Murders Most Foul (9 page)

‘To say nothing of reducing the value of his property’s selling price, no doubt,’ was Macfie’s candid rejoinder, wishing him good luck and asking to be kept informed of developments, and Faro left fully aware that, whatever he learnt, Macfie’s experience and his advice would be invaluable.

When Faro met Lizzie and they walked in Queen’s Park that mellow evening it was to learn that the master had caused further ructions when he heard via his wife that her maid was keeping company with a police constable.

‘He was terribly upset, Jeremy. Said to her that if that was not bad enough, worst of all,’ she suppressed a giggle and eyed him proudly, ‘this particular policeman was one of the detectives causing them so much personal inconvenience investigating Ida’s murder.’

She sighed and took his arm. ‘I am frantic with worry, Jeremy. If I am dismissed, what will become of Vince? That concerns me much more deeply than my own future. Doubtless I will get another situation as lady’s maid in due course. Mrs Lumbleigh has been very pleased with my efforts and I’m sure she will give me an excellent recommendation to some of her friends.’

Pausing, she looked towards Salisbury Crags. ‘But it is Vince I am so concerned about. If I leave Lumbleigh Green
there will be no reason for him to stay with the Browns. And he is so comfortable in his wee attic in the cottage. It’s a room of his own and he is well fed and cared for.’ She shook her head. ‘I dread having to take him away back to where we used to live, which is all I could afford. It was not the worst by any means, although now in comparison with the big house it seems quite dreadful.’

She stopped to retie the strings of her bonnet which had become undone and Faro’s heart went out to her. She looked so pretty, so young and vulnerable; all his feelings were to protect her as she went on: ‘When I think of being poor again and having to live in some loathsome close, I can bear it, but it is Vince I tremble for. Living in nice surroundings is so good for him, for his future, and all that will be taken from him. Oh, dear, that wretched old tenement was bad then, but it seems like a nightmare now!’

As far as Faro was concerned this conversation was a nightmare for him too; had Lizzie been able to see inside his head and read his thoughts, she would perceive how her words were once again a silent reproach, forcing him to consider how readily he could put an end to all her anxieties, her fears for the future – hers and her son’s – by uttering four simple words: Will you marry me? Such easy words that would be what Lizzie imagined was an entrance to paradise. Walking at her side, her arm in his, he suppressed a weary sigh. One day, sooner or later, this seemed like the inevitable conclusion of their present
easy-going
relationship.

As for Vince’s future, he was surprised to hear that he had been befriended by Paul Lumbleigh, who was
apparently taking a greater interest in a twelve-year-old schoolboy than Faro could have ever imagined, considering his damaged reputation.

Lizzie was wide-eyed with admiration. ‘Master Paul is a keen reader and is encouraging Vince to like great writers of the past, even Shakespeare.’ She laughed delightedly as she added: ‘Vince has been showing me some clever card tricks that Paul taught him. He is so deft with his hands. They played whist and Vince always wins – that amuses Paul since cards are absolutely forbidden in the house.’ She paused and added guardedly, ‘Master Paul lost a great deal of money gambling at college and at the master’s club, which had to be repaid by his stepfather.’

‘Indeed? A lot of money?’

She shrugged. ‘Well maybe not a huge amount but we all know that the master is careful, very tight-fisted about money. Mrs Brown goes on about it constantly, saying this is a big house and she needs more staff, she is utterly worn out having to run it efficiently on her own. She constantly reminds me that matters have not been helped since I became Mrs Lumbleigh’s personal maid, only to be seen in the kitchen these days preparing a tray to take upstairs to the mistress.’

The clouds moving over the heights of Arthur’s Seat turned into a steady drizzle, and as they could find little shelter, their time together was cut short and he returned her to the house by the back gate. Vince came to the cottage door, obviously waiting for her.

Faro was feeling very despondent. He would have been even more so had he known that Paul’s education of Vince was going beyond books and card tricks. Lizzie had omitted
to inform him that his tuition also included the promise of how to use a rifle. He was very excited, as Paul was going to take him target shooting away from the house. Once he could handle the weapon properly, Paul told him, he would be able to shoot rabbits on the hill.

Watching the boy disappear inside with Lizzie, Faro had no desire to alarm her, but even unaware of these latest developments, this unlikely friendship and the association with playing cards brought back his earlier conversation with Macfie, who had emphasised that the killings had all the markings of an educated man, as did the attack on Jock Webb who claimed that the nine of diamonds had been planted on him. The possible significance of its discovery in the hospital had immediately occurred to Macfie: that maybe that was where they might find the killer.

Although Faro had not revealed to his old friend that he knew the identity of the drunk young man trying to lure the actress from the theatre into his carriage, its significance now weighed heavily upon him.

What if Paul was the killer? A twenty-year-old medical student who might well know how to strangle a victim efficiently. He remembered Macfie’s words – that there had to be a motive. That was the only thing lacking, and for the life of him Faro could think of nothing to justify the two brutal murders. Unless young Lumbleigh was a madman. And there was a thought … hadn’t his mother died insane?

He went on to consider Lizzie’s observation of domestic life within Lumbleigh Green. Apparently everyone knew that there was bad feeling between Paul and Archie. The reason: Paul blamed his stepfather for his mother’s death. In the first place, for having her incarcerated in a lunatic
asylum – although it was given a less startling title, a ‘gentlewoman’s retreat’, that was undeniably what it was.

As far as the verdict went, she died there of natural causes, but if Paul was unbalanced he could see it as murder and believe that Archie had in fact caused her death by breaking her heart. He had been twelve years old, the same age as his protégé Vince, at a time of exploding emotions, resisting all attempts by his stepmother to gain his affection. Even mere politeness was an achievement, and hatred of Archie reflected on poor Clara. In a rare mood of confidence after a particularly disagreeable scene at the dining table, drying her tears, she had told Lizzie that she had tried everything without the least success to make Paul like her.

Domestic squabbles were one thing, Faro thought, but hatred of his stepfather was hardly a logical motive for sending Paul on a killing spree of two young women. That didn’t make sense at all. Archie had never been in any danger. So for motive, he had to search somewhere else, but where?

He was still brooding over the possibility that the dead woman in Fleshers Close was a dancer. He recalled Gosse’s scorn, how he had demanded: ‘Explain!’ and apparently listened intently, his eyebrows raised in an immediate expression of mockery at the mention of the scarlet dress.

‘Is that it?’ he had said at the end of Faro’s careful version of this theory which seemed so plausible and obvious to himself.

‘Is that all you have to offer?’ Gosse repeated, and regarding Faro over arched fingertips he added: ‘Well, all I can say is that what I am aware of I know from my own experience – which is vast, Faro, quite vast! I
know what Edinburgh whores look like, and so will you if you have a few more years with the force here. Maybe it’s different in Orkney, but I would not hesitate to fit the woman we found into the streetwalking fraternity.’ Pausing to let this sink in for a moment, he sighed and continued, ‘I suggest you divert your energies and your imagination into digging deeper into the obvious – namely, Jock Webb’s motives. He is, after all, our main and only suspect.’

With this pronouncement Faro had to be satisfied, realising that as far as Gosse was concerned the case was already closed and, but for a few minor details, he had his murderer and it would take a lot more than Faro’s theory to persuade him otherwise.

Unless, and it was a very large and profound ‘unless’, he could prove it beyond question.

‘Anyway, it’s up to you now,’ Gosse said dismissively, settling back into the comfortable armchair vacated on a temporary basis by Chief Inspector Wade. As he spoke, Gosse glanced across the highly polished surface of the curiously unlittered desk, smoothed the shining surface with satisfaction as if to remove invisible specks of dust.

‘I hear from outside sources – my family connections,’ he added importantly, reminding Faro that the detective sergeant was a distant cousin of Archie Lumbleigh’s deceased first wife’s wealthy family and therefore vaguely related to Paul, another reason why confiding any suspicions of the young man as the killer would be received not only with scorn but also with an angry response at the idea that anyone even vaguely related to himself could be guilty of such villainy.

Gosse shook his head. ‘Aye, there are changes afoot, Faro.’ A deep sigh. ‘And when I get my long-awaited and I have to say, eagerly expected promotion, I will be on the lookout back down the ladder on which I have ascended to this elevated position, for the vacant role I have just quitted. Namely the role of detective sergeant …’

Pausing dramatically he looked intently at Faro as if expecting some rejoinder, perhaps hoping to detect an eager expression. There was none.

Gosse sighed and smoothed the arms of the chair as with a false expression of regret he shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, I do not feel it is within my powers to be able to recommend you, Faro.’ Another pause to be met once again by an expression which could not by Gosse’s wildest imagination be the one he had been anticipating.

‘To be quite frank, I have found you a disappointment, yes indeed, a grievous disappointment, Faro. You came to me with such high hopes from a source that was regarded as infallible …’

And Faro was in no doubt that the source was, in fact, Brandon Macfie, as Gosse went on: ‘There are several possibilities that I am looking into. Constables who are even younger than yourself,’ he added heavily, ‘who would more efficiently fill the role of detective sergeant.’

Again he paused hopefully. But reactions there were none. Faro continued to listen politely and regard him enigmatically, oblivious to what Gosse saw as this bombshell launched at the detective constable’s future prospects.

‘You have all too much imagination, Faro, which is apt to overlook the obvious clues, as in the matter of Webb and the dead women.’

‘Begging your pardon, sir, the only connection regarding Webb’s motives for killing the woman in Fleshers Close and the maid from Lumbleigh Green seems to be the playing card found at both scenes.’

Gosse shook an admonishing finger. ‘Ah yes, Faro, but believe me there is a motive and that is for you to find out.’

Faro regarded him impassively. ‘First of all, sir, I need to track down his present whereabouts. As you will remember, the address was an old one.’

‘Ah yes, a typical piece of misdirection.’ Gosse shook his head. ‘Alas, I cannot direct you in this, these are matters I must leave you to deal with in the normal course of your duties. I now have much on my hands,’ he said with a reproachful look across the almost empty desk, ‘so I would advise you strongly against feeling free to explore a fantasy about a scarlet dress – thereby allowing precious time to elapse for the obvious killer to escape. A clever killer who has tried to divert our efforts, pulling the wool over our eyes with a playing card—’

There would have been more on these lines, Faro longing to point out somewhat mockingly the logic of the last rash statement, when they were interrupted by a constable who announced the imminent arrival of the assistant chief constable.

Dismissed, Faro left with a sense of injustice tinged with relief, as he had no desire to remain in the claws of DS Gosse and could only hope that should he be promoted to inspector, then his successor would be more agreeable.

As Gosse trooped importantly after the constable and arranged his face prior to his meeting with his superiors, he felt intensely smug about the way things were working 
out. He had successfully put Faro in his place, but more importantly, had him off the scene. Faro going after Webb as well as scratching about for clues of a non-existent dancer would give himself more time and opportunity to begin his pursuit of Lizzie Laurie who, since their meeting at Lumbleigh Green, had been occupying a great deal of his thoughts.

He was beginning to feel that he was a little in love with her, and, after all, he was justified in his pursuit. Almost a bachelor, having a wife who had absented herself from the connubial couch and seemed unlikely to ever return, his feelings for this new conquest also allowed him to regard DC Faro in the additional role as a rival for her affections.

Almost a week since the first murder in Fleshers Close Faro considered the fate of the body in the police mortuary’s cold store. To prove Jock Webb’s innocence – or otherwise – he must first discover the dead woman’s identity, so a visit to the Vaudeville Theatre was in order. Unfortunately, there was no one available there. The box office, said the notice, opened half an hour before the afternoon and evening performances. With a sigh he walked away, aware that his visit must wait until that evening, and provided Lizzie’s services were not needed by Mrs Lumbleigh and she could be persuaded to have the evening off, he knew she would be delighted at this extra treat.

Meanwhile he must track down the elusive Jock Webb. His only link was still Liberton Brae, although the address had been inaccurate, but another talk with the voluble Tom at the Stag might offer some clues.

He was in luck. The old man came out of his cubbyhole
on hearing Faro’s voice, remembering joyfully that here was a listener interested in his tales of past days.

‘You will never guess, sir – after all your enquiries we actually had a visit from the great man himself. He looked in to tell us all about his near fatal attack.’

And Faro gathered that the wily ex-boxer was taking full advantage of this drama by relating a full and somewhat highly embroidered account of his almost fatal attack, hoping that by choosing an evening when the bar was full of customers it would pave the way to free drinks to celebrate his remarkable survival, dining, or rather wining, out on the event and making sure that old acquaintances now greeted as bosom pals were not overlooked.

Faro gathered, reading between the lines of old Tom’s account, that Webb had fallen on hard times and it was not, as he had told the hospital, his memory that was deserting him but that he had been ashamed to admit that he had no settled home any longer. The grand house had accompanied his local fame into sad obscurity and he had no fixed address. It was humiliating.

When the attack had taken place he had been on his way to his present lodgings with a lady, taking advantage of the fact that as she had once been enamoured of him she would be glad to offer him shelter under her roof until times improved. He had related this with a lewd and knowing wink to convey to the younger drinkers, who could not imagine Jock Webb, stout, old and bald, as a man irresistible to ladies, that he was still at the height of his sexual prime.

Faro interrupted Tom’s temptation to break into a long catalogue of nostalgic memories by asking did he have, by
any chance, Webb’s present address? A scratch through the mass of papers, mostly bills, stuck behind the till with murmurings of ‘It must be here somewhere’ was followed by a triumphant cry. ‘Here it is!’

To Faro’s relief and delight it was a cottage just two streets away. With apologies he announced he must leave now, his departure watched by Tom, disappointed at the disappearance of his captive audience. Faro walked up the garden path to the door, which was opened by an elderly woman who greeted him cautiously. Perhaps she had been in domestic service, as she gave the standard non-committal reply: ‘I will see if Mr Webb is at home.’ It was unlikely that she was unaware of that fact seeing that the frontage of the property indicated a maximum of three rooms and a twitching lace curtain at a window facing the street …

‘What name shall I say?’ she added politely, but he was saved having to reply ‘The police’ because Jock had appeared in the narrow hall, overcome by curiosity from his vantage point. At discovering the identity of his visitor, by no stretch of imagination could he be described as overcome with joy.

‘Oh, it’s you again, is it?’ he grunted.

‘Shall I ask him in, Jock?’ the woman asked timidly, as if Faro was invisible and not standing at her elbow.

‘It’s all right, Annie,’ and Jock went into the kitchen followed by Annie and Faro. He pointed to a wooden chair at the table. ‘You might as well sit yourself down, officer,’ he said, and opening a cupboard produced a bottle. ‘A drink?’

‘Not on duty, sir.’

And Jock nodded as an ample supply disappeared into the depths of a large tumbler which he held aloft. ‘First today.’

Faro decided the accuracy of this statement was in some doubt, considering the table contained evidence of tankards and empty bottles and the kitchen smelt almost identical to the atmosphere in the pub he had just left.

Jock took a large swig, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and asked, ‘What is it you want this time?’

In answer Faro produced his notebook and a pencil. ‘This is just a routine matter, to check that you have recovered from your ordeal.’

Jock braced his massive shoulders. ‘Fit as a fiddle, laddie. Take a lot more than that idiot to put me out of action. I well ken the times in the ring I had much worse—’

Faro cut short what threatened to be a tide of reminiscence by saying hastily: ‘Glad to hear you are none the worse, sir.’

‘Have you found the bugger yet?’

‘No. Which brings me to the next reason for this call. Do you remember anything significant about your attacker which will enable us to apprehend him and make an arrest?’

Jock took another long drink. He frowned and said: ‘Well now, I did remember one thing, but it didn’t seem worth mentioning. I doubt whether it will be of any help to you. He was tall, as I told you, and he was wearing one of those Inverness capes, the kind that sportsmen go for. Cost a pretty penny, mind ye, I had one exactly like that myself, year when I was invited up to the Highlands to shoot over the Duke of Argyll’s estate.’ He sighed. ‘I remember it well, the birds we brought down that day …’

Faro listened politely. The Inverness cape’s original purpose had been to protect soldiers from rain but over the years it had caught on as a fashion, adapted in Harris tweed as a more practical garment than the sleeveless cape to become an accepted order of informal dress for both middle-class and wealthy Edinburgh society, seen regularly at race meetings and hanging in the cloakrooms of all the best gentlemen’s clubs.

Webb was asking: ‘Would there be any payment forthcoming, officer, for this piece of information? It would be greatly appreciated.’

Faro handed over a half-sovereign which was seized with delight. Detective Constable Faro was then ushered to the door with the understanding that he was to come back any time, any time at all. He was to consider Jock Webb a friend for life.

Making his way back to the Central Office, Faro decided this new evidence proved only one thing. Despite Gosse’s efforts, as far as he was concerned Jock Webb was effectively ruled out as prime suspect. Reason: a lack of any credible motive. Unless he was a madman, what had this elderly retired boxer to gain by strangling two women? Another final question as he was leaving had decided him.

Did he ever go to the Vaudeville Theatre?

‘Never that sort of thing,’ had been the scornful reply. Watching a lot of pansy men dancing about. Give him something healthy, like the boxing ring. That was the proper place for real men.

As his road took him past Lumbleigh Green, and anxious to follow up his theory that the dead woman was linked to 
the theatre, Faro took the chance of seeing Lizzie. He was in luck. Lizzie was walking towards the gate, a basket over her arm, heading for the Pleasance.

Her face lit up with delight at seeing him, so unexpectedly. What was he doing here? He explained briefly he had business up the Brae and Lizzie asked no further questions. Tactfully, she never did; his police activities were private business and she had no wish to pry on that secret part of his life.

‘Are you by any chance free this evening, Lizzie? I can get tickets for the Vaudeville. I hear they have a good show just now.’

Lizzie clapped her hands delightedly. ‘Oh, Jeremy, that would be great.’ A frown. ‘At least I think so. Unless the mistress needs me. But they are at home this evening, no plans for visitors, so she won’t be needing her hair dressed.’ She paused. ‘Can you wait a minute, and I’ll nip in and ask her? I’m heading to the shops, and as a matter of fact, I have forgotten my list.’ She smiled impishly. ‘A good excuse for going back.’ Turning she said: ‘You will wait, won’t you?’

Faro nodded. ‘I’m in no great hurry. But be as sharp as you can.’

She was back in two minutes, having met Clara in the hall. One look at her expression told Faro that she had got the evening off to go to the theatre. Feeling it inadvisable to say that she was going with her gentleman friend, the detective, since his enquiries about poor Ida had been so bitterly resented by the master, Lizzie told a bit of a lie and expanded his solitary presence to a group of friends.

Clara was pleased that her maid should enjoy freedom when her presence was not needed. Unlike many of the
other wives in her circle, she liked to feel that her views about domestic servants were quite advanced: she was well aware that Lizzie, who Clara appreciated as such a treasure, in the service of another family might well have had her freedom restricted to one afternoon a week, expected to sit with the mending box, sewing on buttons, darning socks and repairing hems just in case the bell rang for her.

Clara sat mute through afternoon tea conversations with neighbours’ wives, whose constant moans were about the unreliability of servants who wanted so much these days; she found their talk of nannies, children, and occasionally recipes, rather dull, since she never set foot in the kitchen if it could be avoided. Some of the more enlightened wives occasionally raised the risky topic of a book or a scandal, and only then did she listen a bit more eagerly as her insatiable curiosity also contained a clause for the possible use of a ripe piece of scandal to be stored away for future use.

At the theatre, which tended to be noisy as the enthusiastic audience were invited to join in the chorus of the popular songs, Faro patiently awaited the interval. Fortunately Lizzie spotted three of her acquaintances, and after an introduction and some admiring glances in Faro’s direction, which Lizzie noted not with jealousy but with pride, he bowed and having provided the giggling young ladies with refreshments, declined the invitation to join them and returned to talk to the manager. Albert Migley was also stage manager, middle-aged, stout and balding, a commanding and arrogant figure in evening dress who was drifting proudly among patrons in the bar.

As Faro approached and asked for a private word, Migley nodded and indicated that he should follow him into a room marked Private. As the door closed, the manager looked Faro up and down with approval. The advent of this tall, handsome young fellow with thick blond hair and an actor’s deep, rich voice was perhaps providential as he was searching urgently for a baritone to replace the one who had just left in such a disgraceful hurry. At least this one was better looking and younger; those looks alone would bring in the ladies – of all ages.

He indicated a chair at the large desk, its expanse almost empty but for a spread of solitaire, obviously Migley’s method of filling in his leisure moments during the performance.

As Faro sat down, Migley said: ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ and pushed across a notice regarding auditions. ‘I take it that you are a singer – and I would rightly guess – a baritone?’

Faro stared at him in amazement. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I am not. I am a police detective.’ Faro’s identity confirmed in the usual manner, Migley’s face fell, and consumed with disappointment, he said accusingly, ‘You are not in uniform.’

Faro smiled. ‘Not when I am off duty enjoying a night out with the excellent entertainment your theatre provides.’

Migley sniffed and looked less huffy. ‘So what is it you require?’

‘We are looking into a missing persons enquiry and it has been suggested that the young lady might be an actress. This is just a routine matter of asking at the local theatres,’ he added hastily, watching Migley’s lips tighten, ‘and if
any of your girls are missing perhaps you might be able to supply an address—’

There was a sudden change in Migley’s manner. He stood up sharply, leaving Faro no doubt of the reply, and looking distinctly hostile, said coldly, ‘I have no such incident to report.’

Faro probed further. ‘None of your young ladies has left suddenly to take up employment elsewhere?’

Migley’s face reddened; he was distinctly flustered by the question. ‘Of course not, we offer excellent conditions of employment – the best in the country, I would add.’ And walking towards the door he said stiffly, ‘I am happy that I have no such incident to report as the one you are investigating.’ And opening the door he added, ‘I regret I cannot help you, officer.’

Faro thanked him for his time, bowed and left, not at all satisfied, for Migley’s agitated manner hinted at either guilt or a condition he had come across often in his career – that he had something to hide.

He could do nothing more as the interval bell sounded and he rejoined Lizzie and her friends, who watched them return to their seats with shrill hopes that they would all meet again – and soon.

Faro paid scant attention to the remaining acts: cute animals well trained – little dogs and monkeys, some dressed as nursemaids, pushing tiny perambulators, which produced coos of delight from some, including much of the audience and Lizzie, but not Faro who had a deep-rooted disapproval of circus or show animals.

He was not required to engage Lizzie in conversation on the way back to Lumbleigh Green. She was still enraptured
by the songs and jolly atmosphere they had left and his preoccupation went unnoticed. He resolved to return next morning to the pub near the theatre, which he had seen patronised by the performers, and chat to the man who as doorkeeper entertained fellow drinkers with a host of stories, mostly exaggerated, gossip and scandalous whispers regarding artistes – and the stage manager.

Next morning, when the pub opened, he found the theatre doorman, who went by the name of Jimmy, in full flood, almost invisible behind a cloud of pipe smoke in a heavy beer-laden atmosphere. With the doorman only too willing to gossip, this time Faro was more successful.