‘It does: why else would anyone come in here after Forman’s death and lift a floorboard? But who was it, and what did they find – and do they still have it?
Hippolyta fought her way down the road back towards the town, the wind whipping the thoughts from her head. It all seemed to make sense, she was sure. But who could it have been? Mr. Strachan? No, he had an alibi, and so, therefore, did Dr. Durward. Mr. Burns? Would he have been strong enough?
She jumped back as a roof slate crashed in front of her on to the road, and her heart raced. This was no weather to be out. Was that thunder? It was hard to tell with the wind lashing about her ears. She stopped by a small house to catch her breath, and to her surprise the door opened and she was bundled inside.
‘Mrs. Napier! What a day to be out in!’
It was Ada Strong, grinning up at her.
‘Oh, thank you, Miss Strong! I had intended to pay a call on you and Miss Strong, but not quite like this!’
‘Aye, well, you’ll be wanting a dish of tea, I should think – if we can get the fire to draw.’ Miss Ada led her into a cluttered parlour, and a maid removed her bonnet and cloak, scuttling off to try the fire. Miss Strong was beside the parlour fire wrapped in shawls, with a blanket over her lap.
‘Forgive me for intruding, Miss Strong,’ said Hippolyta, curtseying.
‘I doubt you had no choice,’ said Miss Strong. ‘My sister just announced she had seen you in the street, and took off to snatch you inside. You were not going anywhere urgently, I hope?’
‘Home, that is all,’ Hippolyta admitted. ‘But with the weather as it is, I am very pleased to stop for a little, if I am not disturbing you at all.’
‘Not at all, my dear,’ said Miss Ada with a twitch of her eyebrows. ‘It’s around this time of day that my brother crawls out from his bookroom and joins us in a weary cup of tea, and we’re delighted to have some company to liven us up a little.’
‘Ada!’ cried Miss Strong, as if it was her response to anything her sister said. The maid must have been ready with the tea, however, for she brought it in quickly, and in a moment Hippolyta heard a door in the hallway open and close, and Mr. Strong appeared, rubbing his hands together, his eye on the plate of shortbread. He was taken aback to see Hippolyta in the parlour, too.
‘Mrs. Napier! I had no idea you were here. Venturing out on a day like this!’
‘I was passing, and Miss Ada very kindly invited me in,’ Hippolyta explained.
‘Dragged her in, more likely,’ Miss Strong added with emphasis.
‘I was very grateful to be dragged,’ said Hippolyta with a smile. ‘And I had hoped to call on you, anyway.’
‘Is there gossip?’ demanded Miss Ada, her mouth full of shortbread. ‘Has anyone been arrested for killing the Colonel?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Hippolyta admitted: she was sure that Mr. Durris would have told her if anyone had. ‘But I wanted to know a little more about those murders in Dinnet House twenty years ago. What an extraordinary story!’
‘Isn’t it just?’ Miss Ada breathed, and even her siblings nodded agreement.
‘What was Mr. Tranter like? Was it difficult to think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?’
‘You knew him best, brother, didn’t you?’ said Miss Strong, tutting a little as she turned to find Mr. Strong brushing shortbread crumbs from his waistcoat front over the carpet. ‘They were at school together, weren’t you?’
‘He was a few years older than me, though,’ said Mr. Strong. ‘He was a quiet, bookish man, very strict in his religious observance even as boy. I doubt he kept a close rein on young Bella - Miss Tranter. Mrs. Strachan as she is now.’
‘I never had the impression that she resented that, though, did you?’ Miss Strong looked at her brother. ‘She’s always been a respectable girl, Bella.’
‘And would he really have approved of Mr. Strachan as her husband?’ Hippolyta asked tentatively, trying not to let her own suspicions of Mr. Strachan tint her voice.
‘Old Strachan was a decent man, an elder of the Kirk,’ said Miss Strong. ‘There wasn’t a great deal of money, I should have thought, in those days.’
‘Would Dr. Durward not have been a better match?’ asked Hippolyta. ‘And just as handsome.’
‘Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, of course,’ said Miss Strong knowledgeably. ‘And of course, he had no money then, either: just back from his medical studies and trying to set up his practice. Not so many people in Ballater in those days, either: he didn’t have it easy. They were both braw lads.’
‘And good friends, I gather,’ said Hippolyta, as if the idea were an appealing one. ‘It was a blessing for Mr. Strachan that Dr. Durward was able to confirm where Mr. Strachan had been on the night of those murders, wasn’t it?’
‘Oh, it wouldn’t have been the only night they spent in that cellar!’ cried Miss Ada.
‘Ada!’
‘Well, it wasn’t. Young Strachan never had a good head for drink: he was the despair of his father in those days!’
‘That can’t have appealed to Mr. Tranter,’ said Hippolyta, trying to sound concerned.
‘I suppose he thought he would grow out of it before he ever made an offer for Bella,’ said Miss Strong. ‘And he had, really: he started working with his father and the shop grew. It’s the young lad has the business head, of course. And there would have been plenty of money with Bella: Tranter was a gentleman, you know.’
‘Aye, capital, capital: that’s what that business needed,’ said Mr. Strong contemplatively.
‘Not that you would know much about such things, brother, eh?’ said Miss Ada with a sharp little smile. ‘My brother’s never had a head for the figures, have you?’
‘I manage well enough!’ Mr. Strong defended himself. ‘I could not have run my own business all these years if I could not manage the arithmetic, could I?’
Miss Ada pressed her lips together and raised an eyebrow at Hippolyta.
‘Ada!’ cried her sister.
‘In any case it must be very useful to have a successful businessman like Mr. Strachan amongst the trustees of the Burns Mortification,’ said Hippolyta, with as innocent a look as she could muster.
‘Oh, aye, it’s tremendously useful,’ Mr. Strong agreed. ‘And Colonel Verney would have been an excellent addition, too. I’ve never been very happy with only the four trustees: I suppose we’ll have to try to find someone else suitable now – someone that everyone will approve of,’ he added, sourly.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It felt like a rather bad idea to leave the Strongs’ moderately warm house, but the rain and wind had eased very slightly, and Hippolyta did not want to intrude on the Strongs any longer. The maid had done her best to dry at least the lining of Hippolyta’s cloak, and though it smelled very smoky it had a lingering warmth about it that made the first few steps into the rainwashed street tolerable. The air was odd, neither warm nor cold, with that slight fizz that comes with a storm – perhaps she had indeed heard thunder earlier. Like her, others had scuttled out to deal with whatever business was most urgent in the lighter rain, skipping over deep puddles and dodging waterspouts from roofs and pipes, clutching hats to their heads and shawls around their shoulders, keeping their greetings concise. The ground was sodden and slippery, and the green sat like a great loch in the middle of the village, the grass beaten flat and dark.
Interesting, she thought as she darted and ducked with the rest: the Strongs seemed to be in some agreement that Mr. Strong could not really have been keeping a competent eye on the business side of the trust. Mr. Strachan, with his excellent business mind, could easily have tricked him. But could he have tricked Dr. Durward? It would be a very good thing to have a talk with Dr. Durward, but she could hardly go and call on a bachelor in his house on her own. She would have to apply her mind to the problem of seeking out a few private words with him.
And Mr. Burns: why had she not remembered to ask them about him? Though Mr. Bur
ns himself had implied that he had not known Mr. Strong very well: he had been closer to contemporary with Mr. Strachan and Dr. Durward, with the Strongs somewhat older, and Mr. Tranter older again. Who else would have known him well? Mr. Douglas the minister was no use: he and his wife had only moved here since that time. The previous minister was dead.
But Mrs. Kynoch, the previous minister’s widow – she was still alive. She knew Mrs. Strachan well, and presumably had known the others all that time, too. She might be the person to ask for more details about the old murders. It was possible she might have something useful to say.
She pulled out her little watch, and checked the time, not sure by the day’s dreadful light what hour it might be. She was shocked to find out that it was dinner time. She skirted the soaking green, slithering on muddy paths, and hurried home, to find that Patrick was not to be there: he had sent a message saying he had been detained at Pannanich Lodge, but would try to be home before dusk.
Hippolyta glanced out of the window: it had been dusk all day. She sat gloomily with Basilia in the miserable dining room, doing her best to ignore Miss Verney’s continued apparent delight at what she evidently thought was a rupture between her host and her hostess. The meal was not one of Mrs. Riach’s best: there seemed to be water in everything, and a smokiness again from chimneys trying to draw in the brisk wind. They retired in virtual silence to the parlour where they had to light candles even to read the Aberdeen papers, until eventually Hippolyta could stand it no longer, claimed to be going out to fetch something from Strachan’s shop, and shot out of the front door still wrapping her cloak around her – a mistake, in the circumstances, as the wind was now violent.
Mrs. Kynoch’s little cottage, however, was just the other side of the green, visible from her own front gate. She stepped up to the door and knocked, before she could change her mind or the weather could send her running back across the green and home.
The cottage was tiny, when she looked at it, but possessed of an upper storey – well, half a one, anyway, the dormer windows low-set on the slated roof. Hippolyta was just wondering whether she herself would have been able to stand upright in it, when the door opened, and Mrs. Kynoch peered out. She was wearing an apron over one of her more vibrant printed gowns, and was clearly in the middle of something busy, but she greeted Hippolyta without hesitation and hurried her into the house, out of the rain.
‘My dear Mrs. Napier! Out in this! Come in, come in quickly, and I’ll pop the kettle on.’
They were in a very narrow hallway out of which a toy staircase ascended to the upper half floor. Mrs. Kynoch took her damp cloak and bonnet herself, and waved Hippolyta into one of the front rooms.
‘The parlour is much smarter, my dear,’ she squeaked, ‘but the fire has not been lit all morning, and you might catch your death, and then what would I say to dear Dr. Napier? And the girls won’t mind in the least.’
They were in a schoolroom, to Hippolyta’s complete surprise. At a round table in the middle, three girls of around eight or nine were practising their handwriting, and as far as Hippolyta could see they were very competent at it. By the window were two smaller girls with their sewing, one with oversized glasses sliding down her little nose and her tongue sticking stiffly out in concentration. An older girl, perhaps closer to twelve, leapt up with a smile at their entrance and swung the kettle over the fire, setting down her book which turned out to be a French reader.
‘Girls! What do we do when we have a visitor?’ Mrs. Kynoch put a gentle hand on the back of one of the little ones, and the girls all rose to their feet, wobbling into curtseys.
‘Good day, ma’am,’ they chorused, and Hippolyta found herself curtseying back.
‘Have a seat, do,’ said Mrs. Kynoch. ‘Just move Puss there, he won’t mind as long as he can sit in your lap.’
Hippolyta offered a finger and thumb to the nose end of the enormous mound of fur embedded in the only armchair. A condescending sniff was forthcoming, and the cat angled his head for a reverent scratch, then allowed Hippolyta to pick him up. His weight was equivalent to all six white kittens put together, and she felt she had been pinned into the chair. The cat began an anticipatory purr and she obliged by stroking him.
‘Some tea, Mrs. Napier?’ Mrs. Kynoch offered her a cup, setting it on a little table beside her where she could reach it without disturbing the cat.
‘Thank you. I had no idea you ran a school, Mrs. Kynoch.’
‘Oh! Well, it’s always good to keep active. And I took great pleasure in learning myself when I was young, and it does young women no harm at all to have their letters and numbers, as well as the more domestic tasks.’
‘Not at all!’ Hippolyta agreed. ‘But French, too?’
The older girl with the French book looked up defensively.
‘All learning is useful,’ she said clearly.
‘I agree,’ said Hippolyta, as Mrs. Kynoch gave the girl a warning glance. ‘I’m delighted to find it here.’ She hoped she did not sound too much as if she had expected Ballater to be an illiterate backwater.
‘We do a little German and Italian, too, just enough to be able to read easy forms of the classics,’ Mrs. Kynoch continued. Hippolyta looked in astonishment about the room, which was lined with books. She had underestimated Mrs. Kynoch’s education, clearly.
‘I’m sorry to have interrupted your work,’ she began, more optimistic than she had felt before, ‘but I had wanted to ask you something.’
‘Then ask, by all means!’
‘I don’t know if you will wish to answer in front of your pupils,’ said Hippolyta, with an apologetic look at the girl reading French. ‘It concerns – what Mrs. Strachan told Miss Verney and me on Saturday night. The events of 1809.’
‘Oh yes.’ Mrs. Kynoch was solemn. ‘Girls? Those buns should be just about ready to come out of the oven, now. Why don’t you all pop into the kitchen and have some? There’s milk in the pantry. Cattie, don’t be greedy, pet, and don’t eat the buns too hot! Mary, will you make sure any spills are mopped up? No, you can leave the book here, dear.’
Mary reluctantly herded the other girls out of the room and Hippolyta listened to them skipping down the passage to the kitchen. Mrs. Kynoch waited until the sounds had faded, then smiled at Hippolyta.
‘That was very considerate, my dear. Children make up quite enough ghost stories on their own without adding to their material. And little Annie is quite nervous enough with the thunderstorm.’
‘The weather is dreadful, is it not?’
‘It’s hardly August, eh? But we’d best get along with whatever you want to know, before they come back full of buns!’
‘Of course, forgive me. The parallels between the present murders and the old ones is very striking, as we all agreed. I’m trying to find out if there’s a deliberate link between them. What do you think? There are people here now who were in the village then, too. Do you think someone could have killed all four men?’
Mrs. Kynoch eyed her thoughtfully.
‘I suppose you’ve been upset by finding the bodies, my dear. You feel responsible in some way for sorting it all out, is that it?’
‘It’s awful for Miss Verney to have it hanging over her like that.’ Hippolyta was evasive. She was worried that she was simply suffering from an unnatural level of curiosity.
‘Oh, yes, Miss Verney. Is she still staying with you?’
‘For now, yes.’
Mrs. Kynoch’s eyes looked somehow much more intelligent than they had before. Hippolyta was sure at once that she knew exactly what Basilia Verney was like, and possibly what she had been up to. Mrs. Kynoch adjusted her apron over her skirts. Puss rose stiffly, turned round, and settled again across Hippolyta’s lap.
‘Was there anyone in particular you wanted to know about?’
‘Well, I suppose, Dr. Durward and Mr. Strachan, and maybe Mr. Strong though I don’t think he was in the same circle, and Mr. Burns, perhaps?’
‘Mr. Burns?’
/> ‘Yes, the one who set up the Burns Mortification.’
‘Yes, yes, I remember him well. I was just a little surprised that you had thought to ask about him. He was indeed a friend of both Mr. Strachan and Dr. Durward. He’s another one who must have done well for himself: all three of them are much more prosperous now than they were then.’
‘They were all local? I know Mr. Strachan worked in his father’s shop.’
‘That’s right, and a poor enough place it was then. Dr. Durward came in to the school from somewhere around the Pass of Tullich, and Mr. Burns – it’s a long time since I thought of him! His father was a … what now? A squarewright, I believe, but he had an accident and couldn’t work. They were all at the school together, and my husband taught them for a while when they were a bit older. They were all bright. Dr. Durward, now, he was the one wanted to go to the university: Marischal College, he went to, in Aberdeen, and did his medicine there, on a scholarship. I thought he would be off then to some big town to gather up a fancy fashionable practice, but I doubt young Durward was always that bit too lazy for such things. Instead he came back here, and the fancy fashionable practice gathered itself around him. I never knew such a lucky man! But there, he’s living on his own and frittering his money away on cards and such. I wonder if he’s really happy – though he does look it, I admit.
‘Mr. Strachan was the one with the business head always, working out ways of improving his father’s shop. Money was his main aim in life, and I think he’s made it, though he’s never seemed settled and happy. Worldly things never give you true happiness in the end. I wonder if Mr. Burns is any happier? He wrote to my husband, oh! five or six years ago, not long before my husband died, and asked him to set up the Burns Mortification. He had no family, no wife or anything out there in that dreadful country, and so much illness about. But he was generous with what he had, and wanted the boys in the school he had been to to be able to go to university, if they wanted and were clever enough. He was a practical sort of a man, though he was good at languages, I remember. My husband was delighted to help, and he brought in Mr. Strong to make sure it was all legal, and Mr. Strachan and Dr. Durward at Burns’ own suggestion, I believe, as trustees. It’s been a great success: Mary that you saw there reading the French, her two brothers are both at King’s College on Burns money, and doing very well. Clever family,’ she sighed happily.
A Knife in Darkness Page 28
