‘Yes: it was her family home.’
Well, thought Hippolyta, perhaps that was the simple answer to the question of where Strachan’s money had come from to expand his father’s modest business. He had not embezzled it from the Burns Mortification: he had simply married it.
The rain was a little more like rain as they descended the gentle hill of the main street towards the bridge. The inn sat looking out over the river, a picturesque spot, Hippolyta thought, tucked into its corner by the bridge and adorned, for the benefit of visitors, with its pretty gardens. They found the inn’s messenger boy quickly enough, as he sat by the door playing with a puppy.
‘Aye, I remember the doctor last Sunday,’ he agreed, as the puppy abandoned him for the attractions of Hippolyta’s parcel. ‘I fetched him here an’ all.’
‘Do you remember who he was supposed to see?’ Hippolyta asked, holding the parcel higher.
‘A wummin. I dinna ken fit wummin, ken. There was a Mr. Jenkins biding here the time, but he’s awa’ on up to … dinna ken fa. Caithness, mebbe? Onywyes, he was the one sent me off to fetch a doctor, for he said there was a wummin sick in the passage. Well, I dinna want to see a wummin sick. Bleeding, aye, that has somethin’ to it: you see some good injuries in an inn, times. There was a fella once cut off all his fingers wi’ a scythe, I seen him. But sick: there’s aye too much of that kind of thing. So I lit aff and fetched the doctor, and I brung him back. But by then Mr. Jenkins, he had a jug of whisky, and he wouldna have kent the wummin if she’d been his ain mother. Which I doubt she was, the age he was, an’ all. So that was that.’
‘Can you remember what time Dr. Napier left here?’
‘Time?’ The question puzzled the boy. ‘I dinna ken. It was night time.’
‘Is the innkeeper about?’ asked Hippolyta. The puppy was jumping to rather an impressive height, and its paws were muddy: she was doing her best to keep her skirts clean, but it was not likely to last.
‘You could try yonder,’ said the boy.
‘Why don’t you go and fetch him for me?’ asked Hippolyta with a smile and a small coin. The boy obligingly went, and the puppy, torn between his master and the tantalising parcel, sat in bewilderment and in a moment, with the quick exhaustion of the young, fell asleep. Hippolyta let her arm down in relief.
But the innkeeper knew nothing of Patrick’s departure time, either. He remembered the occasion well enough, and the search for a sick woman, but try as he might he had no clear idea of when Patrick had set out for home, just up the hill. It could have been nine, he thought, or it could have been eleven.
Hippolyta could have wept in frustration, but she tried hard not to let it show in front of Basilia. There was Patrick’s whole story confirmed, but she was no nearer to proving he had not left the inn, walked up the hill and killed Colonel Forman and his manservant.
Chapter Fourteen
Though she heard no strange footsteps in the middle of the night, and saw no wandering strangers in the front garden, Hippolyta did not sleep well that night. There must be some way, she was determined, that she could prove to Mr. Durris that Patrick was entirely innocent of the deaths of Colonel Verney and Forman.
She lay staring up at the darkened ceiling, trying to think the problem through, but her mind in its agitated state leapt from fact to fact and from fancy to fancy. It was night time: perhaps she should slip quietly out of the house and go to find Lang, the night watchman, and ask him where he had seen Patrick – or thought he had seen Patrick – last Sunday night. But even as her rational mind told her that prowling around Ballater at night was probably not wise, particularly with a murderer in town, her more romantic nature admonished her. Surely she could trust Patrick, her beloved new husband? What did it say about her that only weeks after their marriage and their strenuous journey here and the beginning of their new life together, she was ready to suspect him of cold-blooded murder? She felt herself blush with shame, and not just at the thought of being caught wandering about the village in her nightgown. But if Lang, the night watchman, could simply put her mind at rest, then where was the harm?
But what if he did not put her mind at rest?
What if he told her he had definitely seen Patrick, not somewhere innocently between home and the inn, but between home and Dinnet House? She swallowed hard. No, she should trust Patrick, whatever anyone said.
But, said another small voice in her crowded head, but she had not actually known Patrick that long, had she?
That was ridiculous, she told herself firmly. It was true that they had not perhaps known each other well for very long: they had met three years ago, when Patrick had come to Edinburgh to take some medical courses not covered at Marischal College, his university in Aberdeen. He had visited their house with other medical students, a little older than them, a little quieter and more studious, and she had taken to him almost immediately – he was, she fully admitted, extremely handsome. A year of social exchanges: a few moments at a dance, or a picnic, and they had an understanding. Then correspondence, and a visit to speak to her father, who was saddened, more than anything, to be losing his youngest and dearest daughter. Patrick’s elder brother, a comfortably-off farmer by Longside, had then met with Hippolyta’s father: Patrick’s own father was long dead. Negotiations continued on which her father reported faithfully to her, but she remembered no doubt at all entertained as to Patrick’s character. He had a reference, as was proper, from the Episcopalian minister in his home town to the Rev. Mr. Shannon in Edinburgh, and no one questioned it. He was no scoundrel, surely. But, said the little voice again, murder was not embezzlement. Murder was not theft and reset. Her father had said to her, à propos of one of his cases, that murder was an odd crime, and rarely habitual. What if Patrick had killed Verney because he knew Verney had named him in his will? What if he thought he needed the money to keep her in a house suitable for her status? She gulped again: how awful if he had murdered for her sake, but quite against her will! A dreadful thought!
The pillow was hot, wherever she laid her head, and she slipped out from under the covers, poured herself a glass of water from the carafe by the bed, and went to stand again by the window. The night time garden was dark and damp, and silent. She sipped the lukewarm water, and rubbed her eyes, then glanced back at the bed, at the long shape of Patrick’s body lying peacefully, turned away, under the blankets. She was more awake now, and much more rational, she told herself. Patrick would no more have murdered his old friend Verney than she herself would. She was being completely ridiculous. There was no need to see Lang, for Lang had no doubt – no doubt at all – seen Patrick somewhere between here and the inn, and that was that.
A vast yawn snatched her suddenly, and she stretched, a wave of sleepiness hitting her hard. She set the glass down and tucked herself back into bed, turned the pillow over, and almost immediately fell sound asleep.
The morning dawned cloudy but more dry than not, the air less stifling than it had been all week. Hippolyta’s morning meeting with Mrs. Riach went uncharacteristically smoothly: Mrs. Riach was absorbed in preparations for the dinner that night, accepted the ham with only a passing complaint (‘The Doctor will no eat it, a’ course, but the guests might think it fine enough.’), and listed proudly all the other things she was in the midst of baking and cooking. Hippolyta’s mouth was watering already. As a compromise, they agreed that the ham should feature in the shape of a raised pie, for which Mrs. Riach explained she had a very fine mould, and her hot water pastry was never kent to fail. Puddings and fools followed in the list, until Hippolyta wondered if there would be any room on the table for the guests’ own plates, or money left in the housekeeping for the rest of the year. But at least Mrs. Riach seemed happy: she spoke the King’s English as clear as glass, and left the room with no trace of a limp. Had she simply felt that Hippolyta would not allow her talents their full scope? Hippolyta shrugged: she had a dozen theories to explain the general phenomenon of Mrs. Riach, but no proof of any of them.
At breakfast, they heard the door and Ishbel’s rush to answer it. In a moment she came into the parlour to present a note to Miss Verney, who sat back in surprise.
‘Will you excuse me?’ she said. ‘I see it was directed to Dinnet House but to be redirected if necessary … Oh! It is from our clergyman – the one that you met last Sunday. He would like to know if he can hold the service here tomorrow, knowing that I have moved out of Dinnet House.’
‘I thought you said he came once a fortnight?’ Hippolyta asked.
‘Usually, yes. Summers are unpredictable, though – winters even more so!’
‘Could we hold it in here?’ Patrick queried, glancing about the not particularly large parlour.
‘If we moved the furniture back, and took the table out for the time,’ Hippolyta suggested. ‘We could use the hall table for the communion table, for at least it is rectangular and not round like this one. And we could bring in a few of the dining chairs … Do you think?’ she asked her husband. He frowned.
‘If it is not held here, where could we have it?’ he asked. ‘The inn would not perhaps be entirely proper. But perhaps Pannanich Lodge? Or the hotel there?’
‘It would be somewhat further for the clergyman to ride,’ Miss Verney said slowly. ‘But if you think one of those places would be better …’
‘It would be very cramped here,’ said Patrick.
‘But how much more friendly to have it in someone’s house, as is usual here, than to be in a hotel!’ said Hippolyta, who had the whole thing planned in her mind’s eye. ‘And we have your piano: I’m sure you could play beautifully for it.’
‘Or I could – if you wish,’ said Basilia modestly. Hippolyta smiled briefly at her. She knew they would have a poor showing if she herself played, so the matter was out of her hands.
‘I see I am defeated,’ said Patrick, with a grin and a sigh. ‘Please tell the clergyman he may come here if he wishes – but he will have to leave his horse at the inn.’
‘I’m sure that will be acceptable!’ said Basilia, already scribbling a note for Ishbel to take back to the waiting messenger. ‘Thank you so much, Dr. Napier!’
‘It will be to our advantage, too,’ said Hippolyta lightly. ‘Think of it: we have only to come downstairs and we shall be at church!’
‘We had better have breakfast cleared quickly,’ said Patrick. ‘And I take it you are going to warn Mrs. Riach?’
Hippolyta’s face fell. The thought had not occurred to her.
‘Yes, of course I shall,’ she agreed, trying to sound unconcerned. ‘In fact, I might tell her now, while she is in a good mood.’
She contrived to put the problem out of her mind, however, unwilling to annoy Mrs. Riach at this delicate time. It would be her first dinner, and she very much wanted everything to go right, particularly as Mrs. Strachan would be there. She remembered Dr. Durward’s challenge to her, to win Mrs. Strachan over as a patient: she had not done much towards that in the last week, but no doubt he had had no expectations that it would happen straightaway. These things had to be taken gently, she thought. There might be an opportunity that evening to drop a few words into the conversation about Patrick’s success with other patients, his popularity with the visitors to the Wells, his growing practice – but she would have to be subtle. There should be other conversation, too: for example, perhaps there would be some way to find out from Mr. Strachan whether or not he knew that Mr. Brookes had been seen outside his house? Or to probe into the most likely of the trustees to have done something untoward with the funds of the Burns Mortification? No doubt, even with Miss Verney there, the murder would be spoken of: could she watch her guests to see if any of them gave anything away?
She shivered suddenly: here she was, expecting to find out secrets from her guests, as if she were fully content that one of them should be a murderer. But what a thing to think! But then she had already considered the possibility that the murderer might be someone she had already met: and these were the chief people she had met since her arrival, and the chief people of Colonel Verney’s acquaintance.
Unbidden, the thought came into her head that of all the men, only Mr. Strong was too small to have been able to kill Forman easily: and there was always the possibility that he had used a chair, though she still found it hard to imagine. Even Mrs. Strachan would have been tall enough, she thought, then dashed the idea away: the very notion was abhorrent. Mrs. Kynoch, Mrs. Douglas and the Misses Strong were all far too small. She gave an involuntary chuckle at the thought of the Misses Strong conspiring in the act, one waiting on the chair and the other distracting Forman so that he would perhaps back into position – and then she remembered that she had liked Forman very much, and he had loved his cats, and she felt thoroughly ashamed.
Yet there was no doubt but that someone had murdered Forman and Colonel Verney, and someone would have to find out who that murderer was. Mr. Durris seemed very trustworthy, but the thought that he might suspect Patrick returned to haunt her, without all the baggage that had accompanied it in the dark of the night. What would Mr. Durris be doing today? Should she have invited him to dinner, too? It would have been a good opportunity to find out how his mind was working – was he the kind of person one invites to dinner? Again, it was hard to tell. He seemed equally at home in the kitchen and the parlour.
She jumped: she had glanced out through the trees of the front garden at the green, and there was Mr. Durris, heading unmistakably for the church. Was he about to pray for divine assistance? Or no: of course, he would be going to ask the minister, Mr. Douglas, for more information about the Burns Mortification. Before she had even considered what to do, she found herself walking swiftly – just short of an unladylike gallop – across the green, gloves tucked in her hand, fastening her bonnet strings as she went, and into the church.
Inside, she had to pause. What was she doing? She had never been into the building before, and had no idea where to go. If it was a typical kirk, it was probably fairly bare inside. Though she had slipped through the outer door, there was an inner door, too, double like the outer one. No one was about, and she put her eye to the crack between the two sides of the door. There was the minister, stooped and puzzled-looking, and Mr. Durris, gesturing to a nearby pew, perhaps intending that they should make themselves more comfortable for a little talk. She looked up above them. A gallery! Of course. She backed away from the door, and saw to her left the bottom of the staircase that must lead up to the gallery seating. Tiptoeing as softly as she could, holding her skirts to stop them rustling and turned sideways so that her sleeves did not slither against the wood panelled walls, she hurried upstairs.
In the gallery, she found herself most horribly exposed at a low railing, and quickly ducked down between the railing and the front pew. There were more steps in front of her, leading up to the back rows, and at the foot of them she saw a soft grey cloth and a brush. Evidently someone had been interrupted in the midst of their Saturday church-cleaning. She took the brush and began to sweep the pew gently, trying not to attract attention but hoping that if anyone saw her they might simply think she was there to help. Sure she had done her best to blend in, she cautiously peeped over the railing. Below was the thinning pate of the minister, Mr. Douglas, and his round shoulders straining the worn black of his coat, and Durris’ thick dark hair. He had laid his hat beside him on the pew, and she could see one white corner of his precious notebook. She paused in her sweeping, and strained her ears to listen.
‘… Burns Mortification?’ came Durris’ voice.
‘What do you need to know?’ Mr. Douglas asked in return. ‘I’m happy to give you all the help I can, though I doubt it’s much, all the same.’
‘Well, when was it set up? How? Who are the trustees?’
‘Och, it was set up before my time here. Mr. Strong and Mr. Strachan could mebbe tell you more about it all. My position as trustee sort of goes with the job here.’
‘So you didn’t know Burns himself?’
‘No, no. Mr. Strong and Mr. Strachan did, I think, years ago, before the gentleman left the country. He made his fortune abroad, you see, and being a generous gentleman with, I imagine, no family of his own, he wanted to use some of it to help others from his old school and parish. It’s no an uncommon thing, I believe: there are plenty of bursaries and so on if you’re at the universities, boys helped by all kinds of wee sums here and there left by grateful predecessors.’
‘Aye, I’m well aware. So this Mr. Burns is dead?’
The minister’s breath hissed dubiously through pursed lips.
‘I dinna ken about that. This here’s a mortification: I think for that you’d need something like a trust disposition and settlement – but I’m no lawyer, ken. You’d need to ask Mr. Strong about that.’
‘Where are the papers normally kept?’
‘They’re usually in their deedboxes in the session room.’
‘I see: and that would be locked?’
‘Oh, aye, locked up good and tight, normally. The registers is in there, d’you see?’
‘Of course, aye. So it was unusual for them to be so, well, insecurely kept?’
‘I suppose so.’ Mr. Douglas did not seem to think that a point of much interest.
‘And the trust is healthy? Do you administer a great deal of funds?’
Hippolyta, glancing again over the railing, saw the minister’s great round shoulders shrug.
‘I believe so. Mr. Strachan’s always saying it’s a generous fund, aye. But he’s the one for the numbers: he keeps his eye on all that.’
‘So Mr. Strachan does the accounts? And the money is presumably invested?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And Mr. Strong does the legal side.’
‘Aye, well, he would. Not that I think he’s had much to do, since he set the whole business up on Mr. Burns’ instructions.’
‘And you …?’
‘Me? Oh, what do I do, do you mean? Well, my predecessor was a trustee so it was simply assumed, after he died and I was called here, that I would just sit in in the same way.’
A Knife in Darkness Page 18