Two days later he awoke to a hammering on his front door. He heard Mrs Brook's protesting voice and instinct told him that the call was urgent and that he was needed.
Jumping out of bed he stared over the banister into the agitated face of PC Dean looking up at him from the hall below.
'There's been another murder, sir. Another woman-'
'Where?' shouted Faro, already pulling on his clothes.
'Coffin Lane again, sir. Just a few yards from where we found the first one.'
Chapter 7
Five minutes later, Faro and Vince were in Coffin Lane.
As they stared down at the second victim, they were joined by Conan, whom PC Dean had met on his way to the surgery, returning from a difficult confinement.
Vince paused in his brief examination, looked up at them and shook his head. 'Stabbed in the chest. The wound proved fatal almost instantaneously.' He gestured towards the centre of the lane. 'I reckon he grabbed her - over there - stuck the knife in her and then dragged her body over here to the side of the road for concealment in a snowdrift. There hasn't been any more snow and there are smears of blood across the road.'
The snow was too hard-packed for anything as useful as footprints; there were just two faint indentations a short space apart which suggested the heels of some inert figure had been dragged towards the snowdrift.
'When did it happen?' Faro asked Vince as he completed his brief examination of the body.
'More than twelve hours ago. Say, eight o'clock last night - would you agree, Conan?'
'Almost certainly. The police surgeon will doubtless confirm that.'
The mortuary carriage arrived. The two doctors departed fearing that they had a line of patients in the waiting-room, leaving Faro to accompany the corpse.
With Jim Dean at his side he did his best to appease the constable's curiosity without giving too many indications of his present line of thought, or the serious and sensational indications of this new and gruesome discovery.
'Is this a random killing, sir? Do you think there's some connection between the two of them?'
'I have no idea, Constable,' said Faro honestly.
He went down into the police mortuary praying that this was not some unknown woman and that there would be a link between the two killings.
This time the victim looked slightly better off than Molly. Her clothes were a pathetic bundle lying on a trestle beside her, but they did not look like a servant's clothes: the navy blue serge costume was of good quality as were her hat and gloves.
There was no darned underwear or stockings. Although she had lain in the snowdrift all her linen looked fresh-laundered. There was a gold brooch and a wedding ring, a pair of fairly new boots and one patent shoe, which had presumably fallen out of the basket she was carrying.
He recalled Conan picking it up and looking round for the missing partner.
Dr Craig beamed at Faro. 'Same weapon as was used on the first victim, Inspector,' he said triumphantly. 'Could be the identical knife.'
That was one possible link, thought Faro hopefully, as he asked, 'Any identification?'
'Indeed yes. Here! This was in her outside pocket.'
Another letter, but this time addressed to Mrs Ida Simms in Briary Road, Glasgow.
Faro skimmed the contents. It was signed 'Yours affectionately, Mary Fittick' and the notepaper was headed 22 The Villas, Musselburgh.
It appeared that Mrs Ida Simms was coming on a long-awaited visit to her friend and for the first time, since there were precise directions from the railway station at Waverley to the Pleasance where she would take the train from St Leonards to Musselburgh.
'Fortunately for us, she didn't commit all these directions to memory,' he said.
But what had led her to continue her journey past the station to Coffin Lane?
He took a carriage to St Leonards where he was in luck. The Musselburgh train was just about to leave. He decided to interview Mrs Fittick and fully expected that she would reveal some link with her friend and the murder of Molly Blaith.
Staring out of the window at the snow piled by the side of the line on the single-track railway, he was suddenly hopeful.
Until the meeting with Mrs Fittick, he deliberately pushed to the back of his mind the idea that this was a random killing and that they had some kind of a maniac to deal with.
The snow was even worse in Musselburgh, the roads mere tracks of brown slush, but at last he found his way to The Villas where a plump, pleasant-looking woman in her mid-forties opened the door to him.
Her look of surprise changed to one of horror when he introduced himself, and producing the letter she had written to her friend, explained that Mrs Simms had met with a fatal accident.
'Oh, how awful. I can't believe it. Poor dear Ida. She's always so careful about everything. It's this terrible weather. She must have slipped and fallen-'
Alerted by her weeping, a younger version of the distraught woman rushed in and put a consoling arm around her.
'I'm Tina - her sister. What's all this about?'
As Mrs Fittick sobbed out that poor Ida was dead, Tina's angry, reproachful look in Faro's direction said quite pointedly that the whole thing was his fault.
These were the times he hated most, having to break such news to family or friends. He had never had the heart for it. It sickened him, although other detectives in his senior bracket had no such compunction about handing over this worst part of the whole sordid crime business to some unfortunate constable.
At last Mrs Fittick dried her eyes and sought to regain her composure. The letter Mrs Simms had carried lay on the table between them and Tina said, 'I have never met Ida, but Mary has talked about her for years. She was from Glasgow like us.' And with a compassionate sigh. 'They were best friends.'
Mary put aside her handkerchief, straightened her shoulders, ran a hand across her hair. 'Make us a cup of tea, Tina, there's a good lass.'
'You'll be all right?'
'Of course I will. It's just the shock of it all.'
As Tina departed, Mary Fittick took a deep breath between a sigh and a sob. 'Poor Ida. She was just coming on a visit. We used to work together in the factory. We hadn't met for oh, years, it must be, and not since poor Ida lost her man in a railway accident and she had to go out to work to make ends meet.
'He hadn't left her comfortably off, ye ken. Bit of a drinker, he was, but good enough to her otherwise. Anyways, she hadn't had a break for years and now,' she added breathlessly, 'when I think how I was always writing to her, persuading her to come to Edinburgh, telling her how grand it would be for her to have a change of scene and a proper wee holiday-'
Remembrance was too much. 'Oh, oh - I could kick myself, really I could. If only I'd left well alone, she'd still be alive-'
Sobs threatened for a moment, then straightening her back with effort, she said, 'I was just remembering how angry I was when she didn't arrive. Oh, I wish I hadn't been fuming, but anyone would, waiting at the Pleasance for an hour in that awful weather. It gets dark early and I was getting scared. You know, this woman we read about being murdered. And I started wondering whether I'd walk up to Waverley, whether she'd missed the train or got the day wrong.'
She sighed. 'I'd decided at the last minute to surprise her, take the train to St Leonards and meet her. You know what it's like when someone doesn't turn up, you're torn between anxiety and anger at being kept waiting. And I was frozen. When the last train for Musselburgh arrived I had to take it. I told the guard if he saw anyone like my friend waiting around to tell her. I felt terrible then and now I feel much worse than terrible, when I think of sitting in that train with my wicked thoughts.' She stopped and looked at Faro. 'Carriage accident, was it?'
Faro nodded vaguely. 'You say she had no other friends in Edinburgh, no contacts?'
Mrs Fittick seemed to think this an odd question but she shook her head. 'No, she's hardly been out of Glasgow in her life before and this was to have been her first s
ight of Edinburgh. Oh, she was looking forward to that.'
'You mentioned that her husband was killed in an accident. Did they have any family?'
Mrs Fittick pursed her lips. 'Only the one lass and they never got on well. Miss High and Mighty, Ida called her. Oh, she did well for herself, went to work in a big house and married her boss, a wealthy old man three times her age.'
She sniffed disapprovingly. 'Once she had money and a social position Ida felt that she didn't want her poor ma and da any more and that was why Mr Simms took to the drink. She came to his funeral, though. Things might have got better between her and her ma except that Ida didn't like her second man either.'
She paused and Faro said gently: 'She will have to be told. Do you have an address?'
Mrs Fittick shook her head. 'I do not. But I dare say Ida's neighbour could tell you. They were very friendly - she'll be shocked to hear this terrible news-'
Before leaving he had to tell her the truth was even more terrible than she had thought: her friend had been attacked and stabbed in Coffin Lane.
He left her being consoled by her young sister, assuring them, although it was cold comfort, that her killer would be found and brought to justice.
He returned to Edinburgh very thoughtfully having decided that informing the daughter wasn't a job he would delegate to the Glasgow City Police after all. He would go himself tomorrow, sum up the situation and talk to Ida's neighbour, although he was doubtful that would yield any clues to the murderer's identity.
Were there too many coincidences about these cases? And why should the two women have both been killed in Coffin Lane within yards of each other?
Almost against his will he remembered its evil history, how once on the city outskirts it had earned its name from the gibbet that was used to hang criminals, political and otherwise.
Murderers and highwaymen were carried out in carts to be strung up, their last earthly vision the heights of Arthur's Seat, their sightless eyes picked out by ravens as flesh rotted in chains until the bones fell apart and shared dust with the earth beneath.
Coffin Lane it became when the suburbs of Newington sprang up; presumably the nearness of a small burying ground conjured up less gruesome imaginings for the owners of those handsome villas.
But the change of name could do little to alter a bad reputation, of hanged men and the ghost of a sixteenth-century witch. Drowned in St Mary's Loch, she had died with a curse on her lips.
Faro shook his shoulders as if to free himself from such morbid imaginings. Two women murdered. The murderer had succeeded with the second killing although the first victim had not died immediately but, what was perhaps worse, had bled to death alone in the snow.
Whoever committed such crimes was no spectre of Arthur's Seat, but someone real enough to kill.
Vince and Conan were waiting for him at the house. They listened to Mrs Fittick's story with an air of expectancy which he doused by shaking his head.
Vince nodded eagerly towards Conan: 'You'd better tell him.'
Conan shrugged. 'I would very much like to find the missing shoe - remember the patent slipper that I saw lying near the woman's body?'
'I presumed that it had fallen out of the basket she was carrying,' said Faro.
Vince and Conan exchanged glances. 'That's what we thought too. After surgery we went back and searched. But we couldn't find the matching one,' said Conan.
'And we did our own bit of detective work. The woman was wearing boots, as you'll remember.'
'That was easy, Vince. No one would wear slippers in snowy weather like this,' said Conan.
'Wait a moment. She was going on a visit, she might have carried them to change into,' said Faro.
'Except that the slippers were far too small for her,' said Conan triumphantly. 'Didn't you notice the size of her boots?'
And Faro hadn't noticed. One of his weaknesses was that he was notoriously unobservant when it came to women's wearing apparel.
As a married man of some years, Conan doubtless had expertise in such matters while Faro had missed the significance completely.
Now he remembered the stout but petite Mrs Fittick. 'Then they probably were a present for her friend.'
'What about this missing knife? The police surgeon believes the same weapon was used in both cases,' said Vince. 'I wonder if our murderer carried it away.'
The same kitchen knife, thought Faro. Were the doctors aware of the horrifying significance? That both victims had been killed by the same hand?
'Could be out there anywhere, Vince,' said Conan. 'Hidden by snow, it'll probably turn up when the thaw sets in.'
'But too late to be of any use in this investigation,' said Faro, gloomily aware that the missing knife was the first and only clue, the one vital link that might somehow lead him to the killer's identity.
If he could find it.
Returning from the Central Office later that evening, Faro walked in on one of the frequent disagreements between Vince and Olivia over a proposed visit to Solomon's Tower.
Kate had mentioned that her uncle would most cordially welcome them for a family Christmas dinner. Olivia had greeted this invitation with enthusiasm and already that afternoon, she and Kate had been discussing the provision of food.
Mrs Brook, also consulted, had glowed with pleasure at the idea of yet another banquet.
'It's a brilliant idea,' said Olivia. 'Quite a romantic setting too, especially since Kate has done so much to the interior. Rose will love it.' But this reference to his adored young half-sister failed to tempt Vince to change his mind.
'I don't think it's a good idea at all,' was his sullen response.
'Come along, dear, it is Christmas. It must be years and years since the old gentleman had such an opportunity. I doubt if he even remembers the last time.' She paused. 'After all he is Kate's uncle, all the family he has,' she reminded him gently, 'and we cannot deprive him of the chance to share in our celebrations-'
'You're not exactly wringing my heartstrings,' Vince interrupted. 'I don't see-'
'But then, my love, you never do,' Olivia cut in shortly.
'It would be exceedingly rude to Conan and Kate. And it is to be in his house, not ours.'
She paused, and regarding Vince's stony face, put a gentle hand on his arm. 'We don't have to ask him here, even presuming he would be willing to come, but Kate is doing so much at the Tower. She is such a good soul - they both are - and the party will be such a treat for the old gentleman.'
'You go then, and take Jamie, I have no objections to that,' said Vince huffily.
'No, dear. You must come. I insist, and it would be churlish to refuse,' said Olivia sharply. Her husband's quite unreasonable dislike for Sir Hedley was one of the few disagreeable facets of his character with which she had completely failed to come to terms.
'Besides,' she said helplessly to Faro as Vince stalked out of the room, 'I am fond of Sir Hedley. He's all that's left of a bygone age. I can't understand Vince's behaviour, really I can't.'
She looked at Faro as if he might be able to provide the answer. 'There must be some very good reason, dear Vince is so rational about everything normally. What on earth makes him behave in this - unfortunate manner? Did they quarrel?'
'No, my dear. And I am as much in the dark as you are. From their first meeting when Sir Hedley wanted so much to be on good terms - that was extraordinary in itself, since he has always been such a recluse - Vince just couldn't abide him, could hardly be civil to him.'
Olivia sighed. 'You know, I expect that he almost turned down Conan's application just because of the relationship with Kate.'
I'm glad you talked him out of that, my dear. He would have lost the services of an excellent doctor.'
'I do agree. I've hoped since Kate and I are such friends, and because her uncle dotes on wee Jamie, that Vince's heart might soften towards him. But no-' She held up her hand as Vince's footsteps approached. As he came in she sneezed violently. 'Oh dear, I seem to be takin
g a wretched cold.'
Vince hovered anxiously, put a hand on her forehead. 'You don't seem feverish, but you must take care.'
'It's just a sniffle, dear. Kate gave me some of Conan's magic drops to take at bedtime.'
'What are they?'
'A prescription of his own invention.'
Vince looked interested. 'I must get it from him. We are desperate for remedies for patients with colds and it might help us handle this influenza epidemic.'
Olivia didn't appear at breakfast and to Faro's anxious enquiry, Vince said, 'She had a poor night, feeling queasy. I thought she'd better have a morning in bed. Nanny will keep Jamie out of her way. We don't want him catching anything. If it's influenza then we are all susceptible. It could spread through the house,' he said gloomily.
And as Faro prepared to leave he said, 'I trust you are feeling quite fit, Stepfather. You're looking quite tired these days.'
'I am in perfect health, thank you,' said Faro icily and departed hurriedly.
He did not welcome another of Vince's lectures on slowing down. There were enough people commenting on his approach to fifty to make him feel unreasonably ancient.
And he was getting very sensitive to that particular subject, especially as he had enough to do keeping all his wits about him and in maintaining the stamina necessary to solve two murders.
He was not prepared for an attack on a third woman.
Chapter 8
The killer's third victim was still alive when she ran out of Coffin Lane and collapsed on Dalkeith Road, her jacket torn and blood oozing on to the road from a stab wound in the chest.
With great presence of mind one of the horrified onlookers remembered there was a doctor's surgery close by and that Inspector Faro lived in Sheridan Place.
About to depart for the Glasgow train, by the time Faro reached the scene, PC Dean was already lifting the injured woman into a carriage. Whereas the constable looked anxious and stricken, Dr Spens hovered importantly, giving directions.
The Coffin Lane Murders Page 5