‘Mr. Murray, come in,’ said Urquhart, his gown and trencher now discarded across the back of one of the sofas. Without them, a visitor could appreciate his finely cut coat and deep red silk waistcoat. ‘There is to be no Latin lecture today, I’m afraid, if that is what you are seeking.’ His face seemed pale against the richness of the room’s palette.
‘No, sir – that is, I did not expect one. I came, and I hope I do not disturb you, to speak about a letter I received this morning, and perhaps to ask for some advice.’
‘Ah!’ said Urquhart, ‘I believe I may know about your letter. But pray, sit down and I shall heat some spiced wine: that yard is damned cold for standing round, and the occasion was not one to warm the bones.’
He busied himself at the fire, which needed building before a quantity of wine could be heated. Charles took the opportunity to glance about him, trying to take in what seemed likely to be important details: none of the windows in this room was open, and all looked latched on the inside. Urquhart had not locked the door after Charles had entered, but he probably did do so at night, and Charles could only envisage himself housebreaking by night. In fact, he wondered, when it came to it, if he would ever see himself housebreaking at all.
‘So – this letter.’ Urquhart called him back to the present from the putative future. ‘May I guess that it might have been from a certain peer of our mutual acquaintance?’
‘You are quite correct,’ said Charles, not entirely surprised. Urquhart made it his business to know what was going on, and he had admitted to being a dinner guest of Lord Scoggie’s. ‘He has been kind enough to offer me a position as his secretary.’
‘And do you intend to take it?’ The Latin schoolboy’s rhyme read that ‘nonne expects the answer yes, num expects the answer no.’ If he had been speaking in Latin, Professor Urquhart would have used nonne. For the first time, Charles hesitated.
‘It is a very desirable position,’ he said slowly. ‘The more so for me, as at present I find myself – at odds – with my father. However, I am not clear as to whether Lord Scoggie would prefer me to start immediately or not. And if he does not, I, er, need something with which I can support myself until the end of the session, or graduation, anyway.’
He did not feel very comfortable talking about money, and he could not meet Urquhart’s eye. Awkwardly, he pushed himself out of the sofa and paced around the room.
‘Did Lord Scoggie name a salary for this desirable position?’ asked Urquhart, returning to his tending of the fire. He had brought brandy over to the hearth and set it near the flames to warm.
‘He did,’ said Charles, and after a moment named it himself. Urquhart glanced up and smiled.
‘You are not used to such matters as salaries, are you?’ he asked. ‘Have you worked out what you need to complete the session?
Charles had, and he knew it off by heart.
‘The whole year costs about sixty pounds,’ he said, ‘including fees. The last term would be about twenty, then, but cheaper in coal and candles in the summer. I don’t need any more books,’ he added, firmly, ‘but I also have to find examination fees. I think twenty-five would be safe.’
Professor Urquhart laughed, and Charles looked down, mortified – and froze.
‘Oh, my dear Mr. Murray,’ said Urquhart quickly, ‘I had no intention to ridicule you. You mention this sum with the ease of one who has always asked and it has been given unto him, but few young men of your age, I think - your late friend Mr. Seaton, for example – would speak it with such equanimity.’
‘Then you think my case is hopeless?’ Charles said slowly. Urquhart straightened with care and looked at him, and Charles began to pace again.
‘Not hopeless, exactly.’ Urquhart left the brandy to see to itself and moved over to the window that overlooked the yard. He paused for a moment, drumming his long fingers on the sill. ‘Professor Shaw is supposed to be on duty this week, using the office next door, but Mrs. Shaw has finally had the child, so Mungo Dalzell has agreed to deputise, but he hates this building and never sets foot in it. Damn the man: I need to speak to him, and he must be around somewhere.’
‘I think I saw him go into the chapel after the Seatons left,’ said Charles, hoping to return to the subject of his university career. It would at least distract him from the fact that in his perambulation of the room he had found the notebook that had vanished from Professor Keith’s desk: it was on a small, ladylike writing table near the window where Urquhart now stood.
‘The chapel, eh? That fits: he seems to have taken up residence there these past few weeks – soon be holding lectures there. At least the roof’s sound. Pour a couple of glasses of that wine, would you?’ He arranged himself more comfortably at the window, almost as if he perceived Charles’ interest in the notebook. Charles tried to look relaxed, but he began to know what a cat feels like when the mouse is just out of reach. His hand shook as he passed a glass of punch to Professor Urquhart, and himself returned to the sofa.
‘Well, as far as I know, whatever it might say in your letter, Lord Scoggie wants you to finish your year here. He likes the style of having ‘M.A.’ after his secretaries’ names.’
‘Then he has other secretaries?’ asked Charles.
‘Not at the moment,’ was the rather vague reply. ‘Anyway, you can clarify that in your acceptance letter – if you decide to accept.’ He glanced out of the window again. ‘As for supporting yourself during this last session,’ he went on, ‘you could always consider borrowing against your expected salary. The letter from Lord Scoggie should be enough, but if it isn’t, I can always write a covering letter to go with it. Then you pay it back out of your salary when you take up the post.’
Charles swallowed.
‘I don’t like borrowing,’ he said tightly.
Professor Urquhart smiled at him.
‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be, eh? Rates of interest, dishonest lenders, the shame of debt – puts you off, I dare say?’
‘It does, sir.’
‘Well, it needn’t – but if I could get hold of Mungo Dalzell I could get the cash for you now. The man on duty holds the discretionary fund, a bursary set aside for emergency funding for students close to graduating. Some of the staff put it together, and the last Principal made a considerable donation. None of us likes to teach someone for four years and then see them fall at the last jump just because of a little pecuniary difficulty. Oh! There we are! I’ll be back in a second,’ he cried, hurrying away from the window and off to the yard outside.
For a moment, Charles sat still. It seemed very rude indeed to check the notebook when Professor Urquhart was trying to sort out money to support him for the next three months. On the other hand, if it meant not having to break in like a murderer himself ... in an instant he was off the sofa and across the room to the desk. He glanced out of the window, keeping his head low. Mungo had paused in the middle of the yard and turned – Urquhart must have hailed him, and there, Urquhart appeared. Ramsay Rickarton, stopping at the door of his office to talk to his grandson, still smart in the new breeches Charles had noticed before, watched them. Charles’ mind raced. Sybie’s brother in new breeches, a few days after Charles had seen Mungo come out of this very building. Mungo had run Sybie over. Mungo never went into this building. Professor Keith was on duty that week and had left money in his room, but had apparently left the door open. The money was stolen. Mungo had killed Sybie ... Mungo, racked with guilt ... Mungo, looking as if a weight had been lifted from his heart ... Sybie’s brother in new breeches and a fine beef stew scenting the thin air of Heukster’s Wynd. Mungo must have stolen the money and given it to Sybie’s mother, as a – what, as compensation? Stolen money?
But maybe it explained something else, too. Professor Keith had mentioned money and valuables, and what more valuable than the brooch he had forced poor Mrs. Walker to hand over in lieu of her rent? And the brooch was so mysteriously returned, and not by Peter Keith. What if Mungo Dalzell had seen the
brooch, too, and decided to make reparation there? It would be like him. But stealing money ...
Outside, Mungo Dalzell and Professor Urquhart were still deep in conversation, Mungo with his arms crossed to hold down his gown, Urquhart constantly adjusting the curls on his wig, unprotected, in his haste, by a hat. Charles dragged himself away from this speculation and turned to the notebook on the table. It was definitely the same as the one purloined from Professor Keith’s desk on the morning of his death. Reaching out one delicate finger, Charles opened it and held the cover so that he could just look inside.
It appeared to be Keith’s diary. Charles flicked the thick yellow pages to the later entries, and saw at once why Professor Urquhart had removed it.
‘This evening I believe the evidence was irrefutable,’ it read, in Keith’s black hand. ‘Urquhart pays every attention to my wife. I should not wonder but that the activities of those repulsive students was somehow arranged by him in order that he might have some time with her out of my sight, though he seems to manage that often enough as it is. Others must also know what is going on. Am I to be made a laughing stock? I think not.’
Charles glanced back at the yard. Mungo Dalzell was just disappearing through the gateway, and Urquhart was nowhere to be seen. With an agility that he ought to have thanked his father for, Charles leapt neatly over the back of the sofa and was sitting in it, to all appearances relaxed, when Urquhart opened the door.
‘Mungo Dalzell will write a note and release some money for you – at fortnightly intervals, if that is convenient for you? We don’t carry as much as twenty-five pounds all at once, you know,’ he added, sarcastically. Charles rose and thanked him solemnly, and with absolute sincerity, though he hardly knew what he was saying. ‘Never worry, never worry. It is a charity, so there is no question of an actual loan. But remember it, when you have come to happier terms with your father: I am sure you will be generous to your old alma mater.’
‘Indeed I shall, sir, to the best of my ability,’ Charles agreed happily, and meant it, little realising how often Professor Urquhart had heard the same words before from students he had never heard from again. Urquhart sighed, and paused before the mirror to make repairs to his wig. ‘Thank you for the punch, sir: I had better be going.’
‘Congratulations on the letter from Lord Scoggie, anyway,’ was Urquhart’s parting shot. ‘Don’t be so excited you forget to reply.’
This time, the yard outside could have been ablaze as he crossed it, and he would barely have noticed. Though he picked his way automatically over the worn paving slabs and patches of rough ground, all he saw in front of him were the pages of Professor Keith’s diary.
‘Urquhart pays every attention to my wife.’
The question was, he realised suddenly, was it true? Was Urquhart paying attention – an innocent enough phrase on the surface, but full of a very specific meaning – to Mrs. Keith, or was Keith the kind of man who imagines such things? Charles had not known him well enough personally to have much idea. But how likely was it that Urquhart was paying attention to thin, nervy Mrs. Keith, mother of two grown-up children? Of course, she did have money of her own, and once she had been intelligent and might struggle to be so again, but how could there be any attraction there? On her side, perhaps there was the pleasure of spending time with someone other than her husband, but again Urquhart must be as old as she was, and had, moreover, a reputation for ... for what? It had never been entirely specified, but there were always jokes going around the student body about young men who had been ‘corrupted’ by Urquhart, though the only one Charles could think of specifically was Peter Keith ... perhaps that was connected? Perhaps Peter Keith had had extra tuition from Urquhart to cover his mother’s association with Urquhart? Certainly Peter Keith and his mother were very close.
He forced himself to stop and look about him, for his mind was about to run away with itself. He had walked, he realised with a shock, to Thomas’ favourite seat, where he had been found dead. All visible traces of the event had been washed away. Charles looked about for a moment, as if expecting to find murderers behind every rock, but there was no one in sight. He sat, warily, and in a moment his mind was off again like a dog in a field full of rabbits.
If Professor Keith had discovered that his wife and his colleague were – Charles tried not to picture anything too intimate – friendly, what would he do? He might divorce her, but that would be extraordinary and expensive. The only people Charles had every heard of divorcing their wives were earls, and even Professor Keith’s social aspirations hardly reached that high. He might send her away, force her to live in some secluded spot for the rest of her days, or he might try to use his influence on the Senate to have Urquhart sent away. The first would be better, he decided: Urquhart had to stay for at least term time in St. Andrews or he would eventually lose his post, though that could take years. Keith could expose them both, but that would also affect his own standing. Charles sighed: he did not envy Keith’s situation. On the other hand, he did think the professor had been a little over-suspicious: Urquhart would never stoop so low as to use the Sporting Set to further his cause. But would he use poison?
If it had been arsenic, Charles would have had little difficulty picturing it. Urquhart lived opposite the Chapel and had a ready supply, and would have known all about it from his familiarity with its use in ancient times. Yew, however, was a different matter. The idea of Christopher Urquhart picking delicately through old berries and bits of twig at the end of Keith’s garden, or here under the wall, was ridiculous, let alone the notion of him boiling them up into something he could put into a claret jug. But –
Charles was so shocked by his idea that he sat bolt upright, and stayed that way until he had thought the thought clearly through. What about Peter Keith? Would he have done it at Urquhart’s direction? Charles himself had seen how Urquhart had influence over the boy, and Peter was certainly not, at the time, on good terms with his father. Could Urquhart have used him? Peter could have told him about the claret jug on the landing, and might even have suggested yew, from his classes with Allan Bonar. Charles could not see Peter having the presence of mind to do it all on his own, even if he had the ideas, but with Urquhart behind him, prompting his moves ... Urquhart could even have returned Mrs. Walker’s brooch, which it would have been easy for him to remove from Keith’s office beside his own rooms in college. He had certainly made a point of noticing it the other day when they had both come to pay their respects to Thomas’ body. Charles could see Urquhart not quite being able to resist letting people know how clever he was.
If this was all true, there was another question. Did Mrs. Keith know? He tried to remember the day Urquhart and Professor Shaw had questioned her, in order to present her information to the burgh officer – well, when it came down to it, Professor Urquhart did the questioning, as he would have known would happen if he was with Shaw. Yes, even that fitted. He was there early next morning, with Shaw as an unimpeachable witness, to make sure that everything had gone to plan and to tidy up any loose ends, like the diary. And perhaps Alison knew as well, for hadn’t Peter complained that she had refused to see him? Perhaps she knew, and had not wanted it to happen. Yet she had seemed to spend time comfortably enough with Peter, her mother and even Urquhart at the funeral. Perhaps they had eventually talked her round: after all, surely she had been treated as badly by her father as the rest of the family.
The more he thought about it, the more it all fitted into place. The Sporting Set and the Spanish fly was all just coincidence, or perhaps not, in a way: Professor Keith’s soirées were well-known, and for either the Sporting Set or Urquhart to strike on an evening when there were to be plenty of people in the house made sense. Now there were only odd little things to account for, like why Urquhart had not destroyed the diary straight away, and why he should have given money from Keith’s desk to Ramsay Rickarton’s family ... and why Mungo Dalzell had been coming out of the door to the staff stair when Urquhart sai
d he never went in there. Why, since he was sitting here, had Thomas been killed – had Peter Keith wanted the parish after all? And even if Charles was sure, sure to the point of proof, that this story was true, how would he prove it, and to whom? The burgh sergeant? The Principal? Suddenly he wanted to ask his father’s advice, and swallowed hard. This independence business was harder than it looked.
He rose and stretched. It was almost dinner time, and he had a letter to write. Maybe Lord Scoggie could advise him, he thought, but decided that now was not the right time to approach him on the subject.
Dinner was pigeon pie, and Charles found that his various worries had done nothing to dull his appetite. Mrs. Walker and Patience seemed to be regarding him anxiously, and he did his best to be bright and cheerful: they were probably worried about the morning’s confrontation with his father, and indeed, it suddenly struck him, about their own income.
‘I am sorry you were distressed this morning, and feel I owe you an explanation,’ he began, and told them of Lord Scoggie’s offer and Professor Urquhart’s help for the rest of the session.
There was, he saw, a certain look of relief that passed between mother and daughter.
‘And you wish to stay here,’ Mrs. Walker repeated, making sure.
‘Of course, Mrs. Walker: there is no better bunk in the town. I did consider, I admit, moving somewhere where I should cook for myself, but now I am happy to be able to stay.’
Death in a Scarlet Gown (Murray of Letho Book 1) Page 28