‘Cloths, Mrs. Riach, please,’ she hissed, and the housekeeper pulled herself together and trotted out of the room.
It took a few minutes to sort everything out, while the Misses Strong involved themselves on each side of him in cleaning Mr. Strachan down and talking incessantly around him, so that he had no space into which to speak any more angry words. When he was settled again at the table with a clean napkin and a fresh plate of beef, Mrs. Kynoch addressed Patrick in her high voice, loudly enough to involve the whole table in the conversation just in case they were tempted to revert to the previous subject.
‘Dr. Napier, I hope your marriage has not prevented you from playing in company! Will we be lucky enough to hear you this evening?’
‘If no one else wishes to play, then perhaps,’ said Patrick, with a smile.
‘Does Mrs. Napier play?’ asked Miss Ada, with a mischievous look at Hippolyta.
‘Not well enough, I fear!’ said Hippolyta. ‘I am his most appreciative audience, though.’ She glanced at Patrick, but his attention was on his plate.
‘I remember some lovely duets – and indeed trios, weren’t there? – with Miss Verney, do I not?’ asked the minister. Mrs. Kynoch shot him a look across the table.
‘Oh, yes: I believe I did hear you both play together once or twice,’ she said.
‘More than once or twice, I’m sure!’ Mr. Douglas went on. ‘I remember you played beautifully together.’
Hippolyta looked across at Basilia. She was blushing prettily.
‘We are fortunate to enjoy the same style of music,’ she remarked.
‘Mm,’ said Hippolyta. Fortunate indeed: she had tried quite hard to enjoy Patrick’s favourite old music, but Oswald and the Earl of Kellie sounded very dated to her ears. She preferred something like Thomas Moore, with which, to be fair, Patrick often indulged her.
‘We might play a little this evening,’ Basilia offered, meeting Patrick’s eye down the table. Her voice, Hippolyta suddenly noticed, was rather lower than usual, with something in it that made her feel just a little uncomfortable. ‘That piece we played through earlier was coming along very well.’
‘Oh! You are still playing together?’ Mrs. Kynoch was surprised.
‘Well, since I am staying here, Mrs. Kynoch, and I must practise, Dr. Napier was kind enough to accompany me, weren’t you, Dr. Napier?’ This time her voice carried a distinct purr. Hippolyta assumed what she hoped was a bland expression: she did not like the idea of her new friend trying to flirt with her husband at Hippolyta’s own dinner table. That was definitely taking advantage of someone else’s hospitality.
‘No doubt you will both delight us after dinner,’ she said firmly. ‘Mrs. Strachan, I am sure you play beautifully?’
‘I? No, no, not at all,’ said Mrs. Strachan, flustered. ‘Miss Strong is a very accomplished player, though.’
‘Then Miss Strong, perhaps you will also perform for us?’ Hippolyta asked.
‘I’d be delighted,’ said Miss Strong briskly. ‘It’s always a pleasure to be allowed to play on Dr. Napier’s piano. Our own is good, but Dr. Napier’s is a superior instrument, by far.’
‘I was fortunate to inherit it from my parents,’ Patrick explained with a smile. ‘My brother has no interest in music, and I have no sisters, so I laid claim to it as swiftly as was proper.’
‘No sisters!’ Miss Ada sighed enviously, with a laughing glance at her own sister.
‘Ada!’ warned her sister.
‘Ach, I was only pulling your leg,’ said Ada. ‘You’ve this place looking bonny, Mrs. Napier,’ she went on. ‘Your things all arrived on the cart all right in the end, then?’
‘Yes, in the end,’ said Hippolyta. It was true: the candlesticks and fresh paintings, the pretty épergne and bright floral curtains, all made a difference to the horrid old dining room, and in the candlelight even the mean, narrow table looked more like something designed to allow them all to join in the conversation. The parlour had been looking lovely too, she thought: she just hoped that the poor battered blackbird had escaped quietly through the window, without leaving more than a couple of feathers behind.
‘I heard that something more arrived, more that just your baggage?’ Dr. Durward raised his eyebrows.
‘Well, we think so,’ said Patrick. ‘A large crate disappeared from the cart during the night, or its contents did. The crate was left broken up. But it was not our crate, nor our contents.’
‘And no one knows who took it?’ asked Miss Strong, though Hippolyta thought she probably had enough of an ear to local gossip to know exactly who was suspected of what.
‘I think I might have an idea,’ she said, ‘but it would not be quite right to say, without proof.’
Mr. Strong nodded approvingly.
‘I think you said your father was a lawyer, Mrs. Napier?’ he asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘Aye, aye.’ He nodded again.
‘But what do you think was in the crate?’ demanded Miss Ada. ‘Surely you could tell us that?’
‘Well,’ said Hippolyta, ‘I think it might have been a barrel of brandy.’
She glanced about the table. The minister looked sorrowful, and his wife disapproving; the Misses Strong were excited at the mystery. Mrs. Kynoch was less excited and more interested, but she was watching Mrs. Strachan, who had only toyed with her main course. Dr. Durward laughed at the idea of a wandering brandy barrel, and Mr. Strachan looked furious.
‘I suppose it had come into Aberdeen and the duty had not been paid on it,’ Dr. Durward suggested, when he had stopped laughing.
‘I suppose so, if I am right. Whatever it was, it seems to have joined our baggage at Aberdeen harbour, anyway.’
‘Ha! In my limited experience, it is much more likely to lose baggage at the harbour, rather than gain it! A shame it escaped again before you had the chance to claim it, Mrs. Napier!’
‘The daughter of an Edinburgh lawyer would have done nothing so dishonest, I am sure,’ said Mr. Strong, just stopping short of wagging a finger at Dr. Durward. The doctor laughed again.
‘I am teasing Mrs. Napier, as I am sure she is well aware, Mr. Strong! Taking the liberty of an old acquaintance with your husband, my dear Mrs. Napier. I hope you don’t mind.’ He made a little bow, quite aware, Hippolyta thought, of his own good looks.
‘Not at all, Dr. Durward. Ah, pudding! Thank you, Mrs. Riach.’
Mrs. Riach had made the most of the garden’s soft fruits, and had even managed to obtain some ice. Whatever her shortcomings, or at least the difficulties in dealing with her, she was certainly a very accomplished cook, Hippolyta thought. And to have produced all this, with only Ishbel for help, in such a short time in a small, old-fashioned kitchen: she probably deserved her occasional indulgence in brandy.
With appreciative noises, the guests finished their various fools and flummeries. Hippolyta was waiting for a suitable gap in the conversation to catch the eye of Mrs. Kynoch or Mrs. Strachan and invite the ladies to leave with her for the parlour, when Mrs. Strachan herself cleared her throat and asked,
‘Mrs. Napier, have you had any chance at all, I wonder, to try a drawing of Craigendarroch? Mrs. Napier is a skilled artist, my dear,’ she said to her husband. Hippolyta thought there was a very slight quiver in her voice.
‘Indeed I have made a first, poor attempt, which you are very welcome to examine, Mrs. Strachan, since it was at your kind suggestion. Ladies, shall we rise?’ It was the first time she had done more than follow her mother or some other hostess, and she hoped she had timed it correctly, but Patrick nodded slightly to her with the ghost of a smile to support her. The gentlemen rose as Mrs. Riach set brandy and port on the table. ‘The painting is in the parlour, Mrs. Strachan: please come this way.’
The guests had not spent long in the parlour before dinner: the blackbird had surveyed them morosely from the curtain rail, unnoticed by the company, and the intending bird-murderer, Franklin, had rolled on the sofa cushions and
been made much of by Mrs. Kynoch. He had now absented himself, and the ladies were free to arrange themselves on the seats without having to consult a cat. Hippolyta glanced up discreetly: the curtain rail was bare of wounded birds. Relieved, she closed the window and rang for tea. Miss Verney picked up her violin and took it over to the piano in a proprietorial manner that Hippolyta found herself not quite liking, and the Misses Strong enveloped little Mrs. Douglas – who was not really little, Hippolyta realised, but seemed so as she was so self-effacing, and took her to the sofa to discuss the poor of the parish. Mrs. Kynoch settled Mrs. Strachan on another sofa, and was turning to find herself a seat nearby when Hippolyta leaned towards her. Basilia had begun to play the piano softly, and it was possible to exchange a few private words.
‘Is Mrs. Strachan quite well? Is there anything I can fetch for her?’
‘I believe she is quite well, thank you, Mrs. Napier. She has not been sleeping very well, and her appetite is not good.’
‘Yes … is there anything my husband could do for her?’
‘No, no! I’m sure she has no wish to see a physician! Begging your pardon, Mrs. Napier, of course, with two physicians here in the house, but I believe she has no medical complaint.’
‘I shall make sure Mrs. Riach hurries with the tea, in any case,’ said Hippolyta anxiously, and went to find out what Mrs. Riach was doing. She slipped through the door at the back of the hall and into the kitchen, where she found Ishbel propped against the workbench, thin arms folded across her chest, and Mrs. Riach sitting on the edge of her usual seat by the fire, knees wide and hands on her thighs, roaring with laughter. Even though she saw Hippolyta immediately, it took her a moment or two to recover and make some attempt to stand.
‘You’ll be wanting your tea,’ she announced, gasping a little.
‘Yes, when you’re quite ready, Mrs. Riach,’ Hippolyta said, a little tartly. ‘I am glad to see you enjoying your evening so much.’
‘Och, well, if you must invite the four men that dislike each other most in the whole village, ma’am, you have to laugh or else you’d just go and hide the good china. Ishbel, is the water hot there?’
Hippolyta had no idea what to say to that, so she left the kitchen with a glare at the housekeeper which did nothing for either of them. She prayed that Patrick was keeping the peace in the dining room, and paused for a moment at the closed door, listening for raised voices. There was nothing but what she thought sounded like amicable murmuring from within. She took a deep breath, and checked her appearance again in the hall mirror: the elaborate hairstyle with which she had experimented seemed at least to be staying in place, and the candlelight flattered her gold hair and pale skin. She grinned, trying to give herself a little more confidence. Should she really show the painting to Mrs. Strachan now, when Mrs. Strachan did not seem well? She wanted her to be in a properly appreciative mood, to be impressed enough to want to be better acquainted with the artist, and even, if such a thing were possible, then to turn to the artist’s husband in any time of medical need, not to spend her money on patent medicines from Aberdeen. It was as if Dr. Durward’s challenge had become, in her mind, the gateway to Ballater society: if she could not meet it, she would never fit in. Ridiculous, she told herself, and turned to the parlour door. She would see how things went: the painting would keep for another time.
Basilia was still playing when she went in, and the Strongs had moved on to discussion of a project to mend the parish’s mortcloths and other fabrics before they fell apart, according to Miss Strong. Mrs. Strachan looked up at her entrance.
‘Now, Mrs. Napier, may I see your painting? I have so looked forward to seeing it.’
‘Of course!’ Hippolyta turned. ‘Here it is!’
She gestured to the clean white space between the other paintings, dusted and spotless so nothing would detract from her delicate watercolour of birch-laden headland and cloud-light sky. The ladies turned to look, and there was a collective gasp. Hippolyta stared.
The painting was still there, but directly beside it was a strange shape on the clean white wall. She frowned. It was red and black, with other colours she could not quite identify.
‘What …?’
‘Looks like a bird’s got in,’ suggested Miss Ada helpfully.
‘Oh, no!’
That was why Franklin was nowhere to be seen. The blackbird must have made a bid for freedom, gone for the door instead of the window, and smashed into the wall. On the floorboards at the foot of the wall, in a pathetic heap, was the remains of the bird, well chewed. It had left only blood and feathers beside her picture.
There was a snort behind her. Hippolyta spun round, to find Mrs. Strachan clutching her hand to her mouth, eyes wide. She was laughing – more elegantly than Mrs. Riach, it was true, but laughing nonetheless.
‘Oh, I am so sorry, Mrs. Napier! And the poor bird!’ she cried. ‘But I am so grateful: I have not laughed for days!’ She dissolved again for a moment, and then recovered. ‘I have been so worried about all this murder business at Dinnet House I have not been able to sleep or think straight, and you have given me a moment of sanity! Thank you, Mrs. Napier!’
Chapter Sixteen
‘It is a charming painting, Mrs. Napier: I look forward to seeing much more of your work,’ said Mrs. Strachan, a little stiff with embarrassment, as Ishbel cleared away what was left of the bird. When she had gone, Mrs. Strachan continued, while Hippolyta poured tea for everyone. The after dinner cup was taken with more than usual enthusiasm. ‘It seems only fair that both you and Miss Verney here should know what - what we all know, I think?’ She looked about her anxiously: the Misses Strong and Mrs. Kynoch nodded, and Mrs. Douglas considered, eyes wide, before nodding, too.
‘I think I ken what you’re talking of, though it was before our time here,’ she whispered, and Mrs. Kynoch patted her hand.
‘I’m sure you’ve heard about it.’
‘But what?’ asked Hippolyta. ‘What is it?’
Mrs. Strachan smoothed her beautiful skirts, her perfect posture consorting oddly with her nervous expression, and glanced at Mrs. Kynoch for support. Mrs. Kynoch nodded to her, encouraging her to go on. Mrs. Strachan took a deep breath.
‘Twenty years ago – very nearly exactly twenty years ago – Dinnet House was my home. It had been my family’s home for many years. I lived there with my father, and we had a small household, just a maid and a manservant. Very much like you, Miss Verney, I believe.’
‘It sounds almost exactly the same,’ breathed Basilia. Her face was set, frowning in concentration.
‘My mother died when I was very young,’ Mrs. Strachan, ‘and I scarcely remember her, but my father and I were close, and it was a happy household. I would have been about your age, too, I think, Miss Verney: I had just marked my twentieth birthday.
‘You’ll no doubt have heard some of the stories about Dinnet House: the hidden Jacobite silver, for example.’ She gave a little half-smile as Miss Ada nodded enthusiastically. ‘I never found it! Though as children, several of us, my friends and I, would poke sticks into holes in the garden, hoping that something might clink and shine! There were tales of giants, too.’
‘And a murder,’ added Basilia, who was sitting on the very edge of the piano stool, gripping it tightly. Her toes in their little evening slippers pressed hard into the carpet.
‘We never told stories of a murder,’ said Mrs. Strachan clearly, ‘because then it had not happened.’
Hippolyta found she was holding her breath. She set her cup back in her saucer, trying not to let it clatter, and set it on the table, for fear of dropping it. Mrs. Strachan’s cup had been laid aside, and her hands were closely clasped in her lap, the fine cloth of her evening gloves twisted around her fingers. She seemed to need another moment to prepare herself: when she spoke again, her low voice shook a little.
‘One night, I had gone to bed early, feeling a little chilly. My maid helped me to change, and left me. I slept very deeply, but in th
e morning I woke to the sound of a terrible scream. I shall never forget that sound, or the way it seemed to echo against the windows, around the house. For a second I thought I had dreamed it, or that my dream had somehow transformed the cry of a bird, or a fox, into something awful, but I knew it was not true. I seized my shawl, and ran out on to the landing. The maid was standing in the hall below me, shrieking, her arms in the air, calling, I at last understood, for help. I could see nothing amiss: I hurried down the stairs and slapped her face, thinking she was having a fit of hysterics. In a way she was, but with good reason. She had risen and gone downstairs into the kitchen as usual, and found my father’s manservant dead on the floor – stabbed.’
Basilia gasped, and in Hippolyta’s mind all she could see was Forman, lying sprawled on the kitchen floor in his own blackened blood.
‘I called out for my father, but there was no reply. I ran upstairs to knock on his bedroom door – I remember how the panels shook as I hammered them - then ran inside, but his bed had not been slept in. When I came back downstairs I found the kitchen door was open, and when I ran out into the garden, there was my father – all silvered with dew – dead on the path. I knelt by him and took his hand in mine: it was cold, and he was stiff. He must have been lying there all night.’
She was dry-eyed, focusing on her memories, but Basilia started to sob.
‘But did they find out who murdered them?’ Hippolyta asked, and regretted immediately that her voice sounded quite so hard and business-like. Miss Ada bounced on the sofa, eager to speak, but her sister pressed hard on her arm. Mrs. Strachan drew herself back from the past, and gave a little shake of her head, half-denial, half flinging off the memories.
‘There was a great deal of hunting done at the time: the sheriff himself took up residence in the inn for a month, I believe. My father was a wealthy and influential man. Of course I was only a girl, and they told me very little. They questioned me, gently, to find if anything was missing from the house, and they asked me if my father and the manservant could have had some kind of falling out, but it seemed to me very unlikely for they were two quiet and kindly men, and as far as I could understand it, the knife that was used was never found. But I must tell you, for it may explain a little about his manners in the last week, that my husband was, I believe, the sheriff’s prime candidate for the murderer.’
A Knife in Darkness Page 20
