‘Of course I know: who else would have any reason to steal from me? It is quite ridiculous to expect honesty from anyone these days: dishonesty passes from father to child like syphilis, and weakens the next generations to the father’s everlasting disgrace.’ He spat the words out, glaring around him as if demanding a challenge to his words, someone to shout down. Charles wondered at his choice of words. The comparison with syphilis was a bit on the violent side, particularly in front of his daughter, but why had he said ‘father to child’, instead of the more usual ‘father to son’? Clearly he had some specific example in mind. Charles tried to think of any dishonest women he knew, but reflected sadly that he had led a sheltered life.
‘But if you know who it is,’ said Shaw, wrapping his gown around him like woollen armour, and tangling his short fingers in its fraying edges, ‘if you know who it is, shouldn’t you say?’
Professor Keith turned on him, and Shaw quailed.
‘Say? Say? Oh, I shall say, indeed, in good time. I shall bring it up at the next Senate meeting on Monday, and as God is my judge someone, someone who has deserved it for some time, will lose his position.’
Ramsay Rickarton, appearing in the Cage at that moment with his livery coat buttons done up wrongly, stopped at these words and stared at Professor Keith, alarm in his red eyes. Charles, as unnoticed in his corner as Ramsay was at the other end of the Cage, watched as Ramsay straightened his shoulders, his head bobbing on his thin neck, a nasty angle to his chin, fists forming hard and solid at his cuffs. Then he seemed to change his mind, and before Keith had even seen that he was there behind him, Ramsay had disappeared through the heavy wooden doorway into the Chapel, taking his white package of rat poison out of his pocket as he went.
‘But just now I have more urgent matters to attend to,’ Keith was saying.
‘Oh, you have a lecture to give?’ Shaw asked, with a tentative smile. Keith frowned, dismissing such a foolish idea.
‘No, not at all. I have the much more important task of punishing some students for their misdeeds. Your sporting set again, Professor Shaw: Picket Irving, Rab Fisher and James Skene. They thought they could walk back into the university unpunished just because Irving’s guardian made a substantial donation to the Principal, but I am not so soft. The Principal thinks only of money, and is more easily swayed by a parent or guardian’s influence than by the honour of the University, but you and I, Shaw, you and I must have the welfare of the students at heart, and the common good of all. These three are the most disruptive, disrespectful boys I have ever had the misfortune to teach, and they must be punished soundly for all they have done. Last time they evaded me: this time I shall take them unawares.’
‘How – how will you do that?’ asked Shaw, but Keith no longer trusted anyone.
‘That we shall see, Professor Shaw, that we shall see.’ He gave a thin-lipped smile, and his chins settled firmly into his high collar as if to signify his determination. ‘Alison, are you ready to go?’
‘Oh!’ said his daughter, ‘just a moment, Father. I must just –‘ She adjusted her little square reticule and skipped into the Chapel. Keith, mouth open to say something, frowned, but not with much anger.
‘You’ll be coming this evening, won’t you, Shaw?’ he turned instead to his colleague. Shaw managed to smile.
‘Oh, yes, yes, we’re looking forward to it. At least – I hope you won’t mind – my wife, you know … delicate condition … might not … though she’ll be dreadfully disappointed, but you do understand …?’
‘Oh, of course, of course,’ said Keith quickly. Charles was not sure, in the shade of the Cage, but he thought for a moment that Keith blushed suddenly, and as quickly returned to his normal complexion.
Alison reappeared at the door of the Chapel with Ramsay Rickarton close behind her as she turned to bid him farewell. She hurried over to her father, smiling her wide smile, and took his arm quite as if he were not the most frightening man in the town. They left the Cage together and vanished towards North Street, and Professor Shaw visibly sagged as if the tension had gone out of his body. Charles was about to call out to him when the chapel door opened once again, and Mungo Dalzell came out, a look of serenity on his face. Charles had noticed that he had been spending a good deal of time in the chapel recently, and others had remarked on it, too: he was not sure if antinomians usually prayed in established churches, but at any rate it seemed to be doing Mungo good, for he seemed more cheerful than he had done for months, even before Sybie’s tragic death. Only when his gaze fell on Ramsay Rickarton did a deep sorrow pass across his expression, and Charles wondered if Mungo was assured that he himself was one of the Lord’s Chosen, but was not so sure about Sybie. He tried to remember Burns’ ‘Holy Willie’s Prayer’, but could not quite fit the pattern of the sanctimonious Willie on to Mungo Dalzell, whose serenity seemed to come less from self-satisfaction than from the pleasure of duty done. He glided up to his friend Professor Shaw, and bowed.
‘Our colleague Professor Keith has some further concerns?’ he asked, nodding in the direction in which the Keiths had departed. ‘I met Miss Keith in the Chapel, talking with Ramsay Rickarton. She said her father was waiting for her, and not in great form.’
‘Well, and is that anything unusual?’ Shaw responded, with a sorry shrug. ‘He says he’s been robbed: apparently he left some valuables in his office over there, and they’ve gone. Those rooms have never been very secure, though.’
‘True enough,’ agreed Mungo smoothly. ‘Maybe he should have left them at home.’
‘He says he knows who did it, though,’ said Shaw sadly. ‘That is my chief concern: he says he’s going to lose someone their place when he condemns them on Monday at the Senate meeting. I do worry about him, you know. He will really damage someone soon, and that is not good for him, let alone the person he damages. He says he’s doing it for the sake of the University, but I am sure he never really considers the consequences.’ He sighed heavily.
‘Did he say who he thought it was?’ asked Mungo.
‘No, but I think he thinks it was Picket or Boxie or Rab, one of those three boys. They are terrible, you know. He’s quite likely right. But now I come to think of it, maybe it wasn’t them he had in mind, for he said that the culprit would lose his place, and he has plenty of reason to send the boys away from the University if he wanted to, and he says he doesn’t. Am I making any sense, do you think?’ he asked with a watery smile, and Mungo grinned, patting him on the shoulder.
‘Very little, my dear Davie! Never mind, I’m sure we shall soon find out. Senate meetings are much less dull with Professor Keith about, anyway!’
‘True, true, Mungo, but do you know I much prefer dullness. Oh!’ He turned, and spotted Charles packing his book into his book-satchel. ‘Here is one of my students already. I must go, but I shall see you tonight, Mungo, shall I not? At Professor Keith’s?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Mungo, though he seemed already to be thinking about other things. ‘I shall look forward to it.’
When Charles arrived back at his bunk at the end of the morning’s lessons, he was tired and hungry and looking forward to a meal. He expected to see Mrs. Walker or her daughter about the place, going to set the table, popping out into the hall to see if he was back. What he did not expect was a snatched-open door, an ‘Oh!’ of surprise, and a small, scruffy individual shooting out into the hall to present himself before him. It was Daniel.
‘I thought I left you at Letho,’ said Charles, somewhat ungraciously. ‘What are you doing here? Father isn’t here, is he?’ he added hurriedly, glancing at the stairs.
‘Mr. Murray? No, sir, he’s no,’ said Daniel with a cheery grin. ‘I’m here by mysel.’
‘Availing yourself of Mrs. Walker’s hospitality in the kitchen, no doubt,’ said Charles, noticing fresh soup stains on Daniel’s livery. Daniel nodded with enthusiasm.
‘And what else?’
‘Bread, sir, and ale,’ Daniel explained.
/>
‘No,’ Charles suppressed a sigh. ‘What else are you here for? Who sent you?’
‘Oh, Mr. George sent me, sir. He sent me off pretty quick, once he found me. He made me hide in his room, and then he took me off to the stagecoach himself, and watched me go.’
‘And what was the purpose of this urgency? Did he give you a message, or anything?’ If this was George’s idea of a joke, Charles was unimpressed: he was worried enough about feeding himself, without having to find fuel for this eating machine, too. ‘Oh,’ he said suddenly, remembering something. ‘He didn’t send you for a small parcel, did he?’ The cantharides, or whatever it was, that George had asked him to buy in Edinburgh, was upstairs in his bedchamber: he had been in such a hurry to leave Letho undetected that he had forgotten to leave it there. Daniel, however, looked blank.
‘No, sir. He gave me this note, though.’ Out of his pocket he drew a crumpled scrap of paper which did, however, bear George’s seal, messily applied as if in great haste. Charles unpicked it carefully, and opened out the page.
‘My dear Charles,’ it began. ‘Herewith Daniel. I hid the papers you returned here. Father thinks you are still in Edinburgh and is pleased. No one saw Daniel who will tell and I gave the groom a sovereign not to blab – he thinks it’s some kind of joke. Keep Daniel till I see you – not far behind,
‘George’.
That would explain, at least, why his father in the form of an avenging angel had not yet descended upon him at St. Andrews and dragged him back to Letho. He suddenly realised how much he had been dreading that happening, as a wave of grateful relief swept over him. Good old George! It was really very impressive: George did not always think things through very competently, but this just showed what he could do when he tried. Charles was delighted. Suddenly the future seemed brighter – he was not alone, he had an ally. He clapped Daniel on the shoulder, for want of George, and grinned happily.
The afternoon seemed to bear out his mood, for as he walked back, attended by Daniel, to his lectures, the sun shone with the first real warmth of the spring, drying out the muddy streets so that the ridges turned powdery even as the ruts stayed damp. People lingered at the wells he passed in South Street and North Street, chatting and exchanging news, content to spend a few extra minutes lingering out of doors.
There were several possible routes that would take Charles from Mrs. Walker’s to United College, and today he chose Mutty’s Wynd as his path between Market Street and North Street. It was narrow and shady, and halfway along it was a bun shop. Charles had emerged, followed by Daniel, on to North Street when a thought occurred to him. He had brought Daniel with him rather than leave him back at his bunk on the grounds that Daniel was less likely to get into trouble the nearer he was to Charles. However, there was little for him to do while Charles sat in his lecture, and feeding him seemed to be a good way to encourage his good behaviour. Charles fished in his pocket for a penny, and handed it to Daniel.
‘Run back to the bakery there and buy yourself a good big bun, then catch up with me.’
Daniel was not slow to follow basic commands of this kind. The bow of acknowledgement he gave was in one flowing motion with his departure, and Charles laughed at the speed he could show when it was important. However, he had hardly gone two paces when Daniel, panting with excitement, reappeared, tugging his gown.
‘Mr. Charles, sir! Mr. Charles! There’s a fight! Come and see!’
Almost at once he was away again, running back to Mutty’s Wynd, and Charles was only a step or two behind him. He expected to see a couple of fishermen – or even their wives – settling some dispute with their fists. He was astonished, though, to see Boxie Skene, alone for once, with a look of complete surprise on his face. Opposite him in the narrow lane, flailing like a tree in a gale, was Peter Keith, son of the eminent professor.
Charles ran up, Daniel close by his side and grinning from ear to ear. Boxie, caution taking over from shock, had his guard up now and had started to strike back. Peter Keith, his face white with passion, lashed out at Boxie’s well-protected chest, and Boxie easily pushed the blow aside, turning the action into a strike to Peter’s shoulder that spun him round.
A crowd was starting to gather, beginning with the owner of the bun shop and her assistant. One of the University janitors sidled up and started trying to gauge the odds on the two men: both were well-enough kent faces in the small town, even though Boxie was a student, and each had his supporters. Boxie was by far the better fighter, but he was encumbered by his gown. His book satchel, leather and heavy, lay at his feet with the buckle burst, just where it must have fallen. Peter, speechless with fury, seemed to have some reason to attack Boxie, and that impetus was keeping him on his feet despite his own lack of skill.
Recovering from the shoulder-blow, Peter lunged again, putting his whole strength into it. Seeing it, Boxie tried to sidestep. He tripped on his satchel, falling hard against the wall. He scrabbled to regain his balance, but Peter was on him, clawing and punching whatever bit of Boxie he could reach. His lips were drawn back, showing clenched teeth, his breath hissing. Boxie yelped and swore, struggling against Peter’s irresistible force.
Charles decided it was time to intervene. He stepped forward and grabbed Peter’s shoulders, and received an elbow in the stomach for his trouble. Doubled up, he struck out with his foot at Peter’s ankle. His boot hit the ankle bone with a satisfying solidity. Peter shrieked. Boxie squirmed to free himself, but lost his balance and toppled over. He fell against Charles’ leg, knocking him sideways across the lane to crash against the opposite wall. Peter, his targets thus divided, stood in the middle of the lane for a second, staring wildly from one to the other of them, then dived again at Boxie. Boxie, in a better position now to retaliate, waited for precisely the right point of Peter’s dive, and socked him hard in the face. Peter was flung across the lane, into Charles’ arms, and was seized from behind. Boxie grabbed his feet, and held them down. Peter struggled furiously for a moment.
‘You filthy, selfish, dog!’ he spat at Boxie. ‘You disgusting, filthy, evil …’ Overcome by the effort of trying to think of fresh insults, Peter collapsed, trying to reach his bloody nose with one of his trapped, flapping hands. Charles could feel him shuddering.
The crowd, clapping their hands in mock applause, laughed and dispersed, leaving the students to mete out their own punishment. Only Daniel still stood watching, delighted that his master should have added to his entertainment so generously, even the penny in his hand forgotten. Charles, still keeping tight hold of Peter Keith, nodded to him.
‘Go on and buy your bun, Daniel: the excitement is over.’ Daniel reluctantly disappeared into the warm bakery, and Charles gave Peter a little shake. ‘What was all that about, eh?’ he asked.
‘I – I can’t say, Murray,’ said Peter. Now that the fight had gone out of him, he had reverted to his usual nervy self, more like his sister Alison than ever. He flicked a look at Boxie, who had let go of his legs and was propped against the other wall, wiping his forehead. His gown was liberally covered in the usual rubbish that accumulates against the walls of narrow lanes, including one or two fragments of buns. His mortarboard had one corner bent, and he did not look his best.
‘Boxie?’ asked Charles. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Boxie, wearily, though he was rubbing his shoulder where it had hit the wall. ‘Never worry about it, Murray. He was just a bit upset, weren’t you, Peter?’
‘Aye, that’s right,’ agreed Peter, a look of relief suddenly washing his bloody face. ‘I’m sorry, and all that, Skene.’
‘Och,’ said Boxie with a grin, ‘for the matter of that I think you came off the worse. I bunk just here. Come on upstairs and let’s get a cold cloth for your nose, eh?’
Charles let Peter go, and he staggered across the lane where Boxie caught him. Peter’s eyes had started to swell and close, and his nose had a distinctly unfamiliar shape. Puzzled, Charles watched them go, and saw Box
ie turn to give him a nod of thanks just before they disappeared into a doorway, Boxie supporting Peter with an arm round his shoulders.
Daniel sauntered out of the bakery with a bun the size of a small plate clutched between his two hands, one bite already in his mouth.
‘That was just brilliant, sir, wasn’t it?’ he asked, spewing crumbs around him. It was already ranking as the most exciting week of his short life.
‘Don’t speak with your mouth full, Daniel,’ said Charles absently, turning back towards North Street. It was past time for his lecture, and he would have the opportunity to puzzle over Boxie and Peter Keith later. Daniel followed dutifully behind. Torn between speaking and eating, Daniel quickly decided to devote his full attention to the bun. It did not long survive the experience.
Chapter Eleven
Mrs. Walker let it be known, during the course of the afternoon, that she and her daughter had also been invited to the reception at Professor and Mrs. Keith’s house and would be glad of an escort, and Charles willingly agreed. When they could not afford a carriage, it was undoubtedly more desirable for ladies to be escorted to a social function: it made it look as if the walk itself were part of the evening’s entertainment and infinitely to be preferred to a dull slog in a stuffy barouche, whatever the damage to one’s skirts and slippers. Charles, his evening dress quite in keeping with his father’s expectations, with a clotted cream silk waistcoat and new buckles on his shoes, gave an arm to each of them and trotted them along South Street and round the corner, keeping to the wider, cleaner roads. Mrs. Walker had clearly found the absence of her husband’s portrait very trying at her collar, and was wearing some smaller, cheaper brooch in its place: her white hair was covered, under her velvet bonnet, with her best black lace cap, and a little busy stitching had modified the shape of her sleeves into a more fashionable style. Miss Walker was practical and pretty in yellow muslin with short sleeves, trimmed with blue ribbon purchased only last week from the chapman, and never before seen in public. The evening was cool, and she wore her ordinary everyday long-tailed spencer over the dress. Life in the Walker establishment did not include so many evening entertainments as to admit of specially purchased evening cloaks. It did not cross Charles’ mind to be ashamed of them, however: Miss Walker glowed with happy anticipation of the evening ahead, and Mrs. Walker was pleased enough to have an excuse to put on her finery for the occasion. He felt fond of them both, and had to crush the qualms he was suffering about having to tell them he was leaving their comfortable home. Daniel went ahead of them with the torch he was to use later, and added depth, if not grandeur, to their progress.
Death in a Scarlet Gown (Murray of Letho Book 1) Page 13