‘I suppose,’ Thomas said, as if he had been considering the matter carefully, ‘that Allan Bonar could have put something in that claret jug.’
‘It seems to be a strong possibility. You’re sure you didn’t see him do it?’
Thomas turned thoughtfully and took two steps before tripping on one of the uneven flagstones. He went down solidly, and his book satchel flew open, spraying notebooks and library books over the yard. Charles sighed and went to help him up, and started to gather up the books while Thomas expressed his considered opinion about the state of the flagstones.
‘It’s time this college was just damn’ well demolished and the land used as a midden – though whether the Senate could even manage that, I doubt.’
But Charles was not listening. He had picked up Thomas’ Chemistry notebook where it lay face down on the worn flags, and turned it over. At the top of the page, in Thomas’ brutal handwriting, was the heading:
‘Yew – Poisonous Effects, Compared With Arsenic’.
Chapter Eighteen
Rain was not that common in St. Andrews, not proper pelting rain. On the morning of the funeral of Professor Helenus Keith, however, it poured. The gutters flowed, bobbing with the detritus of shops and houses. On the worn pavements, between the cobble stones, on the flags around the wells and in Sallies yard, the puddles flashed with busy rings of ripples, and a cat, ejected from one South Street doorway, moved with offended speed from door to door down the street, snatching shelter on its way, tail flicking.
Charles had lent George a sober cravat and waistcoat: the Walkers had mourning clothes to hand, and they set off together with Daniel in wary attendance, a black daylight parody of the night they had gone to the Keiths’ soirée, only four days ago. It seemed, to Charles at least, a century away.
George, absently escorting Patience Walker, seemed happier than he had for days, and Charles had managed to work from him the information that Miss Keith was well enough to make an appearance at the funeral: it seemed hardly decent to be setting off for a burial feast in quite such a lively mood.
Everyone else, however, was damp and drab and properly dejected as they tramped in large numbers up the soggy gravel to the Keiths’ white front door. A row of sodden crows watched dully from the garden wall as the great and good of St. Andrews came to pay some form of respect to the dead man. Inside everything had been done properly: the hall mirror was covered in smooth black cloth, and the drawing room as they passed it was quiet and subdued.
Up the narrow wooden stairs to the family apartments they clattered, embarrassed by the noise, following the general flow of mourners to the dead-room where Professor Keith was laid out. Charles came to the open door and closed his eyes, seeing suddenly the corpse tumbled in the study, but when he opened them again he saw the waxy, sagging face nested neatly in pristine linen Keith would not have been ashamed to wear in his lifetime, hands folded over his stomach almost as if he were content with his lot. Charles could not imagine that he could be so.
Mrs. Keith, supported by her son, sat beside the bed where the corpse lay already in its coffin. The minister from the Town Kirk stood by, and Professors Urquhart and Shaw, the latter red-eyed, the former with a mouth like an unpicked buttonhole, sat at the foot of the bed. Charles touched the corpse’s hand with the back of his own, hardly feeling the customary touch he dreaded, then bowed to the professors and to the Keiths, muttering the usual formula. He was just another black figure to Mrs. Keith, though he half-expected her to sense that he planned to find her husband’s murderer. George, following him, bent low over Mrs. Keith’s hand but could not bring himself to ask about Alison. The silence, underlaid by the shuffling of feet on the carpets and the distant clattering as mourners came up the stairs and went down again, was muffling, gagging even the most talkative. Professor Shaw looked desperate, as though he had not spoken for hours.
They returned to the drawing room, trying to shrug off the suffocation of the dead-room, and Charles saw Mrs. Walker and Patience to seats near the fire to make what they could of drying their skirts, and then joined George and Thomas awkwardly stuck against a table by a pier glass. It too was draped in black, but George managed to detach one corner of cloth to check the arrangement of his cravat in the mirror, till Charles nudged him hard. They were close enough to the window to hear the rain tapping at it, hard, like the beaks of urgent crows.
The company consisted of worthy burgesses, Dr. Pagan, other professors and staff, and students, trying to look like grown-ups. Wives, sisters and daughters had most of the chairs: young Mrs. Shaw had a chair and a footstool to support her bulk, making the words ‘In the midst of life we are in death’ echo tinnily in Charles’ head. Mungo Dalzell, who had evidently arrived early enough to help, had a seat and was just giving it up to the wife of one of the lecturers from St. Mary’s College. He was smiling at her but looking pale, Charles thought. But then, it would be his first funeral – nearly everyone’s first funeral – since little Sybie’s burial. Just as the thought occurred to him, Ramsay Rickarton arrived in the room, grey but stoical. As if he were on duty, he took up a post near the door and stood like a sentry, meeting no one’s eye.
Charles’ thoughts wandered on, disjointed ... Ramsay with the rat poison in the Chapel when Professor Keith announced the theft of money from his office ... Professor Keith pouncing on some poor bejant, red gown crisp and new ... The students at the funeral wore red gowns, standing out amongst the black mourners liked redcoats on a winter battlefield, the velvet collars blood-dark around their necks. It seemed an age before the trail of mourners finally came to a halt. Charles imagined that more of them were there out of duty or desire for sensation than out of respect or liking for Keith himself. He hoped Mrs. Keith did not realise it.
She arrived at last, entering the room with Alison on her arm, and the sensation-seekers were satisfied. Alison was barely thinner than she had been, but there was about her an unmistakable air of illness, a worn, older look about her mouth. Black did not suit her: it draped dully on her, making her pallor grey. She clung to her mother, and did not raise her eyes. George let out a long, agonised breath, and Charles touched his arm, half in restraint and half in sympathy: if ever a girl looked as if she needed protecting, it was Alison at that moment.
They were followed into the room by Shaw and Urquhart, by the minister, and finally by Peter. The minister shuffled his way into a vacant space and cleared his throat in that universal way Charles thought must be taught to Divinity students, and all heads were bowed before the minister had even said ‘Let us pray’.
When he had finished, the first course of the funerary meats was served to them there as they sat or stood, cold meat and cheese, and ale. Mrs. Keith had not stinted: there were large ashets with heaps of food, though little of it seemed to be being eaten. The Principal had warned the students not to eat embarrassingly well at the funeral, but what he had not taken into account – and only now seemed to be realising himself, as Charles saw him nibble uncertainly at a piece of cheese – was that in a house where two people had been poisoned, even students might find their appetites diminished. Of the people Charles could see, only Professor Urquhart was eating with anything approaching enthusiasm, though others may have had more than one reason for abstemiousness: Professor Shaw, for instance, clearly had his thoughts fixed more on his wife than on himself, and Alison Keith did not look up to facing more than gruel for a while yet. She sat quietly very close to her mother, with Peter Keith hovering protectively, eyes scanning the guests. If she felt the fencing-foil stare of George’s gaze, focussed on her from the moment she had entered the room to the exclusion even of food, she did not react to it but kept her head down. No one approached or greeted her, and Charles presumed that like him they could think of nothing to say: eager professions of joy at seeing her recovered seemed out of place at her father’s funeral, and expressions of sympathy would still have echoed with the unspoken reflection that at least it was only one funeral, when it
could so easily have been two.
When the first course had been served to everyone and the ashets cleared away, Professor Urquhart rose and offered his arm to Mrs. Keith. They left to return to the dead-room, followed by Alison, Peter and the minister. Professor Shaw, on the receipt of a kindly nod from Urquhart, hurried over to join his wife and Mungo Dalzell. Conversation was almost non-existent and the guests remained where they had established themselves, and if things went on as they were no one would consume enough alcohol to relax. However, academics, drunk or sober, can rarely remain silent for long, and by the end of the mostly ignored second course there was a low hum of conversation, at least among the men in the room.
‘Still no sign of Allan Bonar,’ Charles murmured to George, if nothing else to nudge him out of his reverie.
‘Why, is he missing?’ George glanced around as if hoping to prove Charles wrong, but he could not.
‘Well, not missing, exactly, I suppose. It’s funny he’s not here, though. No one saw him at Chapel on Sunday, and he didn’t take his chemistry class yesterday.’
‘Bit funny,’ George agreed unemotionally, ‘Seeing he was probably the last to see Professor Keith, and all.’
‘The last? He left with us, remember?’ Charles could not understand the expression on George’s face.
‘Aye, well, he wasn’t with us all night, was he?’ George looked around him again, this time for eavesdroppers. No one seemed to be listening, but he lowered his voice still further. ‘Barbara says he came back here on Friday night – after Mrs. Keith and Alison had gone up to bed. She showed him up to Professor Keith’s study.’ The odd expression on George’s face resolved itself into a smile. ‘See? You’re not the only one who can find things out.’
‘But why didn’t Barbara tell anyone? I mean, apart from you, whatever she told you for. Professor Urquhart, I mean.’
‘Because he didn’t ask her.’
‘I wonder why not?’
‘She told me because I was the only one there who was ready to listen to her. You know, waiting here for so long, sometimes I didn’t see anyone for hours, so she talked to me.’
‘Good heavens, George. Well done,’ Charles added, a little grudgingly. From George’s look of satisfaction he did not appear to have noticed.
‘See? Intelligence and taste.’ He fingered the hem of the waistcoat Charles had lent him for the funeral. ‘Remind me to give you some advice, some time.’ He grinned, and Charles had to remind himself firmly that they were both adults now and that giving his wee brother laldy at a funeral would not be calculated to impress.
‘What are you two muttering about?’ demanded Thomas. Unimaginative as ever, he had not held back with the funeral meats and drink so far, and his rough face was already a little pink.
‘No Allan Bonar again, that’s all,’ said Charles quickly. Thomas never liked to think he had been missing anything important. No one else seemed to have noticed their conversation: the level of subdued chatter had risen gently since the Keith family had left the room, and now people were even moving about, leaving their seats to greet friends and acquaintances almost as if it were a party. Mungo Dalzell, who was helping to top up people’s drinks, headed towards his friend Professor and Mrs. Shaw, but paused on the way to greet the Murrays and Thomas.
‘Congratulations, Mr. Seaton,’ he said to Thomas almost immediately. ‘I have just been speaking with Lord Scoggie there, and it seems that your way is clear to your parish. It seems destined for you.’ He gave a little grin, and looked much happier than he had when he came in. ‘Excuse me: I must go and see how Mrs. Shaw does.’ He bowed and left. Charles moved to look past Thomas, to where Lord Scoggie was now chatting easily with the Principal, his face long with the strong verticals of his side whiskers and front teeth. Charles looked back at Thomas, whose mouth was still hanging unattractively open.
‘Thomas, well done,’ he said.
‘Though why you should want ...’ George tailed off as Charles stepped on to his toe. George hurriedly polished the fine black leather on the back of his black stockings, then craned to see if he had left dust on them.
‘I haven’t even met him – not really,’ said Thomas, his mouth moving numbly.
‘I think you’re about to now,’ Charles whispered sharply, and Thomas looked up in shock.
‘Mr. Murray,’ said Lord Scoggie, having moved across the room with remarkable speed, ‘we met last Friday. I am sorry that we are renewing our acquaintance under such tragic circumstances.’
‘Indeed, my lord,’ said Charles, bowing. ‘It is a very sad occasion, though I am honoured to meet you again.’
‘Perhaps you will be so good as to introduce me to your friends?’
‘I should be happy to present them, my lord. Mr. Thomas Seaton, my fellow student, and Mr. George Murray, my younger brother.’
Thomas bowed as if he expected to be hit.
‘I understand you intend a career in the Kirk, Mr. Seaton?’ Lord Scoggie said, with a glint in his eye. Thomas swallowed noisily.
‘I do, sir – my lord,’ he gulped. ‘But I have no patron and no family influence.’
‘I see. A very distressing disadvantage. But not every minister in a country kirk has a degree from a university. How do you think your years here would help you deal with the problems of your congregation?’
Charles could see panic in Thomas’ eyes: it looked as if he had not only no idea what answer to give, but that he had also forgotten the question. He thought frantically.
‘You’ve often said, Thomas, what a broad section of society comes to St. Andrews, haven’t you?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Thomas looked like a drowning man offered a thorn branch. ‘Yes, my lord: university has given me a wider experience of the world than I would otherwise have had. I have often remarked on it. If I had more money I’d have lived in a bunk and met some women, too, but my bursary only went as far as college residence.’
‘I see.’ Lord Scoggie fingered his sidewhiskers, eyeing the servants as they brought in the third service of food.
‘Thomas often comes to my bunk for dinner: Mrs. Walker and her daughter are very fond of him,’ said Charles desperately.
‘Well, Mrs. Walker is very fond of him,’ added George, but Charles kicked him. Unfortunately, Lord Scoggie seemed to have noticed, and his lips twitched alarmingly.
‘And your attitudes to the current – er, divisions within the church ... how do you feel about those?’
This was a tricky one: one of the major arguments within the Established church was over patronage. Ferocious debates raged amongst those who liked the church appointment system as it was, particularly with the financial interest that brought, and those who resented the influence that people like Lord Scoggie had on appointments to parishes. Charles winced inwardly, for Thomas, in his desperate search for a patron, had grown to despise patronage as much as he craved it. As Thomas wallowed in a prolonged and meaningless answer, Charles watched his friend, the bristly, panicking face, the bunched-up fists, the shabby gown and habitual black, and saw Thomas clearly, perhaps for the first time. He saw a man accustomed, almost born and bred, to be unhappy, to be powerless regardless of his circumstances, faced in this glittering, dangerous moment with the chance to break the habit of a lifetime and to be content, comfortable, prosperous. The light in Thomas’ eyes was one of snatching ambition, but also one of fear, fear that he could not do it, fear that he could not live it, fear even that he had gone too far now to turn back. There flashed into Charles’ mind a vision of Thomas’ chemistry notebook: ‘Yew – Poisonous Effects’. Could Thomas have seized his opportunity? No: no, it was not a question of seizing an opportunity. If Thomas had slipped poison into Professor Keith’s claret jug, he had to have prepared the poison and brought it with him. It could not have been a completely spontaneous murder. But Thomas’ anger against Professor Keith had been boiling away since the disastrous day of the Senate meeting: he had had plenty of time.
What was he thi
nking? Thomas was his friend – they had sat together on their very first day at University, staring agog at Professor Urquhart’s waistcoat, stunned by the strangeness of it all, Charles from his prosperous estate, Thomas from his carpenter’s cottage in Dunkeld. Thomas could not have murdered Professor Keith.
Yet he had the means: his favourite seat was under those yew trees leaning over the Keiths’ garden wall – Charles could see the irony appealing to Thomas. He knew they were poisonous. By his own admission Thomas had been on the landing outside the Keiths’ soirée for some time, just where the claret jug had been waiting. Finally, he had a reason for wanting to hurt Keith, to kill him, even. Charles felt his pulse race. Could Thomas have murdered Professor Keith?
‘And you are Mr. Murray’s younger brother?’ Lord Scoggie’s voice broke into his thoughts. George was agreeing. Thomas, sweat in channels on his unlovely brow, seemed reprieved. ‘And do you have a profession?’
‘I have not thought of it as yet, my lord,’ said George aimiably.
‘The army would surely suit someone like you,’ Lord Scoggie offered, and Charles wondered if he bought commissions, too, for hopeful young men. ‘Your brother here will have his hands full with the estate, of course, when his time comes.’
‘I pray it will be long delayed,’ said Charles hurriedly. He was certainly in no mood to contemplate his father’s death – nor even, really, his father at all. There was a noise from downstairs, and one or two people looked round at the door.
‘And in the mean time, of course, there are your studies to complete.’
There were voices downstairs, and the guests exchanged glances. The undertakers were noisy: they must have started on the mandatory whisky.
Death in a Scarlet Gown (Murray of Letho Book 1) Page 23