‘Mrs. Napier,’ said Mrs. Strachan, ‘I have been thinking about your lovely watercolours. I should so like to see how you paint this area. Perhaps you could make a study of the view to the Pass of Tullich, with the rock of Craigendarroch above it? I am sure you would depict it quite charmingly.’
‘You are very kind, Mrs. Strachan!’ exclaimed Hippolyta, as delighted as if she had received a royal commission. ‘I shall certainly consider it!’
‘Oh, aye, there’s lots of bonny views round abouts, if that’s your interest!’ agreed Mrs. Kynoch. ‘And then come the winter there’s other things to do, like the soup kitchen for the schoolboys. I’m very pleased to have met you, Mrs. Napier!’
‘And you too. Thank you for calling.’
Well, thought Hippolyta, that will be the start. From Mrs. Riach’s attitude, it seemed that the principal females of local society had called, and if she had been found acceptable, no doubt the rest would follow.
She was not wrong. The rest of the morning was soon disposed of as the minister and his wife arrived, disappointed but not altogether surprised to find that she was not of their flock. They were welcoming enough despite that, he a great countrified bear of a man and she a little mouse, whose face Hippolyta could barely remember if she turned away for more than a minute. They were followed, at a precise interval which made Hippolyta suspect they had been waiting around the corner, by a pair of elderly sisters whose brother was the local man of law: Mrs. Riach had evidently pegged them slightly further down the social scale, for the best biscuits were no longer to be seen. By the time they left, Hippolyta felt she was swimming in tea, and was delighted that no one else made an appearance.
‘Why do they all come at once, Mrs. Riach? And yet not all together?’
‘Aye, feels wi’in feels,’ muttered the housekeeper obscurely. ‘I’ll put the rest of the good biscuits out for Dr. Napier with his wine. He needs fattening up.’
‘I don’t really think he does …’
But the housekeeper had gone.
An invitation arrived later in the day from Mrs. Strachan for Dr. and Mrs. Napier to come to dinner on Saturday evening. Hippolyta felt she had passed some kind of test, and excitedly told Patrick when he came back for his dinner.
‘Mrs. Strachan? Well, the food should be good,’ said her husband.
‘Mr. Strachan is a merchant, isn’t he? He must be in a good way of business.’
‘Oh, yes, certainly. He’s a general merchant: what he does not stock cannot be bought in the three parishes, I should think.’
‘Mrs. Strachan is very smart.’
Patrick regarded her with a smile.
‘Not as smart as you, my dearest! You need not be nervous.’
‘Oh, I’m not nervous! I shall wear my brown silk gown. The blue one is still to arrive.’
‘Along with a good deal of other luggage,’ Patrick agreed. ‘I hope the cart has not been upset somewhere along the road.’
Two days after their arrival, Hippolyta was relieved again to be able to say to Mrs. Riach that she and the doctor would be out for supper that very evening, neatly pre-empting the Strachans’ invitation.
‘Oh, aye?’ was the housekeeper’s suspicious response. ‘And am I to be left in the house on my ain with yon loon up the stair?’
‘You’ll have Ishbel with you,’ Hippolyta pointed out, though the maid looked about eight and was unlikely to be much help in a struggle to the death. ‘And we’ll only be at – oh, what is it called? At Dinnet House, with Colonel Verney. Not far away, should anything happen, which I’m quite sure it won’t.’ She tried to imitate her mother’s brand of brisk sympathy, which had been applied over the years to servants and children alike: no one ran to Hippolyta’s mother for a warm cuddle.
‘At Colonel Verney’s, aye? That’ll be affa fine. You’ll no need much in the way of dinner.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Aye, he feeds his own well enough – so I’m told,’ she added, with a look of dark significance.
‘Why should we be considered Colonel Verney’s “own”?’ Hippolyta asked her husband at breakfast. Patrick looked up from his book and blinked. The table wobbled dramatically, but he had promised to be rid of it when her own table came on the cart. She had been eyeing up the bare bachelor parlour for artistic improvement when the cart arrived. She dabbed her spilt hot chocolate with her napkin.
‘I’m not sure. Who said it?’
‘Mrs. Riach.’
‘Are you settling in well with her?’ Patrick asked, addressing himself to his plate of eggs with more focus. They had already gone cold while he had been distracted by his book.
‘I’m not sure. She seems very nervous about having Robert Wilson still in the house.’
‘I think he’ll be fit to go home tomorrow,’ said Patrick. ‘I saw him this morning and he seemed very comfortable.’
The unworthy thought entered Hippolyta’s mind that the coachman had indeed looked very comfortable when she had seen him, and was perhaps in no hurry to leave.
‘Well, when he is gone we shall be able to start again. I should not like her to think she was in any danger in her own home.’
‘I’m quite sure she’s not,’ said Patrick vaguely. Hippolyta eyed his plate as he cleared it efficiently.
‘Do you think we should keep some hens?’ she asked.
‘Hens?’
‘It’s just – I’ve never had such a garden before! There is every plant in it I could desire, and still room for more. And a run of hens would be a lovely thing to have, would it not? You could have fresh eggs every morning, instead of having Mrs. Riach treat for them in the village.’
Patrick regarded her over the book.
‘Have you ever kept hens?’ he asked mildly.
‘Well, no. We had no room for such things in Edinburgh.’
‘Hm. Well, see what might be involved and tell me again. Remember there will be foxes here, and possibly pine martens.’
Hippolyta was momentarily distracted by the charming thought of such animals in her garden, and that moment was enough for Patrick to lose himself once more in his medical texts. She smiled indulgently, and finished her chocolate, wondering who to ask about hens.
The day sparkled with heavy showers amongst the sunshine: any hope that they might do something to lift the heat turned out to be false. The heat did little for Mrs. Riach’s temper, particularly as the cream turned sour even on the cool stone shelf in the pantry, and Hippolyta noticed that the housekeeper seemed to be limping quite badly. She mentioned it to Patrick as they were changing for supper.
‘A limp? She hasn’t said anything before,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ll try to watch her tomorrow.’
‘I hope she has not injured herself attending to Robert Wilson,’ Hippolyta murmured, feeling guilty.
‘Are you ready, my dear?’
‘Almost!’ She stood and fastened her cloak at her throat, and swirled to show him. Patrick beamed.
‘I always liked that brown gown in Edinburgh: it’s like greeting an old friend. An old and very elegant friend,’ he added quickly, a hint of mischief in his eyes.
‘It is not old at all!’ Hippolyta told him firmly. ‘And I beg you will say nothing of the sort this evening! I want to look smart for my new acquaintances, not make them think I care nothing for their invitation and turn up in any old thing.’ She slapped him neatly on the arm with her gloves, and they laughed. ‘Now, tell me about the Colonel.’
They set off arm in arm in the evening light - no sign of sunset yet in these northern parts, thought Hippolyta. Blossom in the hedgerows was richly scented after sun and rain.
‘He’s a Waterloo veteran, and lives with his niece and his old batman. He’s housebound, pretty much, which is why our services are there.’
‘Oh! He’s Episcopalian?’
‘That’s right. I warned you there’s no church nearer than Aberdeen, so a visiting clergyman comes and takes Communion in Dinnet House every second Sunday. There
are a few residents now who join us, and often one or two of the visitors to the spa.’
‘So he is a sociable gentleman?’
‘Not really. I have been there a few times, but there are rarely other guests. He is my patient, and has been a very good one, often recommending me to other people at the spa.’
‘Does that not make him unpopular with Dr. Durward?’
Patrick shrugged.
‘Dr. Durward is not eager to acquire new patients. He enjoys a quiet practice, I believe, and has money of his own so he is not dependent on patients for his income.’
‘An enviable position!’
‘I’m not sure of that, certainly at my time of career,’ said Patrick seriously. ‘Because I have to take anyone who offers me an injured leg or a gall stone, I learn much more about my profession. Dr. Durward prefers to read books. And I do not believe I could ever turn away a patient in pain or distress.’
Hippolyta squeezed his arm.
‘I am quite sure you could not, my dear. You are too good!’
‘Too good for you?’ he asked, teasing.
‘Maybe!’
Dinnet House was a plain, even ugly, old building, severe in the evening light at the end of a short drive between roughly kept lawns. The manservant who answered the door to them fitted the house very well: he stood with military precision in the doorway, with a face like a fortification. However, he ushered them into the house without hesitation, and Hippolyta found that the interior was a good deal friendlier than the exterior. The hall was warm with Turkey rugs and well-polished old furniture, and the drawing room into which the manservant escorted them was of a piece with it, with a good fire to ward off the evening chills. Two people were already in the room: a young woman, about Hippolyta’s age, stood as they entered, but the old man in the chair did not. Nevertheless, he cried out happily at their appearance.
‘Dr. Napier! Very good of you to come!’
‘Colonel Verney, may I present my wife?’
‘Damn it, I should stand for such a fine girl coming into my house! Forgive me, Mrs. Napier, the old legs don’t work as they used to. Here, take my hand in place of a bow.’
Smiling, Hippolyta approached and offered her hand, which he unexpectedly kissed. She curtseyed, a little confused.
‘Well worth the journey to Edinburgh for this, eh, Dr. Napier? This is my niece, Basilia,’ Colonel Verney waved, eyes still on Hippolyta. The two women curtseyed to each other, and Hippolyta was pleased to see Basilia’s fashionable gown and hair. She had been nervous that she would stand out oddly in her Edinburgh styles, but clearly the Paris plates made it this far north, and not just for Mrs. Strachan. Basilia was yellow-haired and pretty, with a broad, pale face only lightly touched with powder, and large, dark eyes. She met Hippolyta’s greeting with a very welcoming smile.
‘I have been looking forward so much to having someone my age to be friends with!’ she said at once. ‘I was so pleased when Dr. Napier announced you were coming! And I understand you love drawing and painting?’
‘Very much,’ Hippolyta agreed. ‘Which is fortunate, as I have no skills in anything else at all!’
‘Ah, we have that in common, then!’ said Basilia with a grin. ‘But alas, if you will not play the piano either, it will be a quiet evening! But of course, Dr. Napier has always played beautifully for us when he comes here.’
‘Has he? Oh, good!’ Hippolyta wondered how often Patrick had visited the Verneys, for he had not, to her recollection, mentioned them to her before.
The manservant brought a tray of negus, and the company sat. Basilia and Hippolyta found a good deal to talk about: Basilia asked about Edinburgh and their journey, and described various pretty views about the area which were popular to paint. Patrick was being interrogated by the Colonel over news from Edinburgh, too, a city with which he seemed quite well acquainted. Time passed very easily until supper was served by the manservant, when the Colonel was wheeled through to a dining room with a small supper table, and the rest followed. They sat to salmagundi and cold roast ham and stewed cucumbers, all very well prepared.
‘I know that this house is a picture of misery on the outside,’ the Colonel said as Hippolyta filled her plate happily. ‘So I try to make it as welcoming as possible inside, ably assisted by Basilia and old Forman here,’ he waved at the manservant who impassively continued to serve the wine. ‘I rented it when I had tried the wells for a few weeks and found much benefit: I wanted to be able to stay longer and be a part of the life of the village, as far as I could. Pannanich Lodge and the hotel are all very pleasant but they are full of sick people!’
‘It is a charming house, Colonel,’ said Hippolyta sincerely. ‘Nothing could be more welcoming.’
‘It’s an old Jacobite bunker,’ said the Colonel, with dismissive humour. ‘The Jacobites were rife here, apparently. Glad I wasn’t soldiering in those days.’
‘There’s a legend of a hoard of Jacobite silver!’ said Basilia, eyes wide. ‘It’s supposed to be buried somewhere near the house.’
‘Though improbably it’s supposed to be six hundred silver pennies hidden in a boot,’
‘That would be quite a boot,’ Patrick remarked thoughtfully.
The Colonel laughed.
‘My point exactly. But then there are legends of giants in these parts, too! And it’s true that the locals are of unusually great average height – or is it that I only see them from a sitting position?’ he asked with a smile at Hippolyta. She considered.
‘I have not seen very many people so far, but it is true I feel a little smaller here than I did in Edinburgh,’ she agreed. ‘But are there truly giants?’
‘More giants than kelpies or witches, as far as I can judge,’ said Basilia. ‘Everyone you ask seems to have known someone of extraordinary height – now dead, of course, and not able to be measured!’
‘It must surely have put the Jacobites at an advantage, if they could recruit giants from these parts,’ murmured Patrick. Jacobites were still a sensitive subject for Episcopalians, but they were amongst friends here.
‘It didn’t help them in the end, though. This house was besieged, they say, though it is not a place I should like to defend. There was a murder here, too.’
‘A murder!’ Hippolyta stared.
‘Yes, though I have no idea if it was a Jacobite affair or not. No one will tell me anything in detail about it, so I suspect there is less to it than it sounds. The best I have is that two men were killed, which makes me think it was probably a fight that ended tragically and one side or the other has called it murder. In any case, I have found no ominous bloodstains on the floor, and no ghost seems to walk dissatisfied through the halls at night, Mrs. Napier, you may be assured!’
‘Oh, but ghosts or no ghosts, the thought of living in a house where a murder has taken place is a little unnerving!’
Basilia smiled.
‘But you agree there is no lingering feeling of unhappy spirits, is there, Mrs. Napier?’
‘No,’ admitted Hippolyta, ‘none at all. Oh!’
For just at that moment something brushed against Hippolyta’s skirts under the table, and she jumped. Patrick pushed the tablecloth aside, bent down, and rose again holding a bundle of white fluff.
‘A kitten!’ cried Hippolyta with delight, all nerves forgotten.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, ma’am.’ Forman, the manservant, quickly scooped the kitten from Patrick’s hand. He had blushed to the roots of his receding hair, and held the kitten in one large hand, stroking its head with a delicate finger. All sternness had vanished from his face.
‘He has a tribe of them,’ the Colonel declared indulgently. ‘How many is it, Forman?’
‘She had six, sir.’
‘Six kittens and a cat. Forman was a quartermaster sergeant at Waterloo: organised food and drink for all his men, oversaw the wagon trains, fought off the Frenchies and got me seen to and set up when I was injured, but can he control seven cats? They have him run rag
ged, haven’t they, Forman?’
‘Yes, sir,’ admitted Forman, still stroking the kitten which purred loudly in his arms. Hippolyta put out a hand and let the kitten sniff her fingers, before fondling its silky pink ears. ‘Today one of them disappeared altogether, but I could hear it mewing. I was all through the kitchen trying to find it, then I discovered it had found a hole inside the windowseat and gone in under the floor – it’s a wooden floor, ma’am,’ he broke off to explain to Hippolyta. ‘I had to take up five floorboards to find it.’
‘And the mess under the floorboards was extraordinary!’ added Basilia. ‘I told him we’d better clear it out before he puts the boards back. Old bits of paper, rags, pieces of broken wood – I can only think they laid the wooden floor to make the kitchen warmer and then stuffed rubbish underneath to block the cold. It is a bitter room, isn’t it, Forman?’
‘It is, Miss,’ Forman agreed. ‘I’d best take this young gentleman back to his mother now, sir.’ He bowed to the company and vanished into the servants’ quarters.
The Colonel was eyeing Hippolyta, who watched the kitten wistfully.
‘He’ll be looking for homes for the kittens soon, I should imagine,’ he said pointedly.
‘Oh! Do you think he would let me have one? Patrick, my dear, could we have a kitten?’
Patrick considered.
‘I should think so,’ he decided.
‘Then if it is possible – if Forman would allow it, and if he doesn’t already have homes for them …’
‘I shall speak to him,’ said the Colonel with a smile. ‘I’m sure something can be arranged. I know Forman would not want them to go to bad homes.’
‘Such a delightful kitten, Charlotte!’ Hippolyta wrote to Aberdeen the following day, adding to her original letter until the carrier on Wednesday. ‘He is as lively as can be, and we have named him Snowball for he is pure white. This morning Patrick found him curled up asleep inside his hat when he went to put it on! But I must desist, or my entire letter will be kittenish. Basilia Verney seems a sensible, pretty girl of about our age, and I am sure she will grow to be a great friend: we already have much in common. But I wish you had not broken your ankle, silly girl, and then you would have been here with me to meet her – and the kitten!’
A Knife in Darkness Page 3