Murders Most Foul (4 page)

Faro set off for Liberton Brae armed with the old man’s address. A long line of smart villas facing each other across the steep street, owned or rented by Edinburgh’s lower middle class: artisans, shopkeepers or office workers. All houses alike, even to the lace curtains, the carefully kept gardens and well-painted doors and windows, an indication of the respectable, decent lives that a passer-by might expect of the inhabitants within.

As a measure against arousing alarm, despondency or guilty consciences and an outbreak of furious neighbourhood gossip, Faro had decided to abandon his uniform in favour of plain clothes. Even for the innocent, the sight of a policeman’s helmet hinted at bad news. There was something formidable, even discreditable, about the sight of a constable walking up the garden path, and Faro had discovered that he gained a great deal more information by posing as an ordinary citizen. His gentle manner and quiet voice made the folk being interviewed feel less vulnerable, more trusting.

And there was the house he was looking for. Number 124. The door was opened promptly by a young woman. By her expression, smiling then swiftly overtaken by a frown, he was not the visitor she expected and he sighed with relief. Her appearance and age suggested that this was Mr Webb’s daughter or even his granddaughter.

Raising his tall hat, he asked if Mr Webb was at home. The woman frowned, asked him to repeat the name and shook her head. ‘Never heard of him. You’ve come to the wrong house, I’m afraid.’

This was a setback. ‘You don’t know anyone of that name?’

‘Never in our time and we’ve been here for five years. There was an old woman before that, took in lodgers.’ And asking him to repeat the name, again she shook her head firmly. ‘No, Webb definitely wasn’t her name.’

Apologising and thanking her, he walked down the path, closed the gate and wondered what on earth to do next. He looked again at the address. The writing was shaky but it was definitely 124. Then he looked up and down both sides of the brae.

He could hardly go from door to door. No, there must be some mistake. Mistake or no, when Gosse heard of this he would pounce upon it as a deliberate attempt to put the police off the scent.

Maybe Gosse was right, but Faro still couldn’t believe from what he had seen physically of the old man, and having observed his confusion in that brief infirmary visit, that he was capable of going out on the rampage and killing anyone. And yet … and yet Webb had been a very strong man once and knew all about strangleholds from his boxing days. He had almost certainly left the Infirmary
last night, so Faro looked up and down the steep hill.

Webb must be in one of these houses. He crossed over and decided to try one or two numbers, on the off chance that there had been an error in writing down 124.

He was out of luck, soon made to realise that he was facing a hopeless task. Doors when they were opened at all were drawn back just a couple of inches wide, with a suspicious voice, usually female, demanding what was he selling and stating she didn’t want any. The men were less polite.

After a dozen doors, humiliated, he decided the most likely person to have information about the sporting community, even a non-drinking former boxer, might be the local public house he had noticed earlier. It was also a much needed excuse. The stiff wind that had travelled with him from Arthur’s Seat had turned into heavy mist and fine drizzle. He was cold, wet, thirsty and his feet were sore.

Presumably he was also the first and only customer at opening time. He felt less than hopeful as he ordered a pint of ale. The fact that the barman was young suggested that he might not have useful information either.

‘Jock Webb. Aye, everyone’s heard of him. Local hero. A great fighter.’

‘I believe he used to live here on Liberton Brae.’

The barman shook his head. ‘You’ve got me there, sir.’ It was the reply Faro expected. ‘Came here from Glasgow a couple of years ago. Can’t help you much.’ A pause. ‘Wait a bit though, my granddad may know.’

An ancient man, stooped and leaning on a stick, was summoned from the back premises. Faro almost immediately got a feeling he was delighted to talk to anyone, especially about the famous Jock Webb.

‘Aye, must be over eighty. Younger than me. Died, has he?’ There was a certain relish of one old man outliving a contemporary.

‘He was very much alive when I saw him last night – asked me to call on him when I was in the area,’ Faro lied. ‘But the address – number 124 – was wrong. I didn’t remember it correctly.’

The old man was watching him intently, looking him up and down, assessing him. ‘You from the newspapers, young sir?’

Faro laughed. ‘No, just an acquaintance. Interested in his boxing career.’

What followed needed time and patience as the old man, proud to state that he had been Jock Webb’s close friend, embarked on a full biographical story. Finally, he paused to draw breath and have another half-pint of ale, donated by Faro, who much regretted this impulse now because it seemed that as a captive audience he was unlikely to make his escape before closing time.

While maintaining an attitude of polite listening he was frantically inventing excuses to interrupt the flow when Tom, for that was his name, announced: ‘Aye, this was his first home. Liberton Brae. I was best man at their wedding. Jock hadn’t made his name in the ring at that time and couldna’ afford a fine house like the one he has now. Boarded with a Miss Ginny, old lady who had a boarding house.’

A pause for thought, and Faro asked: ‘Do you happen to know the number?’

‘Aye, I do that. Top of the hill, 124.’

So that was the explanation. Jock had simply given the wrong address, because he had complete recall of his first
home as a married man and doubtless imagined he still lived there.

Faro had one more question. ‘Where is he now – this fine house you mentioned?’

‘Och, I dinna’ ken that.’ Tom shook his head. ‘We kind of lost touch when he got famous. Sort of thing that happens – he didna’ have the time for old friends,’ he added bitterly.

‘Any family in Edinburgh? He mentioned a daughter.’

‘Is that so?’ Tom shook his head. ‘While we were still friends they had two bairns. I well remember …’

Unwilling for the onslaught of another wave of philosophical reminiscences, Faro stemmed the flow by saying: ‘I presume Jock is still in Edinburgh, though.’

‘Last I heard, he had one of those grand new houses in Newington.’

When Faro announced that he must leave, Tom seemed reluctant to let him go, saying how much he had enjoyed their conversation and what a treat it was to meet a real gentleman with a taste for boxing.

Faro’s eyes widened a little at this, since the conversation had been entirely one-sided, apart from a couple of questions he’d edged in, and to be truthful his leisure hours had never included any visits to the boxing ring.

The possible whereabouts of ‘a grand house in Newington’ suggested another futile investigation but Faro left with a feeling of relief that Jock Webb was unlikely to fit Gosse’s role of prime suspect. There seemed little point in searching any further when Tom had revealed of his own accord that Jock’s family connections had been in Aberdeen, Fife and
over the Borders. It only confirmed that mention of visiting his daughter in Liberton Brae had been a figment of the old man’s confusion.

As he walked back towards the city, the glowering shadow of Arthur’s Seat emerged from the mist that so often turned it into a sleeping giant. There were patches of sunlight on its many crags. Such a secret place to have on the edge of a city. A million or more years ago and the very place where they all lived and worked, Macfie had told him, had once been inside the volcano from which the whole city, with its fine castle, owed its being.

Faro found such information difficult to imagine – an erupting volcano where, on grassy, heathery slopes, sheep grazed and the occasional deer might be glimpsed, and where Edinburgh folk exercised horses and walked dogs and children played. He thought of what lay beneath the surface in those dark and secret caves.

A group of boys had once found ten miniature coffins, wee dressed dolls inside each one, a weird discovery that had no doubt thrown a cloud over laughter and childish games. To this day no one had ever discovered the identity of the coffins, or for what strange and sinister ritual they had been buried there. A mystery worthy of any lad deciding to become a policeman.

His road lay direct ahead, but at the Pleasance on impulse he returned to the murder scene at Fleshers Close. Even on a day that threatened sunshine and fresh air, he shuddered away from the filth and decay that marked the area, wondering whether he might see the woman who had taken charge of the little girl.

And then he had a stroke of luck; she was walking towards 
him, a basket over her arm, a trail of small children at her heel, the wee girl he remembered holding tightly to her hand.

He had to stand aside to let them pass and raised his hat. She nodded, looked him over, seeing him as a toff, a stranger to this area of the city. Without uniform and the forbidding helmet that had concealed the upper part of his face, she obviously did not recognise him again as one of the policemen and he had to think of an excuse to delay her, ask her some questions.

He stammered out that they had met before. She frowned, shook her head, but there was a gleam of hope in her glance. Was there perhaps a coin or two in this meeting? He explained that he had called the other day, that he was concerned about the woman who was killed.

‘Was she a friend of yours?’ he asked.

A cautious glance. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘Friends,’ he said non-committally. She nodded and held out a grubby hand. An unmistakable gesture indicating information available but to be paid for.

He handed her a coin. ‘Tell me about her, if you please?’ He smiled down at the little girl and said: ‘Hello!’ In return she gave him a terrified glance, hiding her face in the woman’s skirts. ‘Is that her daughter?’

‘Saw them once or twice together – down here, looking for business. Not from these parts. Had a word, gave her a bite to eat one day, the bairn was weary of walking. Came from over yonder.’ She pointed in the vague direction of Leith. Her voice was getting slower, thoughtful. ‘Came to meet someone who hadn’t turned up.’

Here was hope indeed, but before he could ask any further questions he was aware of her candid glance,
looking him over carefully, and she said sharply, ‘Is it the bairn you’re after? It’ll cost you more than a few coins, mister – she’s only six years old.’

Faro stepped back, shocked as the enormity of her proposition dawned upon him. Had she assumed he was one of the dealers in child prostitution? He tried to keep his voice calm as he replied: ‘You are mistaken. I am only interested in what happened to the child’s mother. When they found her, had you heard anything, any disturbance, any commotion during the night?’

The woman frowned. ‘A carriage nearby in the early hours, night. Like drunks – young toffs larking. It was dark. Next thing I heard was them polis rattles.’ She stopped and shook her head, remembering. ‘Polis crawling all over the place, up and down the stairs, knocking on doors. asking questions. Came down to see what it was about.’ She paused, sighed. ‘And there she was lying there dead, before they took her away.’

She looked at the little girl still clinging to her. ‘Didna’ want them putting her in the workhouse, fine strong, healthy wee bairn like that. So I took her in.’ A hopeful glance at him. ‘D’ye ken anyone who might want a wee lass? She’s very clean and a good worker.’

Six years old, Faro thought, maybe too young for a year or two for the child dealers to be interested. As for the workhouse, factory owners were known to seek out youngsters for cheap labour. He said: ‘Can you keep her? She’s better off with you.’

The woman thought about that. A moment’s indecision, then she shrugged. ‘Ah well, she’ll be a help with the washings meantime,’ she added, clearly disappointed at
the breakdown of what had seemed a promising financial negotiation. ‘Till something else turns up.’

‘Thank you.’ Faro handed her another coin. He realised he could go no further. All he had learnt was the possibility that the dead woman had been strangled first and then thrown out of a carriage at Fleshers Close.

As for the little girl, sadly he could do nothing for her facing years of slavery to the woman with six children, who made a living as a washerwoman. When she was older, with luck, she would find work as a servant.

And that made him think of Lizzie. Had he come in by the direct south-side route he would have walked past the gates of Lumbleigh Green. He wasn’t due to see her tonight and, in a way, he was relieved. There was too much tension between them just now. Questions asked and unanswered hovered in their relationship, and guiltily he was aware of his own reluctance to make the move that would solve all Lizzie’s problems.

Marriage …

At that moment Lizzie was dealing with some of those problems and would have welcomed his advice. Ida Watt’s mother had arrived at the tradesman’s entrance of Lumbleigh Green in a frightful state.

By chance, the door was answered by Lizzie who was in the kitchen alone. She had never met the girl’s mother and was taken aback by the angry demand:

‘Where is our Ida? I want to see her – right now.’

Concerned by the tearful woman obviously in great distress, and as Mrs Brown was busy in another part of the house, Lizzie asked her in and seated her down at the table where she looked around as if hoping to see her daughter walk in.

‘Where’s Lizzie? I want to talk to her.’

Lizzie smiled. ‘That’s me.’

Mrs Watts sighed and took her hand. ‘Thank God. I came looking for you, ’cos you’re her friend and you’ll be able to tell me’ – her voice trembled – ‘where’s she gone.’

Lizzie was uncomfortably aware of Ida’s secret, confided in her. She shook her head. What could she say, by way of evading the truth, with some sort of comfort and reassurance?

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. Thick as thieves she said you are. Well, it was her birthday – you knew that, of course.’

Lizzie didn’t. Mrs Watts sat there wringing her hands. ‘I made a cake and everything. She never came. Let me down and her cousins and everyone. It’s not like her, she’s never caused any of us a minute’s worry before. Maybe it’s different now, doesn’t care about us any more if she’s away off with this rich lad she’s so daft about.’ Sighing, she went on pathetically: ‘Ashamed of her family, us being poor farming folk. But poor or no, her da will take a stick to her backside, that’s for sure.’

Lizzie, bewildered, shook her head. She could think of no reply. Obviously the story Ida had told her mother was a somewhat idealised version of the fact that they were far from ‘thick as thieves’. In truth, they were nothing more than working colleagues and now, for the first time, Lizzie was infected with Mrs Watts’ feelings of panic.

All she could say was, ‘I’ll tell Ida you came and you’re worried about her.’

‘And you’ll let us know. Here’s where we live.’ She scribbled down an address in Bonnyrigg.

Lizzie promised to do so and watched the girl’s mother depart, feeling she had offered little in the way of reassurance as she went upstairs with Clara’s morning chocolate and had to apologise for the delay.

Where was Ida? Had something happened to her? She
had to tell her mistress, who wasn’t particularly upset, worried or even interested in the table maid’s fate. She could think only of Ida’s continued absence as merely an inconvenience.

Pursing her lips, Clara said sternly: ‘Please don’t worry yourself, Laurie. Doubtless she will turn up, and when she does decide to put in an appearance again, I’m afraid it will only be to be dismissed by the master. He has already decided she was unreliable on many accounts and this, I fear, will be the final tax on his patience.’

Lizzie did not sleep much that night, troubled by scaring dreams about the missing girl and how Ida had sworn her to secrecy about this wealthy, handsome young fellow she said was going to marry her.

‘We’re going to elope, we’ve got to, now I’m pregnant,’ she had crowed. So if she had gone off with this lad she was so daft about, as her mother described him, who was he, anyway? And Lizzie kept wondering where she had found the opportunity to meet him, seeing that she had little leisure life away from work and her visits home to her parents. It was all very mysterious, and not sending them a note saying she had eloped, well, that was a bit scary and sinister too.

Surely, as such a devoted daughter she would have tried not to let them worry, especially as it was her birthday, a family celebration – something else she had never told Lizzie.

When dawn broke next morning she had made up her mind. If Ida was missing, perhaps some accident had befallen her on her way to meet her secret lover. Well, there was only one person who could help find her. And that was Detective Constable Jeremy Faro.

And telling him couldn’t wait until their next meeting. How to get an urgent message to him? Leave a note at his lodgings? But she wasn’t absolutely sure about that, afraid of facing Mrs Biggs, the formidable landlady she had heard about. With a despairing sigh, she realised the only correct thing to do in the present circumstances was to go to the police, so she decided to venture through the sacred portals of the Central Office and report a missing person. Hopefully she might even see Jeremy when she was there.

Only it didn’t work out like that. She lost her nerve, surrounded by the imposing and intimidating atmosphere. The constable at the desk studied her with interest. A look she was used to men giving her these days, which she failed to interpret as a man’s natural interest aroused by the appearance of an exceptionally attractive young woman.

He smiled. ‘Well, miss, and what can I do for you?’

She explained about Ida, and producing a notebook and pencil, the constable asked if she was her next of kin.

‘No, we are friends. We work together.’ As the constable frowned, Lizzie said: ‘Her mother would have come but she was too poorly to make the journey from Bonnyrigg.’ That was a lie, but she decided it was a forgivable one in such anxious circumstances.

The young constable considered her thoughtfully. Was this a case for serious investigation? A couple of days. Sounded as if it might be a panic and she’d walk in tomorrow. But mothers were like that, always harping on about nothing. So the lass had run away – lots of them did and very few left notes saying where they had gone. If it wasn’t a fellow the parents didn’t approve of, it was likely to find another situation, because maids soon got fed up
with the present one and were eager to better themselves with the lure of a bit of extra money. Often they headed for factories where the hours were long and references weren’t demanded.

While the constable hesitated, Lizzie said, ‘I thought the police should be told.’

At the sound of footsteps approaching, she looked around hopefully, but this was a strange policeman, not the one she wanted to see.

The constable saluted the newcomer gravely and indicated Lizzie. ‘Missing persons enquiry, sir.’

McIvor looked at Lizzie and shrugged. He was in a hurry. ‘Get her to sign an official statement, then.’

Watching her write, a neat hand too, the constable wondered why her appearance seemed oddly familiar. Thanking her, he smiled at her anxious expression, and promised to hand it to the proper authorities immediately. As she walked away he remembered where he had seen that pretty face, the bright eyes and yellow curls before. Out walking with DC Faro in Princes Street Gardens. A stunner, he whistled, even if she was a widow with a young lad in tow.

Lizzie had missed Jeremy by a mere ten minutes. When he approached the desk, Constable Ryan whispered slyly: ‘Your young lady has just called.’

‘What did she want?’ And the constable made a mental note that Faro looked startled and embarrassed. What on earth could have made Lizzie come to the Central Office? Only some dire emergency would have led her to try to contact him at work, he thought nervously.

Ryan shrugged. ‘Worried about one of her friends who has gone missing. Apparently the lass’s ma is demented about it, but wasn’t well enough to come herself …’

Faro was only half-listening, looking towards the door. Gosse would be arriving any moment and he had no desire for the sergeant to know that his detective constable’s ‘young lady’, as he called her, had been tracking him down at work in the Central Office.

Ryan said: ‘I had her sign an official statement …’

Faro held out a hand, and the constable grinned and shook his head, looking wary, as Faro said impatiently, ‘I will see it gets to the right department.’

He took it into the office he shared with Gosse and began reading Lizzie’s neat handwriting. All this fuss about an unreliable maid, he thought. He hadn’t realised that Ida was such a friend either. Perhaps that was just to help the girl’s frantic mother, typical of Lizzie too, always willing to carry other folks’ burdens as if her own weren’t enough.

The bit about the birthday party did seem strange. Such a devoted daughter, according to her mother – surely she would have let her parents know, spared their anxiety.

Gosse had come in. ‘Any progress on Liberton Brae?’

Faro told him about the visit, the search for Jock Webb. Gosse sighed, clearly disappointed, reluctant to have to admit that it now seemed unlikely that the ex-boxer was the killer they were looking for.

‘There is still the business of that playing card in his pocket, like the one under the woman’s body in Fleshers Close, sir,’ Faro reminded him.

Gosse gave a snort of disbelief. ‘You’re making too
much of that, Faro. Letting it throw you off the scent. A coincidence, that’s all – disregard it …’

Faro’s silence indicated acceptance. However, he would continue to keep it well in mind until some explanations of how the cards came to be there were forthcoming.

Gosse was saying: ‘From the evidence so far, Webb is still our main suspect. After all, remember what that doctor said and that false address. All a pack of lies,’ he added firmly.

‘Not deliberately, sir,’ said Faro desperately. ‘His memory seemed to be a bit confused.’

Gosse tapped his nose in that familiar gesture. ‘Cunning, Faro, cunning, that’s what it is.’ And he repeated once more his favourite warning. ‘Wait until you’ve been on the force as long as I have. You’ll soon learn there’s no trick they won’t get up to. Have to be sharp and on your guard, all the time – never miss a trick.’

Faro knew there was no point in arguing and said: ‘On my way back I looked in at Fleshers Close, met the woman who appeared when we were leaving. She took the wee girl,’ he reminded him. ‘I asked her if she had heard anything that night before the body was discovered. She mentioned a carriage, some commotion outside in the early hours.’

‘Sounds as if the woman was murdered and dumped there afterwards. You did well, Faro,’ he added with unaccustomed praise. ‘Ryan tells me you have an official report of a missing person for me.’

Faro pointed to the desk. ‘Went missing at the weekend. Family are worried.’

‘Just a couple of days ago, no cause for concern.’ Gosse
sighed wearily. ‘She’ll turn up. If we tackled every case like this we’d get nothing else done, like tracking down murderers.’ And pointing to papers on the desk, he added: ‘We’ve had plenty overnight to keep us busy. Look at those. Three burglaries in the New Town, reports of poachers busy on the south side, domestic fights in Leith – that’s not news – except that the wife is in the Infirmary.’ Pausing he shook his head. ‘Four pickpockets arrested. Must be the full moon got to them.’

‘Maybe they are just taking advantage of the extra moonlight nature has obligingly provided, sir.’

‘Apart from your fanciful interpretations, Faro, the main thing that concerns us is that there has been another woman murdered. See for yourself.’ Ushering him in the direction of the mortuary, Gosse said grimly, ‘Lass that jumped off the North Bridge. She was killed first and her body thrown off the bridge, no doubt about that.’ Gosse shook his head. ‘According to Dr Grace, no evidence of pregnancy this time.’

Faro thought with compassion how frequently that was the cause of suicides with young unmarried girls, betrayed by lovers who were mostly married men. Many unfortunate women, too poor to afford more than a few coins, died under the backstreet abortionist’s crude knife; others took their own lives, unable or unwilling to face a future with the burden of an illegitimate child. Lizzie had been one of the brave ones, an exception.

Gosse said: ‘This was no suicide. She was strangled. Nothing on the body to identify her, clothes suggested working class, servant maybe.’

Faro felt a chill of dread as he followed Gosse. Sheeted,
on a trestle, a young girl who might well be the missing Ida.

‘Any identification?’

Gosse shook his head. ‘Not as yet, I gather.’

Dr Grace, the police surgeon, had heard them. He came over.

‘We have some information. Your colleagues always search the spot for possessions after removing the body. In the fall they can be scattered in a wide surrounding area. Well, they found in a clump of bushes, a reticule. It contained a note to her parents, letting them know she would be in Gretna Green getting married.’

With sinking heart, Faro asked: ‘Was the name Watts?’

Gosse’s eyes widened. ‘How the devil do you know that?’ In answer, Faro pointed to the missing persons report. ‘I don’t think you need to read this, Sergeant. We know who she was, poor lass.’

Gosse took the paper to the light, read it, and picked up the list the police surgeon had brought in.

He swore under his breath. ‘There’s something else, Faro, for your interest,’ he added grudgingly. ‘Among other things in that damned reticule, a playing card. We could say she had been a gambler and lost—’

‘Was it the nine of diamonds, sir?’

‘Yes,’ said Gosse shortly and glanced towards the sheeted figure. ‘Our killer’s third victim. And as there was no evidence of pregnancy, maybe he killed her for the wrong reason.’

Laying the report aside he turned to the official missing persons statement, and reading the signature he said: ‘This Lizzie Laurie, describes herself as a servant. At Lumbleigh Green.’

He had no reason to connect her with his detective constable’s ‘young lady’ but Faro’s heart sank, expecting trouble as the sergeant’s eyes brightened with sudden hope.

‘We’d better head there right away. I suspect that’s where we’ll find our answers – and our killer too.’

And Faro’s scalp crawled, a familiar instinct of foreboding, as he followed Gosse out of the Central Office and headed down the High Street on their way to yet another murder investigation.