‘But sir, you believed me with good will to be in Edinburgh all this time, enjoying the season. How have the papers become more urgent now that you find I have been all this time in St. Andrews?’
He could not believe he had said it. For a frightening moment, his father went white, and did not seem to breathe. Then, all at once, his colour returned and he let out a long, controlled sigh.
‘Look, Charles, in all other matters I’ll grant you have been obedient to me. You learn reason here, don’t you? Then put that reason to good use. Let us come to an agreement and no more quarrelling. You can stay here till the end of the term. I’ll meet all your debts, pay off the Walkers, even visit Alison Keith if you would sooner not face her yourself. I hear her father’s just died, so she won’t want to be upset further. Then come home at the end of term and let that be the finish of it.’
It was a tempting offer: a peaceable compromise. Charles blinked at Alison’s name but said nothing about it yet – he had no wish to betray George, even if George had let him down.
‘I only intended you to stay at University for a couple of sessions anyway, enough to meet people and make connexions, enough to be apprenticed to an advocate if you wished it. There is no need for a gentleman like you to be a Master of Arts.’
‘But that’s what I want,’ said Charles at last, slowly. ‘And I cannot leave. One of my professors is dead, and now my friend is, too. I cannot leave until all this is sorted out, and until I have graduated.’ He met his father’s eye, then pulled his nightshirt off over his head. Through the muffle of the cambric, he heard a sharp sound, then a crash.
‘You’re as stubborn as your mother!’ shouted Mr. Murray. He had snatched up a notebook from Charles’ windowsill, and hurled it into the fire. It crackled, then roared.
For a moment it was the only thing moving in the room.
Charles knew there was no sense in reacting. The way he and his father both felt, it would have meant a fight, one he wanted neither to win nor to lose. He made himself breathe evenly. It looked like one of his Greek notebooks – the Aristophanes dictatas, perhaps. He could replace most of it, he told himself firmly, unclenching his hands. He could not afford to lose control. Though it seemed likely that his lack of reaction was going to make his father more angry rather than less: he wanted a fight.
Somewhere downstairs he could hear Patience singing as she did her share of the housework, then a few inaudible words in an anxious tone as her mother hushed her. In the hearth, the remains of the notebook sank in the ashes. Charles reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head, tucking in the tails, then ran a brush through his hair. He felt better already.
‘May I ask,’ said his father, retreating into sarcasm, ‘what your living will be if you persist in staying in St. Andrews? For I shall no longer support you, you can be sure of that.’
A good question, Charles thought. He did not think he would be very welcome amongst the herring gutters. Shrugging on his plain waistcoat, he draped a cravat round his neck and sat to pull on his boots.
‘I shall find employment of some kind.’
‘Oh, yes? As what? A mewling minister? A pathetic, bullied tutor, half in the family, half in the servants’ hall? What place is that for a gentleman’s son?’
A very proper and traditional place, thought Charles, for the son of a gentleman who no longer chooses to fund him. Feeling daring, he stood and turned his back on his father to tie his cravat in front of the misty mirror above the washing table. How was it that good manners were sometimes the hardest habits to break?
‘Why now?’ he asked eventually. ‘You have dismissed my studies as a waste of time before, but as long as I have not lapsed in my practice at fencing and boxing you have had no objection. Would you rather have me useless and expensive around Letho – like George?’ he added, with a hint of vindictiveness.
‘You are useless and expensive,’ his father growled, ‘but you are not even at Letho to learn the ways of the estate.’
‘You’ve been teaching me the ways of the estate since I was five,’ said Charles. ‘What is different now?’
His father looked at the floor for a long moment. So he has been hiding something, Charles thought. His father still stood by the door where, apart from a swooping attack on the exercise book, he had stood since his arrival. Charles, his cravat tied and pinned, turned to face him. Mr. Murray tapped his gloved finger once on the top of his cane, as if giving himself a signal.
‘I want you to marry,’ he announced.
‘Well, I know, at some point –‘
‘Now. Her name is Mawis Skirling. You have met, I believe.’ Charles frowned. ‘At the Assembly Rooms in Edinburgh. Mrs. Thomson agreed to introduce you.’
The hefty farmer’s daughter he had danced with during his brief stay in Edinburgh, that must be her. Oh, no: he would not marry her.
‘I remember. Why her?’ he asked, sounding more calm than he felt.
‘I know her father. He is an immensely rich man with only two daughters: the fortune will be divided between them and might be used as well in Letho as anywhere else. The elder daughter has recently married an earl.’ Despite everything, the assumption was loud in his voice and manner that Charles was going to do exactly as he was told. Charles took it slowly.
‘The earl’s standards must be lower than mine, or the elder daughter was a good deal more handsome than her sister.’
‘Where do looks matter? We are talking of a marriage beneficial to both families.’
‘Not only looks were lacking, though. I should prefer to marry a woman of some grace and intelligence.’
‘Intelligence!’ Mr. Murray snapped. ‘I married a handsome, intelligent woman and what did it get me? An equally handsome, intelligent son who doesn’t recognise a good match when he sees it and won’t leave off his damn’ books to do his duty to his father and his house!’
‘I will not marry her,’ said Charles with emphasis.
‘You will if you want to stay under my roof.’
‘Then I shan’t stay under your roof, either.’
‘You would not dare to defy me in both marriage and study.’
‘I would, and I do.’ Charles pulled on his coat. He was fully dressed as he faced his father, and noticed for the first time that he himself was the taller, by an inch. ‘I shall remain here at St. Andrews at least until I have graduated. I shall not marry Mawis Skirling, and wish her a more congenial partner in life. I shall find myself employment, should it be sweeping the streets. I shall not take another penny from you, sir.’
‘You will never survive. You, in employment? A feeble bookworm, spoilt from the day he was born? No one would employ you so much as to carry his hat and gloves!’
Charles opened his mouth to respond, but there came a knock at the door.
‘Go away!’ yelled Mr. Murray.
‘My decision, I think,’ said Charles sharply, and passed him to snatch open the door to the stairs.
‘A letter, Charles dear,’ said Mrs. Walker hurriedly. ‘Pay me later, dear,’ she called back as she vanished discreetly down the stairs.
Charles looked at the wrapper. The seal, which he did not recognise, had a small coronet on it. He broke it.
‘What is it, then?’ snapped his father, emerging from the bedchamber doorway. Charles read quickly through the short letter, and could not for the life of him keep the grin off his face as he turned back to his father.
‘It is a letter from Lord Scoggie,’ he said. ‘He asks if I should like to take up a post as his private secretary. Will you be staying to breakfast, Father, or do you hurry back to Letho?’
His father left in awful silence after breakfast, and Charles set out for his lectures. His feet seemed hardly to touch the ground, and he could think of nothing but what he had done, sometimes in elation, sometimes in terror. He passed the bakery, the candlemaker, the flesher, all trickling their particular scents into the stream of the cool, dry wind, but all he could smell was the pulse-ra
cing odour of bridges burning.
In his waistcoat pocket, well pushed down for safety, was Lord Scoggie’s letter. He had had the unfounded fear that his father would sneak back to his bunk and destroy it, and that Lord Scoggie would never send another. His reply would have to be carefully considered and in his very best hand – thank heavens he still had some of his father’s heavy writing paper left, for he could not afford anything to match it. He longed to tell someone of his good fortune and immediately thought of Thomas, but that was no longer possible, and for a moment he felt a shiver of guilt that he should be so happy while Thomas, who had longed for Lord Scoggie’s patronage, could not be there to enjoy his share.
Perhaps it was fitting, then, that the nervous smile was wiped off his face as he arrived in the yard of United College just at the same time as Thomas’ father.
Charles knew him at once, though he had never met him. Thomas Seaton elder had the same unevenly shaved complexion, the same awkward look of not feeling as if he belonged, so familiar to Charles from his dead friend, so much so that a sick feeling of seeing the dead walk swept over him for an instant. The man was not alone: with him were two who could have been his brothers, and a young lad of fourteen or fifteen, perhaps the brother David Thomas had sometimes mentioned. All four stared about them, up at the grandly shabby buildings: in all the time Thomas had been here they had never seen the place. It was a privileged place, not for the likes of them, they would think, and too far to travel when a journey meant expense and no income. Thomas would have gone home with tales of his strange new life, an alien land with a currency in books and learning, the stuff of fireside tales on a winter night, not of real life.
He was about to offer help or directions when Ramsay Rickarton appeared: he had evidently already seen the visitors and gone to fetch Professor Urquhart from his rooms. The Professor was already in the yard and approaching solemnly.
‘Welcome, welcome, though I wish it could have been on a happier occasion,’ he said when he had introduced himself. Thomas’ father seemed bewildered: he had probably never met anyone quite like Christopher Urquhart before anyway.
‘We have brought a coffin, Mr. Urquhart,’ he explained, and his two brothers indicated the long box they were supporting on its end. It was already pinned with black cloth, and wrapped for the journey in sacking. They began to take the sacking off, unwinding it and folding it before the wind could catch it. Professor Urquhart nodded, a quizzical look on his face.
‘Thomas’ body is in his room: someone will be happy to show you. Then you will want a meal after your long journey,’ he said at last, ‘and of course we have rooms for you for as long as you wish.’
‘You are kind,’ said Seaton gruffly – Charles could see exactly how a young man like Thomas could grow into an old man like his father. ‘But we have eaten, and we would leave as soon as we can. It is a long way home.’
‘Um, indeed,’ said Urquhart. Certainly it was difficult to know what to say: the impression was that the Seatons wanted nothing to do with the college – and indeed, who could blame them? But the professor did not like to be lost for words, and as he cast about for inspiration the first thing he saw was Charles.
‘May I present Charles Murray, younger of Letho?’ he said smoothly, drawing Charles over with a look. ‘Murray was Thomas’ closest friend here, and had the misfortune of discovering Thomas’ ... fate.’
Charles bowed obediently, and Thomas’ father returned an echo of Thomas’ own hapless bows. His gaze, a little blankly, ran quickly over Charles’ shabby gown but decent coat and gloves. He appeared to be dredging something from his memory: Thomas had probably spoken of his closest friend.
‘Will you step up with me, then, sir?’
‘I would be honoured,’ said Charles, and turned to help carry the empty coffin. The brothers already had it shouldered, though, with the ease of practice, and instead Charles led the way across the yard to the students’ quarters and up the familiar stairs to Thomas’ room, trying to remember and point out worn steps and awkward corners to the strangers. Professor Urquhart nodded in satisfaction as they left him.
‘We arranged a rota so that he would not be left alone,’ he explained, as he stood back to let the others enter. ‘All the students in the college joined in. Professor Urquhart brought the flowers and the brown paper.’ He did not add that it was in Professor Urquhart’s own interest, living so near by, to use such means to keep down any unpleasant odours that might arise as the corpse waited to be collected.
‘There’s some ale still, if you want to toast the – Thomas,’ said Henry Barchane, the student on duty, hospitably. When they had taken it in turns to touch Thomas’ hand, the Seaton brothers took the ale automatically, passing one tankard amongst them till the boy, Davie, took the dregs. Charles glanced around the room, making sure they had forgotten nothing.
‘Would you like us to leave you alone here for a while? You are welcome for as long as you need.’
‘No, sir, we should get on,’ Thomas’ father decided, ‘though you are kind. Is there a minister who would say a prayer over him when we have him kisted?’
‘I’ll see who I can find,’ said Henry amiably, and hurried out. The other student on duty with him seemed to be trying to melt into the walls out of the way. The brothers stood awkwardly, but declined a space on the bench by the wall. Instead, they silently packed Thomas’ few belongings into a roll, which one brother slung across his shoulder. In a surprisingly short time, Henry returned, with the Principal, who was, as was customary, ordained. In the security of his robes he glanced around the shabby student room, as if carrying out an inspection. Charles performed the introductions, and the Seatons seemed to shrink still further.
‘You do us much honour, my lord,’ muttered Thomas’ father.
‘Oh, dear, no, I’m not a lord, and anyway,’ said the Principal, moving efficiently from modest denial to responsible regret, ‘a prayer is the least I can do for you in your grief. The death of one of our students is always a terrible blow to our little community, but in this case it is especially so. Rest assured that we will do all we can to bring his murderer to justice.’
‘You may do what you will, sir,’ said Thomas’ father, without rancour. ‘I have lost my son: it was the Lord’s time to take him, so I cannot question, though indeed I mourn his loss.’
Looking slightly reprimanded, the Principal drew himself up and took a step closer to the bed.
‘Are you ready to kist him?’
The Seaton brothers manoeuvred the coffin into position and removed the lid. Folding the sheet back from Thomas’ body, they took him gently under his shoulders and knees, and lifted him into the coffin, straightening him tenderly and tidying his shroud, making him presentable. They made sure the coffin was steady on the bed, then stood back, hands folded and heads bowed, ready for the Principal to begin his prayer. When he was done, the brothers stepped forward once more with the lid. Thomas’ father touched his son’s forehead once with the tips of his fingers, then between them they slid the lid into place and one brother quickly fitted the screws, shiny against the dull black cloth. From a roll tied to his shoulders, Davie tugged out a mortcloth and one of his uncles shook the crumples out of it, then laid it over the coffin. The brothers glanced at each other, and gave a sort of communal shrug. They arranged themselves by the bed and lifted the coffin once more, now with its designated load, Davie taking his share like a man at the foot end. They took the coffin as carefully as they could, murmuring the same warnings to each other as before regarding uneven steps and narrow doors, and Charles, Henry, and the Principal, followed them outside to the yard.
Under a damp sky, whipped by the wind, Professor Urquhart stood where they had left him, but the rest of the students had collected near him, on either side of the gate. When they saw the coffin appear, the crowd drew out into two lines, billowing gowns making it hard to tell one figure from the next. The Seatons paused to shoulder the coffin, and Davie adjusted a wad
of cloth on his side to even the load. The mortcloth caught the wind and was pressed precisely into the shape of the sharp boards beneath. The Seatons stepped forward, and at the same moment a student from the College choir gave the note. At funereal pace, they sang the old student song, Gaudeamus Igitur. ‘Let us rejoice while we are still young’, ran the Latin, ‘for after joyful youth, after miserable old age, we shall dwell in the earth.’ Thomas had not had a very joyful youth, thought Charles as he joined in, and he would never have an old age, but somehow the words seemed appropriate.
One verse, sung solemnly, saw the sad procession cross the yard and disappear out of the gate, and the Seatons, taking their son with them, began their long walk home.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The other students left the yard in twos and threes; Ramsay Rickarton nodded stiffly to no one in particular and returned to his little office by the gate, and Professor Urquhart, replacing his trencher, spun in an elegant swirl of gown and headed for the stair to his rooms. In the shadows of the Cage, Mungo Dalzell could be glimpsed, pale face smeared with tears, edging back into the Chapel.
For a few moments, Charles stood still. Above the yard, seagulls called bleakly to each other, their cries twisting and swooping in the wind, and echoing off the stone walls and high slate roofs. There was no other sign of life: if you did not know, you would almost think the place a ruin, long deserted, abandoned to the wind and the sky.
Feeling as empty and dry himself, he turned at last and made his way in Professor Urquhart’s wake. Automatically he patted the pocket where Lord Scoggie’s letter was still hidden: he needed to talk to someone, and he needed some advice, and he needed, he remembered suddenly, to see Professor Urquhart’s rooms and to observe them a little more closely than before.
He remembered that had not visited Urquhart’s rooms since he had been there with his father, and as if his father’s presence was haunting him he had a sudden clear vision of that morning: seeing Mungo Dalzell scuttling away from his father, finding Professor Keith out, though his door unlocked, and visiting Urquhart so that old Mr. Murray could terrify him. The damp, worn staircase was the same, the mould on the walls and the uncertain sconces, but now the office door at the top of the stairs was firmly shut. Odd, he thought, on reflection: Keith had announced that he was keeping valuables in his office after the various attacks on his house by the Sporting Set, yet he did not lock his office door. He turned to Urquhart’s unprepossessing entrance.
Death in a Scarlet Gown (Murray of Letho Book 1) Page 27