‘Thank you.’ Hippolyta hurried on towards the bridge which crossed the Dee river: Patrick would already have gone that way this morning to reach the Wells. It was a fine, stone, five-arched structure, low lying, and built (as everyone announced proudly, by Thomas Telford, only ten years since) to withstand the sudden surges that could sweep down the Dee from the hills in wet weather. At the Wells end, the bridge road turned left amongst pretty birch woodland: at the village end of the bridge, where the inn was surrounded by rather elegant flower gardens overlooking the river, it was adorned with a number of elderly men sitting about a pump and warming their bones in the sunshine. Hippolyta regarded them with suspicion. One of them was wearing a dark greatcoat and a three-cornered hat, both indicating a rather dusty authority. She approached.
‘Mr. Morrisson?’
The greatcoated man straightened himself and removed his hat politely.
‘Aye, ma’am, that’s my name.’
‘You’re the constable here?’
‘Aye, ma’am.’ He straightened still further, but it did not render him any more impressive. He would have been in his seventies, thought Hippolyta with all the alarm of youth at such a prospect. ‘Have ye a complaint, ma’am? Has there been a disturbance?’ he asked slowly.
‘There has been a disturbance, yes,’ Hippolyta replied, deeply aware of all Morrisson’s cronies angling their ears towards the conversation. ‘Will you please come with me?’
‘Aye, ma’am, if you say so.’ Morrisson took up a battered walking stick and bade good bye to his companions, replaced his hat, and began to follow Hippolyta. She had to keep stopping to wait for him to catch up, and at last slowed her pace considerably to walk with him.
‘What seems to be the matter, then, ma’am?’ he asked
‘You’re needed at Dinnet House, Mr. Morrisson. There have been two deaths.’
Morrisson stopped dead.
‘Deaths! Michty!’ he exclaimed squeakily.
‘Deaths?’ came an echo from behind her. Hippolyta spun round. Mrs. Kynoch was there, her mouth open, wearing a strange kind of bonnet that resembled a stook of corn. Hippolyta hid a sigh.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘At Dinnet House, did you say?’ Mrs. Kynoch examined Hippolyta’s face briefly. ‘But of course you do not wish the world to know just yet,’ she went on more quietly, glancing around to see if anyone else had heard. ‘But is it poor Colonel Verney?’
‘Yes, and Forman, the manservant.’ Hippolyta resigned herself to a slow walk with both Mr. Morrisson and Mrs. Kynoch, who seemed determined to follow them.
‘Both of them? Good heavens: then was it a fever? They both seemed perfectly well yesterday.’
‘No, it was not a fever. Mrs. Kynoch, I have some disturbing news to tell you. They seem to have been attacked.’ She waited for Mrs. Kynoch to shriek, or faint.
‘Attacked?’ Mrs. Kynoch did not react as Hippolyta expected her to at all. Instead she looked rather thoughtful. ‘Is Miss Verney safe?’
‘She is there with her maid. She did not want to leave her uncle.’
‘Then perhaps – as Mr. Morrisson no doubt knows exactly where Dinnet House is – perhaps we should hurry ahead and see that they are both safe?’
‘Of course.’ Hippolyta was cross with herself for not thinking of it. ‘And I have sent someone to fetch my husband from the Wells to see the – the injuries,’ she added, defending herself in front of Mrs. Kynoch who, after all, she thought was a silly woman.
Mrs. Kynoch set a cracking pace back up through the village and out to Dinnet House, leaving poor Morrisson gasping some distance behind. Mrs. Kynoch herself was breathing hard, but she did not slacken until she had reached the front door. Inside, the sheet-covered chair and Basilia, white and slumped still on the seat where Hippolyta had left her, told their own story. Mrs. Kynoch did not hesitate.
‘Miss Verney, where is your maid?’
‘I’m here, ma’am.’ Tabitha slipped out of the parlour. Beyond her Hippolyta could see that the fire was still unlit. ‘I can’t get it to draw, ma’am,’ Tabitha explained.
‘I’ll see to that. Take your mistress upstairs and see that she dresses in something warm, and come back down for her tea. Is there brandy?’ she added.
‘Mr. Forman keeps it in the dining room, ma’am,’ said Tabitha.
‘Is it locked? Good, then fetch it on your way and give Miss Verney a good glass of it. Mrs. Napier, stay here, please, with the Colonel, while I see to that fire. I take it the kitchen fire is out?’
‘That’s right, and Mr. Forman is in there.’
‘Well, we shan’t disturb him, and we have nobody to sit with him just yet. Will you be all right here on your own? I shall just be in the parlour.’
‘Yes, yes, I shall be perfectly all right,’ said Hippolyta.
‘Then you can be here when Mr. Morrisson finally arrives, and show him what he needs to see. My! What a day!’ She rolled away into the parlour on her chubby feet, leaving Hippolyta sinking breathlessly on to the hall chair. She should have seen to the fire herself before she had left to fetch Morrisson, she supposed. Her mother’s voice reprimanded her. Still, Mrs. Kynoch had not had to look at two dead bodies, and all that blood! Thank goodness she had not fainted.
She stared across at the covered form of Colonel Verney, and felt a tear well in her eye. She had liked him, and more to the point, the Colonel had been kind to Patrick, promoting his practice. She hoped Patrick would suffer no harm from this. And poor Forman, with his beloved cats – who would look after them now?
She had her handkerchief out and was crying in earnest when Mrs. Kynoch came back out of the parlour and handed her a hot cup of tea.
‘You’ve had a shock, my dear,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll take this up to Miss Verney, then come back to keep you company.’
The hot black syrupy tea scalded her tongue, but soon dried her tears. She finished it, set the cup down and blew her nose. A step on the gravel outside helped her to recover: Mr. Morrisson, presumably, at last.
But it was not Mr. Morrisson: it was Patrick. She jumped up and flew into his arms.
‘What on earth has been going on here?’ Patrick demanded. ‘Ishbel said Colonel Verney needed me urgently.’ He gently pushed her back to examine her face. ‘You’ve been crying, dearest!’
‘I didn’t want to tell Ishbel what had really happened,’ Hippolyta explained, ‘but I have some very bad news for you. Colonel Verney is dead.’ She told Patrick the events of the morning.
Patrick’s grip tightened a little on her elbows, eyes turning to the covered chair beside the stairs.
‘Is that him?’
‘Yes, dearest. And Forman, poor man, is all alone in the kitchen. With the cats, though,’ she added.
Patrick crossed to the covered chair and went behind it to lift the sheet so that she could not again see the terrible bloody corpse. He studied it carefully, and at last reached out to touch the Colonel’s throat gently, tipping his head back to the upright position. Hippolyta watched him, not able to see the Colonel’s face, but observing how intently Patrick studied his patient, even in death.
‘Perhaps I should ask Dr. Durward to confirm my findings, obvious though they are,’ he murmured, half to himself. ‘No doubt this will end up in a court of law.’
‘If they find the man who did it,’ Hippolyta added. Patrick looked up at her in surprise.
‘You do not seem very upset, my dear,’ he said, more puzzled than reprimanding.
‘I am truly sorry for Colonel Verney, and for Forman,’ said Hippolyta. ‘And it has been a terrible shock. But somehow … you remember you used to tell me all about your medical jurisprudence lectures? I found them so interesting. And Mamma – well, Mamma would not throw a fit of hysterics at something like this.’
‘No, not at all,’ Patrick agreed drily.
‘But what could have happened? Do you think it could have been a burglar?’
‘It’s possible. But you didn’t men
tion whether Miss Verney had noticed anything missing.’
‘No, she has not yet said. But perhaps a burglar, who had once killed two people and imprisoned another to raid a house, would not have missed going upstairs and making sure that Miss Verney did not see him, either? And would have stolen whatever there was to be stolen from her, and she would have already noticed it?’
‘Perhaps.’ Patrick drew out his spectacles and tapped them on his hand. It was a habit of his she had begun to notice. ‘I had better go and see poor Forman.’
‘Do you want me to show you where he is?’
‘No: I shall find him easily enough from your description. You had better stay here in case Morrisson arrives: I passed him on the way not realising we were going to the same place, so he cannot be much longer.’
Hippolyta crossed the hall to stand near him, speaking quietly.
‘Is he any … any use?’ she asked, listening for anyone at the door.
‘Any use? As a constable, you mean?’
‘Yes: he seemed awfully feeble.’
‘He is. And he is growing a little deaf and confused, and he was never perhaps very sharp in the first place. But he’s the only constable we have, so we must try to assist him as best we can.’
‘Of course, Patrick.’
He clasped her arms again and kissed her on the forehead, smiled into her eyes and vanished through the servants’ door. Hippolyta sighed and paced the hall a little, swinging her arms to get the blood running and tapping her boots on the wooden boards, then she remembered she was supposed to be guarding a corpse, and went to sit down primly again on the hard wooden hall chair. It was not really a chair designed to be sat on for long: she thought that Colonel Verney looked more comfortable than she felt.
If it had been a burglar, why had he come to Ballater to burgle? If he were a local man, or if he were there for the purpose, might he not break into other houses, and commit who knew what violence? She shivered, picturing her neat little cottage.
If it were not a burglar, then who could it have been? She wondered about that, staring at the open doorway and listening for Morrisson’s slow footsteps. She barely knew the Colonel, but he seemed a respectable enough man, well known in the community. The guests, or congregation, at the service yesterday had seemed to like him well enough, and appreciate his hospitality. But then she remembered what had occurred afterwards in the village, outside the church. The merchant, Strachan: he had had some quarrel with Verney, certainly. What had he said?
She was struggling to recall Strachan’s words, and what Verney had said in reply, when there came a wheezing and coughing at the door, and Morrisson arrived.
Chapter Six
Morrisson was breathing so heavily that Hippolyta jumped up and led him over to the chair, feeling guilty at dragging the old man this far from his seat by the bridge. It was some minutes before he could even speak, and then it was through gasps for breath and wet lips that made his speech close to incomprehensible. Hippolyta left him where he was and hurried through to the servants’ quarters, where Patrick was standing by Forman’s corpse, looking about the room. The pantry had had a barrel no doubt containing ale: she drew off a cupful.
‘Mr. Morrisson has arrived,’ she explained, ‘but I am afraid he might pass out.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Patrick, and went after her with all speed. Morrisson was not a good colour as they returned to the hall, but he brightened considerably at the sight of the cup, and downed the drink lustily.
‘Thank you, ma’am, thank you,’ he said more clearly, settling back on the chair. ‘You’re gey quick on your feet, ma’am. You left me far anent ye!’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, but Mrs. Kynoch and I were anxious about Miss Verney’
‘Aye, aye, I understand. Now, what seems to be the problem here? A break-in? For the night watchman rarely comes all this way out of the village, ken.’
‘There’s a night watchman?’ Hippolyta was relieved. Surely he would have seen something suspicious, even if he had not been this far out. Perhaps this matter would soon be resolved, after all.
‘Aye, but he’s asleep the now, ye ken, ma’am.’
‘Of course.’
‘So,’ Morrisson went on with slow patience, ‘what was there that was taken awa’?’
‘We don’t know yet. Miss Verney is very shocked, you understand.’
‘I think perhaps,’ Patrick put in gently, ‘it might be as well if you saw the bodies, for they will have to be moved soon, no doubt.’
‘The bodies?’ Morrisson’s faded eyes sprang wide.
‘I’m sure I said there had been two deaths, Mr. Morrisson,’ said Hippolyta a little sharply. This was not boding well. ‘Colonel Verney and his manservant Forman have been – well, murdered, I suppose.’
‘Definitely murdered,’ agreed Patrick. ‘Their throats have been slit.’
Hippolyta swallowed: she had not thought too closely about where all that blood had come from. Morrisson tutted.
‘Their throats slit, eh? That’s gey, gey bad, that is.’
‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Hippolyta. ‘Hadn’t you better look at the bodies?’
‘Och, there’s no call for that!’ said Morrisson, quickly shaking his head. ‘If the Doctor here says their throats was slit, then I’ll take it that that’s what happened. I’ve never,’ he said, leaning forward confidentially, ‘much cared for the sight of blood, to tell you the honest truth, Mrs. Napier.’
Patrick and Hippolyta glanced at one another. Hippolyta thought she detected a warning look in Patrick’s eye: she was growing cross, and should consider holding her tongue. She sighed sharply, then heard a step on the stairs.
Basilia Verney, still pallid, her dark eyes like coal, descended the stairs in a black gown, followed solemnly by Mrs. Kynoch. Mrs. Kynoch’s gaze flickered over to the covered chair, but Basilia’s did not waver, gazing at the elderly constable.
‘Miss Verney, I am sorry for your loss,’ said Patrick, and she turned and put out a hand to him, touching his gracefully. Morrisson, clutching his three-cornered hat, bowed.
‘I’ll need to ask you one or two questions, Miss, if you are quite well. If not no doubt I can come back any time that’s convenient to you.’
‘I should rather answer them now, Morrisson,’ said Basilia in a low voice. ‘Mrs. Kynoch, would you mind staying with – with my uncle? Mrs. Napier, if you and Dr. Napier would be so good as to bear me company.’
‘Of course, my dear,’ said Hippolyta at once. Basilia led the way at a pace that would not have challenged Morrisson into the parlour, and seated herself in a chair, as if she feared she might break. Hippolyta sat next to her and impulsively took her hand. Basilia squeezed it.
‘Is that your uncle, Colonel Verney, that’s dead?’ Morrisson asked.
‘Yes, it is,’ said Basilia, in the same low voice.
‘And I hear his manservant’s dead and all, Mr. Forman?’
‘So Mrs. Napier tells me.’
‘He’s in the kitchen, Morrisson,’ Patrick put in.
‘There’ll be a blade nearby, no doubt,’ said Morrisson.
‘I couldn’t see one,’ said Patrick. ‘I did look.’
‘Och, it’ll be there. You ken what’s happened: Forman’s slit his master’s throat –’ there was a little gasp from Basilia – ‘and then in remorse slit his own. I’ve heard tell it happens,’ he added, confidently.
‘As I say, I could find no blade,’ said Patrick, dubiously. ‘Perhaps it is under him.’
‘Forman was devoted to my uncle!’ Basilia was suddenly emphatic. ‘He would never do such a thing!’
‘He was a soldier, was he no? And used to killing, then,’ said Morrisson.
‘Not my uncle,’ said Basilia stubbornly.
‘He’ll have been drinking, mebbe. When would you say it happened, Doctor?’ he asked Patrick.
‘Both bodies are cold,’ said Patrick, ‘and neither smells of alcohol.’
‘And Colone
l Verney was wearing evening clothes,’ added Hippolyta suddenly. ‘It must have been yesterday evening, before they even retired for the night.’
‘That’s when Tabitha says she was locked in the cupboard!’ added Basilia. ‘There: it cannot have been Forman. He was very fond of Tabitha, and he would no more have locked her in the cupboard for the night than he would have killed my uncle.’
‘If he was fond of her,’ said Morrisson obstinately, ‘that’ll be why he locked her in the cupboard, and didna kill her.’
‘We’ll look for a blade when Forman is moved,’ said Patrick. ‘Until then, it’s hard to be sure either way.’
Morrisson, satisfied at his morning’s work, set off down the hill to the village soon afterwards. Basilia burst into tears.
‘How could he think that poor Forman could have killed Uncle?’ she sobbed.
‘Come and stay with us until this is sorted out,’ said Hippolyta. ‘You can’t stay here on your own, and so upset.’
‘But what about Uncle? I cannot leave him here!’
‘Well …’ Hippolyta glanced around at Patrick, who was blinking rapidly at her. At that moment Mrs. Kynoch popped her head round the door.
‘Miss Verney! The daily woman is here. Shall I send her down to the village for the woman to lay out your uncle, and Mr. Forman?’
‘Oh! Yes, please, Mrs. Kynoch,’ said Basilia, and Hippolyta wished she had thought if it.
‘Then I’ll stay here with her for tonight, if you wish,’ Mrs. Kynoch went on. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll want to be here on your own – or not at all. Perhaps there’s a room free at Pannanich Lodge?’ She glanced at Hippolyta, who was delighted to be able to say,
‘There! Now you can come and stay with us after all.’ Out of the corner of her eye she noted a little satisfied nod from Mrs. Kynoch.
‘Thank you, Mrs. Kynoch,’ said Basilia. ‘I shall be staying at Dr. Napier’s house.’
In the end, they took the cats, too.
The woman from the village was not at all keen on cats, and white ones made her quite jumpy. It was enough to be spending the night in a house with two murder victims, they discovered, so while Tabitha packed clothes for Miss Verney and herself, Hippolyta found a large basket and, lining it with their own blanket, tempted first the kittens and then the mother cat into it with small pieces of the cold beef from the meat safe. She had the impression that the cats would have gone into the basket anyway, but wanted to see how much beef she was prepared to give them. Struck by a sudden idea, she went to find the stables and the pony, and called Patrick to help her bring out the little cart: between them they managed to harness the one to the other, for she was not at all sure that Miss Verney could manage to walk to the village on her own in her current state, and it would then be a simple matter to load the two little trunks on to the dickey at the back, and she herself could sit with Basilia with the cat basket on her lap. However, the pony was used to being led rather than driven, and drew the line emphatically at being led by either Patrick or Tabitha. Hippolyta had to manoeuvre herself out of the cart again and go to the pony, while Tabitha sat herself into the cart to hold the cats.
A Knife in Darkness Page 7
