‘Not at all,’ said Hippolyta smoothly. ‘When my husband is engaged in his – very important work, I am most unwilling to disturb him. This is not the middle of Edinburgh, surely, Mr. Durris: a lady may wander safely in Ballater at any time of the day or night!’
‘My dear –’ began Patrick, but Durris was more interested in the information Hippolyta might have obtained.
‘Mrs. Napier, tell me what happened last night, then, since nothing we say now will have prevented you having gone.’
‘Well, I went out a little after Miss Verney,’ said Hippolyta quickly, before Patrick could intervene again. ‘She was just about to turn in to the street down to the bridge and the river. I followed her and she went directly to the bridge, then about halfway across it. Then I could see another figure come to meet her, in a – well, colours are difficult at night, but I’m almost sure it was a brown coat. This time I could see the shape and the height of the man much more clearly: the man in the garden, whether it was the same one or not –’
‘Surely you would not malign Miss Verney’s reputation by insinuating that she meets various men by night?’ asked Patrick, his head in his hands.
‘Certainly not,’ said Hippolyta acidly. ‘I think it maligns her reputation quite enough to suggest that she meets with one man by night. But I imagine that neither of you will be gossiping about it, and nor, I suppose, will Miss Verney.’
‘Please continue, Mrs. Napier,’ said Durris with a sigh.
‘They met about the middle of the bridge. He was a little above her height, but it was hard to say much about his build for his coat seemed thick, and I could not see his legs.’ Patrick made a little groan. Hippolyta chose to misunderstand him. ‘They were in the shadow of the bridge’s parapet. Anyway, they embraced …’ Patrick’s groan this time was a little louder. Surely he was not jealous of this mysterious stranger? If he was, how dare he show it in front of her!
‘I left then, for I did not want them to see me: the embrace was – was of a private and intimate nature,’ she stopped, not quite sure what to say next. Durris seemed quite pink about the ears. ‘But I was convinced that it was Mr. Brookes, my husband’s patient at Pannanich Hotel.’
‘Your patient, sir?’ asked Durris, and Patrick lifted his head from his hands. His eyes were wide and hopeless.
‘My patient,’ he agreed, ‘who is bedridden. He requires a servant to lift him and carry him, and goes about out of doors only in a wheeled chair, propelled by the same servant.’
‘Then how was he walking over the bridge on his own, embracing young ladies?’ asked Durris, with a straight face. ‘For you did at least imply that he was on his own, Mrs. Napier.’
‘He was, as far as I could see. At least, he was walking unaided. And it must be Mr. Brookes, for he has been seen, you know. Lang, the night watchman, saw him out by the Strachans’ house, on the night of the murder.’
‘That has to be a ridiculous rumour,’ said Patrick.
‘No, it isn’t, for Lang told me himself when I asked him what he had seen that night,’ said Hippolyta, forgetting that Patrick had forbidden her to go to see Lang. There was a moment of silence, as each met the other’s eye. Eventually Patrick’s gaze slid back to Durris.
‘Lang is a reliable man, I believe,’ he said quietly.
‘That’s the impression I have of him too, sir,’ said Durris. Neither mentioned the fact that it was Lang who claimed to have seen Patrick, too, that evening.
‘Yet …’
‘How well do you know Mr. Brookes’ case, sir?’
Patrick shuffled in his seat, and held his head firmly in his hands, thinking.
‘I have been attending him for two years, since he first came here. He asked for me by name …’ The pride that had been in his voice when he had first told Hippolyta that seemed more like confusion now. ‘I examined him, of course. He is desperately thin: he suffered from a number of diseases including, I believe, yellow fever, in the West Indies, where he made his fortune. He has never in my sight walked or made any great use of his legs, and he swore to me that they were useless. His servant, who is a local lad, carries him about without any great effort … His heart is not strong, and I should say that – I should have said that – he might die at any time.’ He frowned, staring down at the cloth on the parlour table, clearly reviewing his association with Brookes and wondering how wrong he might have been. Durris cleared his throat.
‘Might I suggest that we go and have a word with this gentleman at the hotel, then?’
‘I’ll fetch my bonnet,’ said Hippolyta at once.
‘I think you’ve had quite enough expeditions, my dear,’ said Patrick.
‘But I was the one who saw him!’ said Hippolyta. ‘If he’s going to try to deny it, I’m the one that can say no! I saw him!’
Patrick looked at Durris, who busied himself with his notebook.
‘Well, then, I suppose you’re right,’ he conceded, with an attempt at good grace. Hippolyta scurried off and was back in an instant, ready to join them. At last she and Patrick were going to make some progress in the business of finding him innocent.
Chapter Eighteen
As soon as they were outside the garden gate, Hippolyta tucked her hand under Patrick’s elbow, refusing to think he might pull away. After a moment, he squeezed her hand gently against his warm body, and they walked on. She glanced back irresistibly at the house, but Miss Verney’s bedroom shutters were firmly closed: nevertheless she allowed herself a tiny smile.
The congregation of the parish church had already dispersed, as if they had dissolved like sugar sculptures in the damp air. At least the rain had stopped, but the streets and the green were Sunday midday quiet as they set off. All three of them walked abreast to the street that led down to the river, Hippolyta in the middle, not quite sure if she should feel protected or hemmed in by the two tall men. She had been thinking hard about Mr. Brookes and what they should say to him, but then a thought struck her.
‘Mr. Durris,’ she began, ‘did you know that twenty years ago there was another murder – two, in fact – at Dinnet House?’
He glanced at her.
‘Mr. Tranter and his manservant, a Rab Lattin? Yes, I was aware of that.’
Hippolyta was momentarily irritated that he seemed to know more of it than she did, but then she took in the information and added it to her mental notes. So Mrs. Strachan’s maiden name was Tranter, then? And the manservant, yes.
‘Don’t you think it’s an extraordinary coincidence?’
‘Aye, maybe.’ He walked on a few paces, and then seemed to think he needed to rouse himself to a more thorough response. ‘It’s not so strange, perhaps, to have a man and his servant killed, though to have nothing apparently stolen on either occasion is odd. Dinnet House is a wee bit lonely there at the edge of the village, and it looks large and wealthy: I would not have been surprised at burglary with violence there on any night.’
‘But the coincidence of having a girl and her maid there at the same time, and no one else: doesn’t it look odd to you?’
‘Are you telling me you suspect the girl or her maid?’ Durris asked, with a wry look. ‘And do you mean for the present murders, or for both lots? I doubt Miss Verney is hardly old enough to have killed two grown men twenty years ago, nor her maid either.’
‘There’s the woman who was the girl in the first murders,’ said Hippolyta, though at once she regretted it. She had been playing with pieces of a puzzle, and had momentarily forgotten that the girl twenty years ago was now the lovely Mrs. Strachan. She added quickly, ‘And her maid: we know nothing about her, do we?’
‘We do, as it happens,’ said Durris mildly. ‘Her name was Jean Cassie. She died of the typhus, ten years ago or more in Aberdeen.’
‘Oh.’ Hippolyta mentally crossed her off, this anonymous maid, Tabitha’s predecessor. ‘So you know then that the girl was – is now Mrs. Strachan.’
‘Aye, we know. You’d be surprised at the records the she
riff keeps. We know that Mr. Strachan was questioned about the murders at the time, but he was thought not to have had anything to do with them in the end. There was – substantial evidence of the sheer quantity of alcohol he had consumed the night before, and we knew he had started before the men were killed.’
‘Because Dr. Durward was able to vouch for him.’
‘Aye, when he could stand upright himself,’ agreed Durris, and Hippolyta felt Patrick chuckle quietly. ‘They were young men then,’ Durris said politely.
‘He’s still fond of a glass or two now,’ Patrick grinned.
‘Aye, but I think it was a bottle or two then,’ said Durris, with a twitch of his eyebrow.
‘Is it my imagination,’ said Hippolyta, ‘or is the river wider than it was before?’
They paused at the peak of the bridge, and stared downstream, to their left. The river, always broad, was draped over its bed like a grey eiderdown, bulging and overstuffed at the edges.
‘It’ll be all those heavy showers we’ve been having,’ said Durris, eyeing the waters in a calculating way. ‘There’s a fair bit of that pasture will be lost. Look at the sheep.’
The sheep, indeed, offwhite and thin after their shearing, were lining up at the upper end of their pasture, grazing determinedly as if they feared that grass too might be covered soon. A boy with them was trying to encourage them over the road out of the way of the encroaching water, but the sheep were reluctant to leave.
‘It’s flooded before,’ said Patrick, nodding. ‘That’s why the bridge has been built so sturdily: there are often winter spates.’
‘Aye, it can be bad enough,’ nodded Durris. He gave the river a final analytical stare, then turned to continue on their way over to Pannanich.
The walk was not as pleasant today as it had been when Hippolyta and Patrick had meandered up arm in arm over a week ago. The skies were grey and heavy, the river noisy, the birds silent in the birch woods. Obscurely, Hippolyta blamed it all on the murders and on Basilia Verney: if they had never gone to visit Colonel Verney at Dinnet House, Basilia would never have invited her to paint last Monday morning, and she would not have discovered the bodies, and she would not have invited Basilia, that snake in the grass, to stay in their lovely little house. She shook herself, and told herself not to be ridiculous. The weather was heavy and weighing down on her, but all this rain would no doubt clear the air, and she would regard their poor bereaved guest much more charitably – particularly if they were able to sort out the matter of Mr. Brookes and the night time assignations. Perhaps he was imposing on Basilia in some way, and all she needed was their help to free herself from his demands? Yet she saw again in her mind’s eye that passionate embrace: Basilia had certainly not looked very reluctant at the time. Hippolyta felt herself blush, and addressed her gaze to the landscape. How could she paint those dark trees, wreathed in the mist of rain that draped the valley down to their left? How could she show the birches wet and dripping, the colours of their trunks and of the lush blueberries cushioning the ground beneath them? Those were much more appropriate thoughts for a Sunday afternoon, along with a few suitable prayers for Mr. Durris’ success, for ways to deal with Mrs. Riach, for Basilia’s happy departure, for murderers successfully discovered: this was how she should be thinking.
They passed Pannanich Lodge, square and wet and much nearer the water’s edge than it had been before. No one was sitting outside today, taking the air. The walk from there to the hotel seemed much longer than it had the last time, and Hippolyta found herself weighing on Patrick’s arm as they reached the top of the rise where the hotel sat watching over the valley. They were dewy, all of them, the men’s black Sunday coats grey, her own cloak sparkling as she let go of Patrick at last and led the way into the hallway of the hotel. Durris, last through the door, looked about. The parlour was full of fractious guests who wanted to be outside, and Brookes was not amongst them. Durris turned to find some servant, but Patrick waved his hat towards the stairs.
‘I know his room: follow me,’ he said, and led the way up to the first floor.
At the top of the stairs he turned left, and along the long corridor knocked on the last door on the left. In a moment a serving boy opened the door, surveyed them, and stopped in surprise.
‘I know Mr. Brookes was not expecting me,’ said Patrick at once, ‘but I hope he might see us. We are not here on medical business,’ he added in a louder voice, as the boy had already turned back into the room to announce them. They could easily hear Mr. Brookes receive the news of their arrival with pleasure, and he called them in, as the serving boy returned to open the door more widely in welcome.
‘Go and fetch some tea for our visitors, Henry, will you, and some of the cook’s delicious shortbread?’ Brookes said to him, and the boy scurried off. ‘Dr. Napier! This is a pleasant surprise on the Sabbath – and Mrs. Napier, too! And a stranger: more amusement for a poor invalid!’
‘I hope you will not find it all too tiring,’ said Patrick, slipping quickly into his professional role. ‘This is Dod Durris, from the sheriff’s office: he is looking into some incidents in the town and would like to ask you some questions.’
‘By all means, Mr. Durris. Please take a seat.’
The room was a large and pleasant one, taking up a corner end of the front of the hotel with views in two directions over the valley and the road. It was to all intents both a bedroom and a sitting room, and though the curtained bed stood against one wall, there were chairs and a sofa clustered around a cheerful fireplace, where the guests were expected to sit in some comfort. Mr. Brookes himself was dressed as if for the Kirk and lying on a daybed in yellow silk, a little old-fashioned but still with some style, which could be said, Hippolyta thought, of Mr. Brookes, too. He had pushed himself up on to his elbows with some apparent effort in order to greet them, but the effort seemed to have exhausted him, and at last she was assailed by doubts. Could he really have been wandering on his own about the town? When she looked at him, she found herself gravely doubting the evidence of both the night watchman Lang and of her own eyes.
They exchanged some remarks on the weather and on their respective church services that morning: Mr. Brookes had been to the centrical church, he said, riding in splendour on the back of a cart as he had not asked for a more dignified form of transport in time.
‘It’s a tremendously busy church!’ he said. ‘One can slip in at the back quite unnoticed in the crowds. Mr. Douglas’ sermons do not strain the intellect, I suspect, but they are nevertheless heartfelt, and leave me with a very tender feeling each week towards my fellow men. Ah, and here is more reason for tender feelings: the cook’s shortbread here would melt the heart of any heathen. Thank you, Henry. I think you may leave us for a little: no doubt Mrs. Napier has a hand skilled at pouring tea, do you not, madam?’
The boy bowed awkwardly and left them by the fire. Hippolyta poured the tea and handed the shortbread around. It was crumbly and delicious, and so fresh she suspected the cook had been infringing the Sabbath just a little.
‘Now, to business!’ said Mr. Brookes with glee. ‘What incident in the town could possibly require information from me? I am delighted to find I might be of use!’
‘You’ll have heard about the two murders at Dinnet House?’ Durris began solemnly. He brushed shortbread crumbs from his coat front and took out his inevitable notebook.
‘Yes, indeed! A gentleman I had not met, I think, and his manservant. I had not been to Dinnet House.’
‘The gentleman, Colonel Verney, was an invalid: perhaps you might have met him at the Wells?’
‘Oh! I had not realised. So he could have been coming up here? I’m still not sure I ever was acquainted with him. Colonel Verney, you say?’
‘That’s right.’ Durris surveyed Brookes, whose expression was as bland as his own. Hippolyta and Patrick made no sound. ‘Richard Verney. He was a Waterloo veteran, and inclined to relate his experiences there.’
‘Hm. It sounds faintl
y familiar, but the Wells are so busy these days. I am sorry I cannot help you. Had he served at all in the West Indies? Not that I should definitely have met him there, but there have been one or two with whom I have exchanged yarns about the places we’ve seen there.’
‘No, he hadn’t,’ Hippolyta spoke up. ‘Or not that he ever told his niece, anyway.’
‘He has a niece? Poor lady: she will have had quite a shock.’
‘She has had,’ agreed Hippolyta, admiring his sangfroid. Had he not been consorting with the same niece only last night? Could the Colonel have objected to their association – after all, Brookes was much older than Basilia – and so Brookes murdered him? That had been the motive assigned to Strachan, for the first murders, had it not? But Brookes was a newcomer to the town: it would have been remarkable if he had carried out the same murder twenty years on.
‘Mr. Brookes,’ said Durris, watching the invalid closely, ‘you have been seen in the village recently – specifically on the night of the murders.’
‘Have I?’ Brookes looked puzzled. ‘Forgive me: when did the murders take place?’
‘Last Sunday evening. A week ago today.’
‘I was not in the town at all last Sunday.’ Brookes shook his head sadly. ‘I felt myself too frail even to go to the kirk in the morning. It is a miserable thing, this weakness.’
Durris looked at him.
‘You were seen, by a most reliable witness, standing beneath a tree behind the house belonging to Mr. Strachan, the merchant.’
‘I was?’
‘You were.’
Mr. Brookes looked thoughtful, pressing his thin lips together.
‘And I saw you myself last night!’ Hippolyta plunged in. ‘Standing on the bridge to the town!’
Durris and Patrick both lifted hands to hush her, their eyes on Brookes. He seemed hardly to have heard her.
‘Who says they saw me at Strachan’s house?’ he asked slowly.
‘Lang, the night watchman. He’s observant and keen,’ Durris added with conviction. Brookes looked at him for a long moment, staring out from under the loose yellow lids that hooded his eyes. Then he gently set down his teacup.
A Knife in Darkness Page 23
