At his lodging, Mrs. Walker brought him tea and gingerbread but professed herself too busy to stay and talk, which suited him quite well. He sent the groom back with the horses and sat in his little parlour, propped on the bench with his elbows on the narrow windowsill, watching the crowds on South Street and reviewing his situation.
It was not a good one. When his father found out what he had done he would almost certainly be furious, which might not have been a good idea strategically: a furious father now was less likely to be one who in the future would be receptive to plans about Charles staying in St. Andrews for the rest of the term. He pictured his father’s face – possibly at that very minute – finding the papers from Edinburgh and discovering that Charles had fled. It had seemed such a clever idea at the time, but now he shuddered at the thought.
He tried to cut his problems down to size. He wanted to stay at St. Andrews at least to finish his term, and his father did not want him to. A daily ride from Letho for classes was out of the question, and even if it were practical to stay at Letho, while he was there, under his father’s watchful gaze, his father would be constantly thinking of excuses to keep him at home for the day. No, he had to stay in St. Andrews, whatever his father’s thoughts on the subject. Well, his father could not cut him off altogether, but if he did stop his allowance – and his father could be extremely stubborn – then Charles would just have to find money somewhere else. But where? Pocket watches and chains would not fund him forever, and nor would books, which in any case he needed. He had to find a source of income, not necessarily a large one, but enough to cover his living and his fees. After all, Thomas survived on very little, and surely Charles could manage it, too. He did a quick calculation, and reckoned that about seventy pounds would cover a whole session, including fees. All he needed was a job of some kind.
He managed to say it casually enough inside his head, but he had not much idea of what he could do or how he could find someone to pay him for doing it. He decided to discuss it with Thomas later in the day.
The trouble, the main problem, the real difficulty with all this, though, was his father. Charles sighed heavily, misting up the window in front of him. He wiped it with his sleeve. He had never gone against his father before, and he did not want to. It was not that his father could disinherit him, or thrash him – he probably could do the latter, even now, but the former was dealt with by a tailzie on the estate and it had by law to come to him. But to go against his father … actively, deliberately, planning to do something that would earn his father’s disapproval – that went completely against the grain.
Since his mother had died, when Charles was very young, his father had brought up the boys and had brought them up as much as possible in his own image. Charles, and soon George too, were required to be active, able, fit and busy. They were required to run and swim, to ride and drive, to shoot with guns and bows, to dance and fight, all in the interest of their physical selves, made to compete with each other and with anyone else fool enough to join in. Mr. Murray was no more proud than when his sons won wapinshaws or were commended by their fencing masters or their boxing instructors, and Charles and George, like any normal boys, enjoyed his approval as much as they could, fighting each other for it, struggling against the odds. Mr. Murray liked society, and therefore expected his sons to like it, too: he was fashionable in his appearance, and therefore thought it no waste of time or money when George appeared in his glossy Edinburgh boots, or when they spent hours at the sales at Leith to acquire well-matched horses for the grey and blue carriage, or fine hunters or hackers to ride in the Meadows where they could be admired. George, his father’s son to the very life, entered into all this like clay poured into a mould, filling it to perfection. Charles, on the other hand, did not.
He enjoyed some of it: he was proud of his abilities with a foil or a bow, he liked dancing, and he thought George and his father looked very fine in their silk waistcoats or their kid breeches. He loved them both dearly, and when he could spare the time, he had no objection to looking just as fine himself. But he needed more: he needed to focus his mind on more purely mental pursuits, and to exercise his mind in the same way as his father constrained them to exercise their bodies, and because his father could not understand this need Charles had found himself working twice as hard as George, for one thing because his father would not allow him to stint on his physical training to spare time for reading, and for another because his father, deeply distrustful of academia, was convinced that Charles was softer than George and demanded much more frequent proof of Charles’ physical attainments that he ever required of George.
Outside, cut off from him by the thick glass, the crowds mingled and meandered back and forth, chattering and calling. Up here, above them, there was silence, as if the rooms themselves were waiting for some kind of decision. Even the mice behind the panelling paused. Charles sighed again, and wondered if his father would summon him to Letho or appear, like Faust’s demon, to drub him on the spot and drag him home in person. He looked at the empty spaces on his bookshelf where the much-loved, carefully bound volumes had been that were now in the bookshop, vulnerable to anyone’s thoughtless fingers. He shook his head. Perhaps it would be better to give up. He could go now, tell the Walkers he would send someone for his furniture, hire a horse, and be back at Letho in time for supper. It would be easy: he could tell his father that he had simply gone on in order to collect some things – clothes, it had better be, not books. His father would be quietly satisfied, though perhaps a little suspicious. He need not speak to his tutors, for they were not expecting him back yet anyway. He could abandon all this for the easy option, and spend his days as he did in the vacation, in sports and hard work, and in learning how to run the estate and behave in society. He need not come to St. Andrews again except to bathe or play golf, and his father would be a happy man. He could even read, in the evenings, in the very early mornings, or whenever he had the chance.
It was not enough. He knew it, even as part of him longed for the quiet life that acquiescence would bring. He had never in his life felt part of something the way he felt part of his college, part of the life they all led here. He had never in his life wanted anything so much as he wanted to learn, to be taught, to read books that never appeared in his father’s library, to have, at last, the chance to sit and earn his M.A. For that privilege, for that fellowship, he would give up a great deal. For that, he would give up even Letho, and even, if he really had to, his father and George.
He groaned and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, a curiously therapeutic action. After a moment of that he felt almost recovered: he put the thought of earning his living to the back of his mind to stew, and turned his attention to the present.
Mrs. Walker had brought back his gown, which looked less than perfect but a good deal better than it had when Thomas had handed it back to him. She had also left him his mail, which was not extensive. It included a note from Professor Shaw, sent shortly after his departure, welcoming him back, and an invitation from Professor Keith, printed, inviting him to a soirée for all of Keith’s students on Friday night. For just a moment, he wished he had not returned quite so quickly: Professor Keith’s soirées, though occasional, could be very painful. However, there was always the possibility that he might meet someone there who could point him in the right direction to find an income of some sort – perhaps someone who needed a tutor, or a secretary – some local work that he could do while he finished his studies, and perhaps, if his father was really annoyed, for some time afterwards.
He wrote a quick reply to the invitation, and reflected that he could save himself a particularly small sum by taking it to the Keiths instead of having it delivered. He pulled on his gloves and gown and picked up his trencher, and headed out into the March sunshine.
South Street was busy but broad and free moving, less congested than Market Street could be. Charles decided to walk its length up to the east end, allowing his imagination to dwell
on incomes and positions, passing tall through the crowds with ease. Boys scuttled about outside the Grammar School opposite, but there were few other students about: they were either in late afternoon lectures or sequestered in the library. He glanced at the gateway to St. Mary’s College, the other half of the university, and at the stern stone wall of the university library beside it, and wanted to go in, but he knew it was just to avoid thinking about his future, and made himself walk on.
He should move out of his nice, comfortable bunk, anyway, and find himself something a little less luxurious. He certainly did not need two rooms, and while Mrs. Walker fed him extremely well, he could probably fend for himself on more humble food, kale and brose, with a bit of fish, perhaps. But then, how much did Mrs. Walker rely on the money he brought in? Though she ran an excellent bunk, it was not a good time of year to look for new tenants. She might have to wait until the beginning of the new academic year, if she was unlucky.
At the east end of South Street he reached the wall of the Cathedral and the graveyard where little Sybie had been buried the previous week. He did not look towards the modern graves but ahead to the old tombs and to the ruined arches and spires of the Cathedral itself, golden-grey sandstone against the blue sky. A few well-mannered sheep kept the grass low, and a clean white gull perched on a table tomb, watching them disdainfully. More gulls circled above, swooping and calling in the clear air, and crows flapped back and forth amongst the ruins.
It was a popular place for local walkers and appreciators of the picturesque, and Charles could see more than one young lady practising her drawing on the view of the great double spire and arch. Amongst them, fifty yards away or so, he noticed the thin form of Alison Keith, walking arm in arm with her mother, without, Charles thought, her usual energy. She was carrying a folding easel and case, presumably holding her drawing papers. The wind caught at their shawls and bonnets, and they paused to rearrange themselves before slipping their thin arms around each other’s waists, walking in a kind of moving hug. Charles looked away, something hurting inside. He could hardly remember his mother.
He walked on slowly, rounding the corner of the cathedral precinct and walking on to the cliffs that bordered it, a broad pathway in between the walls and the cliff edge. Here it was no longer sheltered, and the wind, slapping him hard in the face, whipped the tails and wide sleeves of his gown, lashing at his legs and arms. He grabbed the edges and folded them close across his chest, head down into the wind, one hand on his trencher, and staggered forwards. The path, if he followed it, would take him down towards the shelter of the harbour and its pooled smells of fish, salt, tar and rope. Working its way out round the little headland was the same rowing boat he had seen before near West Sands, and he remembered now what it was: an awful accident off East Sands had led to a public subscription for a lifeboat, and this was it with the crew, practising. Even at this distance he could see the men, local fishermen, mostly, sweating and straining at the oars. Up here, though, the air was bright and fresh, beating at him and hissing in his ears, and he balanced near the cliff edge and looked down at the waters hurled against the rocks below, the gulls spinning and tumbling in the air, and the rocks wet and glistening.
A hand landing hard on his shoulder made him jump, and he nearly went over. He spun round, catching his balance again, to find Rab Fisher laughing at him. Behind him, inevitably, were Boxie and Picket, equally amused. Charles was beginning to feel that he was being followed.
‘You’re back, then?’ he shouted above the wind. ‘I hope you were received as well as you hoped you would be.’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Picket, grinning. Even the wind could raise no colour on his sallow cheeks, though his red lips seemed to shine more bloodily than ever. ‘The Principal was thrilled to see us – or more importantly, to see the banker’s draft in my hand. Professor Keith was maybe a wee bit more reluctant to take us back into the arms of our alma mater, but what could he do?’
‘He was fair scunnered,’ giggled Rab. Picket’s face froze when he was interrupted, but he carried on as soon as Rab had stopped again.
‘He was overruled and undercut,’ Picket went on grandly. ‘He had no hope in the face of the powerful goddess Pecunia: she waved her little bag of coins and he fell helpless at her feet, gnashing and wailing. I almost felt sorry for the man.’
‘But we’re leaving that till Friday,’ added Rab. Boxie gave a secret little grin, and looked uncomfortable. His face was growing spotty.
‘So what’s happening on Friday, or should I not ask?’ asked Charles, half-dreading finding out. Picket, he suddenly thought, reminded him of some of the nastier Roman emperors, the ones they studied in Suetonius. Perhaps one day they would wake to find orders had been issued for the execution of the entire university Senate, who would be expected to fall on their – swords? No: well-sharpened pens, perhaps.
‘Don’t tell me Professor Keith hasn’t invited you to his little party?’ said Picket smoothly.
‘Oh, yes, he has: I have the acceptance in my pocket. I was just on my way there.’
Boxie looked suspicious, and half-turned to Picket, but said nothing. Charles tried to remember when he had last heard Boxie speak. Picket was smiling.
‘Oh, we’re going too, but I don’t think we need to send an acceptance. Not the way we’re going.’ His claw-like hands clutched at the ends of his gown, trying to control its flapping but fumbling as if they were cold.
‘Oh?’
‘No: you could call it a paperless kind of correspondence. There was no invitation, and there’ll be no acceptance, and I very much doubt there’ll be a thank-you letter on Saturday morning, either!’
‘No, indeed,’ said Boxie suddenly, and Rab laughed loudly.
‘And your plans are all going well?’ asked Charles, against his better judgement. They must be intending to sneak into the party by some back door: Professor Keith would not be pleased. He wondered if he wanted to be there to see it or not.
‘Oh, very much so,’ said Picket, ‘very much so. Thanks, as always, to Boxie here – our talented man of knowledge! If you ever need help with any of your academic work, you know, Murray, Boxie here charges very reasonably.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ said Charles, laughing. ‘Now I must go, I’m afraid: I shall be expected for supper soon.’
‘At the Keiths’?’ asked Boxie quickly. Picket looked round at him with interest.
‘No, not at all!’ said Charles. ‘Don’t worry: anything you’ve said is safe with me. It’s just my bunkwife who likes me to be there in good time.’
They bowed goodbye to each other, and Charles, pushed by the wind, was quickly back in the street. He turned the corner into Castle Wynd, and in a few moments was handing his acceptance in to the maid Barbara at Professor Keith’s front door. She seemed surprised that he was simply leaving it in, but said that the family were out, anyway, and he escaped.
What he had said about Mrs. Walker and her preference for his promptness when supper was ready was true, and he headed back straight away for South Street. He had no wish to meet the Sporting Set again, and he cut straight through Heukster’s Wynd rather than go past the Cathedral. In the wynd, he noticed a small boy sitting on one of the rig stairs, and recognised him as the boy George had had look after his horse on the links the day of his arrival, Sybie’s older brother. The child had a self-conscious air as Charles nodded at him, and he noticed that the boy’s breeches were uncharacteristically whole and had an appearance of stiff newness about them. It was only as he passed further down the narrow lane that he was aware, too, of a particularly fine smell of stew coming from the open front door of Sybie’s family’s house. He was soon out in South Street again, but the scent of the stew lingered in his nostrils, heavy and warm and full of rich gravy. He had walked on a hundred yards or so when it occurred to him that the stew had had meat in it, and good meat, too, by the smell. There was probably little enough meat to be had in a household like that, where fish would be much
more common. And new breeches, as well … He wondered, without thinking about it much, if the family had come into some money. Perhaps Ramsay Rickarton was helping his daughter a bit out of sympathy – but then, janitors were almost certainly not paid much, either. He considered it a mystery, and dismissed it from his mind.
Chapter Ten
‘I’ve been robbed, damn it!’
Professor Keith swept across the quadrangle to the Cage like an avenging raven, crying his misfortune to the wind. In the Cage, his daughter Alison was waiting, pale and nervy, not helped by her father’s exclamation. Professor Shaw, timid as a frog in a pond when he spies a heron, shook in his black gown and edged behind a pillar. Charles, who was sitting on one of the stone benches at the end of the Cage near the vestry door, looked up from his book with interest at Professor Keith’s shout, and saw him spring into the Cage with his gown tails flapping in the wind, a raven coming to rest on his perch.
‘I knew I should never have trusted my possessions to the miserable security of that derelict over there, though I only moved them because I thought they were not safe at home, with skeletons and crow’s corpses and all kinds of things happening.’ Keith waved across the quadrangle to where his office lay next to Professor Urquhart’s luxurious apartments. ‘A child could take that lock off with a butter knife, the door is so rotten. The man who did it – well, it must have been easy for him, of all people.’
‘You know who did it, father?’ asked Alison in surprise. She was wreathed in scarves and shawls, which twitched around her as she jittered.
Death in a Scarlet Gown (Murray of Letho Book 1) Page 12