Akin to Murder

by Alanna Knight

  CHAPTER SIX

  Faro had returned from the dockland office following Gosse’s instructions for information on any merchant ships in Leith around the time of the old man’s death.

  ‘I’m looking for a young man, name of Molesby.’ Even as he said the name he realised the futility of such a search. If the lad was a remote relation, possibly Molesby was not his name, even more unlikely was that he had gone into the shop to rob and kill his uncle.

  The clerk shook his head. ‘There were no merchant ships in dock at the weekend. One came in on Monday morning, though,’ he added hopefully.

  Faro shook his head, thanked him and left feeling angry. This was a prime waste of his time – such enquiries were a constable’s routine tasks – and yet another of Gosse’s attempts to humiliate him.

  Reaching Princes Street and heading for the Central Office, a woman was hurrying in his direction, looking very distressed and wiping her eyes.

  It was Mrs Brook, Macfie’s housekeeper.

  He put a hand on her arm, said her name. Looking startled, he realised she hardly recognised him at first.

  ‘Can I help you, Mrs Brook?’ he asked and his immediate concern was his friend. ‘Superintendent Macfie, is he all right? Is all well with him?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Faro, it is you,’ she sobbed. ‘Yes, yes, the superintendent is well. I had a postcard from him just yesterday. Oh dear, dear,’ she paused, dabbing at her eyes again. ‘I’ve just been to a funeral. And it was awful, awful.’

  She seemed considerably shaken and as there was a cafe nearby, he said, ‘Come along, let me get you a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it.’

  As they waited to be served, she apologised for talking on so, ‘But this was the second funeral in just a short while of two sisters. Both dying like that so close together and in such awful circumstances.’

  The waitress put down the tray and Mrs Brook, recovering her composure and despite a somewhat shaky hand, poured out the tea and with it the story of two sisters, devoted to one another until some twenty years ago they fell out. Over a man. He had been courting Celia, the younger sister, but chose to marry Agatha. This was a terrible shock, a dreadful betrayal and Celia never forgave, not him, but her sister. She never spoke to her again and although Agatha’s husband had a long illness and finally died, Celia still refused to forget the past and comfort her.

  Mrs Brook paused and sighed. ‘Poor Agatha. Peter had been well off, but after he died they lost everything and he left a lot of debts. There were no children and last year she had to go into the poorhouse, in East Lothian.’

  The poorhouse she named was highly thought of, Faro remembered. It was also known as a retreat for widows and orphans, who were well treated, and those who were sick and dying but had no families were gladly taken in and cared for in their last days.

  Mrs Brook went on: ‘Agatha was happy there, it suited her fine but she was always a bit of a recluse, and she never had or wanted any visitors. Then a couple of months ago she took ill, and by a mere chance, at the women’s guild in our local church, one of the nurses I knew told me about this poor dying woman who wanted only one thing on earth, and that was that her sister should forgive her.

  ‘It was Agatha, and I remembered that Celia had lived in Liberton and probably still did, as there were often stories in the guild about this eccentric old lady. Anyway, Liberton isn’t all that far away and the nurse went to see her with a message that Agatha wanted to see her once more. Her last wish was to take her sister’s hand and to be laid to rest in the family vault in Gifford.’

  Mrs Brook paused and, refilling their cups, she sighed, ‘Celia decided the time had come to make amends and she went to the poorhouse, only to find that Agatha was not only dead, but had already been buried. Not in Gifford but in a pauper’s grave. That was terrible. Seeing the grave with its tiny wooden cross upset her dreadfully and she was prepared to make a great fuss. She wanted to know all about this hasty burial and insisted that her sister’s coffin be exhumed and taken to the family vault as she had wished, and that she would, from her own meagre savings, pay all the necessary money involved. The poorhouse refused, of course, but Celia was not to be defeated. Agatha was to have her dying wish, so she hired a gardener she knew well. He was also a gravedigger and had a pal who would help, if he was paid enough. It seemed that he was no stranger to this kind of work, and would arrange for a carriage to take the coffin to Gifford.’

  There was a pause, a shuddering sigh, before she continued: ‘It must have been horrible, I can’t imagine. Scary, too, but Celia was determined. And she wanted to look on her sister’s face, kiss her for the last time.’ Pausing, she regarded Faro in wide-eyed horror, and whispered:

  ‘But … but when they opened the coffin … Agatha wasn’t there. It was empty.’

  ‘Empty?’ Faro asked, for this as well as the friendly gravedigger and his pal brought back memories of a time in Edinburgh that he had thought was laid to rest. The notorious body-snatchers of thirty years ago, culminating in the horror of Burke and Hare, not robbers but killers who took in the old, poor and defenceless, murdered them and sold their bodies to the doctors at Surgeons’ Hall.

  ‘There were a few stones inside, but no sign of poor Agatha,’ Mrs Brook continued. ‘Celia was shocked, horrified and very, very angry. It was too late to do anything, no point in taking the empty coffin to the family vault in Gifford. They replaced it, she paid off the two men and, determined to find out what had happened, she went early next morning to the poorhouse where Agatha had lived and died, to insist on an explanation. Where was her sister’s body?

  ‘They said that she had made a mistake about the pauper’s grave and that they would look into it, but they also reminded her in no uncertain fashion that what she had done was illegal and she could be charged for grave robbing.

  ‘Poor Celia was distraught. It was scandalous and she wasn’t going to let it go at that; she would take it to the police in Edinburgh, who would advise her if there was a higher authority to deal with it. Celia’s maid went with her, and as they needed some shopping, it was agreed that Tibbie should meet her in an hour with a hiring cab to take them back to Liberton—’

  Mrs Brook stifled a sob. ‘But Tibbie never saw her mistress again. She came with the hiring cab and was in time to see a carriage racing down the Mound and to learn from a group gathered there that an old lady had been knocked down and had died before they could get her to a hospital.’

  Mrs Brook clasped her hands in anguish. ‘Oh, Mr Faro, I am sure there is something wrong here. I just can’t believe that all this was a coincidence, the empty grave and the other sister killed.’

  Faro nodded. He had his own reasons for believing that Mrs Brook was right. The runaway cab struck a chill in his heart. So had his own father been killed – or murdered – by the same means some thirty years ago, and on the Mound. The treacherous steep thoroughfare was a useful means for getting rid of someone whose information was dangerous.

  ‘There was something else too, Mr Faro. Agatha was already dead when Celia received her message.’ She paused and shook her head. ‘I’m in despair, really I am. Something awful has happened, I’m sure of that, and meeting you like this has been like … providence. Is there anything you can do to help?’

  Faro leant across the table and took her hand. He was doubtful about that, but managed a reassuring: ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  This account of the burial of an empty coffin was shocking and almost unbelievable. Seeing her safely back to Sheridan Place, as they parted he said: ‘A moment, Mrs Brook, if you please. Who told you all this?’

  ‘Oh, did I not say? It was Tibbie. She was in despair, said she’d never forget the scene on the Mound or the sight of that runaway carriage that killed her mistress.’

  ‘Have you her address? I’ll have a word with her, if you think that would help?’

  ‘Oh, I do indeed, sir. I’d be so grateful. I expect she’ll be at Liberton, at Celia’s. That’s her
only home, where she has always lived. She hasn’t anywhere else to go. She was an orphan, from the poorhouse, and Celia took pity on her. A pretty young girl, she was, but lame – a club foot. Mind you, she managed very well, in spite of it.’

  With the address of the late Celia Simms, Faro went on his way very thoughtfully. If this was not just a hysterical account from a scared woman exaggerated in the telling, the only person who might have witnessed the runaway carriage incident was Celia’s maid.

  He sighed, wishing Macfie hadn’t been away just now. He would certainly have looked into it. But in his absence – again, if the story was true – it needed urgent attention and as far as Faro was concerned, third-hand hearsay couldn’t be described as official police business. He could imagine the eyebrow raising and scepticism if Mrs Brook or anyone else had reported this at the Central Office.

  At the moment, however, all his concentration was required on speedily finding the old bookshop owner’s killer and freeing Vince from his role as Gosse’s prime suspect.

  Resuming his walk, he thought about the East Lothian poorhouse at Belmuir, which had a high reputation. Could it be that they were selling bodies of dead patients to the doctors who were urgently in need of corpses for their medical students, especially since the Anatomy Act of 1832 after the notorious Burke and Hare killings? Recent years had seen a steady increase in the number of poorhouses. A good thing, but it also could have its sinister side.

  Doctors would claim that corpses were needed in the interests of the progress of medical science, and since the Industrial Revolution populations had exploded. There were rumours that in the overcrowded midlands of England, with the introduction and spread of the railways, bodies were speedily transported in fresh condition to medical schools far and wide in special carriages, designated as market produce.

  Faro considered the possibilities, the options. He could tell Gosse, who would not be in the least interested, completely absorbed by tracking down McLaw; the sale of dead bodies, however illegal, would not have a killer to track down. What use are they to anyone else, anyway, when they are dead, he would ask? At least they are performing some useful purpose.

  No, Faro sighed. This was one case he would have to investigate on his own. But where to start? A more subtle approach was needed than his arrival at the poorhouse, asking questions. First of all he would speak to Tibbie.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  He intended to go to Liberton immediately but domesticity intervened. Lizzie was in the kitchen, looking near to tears and wringing her hands.

  ‘You’ve got to stop him, Jeremy. He’s been at Vince again.’

  For a moment, still immersed in police business, Faro had no idea what she was talking about.

  ‘Who?’ Had the dog bitten him, was that the trouble?

  ‘Oh dear, you know perfectly well. It’s that Inspector Gosse again – asking him more questions.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Out with Coll, I expect. But he’s very upset. Seems Gosse was waiting for him – at the school.’ She added indignantly, ‘This is really awful.’ Pausing, she gave him a hard look. ‘You have to do something about it, Jeremy. It just isn’t fair, questioning a boy like that, making him feel guilty even when we all know he is innocent.’

  As well as being very upsetting and scaring for Lizzie, Gosse’s interrogation of Vince was interfering with his schoolwork and that was not to be tolerated. As for Faro himself, although he guessed the real reason was to humiliate him and his family, it was a source of irritation. Aware that his domestic life would continue to be awash with a tide of tearful pleading from Lizzie if he remained silent, there was only one solution. In the now urgent interests of peace at his own fireside, he must tactfully enquire from Gosse why he was wasting so much time continually questioning Vince regarding the details of the bookshop owner’s death when they should be pursuing the missing McLaw who was, in everyone’s mind, obviously the killer.

  Having made his point, which Gosse chose to ignore, the inspector shook his head and pushed aside the accumulation of papers on his desk. Their contents remained a mystery to Faro as they never diminished in size and their importance had never been revealed to him.

  ‘Why am I so interested in the bookshop murder?’ Gosse asked.

  ‘It hasn’t been resolved as that, sir. We have no proof as yet. All we know was that he was found dead.’

  Gosse wagged a finger at him. ‘Clear as the nose on your face. Bit of blood and plenty of bruises. Doesn’t it immediately suggest a frail old man, useless against a strong young burglar. A struggle—’

  ‘We don’t know that for sure, sir,’ Faro interrupted. ‘Even coming face to face with an intruder might have been too much of a shock and caused him to have heart failure.’

  Gosse snorted disbelief. ‘When you’ve solved as many murders as I have, Faro, you’ll know what to look out for. Always the motive, and this was clear as daylight robbery.’ Pausing a moment, he looked thoughtful, shook his head. ‘I’m certain your lad Vince knows a great deal more than he’s telling us. And I intend to find out.’

  Faro said nothing. It wasn’t often he shared a feeling with Gosse, who was not known for his sensitivity or intuition, but this struck a chord. He knew Vince well enough now, or thought he did, to feel there was a missing piece in the puzzle. Something Vince, not normally secretive, had overlooked or knew but wasn’t going to mention. Maybe he thought it was too trivial a piece of information but, as often happened, when revealed it would turn out to be a vital ingredient.

  ‘And now, about McLaw. Those sightings that have been reported. I’ve got constables following them up; God knows if they will lead us anywhere, but it’s all part of the job and the sooner we track him down …’

  And then came what Gosse considered an unexpected breakthrough. A man of McLaw’s description had been seen in the High Street that Sunday, spotted by a constable on the beat, lurking in one of the closes. PC Bain had given chase, somewhat half-heartedly he had to admit, for McLaw was known to be dangerous and to be approached with caution by an unarmed constable, and Bain – apart from his truncheon – was of little use in the circumstances.

  As it was raining heavily Faro had to agree with Gosse that the likelihood was that McLaw had taken shelter in the shop doorway and had forced the door open. The rest of the story was a guess: that he had gone in search of money but found only a locked cupboard, which he had forced open. Inside, the cashbox was hopeful; it felt heavy but of course was locked, so he had gone upstairs and threatened the old man. When Molesby refused to hand over the keys, he had killed him in the struggle.

  Faro listened as Gosse went through it all once again, the tracks that died out or led nowhere. It was a daily routine and Faro’s own thoughts were on how he was to find some means of tackling Vince on the subject. He knew that after Gosse’s interrogations, it would not be easy.

  If only they knew whom Molesby had been having lunch with that Sunday. This unknown person might be his killer, or indicate some lead in that direction. Did anyone know much about the old man or any secrets lurking in his past, beyond the relative who was a sailor in the mercantile marine? A can of worms, perhaps, and the only key was at St Giles’ where, as a regular churchgoer, he had gone that Sunday morning as he told Vince that was his intention.

  On his way home Faro strode into the cathedral. Diminished by its magnitude and awed by its magnificence, his echoing footsteps sounded like a blasphemy in the enduring peace and silence.

  A tall man, dark-gowned, approached. Faro said he was making an enquiry about the late Mr Molesby.

  The cleric, whose name was Burrows, shook his head: ‘Ah, yes, yes, poor man. Most unfortunate.’ He shook his head. ‘He has been a member of the congregation for many years, as many as I have been here myself. But we never really got to know him any better than the first days.’

  That wasn’t very helpful. ‘Did he have any special friends?’

  A shy smile in answer. ‘Not
that I was aware of. He wasn’t sociable, didn’t join anything and kept himself very much to himself.’

  Faro frowned. ‘We understood that he was having lunch with someone, perhaps another member of the congregation. Did you happen to notice him last Sunday – the day he died?’

  A helpless gesture. ‘He might well have been here. As you will appreciate, there are very large numbers in the congregation at each service.’

  Faro persisted. ‘Will you be arranging his funeral service?’

  Burrows frowned. ‘I think not. Although he attended services on a regular basis, he was not a communicant – an official member of St Giles’ – and therefore would not be automatically entitled to such rites.’

  The sound of voices approached. ‘Ah, the choir are here for their practice.’ As Burrows, with a brief apology, hurried down the aisle, Faro felt that he had not been displeased by the interruption.

  Later, walking on Arthur’s Seat with Vince, Coll racing ahead excitedly as if he’d never seen or smelt the hill before, Faro mentioned Gosse’s comments.

  Vince didn’t seem to hear him, he looked preoccupied. Faro had to repeat it and Vince said shortly:

  ‘Told him all I know. Why does he keep on about it, treating me like I’m the only suspect?’

  As it must have been obvious to Gosse that McLaw, on the run, had entered the bookshop and killed Molesby, Faro didn’t know the answer to Vince’s question, except that it gave Gosse a chance to torment his detective sergeant’s stepson.

  He had an idea. ‘Let’s go to the shop tomorrow afternoon. You can skip games.’

  Vince was delighted at any excuse to escape the school’s holy ritual of games, as he was too small ever to make his name on the rugby field.

  ‘We can go over Monday morning inch by inch, from the moment you entered the shop.’

  When Vince groaned, Faro said sharply: ‘That’s what the police have to do, Vince, over and over. And you’ve always said you would like to be a detective.’