Crucible of Secrets by S. G. MacLean

Author:S. G. MacLean [MacLean, S. G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781849163149
Publisher: Quercus; Hachette Book Group
Published: 2011-08-03T16:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

Letters

By the time I reached the schoolhouse at Banchory, the sun that had guided my journey to Crathes was but a memory and all signs of summer were gone, replaced by a grey chill wind more fitted for November. The church bell had just rung out for four o’clock, and I knew it would be two hours yet before Patrick Urquhart could release his charges for the day. Not willing to be drenched for the sake of a nicety, I walked up the short path that led to the squat granite building and rapped hard on the door. The hum of young voices reciting their catechism faltered and stopped, and the door opened inward to reveal a roomful of expectant faces, glad of the distraction.

Patrick Urquhart was a little shorter than myself, but so gaunt as to give the impression of height. He had tousled, ungoverned red hair and his skin was the colour of chalk. His face was so pale it might almost have been devoid of life, were it not for the intense blue of his eyes, where all the soul of him looked to reside. As they took in the sight of me, I thought he was a man less in a state of surprise than of fear.

‘Mr Urquhart,’ I began, ‘my name is Alexander Seaton …’

‘I know who you are,’ he said.

‘Forgive me for disturbing your class in its lesson. I am here on the business of the Marischal College. My business will keep until the end of the day, and if you will permit me to shelter an hour or two here from the torrent that will soon be on us, I will disturb you no further.’

He turned away from me. ‘I cannot … I do not think …’ Then he stopped himself, straightened his shoulders and turned to the class. ‘A storm is about to break, children. Take up your things and get home as quickly as you can. You, Willie Slater, go through and light my fire, for Mr Seaton and I have matters to discuss.’ He said my name very clearly, deliberately.

Within three minutes, there was not a child left in the place, and Urquhart had bolted the outer door of the schoolroom behind them.

‘There was no need to dismiss them – I could have waited.’

He was taking some pains over the straightening of the small room’s few benches and the stacking of notebooks and did not look at me. ‘Some of them live far from the school, and have a great distance to walk before they reach home. I would have sent them away early whether you had come or not.’

His glance flickered for a moment to the as yet unshuttered window in the west side of the room and as my eyes followed his I thought I caught a movement past the window. In my eagerness to trace the letter of which Marjorie Cummins had spoken, I had almost forgotten about Patrick Urquhart’s brother.

The habitation into which the young schoolmaster

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