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Another day and another early start, thanks to the pain of his injuries, and once again, the racket from the cockerel next door. Hardy could hardly bear to dab a washcloth on his face due to the extreme tenderness of his nose, cheekbone and eye. He managed to shave, dismissing the notion of growing a beard to save effort, in the hopes that a smooth chin would offset the other less attractive aspects of his face. He had no desire to look more like a drunken thug than he could help.
He couldn’t remember when he had last eaten, but there was no way on earth he could face kippers or porridge. A short drive into the nearest town, and he had provided himself with some cold meat and fruit for his breakfast from a market stall just setting up. Next he drove to Constable Forbes’s police house to scrounge some coffee, or if absolutely necessary, tea. And he was very glad he did so, as the telephone call came through at a few minutes to seven.
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HE APPROACHED THE BODY that lay half on the polished wooden boards of the floor, and half on the bearskin rug. The man lay stretched out on his back, his arms by his sides, his legs crossed at the ankles. It was immediately clear he had been blasted at close range in the lower abdomen with some kind of firearm, almost certainly a shotgun, to judge by the mess, Hardy thought. The man’s eyes were open but dull, his face clean and undamaged. His frozen expression was not unlike the look of disgusted scorn he had directed at Hardy two evenings before. Blood soaked the tatters of the man’s shirt and waistcoat, plastering the cloth to the body, a very inadequate dressing on the massive wound. Here and there the blood was still red and liquid, but for the most part it was now brown and almost dry.
Blood had spilt onto the floor, running down the minute cracks between the boards. It had seeped and splashed across the bearskin, leaving the extinct beast’s fur mottled with dark, damp patches. There were splashes of blood and fragments of human tissue on the wall immediately behind the desk, a thick trail of blood had run down to the floor. Fine particles frosted the surfaces of a large area of the wall and the glass of two pictures as if sprayed there with a tube and misting-bulb, such as one found on a perfume bottle. But rather than fragrant, the air in the room was foul with the stench of blood and death.
‘Has anyone touched him?’ he asked Mr Roberts. The butler, pale but composed, shook his head.
‘No sir, we didn’t let Mrs Denholme enter the room, or the children too of course. The only ones what’s been in here is myself and the maid. You met her yesterday. It was her as found Mr Denholme when she came in to do the fire at half past six this morning. She fetched me and I came in to see for myself. Not that I didn’t believe her, it just seemed impossible that such a thing... but there. As soon as I saw him, I knew there couldn’t be no doubt that he was dead.’
‘Hmm.’ Hardy began to look about the room. There was every appearance of a disturbance. A door to a safe-cupboard in the corner was standing open, as was the door of the empty safe inside. The drawers of the desk had been ripped out—one was even lying broken and upside down on the floor beside the desk—the papers in disarray all over the rug behind the desk. The desk-lamp had been knocked over and the green glass shade smashed. Miniscule green shards confettied the floor.
‘Did Mr Denholme have any visitors last night?’
‘No one came to the front door, sir. As far as I’m aware no one came near the house all night.’
‘I imagine you would have come into the study in the latter part of the evening?’
‘Yes sir, I came in to make up the fire at about ten o’clock, and to ask if there was anything else I could do. Mr Denholme was alone, sir, and sat at his desk reading a letter.’
The grate was cold now, and still waiting to be cleared out and made up. Ash had spilled all over the hearth and even onto the rug, Hardy noticed. He said:
‘A letter that he had written, or that he had received?’
‘Received, sir. The envelope, a big brown one it was, was lying beside his elbow, and I remembered the stamps and the handwriting as having been on an item of post that arrived yesterday morning.’
‘Did you recognise the writing?’
‘No sir. All I remember is that it was very neat and loopy,’ he described a few curving letters in the air, ‘and the postmark was London. I don’t remember anything else.’
There was no large brown envelope there now. Hardy had a quick look through the papers on the floor, and on the desk. He made a mental note to check in the other rooms, as soon as he was able to procure a warrant, although glancing back at the fireplace, he thought it was pretty clear where the envelope had gone.
‘I see. Thank you, Mr Roberts. Did you hear anything at all? Any disturbance, shouting, hear anyone running from the house?’
‘No sir, nothing.’
Hardy watched him closely. ‘Really? Nothing at all? You didn’t hear someone discharging a firearm, presumably a shotgun, inside the house late last night?’
Albert Roberts fidgeted and looked at his feet briefly before meeting Hardy’s stare with one of defiance. ‘No sir, nothing. We was all in bed. It’s a big house, and the staff bedrooms are three floors up in the attic, and at the front of the house. We knew nothing about it until this morning, and I called the constable immediately I saw Mr Denholme was dead.’
Hardy nodded. ‘Very well, thank you, Mr Roberts, you’ve been very helpful. I was there when the call came through, so I can confirm the time the crime was reported. Constable Forbes stayed behind to contact everyone we’ll need. I’m afraid there will be a number of people arriving at the house soon. No doubt the constable himself will be along shortly.’
‘Yes sir, he said he would notify the Edinburgh police. And I expect the ambulance will be along very soon, too.’
‘Indeed, but Mr Denholme’s body can’t be moved. Not until photographs have been taken, and the rest of the necessary evidence collected. Also, a police doctor will need to examine the body.’
If anything, Mr Roberts went even paler, but he simply nodded, saying nothing.
There were footprints on the floor. They came across the corner of the terrace outside from the cover of a small copse that screened the back of the house from the road to the garages. The footprints—still slightly muddy—tracked up the step, in at the open door from the garden, across the small patch of flooring then appeared briefly on the edge of the rug by the desk. Another pair of prints showed very neatly on the floor not three feet from the head of the deceased.
‘I will be asking the procurator for a search warrant. I want to try to find that letter you told me about. It may be that our intruder came here just for that. Though it’s possible Mr Denholme himself burned it. However, the procurator fiscal will probably have to call in a proxy or a fiscal from another area, seeing that he and the deceased were close friends. However, that’s not my responsibility. But I’d suggest you warn the ladies to expect a stranger to be handling this investigation. Also myself and Constable Forbes will likely be conducting a search of the house and grounds, which may add to the distress, I’m afraid.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Hardy walked to the hall door. Mr Roberts followed him. Hardy allowed the butler to precede him, then came out and shut the door, saying, ‘I want this door locked until the local police, the police doctor, and the photographer arrive. Also, make sure no one, but no one, touches the garden door, or goes into the room from that side or this. Nothing is to be touched or removed without my authorisation, or that of any local investigating officer. Is that understood?’
‘Yes sir, crystal clear. I’ll see to it myself.’
‘Thank you. And now, I’m afraid I will have to speak with Mrs Denholme.’
The butler gave him a worried look.
‘What is it?’ Hardy asked.
‘Well, I’m afraid the doctor was called to Mrs Denholme. She was, as I’m sure you’d expect, very distressed. He’s given her a sedative.’
Hardy sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose that is understandable. Very well, I’ll speak to the maid instead.’
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DOTTIE HAD A SENSE of being haunted. It was nothing she could put her finger on, just a vague sensation that unsettled her, like a finger prodding her in the back. She had slept fairly well, apart from occasionally noticing the sound of a cockerel somewhere nearby, and the exasperated groans and grumbles from the room next door. She tried to analyse her reasons for feeling so odd, but it was impossible to pinpoint exactly what was irking her. She felt as though she’d seen or heard something that was insistent upon being recognised or acknowledged in some way. Her eye was continually drawn to the connecting door to the room next to hers. She checked for the third time that the door was still locked.
She shook her head and gave up the attempt. She was fussing for no reason. She finished dusting powder over her shiny nose, and satisfied that the fault had been corrected, she went downstairs to her first breakfast at the inn.
There was only one table. Dottie had fondly pictured herself seated at a little white-linened table, gleaming cutlery gently carrying perfectly-cooked eggs and bacon to her mouth. She had imagined a lovely hot little teapot and a dainty cup.
Reality was rather different. The little room that served guests as parlour, dining room, and as breakfast room too, contained one large oak table, heavy and dark, surrounded by a regiment of heavy wooden chairs. A miscellany of mismatched knives, forks and spoons lay in a heap in the table’s centre.
The room’s other occupants comprised a stout old woman and an even more obese, loudly panting Pekinese. The two of them were making rapid progress through a plate of kippers, a trail of butter and kipper-juice dotting the none-too-clean surface of the table from the woman’s plate to the mouth of the hopeful dog, as it sat on the chair beside its mistress and yapped when it was ready for more.
Dottie couldn’t help wrinkling her nose in distaste, though she quickly found a smile when the woman looked in her direction. This was the woman she’d seen going along the road last night, she realised, doubtless giving her dog a last walk before bedtime.
‘Good morning,’ Dottie said, repressing a shudder as the dog strained to lick drips from the table-top.
All she got in return was a grunt. This might be enough to discourage most others, but Dottie was a persistent fellow-guest.
‘Isn’t it lovely to see the sun shining this morning? Quite a change after the weather we’ve been having lately.’
The woman stared at Dottie. The dog yapped and nudged the woman’s arm with its nose, leaving an unsightly smudge on her sleeve. Dottie sighed, the exhalation sending her hair bouncing on her forehead. As she struggled to think of another comment to make, the door opened and a small, grey-haired woman wrapped in a faded housecoat bustled in and slapped a plate of kippers in front of Dottie.
‘Oh, er...’ said Dottie, surprised. Finally she added a slightly belated, ‘Thank you.’
The woman gave Dottie a glare then turned on her heel and left.
‘Gosh,’ Dottie said, and she sent a rueful smile at the woman with the dog. Dottie looked down at her plate. The kippers swam figuratively if not literally in copious amounts of a buttery juice that was cooling and congealing rapidly. Her stomach seemed to contract in protest. A wave of nausea rose through her as the odour of the fish reached her nostrils. She pushed the plate away, and turned to the other woman.
‘I don’t suppose you’d like another couple of...’
She got no further. The plate was whisked away, denuded of its contents and the empty plate returned to Dottie within a matter of seconds.
‘Don’t mind if I do. Waste not, want not, I was always told. That and the poor starving children in Africa. You won’t mind if I give a few crumbs to Madame Bovary, I suppose?’
The dog, already salivating, yapped vigorously at the sound of its name. Doggy fishy breath engulfed Dottie. She shuddered and turned away, and with her handkerchief clamped over her nose and mouth, she managed to say, in a slightly muffled voice, ‘Please do, I’m sure kippers are excellent for a dog’s health. I do like her name, by the way.’
‘My favourite book as a girl. Although my mother considered it most unsuitable for a young lady to read, of course, but I told her we were living in a modern world, and that I should contrive to read it in secret if she forbade my governess to give me a copy.’
‘Ah, er—oh,’ said Dottie, unable to think of an intelligent response. But she was spared the need for further comment as the door was flung open and the landlady came in to deposit a fat brown china teapot in the middle of the table amongst the cutlery, then added two cups. ‘Tea,’ she said, and she turned to depart. Before she could do so, however, the elderly lady said, rather loudly,
‘Hey! Just a minute! I’d like a pot of good strong coffee, please, and the same for this lady. With what we’re paying for this place, you’d think we could at least get a choice of beverages. I certainly don’t want any of this dishwater you call tea.’
The landlady looked at her with loathing, but said nothing, though she slammed the door with rather more force than necessary.
‘Do you think she will?’ Dottie asked. ‘Bring us coffee, I mean?’
‘Oh yes. It’s our little daily ritual. Every day she brings in a pot of tea, weak as dishwater, and every day I tell her to take the muck away and bring me coffee. Don’t be fooled by her appearance of surly unhelpfulness. She really is genuinely surly and unhelpful. Just like her brother who owns The Dirk, the other public house across the way. But, bless the woman, her husband gives her no help at all with this place, so she has to do everything. All he does all day is jaw with his local friends and polish the odd beer glass. He spends the whole day behind that bar, even if it’s outside licensing hours. Then there’s a son, too.’
‘Oh yes, Alex,’ Dottie said, ‘I met him last night, a sweet boy.’
‘Takes after his father. A layabout. Out until all hours with his chums, getting into trouble and making his mother’s life a misery. Between him and his father, they’ve got the useful qualities of my grandmother’s aspidistra.’
Dottie was fascinated by the woman’s manner of expressing herself. She held out her hand, somehow sure the woman would approve of shaking hands in the modern manner, like a man. She was right. The woman gripped Dottie’s tiny hand in a cold but firm grip.
‘I’m Dottie Manderson,’ said Dottie, ‘Just here for a few days.’
‘Millicent Masters. Ditto.’
‘Millicent... The Millicent Masters? The Half A Man Lay Dead Millicent Masters? Good heavens, but I adore that book! And your others, of course.’
‘Your mother allows you to read them, then?’ Miss Masters asked slyly.
‘Er, well no,’ Dottie was forced to admit. ‘I read them in secret. My maid gets them for me.’
Miss Masters laughed heartily. ‘That’s priceless! A very gentile rebellion!’
The coffee appeared at that moment, accompanied by some lukewarm, lumpy porridge.
Dottie poked at the porridge with reluctance and ate a spoonful or two before pushing it away. She put sugar into her coffee to compensate for the lack of calories in her meal.
‘So why are you here, of all places. Miss Dottie? It’s not exactly the usual spot for tourists. Nor is it the perfect spot for early sun, picturesque enough for a secret love affair or remote enough for a rest cure.’
Dottie wasn’t sure how much she should say, so she contented herself with a simple, ‘I’m here to find someone.’
‘Oh? Most enigmatic. May one enquire whom?’
‘I don’t know. I’m to wait for information. Someone is going to contact me this afternoon.’
‘More and more intriguing! Just like a spy novel.’ Miss Masters broke off to appease a loudly yapping Madame Bovary with the last tiny morsels of kipper. Dottie had to turn away from the gruesome spectacle of the dog licking the table again, smearing fishy butter all over the oak surface.
‘I might ask you the same, Miss Masters. This is hardly the intellectual salon of Paris and the fin-de-siècle. I wouldn’t have expected there to be any appeal to an author. Neither is it likely to encourage diligence, research opportunities, provide material, nor is the location one of a natural beauty calculated to inspire.’
‘Ah,’ said Miss Masters with a hard look, ‘very sharp of you.’ She set her cup down in its saucer rather heavily. ‘Between you and I, I’m here to keep an eye on someone. Even authors can be wives and mothers, you know. And now, if you’ll excuse me, Madame Bovary needs her exercise. Have a nice day, as our American cousins say.’
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DOTTIE WAS PERUSING the buttons on offer in the needlework shop in the village. The woman behind the counter, bored with her own company, was pleasantly surprised to have a lady from London in her shop, very eager to enter into conversation with her.
During the course of two minutes she discovered that, a) Dottie was staying at The Thistle, b) that she was visiting the area for a few days, c) that she didn’t know anyone locally, d) that she was a keen knitter, e) that she required small buttons to finish off a matinee jacket for her elder sister’s first baby, expected in the summer, f) that she was not herself married or courting—although, the shop woman told herself, she definitely had that look, there was a young man in the picture somewhere, of that she was certain—and finally, f) the young lady was prepared to spend a decent amount of money in return for good-quality local gossip.
In return, Dottie learned that the needlecraft shop was owned outright, as a gift from a previous laird to the former incumbent who had saved the laird’s small son from the path of a careering horse. Apart from The Dirk, the rest of the village was owned by the laird, who was universally despised.
This mention of the laird led to a lengthy discussion of the shocking crime that occurred during the night.
‘Dead as a doornail, right there in his study,’ she said with relish, and went on to furnish several more details that may or may not be true.
Dottie discovered that the laird was a recent incomer with a talent for finding fault in everything and everyone. He had been married to a ‘poor wee thing’ who always looked as if she were on the point of tears. It seemed to be common knowledge that the woman had to stand between her husband’s bullying ways and their two small boys.
‘Kept her practically under lock and key too. And it was common knowledge they owed every tradesmen in the area. Not that they lived lavishly. No dinner parties, no outings. No visits, no tea with the local big-wigs. So I’ve no idea what he could have spent his money on. Admittedly He played golf. And went out shooting or fishing. She stayed at home and cared for the children and did the flowers, and never a body to take tea with or anything. The dear Lord knows how long it’s been since her own mother was shown the door. Just the first Christmas, her mother was there, then an almighty row, and never invited back. She wasn’t even allowed to write to her.’
‘I expect she managed somehow. I know I should,’ Dottie said. The shopwoman nodded sagely.
‘Aye, you and me both. But I don’t see young Mrs Denholme having the courage, somehow. Well, they had to call the doctor to come out to give her something to make her sleep, the morning that her husband’s body was discovered. The doctor was outside ma house at six o’clock, on his way back from seeing her, talking to the minister about it. But she’ll get over it, and at least now she’ll be free of the his cruel ways, and no doubt her eldest boy will grow up to be laird in his father’s place, and a much finer job of it he’ll make, I’m sure.’
‘Oh dear, what a dreadful situation, to lose one’s husband in such a violent manner.’ Dottie pushed away one set of tiny pearl buttons, and took up another, very similar set. ‘Although husbands are so difficult to please, sometimes, or so my sister tells me.’
‘Aye, weel, some more than others, I’d say.’
Dottie agreed. The other woman went on to tell Dottie about the feud between the members of the McHugh family. The ‘other’ pub, The Dirk, had been left to a brother of the innkeeper’s wife. ‘And he’d walked out the house at fifteen years of age, and told them all to go to hell, right there in front of the minister. That was thirty years ago. Never heard of again until a year ago when the father died, though he was in Glasgow all along, apparently.’
Dottie reached for a couple of cotton reels to consider the colour against her matinee jacket. The shopkeeper continued.
‘There was the daughter o’ the family, spent years nursing the parents both to their graves, then she found The Dirk had been left to this brother, right out from under her, the place where she’d lived her whole life up to that point.’
‘Shocking,’ said Dottie.
‘Small wonder she and her husband took over The Thistle inn when the old landlord retired. Now they run it in competition with her brother, and the village men spend half their time in the one, and half in the other, to try and keep the peace.’
‘Small wonder, indeed,’ Dottie agreed.
‘And that McHugh, he’s another one who’s a terrible bully. Always a-beating his new young wife, and a-calling her vile names. She’s another poor stick. Though everyone knows she’s back carrying on with that young rogue, aye, and it’ll end in tears too. He may be easy on the eye, that one, but he’s such an awful one for getting into trouble. Aye, I’m happier as a spinster.’ But her wistful sigh said otherwise.
Dottie paid for her purchases and left, after a few minutes’ more conversation, this time about the weather.
It never failed to intrigue her that everywhere—in the big, anonymous cities, and in the tiny country hamlets and villages—there lurked the same tempers, ambitions, hopes and resentments. Humans, it seemed, were the same wherever one found them.
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IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON, and Hardy was with the procurator fiscal. It was fair to say that the two men did not see eye to eye. The procurator fiscal had pulled rank, and the inspector from London was being shown the door. Hardy felt he had to try one last time to get his way.
‘Sir, with respect, the scientific evidence from the crime scene does not bear out your suspicion that the crime was committed by an intruder from outside. This is a common wish in a small community, but a completely false one. I am certain we should be looking closer to home.’
The procurator was equally determined to prove his own viewpoint. ‘But of course the evidence supports my suspicions! The footprints, the use of the weapon, the threats, the thefts, the vandalism. It all points towards one local man who is known to have had a grudge against Denholme, who has a string of criminal convictions to his name, who was released from prison only a few days before the crime took place, convicted of poaching from the dead man’s estate! And who had been seen in the area only an hour before the shooting. I suggest you return to London, Inspector, your assistance is no longer required. In any case, you are out of your area of authority.’
‘What about the muddy boots in the victim’s dressing room? There was fresh mud on the heel of one and caught in the tread of the other. How did a dead man manage to get his boots muddy? And none of the staff I interviewed had seen anyone, much less this man you mention, in the area during the whole of the evening. Or indeed, that entire day. And what about this missing letter?’
‘Are you calling me a liar, Inspector?’ the procurator asked through gritted teeth. ‘The man’s room had been ransacked, the safe opened and its contents gone, the desk drawers broken and emptied out onto the floor. And why shouldn’t a man burn a letter in his own study, if he so wishes, pray? Who’s to say that is in any way something sinister? Do you think I’m an idiot, Inspector?’
Hardy took a hold on his temper, surprised by the man’s anger and defensiveness. ‘No, sir, of course not. But I just feel...’
‘Well you can take your feelings and get on back to London. We deal in facts and evidence up here, laddie, not feelings. And allow me to remind you, Hardy, the warrant I granted was for local law enforcement, not for outsiders to use as an excuse to poke about and upset innocent people. Now if you don’t mind, I have things to do, including a visit to offer my condolences to poor wee Mrs Denholme.’
Hardy had no choice but to leave. He knew the procurator was correct about the warrant, though it hadn’t been him, but Forbes who had carried out the search, along with a part-time constable he had drafted in from Dunbar. As senior officer at that time, Hardy took the blame, for he certainly was out of his jurisdiction. Though technically, the search had been carried out by local officers. He had not waited for an inspector to come out from Edinburgh, because time had been of the essence, and no officers could be spared until the following morning due to their own pressing workload.
Unsure what else to do, he drove to Constable Forbes’s house. The constable was in, as always, and at liberty to drink tea. Carefully, Hardy related the outcome of his conversation with the procurator. He tried to summarise the points dispassionately, unsure where the constable’s allegiance might lie.
‘Get that down you, laddie,’ Forbes said, handing over the tea. ‘Yon procurator’s a fool, if you ask me. But of course, what would ye expect? Only been in the job a year. Promoted from some law firm in Edinburgh.’
‘And the victim was his good friend. In spite of what the procurator says, it’s clear they were in fact more than just occasional golfing partners. He knew Mrs Denholme was small in stature, and of a nervous disposition. He described her as ‘poor wee Mrs Denholme’. I feel he knows the woman personally.’
‘Aye, more than likely. It wasn’t just the victim who was his good friend; the procurator was at school with Mrs Denholme’s brother. He’s known the whole family for years.’
‘But then why is he so keen to see this local villain arrested for the shooting on so little evidence? I’d have thought he’d want a thorough investigation and the truth at all cost, if Mr Denholme really was such a good friend.’
‘Aye, you’d think so. Though yon Hardy has been a thorn in the procurator’s side for a while now.’
That name again. He found it irksome to hear it. It unsettled him, though that was ridiculous. Just because the fellow had the same name as himself... He reminded himself yet again that it wasn’t the most unusual of names. That it meant nothing.
After a second cup of tea, Hardy went to speak with the late Mr Denholme’s butler again. The butler confirmed what he’d told Hardy previously. He’d seen no one in or around the house at all during the evening before the murder had taken place.
‘Not even during the day,’ Roberts said. ‘Very quiet it was yesterday and the day before. You’re the only visitor we’ve seen in almost a week.’
Just to make doubly sure, he spoke once again to Mrs Roberts and the young maid, but they too said the same. They were adamant. He believed them, yet there was something odd, something he couldn’t quite pinpoint. They knew something that could help him. But how could he find out what it was?
It didn’t make sense, Hardy thought as he returned to the village. Was there any way things could have got muddled because he had been to see Mr Denholme? Were the procurator’s wires getting crossed because of the similarity in name between himself and this local villain?
In the village, he asked again: he went to The Thistle and asked there if anyone had seen the ‘other’ William Hardy, or knew where he could be found. No one could tell him anything. He went to the general store, the manse, the needlework shop, and even—at great risk to himself—to The Dirk, and asked if anyone had seen local man William Hardy in or around the grounds of the laird’s house at any time on the night he was murdered. No one had seen the man. Surely the procurator was wrong; who were these witnesses who claimed they had seen the man?
He decided to go back to the bar of the inn and see if he could get a cup of coffee. He felt as though he was just going over and over the same ground all the time and getting nowhere. He needed to think. If only he had Sergeant Maple here to help him. It was always useful to have someone to talk his ideas through with, and he missed Maple’s good sense and good humour.
As walked across the road, he heard someone call out, ‘Inspector!’
Turning, Hardy found himself looking into a mirror. Or so he thought at first. Then he realised it was another person, the very image of himself. He was rendered speechless. The man laughed at his surprise, then holding out his hand, he said, ‘I hear you’ve been asking around about me. Allow me to introduce maself. I’m William Hardy.’
The William Hardy who came from London had nothing to say. He continued to stare, not taking the other man’s hand. The other man dropped his hand back by his side, and said, ‘I was going to say, I hear you’ve been using ma name, but now you’re right in front of me, I can see it’s no just ma name you’re using, but ma face too.’
The two men faced each other. William still had no idea what to say. He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. There was now no longer any point in rationalising—the evidence spoke overwhelmingly. This was no mere coincidence of name. He had another brother. An older brother. One with his face, his stature and even—how could that be—his name.
He stared.
The other man stared back, the aggression seeping out of him. William Hardy of Scotland shook his head. ‘I don’t understand...’
‘Unfortunately, I understand all too well,’ William Hardy of London said. Rage began to fill his whole being, and turning abruptly, he marched away in the direction of The Thistle.
Fighting his desire to punch something or someone, he headed up the stairs to his room. He would splash some cold water on his face, then sit in his room for a while. That would give him the chance to calm down and think rationally.
Rounding the top of the stairs, in the imperfectly lit upper hall, he walked straight into her. They bumped, they leapt back in surprise, polite apologies on both their lips. Then:
‘William!’ said Dottie, astonished, whilst at the same time he said, rather less politely,
‘What the hell!’
His words died on his lips. Joy at the sight of her flooded him. He smiled, then seizing her in a crushing bearhug, he said her name softly against her hair. Then good manners broke out between them, reminding them they were in a public albeit quiet place. They each took a step back. Dottie patted her hair, William pushed his hands into his pockets.
‘What on earth happened to your face? Have you been in a brawl?’ Dottie asked, leaning to peer more closely at his right eye and cheekbone. The nose, still rather red, was now mercifully almost its normal size again. He realised that no one had yet hit him today, although he had a feeling it had come fairly close.
‘What this? Oh yes, something like that. Does it look awful?’ Dammit, he thought, I’d forgotten about the black eye. He felt embarrassed. He felt overwhelmed by the events of the last day or two. He wanted to be with her, but had an irresistible urge to get away by himself for a few minutes. He hesitated.
‘It is rather purple and noticeable. Does it hurt?’ she asked, looking concerned.
‘Just a bit.’ He couldn’t help sounding a little snappy.
‘Oh dear, let’s talk about something else. Er—when did you arrive?’
‘The night before last,’ he said. ‘And you?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘I wish I’d known you were going to be here...’
‘Mr Bray asked me not to say anything about where I was going.’ She bit her lip, and added, ‘Sorry. I didn’t feel I could disobey him, he was so sweet to me, I didn’t dare let him down.’ She thought for a moment then added further, ‘Although you didn’t say anything either, so...’
His mouth twisted in an apology. ‘No. Mr Bray also told me not to...’
‘Ah.’
It was ridiculous, she thought. They were standing in the inn’s hallway, and neither of them seemed able to think of a single intelligent thing to say. But just as she was wracking her brains, he said suddenly, ‘Have you had dinner?’
‘Oh no, not yet.’
‘Would you like to have dinner with me? Unless of course...’
‘That would be lovely, William, I’d like that.’ She attempted a smile. It felt stiff and awkward on her face. What on earth was the matter with her? Usually she had no end of smart small-talk to ease along any situation. But she was talking to him as if they were virtual strangers, stumbling and fumbling for banalities.
He hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Shall we say half an hour? I need to have a quick bath and get changed. There’s a little place in Dunbar that does good food.’
‘How will we...?’
‘Oh, I’ve rented a car.’
‘Of course,’ she nodded. And her social skills finally failing her completely, she turned and went back to her room without another word, whilst in her head berating herself furiously for being an idiot.
In her room, she shut the door with a sense of relief and leaned against it, her eyes shut. A cool breeze from the nearby window fanned her hot face, helping her to compose herself.
There was the sound of a key turning in a lock so close at hand that for a moment she thought he had entered her room. A door shut, and she realised it was him—he was the one in the room right next door. There was a creak of bed springs followed soon by two soft thumps as he kicked off his boots onto the carpet. She heard him clear his throat in what she thought of as his own characteristic manner. It seemed obvious now. She realised she must have heard him do exactly that, that very morning, and subconsciously recognised the sound. That was why she felt so haunted, so edgy. The sense of his nearness had scratched at her memory all day. Oh, it was all too close. She hurried over to the window.
What would he do, she wondered, if she were to open the connecting door between their rooms and go into his? She smiled ruefully to herself. She knew exactly what would happen. For a full minute she debated with herself whether she had the courage to actually do what she wanted to do. But then she thought of her mother and father, her sister and all their friends and family, and realised she could never, ever risk putting herself in such a position that the very mention of her name would be a scandal.
She heard him go along the corridor, and judged that he had gone for his bath. From pure curiosity, she checked the connecting door. It was locked on her side. With a delicious sense of doing something very naughty, she unlocked her side and tried the door again. It opened.
That rather surprised her. She went into his empty room, and drifted about. His suitcase—which had certainly seen better days—was sitting open on the chest of drawers. She browsed. Right on top was a large brown envelope. She recognised Mr Bray’s handwriting on the front. This puzzled her, but then she recalled seeing William at the office, he had been leaving as she arrived. The envelope wasn’t sealed. She took a quick peek. The first thing she saw was the large quantity of banknotes. Her curiosity intensified. There was another, small envelope and a few other bits of paper, reservations and other travel details. It was all very interesting. What was William up to?
Also in the suitcase were two shirts, one clearly new, the other somewhat frayed on the cuffs and the points of the collar. There was a warm sweater, handknitted, of course. She held it to her face and inhaled, but it smelt only of the laundry. There were a couple of pairs of socks rolled up, and on examination these proved to have a hole in either the toe or heel of all four socks. The underwear, rendered a dreary grey by too many washings, she pushed aside hastily, her face hot with embarrassment. There was a tie in the colours of his old school. There were two handkerchiefs, one with his initials in the corner, and it was of good quality stuff but again, rather aged, and fraying at the corners. It was clearly a throwback to an earlier, wealthier time. She closed the lid of the suitcase down and saw the peeling label:
Master William Hardy,
Repton School,
Etwall,
Derbyshire.
It came as no surprise that he’d had the suitcase for so long, probably fifteen, even twenty years. Her heart wanted to weep for the little boy sent away to boarding school at so young an age, as most little boys of their class seemed to be. How grateful she was that she and Flora had been day-girls for the entirety of their education. Not once had she wished to stay at school at the end of the day. As young as she was back then, she had known she was lucky to go home to her family each evening.
His wallet lay on the bed beside the ordinary metal comb, a small penknife with a mother-of-pearl handle, yet another folded handkerchief, and a wristwatch. It struck her that she’d never seen him wearing a watch. Did he keep it in his pocket? Or was she just horribly unobservant? She wasn’t sure. It was an ordinary watch with a good plain dial and a supple leather strap. The underside of the strap was worn smooth and soft, perhaps from lying against his skin for a number of years.
Apart from these things, and his overcoat hanging on the back of the door, that was all he had with him. Were there no pyjamas? She checked the suitcase again including, this time, the pile of underwear—certainly in need of replacing—and she even looked underneath the pillow but could find none. So, what on earth did he wear in bed, she wondered, then the very obvious answer hit her, and she flushed with embarrassment once more, and had to have a stern word with her imagination which had already begun to furnish her with pictures. She shook her head. She was as bad as a man—seemingly with a one-track mind!
Now she felt the weight of time on her. Had she been in his room for five minutes or twenty? She couldn’t be sure, but to be safe, she hurried back through the connecting door and shut it firmly behind her, turning the key in the lock on her side.
She sat in front of the mirror, tutted at the sight of her flushed face and guilty expression, and set to work with her cosmetics, hoping to goodness that by the time they left the hotel, she would have lost that wild, speculative look in her eye.
––––––––
HARDY RETURNED FROM his bath and shave just a few minutes later. He was feeling calmer, though still on edge. He couldn’t get that face out of his head. Clearly he would have to have a further conversation with the other William Hardy, but he wanted nothing to do with the man. As far as he was concerned, he could go to hell.
As soon as he stepped into his room, he smelt her scent. Dottie had been in here. He wondered briefly how she had got in, then he noticed the connecting door and thought, with a grin, of course. A riot of ideas flooded his mind.
Dumping his wash-bag and towel on the chair, he crossed to the door and oh-so-carefully eased open his side, then bent to examine hers to see if the door was locked, all the time keen to make no noise at all. He heard the sound of her door to the hall open and close, and heard the key turned in the lock. Her soft footsteps went along the corridor to the bathroom.
Making the most of the opportunity, he turned the handle to her door. It was locked. He could see the key in the lock. It took approximately twenty seconds for him to get his penknife and push the key out onto the waiting sheet of newspaper he’d pushed under the door, as demonstrated in all the best boys’ adventure stories, and thus he gained access to her room. He hadn’t time to look around, and in any case, felt it would be an unpardonable breach of etiquette. So he did the only thing he could think of, taking another twenty seconds, then he turned her key in the lock once more, slipping the key under the door.
He went back to his room. He dressed in clean clothes and combed his hair. He liked the neat way she had folded everything in his suitcase—clearly her conscience had been untroubled by the etiquette that had held him back—and it was all so much neater than he’d accomplished.
He heard someone enter the room next door, and just a moment later heard her muffled exclamation. He smiled.
As he knocked on her door a few minutes later, he felt happy, his spirits soaring, though he was a little nervous of his reception if she hadn’t taken his little joke in good part.
She opened the door, hand on hip and gave him a schoolma’am look of amused exasperation. His watch hung from one slender fingertip.
‘I believe this is yours?’
He feigned surprise. ‘Oh yes, so it is. I’d wondered where I’d left that. I’ve been looking everywhere...’ Giving her a roguish grin, he took it and put it in his pocket.
‘Well, just so you know, now that I’m aware you can get into my room even if the door is locked, I’ve put the chair-back under the handle.’
‘You started it,’ he said, but with a smile. ‘Now then, dinner?’
‘Yes please, William.’ She swept past him haughtily, her head held high, though this was somewhat spoiled by her having to dash back and lock her door.
––––––––
THEY SPOKE LITTLE ON the drive. Dottie relaxed against the leather seat and enjoyed the scenery parading past the window, bathed in the deep golden glow that comes just before twilight. Why did the sun only shine for the half-hour before the end of the day?
When he parked the car, he got out and came round to open her door for her. She thanked him for the courtesy, old-fashioned now but nonetheless welcome. He held his hand out to help her step down.
‘Mind the puddles.’
She almost said, we sound just like an old married couple, but couldn’t quite bring herself to say those words. She was aware of her silence, but felt a new constraint in his company. She felt shy. She couldn’t think of anything to say. But William, too, seemed distracted and deep in thought. Perhaps the murder case was on his mind?
The ‘restaurant’ she had imagined, turned out to be a fried fish stall next to the beach. William gave their orders to the smiling woman behind the counter, and when the food was handed over, wrapped in newspaper of course, they ate it as they walked by the water, along with a number of other ‘diners’: lovers, young and old, families with gambolling children, solitary people, and groups of friends.
They turned to walk beside the ancient ruins of the castle walls, then turned back once more to look at the little crowd of boats moored for the night, and then returned to the beach. It was almost dark now, and they had finished their food long ago. William disposed of the papers in a waste bin. Dottie licked her fingers then wiped them carefully on her little handkerchief.
A noisy family vacated a bench, William swooped in to claim it, and Dottie joined him. The sun was a smudge of orange on the horizon. They watched until it disappeared completely seemingly beneath the sea. All about them was navy blue sky with glittering stars, and the sound of gentle waves. A breeze came in off the sea, chilly enough to warrant William’s arm about her shoulders, holding her against the warmth of his body.
Conversation was still infrequent, but Dottie felt a deep contentment. Surely this feeling of gentle happiness was love? Over the centuries, so much had been written, spoken, sung about love, but did anyone really know what it was?
Here and there a lamp glowed into life, casting a small patch of gold onto the ground, adding to the romantic timelessness of the evening. After a while, they walked again. Dottie decided to risk Mr Bray’s wrath and tell William why she was there. The other promenaders had gone, leaving behind only a few shy lovers and dog-walkers.
As soon as she had told him, he halted in his tracks.
‘Mrs Carmichael had a child?’ he repeated. His head was spinning with the thoughts that rushed in on him. Was it possible... It had to be... He shook his head. He should have seen it sooner. He had known all along, he realised. Yes, he had known, somehow...
Dottie continued, unaware of the turmoil in him. ‘Yes, and apart from the fact that it was a baby boy, I don’t know any more. She had to give him up for adoption, of course. I don’t have much of an idea how to go about finding him. I was supposed to be hearing from someone who can help me this afternoon, but no one has got in contact. I imagine there’s still time, though. After all, I only arrived yesterday. All the same, I can’t help wishing I had more to go on.’
‘Hmm,’ he said. He looked about him, hesitating. ‘Do you mind if we go back now? I—er—it’s been rather a long day.’
‘Of course,’ she said. In her mind she was wondering what she had said to upset him. His mood had changed instantaneously from light-hearted and romantic to withdrawn and taciturn. She berated herself, then had to hurry to catch him up.
‘William!’
‘What?’ he asked, then caught himself. He took a breath. ‘I’m sorry, Dottie. Do forgive me, I didn’t mean to snap.’
She lay a hand on his arm. ‘What is it? What have I done?’ Her voice was small, uncertain, a child’s voice.
‘Nothing, dear, nothing. It’s not you.’ He patted her hand, but his mood persisted, and when he left her at the door of her room, his kiss on her cheek was perfunctory at best.
‘Damn the man!’ she said to herself crossly, but careful to keep her voice down, as she heard his door open and close, and the groan of his bedsprings.
*
