‘Dr. Napier, do you remember poor dear Forman’s asparagus soup last summer?’ she asked with a smile. ‘How much of it did we have to eat! Goodness, I thought I should turn green and stringy before we ever saw the end of it!’
‘There was a great deal of it, certainly,’ Patrick agreed, smiling in turn. ‘Poor Forman had discovered an asparagus bed in the gardens at Dinnet House, and he was keen to use as much of it as he could.’
‘We never bothered very much with the gardens,’ said Basilia, in reminiscent mood. ‘Uncle could not go out into them anyway, and it hardly seemed worth his employing a gardener just for me to wander around, or for Forman to have vegetables when we could buy better in the village. But we did manage a few evenings in the spring, last year and this, didn’t we? Before things became overgrown in the summer.’
Patrick nodded, finishing his soup absently. Basilia finished hers and sat back.
‘Oh, yes, very pleasant evenings. Do you remember when we discovered the old summer house? And the fountain?’
‘I find old gardens like that rather melancholic,’ said Hippolyta. ‘Now, the garden here is very pleasant, and always something interesting growing in it. Did I tell you I have a plan to buy some hens?’
‘There must have been hens at Dinnet House, too, I should think,’ Basilia went on. ‘It was quite expansive in its day: kitchen gardens, hens, an orchard and a pleasure garden with the summer house, all within the tall stone walls. Really, those walls seemed to trap the warmth. Those spring evenings were positively balmy, weren’t they, Dr. Napier?’
‘It sounds delightful,’ said Hippolyta, trying not to sound ungracious. ‘Tell me about the summer house, then.’
‘Well, it was very dilapidated, of course. Dr. Napier thought we ought not to go in, but I felt brave and with a little adjustment of parts of the roof – well, we could just stoop underneath and inside there was a seat which was almost good enough to sit on. From there one could sit and watch the birds in the roses outside, and smell the beautiful scent, and listen to the wind in the trees – oh! It was charming, was it not?’
‘It was a hazard, certainly,’ said Patrick. He let Ishbel clear his soup plate, and waited for Mrs. Riach to present him with the beef for carving. ‘I think there might even have been badgers underneath it: something had been digging around it over the years.’
‘Perhaps someone hunting for the Jacobite silver!’ said Hippolyta lightly. Mrs. Riach dropped a dish of potatoes heavily on to the table, and limped back to the narrow sideboard for the peas. Patrick frowned at his housekeeper’s hips, assessing them. Full skirts and the old-fashioned high waist of Mrs. Riach’s gown no doubt made casual diagnosis much harder, Hippolyta thought. Patrick carved the beef, and Mrs. Riach returned to distribute it to the ladies, then vanished for the kitchen. ‘Mrs. Riach has been mentioning that Dinnet House has always had a reputation,’ Hippolyta went on, then hesitated. After all it had been Basilia’s home for several years.
‘A reputation?’ Miss Verney’s eyebrows rose smoothly up her high forehead.
‘I mean for – ah, for odd goings-on. Nothing unrespectable, if that’s the word,’ said Hippolyta hastily.
‘I suppose she meant the old murder. Or the Jacobite silver, indeed,’ said Basilia lightly. ‘Uncle was always telling those stories, wasn’t he, Dr. Napier?’ She sighed. ‘I shall miss his old tales now, though I confess I often found them terribly dull. I wish I could hear them once again!’ She sniffed once, and the tears began to trickle.
‘My dear Miss Verney,’ said Hippolyta at once, passing her a handkerchief.
‘I am so sorry! One thinks one has cried all one can, and then off one goes again!’
‘I believe it comes in waves,’ said Hippolyta, remembering something her mother had said. ‘It is only a few days, after all: though time will no doubt help, it is too soon to be completely recovered, surely. You would be too unfeeling.’
Basilia dabbed at her huge eyes and nodded.
‘You are quite right. It is too soon – too soon to decide, too, what to do now. I tried to think about it this afternoon, but my mind simply will not turn to the question. Will you forgive me?’
‘Forgive you, Miss Verney? Why, you must simply stay here for as long as you need to. Such decisions cannot be rushed,’ said Patrick.
‘Thank you, Dr. Napier, you are both so kind!’ Miss Verney sniffed again, then blew her nose delicately. Her eyes were still lustrously moist, Hippolyta thought, watching Basilia’s gaze lingering on Patrick. It was something to be proud of, the way people obviously liked and depended upon her husband, she told herself. Quite something.
After dinner, Patrick excused himself to deal with some letters he had been unable to answer in the morning, busy as they had been with the funeral. Miss Verney and Hippolyta retired to the parlour and their sewing, not saying much. When the door was knocked, they both jumped, and listened hard for Mrs. Riach’s steady steps (no limp just now, thought Hippolyta, trying to gather information for Patrick’s diagnosis) to answer it.
In a moment, the parlour door opened, and Mrs. Riach, with a puzzled look, announced Mr. Durris. Clearly she, too, was not sure whether he should be allowed in the parlour or not. Hippolyta rose to greet him, and showed him to a seat at the table with them.
‘Is the doctor at home?’ he asked, looking about as if Patrick might be hiding behind the curtains. One of the cats tested his knee with a contemplative claw, then leapt on to his lap. He began automatically to stroke it, and Hippolyta gave a tiny nod of approval.
‘Mrs. Riach, will you tell Dr. Napier, please? Will you take some tea, Mr. Durris?’
‘Thank you, no: I’ve just had a cup or three,’ said Durris mildly.
Mrs. Riach gave a stiff curtsey, and after a few minutes Patrick came in, greeting Durris without surprise.
‘I hope that if I speak to all of you at once,’ said Durris, managing to stand and sit again without annoying the cat, ‘it will save a bit of time. There’s a good deal to do in such a case, as you can no doubt imagine, when there is no clear suspect. I’ve been to talk with the constable you called in, Mrs. Napier, and I’ll go to see the night watchman in the village when he’s likely to be up and about, and I already have a few thoughts in my mind, but I need to make sure I’ve covered everything, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Patrick nodded.
‘Now, Miss Verney,’ Durris turned a little towards her, but again not too far so as not to disturb the cat. It purred loudly. ‘I’d like you to tell me about last Sunday evening. Not just around the time the attack must have occurred, but earlier – say from dinner time?’
‘Of course.’ Basilia was white as chalk, but she sat up and laid down her sewing, folding her hands on the table top. ‘We had dinner around our usual time for a Sunday – around four, that is, rather early. Uncle always liked rather to have a substantial supper on a Sunday, sometimes with guests there, and though there were none last Sunday it is a habit we had fallen into. So we had dinner early, and I suppose then Tabitha and Forman had theirs in the kitchen. I played the parlour organ for my uncle, hymns, you know, which we sang together, and some Bach: I think I played the toccata and fugue in D minor, which was a particular favourite of his. He used to beat the rhythm along with me on the arm of his chair with great hilarity.’ Her voice broke, and she pulled out again Hippolyta’s handkerchief, applying it to those great eyes, which she then turned on Durris. He blinked. ‘I am sorry, Mr. Durris. This is altogether upsetting, and yet I know you must have our help if you are to find my uncle’s killer.’
‘Just go steady, Miss Verney, if you please,’ said Durris with solemn kindness. ‘Any detail might help.’
‘Of course.’ Basilia settled her breathing, gazing down at the tablecloth, and went on. ‘Forman brought in the supper around half past eight, and we ate it in the parlour. There was cold beef, I remember, and an artichoke pie. Forman was a very good cook.’ She caught her breath again. ‘We finished eating – a la
rge bowl of raspberries and cream – and then I said I should not stay up much longer for I find Sundays quite tiring, on account of all the playing. Oh, where shall we have our services now?’ she asked suddenly.
‘We’ll find somewhere,’ said Patrick comfortingly.
‘Services?’ asked Durris.
‘Our Episcopalian services: we have been in the habit of having them at Dinnet House on a Sunday morning,’ Patrick explained. ‘And Miss Verney has kindly played the parlour organ for our hymns.’
‘I see,’ said Durris. ‘Of course: the English church,’ he murmured. ‘Were there many at the service last Sunday?’
Basilia listed the people who had attended, and Durris wrote down the names.
‘Is it a – a peaceable congregation?’
‘It is, for the most part,’ said Patrick. ‘Our main bone of contention is the provision of a church building, though the need for one is something on which the congregation is united – that is why Colonel Verney’s legacy will be most welcome, though the circumstances are deplorable.’
‘I see,’ said Durris again. ‘Is there other money saved?’
‘I have no idea. The Bishop in Aberdeen will know, no doubt. As far as I know there are no definite plans of any kind as yet.’
‘The Bishop … very well,’ said Durris, quite as if he spoke to bishops at least once a week. For all Hippolyta knew, he did. He was a most ambiguous man, she thought. He nodded to Basilia to continue.
‘So he read a sermon to me, and we had our prayers, and I bade him good night and rang for Tabitha. It would have been about ten o’clock, I suppose.’
‘Did she come straightaway?’
‘Yes, I believe so,’ said Basilia after a moment’s thought. ‘She usually does, and I don’t remember anything different. I met her upstairs in my room, of course, and she helped me prepare for bed.’
‘How did she seem? Did anything strike you as strange about her?’
Basilia flashed him a look of alarm.
‘Why would she seem strange? Nothing had happened by that point, surely? Not when she came upstairs: it was when she went downstairs that she was seized.’
‘Aye, so she says,’ Durris agreed. ‘We only have her word for it, you ken. She could have gone downstairs and let someone in, for example.’
‘She has been with me for eight years!’ Basilia exclaimed, affronted. ‘I cannot imagine her ever doing such a thing! Besides, she would have no need to at that time of night: the doors were never locked until my uncle went to bed.’
Durris nodded slowly, making another note.
‘Very well, Miss Verney,’ he said, though Hippolyta thought he had not necessarily abandoned that line of enquiry in his mind. For herself, she hoped they were not harbouring an accomplice to murder in the house: she might have to do something about securing the doors at night. ‘So Tabitha helped you get ready for bed. And … er, how long might that take?’
‘Oh!’ Basilia thought. ‘Well, she brought me a chocolate, and it was very hot, so eventually when I was in bed I sat and drank that while she put my things away, and so on, and then she took the cup away and said good night, so I suppose perhaps the whole thing took around half an hour? Perhaps even three quarters. I believe the clock on the mantelpiece said eleven, or ten to eleven, just before I blew the candle out.’
‘And Tabitha would just have gone downstairs then?’
‘That’s right. Well, she left me, anyway.’
‘With the chocolate cup and saucer?’
‘Yes.’
‘I found it on a shelf by the back stairs,’ said Durris thoughtfully.
Basilia frowned across to Hippolyta and back to Durris, as if Hippolyta could explain the sheriff’s man’s thoughts, or stop him suspecting Tabitha.
‘So once you had said goodnight to her, and blown out your candle, then what happened?’
‘What happened? I fell asleep, Mr. Durris. As I say, I find Sundays tiring, and I had arranged with Mrs. Napier here to meet her to go painting in the morning, so I settled down at once and fell asleep. I knew nothing more until I woke at the sound of the front door in the morning, and opened the window to find Mrs. Napier outside. I was puzzled why Tabitha had not woken me, and why no one had answered the door, and I came to the top of the stairs to greet Mrs. Napier but she had just found my uncle – my uncle’s body - in the hall.’
‘I see,’ said Durris once again, making another careful note. Hippolyta wondered how important something had to be before he wrote it down. ‘Now, when would your uncle usually have gone to bed?’
‘Oh, around midnight, usually,’ said Miss Verney. ‘He and Forman kept late hours, and I believe that sometimes, after I had retired, they would sit together and reminisce about their army days over a brandy or two. They were better friends than many I’ve known.’
‘And do you know what Colonel Verney’s night time rituals were?’ Durris asked modestly.
‘I believe Forman would come and take him across the hall to his bedroom and help him to bed, blowing out the lights in the parlour before they left it.’
‘So the lamps would be lit in the hallway?’
‘It’s candles in sconces,’ Basilia corrected him. ‘It’s still rather old-fashioned. Yes, they would still be lit until Forman had settled my uncle, and had locked up the house for the night. Then I believe he would blow out the candles and retire to the servants’ quarters.’
‘He slept near the kitchen?’
‘That’s right, so as to be on the same floor as my uncle in case he rang or called out in the night. Tabitha, of course, slept in the attic.’
‘Of course.’
Of course, Hippolyta thought, unlike her own topsy-turvy establishment.
‘Yet Tabitha says she came downstairs and found the hallway in darkness, and when she was dragged into the parlour it, too, was in darkness,’ said Durris. ‘A situation which would normally only occur when the household had retired completely, yet Colonel Verney and Mr. Forman were still fully clothed.’ He stopped, and let them consider this strange contradiction for a moment, while the cat rearranged itself on his lap. ‘Hm,’ he remarked, as if he himself were not sure what to make of it all. His dark eyebrows twitched in confusion. ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘you’ll see that I have to work out where a number of other people were that night, between ten and eleven o’clock, and maybe even a little later: because the hallway was dark, of course, Tabitha would not be able to tell us if Colonel Verney was there at that stage or not. Fortunately it’s not so long ago that people will have forgotten where they were. You, for example, Dr. Napier: you’ll know what you were doing on Sunday evening?’
‘Of course,’ said Patrick, though he looked puzzled. ‘I was …’
‘You told me you were here all evening,’ said Miss Verney suddenly. ‘Don’t you remember saying so?’
‘Oh!’ said Patrick, appearing no less confused. ‘Then if I said so, presumably I was. I was here all evening, then, Durris, with my wife.’ He glanced proudly at Hippolyta. She smiled back, and squeezed his hand, pleased he had worked it out. She had not been sure they had been at home, but if he said so then that must have been the case. She remembered something.
‘Dr. Durward told me he was at Pannanich Lodge all night, playing cards with a patient of his: a Mr. Brown,’ she said. ‘At least, that’s what he told me! I’m sure he’s right.’ She glanced at Basilia, and was surprised to see her frown.
‘Do you know of anybody else, by chance? Don’t worry if you’re not sure: I shall check everyone anyway.’
‘You’ll never check everyone in the town,’ said Patrick with a smile. ‘We’re far too crowded these days!’
‘So people keep telling me,’ said Durris, ‘but I have to start somewhere. Thank you all very much for your time – and Miss Verney, is it still suitable to go through Colonel Verney’s papers tomorrow?’
‘Of course,’ said Basilia. ‘I shall go to Dinnet House around nine, if that will suit you? And I shal
l remember to bring my keys, of course!’
‘Thank you, miss: that will certainly make matters easier. Now, young fellow, where shall I put you?’ he said to the cat, which ignored him. He picked it up gently and handed it into Hippolyta’s arms as they all rose to bid him goodnight. The cat, unperturbed, purred quite as if such a move had been its intention from the start. He bowed and left.
They heard the front door close, and sat down again.
‘Oh!’ said Hippolyta, ‘I should have mentioned Mr. Brookes!’
‘Mr. Brookes? At Pannanich Lodge?’ Patrick was surprised.
‘That’s right. Um, someone told me – I’m not sure now who it was,’ she added carefully, remembering just in time that Patrick had told her not to question the night watchman, ‘that they had seen Mr. Brookes in the village, on Sunday evening.’
‘Had his man brought him in?’ Patrick asked, as Basilia looked from one to the other of them. ‘Mr. Brookes is one of my patients, a crippled man staying at the hotel at Pannanich Wells,’ Patrick explained.
A Knife in Darkness Page 13
