'In what way did she influence your daughter?'
'They met when we were doing a penny gaff at Magdalen Green. We often called on members of the audience to do a turn and this Kathleen was persuaded by her uncle, or whoever he was, that actor chap, to do some bird calls.' And grudgingly, 'They were very good. She could have made a name for herself in the halls and seemed to have a liking for the travelling life. But she was ambitious and lazy and went back to the weaving after a day or two. Polly told us she had some well-off gent in tow who had promised to better her. We all know what that meant, of course,' he added scornfully.
'What happened then?' Faro ignored the implication.
'Our Polly just walked out on the circus. Went with her. Left home.' His sobs renewed. 'They'll never convince me that she took her own life. Oh dear God, dear God. That police doctor told me that she wasn't in the family way. As if any lass of ours would kill herself for that,' he said scornfully. 'There are no unwanted bairns with us. All are welcomed however they were come by. Welcomed, aye, and loved.'
'When did she leave home exactly?' asked Faro gently.
'About two months since, it would be. She had heard that there was money to be had in Dundee. The building of this bridge and so forth. There would be lots of chances for young lasses getting employment with Deane's.'
'And that was the last you heard of her?'
'Oh no. She came home a couple of times.'
'But there was no other communication?'
The man frowned. 'Communication?'
'I mean did she write at all?'
'We don't go much on writing, sir. Moving around all the time doesn't give much call for scholars. As long as we can count up the pennies that's all is needed. Last time we saw her was—I don't remember exactly—a few weeks ago.'
'That isn't very long. Did she perhaps go to London with her friend?'
'London? There was never any mention of London.' He made it sound like the ends of the earth. 'She was staying in Dundee and she promised faithfully to come home for her brother's wedding. When she didn't arrive we knew there was something wrong.'
'It might have been difficult for her getting back—if she did go to London.'
'London or Timbuctoo, what difference does it make? She would have come home for the wedding. A tinker lass's word is her bond. 'Sides she'd never have gone all that way to a foreign place without telling her family.'
Refusing Faro's offer of fare for a carriage back to Carnoustie, or for the train, as they neared Paton's Lane Briggs said proudly: 'Legs were made to walk on, sir. Mine have been carrying me on longer roads than that for fifty years now.'
Watching him walk away, their despondent farewell brought acute memories of that other bereaved father on the railway platform. And Faro remembered his promise to McGowan.
Could that have been only yesterday?
Retracing his steps to the police station, Faro asked the Sergeant in charge, Crail by name, if he might take a look at the accident log.
'Anything particular you're interested in, sir?' asked the Sergeant, torn between helpfulness and curiosity.
'A lad, Charlie McGowan, worked on the bridge.'
'Oh that one.' Flicking through the pages, he said: 'Here it is, sir.'
As Faro suspected, there was nothing in the entry to suggest it had been anything else but a platform that gave way on one of the piers. But turning over the pages for the last few months, he remarked:
'There do seem to be rather a lot of fatal accidents on the bridge.'
'What can you expect, sir? The Tay is notorious for high winds, it can pluck a body right off those pieces of iron, just as easy as winking,' Crail added with a kind of gruesome relish, and closing the logbook firmly: 'Anything else I can do for you, Inspector?'
Faro smiled. 'I'm curious to know why when I asked to see this particular entry you said: "Oh that one." '
The Sergeant raised his eyes heavenward. 'Oh, the poor laddie. We were all sorry about that, but his father just won't accept that it was an accident. According to him it was a personal vendetta between the lad and Deane's.' He touched his forehead significantly. 'Not quite right, you know. Grief gets them that way. We try to be sympathetic but what a trial he has been to us.'
'I understand his daughter-in-law, the lad's wife, also disappeared about the same time.'
Sergeant Crail gave a long-suffering sigh. 'Disappeared, left home. We put it on our missing persons list, of course, but when you've been on the force as long as I have, you know that if we stopped to investigate every case like that, we'd have no time left for crime. There's a dozen good reasons why a young widow should want to get away from it all and none of them very sinister.
'After all,' he added earnestly, 'perhaps she didn't care for her in-laws and we have only McGowan's word that she was happily married.'
Two missing women, two bereaved fathers mourning a son and a daughter, refusing to believe their deaths were accidental or self-inflicted but helpless to convince those in authority.
As for the girl Kathleen, he strongly suspected that she had never left Dundee either and all his instincts told him that Polly Briggs was a murder case. And that Dr Ramsey had his own reasons for silence.
He hated being baffled but any further investigations were the sole responsibility of Dundee City Police and as far as Detective Inspector Faro was concerned, the murderer's identity was of merely academic interest.
Too bad, but no doubt Vince would keep him informed of any interesting developments after his return to Edinburgh next week.
Chapter 6
Faro had the rest of the day to himself and was surprised to find that Dundee's rush of wealth had, perhaps as a result of Sir Arnold Deane's benevolence, proved a boon to the common man. As he wandered through Overgait and Nethergait he noted that the shops looked prosperous. Although their windows were less elegantly dressed than those of Edinburgh's Princes Street, their prices for the goods on display were considerably lower.
In the Wellgait he bought some twist tobacco for 3 1/2 pence per ounce, while wistfully eyeing Finest Old Highland Whisky at 16 shillings a gallon, Winter Claret at seven shillings and sixpence per dozen bottles and Invalid Port at 27 shillings per dozen quarts. Mrs Brook will be mortified to know how much more economically she could run our household, he thought, gleefully making a note of prices and handing over one shilling for a pound of her favourite tea to take back as a present.
His wardrobe, or lack of it, was a subject of constant reproach from both Vince and Mrs Brook, which he scornfully dismissed, pleading lack of time for such trivialities. Now in an unprecedented burst of extravagance he marched into a gentlemen's outfitters and purchased a handsome tweed suit, two shirts and two pairs of cotton drawers. Delighted to find that he still had change out of three pounds, he completed this wild spree at Paraphernalia's Shilling Store in the Overgait with a new tweed cap.
Made suddenly hungry by such reckless spending, he tottered into the Old Steeple Dining Room and did full justice to an excellent three course meal of soup, steak and potatoes, and rice pudding for seven pence.
Only one penny less for an evening's entertainment at sixpence for a seat in the stalls at the Theatre Royal, he thought, studying the poster outside. With a boast of 'Accommodating audiences up to 1200 in number at each of its three performances nightly', it offered varied future attractions
'to suit the Entire Family.' From grand opera to prize-fighters, to 'Alpha Omega's Magic Circus, in which M Omega causes to vanish into thin air, tight-rope walkers, trapeze artists as well as performing poodles'.
Trudging back to Paton's Lane with his purchases as the shops were closing and gaslight flickered eerily across the piers of the now silent bridge, he found that Mrs McGonagall had lit a fire in his room.
Settling down to read before he went to the theatre, he took out the testimonials which McGonagall had pressed upon him.
'We willingly certify that the bearer, Mr William McGonagall, has considerabl
e ability in recitation. We have heard him recite some passages from Shakespeare with great force; and are of the opinion that he is quite competent to read or recite passages from the poets and orators in villages and country towns with pleasure and profit to his audience. We also believe him to be a respectable man...'
And one signed by George Gilfillan, ending: 'he has a strong proclivity for the elocutionary department, a strong voice and great enthusiasm...'
Extraordinary, said Faro to himself, now almost eagerly anticipating the evening's entertainment as he struggled through the mass of people waiting to gain admission. He was heartily glad of his complimentary ticket.
Vince had been right. McGonagall's Macbeth was superb. Faro soon found himself transported beyond the shoddy set and threadbare costumes, the less than perfect performances of the supporting cast. He realised that this was in fact a one-man show and that McGonagall was quite capable of carrying the whole of Shakespeare's play single-handed.
With an audience who rose as one to give a standing ovation, Faro added his 'Bravo, bravo' to the calls and whistles and cheers as Macbeth staggered round the curtain. Sweat pouring from his forehead, McGonagall took his final bow.
As he walked back to Paton's Lane, Faro was still inspired, full of elation. Only one thing, he realised sadly, was missing to make the evening's enjoyment complete.
Even the world's best performance would have been bettered by the presence of a companion to share it with. If only Vince had been there. But at least the lad had seen it, they could discuss it together over a dram.
He was disappointed to find that the room was empty. Vince had not returned from his evening's engagement. The kitchen was occupied by a McGonagall daughter in charge of the sleeping infant.
No, her ma was out for the evening. So he was not even able to share his delight and congratulations with the actor's wife.
As he turned up the gas, the room, so threadbare and shabby, was dismal and cold too. His euphoria suddenly faded. There was something troubling him, at the back of his mind a shadow which threatened to loom large again.
This time it was something more personal and nearer home than the troubles of bereaved fathers and missing women. It was Vince. And as he tried to concentrate upon the newspaper he had brought in, his thoughts returned again to his stepson's new reticence.
In their Edinburgh days, Vince would normally have told him immediately what that 'previous engagement' was, especially as Faro had the strongest suspicion that it concerned Rachel Deane.
Such reticence was odd and disquieting, even if he had to accept the fact that he was now dealing with a new version of his stepson, a man in love, a character previously unknown to him and in many ways one who would increasingly become a stranger, secretive, withdrawn.
'Life is not lost which is spent or sacrificed in the grand enterprises of useful industry.'
He was staring at the notice of the fatal accident Vince had attended yesterday, a fifteen-year-old boy crushed to death by falling masonry. Angrily he thrust the newspaper away.
What infernal pomposity. How dare those who knew nothing of the suffering and endurance of the poor make such heartless wicked statements.
Turning for sympathy to Mr Charles Dickens who knew and understood such sentiments well, he began to read. After a few pages he realised he was not taking in one word. This shabby room was to blame, for his imagination was constantly imposing upon it the grandeur of Deane Hall.
Was that what was bothering him? Was his stepson in danger of making a totally unsuitable impossible marriage, a commitment to an heiress he could not hope to support?
Edwin Drood had no answer for him tonight and he sat down on the bed, took off his boots, undressed, washed in somewhat chilly water and got into bed. Grateful at least for Mrs McGonagall's warming pan, he turned away from the glare of lights from the bridge which touched his window and fell into an uneasy doze.
He was drifting off at last when the window rattled in a sudden gale. Cursing, he got out of bed, fixed a piece of newspaper to steady the frame and wearily settled down again, longing for the absolute silence of his bedroom in far-off Sheridan Place where all life was subdued from ten thirty onwards. There even the dawn chorus was a frowned-upon intrusion into the residents' privacy and early morning birds embarked upon their song with respectful harmony and timidity.
For seconds only it seemed he dozed once more, to be awakened by a nearby public house disgorging its customers in a roar of noisy goodnights.
Dundee, it seemed, never slept. The street below was in a furore of activity all night long. The new day had not yet lightened the sky when he was roused by the tramp of boots as men began their day's work on the bridge. Soon any further hopes of sleep were made impossible by the screech of cranes, the clang of rivets and the shouts of workmen calling to one another.
Tiptoeing into Vince's room, Faro contemplated the empty bed and realised that it was many years since he had lost sleep wondering where his stepson might be. But Vince and the imponderables of his love life were no longer the only source of Faro's anxiety.
The strange events of the last two days refused to be banished and a set of melancholy tableaux paraded themselves through his mind.
Always the detective, although the solving of these particular mysteries was no concern of his, he found himself making mental notes and now that there was sufficient daylight, he produced the writing materials he never travelled without. Wrapping himself in a blanket, he began to write in the hope that his observations and deductions might yield something to aid the Dundee detectives.
Half an hour later, his mind cleared, his hands frozen, he yawned and plumping up his pillow fell asleep, to be awakened by Vince vigorously shaking his shoulder.
'Wake up, Stepfather. Wake up.'
A pale gleam of sunshine penetrated the window curtain. Vince was saying cheerfully: 'Come along. Stepfather, breakfast is ready.'
Faro was too relieved to see his stepson in such good spirits to feel resentment at having been, as he put it later, 'dragged from sleep'. Shaved and dressed he found Vince seated at Mrs McGonagall's table beside Willie who was giving his first performance of the day, reading a review from the People's Journal:
' "I have long been attracted to the acting of Mr William McGonagall and it was many years ago when he first attracted my attention. He had such a grim and ghastly look about him that I was impressed with the idea that he at least looked upon acting as a rather grave and important occupation." Ah, gentlemen, how right he was.
' "He had likewise such an air of sorrow and melancholy about him that one could not help thinking there was some cankering care or secret sorrow gnawing away his peace of mind. And yet if you watched him narrowly, you could observe that when any leading members got hissed for not playing their parts too well, a Mephistophelian gleam of pleasure would flit across his countenance which would afterwards change into a settled and self-conceited expression, as much as to say: 'If I only had the opportunity of playing those parts, I would soon show you how they should be acted!'”
And throwing down the paper he beamed upon Faro and Vince. 'True, how true. And it all came to pass.'
He was delighted, puffed up with pride at Faro's very genuine pleasure in his Macbeth. To Faro's question as to how he became involved with Shakespeare's plays, he smiled.
'Even as a child the books I liked best were his penny plays, more especially Macbeth, Richard III, Hamlet and Othello and I gave myself no rest until I obtained complete mastery over these four characters. This I did, gentlemen, by grim determination in the evenings after fourteen hours at the weaving. Life was not easy then, we were very poor, always on the move. But even then, gentlemen, I knew I had a calling.'
Vince had to leave for a morning surgery and Faro accompanied him down the road. 'Did you have a good evening?' he asked, unable to restrain his curiosity any further when the information had not been volunteered.
'Not really, Stepfather. A bit of a disappoi
ntment. I decided to call upon Rachel, sure she would be at home in the evening and eager to receive me. I was told she had retired early with a headache.' A tone of exasperation and something worse. Anxiety, uncertainty, had crept into Vince's voice.
'I told that odious butler to kindly relay my message, but was informed he had orders that Miss Deane was not to be disturbed. Would I leave a message? I reminded him that I had already done so and would he impress upon his mistress that as my stepfather's time in Dundee is short, I would therefore present you to her this afternoon without fail.
'I was intending coming straight home, but I didn't like the look of one of the three fellows who were injured last week on the bridge. He is in the infirmary so I decided to pop round. There were, as I expected, complications and we had to do an emergency operation.'
'Will he recover?'
'I hope so. It really is intolerable, especially as I find all my protests about not having proper safety precautions are being ignored, set aside as too expensive. It seems to me sometimes that only men's lives are cheap.'
As they reached the crossroads Vince said: 'I'd better see how my patient is. What about you, Stepfather, how will you spend the morning?'
Assuring Vince that he could amuse himself until the visit to Rachel Deane, Faro decided to take the ferry across to Newport and have a closer look at the bridge from the other side of the river.
There was a strong wind blowing in from the sea and the groaning of the iron columns above his head did little to reassure him.
As a casual observer, unfamiliar with the world of engineering, he felt that nothing short of a miracle could ever safely bridge the spans of the two piers across that vast and turbulent expanse of water and gales.
It had all looked extremely perilous on a mild morning when he had parted from Vince. Since then the day had deteriorated rapidly. Heavy clouds scurried across the sky making for a blustery stroll and he had to be content with a very brisk walk facing into an unpleasantly fierce wind whipping the river into a white foam.
A Quiet Death (An Inspector Faro Mystery No.5) Page 5