Dangerous Pursuits (A Rose McQuinn Mystery)

by Alanna Knight

  As for Nancy, she was a nice girl, nice being the exact word. Pretty, respectable, but without any outstanding traits of personality, or seductive qualities which made her more desirable than hundreds of other pretty, respectable Edinburgh girls. Not by any stretch of imagination could I see her rousing sufficient lust in a man to make him decide to get rid of his wife. Desmond was in the insurance business and he struck me as a cautious man who would not take chances unless he could bet they would turn out to be certainties.

  And I still could not find a place in my theory to explain why he should trouble to disguise himself - for his wife's benefit - as a constable. Wouldn't she be immediately curious, not to say even suspicious, and ask why he had borrowed a uniform from the props of the Opera Society and powdered his moustache? The only rather lame explanation was that he could have told her he had come direct from rehearsal and hadn't had time to change. Change, in this case, meaning only the removal of cape and helmet.

  Supposing Nora had accepted that, what possible explanation had he given to lure her out to Arthur's Seat, drag her willingly or unwillingly up the steep slope to St Anthony's Chapel and then murder her by tightening the scarf around her neck?

  Interrupted by a woman with a deerhound, presumably he had panicked and put her body into the hiring carriage, intending to dispose of it. The question remained unanswered - where was the body?

  'Let the punishment fit the crime' belonged to Mikado not Pirates and the killer's action didn't suit this particular crime. It was all wrong.

  It didn't strike me as feasible from what Nancy had told me of their life together that, if they were on such bad terms, Nora would have gone with him willingly: all that dressing up would have raised suspicions in the mildest, most unimaginative of women - which Nora was not, by all accounts.

  Why go to all that trouble?

  They lived alone, there were no children or relatives likely to interrupt at an inconvenient moment. So why not kill her in the privacy of their own kitchen, the obvious setting for most domestic murders?

  Desmond might be a good actor, but he didn't strike me as capable of planning the perfect murder. I would have still opted for that fit of violence and the subsequent burying of her body under the floorboards.

  Such were my thoughts as I wheeled my bicycle out of the close. With a moment to look around and consider my surroundings, I realized that I had not been in Leith for more than ten years, my last visit during Pappa's dramatic 'Murder by Appointment' investigation, when I was abducted by Irish Fenians and held in a warehouse near the harbour.

  And as I rode out on to the road, I recognized the scene of my rescue, only a few yards from where the Edgleys lived. I thought of Imogen Crowe who had intervened and protected me, how she had put her own life in jeopardy for me.

  And Pappa had rewarded her for saving his daughter by helping her escape to Ireland instead of going to prison. An act of treason to the State he served, thereby almost certainly hastening the end of his career in Edinburgh City Police and any hopes he might have entertained of promotion to the rank of Chief Superintendent.

  Standing opposite the warehouse, remembering those dark hours, brought back the longing I had to see him again. Was he happy as he wandered about Europe with Imogen? He set foot in England, in London according to Vince, but he never returned to Edinburgh. That hurt too.

  The sky, heavy and dark with rain clouds, unleashed its burden. As I looked round for shelter I saw that a number of people were rushing to and fro. But not for the same reason.

  There was the sound of horses, men shouting and police whistles, still out of sight around the corner but drawing nearer. Suddenly the tramping mob emerged. Just ahead, marching in my path, were protestors with banners. Flourishing them angrily, they chanted slogans demanding more work and more wages, bread for their starving children.

  A straggler hurtled towards me and I decided it would be prudent to take cover as soon as possible. I jumped off my bicycle and wheeled it into the shelter of a doorway.

  I realized I wasn't alone. A young man was also hiding, his face partly concealed by a muffler. His clothes were rough and shabby, and I wondered why he wasn't out there with his comrades.

  I must have looked scared for he touched his lips and said, 'Shh, miss. It's myself the bastards are after.'

  Deciding I'd be better off elsewhere, I made a move into the open. He grabbed me, an arm around my neck, and said, 'Not so fast, miss. You'll do fine as a hostage,' he added grimly. 'The bastards won't shoot me when I have a young lady as a shield - you're my insurance.'

  I was terrified. I knew he meant business and as he spoke I thought I recognized the voice. I had heard it somewhere before and recently.

  I knew the drill. I moaned, went limp against him. The vapours were expected of well-brought-up young women in such a situation. Unfortunately for him, I wasn't one. I had learned the rules of unarmed combat in saloons in the Wild West.

  He cursed and held on to me, trying to hold me upright. I sprang up, jerked round and kicked out very forcefully at his groin with my upraised knee. Taken by surprise, he let go of me. I heard him groan and curse as I leapt out of the doorway.

  I thought he was rushing after me. My calls for help would have been lost, gone unnoticed and unheard amid the noisy shouting.

  The marchers were close at hand, passing by.

  The man staggered forward to join the leaders, obviously with the intention of losing himself in their midst.

  'There he is, there he is.' The shouting came from behind me, from the mounted police.

  A whistle, a warning shot and a police horse galloped forward. A pistol shot - the man threw up his arms and was hidden from my view. The policeman turned, his truncheon raised.

  It wasn't necessary. The man lay sprawled on the road like a broken doll, his blood already spreading, staining the cobbles.

  Personal terror turned to horror as I retreated once again into the sheltering doorway. For all his treatment of me, the man had been deliberately murdered and I wanted justice. I wanted to know what he had done to deserve such a fate without proper trial.

  The marchers had halted at the sight of blood streaming from the inert figure. The policeman had dismounted and they watched in silence as he lifted the man's head.

  'He's dead,' he shouted and the protestors, who had begun so boldly, now in the face of sudden death panicked. Another warning shot was fired above their heads, just to let them know that the police meant business. They got the point and began to disperse, the less bold having already vanished when the first shot was fired. The second shot convinced even the hardier souls and they too melted away.

  From the ranks of police and horses, two men in plain clothes emerged.

  Detective Sergeant Jack Macmerry and Inspector Grey.

  'Just as well, sir,' I heard Jack say to the occupant of a carriage who had joined them.

  'He's dead, he won't give you any more trouble, sir,' said the inspector.

  The man who stepped out of the carriage was General Carthew and, as if for the first time, I knew the significance of the huge black words painted across the sides of the warehouse: 'Carthew's Brewery.' Of course, that was where his grandfather had made enough money to buy a fine mansion on the far side of Arthur's Seat.

  Suddenly Jack spotted me, said something and ran to my side.

  'Rose, what the devil are you doing here? For God's sake-'

  'Not for God's sake, Jack,' I said. 'For a client's sake. I'm on a case.'

  'What kind of a case would that be?' he demanded suspiciously.

  'A missing wife.'

  'You chose a funny time,' he said.

  'I'm not exactly laughing. Jack Macmerry. I've just seen a man die, shot in cold blood.'

  'What do you mean, shot in cold blood? Don't be ridiculous. It was an accident.'

  'No, it wasn't. I was a witness. I saw it.'

  Jack sighed deeply. 'Rose, the man was a criminal, a wanted troublemaker.' He took my arm g
ently. 'Don't let it upset you. Rose. Things like this happen all the time.'

  'Do they indeed?'

  'They do, believe me. So don't try to teach the police their business.'

  As we argued, Jack was wheeling my bicycle. It was making a funny noise too, as if in protest, and I saw that the front wheel had buckled when it fell.

  I began to explain what had happened and he said, 'It's all right, I'll have it fixed, good as new.' And looking round: 'We'll get you a lift back into Edinburgh.'

  'I don't want-'

  But Jack had me very firmly by the arm and was leading me over to where Inspector Grey was leaning into the carriage in earnest conversation with the General. As we approached, I was conscious of their curious eyes watching as Jack held me like a prisoner in custody.

  Before I could protest, he said, 'Sir, I wonder would you give this lady safe conduct back to Princes Street?'

  The General gave me his most charming smile and a bow. 'It would be my pleasure - Mrs McQuinn.'

  Jack's eyebrows rose at that as the General went on: 'We have met before, sergeant, at Princess Beatrice's lunch. Mrs McQuinn was accompanying her brother...'

  Jack was impressed, but still held my arm firmly as if I might refuse and make a fool of him in front of authority.

  The coachman opened the carriage door, the General bowed, held out a hand. In truth I was relieved by this unexpected turn of events. It was raining heavily now. I was cold and shaken too.

  'Thank you,' I said to the General and over my shoulder to Jack, 'My bicycle?'

  'I'll see it safely delivered to you,' he muttered, saluting the General smartly.

  My last sight was of Jack rejoining Inspector Grey. Heads close together, they were directing a group of constables.

  Presumably the disposal of the dead man's body where it lay in a pool of blood in the middle of a main road was the matter under urgent discussion.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The General and I sped away from Leith and the scene of the protestors' march as if nothing so dreadful as a young man's brutal death had happened a few minutes earlier.

  As I thought darkly about how it would never be reported as deliberate murder in the name of the law, at my side the General talked amiably, in no way conscience-stricken by the hideous event. And one in which he was concerned...

  He won't give you any more trouble, sir.

  I wouldn't forget those words.

  Meanwhile the General was asking where I lived. I told him and he tapped his stick on the roof, redirecting the carriage to Solomon's Tower. He seemed to know the directions, nodding as I explained, and insisted that it was not at all out of his way.

  'We must see you safely home, Mrs McQuinn. Dr Laurie who is my good friend would wish it.'

  Turning, he smiled at me. 'I met your father Inspector Faro once. A brilliant detective, the best of his generation.'

  Pausing, he shook his head. 'Most unfortunate that he - er, associated with known terrorists. I am afraid he is persona non grata in Scotland these days. I gather that Her Majesty was most displeased.'

  I felt suddenly ill. Was this the real reason that I heard so little from Pappa? Her Majesty's displeasure would be an added reason for Vince's infrequent visits. Now I saw them tempered with caution too.

  As for Pappa, were his letters to Britain censored? - for that was the indication I gathered from the General's solemn words.

  I stared at him. As if he had not shattered my world with this revelation, he was talking about the amount of wildlife on Arthur's Seat and how it had diminished in recent days. No chance of a good day's deer hunting...

  I thought of Thane. 'Did you hunt with deerhounds?' I put in quickly.

  He looked at me and laughed. 'There haven't been deer hunted on the hill in my time, Mrs McQuinn. I know I must seem a little old to you, but deerhounds had their heyday here before my grandfather was born.'

  He paused to look out of the window. We were nearing the Tower and Auld Rory, his curiosity aroused, had come out of his ditch and was staring into the carriage. Unlit pipe clenched between his teeth, as always, he had seen the fine carriage with me inside; I guessed I wouldn't be long indoors before he appeared, eager and curious.

  The carriage stopped. 'Did you know him - that man?' I asked the General, my thoughts returning to the shocking scene we had left at Leith.

  The General turned from the window and demanded sharply, 'Why should I know him? Why do you ask such a question?' he added with a nervous laugh.

  And following his gaze I realized he had been watching Rory, who was still smartly saluting after the carriage.

  'The man who was shot back there - did you know him?' I repeated.

  The General drew a deep breath, managed a benign smile. 'My apologies, my dear. I didn't hear you. What were you saying?'

  But I wasn't to be fobbed off. I repeated, 'That young man - with the strikers at Leith - did you know him?'

  The question, so unexpected and out of context with polite conversation, took him by surprise. He looked hurt and offended.

  'A well-known troublemaker, Mrs McQuinn. Irish of course.'

  I smiled sweetly. 'My late husband was Irish. He was a detective sergeant in the Edinburgh Police.'

  'Is that so? Well, I never. Lady Carthew is Irish,' he said consolingly, 'so they're not all bad people, I assure you.' His tone was unruffled, his smile charming and composure recovered. He handed me down from the carriage, bowed over my hand and wished me well.

  'I shouldn't waste too much sympathy on the unfortunate incident we witnessed back there.' He paused, frowning, and said, 'We are doing our loyal duty. If you have doubts, remember your father was instrumental several times in saving Her Majesty's life, particularly from the Fenians.'

  Remembering our earlier conversation, he let that sink in and said, 'Do please give him my warmest regards when you hear from him.' Perhaps my face told him the rest and he added, 'I take it you will hear from him sometimes.'

  'As a matter of fact, no. We are not much as letter writers in our family.'

  The General smiled bleakly. 'That is a pity. But I shouldn't bank on an early visit, Mrs McQuinn. He has declared his allegiance and as far as Scotland is concerned,' he reminded me gently, 'it would be inadvisable for him to set foot in Edinburgh. Especially with Miss Crowe who would immediately be thrown into prison. There is still a warrant for her arrest, you know. And a reward.'

  'The man back there - was he a Fenian too?' I asked.

  The General's eyes swivelled back down the road. 'I - I have not the least idea.' And then regaining his normal charm, he said smoothly, 'The rioters' ringleaders will be apprehended and punished.'

  And I wondered about that momentary loss of composure. Of course he would be well informed and maybe he already knew the identity of the young man who had died, in what was made to look like an unfortunate accident. Perhaps he had been a Fenian, one of a group of terrorists who had threatened the Throne.

  Maybe he had been infiltrated into the dock workers to cause more trouble and disruption. But he was dead and as my good Catholic Danny would have said, 'May he rest in peace and rise in glory.' Amen to that.

  As soon as I closed the door, I expected a visit from Rory, certain that he would be overwhelmed with more than his usual curiosity especially when he spotted my companion in the carriage and recognized General Carthew, under whom he had served in India. And with the additional personal link of the young son he had lost, killed while he was the General's batman.

  But Rory didn't put in an appearance after all.

  Darkness came early and R.L. Stevenson's Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde was not the most comfortable companion. Not for a reader sitting alone in an ancient Tower who had just witnessed a young man shot dead before her eyes.

  Deliberate murder, however the law chose to label it.

  Especially with a storm of horrendous proportions brewing up outside. Already there was enough wind blowing to penetrate stone crevice
s and give wavering rebirth to tapestries with their Trojan wars won and lost long ago.

  I am of a fairly robust nervous constitution but even with the lamp turned up, the words swam before me as pictures of the day intruded, coming between me and the text, so that I was reading each paragraph twice over and not understanding a word of it.

  I took up Jane Austen's Emma as a cheerful alternative in comfortable reading matter, but after ten minutes I had completely lost Emma and her trials and tribulations which seemed more trivial than ever and utterly remote from the world in which I lived.

  Disappointed, I laid the book aside. Tonight there was to be no escape provided by fiction; tonight reality refused to be banished.

  I sighed. Even Thane had deserted me and as I looked around the vast room, the shadows on its stone walls grew darker, deeper and more menacing, the swaying tapestries, full of gore and blood, gloomier than ever. The events of the day, the dockers' protest march and the man who had died before my eyes, had succeeded in scaring me badly, whatever I might pretend.

  So I decided to call it a day and go up to bed, make an early start in the morning, consider what to do next. Perhaps - a sudden wild idea - I'd take Thane and see if he could sniff out the place where the body had been hidden.

  Why hadn't I thought of that before? I felt quite elated at my own cleverness. I'd go up to bed, sleep soundly on that cheerful prospect.

  But first I'd lock the back door securely.

  I went to the dresser to take the key from its usual cup hook. It wasn't there.

  I suddenly went cold. Where had it gone? I was sure I'd seen it there last night. I searched my pockets.

  Had I taken it with me when I dashed out this morning so angry with Jack? Had I slipped it into my skirt pocket, and had it fallen out as I bicycled?

  No. That wouldn't do. I never took the key with me since I didn't lock the doors during the day. As for carrying the front door key, it was hundreds of years old, a sturdy piece of iron four inches long that conjured up thoughts of a dungeon full of dangerous criminals in the Bastille.