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After the events of the previous evening, Hardy was convinced he’d struggle to get up next morning. But he had reckoned without the assistance of a nearby cockerel that woke him every two minutes from half past three. By six o’clock that morning, Hardy was ready to kill the bird and eat it for breakfast. At the very least, he hoped it would be on the evening’s menu. Clearly, he had become a city boy. No doubt the locals could happily sleep through the sounds of the country, but he found them intrusive and surprisingly loud.
His head pounded. His eye was partially closed and surrounded by a halo of purple following the visit from the unknown assailant the previous night. He remembered nothing after going to the door. He could picture his hand on the door-knob, but after that, he had no memory of what had happened. But he was going to do his damnedest to find out.
He felt weary to the core, but with so much to do, and that blasted bird squawking, lying in bed was not an option. There was no hot water, so he washed and shaved in cold, and swallowed a couple of aspirin. By the time he reached the small room where the inn’s guests ate their meals, he was not in the best of moods.
The unmistakable smell of kippers met his nostrils as he pushed open the door. One glance inside showed him the same elderly woman from the night before, passing bits of kipper to the fat Pekinese standing on a chair beside her. The smell intensified, and the sight of the dog slurping kippers off the table turned Hardy’s stomach. He left the room without so much as a greeting, and went into the bar to see if the landlord was about.
‘Ah, Inspector, how are you this morning?’ Nelson was already polishing glasses. Did he ever do anything else, Hardy wondered.
‘Good morning,’ Hardy said. ‘If it is a good morning. I’m not feeling at my best, I think it’s fair to say. I’m sure you know by now that I was attacked in my room last night. Is this a common occurrence, would you say? I’m not quite sure why you didn’t call the police.’
At the mention of police, Nelson looked alarmed. ‘Aye, I know sir, and I’m very sorry. Unfortunately, no one noticed who went up to your room, but it wasnae very late, and the bar here is open to the public, as I’m sure you realise. I will of course, knock a night’s accommodation off your bill.’
‘Very generous of you, I’m sure,’ Hardy’s tone was sarcastic but Nelson took it as real thanks.
The landlord said with misplaced attempt at humour, ‘Everyone’ll think your wife did that to ye.’
‘It’s not good enough,’ Hardy pointed out. ‘I was in bed asleep, someone pounded on my door, I got up and opened it, and then...’
‘Aye, and I’m truly sorry. The noise woke our lady novelist, which is how I got involved. And a good thing I did. The doctor was drinking in the bar, so I brought him up to have a wee look at you. See, I made sure you had medical attention,’ Nelson emphasised, as if he’d done all that could be expected. He went on to tell Hardy that the elderly woman had puffed downstairs in the largest nightdress he had ever seen, her gross dog yapping continually at her heels, and reported hearing ‘a brawl’, then proceeded to demand a discount on her bill because of the disturbance. The landlord and doctor had hurried upstairs, but they hadn’t seen the assailant, and Nelson was unable to shed any further light on the identity of Hardy’s visitor.
‘Obviously someone knew I was here,’ Hardy said sourly.
‘Aye, no doubt it’s all over the village that a Mr William Hardy is staying at The Thistle.’
Clearly the whole thing was a waste of time, but Hardy couldn’t help adding, ‘And that bloody chicken next door didn’t help matters any. I hope it will be on the menu for dinner tonight.’
Peter Nelson chuckled. Hardy had not been joking, but he hadn’t the energy to press the point. Nelson said, ‘My wife’s got a casserole planned for this evening, but it won’t be chicken. Although...’ he leaned closer, and dropping his voice, even though no one else was in the vicinity, he said, ‘But if anyone asks, perhaps you wouldn’t mind saying it was a chicken casserole, sir. Chicken, don’t ye forget.’
Hardy stared at him. Was Nelson seriously saying that to a policeman? He stared at the landlord for a full minute, then nodded his understanding. There was no point in getting involved in that little problem too. He went outside, got in his car and drove along the coast road until he found somewhere to get something to eat. By nine o’clock he was knocking on the front door of the police house in the next village.
‘Did your wife do that to you, laddie?’ Constable Forbes asked as Hardy entered what was essentially the front parlour of a home, though with a desk and a few chairs and a filing cabinet, with an array of wet-weather gear and ropes bundled on a tired-looking coat stand in the corner. Mr Denholme had also called Hardy ‘laddie’, but coming with the genial smile of the plump constable who was surely approaching retirement age, it didn’t feel like a deliberate insult. In the glass of the window, darkened by a large rambling plant outside, Hardy caught sight of his face with the huge purple bruise that spread across the upper part of his cheek and surrounded his right, partially-closed eye. He thought ruefully that he certainly didn’t look like a police officer.
‘Er, no.’ He refused to be drawn into an explanation, as he still had no real idea who had attacked him, or why. That was another thing he’d have to deal with later. Instead he pulled out his warrant card to identify himself, and said, ‘I’m Inspector William Hardy of the Metropolitan police. I’m in the area on private business, but last night I was called to Mr Howard Denholme’s residence—er—Barr Hall. I understand he has been having a few problems lately. Do you know anything about it, at all?’
This was all ignored except the first part of his speech. The police constable stared at him in astonishment.
‘I’m sorry, sir, what did you say your name was?’
Impatiently Hardy held the warrant card out so the constable could see for himself. The constable took it, held it to the light of the barred, shadowed window, and examined it for a full two minutes. Hardy was on the point of losing his temper. He made a strong effort to rein himself in, wondering why he was so edgy and irritable. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep? He said, as politely as he could, ‘Is there some kind of problem, Constable?’
The constable immediately returned the warrant card, and in a belated attempt to show due respect, practically snapped to attention. ‘Not at all, sir. There you are, sir. Sorry, sir, I didn’t quite catch...’
With a sigh, Hardy repeated his query regarding Howard Denholme. The constable still didn’t look as if he was listening. Instinctively, Hardy knew the man was still pondering the warrant card. Clearly they wouldn’t get anywhere unless he dealt with whatever issue that had created.
‘What is it?’ he asked, trying to sound patient, and failing miserably.
‘Och, no sir, it’s nothing at all. What can I do for you?’
‘Well, I’ve already told you twice, that I’m...’
‘It’s just that you’ve the very same name and the very same face as one of our most notorious petty criminals.’
‘...here about Mr Denholme’s... I’m sorry, what did you say?’ Hardy stared at the constable. Constable Forbes shifted his feet and looked as though he wished for the ground to open up and swallow him.
‘Well sir, not meaning any disrespect, but we’ve got a young fellow in the neighbourhood, and he’s also called William Hardy. He’s recently been released from prison, and he’s already up to his old tricks: poaching, petty theft, receiving stolen goods, drunken brawling, and of course, his own personal favourite, seducing other men’s wives.’
Hardy, tempted to ask the constable to repeat himself, simply paused for a moment to mull this information over. Was it possible this was the reason he had been attacked? A simple case of mistaken identity? Not that this made it excusable.
‘Here? Or in Lower Bar?’
‘Well, he gets about a bit, I’m not quite sure where he’s staying, but mostly he’s active in Lower Bar. Like as not he’s sleeping rough somewhere.’
Common sense reasserted itself. Hardy shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s scarcely the most unusual name, is it? My first name is probably one of the commonest in Britain, and the surname is hardly rare. Now, if we could just get back to my request?’
‘Yes sir, of course. Er, what was that again?’
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HARDY DROVE INTO EDINBURGH to see the procurator fiscal, only to find the great man was not available. He was informed by the gentleman’s secretary that he needed to make an appointment. An appointment not being available until the following week, eventually the secretary agreed to arrange a telephone call to Hardy later at the inn. It seemed that the eminent gentleman might be able to spare three minutes to speak with Hardy.
He returned to Lower Bar, irritable and frustrated at the delay. He had a lukewarm, gritty coffee at The Thistle whilst he awaited the call from the procurator fiscal’s office. When it finally came through, an hour later than the time agreed, the essence of the call was that the procurator had a vague idea that Mr Denholme had mentioned his troubles, but it had been during a golf match, and they hadn’t the leisure to discuss anything in detail. He added that he was ignorant of whether or not Mr Denholme had elected to speak to the police in Edinburgh about the issue.
That appeared to be the end of the case, as far as the procurator was concerned. Some friend, Hardy thought. The procurator had really not been at all interested in Mr Denholme’s affairs. Perhaps Mr Denholme was simply claiming a friendship that did not in truth go beyond mere acquaintance?
Hardy came out of the inn’s little back office feeling unenlightened. How had he come to be mixed up in all this mess? At the back of his mind, a little voice said, ‘For £500 and the chance of asking Dottie Manderson to be your wife.’ With his lack of progress in all areas, he felt as though a cloud of gloom had settled over him. His mood did not improve when he saw the smiling eager face of Mr Gregg from the Hall, ready for his first driving lesson in the motor car.
Gregg’s benign gaze took in the damage sustained by Hardy’s face, and looking him straight in the eye, he asked, ‘Did your wife do that to you, laddie?’
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AFTER THE DRIVING LESSON, his nerves frayed, his stomach unsettled, and in desperate need of fresh air, Hardy decided to have a walk around the village. This took him ten minutes. A second walk made it twenty. He was still mulling over the problems Howard Denholme was experiencing. Should he, in fact, go to the police in Edinburgh, and see if they were investigating on Denholme’s behalf, or should he simply give the whole thing up as a mare’s nest? Undecided, he walked around the village again, then spent a further twenty minutes looking around the church and its graveyard, which only succeeded in making him depressed as he thought of his mother and her recent passing.
He returned to The Thistle and put through a phone call to his own office in London. He was greatly comforted to hear the familiar robust tones of Sergeant Maple, his assistant and close friend. After exchanging news for the first two minutes, Hardy had then to squeeze a lot into the final minute, asking Maple to find out if anyone had been requested to travel to Lower Bar from the Met, as it seemed he—or someone—had been expected, and to find out anything he could about Howard Denholme.
By twelve o’clock he had run out of things to do. He decided that a change was as good as a rest, and crossing over the road, he walked along to the other pub, which bore the name The Dirk. He wondered if they offered lunches.
The door opened directly into a dim bar. Coming in out of the bright sunshine, he could see little in the gloom and collided with a large body.
‘Who are you?’ a voice demanded before he could apologise.
With no thought for his personal safety, for the second time he gave a stranger his name. He said, ‘William Hardy.’ He just had time to see a large fist coming at him out of the shadows, then stars spun before his eyes and he knew no more.
He awoke a little while later. The first thing he was aware of was the pounding in his head. Then he realised he was lying down in a dark room. Opening one eye with extreme caution, he recognised his suitcase lying on the dresser beside the bed. He was back in his room at the inn, then. There was a cold damp cloth over his forehead, and someone had pulled off his shoes and set them neatly beside the bed. His shirt collar had been loosened, his tie was draped over the bed rail. Moving his head to get a better look proved to be a mistake. Pain drove him back against the cool linen cover of the pillow, his hands going up to protect his face and explore the damage he had sustained.
His nose felt twice its usual size, and was crusted with dried blood. It was tender, and even the gentlest touch sent agony flaring through him.
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DOTTIE HAD CHOSEN TO travel up to Scotland on the Flying Scotsman from Kings Cross at ten o’clock in the morning. By the time she reached Edinburgh that evening, she was exhausted, her head was swimming with the continual passing of scenery, which by the end of the journey, she could see even when she closed her eyes.
Following dinner in a rather grand hotel in Edinburgh, Mr Bray had kindly reserved a taxi to drive her to the village of Lower Bar, and she sank back in her seat, frustrated by yet another journey where she had to remain seated. But she was at least glad that outside it was dark and she did not have to attend to yet more lovely countryside. The taxi driver chatted to her amiably though she only caught one word in ten, his rich accent drowned by the noisy engine of his motor car. The journey seemed to consist mainly of sharp upward or horizontal bends and quite a lot of getting out to open and close gates. She began to wonder if the cabbie had taken her across some private estate; that seemed only too possible from the twisting route they were taking to the village.
But at last she arrived. As she got out and paid the driver, she looked about her. She was not able to make out very much. There seemed to be no street lamps in Lower Bar, and most of the homes had no light on, or showed only a gleam through thick curtains. The hotel, which was not in her opinion a true hotel—quite clearly it was just a pub—only had one small light by its front door, illuminating a tattered sign declaring that this was, ‘The Thistle’.
The taxi driver lifted out Dottie’s luggage and prepared to carry it into the hotel for her. She touched his arm, and he turned and looked back at her.
‘Is there anywhere else?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice down. Her scalp prickled, she felt as though she were being watched. ‘I don’t mind paying for you to take me somewhere else. I’m just not sure...’
‘There’s no another hotel for a couple of miles, Missie, but I can run you back into Edinburgh if you’d like.’ He was watching her closely, waiting whilst she made her decision. She bit her lip, and looked about her. She felt stuck, unable to make up her mind. The horrid sense of being watched persisted. She began to feel that even in daylight, she wouldn’t like Lower Bar very much. Yet she had given her word...
Tiredness washed over her. She decided that she couldn’t be bothered. All she wanted was a cup of hot tea and to get to bed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That would be silly, wouldn’t it? I’ll stay here as planned. I’m sure it’s perfectly pleasant.’
The cabbie looked about him with an air of astonishment. ‘I wouldnae be too sure.’ But he gave her a reassuring smile, and told her how to reach him if she changed her mind.
Oddly, being armed with this information fortified her spirits, and she nodded, confident that she’d made the right choice. ‘I’ll stay. It’ll be perfectly all right. Thank you!’ she added. She did just glance back over her shoulder. In the shadows of a large spreading tree along the street, she could make out the shoulders and tall outline of a man. An intermittent soft red glow told her he was smoking a cigarette. He was watching her. With a light laugh that didn’t quite work, she said to the cabbie, ‘I see the local spy has already spotted me.’
The cabbie carried her suitcase into the hotel, she said goodbye to him and went inside.
Inside it was at least warm, if not quite of the standard she’d been hoping. Heavy panelling, deer heads and antlers adorned every wall. Dusty glass cases of stuffed fish and birds and pine martens cluttered every shelf and table-top. The whole effect was of deep Victorian gloom.
Dottie quickly discovered there was no reception area as such, she had to go into the bar to sign in the book and collect her room key. Just five rooms in all, she noted, and two already taken. The innkeeper introduced himself as Peter Nelson, and seemed friendly enough. Better still, he was expecting her. By now it was almost ten o’clock, and she was dropping with fatigue.
‘My wife’ll bring you hot soup and bread to your room in ten minutes, ma’am. Is there anything else you’ll be wanting? Perhaps a wee dram to get you off to sleep?’
Dottie smothered a laugh. What would her mother say if she knew that Dottie had been putting away whisky? She thanked the man and told him the soup would be very welcome, and asked for a pot of tea. ‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ she added.
‘No trouble at all,’ he told her. ‘And if I could just find ma son, we’ll get your suitcase taken up to your room. That boy is never here when I need him. Off out at all hours of the night, too, getting himself into trouble.’
‘Oh dear,’ Dottie said, with a polite smile, ‘that sounds just like the young chaps today.’ Then, whilst they waited, she said, ‘You have other guests staying in the hotel, I imagine?’
‘Aye that we do. We only have a few rooms, but they are often full.’
He didn’t seem inclined to say any more about his guests. Just then a tall gangly lad appeared, casting a glower at his father.
‘Well, laddie, take the lady’s suitcase up to room three. And no more of your disappearing tricks, I need your help this evening.’ The boy grabbed her suitcase as if it weighed nothing, and ran up the stairs with it two at a time. Dottie took her key and thanking Mr Nelson, she went upstairs. By the time she reached room three, the door was standing open and her suitcase had been placed at the foot of her bed ready, the young man was on his way back out. She thanked him, and he bobbed his head at her in a kind of partial bow.
‘I’m Alex Nelson, that’s my dad you spoke to downstairs,’ he said. And blushing slightly as she smiled at him, he added, ‘If you need anything more, Miss, just you call me.’
She thanked him again, though not quite sure how he would hear her if she called out for him from her room. But it was the thought that counted. So far, all her doubts about the place had been allayed. Though as she unpacked her belongings and waited for the soup, she couldn’t help thinking about the tall smoking man lurking outside.
She found it hard to sleep in a strange new place. She’d had her soup, watery and almost cold, accompanied by heavy, dry bread, and was beginning to think her initial thoughts of finding somewhere else to stay had been correct. This place was going to be awful. She sat by the window looking out into the quiet village street. At least it seemed that the smoking man had gone. The noise from the bar across the road had died down. She’d seen several men leave, totteringly helping one another along the road to their homes. The only other person she saw was a stout elderly dog-walker, wearing a raincoat over her nightgown, impatiently pulling a reluctant fat little dog along. Dottie carefully unpacked all her belongings. Then she found a book she had brought with her and settled down to read it.
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ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, Howard Denholme was in his study. He looked up on hearing a tap at the door, and called out his characteristically imperious, ‘Come.’
The door opened, someone came into the room, approaching the desk with caution. A light breeze blew in at the open door to the garden, causing the curtains to flutter and flare out a little, dancing on the air. From beyond the door, the sound of squabbling rooks, raucous and unmelodic, broke upon the silence.
The person halted just short of the bearskin. ‘You sent for me?’
Mr Denholme came round the desk, his cold rage well in hand. Only his pale countenance revealed his true feelings. ‘Did you honestly think I wouldn’t demand an explanation? Did you honestly think I wouldn’t hear about what was going on? Did you...’
He managed no more. There was no time for him to think or to act. A slight sound, followed by a very loud one, and he fell like a stone, that habitual expression of disgust etched permanently on his features.
*
