‘That’s quite all right,’ said Hippolyta, patting him gently on the arm. ‘It’s not brains that count, but character.’
‘Do you think?’ He looked wistful.
‘Now, do you think you could go back downstairs just now, and find my husband? Dr. Napier, remember: he’ll be busy with patients, no doubt.’
‘Oh, he was!’
‘Could you find him, and say I need him urgently up here?’
‘Find him and say you need him urgently up here: yes, I’m sure I could manage that.’
‘I’d be terribly grateful,’ she added, with an encouraging smile. He bowed like a knight to his lady, and set off back down the passage to the stairs, intent on his errand. Hippolyta watched him go, then tiptoed back to the door of Mr. Brookes’ room, which was still open.
Inside, Mrs. Strachan was still sobbing, steadily and intently. Hippolyta could hear the occasional comforting murmur from Dr. Durward, and could picture him sitting by her, her hand perhaps in his, maybe even her head on his shoulder. Her head was spinning: she felt as if a large paintbrush were inside it, mixing colours on its palette. What colour was going to appear when the paints were mixed? She could not tell.
She waited, sure that Mrs. Strachan was at least safe, trying not to move though her wet skirts were heavy and cold. Inside the room the sobbing eased a little, and there was a rustling sound as if Mrs. Strachan were perhaps sitting up and wiping her eyes. Some women looked much prettier when they had been crying, somehow, Hippolyta reflected: she herself looked as if she had been smearing red paint over her face, but she was sure Mrs. Strachan simply glowed. She gave a little sigh, then straightened. Mrs. Strachan was speaking.
‘But if you knew all along that Allan had murdered my father, why didn’t you tell me before I married him? You must have known a day like this would come, that I would find out eventually. And if a man can murder two people,’ she added quickly, as if blocking an interruption from Dr. Durward, ‘then he can as easily murder three, I should have thought. How could you put me in such danger?’
‘Ah,’ said Dr. Durward, who must have been thinking fast, ‘He was my friend, too,’ he repeated helplessly.
There was a silence. Hippolyta strained her ears for voices from the room, and for the sound of Patrick’s footsteps on the stair behind her. Neither was forthcoming. Then at last she heard Mrs. Strachan sigh.
‘How do I know,’ she said, warily, ‘that I can believe you?’
‘Believe me? You don’t think I would lie about something like that!’ Durward’s voice was shocked.
‘I don’t think you would tell me that Allan had not been there in the cellar with you if you had both really been there all night, no,’ said Mrs. Strachan with care. ‘I mean, are you telling me the truth about which one of you left the cellar in the middle of the night?’
This time the silence was almost deafening. Hippolyta held her breath, her heart walloping in her breast. Where was Patrick?
‘My dear,’ said Dr. Durward softly, but his tone was strange. ‘What are you saying? I think you may be tired and confused, are you not?’
‘I don’t think so …’ Mrs. Strachan did not sound so sure. Her voice was shaky. ‘Can you promise me that one of you left the cellar that night, and that it was the man who is now my husband?’
‘Bella …’
Hippolyta did not like the sound of that word at all. She gave one desperate glance back down the empty passage at the stairs, straightened her spine, and strode into Mr. Brookes’ chamber.
‘That’s quite enough, Dr. Durward,’ she said, using her mother’s voice once more. Why had she never realised how useful it was? ‘You found the Jacobite silver, didn’t you?’
‘What?’ Dr. Durward had his hands in his pockets, and was standing very close to Mrs. Strachan.
‘Do move away from him, Mrs. Strachan, please. I’d like to be sure you were out of reach.’ Hippolyta watched as Mrs. Strachan moved across the room, like an automaton. There was a snore from the large bed: Mr. Brookes / Burns was clearly still alive, too. Hippolyta breathed a temporary sigh of relief.
‘What are you talking about, Mrs. Napier? I thought your husband said you were an intelligent, informed sort of woman, not a mad girl.’
‘You found,’ said Hippolyta clearly, refusing to be distracted, ‘the Jacobite silver in the garden of Dinnet House, that night when you walked in the garden and Mr. Strachan went into the house to look for the Tranters. You went back for it that night, after dark, once you had ensured that Mr. Strachan was as drunk as could be in his father’s cellar. But Rab Lattin, the manservant, was devoted to his garden, and he saw you digging around the summer house. You didn’t want to share, did you? So you killed him. Greedy and lazy: that’s the sum of you. Then Mr. Tranter unfortunately found you too, and you killed him. It might have been the other way round, I suppose,’ she conceded, trying to sound much more confident than she was, ‘but that’s the general idea. But your knife, your blade, whatever it was, you must have dropped it. It slid between the floorboards in that odd kitchen, and you lost it in your hurry. It was only last week, when I said – foolish of me! But how was I to know? – that Forman had had to take the floorboards up to rescue the kitten, and that Miss Verney had suggested he clear out the mess underneath: that was when you realised the weapon might be found, and somehow linked to you. How was that, then? It must have been a slim knife to slip between the boards.’
Dr. Durward took two strides across the room, snatching his hand from his pocket.
‘It was a scalpel, you little fool!’ he cried. ‘This one!’
He slashed out at her, but her hands flew up in front of her face and she stepped quickly backwards, only to crash into someone at the door. She felt a sting on her forearm as she spun to the ground, and heard Mrs. Strachan scream. Someone passed her, struck Dr. Durward’s arm to one side, and punched him solidly in the stomach. He folded to the floor with a gasp like a bagpipe, and Patrick, for it was he, stooped and retrieved the fallen scalpel.
‘Rusty,’ he remarked, slipping it into his own pocket. ‘Good heavens, my dearest,’ he said, panting only a little, as he turned to help Hippolyta up, ‘that was a little foolhardy of you!’ Then he leaned over Dr. Durward, who was still gasping for breath. He tugged the doctor’s close-fitting coat back down over his shoulders, and held it tight, effectively pinioning the man. ‘I learned that on a difficult patient. Now,’ he said, ‘run and ask the hotel keeper if we can clear a room with a good lock on the door.’
‘It doesn’t have to be a particularly comfortable one,’ Hippolyta called back as she ran for the door.
A room was found, a laundry cupboard on the same floor, and the hotel keeper, who was competent at dealing with disorderly guests, helped Patrick to manoeuvre Dr. Durward, larger than either of them, into it. The physician did a great deal of shouting, and a number of guests came out of their rooms to watch: the hotel keeper, not sure what to say to show his hotel in the best light, decided to tell the truth.
‘He’s a murderer!’ he called back along the passage. ‘We’re locking him up!’
They pushed him face first into the cupboard and the hotel keeper locked the door, then looked dubiously at Patrick.
‘Now what?’ he asked.
‘We need to get Mr. Durris to come for him,’ said Hippolyta.
‘But the river’s rising again,’ said the man. ‘If he’s still yonder in the village, he’ll no be here the night.’
‘In that case I hope the door is strong!’ said Hippolyta unsympathetically. ‘After all, he locked poor Tabitha in that cupboard all night!’
‘So he did,’ said Patrick, ‘and killed four men.’
‘And tried to blame someone else,’ added Hippolyta.
The hotel keeper shrugged.
‘Aye, well, I suppose.’
‘What about Mrs. Strachan?’ Hippolyta asked. ‘And I’m worried about Mr. Brookes. Burns.’
‘Let’s go and see, shall we?�
� Patrick took Hippolyta’s hand and led the way back along the passage to Mr. Brookes’ room. Mrs. Strachan was on a sofa, once again sobbing.
‘Such a shock, dear Mrs. Napier,’ she said when Hippolyta sat down beside her. ‘We’ve known him for years – all our lives. And he would have let my husband take the blame for poor Papa’s death …’ She shuddered, but the tears were drying up at last. ‘But what about you?’ she added suddenly. Hippolyta looked down: her arm was bleeding freely where Durward had sliced it with the scalpel.
‘My dear.’ Patrick was at her side in a second. He had brought his medical bag upstairs at her summons, thinking she needed help for a patient, and he had carried it into the room before checking Mr. Burns’ pulse and temperature. ‘If you’re lucky, all this bleeding will have washed out any rust. I hope so, anyway,’ he added, as he smeared some substance over the cut and bound it neatly. Hippolyta wondered, as she often did, how a man who could not keep his study tidy managed to make such beautifully arranged dressings.
‘Now, if you are better,’ he said, tenderly laying her arm along her own lap, ‘there is still much to be done downstairs to make the Lodge guests comfortable. Perhaps you could both help?’
It was a good idea: there was no sense in sitting around waiting and worrying when there was work to be done. The next few hours were pleasantly busy, for there was plenty of comfort available to offer: there were warm blankets and hot teas and whisky, and gradually the invalids and visitors in the parlour were accommodated in as convenient a manner as possible about the building, though Mr. Burns might be surprised, on waking, to discover two other guests asleep on his armchairs. When the last guest disappeared to his room at last, and the hotel keeper sighed and stretched his back with his fists pressed into his waist, Hippolyta glanced at the parlour mantel clock and was astonished to find that it was three o’clock in the morning.
‘I wonder what the river is doing?’ she asked of no one in particular. Patrick went to the window and peered out.
‘It’s still raining, anyway.’
‘No likely to have gone down any, then,’ said the hotel keeper, as Mrs. Strachan flopped prettily into an armchair by the fire.
‘Oh, this is very smoky!’ she exclaimed.
‘That’s odd,’ said the hotel keeper. ‘I was noticing particularly earlier that that yin wasna smoking at all.’ He sniffed. ‘But you’re right, I do smell smoke.’
‘It’s in the hall,’ said Hippolyta, jumping up. ‘Not much … coming from upstairs?’
She walked up the stairs, looking above her, and was nearly at the top when there was a great thump outside.
‘More thunder?’ demanded the hotel keeper, but Hippolyta shook her head fast.
‘No, it’s Dr. Durward! He must have had a tinderbox: the lock is burned off the door, and the landing window is open!’
‘Then that was him jumping out!’ cried Patrick. Hippolyta sprang down the stairs and the two of them sprinted for the door.
‘Wait!’ called Mrs. Strachan. ‘I must come too! He will not escape!’
Outside it was just as horrible as it had been earlier, and for a moment none of them could see each other, let alone Dr. Durward. The rain lashed at them and the wind blew, and even up here on the hill they could hear the steady, rushing roar of the river below. Then lightning flashed, not quite as brightly as earlier, but bright enough for them to see a running figure, ahead of them on the road back to the bridge and the village. They set off after him as quickly as they could, holding hands and staggering on the path, now cluttered and dangerous with fallen branches. Mrs. Strachan was panting loudly, and Hippolyta’s arm was aching. It seemed like hours before they reached the bottom of the hill, where the water surged around the bridge. They stopped, gasping.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Patrick shouted. ‘He can’t be trying to cross.’
‘The bridge is strong,’ Mrs. Strachan cried. ‘He’ll want to get home, find his things, take them with him. I know him: he’d try taking money into Heaven if he could, rather than leave it behind.’
‘He might be trying it sooner than he expects,’ said Patrick in amazement. ‘Look!’
Out on the bridge a solitary figure clutched the pediment, buffeted by the wind.
‘We need to stop him,’ shouted Hippolyta.
‘We can’t!’
‘You heard Mrs. Strachan: the bridge is strong. We don’t want him to escape. What if he killed someone else?’
Patrick gave her a long, hard look. Then he drew a deep breath, and tucked her hand under his arm.
‘Together, then,’ he said.
‘Together,’ echoed Mrs. Strachan, seizing his other arm, and weighing each other down against the wind they waded through a few yards of water, and set out on to the bridge.
It was much more exposed than the woodland road they had just descended. The river, four times its normal width, was terrifying, swollen and huge, a great grey creature rising up to swallow the town in one mouthful. Borne on its gliding waters were whole trees, the thatch from a roof, a window frame. Hippolyta feared to think what else she might see, and looked ahead of her instead, focussing on the distant lights of the village. It seemed to be miles away.
They were closing on Dr. Durward, though: he was slowing, staring out at the river upstream, as if in a dream. He glanced back and Hippolyta was sure he saw them, but it did not make him move any more quickly. Had he given up? It seemed an odd place to do it. Perhaps he was exhausted.
But then, when they could almost reach out and touch him, he gave a cry, spun on his toes and ran for the village. They hesitated, then ran after, but it was not them that Dr. Durward was fleeing. He had seen what they had not: one great surging wave hurling itself down the river towards the bridge.
For the next ten minutes Hippolyta prayed, incoherently and possibly silently, though she could not be sure. The wave hit the bridge with a roar like nothing she had ever even imagined. The sound echoed up and down the valley, the masonry of the bridge fragmented like a child’s building brick tower, the rocks spinning over their heads as light as bees. The ground beneath their feet, a moment ago so solid, shook and fell apart, and they were falling.
Her hand slipped out from under Patrick’s arm. She heard Mrs. Strachan scream, and shouting she could not identify. Then she hit the water, hard. It made no sense that a thing so hard and solid could then sweep up around her, filling her mouth and nose, tearing at her and pushing her here and there as if she were a toy. She shot to the surface, blinking, face running with water, and grabbed a breath of something like air. Then she fell again, and as she did so she saw a pig rush past, its trotters in the air, squealing maniacally. There was an urgent yell, and she tried to turn, just missing a barrel spinning in the water as it shot by them. She saw it hit Mrs. Strachan, glance off Patrick’s shoulder, and ram Dr. Durward, suddenly all of them there in front of her. More masonry fell, but somehow the pig and the barrel had cleared her mind, returned a human scale to her surroundings. She knew where the shore was, and she pushed towards it. When she glanced back, she saw Patrick and Mrs. Strachan following, as best they could.
Patrick overtook her in a moment, for skirts made the whole thing so much more difficult. Once they were holding on to each other, they reached back for Mrs. Strachan, grasping her outstretched hands and pulling her towards them. There was no sign of Dr. Durward. The three of them together pushed and pulled themselves to something like a bank, and Patrick grabbed the branch of a low tree that still stood at the edge of the water. For a few seconds they could draw breath again. Then, amazingly, hands reached out from the bank, and hauled them up, one by one, with words of encouragement and occasional shocked curses. It was Mr. Durris, breathless and soaked, and a few equally sodden helpers, pulling them to safety.
‘Is that all of you?’ he shouted.
‘Dr. Durward, too,’ Patrick shouted back.
‘But I think he was hit by a barrel,’ added Hippolyta. ‘And he’s the murderer.’
‘We’ll tell you later,’ said Hippolyta. ‘Not urgent just now.’
Mrs. Strachan was leaning heavily on Lang, the night watchman who had helped Mr. Durris. He guided her through knee-deep water up to the street – though they realised quickly that what they had thought was river was in fact the lower part of the street. They were almost at the green now, and Hippolyta saw with relief that the waters had not quite reached their own house. Candles burned in the upstairs windows there, as if guiding them home. She almost cried.
The town, though, was in chaos. Light and shade dappled it, with candles or lamps in most of the inhabited windows and dozens of lanterns in the hands of those about in the middle of the village. Just outside the church, the Aberdeen mail coach, usually resting at the inn at this time of the night, was harnessed and laden with people, packed in at all angles and in a wide variety of undress: one of them Hippolyta recognised as the grand lady unwilling to leave her lodgings earlier. The door of the coach was open, and a man hung off it like a curtain, swaying as the driver tried to urge the reluctant horses to drag their burden up the hill, while several other men fell off the top as the coach jerked. Their spaces were quickly taken by others more nimble. As she stood watching in amazement, her feet almost too tired to take her the last few paces home, a plump man with an Edinburgh accent wobbled towards her, two girls hanging about his neck.
‘Papa! Papa!’ they were moaning, even after he set them down on the edge of a horse trough by the green, their bare toes almost out of the water. He wiped his brow, and addressed Hippolyta for want of other audience.
‘I thought they would drown me afore I could get them somewhere dry. Call you this a watering-place?’ he added, with a rueful grin. ‘If you catch me coming a-watering again at this gate, I’ll allow you to mak’ a water-kelpie of me!’
A Knife in Darkness Page 31
