Death in a Scarlet Gown (Murray of Letho Book 1)

  ‘Cook for yourself ...’ A shudder ran dramatically over Patience’s shoulders, and Charles laughed.

  ‘Yes, it was not a happy prospect – particularly in the presence of this pigeon pie.’

  ‘And you are not to be married?’

  ‘Married?’ Charles was taken aback.

  ‘It’s just – Mr. Murray said ... something ...’

  But there was a rattle at the risp, and Patience rose to answer the door, breaking the moment.

  ‘It’s a note for you,’ she said, returning, and set it by Charles’ plate. ‘It’s from Alison Keith. The man is waiting for a reply.’

  She sat again at the table. Neither she nor her mother looked at each other, in a very pointed way. Charles stared at them for a moment, then slit open the note.

  ‘Dear Mr. Murray,’ it read, ‘I should be very much obliged if you would be good enough to call on me this evening, at around half past five. Your friend, Alison Keith.’

  ‘I’ll just speak to the man,’ said Charles, and hurried to the door. The Keiths’ man stood outside, thoughtfully propped against the house wall.

  ‘The answer is ‘yes’’, he said.

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the servant, and pushed himself upright. He was off down the street in a second, and Charles, wondering what Alison Keith might have to say to him, went back inside.

  It was about four now, he thought, hearing the bells of Holy Trinity almost immediately. He would write the letter to Lord Scoggie.

  Up in his rooms, the odd smell he had noticed that morning was stronger. He opened all the windows, then thought for a moment and closed them again, sniffing to locate the source of the smell. Eventually he traced it to a loose skirting board near the fireplace in his bedchamber. A moment with his pocket knife, and the board was free.

  Behind it was a scene of desolation. In a small aperture that had clearly been their home, four dead mice lay, in various states of decay, while in the midst of them lay little fragments of a familiar white wrapper, on which you could still see one or two little globules of black shiny cantharides. He should have guessed. George had used none of the packet Charles had bought for him, but it had proved a very effective vermin poison.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was still a few minutes to half past five when Charles found himself once again at the stern iron gates of the Keiths’ house. He made himself walk to the corner of the road and back, slowly: it was as much a curse always to be too early as always to be too late. At last, feeling he had looked foolish for long enough, he advanced up the familiar gravel drive and rang the front door bell. He heard it clang distantly, but he had to wait a few minutes before Barbara opened the door. Though she looked as tired as he had seen her at the funeral, there was a cheerfulness about her that he was sure he had never noticed before: Professor Keith would never have allowed it.

  ‘I wish to see Miss Keith, please,’ he said. ‘I am expected.’

  She took his card anyway, but in a few seconds returned to show him in to the downstairs parlour with the French doors.

  The evening had turned chilly but no fire had yet been lit, and the parlour, shady now, was cold. Alison Keith was wearing a spencer over her black mourning gown, in a brown and gold Paisley weave, and her thin shoulders were hunched. However, she stood and curtseyed well enough, and even favoured him with one of her wide, nervy smiles. Charles instantly felt uneasy.

  ‘You are well, I trust?’ he asked.

  ‘I am much improved, thank you, sir: I am pleased no longer to be a worry to my friends.’

  ‘You have many kind ones, I am sure.’

  It was formulaic, but there was a tension in the air. She had not sat, and pressed her hands together, rubbing them slowly as if it would help her mould the right words between them. At last she drew breath, but at that moment the door opened. Mrs. Keith entered, her mourning by comparison spruce and sharp, and glittering with her usual rings. She was tying her bonnet strings.

  ‘Oh! Mr. Murray – what a pleasant surprise! I was just about to go out – down to see Chrissie Shaw and the new baby, you know. Will you not come?’

  ‘Mamma, I have no wish in this world to see a mewling infant!’ For a second, Alison was her father. The very air was shocked. Charles swallowed.

  ‘I heard it had arrived safely,’ he said, trying to smooth over the moment. ‘Professor Shaw must be delighted.’

  ‘I believe he is,’ said Mrs. Keith with enthusiasm. ‘Ah, there is nothing like a baby!’

  There was a pause, then Alison said,

  ‘Mr. Murray and I were about to take a walk along the Scores.’

  ‘Oh? Were you? Very good, very good.’ She smiled at Charles. The smile did not help his nerves. ‘Well, I shall be off, then.’

  She pulled a pair of gloves from her reticule and tugged them on over her rings, kissed her daughter on the cheek, and waved at Charles, and was gone. It was only then that it occurred to Charles that she seemed remarkably relaxed at the thought of her daughter walking out alone in the evening with a young man.

  ‘Shall we go, then?’ Alison asked, with another grin. ‘I shall just fetch my bonnet and pelisse.’

  She returned very quickly – Charles had only had time to wonder if he was to run some errand to George for her – wearing a brown velvet pelisse and small matching bonnet. Mourning could not always stretch to a warm winter coat, of course, but Charles was surprised that it could not in this household. Thin in the soft brown, she looked like a weasel, and he had to turn his instinctive laugh into an approving smile. He hoped she would not smile back.

  ‘Come,’ she said, ‘I have hardly been out of these grounds for days, and I can bear it no longer.’

  She seemed too anxious to walk slowly, and in a minute or two they had retraced Charles’ steps to the corner and were on the Scores. There she relaxed a little, and folded her hands behind her, forcing herself to walk more easily. Charles matched her pace.

  ‘Have you seen much recently of your brother, Mr. George Murray?’ she asked, as cautiously as a swimmer easing himself into cold water.

  ‘I have not seen him since ... oh, only yesterday. He left yesterday for Letho.’

  ‘Time seems disjointed, does it not?’ She sighed. ‘I – this is very difficult for a girl! I do not know what to say!’

  ‘Do you wish me to carry a message to him?’

  ‘No! That is – look, he gave me – gave me reason to think that he might feel ... an affection for me.’

  ‘I believe I am not betraying a confidence to say that he does, or did two days ago,’ Charles agreed.

  ‘I sent him away,’ she admitted . ‘I thought – but now ...’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Charles had waited for her to go on but she had drifted off dismally. ‘But do you care for him?’

  ‘Oh, no! No, no more than as a friend! But what is that to the consequence? Your father forbids him to marry me!’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Mr. Murray himself.’

  ‘My father? He wrote to you?’

  ‘No, no, he called. This morning. I was barely out of my bed but he said it was urgent, so I dressed and hurried down, and – and – he was very rude indeed!’

  Charles sighed.

  ‘I fear that was my fault. I had angered him, and he was probably still furious when he met you. He certainly was when he left Mrs. Walker’s house – but I thought he had gone straight back home to Letho.’ Charles knew he had upset his father, but this was outrageous behaviour even for him. ‘I do apologise for this. It does not reflect well on my family.’

  ‘“You will never marry my son.” He just kept shouting it. In the end we had to have the manservant show him to the door. Barbara was in hysterics.’ She walked faster again, roused by the memory.

  ‘Oh, Lord, I am sorry,’ Charles groaned. ‘This is awful.’

  ‘But why does he hate me so much? My family is not beneath yours, and I have a good dowry ... has he heard something?’
<
br />   ‘What could he have heard? It hardly brings disgrace on you that your father met his death unnaturally. No: I think the trouble is that – oh, you may as well know, though I doubt it will make anything better. He thought that I was courting you, not George, and he is at present trying to arrange my marriage to someone else. Whoever you were, if you were anything less than the sister-in-law of an earl, you would have appeared less satisfactory than his chosen candidate.’

  ‘I see,’ she murmured, though she sounded confused. Her remarkable eyes were downcast.

  They walked on a little, then she turned.

  ‘I should like to walk back by the cliffs,’ she said. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all, if you do not,’ he replied, thinking of the bench where Thomas had died. She glanced at him.

  ‘A place where someone has met their fate is not always to be avoided,’ she stated, as if quoting someone. Charles nodded, and they walked for a little in silence. His own thoughts were busy, and at last he said,

  ‘Professor Urquhart has been very helpful to your family, I think, since Professor Keith’s death.’

  ‘He has, indeed.’ She seemed relieved to change the subject. ‘He is a kinder man than he allows people to think.’

  This was more perceptive than he had expected.

  ‘But he has been a friend to your family for some time, has he not?’

  She agreed.

  ‘He has visited a good deal. He and Mamma are very friendly,’ she added innocently, ‘and he is very good to Peter. When my father – he and Peter used to have the most terrible rows, because Father knew just how to upset him. Professor Urquhart was the only one who could calm him down.’

  ‘He did not care, I think,’ said Charles carefully, ‘for your father.’ He would have been surprised, now, to find that Alison was part of the conspiracy he had surmised, but she might still know something.

  ‘He did not, I know.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘But I could have wished better on him than finding my father that morning. Barbara was with them but they had gone ahead of her, but she said Professor Urquhart reeled back as if he was hit when he saw inside Father’s study. Professor Shaw sagged against the doorway. Then they pulled the door closed and wouldn’t let Barbara see in. I missed all this,’ she added, slightly sadly.

  Why would Urquhart have been so shocked? Had he told Peter to use the poison, but not said when? Had he not expected to see Professor Keith’s body in such a state? Surely he was not innocent.

  ‘I wish I could have known who had killed him,’ Alison went on. ‘Do you know I thought for a little that Peter had done it? My own brother? If he had struck him with the poker or stabbed him with the carving knife at dinner, it would have been obvious, but Peter is not really cool-headed enough to use poison! That is more Picket’s way ...’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Charles. ‘But what made you decide finally that Peter had not done the deed?’

  ‘Well ... Mr. Murray, you have been very kind, and I think I must tell you. Indeed, I wonder that you have not guessed already – I am sure Mr. Murray your father has.’

  ‘What?’ She had stopped, and they turned to face each other. Thomas’ bench was nearby, but neither felt the inclination to sit on it.

  ‘Your father does not intend, then, to marry George off?’

  ‘My dear Miss Keith,’ said Charles kindly, ‘I am sorry, but my father is a proud man. I think it extremely unlikely that, after what you told me about this morning, and the way things are in the family at the moment – my family, that is – that he would allow George to marry you, either. Besides, George is only seventeen.’

  ‘Is he? He seems older.’

  ‘No, he’s just bigger.’

  She smiled, tight-lipped. To his alarm, she seemed to be starting to cry.

  ‘I had hoped that dear Boxie would take me, but his father wants him to wait until he has served his apprenticeship, and that is too late for me.’

  ‘Too late?’ Charles was feeling extremely thick.

  ‘Yes.’ The wind pulled back her pelisse, showing her thin, sickly figure. ‘You see, Mr. Murray, I am with child.’

  ‘You –‘ Charles could think of nothing to say, nothing at all. All he could think was that his father would not let either of his sons touch her at all. It would not be a helpful thing to say. ‘But why – why can’t you marry the father?’ he managed at last. She was crying, now.

  ‘Because he’s dead. And because – because – because I hated him, and he did this to me, and –‘

  ‘You mean he forced you?’

  ‘Yes! And Papa stood by me, and helped me, and was trying to find me a husband, and that’s why Peter would never have killed him now! Never! I needed him!’

  Memories were flashing through Charles’ mind: Professor Keith at the party, drawing Boxie out for a serious conversation ... Boxie and Peter fighting in Mutty’s Wynd.

  ‘Did Peter think Boxie was the father?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Peter is always so impulsive. When I was poisoned he thought I’d done it myself, taken lily of the valley to make – to make the baby go away. He even went to see if the plant was still in the garden. No, he heard Papa and me talking but he didn’t hear all of it, and he jumped to the wrong conclusion.’ She sobbed audibly, digging in her glove for a handkerchief but not finding one. He drew out his own and handed it to her absently.

  ‘But if Boxie wasn’t the father, and the father is dead, you say, who was it?’

  ‘Didn’t you realise?’ She drew a breath, glancing at the bench by the wall. ‘It was Thomas Seaton. Thomas Seaton,’ she drew another breath, ‘raped me.’

  ‘Never.’ Rudeness did not occur to him. The world lurched. ‘When?’

  ‘In the cathedral, the day of the last Senate meeting.’ The tears raced down her face, forgotten as she came at him, urgent, insistent. ‘Papa had said something to him – he kept muttering about Papa, all the time. I couldn’t - He was covered in tea, and he was so angry, so frightening. You have to believe me. I have to convince you. Listen to me. He –‘

  ‘All right, all right.’ Charles’ head was humming. He could see Thomas doing it, that was the trouble. He could see hair on a filthy gown. A lot of things suddenly made sense. ‘But that was only a few weeks ago. How do you know –‘

  ‘I just know, all right? I’m expecting a child. I know, my mother knows. And no one will marry me!’

  She took another step forward and fell into his arms, furious and sobbing, clutching the folds of his cravat in long, thin fingers. Holding her, he stared beyond her at the empty bench, and felt sick to his soul.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Hi! Get your hands off her!’

  Running footsteps, a cry of anger: for a moment Charles thought it was for someone else. Then he felt a rough hand spin him by his shoulder. Alison broke away, open-mouthed. George stood there, panting and furious.

  ‘I might have guessed it!’ he cried. His face was scarlet. In his hand was a sharp fencing foil, and it was not there for appearances’ sake.

  ‘George! What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going to kill you!’

  Alison gave a little cry. In an instant she was round Thomas’ bench and behind George, on the grass between the path and her own garden wall. In the same moment, George lunged.

  ‘George! George, I’m unarmed!’

  ‘I thought of that,’ his brother spat, and seized another foil from his belt. For a horrible second, Charles thought he was going to attack with both of them: he even saw the thought flash through George’s mind, too. Then George tossed him the second foil. ‘Defend yourself, then.’

  The foils glinted dully. There was a moment of stillness: gulls called distantly, and the sea below the cliff to Charles’ right hissed a little. A crow, smooth and black as a caltrap, flapped to land on the garden wall by the yew trees. He watched them in silence. Then George touched his foil to his forehead, and began.

  They had fought before, many times. They
knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses. They had fought angry, true, but never as angry as George was now. The world folded down to one small section of coastline, and two brothers fighting on it.

  George thrust, aiming for Charles’ chest.

  ‘Quarte,’ thought Charles blankly, parrying, though the force of the thrust made him step back. George followed fluidly with another attack, this time lower, but George’s low attacks tended to be weaker. Charles pressed the blade off, leaving the thin foible end twanging. ‘Parry octave,’ he mumbled, unable to help himself. Reality was elsewhere.

  ‘Father told me,’ said George, lunging again. ‘He said you intended to marry,’ he took a breath, and attacked once more, ‘Alison.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Charles sharply. Alison herself had not moved. Charles was being driven down the path, backwards towards the harbour. He was having the worst of it so far: George was always better at fencing. ‘He thinks I do because I won’t marry Mawis Thing – whatever her name is. Ow!’

  George had hit him on the arm. It was not an official target, but George was not playing by the rules. Charles resisted the urge to look at his arm, and lunged, hitting George on a waistcoat button. But returning to guard he over-compensated for his lunge. His foot hit a tussock of grass on the cliff side of the path. He fell.

  ‘Well, if you don’t,’ George panted, following up, ‘want to marry her, why were you here with her in your arms?’ His blade was at Charles’ throat. Charles took a breath, and pushed it away with his free hand, scrambling up.

  ‘She was upset, you fool. Stop this, George.’

  He was on the rough grass now, a few feet from the cliff edge. His back was to Alison: he could not see her reaction. George followed him, attacking quickly now so that the blades sang.

  ‘Upset? Who upset her? You?’

  Charles was backing into the wind now. Even if he attacked, the folds of his gown encumbered him. He needed to turn the fight round. But to pass George on the path side he would have to pass his left side, George’s strong point. On the other side was the cliff.