Professor Shaw and Professor Keith, too.’ He led the way along lanes between South Street and Market Street, and then between Market Street and North Street, emerging by the college near the spot where Sybie had met her awful end. The great gate of the College was open, and in a moment they were crossing the quadrangle to the doorway to the staff quarters. As they approached, Mungo Dalzell emerged, looking more peaceful than he had for days. He smiled at them, covering the awkward moment when one sees an acquaintance but is too far away to greet them properly, and bowed to Mr. Murray when Charles presented him.
‘Delighted, sir,’ Dalzell said, and appeared to mean it. Mr Murray, with his general views on scholarship, returned the bow with markedly less enthusiasm, and Charles was left to give Mungo Dalzell an apologetic smile which he hoped his father would not notice. Dalzell, not slow socially, understood at once and smiled back, explaining that he was sorry he could not wait. He hurried off and Charles saw him vanish into the shadows of the Chapel before they reached the doorway of the staff quarters.
Inside, there was a rich and full smell of damp. The stone walls were quite green in places, mostly beneath the inadequately sealed windows. The staircase was worn to the point of almost being a continuous slope, and was lit only by one or two slit windows: Charles and his father fumbled their way up, with Mr. Murray using a few choice words which Charles would not have dared to repeat in front of him. In the corridor at the top, Charles knew there was a candle sconce with a flint underneath: after a few attempts he managed to light a taper and bring the reluctant – and probably damp - candles to life. His father’s face loomed out of the dusk, frowning.
‘The staff live here?’ he asked, clearly doubting their collective sanity.
‘Only Professor Urquhart,’ Charles explained. ‘Professor Keith has an office up here, though: it’s that door on the right at the end. All this side is Professor Urquhart’s rooms.’
He decided to tackle the worst first, and knocked on Professor Keith’s door. It was very slightly open – he could see dim light in the crack and feel a draught – but there was no reply.
‘He must be at home,’ he said to his father. ‘We can walk round there later.’ He turned and knocked again at Urquhart’s door, and after a moment, heard a distant ‘Enter!’
Urquhart had taken full advantage of the fact that no other staff members wished to live in the college any more. He had originally taken what had once been a fine corner room, with windows in two directions, to serve as his bedchamber and study, but as rooms had fallen vacant he had knocked through to the next room, and the next, and the next, so that now he had what constituted a suite on the old staff corridor. The original corner room was his main reception room: the others served as bedchamber, study and dining room. He had quietly made sound all his walls and floors, sealed the windows, hung curtains, laid carpets, replaced doors and introduced colour into the rooms, probably for the first time since they had been built: dark reds, rich golds, and vibrant blues and greens in the detail gave the rooms a startling luxury after the dim stone passage outside. He had used much of the available wall space to display his fine collection of watercolours and prints. Three or four statues, all on classical themes, stood about in tasteful formation. A pair of pastel burners on the mantelpiece, lit even at this time of day, kept away the smell of damp and filled the air with heavy scent. He kept two cats to deter the rats that infested the rest of the college buildings, and these were often to be seen, as they were now, sprawled comfortably on velvet cushions on one of the sofas. Urquhart ordered food regularly from the best inn in the town, which was brought hot to his rooms, and he was known for intimate dinner parties which went on for more hours than was usual. No one quite knew where his money came from, but it was fairly obvious where it went, and amongst his colleagues, most of them married with families, there was for him a distinct, slightly envious, respect.
As Charles followed his father into the reception room, Urquhart appeared at its inner doorway, a book in his hand. At the sight of Charles and his father, he smiled, and bowed just too late to hide a look of sardonic surprise in his eyes. The Murrays returned the bow in a unison that Charles, at least, found awkward.
‘Mr. Murray, how delightful!’ Professor Urquhart advanced gracefully amongst the furnishings. ‘To what do we owe the privilege of your visit?’
‘I wish to take Charles out of his studies for a fortnight or so,’ Mr. Murray said smoothly, wasting no time. ‘I trust that this will inconvenience no one?’
The smile froze slightly on Professor Urquhart’s face.
‘Perhaps a small glass of something will help to keep out the damp. Can I offer you a glass of spiced wine? My speciality. I have a jug warming by the fire.’
‘It is very kind of you,’ said Mr. Murray, rattling off the civility, ‘but I wish to get away promptly, so as to be home before it grows dark.’
‘I see.’ Urquhart propped himself thoughtfully against the back of a sofa, one white hand pensively brushing his chin. ‘You do realise, do you not, Mr. Murray, that Charles here is one of our more promising young scholars?’
Oh, no, Charles groaned inwardly. This was not what his father wanted to hear. He could not bear to look round at his father’s face, and found that he was listening for the sound of the strong hands clenching in annoyance, or teeth grinding.
‘He has but a term and a half before he could be expected to be examined for his Master’s, and any time lost now in his studies could be fatal for the result.’
‘It is not necessary for Charles to graduate. He has an estate and a place in society: he has no need to earn his way.’ Mr. Murray’s words came out clipped tight.
‘It is not a question of necessity, Mr. Murray …’ Urquhart looked up, and suddenly seemed to see something in Mr. Murray’s face. ‘I take it that the business for which you require his presence is both urgent and important?’
‘It is,’ snapped Mr. Murray.
‘Perhaps a … family funeral? In some distant part of the country?’
‘Something of the kind, perhaps,’ Mr. Murray agreed, without humour.
‘Then go with my blessing, dear boy,’ Professor Urquhart said to Charles. ‘Travel safely, and come back to us soon, eh?’
He waved them out of his reception room with almost unseemly haste, sweeping his long hands about generously as if he were bestowing the gift of liberation on the pair of them, not sending Charles into temporary exile.
‘Now Keith,’ said his father firmly, as they found themselves once again outside in the quadrangle.
‘He lives on the Scores,’ Charles responded, and led the way back to North Street and east towards the Cathedral. The fact of his going had sunk in now: he accepted it, and wanted to have it over with, and if that meant finding and persuading Professor Keith, then he wa
s content to do the finding and let his father do the persuading, which he was clearly very good at. He was not quite sure what Professor Urquhart had seen in his father’s face to make him change his attitude so quickly, but the very thought of it made him shiver.
‘Come on, lad, keep up!’ said his father, two strides ahead as usual. Charles hurried on, trying to avoid being tripped up by the tail of his father’s cane. Towards the end of the street, they turned left into Castle Wynd just as Mungo Dalzell came out of Heukster’s Wynd opposite, where Sybie’s funeral had started. He gave Charles a quick, anxious smile and vanished down North Street. My goodness, thought Charles, my father will have every lecturer in the place a bundle of nerves before the day is out. Let’s see him tackle Professor Keith, though!
There was not a trace of human remains at the stern black gate, but Charles, looking up quickly at the gate post as they passed, thought he saw the end of a piece of string and a spike of wire, which might have formed part of the apparatus. He felt that the Sporting Set owed him a favour: if he had not sprung the trap before Professor Keith had the chance, they would have received an even worse punishment, he was sure.
The bright white door opened at his father’s knock, and Mr. Murray handed in his card. They were ushered into a drawing room, not the ladies’ parlour Charles and George had sat in on Monday, but still the view was of the garden, and in the distance Charles could just make out the dark peak of the summerhouse roof under the yew trees. Fresh daffodils and hyacinths from the Keiths’ hothouse stood about the room in blue and white planters and scented the room with earth and moss and perfume, not, Charles thought, Professor Keith’s choice of decoration. In a moment the door opened, and they both turned, not, as they had expected, to see Professor Keith, but to find Alison Keith making them a quick curtsey.
‘My father is busy just at this moment,’ she said, with a smile at Charles, ‘but begs that you will wait and take tea, and he will be down as soon as he can be. Please be seated,’ she added, and herself took a pretty little armchair that neither Murray would have fitted in. Charles went to sit near her, and glanced round to find that his father was staring at her as if he meant to memorise every detail of her appearance.
Death in a Scarlet Gown (Murray of Letho Book 1) Page 9