Murders Most Foul (7 page)

In his short stay in the Brown’s cottage, Vince had found a new friend. He had fallen out of a tree and Paul Lumbleigh, riding back down from Arthur’s Seat where he had been upgrading his shooting skills on rabbits and other small game, entered the gardens by the back gate and found a boy sitting on the grass at the base of a tall tree, and nursing a bleeding knee.

The sight of fresh blood and possible injury halted him, as became one on the threshold of a medical profession.

‘That looks nasty. Is it sore?’

Vince bit his lip, trying not to cry, as the young man put aside his rifle and game bag. Kneeling down beside him, he asked: ‘Climbing, were you, and fell down the tree, did you? Know you’re trespassing?’

‘Of course I’m not. I live here,’ was the indignant reply and as Vince pointed to the cottage, Paul looked round, nodded and said: ‘Right. Come along and I’ll bandage that knee.’ Leading his horse he walked slowly, with Vince
limping alongside. Tying the horse to the garden fence he pushed open the cottage door.

Vince’s eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t even knocked first. What would Mrs Brown say? ‘You can’t go in like that,’ he protested.

‘And why not, pray? I can go anywhere I choose. Sit down!’ He indicated a kitchen chair and laughed. ‘Don’t look so scared. It’s only the coach house. Didn’t know they had children. Is Brown your father?’

‘No. My father is dead. He was a brave soldier. Killed in India.’

Vince was very proud of the father he had never met and whom his mother told him about. Now he looked nervously towards the window. The horse was clearly visible nibbling at the hedge. ‘You’re trespassing, you know; look at that horse of yours. Mr Lumbleigh is very hard on trespassers, especially ones with animals …’

Paul was filling a basin of water from the kettle on the hob. His lips tightened but he grinned. ‘Is he now? Well, well, we’ll see about that.’

‘Are you one of his tenants?’

Paul didn’t answer. After gently bathing the cut knee with one of Mrs Brown’s kitchen cloths, Vince watched wide-eyed as Paul threw open cupboard doors, searching shelves. ‘You shouldn’t do that, she’ll have a fit.’ He didn’t add that the warning was in his own interests as he, and not this kind man, would get all the blame.

‘Who cares?’ Paul shrugged, seizing a box. ‘Excellent. This ointment will do splendidly. Hold on. This will sting a bit.’

It did. Vince bit back a yell as he watched more searching,
opening of drawers, dragging out contents, then a cry of triumph, as the young man flourished a box containing lint and bandages.

Watching him skilfully dress his cut knee, Vince noticed that he had extremely gentle hands, but how on earth was he going to explain the array of wet cloths, a bloodstained towel and the general dishevelment of Mrs Brown’s normally pristine tidy kitchen?

‘That better?’ said Paul, regarding his work with satisfaction.

‘Yes, thank you. But how did you know where to find everything that was needed like that?’

Paul sat back and regarded him with a grin. ‘I know enough about horses and coachmen to realise there will always be a plentiful supply of bandages and ointment on the premises. Stand up.’

Vince did as he was bid and said: ‘Thank you. That’s fine. But you’d better go before anyone comes.’ He looked round quickly. ‘It’s a bit of a mess but they can blame me.’

Paul shook a finger at him. ‘Listen, I can do anything. My father owns this cottage – the Browns are only his servants. So just shut up and stop worrying.’

Vince was impressed, and looking around at the disorder, he said: ‘I’ll tell the Browns I hurt my knee.’

Paul grinned. ‘And did such a neat job of bandaging it too. Well, well,’ he said mockingly. ‘Must be off now. Bandage too tight or can you walk?’

‘Of course I can.’ Vince shuffled a few steps. ‘Thank you again.’

Washing his hands at the sink, Paul said: ‘Are you at school here?’

‘St Leonard’s.’

A quizzical glance. ‘Like it?’

A shrug instead of the expected indignant schoolboy’s reply. ‘It’s all right. I like some lessons, history and discovering things with a microscope, that’s my favourite. I’d like to be a doctor when I grow up.’

Paul gave him a speculative look, a feeling almost of nostalgia. Once he had been like this boy; now he envied him the innocence before that other world, waiting with the years, destroyed it all.

Opening the door, he turned. ‘Right. No football for a day or two and get your mother to have a look at the knee tomorrow, see that it’s healing all right. Any problems and we have better things for bloody knees at Surgeons’ Hall.’

‘Surgeons’ Hall?’

‘That’s right. I’m a doctor – or I will be in a year or two.’

‘Do you live there?’

Paul shook his head. ‘No, over there.’ He pointed to the big house.

Vince looked at him. The rifle and the horse. This must be the son of the house, Paul. He remembered hints from his mother that this was the disreputable chap, gambling, always getting drunk, coming home and having to get someone to put him to bed.

This kind fellow somehow didn’t fit that description but he had to be sure. ‘Is Mr Lumbleigh your father?’

‘Stepfather,’ Paul said shortly.

‘My mother is your mother’s lady’s maid.’

Paul looked sour. ‘She’s not my mother,’ he said sharply. ‘My mother is dead.’ His tone was bitter, angry. ‘Mrs Lumbleigh is not much older than me. And
he’
– he
emphasised the word – ‘he isn’t any relation of mine. My father was a soldier, a colonel, killed in India – like yours.’

‘Do you know my mother? Mrs Laurie?’

Paul shook his head and said almost apologetically: ‘Not really. We don’t know much about what goes on in the kitchen; as long as food is on the table when required and fires are lit, the servants are expected to remain invisible.’

Pausing he looked at Vince. Why was he telling this lad, a complete stranger, all this? Now, as he studied the boy with his mop of yellow curls, he saw a striking resemblance to one of the maids he had fancied. Lady’s maid. He remembered meeting her in a dark corridor, standing in her way and trying to grab her and kiss her. She had slapped his face – hard.

He had been furious and said coldly, ‘That could cost you your job.’

‘Not if I have any say in it, Paul.’ The voice was Clara’s. ‘Do go to bed, you silly boy, and leave the maids alone.’ And to the woman, ‘Come along, my dear.’

Rubbing his sore cheek, he watched her, hating her, swearing he would get revenge some day – on her and his stepfather. He wished they were dead, especially the man who had murdered his beloved mother, by keeping her to rot slowly, dying in a lunatic asylum. The rumour was that she had syphilis. He went cold at the thought – she certainly must have contracted that from her promiscuous husband, as so many wives did from theirs.

As Vince explained his bandaged knee later that day, Lizzie had been very concerned, made a great fuss, and while she was grateful to Paul she was also very curious when she
discovered Vince reading a book by Sir Walter Scott, an author she knew little about except that Edinburgh was very proud of him.

‘Where did you get that from?’

‘Paul lent it to me,’ said Vince. Paul had come by the cottage and seeing him sitting outside had asked after his knee. ‘I was reading a book from school and he said he could do better than that. And he gave me this book. He likes books too. We’re friends, Ma,’ he added proudly.

Lizzie had doubts about that and some misgivings regarding this odd friendship, knowing the bad reputation of the profligate son of the house. But Vince was delighted. Paul had opened up a new world for him; he was to teach him how to play whist and show him card tricks to impress the boys in his class at school.

Lizzie met that piece of information with some anxiety. Paul was a known gambler – and loser.

‘And he’s going to teach me chess too. We both like puzzles.’

She refrained from reminding him that Faro had offered him what she called ‘good’ books, including Shakespeare’s plays, many times, and to show him chess, but that had been met by a scowl, a shrug of disinterest.

Lizzie would have been even less happy had she known the outcome of Faro’s interview with Paul Lumbleigh and the coachman. The latter was a mere formality, said Gosse, intending to donate that particular task to Faro while he engineered a chat with Vince as an excuse to further his acquaintance with the boy’s mother, who had already stirred his senses.

While Gosse was having a smoke outside, he had met the
returning coachman, whose enigmatic expression remained unchanged as he answered Gosse’s questions.

‘A satisfactory alibi. You can cross him off the list, Faro. Only one more and we’re finished …’ As he said the words, the front door opened to admit a tall, good-looking young man whose air of self-confidence proclaimed him to be Paul Lumbleigh. He was in his early twenties, but Faro recognised in his face the look that said he was already a man of the world.

He regarded the two policemen with unconcealed disgust and, Faro thought, even a hint of anxiety.

Archie appeared at the study door and somewhat harshly introduced the departing detectives as being here on a routine matter. ‘One of the maids has been murdered – but it’s got nothing to do with the family.’ Archie sighed. ‘Nothing you need concern yourself about.’

Perhaps not an accurate observation, as Faro’s sharp glance detected a certain tightening of the young man’s lips. He made a mental note of a haunted expression that might well arise from feelings of guilt. Maybe he was innocent, but he did not share his stepfather’s reassurance on the matter of concern.

The two detectives returned to the study where Archie and Paul sat down but they were to remain standing.

Somewhat reluctantly Paul asked, ‘So what’s all this about?’

Archie addressed Gosse impatiently. ‘This is a mere waste of time, Sergeant.’ And as Paul sprawled languidly in the nearest armchair, he added: ‘This is a great inconvenience, Sergeant, my son knows nothing of our domestic matters—’

‘At this stage it is a mere routine, sir. As I have already
informed you,’ Gosse said patiently, ‘we are obliged to examine the deceased’s place of employment in case anyone may be able to contribute further knowledge of activities leading to … er … possible suspects.’

But Faro was no longer listening.

He had made an important discovery of his own.

He knew the exact place where he had seen young Lumbleigh before. Outside the Vaudeville Theatre in Canongate, trying to persuade one of the chorus girls into his carriage. She was struggling and shouting and he, obviously very drunk, was laughing at her protests.

Faro had stepped forward and said: ‘Let the young lady go, sir.’

Paul had glanced up at him, trying with some difficulty to focus his eyes. Then looking the girl over with a lewd expression, he grinned. ‘I don’t see any young lady here. And it’s none of your business.’

Faro repeated, ‘Let her go, sir. You’re drunk.’

The girl had struggled free and Faro said: ‘Off you go, miss.’

Paul scowled. ‘Hold on there. I bought her a drink, a promise was made.’ And to Faro, ‘I know what you’re up to. You can jolly well wait your turn, can’t he, sweetheart?’ He stretched out a hand to grab her, missed, and staggered.

Faro laid a firm hand on his arm. ‘Leave her alone. Get yourself home and sober up, sir.’

‘And who the devil do you think you are to give orders?’

‘I’m a policeman.’

‘Are you serious? You don’t look like a policeman. If you’re a peeler then I’m the Prince of Wales.’

Even out of uniform Faro had a presence and Paul tried
to focus his eyes on this man who towered above him, tall, fair hair, with the kind of face he’d seen in pictures of Vikings. Sense filtered through the alcoholic haze as Faro produced a wallet, took out a card, confirming his identity. Not a man to tangle with.

As for the girl, she had seized the opportunity to escape and Paul suddenly lost interest. Angry, frustrated, he tapped the roof of the carriage: ‘Drive on.’ And Faro watched as this uncouth, educated lout shouted an obscenity at him as the carriage disappeared.

The memory of that encounter evolved into significance when he remembered taking Lizzie to the Vaudeville she loved. It was her favourite, the comics, the performing dogs, the acrobats, the dancers, girls with long legs in daring, glittering costumes, usually of scarlet satin.

Scarlet satin.

Like the woman they had found murdered in Fleshers Close, except that her dress was torn and muddied.

He felt the thrill of certainty.

Gosse was wrong. He had leapt to the obvious conclusion. Despite that scarlet dress and the face paint, the woman was not a professional prostitute but an actress, a chorus girl, a dancer. Perhaps out of work and starving she had had to seek survival on the streets. And a more significant memory: the woman in the tenement who had heard a carriage and drunken shouts that night.

Faro considered Paul with new interest. Should he confide his suspicions to Gosse, who wanted the woman in Fleshers Close to be a whore? He hated whores and had set his heart on that as the reason why she had been murdered. Bearing that in mind, Faro later felt bound
to mention that Paul was a known flirt with the maid servants.

Gosse’s reactions were exactly what he had expected. The sergeant’s eyebrows shot skyward. A shake of the head, a mocking laugh. ‘Are you hinting that the son of the house was Ida’s secret lover? Paul and one of the maids! You must be insane. The idea is unimaginable – completely absurd.’

‘It happens, sir,’ said Faro. ‘Every day.’

For him, remembering Lizzie’s bitter past, the idea was neither absurd nor unimaginable.

Gosse gave him a pitying glance. ‘Did you not see her lying in the mortuary – a plain little nobody? And him an educated, handsome lad, about to graduate as a doctor. What an idea.’ And shaking an admonishing finger, ‘And another thing. Don’t forget Jock Webb. Why on earth should Paul attack an elderly man, a stranger?’

Faro suppressed a weary sigh. Despite the revelations of his interview with Webb, Gosse was still hanging on to his own theory, hoping that the murder might be pinned on the ex-boxer.