A Knife in Darkness

by Lexie Conyngham

  ‘You – you left me by the gate while you played cards?’ Basilia demanded. Julian’s face fell a little.

  ‘Got a bit carried away, m’dear. Won quite a bit at first, thought I was on a lucky streak. Turned, of course: always does. But one day, you’ll see!’ He grinned stupidly at her. She glanced from the corner of her eye at Patrick and Hippolyta, and turned from him in disgust.

  ‘You would have wasted Uncle’s money in a month!’ she snapped. ‘You and your cards! I’m glad he listened to me!’

  Julian had a moment’s misgiving at that, and his eyes registered something distant. Yet that cheerful smile was still clear on his face, the smile, she thought, of a perpetually unlucky person who comes up sharp against an unlooked for piece of very good fortune. For once his card playing had been to his advantage.

  ‘I shall confirm that story with Dr. Durward,’ Durris said, half to himself, as they continued down the road to the bridge. Some distance ahead of them Miss Verney was marching along on her own, and Julian had returned to the Lodge. ‘Though I must say that I find the picture of Mr. Brown playing cards all night is more convincing than the one of him sneaking up to Dinnet House to meet Miss Verney against her uncle’s will.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to have the strength of character, does he?’ Hippolyta agreed. She had tried to tuck her hand back under Patrick’s arm but he seemed always to be at the wrong angle. ‘But it seems to me that she persuaded him to love her. Did you see his face when she accused him of assault? He looked betrayed!’

  ‘Surely there was some misunderstanding,’ said Patrick. ‘Perhaps he was not bright enough to understand that her kindness to him was not something more.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Durris, avoiding Hippolyta’s eye. She was glad. ‘I’m not going to arrest him for assault, anyway. Are you more convinced now, Mrs. Napier? Do you think it was Mr. Brown she met last night?’

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ said Hippolyta firmly. Julian’s plump figure and dejected posture fitted perfectly, and his height in comparison with Basilia. And whatever misgivings she had about Basilia, she doubted that their guest would be trysting with two different men in the course of twenty-four hours.

  They crossed the bridge to return to the town. The river was no easier than before, and the sky was again grey, more swollen looking even than the waters below. Durris left them at the inn, where he had managed to take a room despite the heavy tourist traffic: Hippolyta took the opportunity to go and see that the Dinnet House pony was still comfortable. It was, despite having bitten the stable boy three times: it had a self-satisfied air when Hippolyta greeted it, as though it had always said the time would come when someone would take it away from all this. She fed it a few oats, and walked it around the yard, while Patrick found some coins to console the stable boy.

  Patrick did not seem disposed to speak much, and when Miss Verney joined them for dinner – looking wistfully disconsolate – he clammed up altogether. Hippolyta did not find his silence either comfortable or comforting: what was going on in his head?

  She tried instead to focus on what they had learned in the course of the day, as she exchanged desultory words with Basilia and tackled the tender consolation that was Mrs. Riach’s roast beef. Mr. Brookes was in fact Mr. Burns, of the Burns Mortification, and had been sneaking around the village checking to see that his trustees were behaving themselves. He had found no evidence – or none that he would tell them – that there was anything amiss, but he was still investigating. He had examined the papers in Dinnet House and appeared to have no qualms about breaking into Colonel Verney’s study. He had been acquainted with Mr. Strachan and with Dr. Durward, and more to the point had been living in Ballater twenty years ago, when Mrs. Strachan’s father – Mr. Tranter – and their manservant, Rab … Lattin, wasn’t it? … had been murdered. So if the first murderer was the same person as the second murderer, Mr. Burns had been added to the list of possible suspects, along with the Strachans, the Strongs, and Dr. Durward, but not the minister and his wife. And Mrs. Kynoch, if she stood on a chair. It was somehow, even with the addition of Mr. Burns – and how strong was he really? – an unsatisfactory list.

  If it were not necessarily the same murderer in 1809 and now, she went on, clearing the last vestiges of gravy from her plate, then she had to say that Julian Brown had looked very likely until she remembered his fortunate night of gambling with Dr. Durward. If she had not, she suspected that Mr. Durris would have arrested him then and there on the little wooded path at Pannanich. But what about Basilia?

  She tried not to look at her guest across the dinner table as she considered the case against her. She had admitted that she had persuaded her uncle not to leave his money to Julian Brown – and she had lied to all of them about Julian Brown, saying that they believed him to be dead - and she certainly gained financially by her uncle’s death. Since she seemed to have persuaded Julian that she had some feelings for him, could she have been hoping for his help in murdering their uncle? She shook her head: she could not see Basilia trusting Julian to take any active part in their uncle’s murder. He was the very image of untrustworthiness. If he could not even remember his own genuine alibi, how could he possibly be relied upon to remember any untruths they wanted to establish?

  Basilia had been in the house that night: she could have slipped down after Tabitha and taken her by surprise. Basilia was of a slighter build than her maid, but that element of surprise could have made the difference. It would have been a simple matter to kill her uncle, for he would have trusted her, and then perhaps she found that Forman had seen her, or heard her? At any rate, of all the suspects she was the one most likely to get away with standing on a chair in the kitchen, for whatever reason she might have given. ‘What is that strange thing on the ceiling, Forman? No, come here and look – up there!’ and a quick slice with a sharp knife.

  Hippolyta shivered. Had Basilia heard the stories of the old murders, after all? Could she have drawn her idea from them, even?

  Perhaps, she thought, on a more mundane level, Miss Verney was so greedy to be her uncle’s sole heir that her apparent charming of Patrick had been some kind of ploy to have Patrick make over to her the money that Colonel Verney had left him. Heavens, did any of this make any sense? She was tired and anxious, she told herself, and though she was not entirely happy at leaving Patrick and Basilia alone together after dinner, in the end she excused herself, blaming the heavy weather, and went to bed early. Despite her rambling thoughts, she fell asleep straightaway.

  When she woke, it was completely dark. She felt cautiously across the bed to Patrick’s side: it was empty, and cold, and neat. He had not yet come to bed. What time was it, anyway? She slid over to his side, found his old repeater watch and pressed it. The delicate little chime told her that the last strike had been for half past two. Where was he?

  She half rose to go and look, and then hesitated. What if he were not in his study? What if he were not alone? She might imagine all kinds of things, but she was not quite sure that she was ready to find them, all the same. She lay still, head swirling again.

  Did she really believe Basilia Verney had killed her uncle? With or without her cousin Julian’s co-operation? She no longer liked or trusted Basilia as much as she had once hoped to, but it was a big step from that to suspecting her of murder.

  No, she was much more tempted by the idea of linking the latest murders with the old ones, for the chain of coincidences was too much for her And while she could almost persuade herself that Basilia was capable of slipping poison into a cup of tea, she could not quite see her slicing someone’s throat. No, it had to be someone who had been in Ballater in 1809, someone connected with the Tranters in Dinnet House. But who? If she was honest, the person she really wanted it to be was Mr. Strachan.

  Mr. Strachan, with his unctuous shopkeeper’s manner and his bad tempered snarls at the dinner table, made a much more desirable murderer than Miss Verney, whatever her faults. Only his wife, who may
well have been frightened to deny him, had vouched for his being at home on the night of the murders. He looked perfectly capable of slitting anyone’s throat if they so much as looked at him the wrong way. He had threatened Colonel Verney, in her very hearing, and of the trustees of the Burns Mortification was he not the one most likely to have embezzled some of the money? Dr. Durward had plenty of money and no interest in business, and the minister was an innocent, by all accounts. Mr. Strachan was surely the one most likely to have had something to hide and therefore the one most likely to want to prevent Colonel Verney becoming a trustee – or even just examining the trust’s papers. But what about Mr. Strong, the lawyer? He seemed upright and sensible, and dutiful, too: he would pay attention to any changes to the trust’s funds, surely, and to the possibility of any recipients of the bursaries being less than genuine. That was what Mr. Burns had been suggesting, she thought: either that students who did not exist were in receipt of bursaries – but surely that would be difficult to arrange in a small parish or group of parishes, where most people knew everyone else – or that real students were not in receipt of the bursaries they were thought to be receiving. Hippolyta considered, gazing at the dark ceiling. Either would be difficult to arrange in a country place: she was fairly sure that Mr. Burns was wrong, and in any case Mr. Durris was not going to allow him to travel to Aberdeen to investigate until the murderer was caught. Could Mr. Burns be the murderer? Could he have been a suitor for the lovely Miss Tranter – Mrs. Strachan now – and murdered Mr. Tranter because he stood in their way? But then why would he not have married Miss Tranter? Perhaps she did not want him: that would have been ironic. Understandable, then, that he might leave the country. But he had not left for another two years, so it seemed his conscience was clear. But then, she thought, he had not been flustered at the idea of breaking into Dinnet House, so perhaps if he had killed someone he would indeed have been quite calm about it. And, for pity’s sake, he was not Mr. Strachan. She wanted Mr. Strachan to be the murderer.

  She knew it was petulant, and of course she knew that for Mrs. Strachan to find her husband was a murderer would be beyond devastating. Hippolyta would not wish that on her. But she felt in her heart that Strachan was as guilty as could be, and she was desperate to find the proof. How could she do that?

  She considered hard. Strachan had been at home when Colonel Verney had been killed. He had apparently been in the cellar of his father’s shop when Mr. Tranter had been killed, but both he and Dr. Durward had been drunk, so perhaps – if he had not drunk quite so much, and waited until Dr. Durward was unconscious, then slipped out and back again … If he were stealing money from the trust, would it be in his house or in the shop? Would he show it in his business account books? She almost laughed at herself for such a ridiculous idea. But she felt an urgent need to go and look at Mr. Strachan’s shop again, and to see perhaps that cellar. Should she wait until the morning, go in on some pretext and wait until another customer distracted him before she slipped down there? But the shopboy would see her: they seemed to have eagle eyes for customers there. Could she go now?

  Her heart flicked into a swift, steady beat. Why not? She knew she could slip out of the house without disturbing anyone, and she could take the key with her so that she was not accidentally locked out. What about the shop end of things? She had no idea what the back of the premises looked like, but she knew there was an archway between Strachan’s shop and the next building, where presumably one could deliver goods to a yard – and perhaps even to an outside hatch to the cellar. She might be able to open it without having to go through a door at all.

  She would stay in her nightgown, she thought, and add, as she had last night, her dark cloak: all her dresses, even if she had felt up to lacing herself in unaided at this hour of the night, were altogether too wide and rustling for a discreet night time visit. Boots, however, would be practical, for she could walk softly enough in them. What about light? She had managed last night, chasing Basilia and her useless cousin, but she had been out of doors and the sky had still been quite light. Tonight was much darker, and a cellar would not allow in much natural light anyway. A candle would be a dangerous thing, and potentially fiddly to light in a strange place, and she could hardly carry it lit all the way from the house to Strachan’s shop. Either it would blow out or it would attract the attention of that observant night watchman, Lang. A lantern? There must be one around … she tried to remember where she had seen one. The most likely place was in one of those presses that lined the corridor in the servants’ quarters. She took a deep breath and rose at last, excited, and slipped her bare feet into a pair of short wool stockings, letting them roll down just above her ankles. A shawl would be useful for all kinds of things, she thought, and wrapped an old one around her head to keep out the night air: if she needed to carry anything, she could easily use that. Her boots were in the corner, and she slipped them on, tying the laces with care. Her cloak felt strange again over her nightgown, like an unfamiliar arm about her shoulders. She should probably not make a habit of this night time wandering, she thought: but she had to see if there was anything, anything at all in Mr. Strachan’s shop that could help to determine whether or not he was a murderer. Put it like that, and the whole thing seemed entirely reasonable.

  Downstairs she crept to the servants’ door and eased it open. All was quiet beyond it. She stepped to the corridor press and reached inside, and was rewarded by the feel of a heavy metal square lantern, with a windshield which would make it all but invisible as she crossed the green. She had brought a tinderbox downstairs with her, and quickly struck a light with steel and flint, her hands shaking just a little. The wick flared and she jumped, then adjusted it warily, checking to see that the lantern was all set to burn for a couple of hours, at least. The tinderbox rattled as she slipped it into a fold of her cloak, in case she needed it later. Then she tucked her cloak more firmly about her, twitched her toes in her shoes, and lifted the lantern, closing the press firmly again. The door back to the hall was ajar, and she slid quietly through, making for the front door.

  She was almost there. Her free hand reached out for the key, for it was for once in the lock. When the voice came, she almost dropped the lantern.

  ‘Where are you going, Hippolyta?’

  Chapter Twenty

  There was no fire in the study fireplace, and the room was cold. Patrick had moved the single lit candle from his desk to the hearth, where it gave a poor impression of a warm blaze amongst the shadows cast by the lantern. Hippolyta shivered, even in her cloak. Patrick did not seem to feel it: he looked as if he had started undressing for bed, and then lost interest. He sat opposite her, his coat off, his waistcoat hanging open, his neckcloth loose and his shirt undone. His face was tired, but his eyes glinted wide awake as he watched her. If he had been indulging overmuch in the decanter of brandy that sat beside him, there was little sign of it. She wriggled her toes in her boots, and huddled into her cloak, feeling dreadful.

  ‘Where were you off to, then?’ Patrick asked, as if it was of limited interest. He considered, and then added, for her information, ‘It’s rather late.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, but her voice did not emerge as strongly as she would have liked. She cleared her throat.

  ‘Were you, perhaps, hoping to meet someone?’ he enquired.

  ‘To meet someone? Not at all!’ she exclaimed, thinking of the night watchman and Strachan’s presumably empty cellar. She had actively wished not to meet anyone at all.

  ‘I only wondered,’ he said, ‘because of course this is the second night in a row you have gone – wandering – in the middle of the night, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh! But last night I was following Miss Verney …’

  ‘So you say. I note that you did not mention it to me, but only to Mr. Durris.’ He eased the brandy glass off the table and took a long sip, scowling, as if there were a bitter taste in his mouth. He set the glass down soundlessly. ‘If you discovered last night what Miss Ve
rney was doing, and that she was not – it seems – merely sleepwalking, then why did you feel the need to go out again tonight? Particularly as Miss Verney is, as far as I know, sound asleep upstairs.’

  Hippolyta shuddered. How did he know that? She glanced at the fire. Had he really been sitting here in this cold room all night, or had he been somewhere else? Was he half-undressed, or half-dressed? She slapped a hand to her mouth, suddenly nauseous. She could not even form the words in her head, let alone ask him out loud. He watched her, expressionless.

  ‘So then, Hippolyta,’ he asked in a flat voice, ‘who were you going to meet? Mr. Durris?’

  ‘Mr. Durris? No.’ She sat up straighter, suddenly angry. How could he accuse her of a liaison, when it was he …? ‘No, I was not intending to meet anyone – indeed I was hoping very much not to. I intended to try to enter Mr. Strachan’s shop cellars, and perhaps to see his ledgers, to see if I could find any clue that might prove him to be a murderer.’

  ‘What?’ Patrick’s jaw dropped.

  ‘I think – well, to be honest I sort of hope, because he seems so likely – that he might have killed Colonel Verney and Forman. I think he was embezzling money somehow from the Burns Mortification trust and he thought the Colonel would spot the irregularity when he looked at the trust papers. He would have known all about the murders twenty years ago: he might have been trying to divert suspicion by making them look so similar. He threatened the Colonel in my hearing, you know, and what if his business prosperity comes from money illegally obtained? He just seems so likely, and yet I have no proof!’

  Patrick stared at her for so long she thought he must have forgotten she was there. At last he took up his brandy glass again and drained it, pouring another generous inch from the decanter.