‘You’ve heard the news, then?’ Thomas said, with what even the charitable would have had to call a smirk.
‘That Professor Keith is dead? Yes, I have. I was there yesterday, helping Professor Shaw to see to things.’ Charles was only eighteen: he was not above a bit of glory-snatching.
‘I hear it must have been bad for him.’ Thomas was trying not to be impressed. ‘Is it true he had half bitten his arm off with the pain?’
‘Oh, aye, surely,’ said Charles, ‘and seven crows on the window sill waited to carry his soul away. Where did you hear that daft version?’
‘It’s going round.’ He looked faintly disappointed. ‘Is it true that all the rest of them are dying, too, though?’
‘No. Miss Keith is ill, but that’s not connected, and the doctor thinks she will make a full recovery. And as far as I know, Mrs. Keith and Peter are still quite all right.’ A queer look passed over Thomas’ rough face. ‘What’s wrong?’
Thomas’ face went blank, then he scowled.
‘Peter could still take Lord Scoggie’s parish if he wanted to,’ he muttered.
‘You’re a generous soul, Thomas,’ said Charles mildly. ‘Would you rather the whole family had been wiped out?’
Thomas managed to appear more shamefaced, but could not stop looking sulky at the same time.
‘Well, the man did nothing for me, so I’d be hypocritical if I said anything else, wouldn’t I? He’s as well out of the world as in it, in my view.’ He eyed Charles. ‘So go on, then: what did he look like?’
Charles opened his mouth to describe the dreadful scene – and suddenly discovered that he did not want to. He tried to work out why: he remembered it vividly in his mind, and it had featured prominently in his dreams last night, and there was nothing to a young man like the glory of a first-hand account, yet ... Thomas was waiting, and Charles had to make do with a quick outline of the facts, proving that he really had been there but managing to turn it into a kind of illustration that he saw this sort of thing so often that one more poisoned professor squirming on his study floor was neither here nor there. Thomas seemed convinced, he thought. But still – why could he not find it in himself to give the full gruesome account?
‘Why don’t you come for dinner?’ he asked Thomas as if by way of an apology. Thomas agreed at once.
‘It’ll be rabbit again in College,’ he explained. ‘I was nearly going to stand up at dinner yesterday and give the Rabbit Grace. You ken,
For rabbits young and for rabbits old,
For rabbits hot and for rabbits cold,
For rabbits tender and for rabbits tough
Our thanks we render – for we’ve had enough.
Charles laughed: the verse was passed down through the student generations, and legend had it that it had been invented by the poet Robert Fergusson when he was at the college.
‘Robert Fergusson was gated for a whole term for saying that instead of the Latin grace,’ came a leisurely voice, ‘and I don’t suggest you try it, however great the provocation. He at least had the virtue of originality.’
They turned to find Professor Urquhart next to them in his full Sunday gown and hood. They bowed.
‘How did things go on yesterday, sir? With the town constable?’
‘Oh, very well, I think.’ Urquhart’s voice was so polished it glistened as it left his mouth, yet Charles thought he could sense just the least trace of discomfort somewhere. ‘The little man went away quite satisfied with what we told him.’
‘But will he investigate the matter? Is he going to find out who the killer is?’
‘I doubt it. I think we may forget all about it: Keith had so many enemies, staff, students and citizens, that even if we caught the actual murderer, the victor ludorum, shall we say, there would be so many more dangerous people still about who had simply been beaten to the winning post that there would hardly be any point in punishing the one who had been quick enough to get there first.’
He smiled, bowed very slightly, and drifted away towards his rooms, anticipating the arrival of his excellent dinner. Reminded of it, Charles led Thomas out to the street and off to give Mrs. Walker fair warning of a not unwelcome guest.
The town smelled bland on a Sunday, with the shops and trades closed up for the Sabbath. Here you could catch a few threads of heady scent from the bookbinder’s glue, and there you tasted thin shadows of leather, blood and bread from the cordiner, the flesher and the baxter, but gradually the faint everyday smells were overtaken at every pace by the wonderful odour of gravy, potatoes, roasting meat, and Mrs. Walker’s excellent carrot pudding. They walked faster and faster as if on an uncontrollable slope, rushing towards Mrs. Walker’s blessed kitchen and the welcome sight of her and Patience, aprons on over their Sunday best, coming to the kitchen door to greet them. Daniel, glimpsed behind them at the kitchen table, had the unnatural air of a saint gone to Heaven.
Patience, on seeing Thomas, had given a quick exasperated sigh, but her mother had applied a less than discreet sharp elbow to Patience’s ribcage, and Patience managed a kind of smile before turning neatly to Charles.
‘Did you by any chance see Mr. Bonar at the Chapel?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Charles said, thinking about it. Allan Bonar had not been amongst the staff in the congregation.
‘No,’ agreed Thomas shortly. The unshaveable patches of pale bristle stood out crossly on his face. Patience smiled at him with acid sweetness and took him into the parlour. Charles hesitated to follow.
‘I should like to go up and see how my brother does,’ he explained.
‘Oh, he is out,’ Mrs. Walker said. ‘He said he was needed at the Keiths’.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Charles, and sighed. ‘I hope he is not being a bother to them.’ He watched absently as Mrs. Walker untied her apron strings and lifted the apron off over her head. Then he noticed something.
‘Your brooch! It’s back – where did you find it?’
Mrs. Walker blushed, one hand fluttering over the brooch at her collar. Her husband’s face once again looked out from it in disapproval.
‘Ah,’ she said, lost for words, her eyes searching around the low ceiling. ‘Ahm, I, er, found it. In the garden, yes. It must have dropped off when I was out there. In the garden, you see?’
‘Of course,’ said Charles, embarrassed by her obvious untruths. It was none of his business where she had found it, as long as she was happy to have it back. Feeling confused and tired, he left her in order to take his gown and trencher up to his rooms, then returned to join Patience and Thomas in the parlour.
They went for a walk after dinner, all four of them: Patience, glancing about her eagerly from the depths of her best bonnet, seemed to be looking for someone – probably Allan Bonar – but without success. Thomas, for whom possession was nine-tenths of the law, wanted to be seen with Miss Walker on his arm, but she was unco-operative and walked apart from him. Mrs. Walker wanted Thomas and Patience to be seen together in the hope that what was gossiped about might then become fact, though even she was beginning to think herself over-optimistic. Charles wanted simply to walk and think, but this was not possible. Mrs. Walker’s conscience was not used to burdens, and hurried to rid itself of its present one.
‘My dear Charles,’ she began, as they entered the precinct of the ruined Cathedral, ‘I fear I misled you before dinner, and I ought to tell you the truth. I was ashamed at first, but now it seems likely that the situation will not recur I feel I can tell you everything.’
‘Please do not feel obliged to, Mrs. Walker, if you do not wish to,’ said Charles politely, though he was twitching with curiosity. ‘I cannot oblige you to tell me anything you may regret to speak.’
‘Oh, I must, I must!’ Patience caught her mother’s words and looked round in alarm, but Mrs. Walker gave her a reassuring smile and Patience looked away again, too far ahead to hear a normal level of conversation. Nevertheless, Mrs. Walker lowered her voice.
‘The broo
ch was returned mysteriously, yesterday evening,’ she explained. ‘I didn’t find it in the garden, as I told you I had, and nor did I really lose it in the first place It was very wrong of me to deceive you, and to have you looking for it when I knew where it was all along, but you see you asked, and I couldn’t tell you the truth, may the Lord forgive me!’ She touched the brooch with the tips of her gloved fingers, as if the image of her husband had a more direct link to Heaven than it appeared. ‘I knew you would pity me, and maybe even feel guilty about it yourself!’ She gave a little laugh, and Charles slowly, with a creeping feeling of general awfulness, began to guess what was coming next.
‘You know Professor Keith was our landlord – well, it was Mrs. Keith’s property, you know, in her family. Well, last quarter we were late with the rent. It very rarely happens, you know, very rarely, but things have been so expensive lately, and the winter is always worse – more coal, more candles, that kind of thing.’ And late rent coming in from your tenant, thought Charles, miserably. ‘Anyway,’ she cleared her throat, not looking at Charles. ‘Professor Keith came to see us a couple of weeks ago – the day George came up to see you, remember, dear? – and he insisted on payment, and when I said we couldn’t, not yet, not until – until something came in, he said he’d take something as a deposit. And I tried to offer him the silver spoons, or the tea caddy, but he insisted on taking my brooch. If Mr. Walker had ever known that his likeness ...’ She fell silent, while Charles cursed and swore inwardly at himself. Mrs. Keith took a few deep breaths, but she was not the weeping kind, and in a moment she was ready to continue.
‘Anyway, Peter Keith was supposed to have been collecting the rent that afternoon. His father mustn’t have spoken to him, because he arrived anyway and of course I had to tell him what had happened. Well, dear, he just went entirely hyte! He went storming off headlong saying the worst kind of things about his poor father – I had to put my hands over my ears! So then, of course, his poor father died yesterday, and yesterday evening back comes the brooch, and nothing else in or on the wrapper, so all I can think is that poor Peter thought of us even in his own grief, and brought it back. He’s a grand boy – though a great deal too lively for my Patience, I think.’
Yet in her excitement at receiving back her treasure, Mrs. Walker had forgotten something. It would be far from proper for a gentleman in Peter Keith’s position, with a dead parent in the house, to go walking about the town. Someone else must have returned the brooch. But who?
Chapter Seventeen
‘So how is she?’
‘As well as can be expected.’ George sounded tired and short-tempered. Charles wondered if he had been allowed into the house at all, but if he had not, where had he been all this time? Charles wanted to press the repeater on his watch, but thought George would hear the chimes and think he was being reprimanded for being late home. It was late, anyway: Charles knew he had been asleep for some time before he had been woken by the footsteps on the stairs.
‘But she’s no worse, anyway?’
‘Apparently not. She passed a better night last night, but she was uncomfortable today.’ He was looking for something, blundering around the little room. Charles felt him stumble into the bedpost and swear.
‘You mind if I strike a light?’ he asked at last.
‘Go ahead.’
George felt his way to the night table and found the candle. As soon as it was lit, Charles could not resist looking at his watch.
‘Two o’clock! George, tell me you haven’t been at the Keiths’ all this time!’
George’s face was in shadow as he recovered his nightshirt from a heap of his things on the floor. Daniel was not a manservant with much initiative. George pulled off his shirt and cravat and dragged his nightshirt over his head, all without speaking. Then he sat down on the side of the bed to remove his boots. Even in the dim light, Charles could see sand glittering on them.
‘I left there about ten,’ George said, ‘then I went for a walk. I needed to think.’
Charles managed to say nothing.
‘Have you ever been in love, Charles?’
‘Well, there was that girl Geillis who came to stay a couple of summers ago ...’
‘Old Jelly? Yes, but I mean real love, not puppy love.’
Charles winced at this description of what had at the time been undying adoration.
‘You know, from the old stories, or from Shakespeare,’ George went on, one boot forgotten in his hand. ‘Where you would do anything for the woman you love, even kill someone who is hurting her – even give up your own life.’
‘George,’ said Charles quickly, ‘please don’t give up your life for Alison Keith.’
George gave him an odd look in the candlelight.
‘I hope not to,’ he said, and went off without another word to sleep in the parlour.
Charles could not rest so easily, even when he had blown out the candle again. What would their father do if George died? Or – almost worse – if he had killed Professor Keith? To kill someone who is hurting the woman you love: would George really be capable of that? Professor Keith was dead, there was no doubt, but surely George, young and fit and trained as he was, would rather fight a duel than use poison? It was illegal to duel, but then it was also illegal to murder. But perhaps that was the reason, perhaps he had challenged Professor Keith, and the Professor, feeling himself to be older and in worse condition, had refused to give him the satisfaction. But poison! But then again, George had asked Charles to buy the cantharides for him. What else might he have bought?
Charles was not sure about the distinctions between the effects of cantharides and arsenic, though the doctor had seemed so. Difficilior legio est potior, Professor Urquhart would have said: the more difficult reading is the preferable one. So, because Dr. Pagan could more easily have assumed that both Alison Keith and her father had been poisoned with the same substance, the fact that he had noticed differences was good evidence.
He saw the tumbled body of Professor Keith again in his mind’s eye. It was odd, he thought: any number of people might have wanted Professor Keith to suffer, to die in a particularly nasty way, yet most of those he could think of – the Sporting Set, for example, or even Thomas – would have liked to have seen the results of their labours, not just heard the rumours, in the same way that the victims of crimes liked the satisfaction of going to the hangings. He did not like hangings, himself: he hated the finality of it. He knew that it had to be done, that there was no effective alternative, but the helplessness of the criminal, however evil or depraved, made him ache. And suddenly he realised what had struck him most about seeing Professor Keith tossed like a broken marionette on the floor of his own study: it was the Professor’s completely uncharacteristic helplessness. No more could he gate or expel, or punish with extra work or unpleasant examinations; no more could he sack his servants or accuse College staff. His murderer had rendered him useless, and might well because of that go free. Charles had not liked Professor Keith or his methods, but he could not stand by and see him so powerless, so unavenged. Professor Urquhart had reckoned that the town constable would not find the murderer, and that was not good enough. Cicero would not have approved. If no one else would work it out, then Charles decided he would.
And what if it turned out to be George?
Charles was really not convinced that Alison Keith was the love of George’s life, but then even puppy love could make some very unreasonable demands. He remembered climbing far too high in far too tall a tree to rescue Geillis’ shawl, blown there by an inconsiderate gust of wind ... But climbing trees and murdering professors were somewhat different, he was sure.
It was so dark he could not see whether or not his eyes were open. He turned over heavily in the bed, trying to find a cool patch on the pillow. Would George have been that stupid? That was a difficult question to answer. George was capable of great stupidity, and if he had decided to kill Professor Keith, then going about it in such a way actually
as to attract Charles’ attention was not at all unlikely. However, to be stupid enough to decide to kill in the first place, even in some cause he perceived to be noble ... surely that was beyond even George?
If George had not done it, Charles thought, turning again as he tried to look on the bright side, then who had? Professor Urquhart was right: there were plenty of people with reason, and if the poison had been slipped into the claret jug they had all passed as they left the party, plenty of people with the chance to do it, too. Ramsay Rickarton, of course, had not been there. Professor Shaw, perhaps, had left too quickly – but then Mrs. Keith had said that Professor Shaw had returned later for his forgotten gloves ... but Professor Shaw was an even less likely murderer than George. But why had the notebook disappeared from Professor Keith’s desk while they were all in the study? What had been written in it, and who had taken it? Had it gone before or after Dr. Pagan had left? If after, it must have been Shaw or Urquhart – and Charles’ money had to be on Urquhart. And who had brought both boxes of sweetmeats to Professor Keith’s study, and why?
Charles sank slowly into an unpeaceful sleep, and found he was dancing at a party. A huge version of an eightsome reel was in progress, and as each dancer danced his or her solo in the centre of the circle, he recognised them: Urquhart, Shaw, George, Mungo Dalzell, Allan Bonar, Thomas, the Keiths and the Walkers taking their turns. When it was his turn, the circle around him spun faster and faster, blurred with speed and music, and would not let him back in.
Next day lectures began again, as they always did on a Monday, though this Monday it seemed more of a shock than usual to the staff and students. For Charles and Thomas, the day normally consisted of classes in Latin, Greek, Mathematics, and, now that they were in their magistrand year, Natural Philosophy. In addition, on Monday mornings Charles and several other boys who could afford it took History with a barrell-shaped academic with whiskers, and sat in on Professor Shaw’s tertian Moral Philosophy course. Thomas’ bursary did not run to History but Allan Bonar’s optional chemistry classes were cheaper. When Charles’ history class was over, his head full of Tudors and Stuarts, he went to meet Thomas from his chemistry class. The chemistry class room, tucked away against Butts Wynd to the west of the college, was as redolent as ever but bore no signs of recent occupation, and Charles left the college by the back gate on to the Scores, walking between the neatly-walled pastures towards the Castle.
Death in a Scarlet Gown (Murray of Letho Book 1) Page 21