Fellowship with Demons (Murray of Letho Book 5) Read online

  Fellowship with Demons

  by

  Lexie Conyngham

  The Fifth in the Murray of Letho Series

  First published in 2013 by The Kellas Cat Press, Aberdeen.

  Copyright Alexandra Conyngham, 2013.

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work as been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-0-9574312-2-5

  Dramatis Personae

  The Murray Household:

  Charles Murray of Letho

  Henry Robbins, his butler

  Daniel and William, growing slowly into menservants

  Mrs. Chambers, feeling her age

  Mrs. Mutch, denying hers

  Mary and Jennet, upstairs maids

  Effy, a kitchenmaid

  Friends and acquaintances:

  Henry Dundas, Viscount Melville, a real historical figure, looming large over early 19th. century Scotland

  Alester Blair, a gentleman with a wide acquaintance

  Mrs. Freeman, his sister

  Isobel Blair, his daughter

  Mrs. Thomson, a competent widow

  Mrs. Armstrong, her sister, not yet widowed

  Mr. Armstrong – see above

  Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, also a real person, and neat as ninepence

  Willie Jack Dundas, a confused suitor

  The Ronaldson family:

  Malcolm Ronaldson }

  David Ronaldson } siblings, the first two by one mother,

  John Ronaldson } the second two by another

  Rose Ronaldson }

  John Symons, uncle of John and Rose, an unimpressive surgeon

  Susan Ronaldson, wife of David Ronaldson

  Georgiana Brewer, daughter of Mrs. David Ronaldson

  The Militia:

  Captain Robert Watson, a smart young officer

  His brother, Snippy, who shares his flat

  Major William Hay, Captain William Fraser, David Farquharson, Paton the paymaster

  Private Aeneas McLachlan, helpful in the infirmary

  Tradesmen of the Old Town:

  George Cotton, basket maker, real but less notable than Melville or Sharpe

  John Boyd and James Johnston, engravers, one more alive than the other

  Members of the Authority Club, a drinking establishment best avoided.

  Sundry medical and legal men, involved in a purely professional capacity, many of them also gracing the annals of genuine history.

  Note:

  The plot of this fictional novel is loosely based on a couple of documents held at the National Archives of Scotland, Edinburgh, ref.: GD237/21/55/1 for Cotton’s petition to the Council, and AD14 for 1810, the witness statements in the trial of John Symons for the murder of John Boyd.

  The case of the Duke of Kent and Mary Ann Clarke was a real scandal in the army in 1809, though almost certainly unconnected with either of the above matters.

  Prologue I

  25th. May, 1810

  George Cotton was, to be fair, quite a kind man, even to those who were not gentlefolk. It is true that the sight of a well-stitched glove, a fine watch or a good carriage stimulated his generosity, whether of time or of energy, to a greater extent than did the humble accoutrements of his own class, but he thought afterwards that he would have felt sorry for the lady anyway. She seemed very tired and somewhat agitated, and when she asked if she could leave a hamper with him for half an hour or so, rather than have her porter carry it all day, he was good enough to oblige. It was warm outside, without being bright, in a way May sometimes could be, and all his customers were sweatily dissatisfied. The porter, to whom he did not pay much attention, set the wicker hamper down in an out of the way corner, and the lady, who was not in the first flush of her barnage (but then Cotton was no spring chicken either), smiled gratefully as she thanked him. She did not then linger, or look at all at his goods, but left the shop with her porter and disappeared quickly amongst the subdued crowds of South Bridge Street.

  The hamper was not one that he had supplied: he did not examine it closely, but it looked quite elderly, the leather straps curled and dry at the edges. He had progressed thus far in his thoughts when another customer came in, looking for a new lid to her laundry basket, and Cotton and the customer began to hunt for one amongst the disorganised stock. This customer was not a gentlewoman, but he did his best to help her, all the same. When the hamper remained uncollected at the end of the day, he did not even notice.

  Prologue II

  3rd. August, 1810

  He shouldn’t have drunk so much. It hadn’t been a lot, but just now it was more than he needed. He wasn’t quick enough.

  He screwed up his eyes, but the darkness was just as patchy. The cobbles slithered under his feet. Shadows lunged and flickered. Walls caught his running hands. Seconds passed in hours, in seconds, and the footsteps behind kept coming.

  There were figures ahead, familiar figures. He reached for them, for safety. His breath shook. He had made it. He laughed. A stone moved under his foot, and he fell.

  Hard on his side, the wind knocked out of him, he lay. Above him, the hooded figure raised a sword like a sacrificial knife, and brought it down. Then it spun and fled.

  Relief, he thought, moving his arm vaguely to parry the blow. Safety, friends. Funny that he hadn’t caught his breath yet.

  Stars in the night, high above the city streets. Stars in the darkness around him. Then more darkness than stars. Then nothing.

  Chapter One

  I

  Charles Murray of Letho returned to Edinburgh that autumn not without contemplation of marriage. He was twenty-six years old, financially secure, and aware of where his duty lay: his only, younger brother was fighting Boney in the Royal Regiment, and he had no sisters. Marriage seemed to be the next step. He did not, however, have anyone particular in mind.

  He returned to the town earlier than was his custom, principally because he had been summoned by a letter from Mrs. Thomson, an old friend of his father’s, who was organising a charity concert and required, it seemed, the assistance of as many young men as possible. Murray sensed a conspiracy: Mrs. Thomson had successfully married off both her own daughters, but she had friends who were not yet in that happy position. So he went, because he was a dutiful individual, because he liked music, because he was pleased to be asked – better, to a young man, than not being asked - and not least because he was slightly scared of Mrs. Thomson. He returned to Edinburgh at the end of August on a day that already smelled of autumn, damp, bright and smokey, the streets of the New Town gritty under the carriage wheels.

  The majority of his servants had arrived the day before, and the back parlour in the narrow Queen Street house was warm and fresh. The pastille burners on the mantelpiece had been lit and extinguished, and gave off a faint, citrusy smell that reminded him briefly of Spain. He sat beside the fire for a moment or two, rubbing his face and springy dark hair, and appreciating a chair that was not being thrown about on ruts and cobbles. His longish frame always felt uncomfortable folded into a carriage, and he found it difficult to read and thereby distract himself. It was late afternoon, and he had dined very lightly at an inn: gradually he began to feel the need of further sustenance, and was just on the point of ringing the bell when Mary appeared bearing a tray of tea breads and sugar biscuits, freshly baked, followed by Robbins with te
a. Murray felt perceptibly better.

  ‘Is all well with the household?’ he asked, before Robbins could go.

  ‘Quite well, sir,’ the manservant replied. He had been in charge of the party that had arrived the previous day, and was quietly proud of having the house ready on time, despite certain problems which he did not, at that point, wish to bring to the attention of his master. ‘Several persons have left cards and messages, sir. Do you wish to see them now?’

  ‘I might as well,’ said Murray, ‘though I have no intention of going anywhere this evening. Indeed, if anyone threatens to call with anything less than news of a life-or-death crisis, I am not in.’

  Robbins bowed and withdrew to the hall, and reappeared in a second or two with several notes on a tray, which he set beside Murray. Murray finished his slice of tea bread and wiped his long fingers on a napkin before picking up the first card.

  ‘One from Mrs. Thomson, not surprisingly,’ he remarked to Robbins, who stood by waiting for any related instructions. ‘A meeting on Thursday evening at her house for the people associated with the charity concert – she refers to us as volunteers, which is a touching thought. One from Mrs. Freeman, reminding me that Blair is out of town, which I knew. I suppose I had better call on her, all the same. Mr. Armstrong, yes, Gavin Dundas, good heavens. I had thought myself a little too unfashionable for his company these days. Isn’t he engaged to the daughter of Lord Who’sit?’

  ‘That’s the claik, sir, aye,’ Robbins responded.

  ‘One from his brother Willie Jack, a little less grand. What’s this?’

  He picked out one elegant little card which had, on one side, a short stave bearing a treble clef with one minim indicating a C sharp. He turned the card over. ‘Charles Kennedy Sharpe, Princes Street’ was printed on the reverse.

  ‘Oh, very witty,’ said Murray with a short laugh. ‘I should have guessed, I suppose. I had better call promptly or he will make his little remarks to everyone about my lack of manners and the disappointing behaviour of the youth of today. Still, he is entertaining. But one cannot help wondering, as one laughs at his descriptions of other people, precisely what he says about you to them. Now, what on earth is this?’

  He lifted from the tray a smooth, heavy paper, sealed in black and addressed in a definite, rigorous hand. Murray did not recognise the writing, and tilted the seal to the light to examine it. It was hurriedly done and smudged, but seemed familiar, though he could not place it. He opened the paper neatly, but it was in any case so thick that the wax only lifted a layer off and did not tear all the way through. The writing inside was the same as on the wrapper, and to the point.

  Adam Square,

  August 28th., 1810

  Mr. Murray,

  Do me the honour of attending me at the hour of eleven on Wednesday morning. I should be pleased to consult you on a private matter.

  Your obedient servant,

  Melville.

  Murray read the note again, twice, and then looked once more at the wrapper. The note really did seem to be addressed to him, though to receive such a command from Melville – Harry the Ninth, the Uncrowned King of Scotland, Henry Dundas, Viscount Melville – was even nowadays not far from receiving a summons from the King himself in London: not far in which direction was another matter. Murray’s hand shook slightly as he folded the paper back into the wrapper. On what private matter could Melville possibly wish to consult him? He had never had anything to do with Melville’s exalted political activities, never worked at the Admiralty or even been to school with his sons. There was no connexion at all between his household and the Melville one that Murray could even begin to imagine. But from the tone of the note, there was no question that the meeting was optional. Murray would have to attend.

  II

  Robbins was not, usually, the talkative type. When he returned downstairs to the dark kitchen quarters, he did not mention the unexplained look of puzzled shock on his master’s face. In any case, he had enough to concern him without adding in Mr. Murray’s problems.

  As soon as he turned the corner of the stair, the smell of vinegar struck him like fire, and he began to cough. He made his way to the main kitchen. Mrs. Mutch, the cook, and Effy, the kitchenmaid, with wet cloths over their mouths and noses, eyes streaming, were preparing fish and vegetables for the supper, though they seemed to be discarding almost as much as they kept. Mary was nowhere to be seen. Robbins did not find that as suspicious as the absence of William and Daniel, who could be up to anything. Mary he could trust. Over the fire, whose heat made half the room virtually uninhabitable, he could see a large, solid brass preserving pan hanging, its sides and base nearly an inch thick. From it was issuing steam and smoke, and the occasional ominous spurt of dark liquid. It was also, clearly, the source of the stench of vinegar that seemed designed to purge the whole house.

  ‘What is that?’ he asked the cook. Mrs. Mutch’s beady little eyes widened above the damp cloth.

  ‘Chutney, she says,’ came the indistinct reply. ‘I’d say it’d be closer to charcoal by the time she’s remembered it, but she tellt me not to touch it and she near took the head off me the last time I went anywhere near her, so charcoal it will be.’

  ‘Och, Mrs. Mutch!’ said Robbins in frustration, and battling the heat he tried to sort out the chains and hooks that would pull the seething chutney clear of the fire. It spat at him, ungratefully. ‘Look,’ he said, half-satisfied with his work, ‘you ken she’s not well.’

  ‘You’re dead right she’s not well,’ agreed Mrs. Mutch emphatically. ‘She’s not right in the head. It took three of us to lift that pan up there, and never a word of thanks. And her that used to be so high headed and a more considerate woman I never worked with, but she’s getting that I cannot last here!’

  ‘Oh, do not say that, Mrs. Mutch, please!’ said Robbins, trying to sound firm rather than frightened. ‘I shall see if I can talk to her.’

  ‘If you can you’re near the only one!’ Mrs. Mutch called to him as he left the kitchen.

  Along the corridor was the housekeeper’s room, a mixture of office, linen store, sitting room and bedchamber. Robbins could hear voices, and as he reached out to knock the door he heard the words,

  ‘And when you are housekeeper, you will be able to – is that someone at the door?’

  Robbins put his pale head round the door, and said,

  ‘Mrs. Chambers, I think that chutney of yours is nearly done!’

  A grey-haired, emaciated woman turned in her chair and stared at him.

  ‘I hope you haven’t touched it, Mr. Robbins,’ she said suspiciously.

  ‘I had to move it a little back from the fire, for it was starting to burn,’ he explained. ‘Mr. Murray will be down soon, thinking you’re trying to pickle the whole kitchen!’ He tried to sound humorous, but it was not really in his nature.

  ‘There was no need,’ she said, ‘I was just on the point of attending to it. Jennet, come here and help me, dear.’

  Jennet, a frightened-looking woman past her youth, came forward from amongst a collection of linen baskets and put out an arm to help Mrs. Chambers out of her chair. Robbins was struck again by Mrs. Chambers’ appearance. She had, not long ago, been slim and tall for her middle years, always neat and alert, straight and competent. Now it seemed that old age, held at bay for a little, had breached the walls and taken her almost overnight, making her forgetful and confused, and angry with herself and others. He could see the day coming soon when she would have to retire, but he hoped he would not have to suggest it to her. She was not yet ready to give up her place in charge of the household, and only Mr. Murray could force her to do it. Robbins did not wish to call on that particular resource unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Mrs. Chambers was on her feet, a little hunched, holding, as a matter of habit, her right wrist in her brittle left hand. Her right arm had never fully regained its strength after a break a couple of years before, which should not have been surprising at her age,
but somehow had been. She was having a particularly bad day today, tired from yesterday’s journey which she had refused to admit would be too much for her. She paced towards the door with Jennet in wary attendance, and Robbins stood back to let them pass. Perhaps she would be in better form tomorrow, and he could talk to her about passing more of her work over to Jennet and Mary. He shuddered at the very thought.

  III

  Melville lived, when he was in Edinburgh and not at his estate at Arniston, or in London, or in retirement at Comrie, in Adam Square, off to the west of South Bridge Street just at the lowest point of its sweeping dip. The story was that such a dip was unnecessary, but that Melville himself had caused the street to be built so low so that he would not have to suffer the indignity of stepping down from it to his front door. Murray climbed the few steps with due respect and after a pause to breathe deeply, he tugged at the bell.

  The manservant who opened the door was tall, English and splendidly liveried. An expression of professional weariness passed briefly across his face when he examined Murray’s card: Murray was not sure if it meant that he was expected, but the matter was to be an unpleasant one, or whether he was not expected, and the butler had him down as yet another minor petitioner for the valuable ear of the great man. Whichever it was, he left Murray in the hall trying not to fiddle with the edge of his hat.

  The butler seemed to be gone for a very long time. In the tiled hall, the bare grate echoed the sound of a great thumping grandfather clock, acquired, according to its venerable face, from the very best Edinburgh clockmaker of half a century ago. It marked, thud by thud, the cold time going by, and at one point with a terrific stirring of gears it drew itself up and struck the quarter hour. Far away, almost as if in a different house, Murray could hear conversation, in masculine voices, and the occasional clink of glass. The only other sound was his own breathing, which was not much calmed by the wait.