A Knife in Darkness
The First in the Hippolyta Napier series
by
Lexie Conyngham
A Knife in Darkness
First published in 2016 by The Kellas Cat Press, Aberdeen.
Copyright Alexandra Conyngham, 2016
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: 978-1-910926-22-2
Cover illustration by Helen Braid at www.ellieallatsea.co.uk
A Knife in Darkness
Dramatis Personae
Hippolyta Napier, newly moved from Edinburgh
Patrick Napier, a doctor gathering his practice
Mrs. Riach, a housekeeper with opinions
Ishbel, the maid, who keeps her opinions to herself
Dr. Durward, an established but retiring medical practitioner
Allan Strachan, unctuous merchant to the quality – or bad-tempered dinner guest?
Mrs. Strachan, his wife, very fashionable but not very forthcoming
Mrs. Kynoch, the late minister’s widow, not at all fashionable
The Rev. Mr. Douglas and his wife Alison, of the Manse
Mr. Strong, notary public, and his worthy sisters
Davie Morrisson, the village constable, of debatable competence
Rab Lang, the night watchman, more observant
Dod Durris, the sheriff’s officer, a man of mystery
At Dinnet House:
Colonel Verney, veteran of Waterloo
Basilia Verney, his niece
Thomas Forman, his batman
Tabitha, the maid
At Pannanich:
Julian Brown, a gentleman who needs mothering
Mr. Brookes, an invalid
Chapter One
Had she but known it, that small incident on the journey encapsulated much of what was to come. A staggering view, a medical case, a mystery, and an animal in the wrong place: if she had been able to read the signs, would she have done anything differently?
It had not been the smoothest of journeys. Exhausted by the whirlwind of post-wedding socialising in Edinburgh, Dr. and Mrs. Napier had waved goodbye to her friends and relations at Leith – some of her friends in tears at the firm belief they would never see her again, since after all she was travelling out of reach, beyond civilisation, where surely there were still wolves that would specifically eat not only pretty young newly-weds but also any letters or parcels of food directed to them. The little boat they had booked passage on, along with a quantity of luggage suitable for anyone moving home to somewhere beyond civilisation (and numbered efficiently in distinctive blue paint at the instance of her mother), turned out not to be the direct Aberdeen boat they had hoped it was, but instead called in to every port along the east coast of Scotland – and the definition of ‘port’ here was, as Patrick Napier remarked, a broad one. The sailors tossed other people’s boxes and kists about with a joyous abandon that made Mrs. Napier’s bridesmaid, Charlotte Moir, count over and double check the crate containing the new china at least twice an hour. On arrival in Aberdeen, as Patrick was ensuring the vehicles for their onward journey were in fact ready, Mrs. Napier and Charlotte oversaw with as firm expressions as a couple of nineteen year old ladies could muster the landing of their cargo, and were fairly satisfied – until Charlotte took a turn over a rope on the harbour’s edge and, in a desperate swoop of skirts trying to avoid a dip in the filthy water, managed to turn herself without turning her foot and broke her ankle badly. Patrick, who had been in circular negotiations with the unco-operative carriage driver, dived to help and muddied his new coat in an assembly of decaying herring guts. The carriage driver had to be distracted from some concerns of his own over a crate on the dockside to take them immediately, and in Charlotte’s case very painfully, to the relations in Aberdeen with whom they had hoped only to have dinner, where Charlotte was forced to arrange a prolonged stay. Patrick’s coat had to be tied to the top of the cart of luggage, where the smell was less likely to frighten the horses, and next day the Napiers, without Charlotte, set forth along the smart new Union Street to the west, to begin their married life together.
Patrick Napier had spent most of the journey reading some new medical textbooks he had acquired in Edinburgh, while his wife pressed her face to the window, admiring at first ripe farmland in the summer sunshine, a scattering of ancient castles and their outbuildings, and neat slated cottages along the winding road. They soon left the luggage cart behind, making the most of the good road to set a healthy pace, only stopping at the tollbars along the way. Past a village Patrick briefly identified as Banchory, the countryside became wilder and more beautiful, she thought: the hills grew steeper and more rocky, the birch woods danced about the road, the rippling shallows of the silver and brown Dee twisted and turned down the valley back to Aberdeen. Already she longed to take out her paints – if she had the remotest idea in which box they had been packed.
At one of several tollhouses – Kincardine something, she thought? – they noticed that the cart with the luggage had fallen behind, and the postilion, whose heart had never really been in the journey, volunteered to walk back to meet it, so they left him there. Mrs. Napier looked back and noticed that he seemed to think the cart might be hiding in the village inn, but passed no comment.
At last, after several villages had raised her hopes, and after the tollgates themselves had ceased, Patrick bent to glance out at the surroundings.
‘Nearly there,’ he assured her, with a smile. ‘Up ahead – that’s the Pass of Tullich, where the road goes to the right of that great outcrop, Craigendarroch. But we’ll turn left here.’
‘Is the village on the river, then?’
‘Spa town,’ he corrected with a grin. ‘Yes, it’s in a bend of the river. The local laird liked it called a spa town. He didn’t stoop to planning mere villages.’
She glimpsed the rock he pointed to before they passed into another of the same birch woods with all its delicacy, the road edges frilled with ferns. The carriage wheels grated as they left the fine surface of the commutation road and embarked on the side road for the village – spa town – then seemed suddenly to jump sideways. Her head was already halfway out of the window: she snatched at its frame with an exclamation, and tried to see further ahead. The carriage stopped.
‘What on earth …?’ cried Patrick Napier, a protective hand on her arm.
‘Oh, I see!’
Her breath was snatched away. A stag, his antlers sprawling wide, had skipped into the way of the carriage, causing the horses to shy. The coachman swore loudly but indistinctly, threw up the reins and plummeted to the ground. Mrs. Napier grabbed the door handle and in a moment was down the steps, and the stag, regarding her for a moment with wide, thoughtful eyes, stalked away.
‘Hippolyta! Do be careful!’
‘The coachman has fallen down!’
Patrick was out of the carriage in an instant – she never saw him move as quickly as when someone was injured or ill – his medical bag in his hand, fair forehead wrinkled with sudden concentration. He hurried forward to the casualty, lithe limbs quick to bend to attend to him.
Knowing the coachman was in good hands, Hippolyta Napier stepped neatly around him and went to soothe the horses, which, despite having caused the incident with their fright at the stag, seemed to feel that the coachman’s fall was an equal affront. The lead horse submitted to a degree of attention from
her as if it were quite his due, and the others gradually concurred behind him. She kept a hand on his soft nose and looked about her again with delight. What a country to come to as a new wife! she thought. How could anything be more perfect? Used as she was to the smoky streets of Auld Reekie, a daughter of Edinburgh, she inhaled the fresh Deeside air and no longer wondered why anyone would come this far north for the good of their health.
A movement caught her eye in the woods to one side. She turned her head quickly – bonnets were a severe impediment to subtle glances – and saw a figure in a brown coat, moving away through the trees.
‘Hello!’ she called out. ‘Hello?’
But the figure was heading away from them, stepping high over juniper and blaeberry. She had the distinct impression that he had been watching them – as indeed who would not watch an overweight coachman fall from his carriage? But he had not offered help, or even a greeting. Hippolyta was sure that such unfriendliness would not be typical of her new neighbours, yet she could not suppress a slight shiver as the figure shifted between pale tree trunks, and disappeared into the woodland shadows.
‘Yes, dearest?’ Patrick answered vaguely, slapping the coachman’s face lightly to restore consciousness.
‘No, not you, dear. There was a man in the woods there.’
‘Was there? A local farmer, no doubt.’
‘Could it have been a poacher, do you think?’
‘Can you hear me? Wake up! Hippolyta, what was this fellow’s name, do you remember?’
‘Robert,’ said Hippolyta definitely. ‘Robert Wilson. He said he lived in Auchmill, I think the name was.’
‘I doubt he’ll be going home tonight,’ Patrick murmured. ‘Come along, Robert, that’s it. Up you come.’ He eased the befuddled coachman into a sitting position, and the horses stirred uneasily at the movement behind them. Hippolyta patted the lead horse encouragingly.
‘What the bloody hell happened there?’ demanded Robert, who seemed to have wasted no time returning to his usual grumpy mood.
‘Sir, a lady is present!’ warned Patrick. ‘You fell from the carriage when the horses shied at a stag.’
‘Bloody beasts, all over the road. If it’s no stags it’s sheep or the like. Bloody teuchters.’
‘It’s all right, Patrick, I’ll avert my ears,’ Hippolyta assured her husband. ‘But Mr. Wilson, what’s a teuchter?’
‘It’s a rustic person, my dear.’
‘Oh!’ Hippolyta wondered if the coachman would like all deer and sheep to adopt a more metropolitan way of life, and a scene flashed through her mind of a couple of stags discussing current affairs in a coffee house on the Lawnmarket, while perhaps the sheep were busy in the lawcourts. She smothered a little unladylike snort of laughter behind her generous bonnet, and paid close attention to the horses.
‘No bones broken, Robert. Are you able to rise? You have a bump on your head that will no doubt swell monstrously.’
‘Aye, I can rise well enough,’ declared the coachman ungraciously, and indeed rose – and sat again very quickly. ‘It’s all ganging round and round,’ he explained, not at all pleased with the effect.
‘Do we have a drop of ale? And your smelling salts, my dear,’ Patrick called gently to Hippolyta.
‘Mr. Wilson’s ale I can see up on his footrest,’ said Hippolyta. ‘My salts … I’m afraid I’m not very sure where they are. In fact, I think perhaps I gave them to Charlotte.’
‘Oh, well: I’m sure the ale will help,’ said Patrick, and reached up for a leather-covered flask. The coachman snatched it from his grasp and took a healthy draught, blinked, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and considered the world through scrunched-up eyes.
‘I dinna ken,’ he remarked, obscurely.
‘I’d like to get him into his bed,’ Patrick said to Hippolyta. ‘He needs some rest, and a cold compress, too, to take the swelling. There’s an inn in the village …’
‘But we should put him up, if we can,’ protested Hippolyta. ‘He was hurt bringing us here and he’s in our employ: surely we can find a bed for him?’
Patrick pursed his lips, eyebrows high.
‘I suppose so. I think there’s room.’
‘Perfect,’ said Hippolyta. ‘And then it will be easy for you to keep an eye on him, too.’
‘The question is, though,’ said Patrick, ‘how do we get him there? He’s not fit to climb up to his seat, let alone drive.’
‘If we could manage to sit him into the carriage, do you think we could lead the horses along the road?’
Patrick was taken aback.
‘Do you think they would go?’
‘They might, if we asked them nicely.’
Patrick looked down at the befuddled coachman.
‘It can’t hurt to try, I suppose. And certainly neither of us can drive. In that case, my dear, could you possibly help?’
‘Oh!’ Hippolyta was not in the habit of manhandling strange men, but an image came into her mind of those friends at Leith Harbour and their dismayed gazes as she set off into the wilds. Her mouth formed a determined line. She had chosen the wilds, and she should face what came with them, even if it were nothing so out of the ordinary as a coachman with a bump on his head.
‘Any hints, Robert?’ Patrick asked the coachman as they settled him along the hard seat. The coachman tipped back, let out a wild groan and vomited over the floor. Hippolyta slapped her hands to her mouth. Robert slumped back on to the cushions, looking somewhat relieved.
‘There’s a bucket on the back of the carriage,’ Hippolyta ventured, trying not to breathe in. Patrick cast about, then pointed off the road beside the birch wood.
‘I believe there might be a stream there: I think I remember it rising in the winter.’
‘Rising? Up here?’
‘Oh, the Dee itself has been known to flood, you know! But there will be no danger at this little burn. Would you rather stay with Wilson, or fill the bucket? We cannot let him sit in this filth, I believe.’
‘No, not at all. I’ll go with the bucket, my dear,’ said Hippolyta. She unhooked the bucket from the back of the carriage, adjusted her gloves, and set off.
She was only thirty yards or so from Patrick when she found the stream, but it felt much further. If she did not look back at the carriage, she could think herself alone in the Highlands, a situation akin to nothing she had felt before. Papa would never have let her so far from his sight, and Mother would not consider it quite proper: and her sisters would laugh indulgently and gather her up with their own bairns, as if she were still a baby. A little thrill ran through her.
She steadied herself at the side of the stream, and leaned to dip the bucket into the clear silver water. She could feel the chill rise from it even though she kept her hands dry and her elaborate skirts clear. Keeping the bucket at the best angle she could find to scoop the most water, she gently straightened – and nearly dropped the bucket. The shadowy man in the brown coat was watching her again, from within the wood.
‘Hello!’ she called again. He must be shy, she thought. ‘Do you live around here?’ Struck by a moment’s anxiety, she added, ‘Are these your fields?’
The man backed off into the woods again, and turned away. A light, sunny breeze gusted, and the birch leaves tossed like a great shrug: he was gone.
She could see Patrick watching her from the road.
‘All well?’ he called.
‘Yes, yes!’ She strode determinedly towards him with the bucket, trying to look as if she negotiated this kind of thing every day. When she was closer, she added, ‘That man was watching again.’
‘Well, I didn’t imagine he would have gone far,’ Patrick admitted, taking the bucket from her with one hand and helping her back on to the road with the other. He glanced at the woods, and quickly kissed her on the lips. ‘There! Now he’ll know there’s no point admiring you from a distance: you are spoken for, ma’am.’
They laughed together, then remembered the task at hand. Robert
Wilson was lying back with his feet across the carriage, and opening both doors Patrick sluiced the vomit away fairly expertly with the water from the bucket. Then they returned to the horses, and with a few persuasive words from Hippolyta they eased them forward, encouraging them as they again took the strain of the heavy carriage.
And so Hippolyta Napier entered for the first time the spa town that was to be her home, leading a carriage and four with her new husband, while the coachman snored loudly in the carriage itself.
‘It’s like the New Town of Edinburgh in miniature!’ Hippolyta cried in delight.
‘Well, it’s very regularly planned, yes,’ agreed her husband. ‘This is the green, you see: and fortunately we have only to turn here …’ Conversation paused as they tried to work out a way to turn into the narrow street at the edge of the green. The corner into the village had been tight enough. ‘And here we are, at last!’
A cottage sat like an eager dog waiting for attention by the side of the road, two little dormer windows like anxious eyes above two ordinary windows downstairs, with the door in the centre. A little garden, full of summer flowers, softened its granite outline. Hippolyta beamed at it, and turned to smile a greeting at all the people – mostly small boys – who had gathered to see such an odd sight, and in gathering had helped them along from the foot of the village. The horses had been less keen on their welcome and had shied at several unusual noises, but they were now being led away to the inn’s stables for food and water, and a couple of labourers had been encouraged to help Robert Wilson out of the back of the carriage and into the cottage.
The way was barred by a stout woman in dusty black, who stood in the doorway and glowered.
‘Ah, Mrs. Riach! I’m back!’ Patrick hurried up to her. ‘May I present Mrs. Riach? Mrs. Riach, Mrs. Napier.’
‘Aye, welcome, I’m sure,’ said Mrs. Riach, with a slice of a curtsey that cut off Hippolyta’s greeting like a carving knife. ‘What’s this fellow, though?’
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